How One Man Runs a Legal Nonprofit in Prison

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About two years ago, I was sent to solitary confinement for having a cellphone charger and marijuana in my cell.

At my disciplinary hearing two weeks later, Al-Quan White sat by my side. I didn’t have much hope for a favorable outcome, and I was preparing for a six-month sentence in solitary, a punishment I knew other guys had received for similar rule violations.

But White, my jailhouse lawyer, had different expectations. He believed he could spare me entirely from more time in the hole, where I’d been staying as the disciplinary process worked itself out.

During the hearing, the officer asked two simple questions: why I had contraband and what I planned to do with it. She listened to White and intensely jotted down notes. Her lack of questions seemed concerning to me. But White, who was used to this process, was unfazed. He was charismatic and articulate — and pushed for my immediate release. He said that I had been in prison for 11 years, but this contraband charge was my first infraction, which stuck out to me as the most important point he made that day. He performed like a real courtroom lawyer, and he defended me like I was his family.

I was released from solitary confinement that day.

I had known White for about 10 years at that point. But that was the first time I got to see him in his element, arguing on behalf of his imprisoned clients. Today, White is the executive director of the Inmate Legal Association, or ILA, a nonprofit organization of jailhouse lawyers tasked with assisting the incarcerated with legal and disciplinary matters inside New Jersey State Prison in Trenton.

White’s office is a small corner room in the school area. One side has a glass window that provides the on-duty officer a clear view of White as he works. The other wall has a bookshelf full of law books. He does most of his work on an outdated, bubble-back Apple computer. His desk is a mess of pens, papers, paperclips and books. When I ribbed him about this, he insisted that his desk is organized “perfectly.”

During most days, you can catch White behind that perfectly organized desk, helping someone with legal research or refining someone’s legal documents. White said he was raised in a big family, where everyone “looked out for each other.”

Great responsibility from a young age

White was raised in Newark, New Jersey, by his mom. When White was born, his father, who died shortly after his birth, had disowned him, taking no responsibility for his upbringing. Growing up, White heard stories of his father’s drug use and mistreatment of the family — stories that made White hate his late father.

Being raised by a single mother forced him to provide for those he loved at an early age. In the morning, White walked his two little brothers to school, then picked them up in the afternoon when all three were finished with classes. Once home, he and his older sister would alternate days preparing hot dogs and beans for their younger siblings. Sometimes White would fight neighborhood bullies for his siblings, too.

At the age of 11, he was allured by the streets and started selling drugs.

“Back then, everyone wanted to be Nino Brown and Scarface,” White said, referencing famous Hollywood drug bosses.

White wanted to save enough money to buy himself cool clothes for school and his mom a house. But then White was convicted of shooting two men outside a New Jersey nightclub, killing one of them. He still maintains his innocence and continues to fight his case.

‘I had to grow for the better’

White came to prison around 2009. He was 24 years old. I met him years later, just after he served a 120-day stint in solitary confinement for getting caught with tobacco. Back then, he had not fully left the gang lifestyle.

But after a little more time in prison, he began to realize that rehabilitation starts and ends within.

“I had to seek it,” White said.

He credits former cellmate Stephen Downer for pointing him in the right direction. He said Downer provided the male guidance he had been missing throughout his youth. But more than that, he taught White how to read the law.

“Seeing the long-term effect the prison had on men who were incarcerated for decades, I knew I had to grow for the better or self-destruct,” White said.

Honesty was the first step. He had to be honest with his children, his family and most importantly himself. He realized that his daughters were experiencing the same abandonment he had felt from his father. So White, who was 26 at the time, first forgave his father.

“I released 18 years of resentment, neglect and straight-up anger,” White said. “Releasing all of those unhealthy emotions allowed me to be a better father and a better man.”

A love of the law

Next, he discovered his love for law. He read every jailhouse lawyer manual, paralegal reference and lawbook that he could get his hands on.

Once White was nominated to be a member of the Inmate Legal Association, he was allowed to take other legal courses that the organization offered, including administrative law, post-conviction relief proceedings and criminal practice.

White eventually became a paid paralegal. As the low man in the ILA organization, he started by cleaning the office. Back then, White had to borrow other staff members’ desks to write letters and file motions. But he rose quickly.

In 2023, White was appointed the new executive director. In this role, White meets with New Jersey State Prison administration from time to time to discuss issues regarding the incarcerated population and to ensure the administration is allowing meaningful legal access to incarcerated people.

A humble leader

As the executive director of the ILA, White makes sure his staff members are trained and fully equipped to take on the justice system from behind enemy lines.

Clarence Artis, a fellow member of the ILA, said that White does the best he can to lead an organization of over 25 men who are also incarcerated.

“I think that he’s a leader that takes into account everyone’s perspective,” Artis said. “He doesn’t have a ‘big me, little you’ complex.”

White is no longer the person he was when he was arrested. At one point in his life, he would’ve been ashamed to say that his incarceration helped shape him into a better human being, but it has.

“Growth is a lifelong process that is worth more than we realize,” White said.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.