When William Marshall III stepped into the Director’s office at the Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) just five months ago, he found an agency adrift, disconnected, underfunded, and mistrusted by many of its own. The BOP had earned a painful distinction: one of the worst places to work in the federal government. But sitting across from his newly appointed Deputy Director, Josh Smith, in a candid podcast called Transparency Talks, Marshall didn’t sound defeated. He sounded determined.
Together, these two men, one a lifelong law enforcement leader from West Virginia, the other a corrections reform advocate with a personal history in the system, spoke with remarkable candor about what they inherited, what’s broken, and how they plan to fix it.
The picture Marshall and Smith painted was not flattering. Staffing shortages were chronic, facilities were crumbling, morale was low, and the agency’s finances were in disarray. “We walked into hundreds of millions of dollars of deficit,” Smith said. “There’s all kinds of other things we don’t talk about that we had to do just to get a hold of things.”
Marshall didn’t mince words either. “We’re not following Vince Lombardi in a championship season,” he quipped. “We’re rebuilding what this Bureau was supposed to look like.”
For decades, he argued, the BOP had been grossly underfunded and severely understaffed. He described facilities with leaking roofs, broken showers, and malfunctioning cell doors, physical decay symbolic of an institution that had lost its way.
Perhaps most concerning was the culture. Leadership, they said, had become entrenched in a “good old boy system.” Promotions often went to insiders rather than to the most capable. “When we have it wrong, it’s bad,” Smith said bluntly. “This agency has allowed that. We’re ending it.”
Beyond the spreadsheets and budgets, the deeper crisis was human. Staff in the field felt ignored by Washington. “There’s been such a disconnect from Central Office down to the field,” Smith said. “They don’t feel heard. They don’t feel like anybody cares.”
Marshall agreed, calling it “the importance behind our visits.” In just a few months, the two men have toured multiple institutions, often walking hallways and talking directly to officers and inmates. “When I ask them how they’re doing,” Marshall said, “I really want to know. It’s okay not to be okay.”
That ethos of empathy from the top marks a departure from the bureaucratic detachment that has long defined the agency’s culture. Both men see visibility and communication as essential to restoring morale. “We’re not in the corrections business,” Marshall said. “We’re in the people business.”
William Marshall’s story begins in West Virginia. A career lawman, he joined the state police at 21 and spent 25 years in public safety before moving into corrections leadership as the state’s Commissioner of Corrections and Rehabilitation. He brings a cop’s pragmatism and a pastor’s empathy, shaped by a father who was a minister.
“I was a state police robot,” he admitted. “Arrest, jail, move on.” Now, he says, his perspective has shifted. “Not everybody in prison is evil. Some made mistakes. Now I have the opportunity to help them, and that’s powerful.”
Josh Smith’s background couldn’t be more different, yet it complements Marshall’s perfectly. Once incarcerated himself decades ago, Smith went on to become a national voice for criminal justice reform, working with state corrections leaders and governors to improve reentry and rehabilitation systems. He understands the view from both sides of the bars.
Together, they make an unconventional but formidable leadership duo, blending institutional experience with an outsider’s drive for change. Their chemistry is genuine. As Smith joked on the podcast, “Even on the stressful days, you and I are having fun.”
Marshall and Smith credit President Trump and Attorney General Pam Bondi with giving them something their predecessors lacked: permission to act boldly. “Make it happen,” Smith quoted Bondi as saying. “Support our people. Make it better.”
Marshall called it empowering. “We’ve been told, make the decisions you need to make to make this Bureau better, and we’ll have your back.”
Armed with that backing and a historic $5 billion funding boost, $3 billion for staffing and $2 billion for infrastructure, they’re tackling long-standing problems with unusual urgency. They’re reviewing warden selections personally, reassessing leadership pipelines, and reevaluating every facet of staffing and training.
When Marshall arrived, he discovered that the Bureau’s staffing numbers had been manipulated. To make the data look good, facilities had simply adjusted their baselines, not their headcounts. “It’s not genuine,” he said flatly. “That’s just a lie.” He’s now restoring realistic staffing models and a culture of truth-telling to the agency’s decision-making.
Few topics animated Marshall more than training. “Three weeks isn’t enough,” he said referring to the BOP training for new hires. “You can’t give a 25-year-old three weeks and throw them into the fire.” Drawing on his law enforcement background, he compared it to the 36-week police academy he completed as a young recruit.
“If you don’t feel trained and prepared, you’re going to make bad decisions,” he warned. “And bad decisions result in bad situations.”
Leadership development is another major focus. For too long, new wardens and supervisors were “just put in there” with no guidance on managing budgets or leading people. Marshall and Smith are designing leadership programs to fix that gap. “Leadership is about caring for the people to your left and right,” Marshall said. “It’s showing up.”
Both leaders see their direct access to the top of the Department of Justice as a once-in-a-generation advantage. “For the first time, we have a seat at the table,” Marshall said. “We’re just as important as any other agency in DOJ.”
He credits Attorney General Bondi for her support, calling her “so genuine and easy to talk to.” He and Smith are determined to use that access to advocate for staff and inmates alike and to tell Congress the Bureau’s story honestly, not just ask for money. “I go in and tell them our story,” Marshall said. “And by the time I leave, they’re asking how they can help.”
For all the talk of budgets and policy, what shines through most is their shared belief that the BOP must rediscover its humanity, both toward those who serve within it and those who live under its custody.
Smith summed it up simply: “If we’re able to make it a better place for our staff to work, where they’re not voting it the worst place to work, if they enjoy what they do, if they understand the mission, then we’ll put out a better product of someone returning to society better than when we received them. That’s our mission.”
Marshall nodded.
“We’re grinding, but I don’t see it as work when you love it so much.”
They admit they’ve only scratched the surface, but their optimism is infectious despite criticism that often comes from both staff and inmate families who have heard that change is coming only to be disappointed. Marshall and Smith speak of tackling bureaucratic barriers to hiring, improving the First Step Act’s implementation, and ensuring new infrastructure money is spent wisely.
Marshall’s personal goal is simple: “When my time comes, I want people to say, he cared about us. He made a positive impact in my life. The Bureau is a better place because he was here.”
And with a laugh, he added, “I’m loyal to a fault. I’m still a Dallas Cowboys fan. When I’m on your team, I’m going to fight tooth and nail for you.”
That loyalty to people, to purpose, and to possibility may be exactly what the Bureau of Prisons needs most.
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