This article was originally published March 18, 2000.

MALONE — A heavy metal door opens with a thunk. Two uniformed correction officers release the arms of a man in green state prison garb, and inmate #74C0264 shuffles to a narrow, caged area in a visiting room of Upstate Correctional Facility. The prisoner, Gerald Balone, has been brought from the infirmary. He is ordered to take the second seat in Row A4 of what prisoners call "the dog pens."

As Balone moves, a thick chain rustles dully as links furrow his waist and bind his wrists, with hands cuffed and locked together in front of his sagging body.

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He teeters slightly, unsteady on his feet, and his unshaven cheeks have a sallow, sunken look. Dark rings hang under wide, brown eyes that stare straight ahead, devoid of emotion.

Thirty-one days on a hunger strike does that to a man.

From the other side of the caged area, Chris Stimeling, a middle-aged woman with short blond hair, hobbled by polio, limps over to Balone, her fiance. Tears stream down her face over the sight of the man she intends to marry slowly starving himself in protest against being placed in 23-hour disciplinary lockdown.

"Oh, Gerry, Gerry," she whispers between sobs. "I'm so worried about you."

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She reaches through a narrow gap under the cage's fencing, clasps his handcuffed hands and weeps. He says nothing. His eyes hold a faraway, dazed look.

Balone was transferred here from Ossining Correctional Facility on Dec. 20, 1999, along with several other Sing Sing inmates, for allegedly organizing a Y2K prisoner protest. Balone denies the charges of disruptive behavior made by a confidential informant and claims he does not deserve to be confined for 18 months to the isolation of Upstate, in a cell known as The Box.

"I'm supposed to spend 18 months in The Box contemplating something I didn't do," Balone said. "This is an inhuman place, a dog kennel. They treat us like wild animals. It's not rehabilitation. It's torture."

Balone's once-muscular, 6-foot, 200-pound frame has lost muscle tone and his weight has dropped to 157 pounds after a month of refusing food and drinking only small amounts of water. He said he is beginning to feel disoriented and has suffered brief blackouts from malnourishment. He occasionally slurred his words and appeared to lose his train of thought a few times in an interview.

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"I'm on Day 31 of my hunger strike, and I want to go 40 days and 40 nights," he said. "It's biblical for me. David versus Goliath. I don't enjoy doing this, but it's all I've got left. I'm taking on the Department of Correctional Services and asking for justice. I don't belong here."

Even in the throes of a hunger strike, Balone, who is bald and wears wire-rimmed glasses, looks like a mild-mannered accountant.

Stimeling and Balone — the only white faces in the visiting area besides those of the guards — were oblivious to the scene around them on this Saturday, visiting day. Children, wives and grandmothers milled around the pens. Snippets of Spanish could be overheard amid the hushed, whispered hum of conversation. Video cameras and microphones monitored the area.

Near the rows of cages, a knot of visitors waited at vending machines, where families are allowed to buy candy, soda and snack foods for inmates during visiting hours. Visitors unwrapped food and........

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