The First Currency of Incarceration: How Nicotine Pills Become Prison Gold

The nurse's advice seemed strange at first. "Are you a smoker?" he asked during the routine vitals check.

"No," replied James (a pseudonym), a first-time offender about to enter New Zealand's prison system.

"You are a smoker. Take this," the nurse insisted, handing over a box of nicotine lozenges and a form to sign.

That box of throat medication: 400 small pills meant to wean smokers off cigarettes over three months would become James's only protection in a world where traditional money holds no value. Within hours of entering his Mount Eden cell, his new cellmate - a Black Power member awaiting trial for murder would stand him against the wall and take most of them by force.

Welcome to prison economics, where desperation transforms pharmaceutical aids into the most valuable currency behind bars.

The Moment Everything Changes

The transformation from free citizen to prisoner happens with brutal efficiency. One moment you're standing in a courtroom dock wearing your own clothes. The next, you're whisked into an underground holding cell that looks exactly like the movies. Concrete boxes where the condemned wait for transport.

James chose isolation in the court cells, admitting he "was a bit of a wuss." Most prisoners opt for communal cells where they can connect with gang affiliates and associates. This first choice already demonstrates the power dynamics that will define their incarceration.

Upon arrival at Mount Eden remand prison, the stripping begins: both literal and metaphorical. All personal belongings disappear. Prisoners receive one pair of pants, one top, one jumper, a pillowcase, and a duvet. Nothing else. No phone, no wallet, no connection to the outside world that previously defined their identity.

Then comes the cell assignment: a 4x2 metre concrete box with a toilet but no shower, no television, no phone. Double-bunked with a stranger who might be falsely accused or might have committed murder. There's no phasing in, no orientation, no choice. You're simply thrown into an environment where survival depends on understanding rules nobody explains.

The psychological shock of this transition cannot be overstated. James went from normal professional life directly to sharing a cell with someone who had tattoos across his back — a gang member's declaration of tribal affiliation that commanded immediate respect.

The Economics of Desperation

Prison currency emerges from a simple reality: traditional money becomes worthless precisely when human needs become most urgent. Locked in a concrete box for 23 hours daily, prisoners face immediate scarcity of everything that makes life tolerable: phone access, shower time, edible food, even basic respect.

Nicotine lozenges fill this vacuum because they exploit pharmaceutical dependency that many prisoners already struggle with. These small pills, officially prescribed to help smokers quit, instead become the medium of exchange for an entire shadow prison economy.

A three-month supply of 400 pills—meant to gradually reduce nicotine dependency—disappears within weeks as prisoners "pop them like Skittles." The initial supply creates temporary wealth. Its inevitable depletion creates scarcity, violence, and exploitation.

Individual transactions demonstrate the exchange rates. Want to shower next instead of waiting in line? Two lozenges to the unit's power broker. Need vegetarian meals instead of the standard issue? An entire sachet of 20 pills to the prisoner who has guards' ears. Desperate for phone time to contact family or lawyers? Negotiate with whoever controls access.

The guards tolerate this because it maintains peace - the only thing they truly care about in an overcrowded, understaffed system. Less conflict means less paperwork. Unofficial economies that prisoners regulate themselves require no official intervention unless violence erupts.

The Hierarchy of Survival

Prison power structures emerge from a simple principle: whoever has been incarcerated longest in remand tends to have the most influence over how things operate. New arrivals enter at the bottom of rigid hierarchies where respect must be earned or bought through currency transactions.

James learned these dynamics through painful experience. On his second night, he made two critical errors. First, he refused his cellmate's demand for his Nike Air Force Ones — shoes that represented connection to his previous life but marked him as having resources others lacked. Second, he used his cellmate's legal name instead of his gang "hit name"— the nickname that gang members earn through criminal acts and wear as identity markers.

The consequence was swift and violent. His cellmate slashed him with a weapon made in the cell. James pressed the emergency button and was moved to segregation — the prison section for those at risk from other prisoners, typically housing child molesters and rapists whose crimes make them targets for violence.

Gang affiliations provide both protection and obligation. The predominance of gang members in mainstream prison units means new arrivals face immediate pressure to align with existing power structures or risk exploitation by them. Refusing gang overtures requires either extraordinary personal strength or acceptance of isolation in segregation units.

The Favour Economy

Beyond tangible currencies like lozenges, prison economies operate on a complex favour system that converts labour into protection, status, and material benefits. Some prisoners clean tables during meal times. Others cook food, empty bins, or maintain common areas. These services generate obligations that translate into commissary access, phone time, or simply reduced harassment.

The psychological dynamics mirror those in money laundering networks. Criminals recruit money mules not through overt coercion but through accumulated obligations and relationship exploitation. The person who cleans your table today expects consideration when he needs something tomorrow. Refusing creates enemies; complying creates dependence.

This favour economy becomes particularly important for prisoners from low socioeconomic backgrounds whose families can't send money. Without external financial support, they must generate value through services that more privileged prisoners will pay for — either in lozenges, commissary items, or future favours.

The Remand Reality

Mount Eden remand prison — known as "the pound" or "the dog box" — represents the harshest environment in New Zealand's prison system precisely because it houses people awaiting trial alongside those recently sentenced. The resulting population mixing creates unique dangers.

You might share a unit with someone falsely accused who maintains innocence. Or with someone who committed murder but whose charges haven't been made public. Or with gang members maintaining criminal operations from inside through coded messages during limited phone access. The uncertainty about who poses genuine threat creates constant psychological pressure.

The physical conditions amplify this stress. Eighty prisoners sharing three phones during one hour of daily freedom from cells. No daylight reaching concrete boxes where men spend 23 hours daily. No television, books, or distractions from the crushing boredom that entails.

Resource scarcity becomes the defining feature. Even basic accommodations like vegetarian meals — legally required for those with dietary restrictions — take weeks to arrange through official channels. The bureaucratic delays create opportunities for unofficial solutions. Give lozenges to the right prisoner who has guards' ears, and paperwork that should take weeks gets processed overnight.

The Human Cost of Institutional Dysfunction

Behind every prison currency transaction lies human suffering that society prefers not to acknowledge. The nurse who distributed lozenges recognised this reality and tried to provide survival tools. The guards who tolerate trading understand that strict enforcement would trigger violence in overcrowded units they're understaffed to control.

These aren't individual failures but systematic dysfunction where resource constraints create impossible choices. Proper funding would provide adequate programming, mental health services, and genuine rehabilitation. Instead, prisoners create their own social structures that mirror and often perpetuate the criminal enterprises that landed them in prison.

For those like James — professionals without criminal backgrounds suddenly thrust into this world — the psychological trauma compounds. Slashed by a cellmate over shoes and perceived disrespect. Isolated in segregation units designed for sex offenders. Forced to navigate power structures where any mistake might prove costly.

The favour economy that emerges from this dysfunction creates its own exploitation. Prisoners perform degrading services not by choice but because alternatives mean violence, or complete isolation. The strong prey on the weak. The connected exploit the isolated. The system designed to punish and rehabilitate instead teaches survival through exploitation — exactly the mindset that drives money laundering in the first place.

The Broader Implications

James' experience offers crucial insights for AML professionals working to combat financial crime. The desperation that drives prison currency trading mirrors the desperation that drives individuals into money laundering roles. The resource scarcity that makes lozenges valuable mirrors the financial pressure that makes criminal proceeds attractive.

Most importantly, the human psychology remains consistent. Whether trading lozenges for phone time or processing suspicious transactions for fee income, people respond to incentives that prioritise immediate survival over long-term consequences. Understanding these psychological drivers enables more effective intervention strategies.

Conclusion: The Economics of Survival

Prison currency systems reveal money laundering dynamics in their rawest form —stripped of sophisticated layering techniques, complex corporate structures, or regulatory arbitrage. What remains is pure human psychology: desperation creating demand, scarcity creating value, and institutional failure creating opportunity.

The nurse who provided survival tools recognised that official systems had failed before James even entered his cell. Your role as AML professionals is ensuring legitimate financial systems don't similarly fail — creating desperate circumstances where criminal alternatives become the only option for vulnerable individuals.

The currency of incarceration reveals the currency of criminal enterprise: human desperation converted into profit through systematic exploitation of those with limited alternatives. Understanding this fundamental truth makes you better equipped to recognise, prevent, and disrupt the money laundering systems that depend upon it.