Former Prisoner’s New Book Offers Rare Look Into Nation’s Most Secretive Prison
Having survived the most restrictive supermax prison in the country on a trumped-up charge, Anarchist political prisoner Eric King tells what he saw.
By Zane McNeill ,
October 18, 2025
The prison known as ADX (administrative maximum) in Florence, Colorado, on February 13, 2019. It has been dubbed the "Alcatraz of the Rockies" because of its remote location and harsh security measures.
JASON CONNOLLY / AFP via Getty Images
Eric King has seen what hell looks like during his time in federal custody. While incarcerated, he was increasingly targeted for his anarchist political beliefs, often denied family visits, and restricted from receiving mail. In 2018, at FCI Florence, a lieutenant took him to a mop closet, where he was pushed and punched. King defended himself, after which he was slammed to the floor, stomped, handcuffed to a bed post, suffocated, and tortured. Unfairly charged with assaulting a government officer, he fought the case in court and won a “not guilty” verdict. According to the Pew Research Center, 90 percent of federal trials end in plea deals, 8 percent get tossed, 2 percent go to trial, and King’s case was one of 0.4 percent of cases that win. However, the government retaliated, and he was transferred to ADX Florence — the most restrictive supermax prison in the country.
When talking to King about ADX, or the Administrative Maximum Facility, he describes his experience as being entombed or buried. “These cells had held Tom Manning and Ray Luc. They held Mutulu Shakur and Oscar López Rivera. Now I joined my elders in maintaining my resistance while buried in the Rockies,” he writes in his newest book, A Clean Hell: Anarchy and Abolition in America’s Most Notorious Dungeon. “All the bucking, protesting, resisting, fighting, starving, struggling, had all led to this. When they can’t handle your presence, they bury it.”
In this exclusive interview with Truthout, King discusses his new book, anarchism, mutual aid, supporting political prisoners, prison abolition, and more. The interview that follows has been lightly edited for clarity and length.
Zane McNeill: Can you start by introducing yourself and explaining why you wrote this book — who the audience is, what you hoped to accomplish, and maybe say a bit about your last book?
Eric King: My name is Eric King, an ex–political prisoner. I wrote this book because I saw a major gap in the abolitionist movement’s narrative. There are books from the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s, but nothing from my generation that I could relate to — especially about federal prison. Almost no one writes about it.
“I think people should care that there are human beings who have lived alone in a cell for over two decades — people we’ve never heard of and who will never be released.”
The two experiences I had are things very few people go through. First, ADX. Almost no one knows much about it. Inside, I’d get letters asking me to check out someone’s website or if they could send me clothes, which showed me people don’t understand — this prison is kept a secret, and it works. The second is trial. Many people — folks from Palestine, Cop City, people facing state repression, maybe soon just for being queer — are going to trial. There’s a romanticized idea of what trial is, but the reality is soul-sucking and brutal. That’s why so many take plea deals. I felt both of these narratives were missing.
Also, I think people should care that there are human beings who have lived alone in a cell for over two decades — people we’ve never heard of and who will never be released. One reason I wrote this book is to honor them.
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Why do you think it’s important for people to understand what ADX is like and how it affects those inside?
ADX matters to me because the government has built a narrative around it, and the public has accepted it without question. We’ve seen this before — other supermax prisons became almost mythical, like Alcatraz. People turn them into fiction and forget that real people suffered there, that there was real resistance, like the Battle of Alcatraz when prisoners fought the Marines.
Book cover for A Clean Hell: Anarchy and Abolition in America’s Most Notorious Dungeon.Courtesy: PM Press
When I was in lower custody levels, you’d hear all kinds of wild stories about ADX — nonsense about it spinning underground — but you also knew it held the most infamous prisoners in the world, aside from state serial killers. Then I’d talk to friends outside, and they didn’t know anything about it. If people in the abolitionist movement don’t know, what chance does the general public have? Things won’t change if no one’s talking about it.
The government says it imprisons the “the worst of the worst,” and people agree without knowing what it’s really like — not hearing another human voice for a month, or having a guard refuse to sell you stamps so you can write your family, your only line of communication, and there’s nothing you can do because you’re behind two doors. They want you to hurt yourself, to fall apart, because that makes you easier to control.
You’ve spent a lot of time learning from past movements — studying FBI targeting of anarchists, Black Panthers, and understanding the history of political prisoners. In the book, you also discuss prison uprisings and how prisons evolved to prevent them and isolate people. Can you talk about that?
When we study the Black Panthers in the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, what they went through isn’t exactly what I went through, but I can learn from how they maintained themselves, how they survived, how they fought back. The ways we resist can’t always be the same either. There was a time when the BOP [Federal Bureau of Prisons] had [dozens of] political prisoners spread among [a handful] of prisons, and they made a difference. We don’t have that now. We’re more isolated, with less solidarity inside, less communication with the outside, and more monitoring. So, we have to take their lessons and adapt them to our current reality.
I’ve drawn strength from people like Kuwasi Balagoon, Bill Dunn, and David Gilbert — people who maintained their ethics inside — but also from my own trial and error. It’s hard. I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t. Telling a guard that you know their address will get you messed up. Throwing something in a guard’s face will get you messed up. Laughing at a lieutenant when he’s trying to fight you will get you messed up. You have to find ways to feel powerful and resist without putting yourself in unnecessary danger.
We don’t “win” by getting hurt — there are no political prisoner points for suffering more. We win when we make it out alive with our ethics and personalities intact. In my mind, all our revolts and rebellions should aim for that: undermine the prison, but strengthen yourself. Give yourself the chance to survive and make it out.
You were an anarchist before prison and already had a political education. Once inside, did you continue that?
That’s another misconception people have about prison, based on older revolutionaries. Back then, it was easier in some ways because there was so much social consciousness — movements like Black liberation were huge, and they empowered people inside in ways we can’t fully understand today.
The racial dynamics were also different. Ed Mead of the George Jackson Brigade could sit and eat with Native Americans [in prison]. If you tried that today, you’d be killed — you wouldn’t make it off the yard, maybe not even out of the chow hall. You can’t do the same things now. So, when people talk about “revolutionizing” others in prison today, that’s just not real — the administration will pull you off the yard.
“One of the reasons I was sent to ADX was for ‘recruiting antifa,’ which in reality meant giving anti-fascist and anti-racist books to people.”
One of the reasons I was sent to ADX was for “recruiting antifa,” which in reality meant giving anti-fascist and anti-racist books to people. I encouraged folks to read — not just to have an opinion, but an informed one. I’d reach people through solidarity. If someone didn’t have money on their books, I’d point out that the white supremacists weren’t sending them canteen money — meanwhile, my friends did, and I’d happily buy them a bad coffee. That opens the door to talking about mutual aid, which leads to talking about anti-racism, because we have to be there for everybody.
What should young political activists understand about the risks, vulnerabilities, and lack of guaranteed movement support if they are imprisoned?
The movement doesn’t always show up for you — a lot of people get forgotten. If it hadn’t been for Denver Anarchist Black Cross, no one would’ve ever heard my name. It took that one group to really fight for me.
And here’s the ugly truth: They almost have to vouch for you, make you “worthy” to others. They have to make you relevant so people want to write to you. It’s not enough that you’re a human being suffering — people want to know your niche.
When I was in lower custody levels, you’d hear all kinds of wild stories about ADX — nonsense about it spinning underground — but you also knew it held the most infamous prisoners in the world, aside from state serial killers. Then I’d talk to friends outside, and they didn’t know anything about it. If people in the abolitionist movement don’t know, what chance does the general public have? Things won’t change if no one’s talking about it.
The government says it imprisons the “the worst of the worst,” and people agree without knowing what it’s really like — not hearing another human voice for a month, or having a guard refuse to sell you stamps so you can write your family, your only line of communication, and there’s nothing you can do because you’re behind two doors. They want you to hurt yourself, to fall apart, because that makes you easier to control.
You’ve spent a lot of time learning from past movements — studying FBI targeting of anarchists, Black Panthers, and understanding the history of political prisoners. In the book, you also discuss prison uprisings and how prisons evolved to prevent them and isolate people. Can you talk about that?
When we study the Black Panthers in the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, what they went through isn’t exactly what I went through, but I can learn from how they maintained themselves, how they survived, how they fought back. The ways we resist can’t always be the same either. There was a time when the BOP [Federal Bureau of Prisons] had [dozens of] political prisoners spread among [a handful] of prisons, and they made a difference. We don’t have that now. We’re more isolated, with less solidarity inside, less communication with the outside, and more monitoring. So, we have to take their lessons and adapt them to our current reality.
I’ve drawn strength from people like Kuwasi Balagoon, Bill Dunn, and David Gilbert — people who maintained their ethics inside — but also from my own trial and error. It’s hard. I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t. Telling a guard that you know their address will get you messed up. Throwing something in a guard’s face will get you messed up. Laughing at a lieutenant when he’s trying to fight you will get you messed up. You have to find ways to feel powerful and resist without putting yourself in unnecessary danger.
We don’t “win” by getting hurt — there are no political prisoner points for suffering more. We win when we make it out alive with our ethics and personalities intact. In my mind, all our revolts and rebellions should aim for that: undermine the prison, but strengthen yourself. Give yourself the chance to survive and make it out.
You were an anarchist before prison and already had a political education. Once inside, did you continue that?
That’s another misconception people have about prison, based on older revolutionaries. Back then, it was easier in some ways because there was so much social consciousness — movements like Black liberation were huge, and they empowered people inside in ways we can’t fully understand today.
The racial dynamics were also different. Ed Mead of the George Jackson Brigade could sit and eat with Native Americans [in prison]. If you tried that today, you’d be killed — you wouldn’t make it off the yard, maybe not even out of the chow hall. You can’t do the same things now. So, when people talk about “revolutionizing” others in prison today, that’s just not real — the administration will pull you off the yard.
“One of the reasons I was sent to ADX was for ‘recruiting antifa,’ which in reality meant giving anti-fascist and anti-racist books to people.”
One of the reasons I was sent to ADX was for “recruiting antifa,” which in reality meant giving anti-fascist and anti-racist books to people. I encouraged folks to read — not just to have an opinion, but an informed one. I’d reach people through solidarity. If someone didn’t have money on their books, I’d point out that the white supremacists weren’t sending them canteen money — meanwhile, my friends did, and I’d happily buy them a bad coffee. That opens the door to talking about mutual aid, which leads to talking about anti-racism, because we have to be there for everybody.
What should young political activists understand about the risks, vulnerabilities, and lack of guaranteed movement support if they are imprisoned?
The movement doesn’t always show up for you — a lot of people get forgotten. If it hadn’t been for Denver Anarchist Black Cross, no one would’ve ever heard my name. It took that one group to really fight for me.
And here’s the ugly truth: They almost have to vouch for you, make you “worthy” to others. They have to make you relevant so people want to write to you. It’s not enough that you’re a human being suffering — people want to know your niche.
Eric King squats in the ADX Florence K-B Unit rec yard while incarcerated at the supermax prison in 2022.Courtesy of Eric King
Sure, there are pockets — Inland Empire, Reno, Los Angeles ABCF [chapter of the Anarchist Black Cross Federation], Salt Lake City, Portland, Blue Ridge, Bloomington, Chicago, and, of course, Eugene, where Josh Davidson, a supporter who became a dear friend of mine, lives — but if you don’t have people having your back, you’re alone. The Angola 3 didn’t have support for the first 20 years of their time in solitary. We look at them as heroes now, but at the time, no one cared. You talk to people like Kojo Bomani Sababu and the older Black Panthers [and] it’s the same story.
We need to do better. Maybe it’s because we’re swamped: We have access to every struggle, so we spread ourselves too thin and forget those left behind.
You’ve faced people who wanted to kill you, yet your anarchism still centers mutual aid, resistance, and collective care. How do you hold onto that?
It’s a delicate balance, because I needed people. Even though I was abused by parts of the movement and saw how brutal people can be — guards, prisoners, even supporters — I also saw the beauty. Writing a letter is a purposeful act; someone has to choose to do it. I had people who chose to write to me for nine years, who made sure every month I had coffee, books, or magazines. They refused to let me be buried.
From my perspective, getting out of prison and having opportunities but not using them to help others would feel like abuse. Sure, you can get out and just focus on yourself — you’ve been through enough — but for me, every person is someone I could connect with or encourage to help others.
Anarchism is putting your love forward, keeping your arms open. If I don’t do that, I turn grim. For me, a love of life is a love of people and of doing good. You should want to help people. If you don’t, and you’re an able-bodied, mentally capable person, you need to check yourself — because if you can help and you won’t, you’re probably a piece of shit.
Disclosure: McNeill assisted with King’s civil rights complaint during his incarceration at ADX.
Sure, there are pockets — Inland Empire, Reno, Los Angeles ABCF [chapter of the Anarchist Black Cross Federation], Salt Lake City, Portland, Blue Ridge, Bloomington, Chicago, and, of course, Eugene, where Josh Davidson, a supporter who became a dear friend of mine, lives — but if you don’t have people having your back, you’re alone. The Angola 3 didn’t have support for the first 20 years of their time in solitary. We look at them as heroes now, but at the time, no one cared. You talk to people like Kojo Bomani Sababu and the older Black Panthers [and] it’s the same story.
We need to do better. Maybe it’s because we’re swamped: We have access to every struggle, so we spread ourselves too thin and forget those left behind.
You’ve faced people who wanted to kill you, yet your anarchism still centers mutual aid, resistance, and collective care. How do you hold onto that?
It’s a delicate balance, because I needed people. Even though I was abused by parts of the movement and saw how brutal people can be — guards, prisoners, even supporters — I also saw the beauty. Writing a letter is a purposeful act; someone has to choose to do it. I had people who chose to write to me for nine years, who made sure every month I had coffee, books, or magazines. They refused to let me be buried.
From my perspective, getting out of prison and having opportunities but not using them to help others would feel like abuse. Sure, you can get out and just focus on yourself — you’ve been through enough — but for me, every person is someone I could connect with or encourage to help others.
Anarchism is putting your love forward, keeping your arms open. If I don’t do that, I turn grim. For me, a love of life is a love of people and of doing good. You should want to help people. If you don’t, and you’re an able-bodied, mentally capable person, you need to check yourself — because if you can help and you won’t, you’re probably a piece of shit.
Disclosure: McNeill assisted with King’s civil rights complaint during his incarceration at ADX.
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