Meth in Prison: How One Football Player's Scheme Unraveled

A federal jury in Albuquerque delivered a guilty verdict this week that hit like a freight train. Rayshawn Boyce, a 29-year-old former University of New Mexico football player, now faces a decade or more behind bars after being convicted of conspiracy and possession with intent to distribute methamphetamine. The crime didn’t happen on the streets, but inside the walls of Cibola County Correctional Center, where Boyce was already awaiting trial for a 2022 armed robbery of a postal worker. After just five days of testimony and a few hours of deliberation, the jury sealed his fate on April 8, 2025.

The case peels back the curtain on a troubling reality, one where drugs flow into prisons despite locked doors and barbed wire. Boyce’s conviction marks his second federal trial in a year, following an earlier guilty verdict for robbing a postal carrier and stealing a key used to access mailboxes. For those new to the legal system’s twists, this story isn’t just about one man’s downfall, it’s a window into the tangled web of crime, relationships, and loopholes that keep correctional facilities on edge.

Court evidence painted a vivid picture of how it all went down. On May 16, 2022, Correctional Officer Gabriella Torres slipped a bundle of methamphetamine into the facility, hiding it under her hoodie. Surveillance footage caught her dropping it in a cell corner out of camera range, a spot Boyce later visited to scoop it up. Wrapped in a blanket, he stashed it in his cell until a search loomed the next day. In a panic, he dunked the pound of meth in water and ditched it near the showers, where staff found it hours later.

The plot thickened when investigators uncovered a romantic tie between Boyce and Torres. Their relationship wasn’t just personal, it was profitable. Boyce had Torres smuggle marijuana into the prison twice before, distributing it to inmates who paid through a CashApp account she set up for him. The methamphetamine haul was the big score, coordinated through messages and trust built over time. Torres has since pleaded guilty to conspiracy and awaits sentencing, which could land her a decade or more in prison too.

This isn’t an isolated mess. Drug trafficking in prisons has plagued the system for decades, with contraband sneaking in through staff, visitors, or even mail. A recent bust at Greensville Correctional Center turned up over $300,000 worth of fentanyl and methamphetamine, showing the scale of the challenge. Experts point to staffing shortages and lax oversight as weak spots, while facilities like Cibola, run by private operator CoreCivic, face extra scrutiny over whether profit motives undercut safety. Enhanced screening has cut contraband in some places by 25%, but the Boyce case proves gaps remain.

Relationships between guards and inmates add fuel to the fire. A Department of Justice survey found 1.8% of jail inmates reported sexual victimization by staff, often tied to emotional vulnerabilities or power plays. When romance or coercion enters the mix, security crumbles. Advocates for reform argue better training and vetting could help, but overcrowded prisons and burned-out staff keep the risks alive. Boyce and Torres aren’t the first duo to cross that line, and history suggests they won’t be the last.

Boyce now stares down a mandatory minimum of ten years for the drug charges, with a life sentence on the table. That’s on top of up to ten years for his postal robbery conviction from 2024. These stiff penalties stem from laws born in the 1980s ‘War on Drugs,’ designed to hammer traffickers with fixed terms based on drug weight and past crimes. Supporters of the rules say they deter crime, but others, including those behind the First Step Act, argue they trap low-level players in cycles of punishment while big fish slip away.

Torres faces a similar fate, with her plea deal hanging over her head. The lack of parole in federal cases means every year handed down is a year served. For everyday people watching this unfold, it’s a stark reminder of how drug laws don’t bend, even when the story starts behind bars. Some see justice in the outcome, others a system too rigid to fix the root causes, like addiction or the conditions that breed prison crime.

Boyce stays locked up awaiting sentencing, a date still up in the air. Torres, out on release conditions, waits for her own reckoning. The FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office hailed the convictions as a win, but the case leaves lingering questions. How many more shipments slipped through? What’s it take to plug the holes? For now, Cibola County Correctional Center keeps running, one of many facilities wrestling with the same demons.

This saga lands at a messy crossroads. It’s a tale of personal choices, sure, Boyce and Torres made theirs, but it’s also about a system that can’t seem to lock out trouble. Law enforcement vows tighter controls, while voices pushing for rehab over punishment grow louder. For the average person, it’s less about picking sides and more about wondering how deep the cracks go, and whether anyone’s got a real fix.