Release and redemption: After serving hard time, former Nevada prison inmates find hard times -- and help -- on the outside

Story by Deidre Pike
Photos by David Robert

You can paint anything you want on the sides of the empty clay pots, the women are told. Anything positive. Anything that has to do with recovery. Slogans are good.

One woman paints: "The past is now my potential."

Another writes, "I can," in thick, bold strokes.

Halfway house director Diane Brokaw paints a longer quote: "I'm not afraid of tomorrow, because I've seen yesterday and I love today."

Someone suggests the words of that renowned recovery poem that has to do with changing the things you can change. Two women, who were -- until recently -- inmates of Nevada State Prison, discuss this.

"But we don't know how to spell 'serenity,'" one tells Brokaw.

Several women helpful reply in unison: "S-E-R ... E-N ... I-T-Y."

The word represents a dream these women share, the idea of a new life that's possible -- if their plans come together.

There are many things to think about when a person gets out of prison. You have to find a job and a place to live. You have to make new friends and stay out of trouble. No drugs. No booze. No hanging out with the old gang.

While she paints her recovery pot, a young woman who asked to be called Carol describes the experience as "terrifying."

"I was totally freaked out," Carol says. "I'd been in for two years, and it was my second time in. ... While I was there, I was working in their work crew, fighting fires. There was always an officer behind me, telling me what to do. Now there's no officer behind me."

When she got out of prison in Carson City a few weeks ago, Carol decided to make a new start.

"I came here with my mind made up about what I'm going to do," she says. "Diane came down and picked me up."

Carol will spend seven weeks in the residential treatment center at Ridge House in Reno. She's learning how to be responsible. She's getting substance abuse counseling and support from her housemates. She has a job, though finding it wasn't exactly easy.

"You go to temp agencies, and some will work with felons and some don't," Brokaw says. "Some will give you a break. By the time a woman gets here, she needs a break."

Carol says she received no real job training while in prison.

"It was called 'honor camp' because it was supposed to be an honor to get there," she says. "But there was no honor about it. No programs. No education. No job training. They had Narcotics Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous and other 12-step programs, but nothing to educate you as far as being out here."

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Every year, about 4,000 inmates are released from Nevada's prisons. About 65 percent of these individuals head to Las Vegas -- where some are dropped at a bus station, still dressed in prison clothes. They are given $21.94 from the Department of Corrections, a gift to start their new crime-free lives.

Within three years of their release, about two-thirds -- or more, depending on what study you look at -- will return to prison. They'll break the law or the terms of their parole and head back through the revolving door.

The odds are better for those released into licensed residential treatment centers. But in Las Vegas, residential treatment centers are few and far between.

"These small halfway houses in Las Vegas are not a significant concept that we could utilize when people are paroled," says Jackie Crawford, director of Nevada's Department of Corrections.

Ridge House, which is operated by Kairos Prison Ministry in Northern Nevada, has a small facility in Las Vegas. In Reno, the group operates three houses with room for 21 individuals. In any location, there's a long waiting list to get in.

Some inmates eligible for parole are released to family members. Some, though eligible for release, have no place to go. When this occurs, the individual may decide to remain incarcerated for the entire sentence, Crawford says.

"We've discovered that people who have no money and no job just stay in prison," Crawford says.

Also, research has shown that if offenders -- especially first-timers -- remain more than three or four years in prison, their mind-set begins to adapt to the environment.

"They become institutionalized," Crawford says, "and are less likely to be successful when they re-enter."

Thus was born the idea of building a re-entry center in Southern Nevada. The center would offer transitional housing and job-hunting services for offenders leaving prison. Dubbed "Casa Grande" by Crawford, the center would allow inmates to find jobs in the community and save money for their release days. It would offer the kind of substance abuse treatment that most inmates need, since about 96 percent of those in Nevada prisons are there for drug- or alcohol-related crimes.

"People have complained that 'Casa Grande' sounds like 'The Big House,' but I think it has a nice ring," Crawford says.

Gov. Kenny Guinn's budget included $2.7 million for the center. If the state Legislature comes through with the money, the center would open in October. It would eventually have beds for up to 400 transitioning inmates.

A re-entry center like Casa Grande in Southern Nevada could save $3 million annually in operating costs, after the initial investment is recouped. Building fewer "hard" or maximum security beds alone saves an estimated $96,000 per bed.

"We feel that money could be put to better use," Crawford says.

That's why Crawford put a hold on building more hard beds at High Desert State Prison in Indian Springs. She and others on the Governor's Study Committee on Corrections would like to see funds redirected to rebuild the Indian Springs Camp from a 200-bed to a 604-bed Community Work Center.

Would such a facility combat the problem of recidivism (inmates returning to prison within a few years of release time)?

The program is already working, Crawford says, albeit on a much smaller scale, at the Northern Nevada Restitution Center in Reno, a small complex that used to be a maximum-security prison for women.

"It's an old facility, but the concept is there," Crawford says. "The enthusiasm sets the tone for what we want to do. ... I'm very proud. At the restitution center, inmates get a job and have money when they leave. And, quite frankly, they've done a good job with rehabilitation."

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At first glance, the Northern Nevada Restitution Center looks less than inviting. Small, squat buildings are surrounded by high cyclone fences topped with rolls of barbed wire. Inside, heavy doors date back to the buildings' use as a high-security prison.

But on a recent weekday morning, the gates were open and inmates walked freely around the complex, doing laundry, watching TV, making themselves a bologna and cheese sandwich at lunchtime or using one of the facility's two computers to look for work and create resumes.

"If they have time, we have a couple of games on the computers," says Steve Suwe, restitution center manager, as he walks past the two computers. On one of the PCs, a tall man with tattooed arms plays Serious Sam, a first-person role-playing game in which he's wandering around "somewhere in Egypt."

"It makes you feel like you're 13 or 14 again," the man says.

But the atmosphere is pure institution -- far from plush. The buildings are clean and freshly painted, but ancient. The flooring is old, worn. A smattering of weight-lifting equipment behind the housing unit is rusted. The weight benches sport cracked and decaying foam pads.

"But it's tidy," Suwe says, brightly. "And we feel fortunate to have this. There's not a whole lot of money to replace stuff."

As far as upgrades go, a few cans of paint can go a long way -- and Suwe recently encouraged the inmates to "spruce things up a bit" by giving each block of rooms a little personality. Oakland fans painted one wing in Raiders colors with the words: "Silver and Black Attack." Red and orange flames lick up the sides of F-Wing, while C-Wing features patriotic colors with a flag, eagle and a silhouette of the Twin Towers.

"That's all freehand," Suwe boasts. "These guys are very artistic, at least, some are."

One wing is painted with a mural of tropical fish.

"It started with just one fish and it turned into this," Suwe says, with a sweeping hand. "I call this the fish tank, but they don't like that. A fish is someone new to prison, they say, and they aren't new. It's almost a negative."

The facility can house up to 106 inmates, and it's almost always at capacity. There's a waiting list of prison inmates (no violent or sex offenders) who qualify for "community trustee" status and want to be accepted into the center.

"Right now, there are about 70 inmates who've been approved through the system, and they're just waiting for a bed," Suwe says.

An inmate can stay at the center for up to one year. Suwe prefers that they stay a minimum of six months or so -- that's how long it takes to on your feet, he says.

Shortly after arriving, an inmate is expected to get a "regular, real, on-the-street job."

"We point 'em out the door, say: 'Here's the want ads and we're here to support you,'" Suwe says.

Besides keeping a job, each man is assigned a chore at the complex. They do their own laundry. Out in the community, they work as dishwashers, cooks or in other trades. One resident worked his way up to construction foreman, Suwe says.

"Companies like us," Suwe says. "They know we'll handle any problems that come up. They know we do frequent random drug checks so our guys are going to be clean. Employers know that we're going to be on time and we're going to be there."

And the inmates pay rent. Their paychecks go directly to the restitution center, which takes out up to 50 percent of each check for rent --"$16 a day, the best rate in town for three squares and a bed," Suwe says. The center also deducts up to 20 percent for victim-specific restitution, 5 percent for the Victims of Crime fund and 1 percent for other fees, fines, child support or other assessments ordered by the court. Whatever remains goes into an account for the inmate, who can request an allowance of up to $60 every two weeks.

The upside of this is that an inmate can both pay back financial debts and start saving for an apartment.

"A lot of guys are afraid when they come here, tentative," Suwe says. "Then they get a job and they get confidence. These guys want to be here. They know it'll give them a good head up when they get out."

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When he came to Las Vegas from Chicago in 1998, Michael Carlson had no friends or family -- nothing but a 20-year addiction that had left him desperate.

"'Heroin addict' -- that says it all," Carlson says. "I'd been in the penitentiary in Illinois from about 1985 to 1995. I stole. I robbed. I did whatever."

One day, as he was walking along the streets of Las Vegas, a car rolled up. The men inside asked Carlson if he was all right, an idea he laughs at now. "I was lonely, heart-broken, at the end of my run."

The men turned him on to Transitional Living Communities, an independently operated halfway house that offered recovery through responsibility. "I called up and said, 'Can I get a bed?'" Carlson recalls.

His recovery wasn't picture-perfect. After turning his life around at TLC, he got a welding job for $15 an hour. He moved to a studio apartment and stopped going to 12-step program meetings. He started smoking crack. He then headed back to TLC and they offered him a job. Now he's the district manager.

TLC's roots are in Mesa, Ariz., where founder John Schwary was released from prison 12 years ago. Schwary, determined to get sober, purchased what TLC legend refers to as a "shack." He paid $500 down. As he lived and worked in the community, Schwary ran into other men in the same straights. These men moved in and began the TLC community. When they outgrew Shack No. 1, they bought an adjacent run-down house.

"Nobody's filthy rich in this business," Carlson remarks. "If you're into it for the money and your heart's not in it, you're not going to help people."

Potential TLC residents are asked a series of questions before they are considered for a bed. First, the man has to admit he's an addict or an alcoholic. If that's too hard, admitting that he has a "problem" will do, Carlson says. Second, the man must have a strong desire to get sober. And third, TLC doesn't accept sex offenders.

A new resident gets three days to kick around, then four more days to look for work. If the man can't find a job, staffers will "personally hold the guy by the hand" until he's working and paying rent -- $90 a week for the first three months. After that, the resident's rate goes down $5 a week for every three months.

One of Carlson's favorite success stories is that of a man named Matthew, who was furious at having been placed in TLC after getting out of prison.

"He was angry. He said, 'I don't want to be here. My parole officer lied to me.' He'd been busted for methamphetamine and I said to him, 'This beats the hell out of the penitentiary.' We sent him job searching and he couldn't get a job."

TLC eventually mandated Matthew to a labor group and found him a job. The company that hired him liked him. After a while, it sent him to get electrician training at company expense. Now, Carlson brags, Matthew is a "full-fledged, card-carrying electrician."

While he doesn't consider himself an intensely religious man, Carlson says that he wakes up each morning and prays.

"I ask God to give me one guy I can help, and I'll be OK," he says. "That's a far cry from: 'Stick 'em up and give me that $10 in your pocket.' I'm helping people."

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When a person who's been in the custody of the prison system makes a successful transition back into the community, that saves taxpayer money. And with the reformed person in the workforce and paying taxes, the community is even better off. But you can't put a monetary value on a life that's been turned around, says Gary Meneley, interim director of the Ridge House.

"The statistics don't reflect helping one person with his life," Meneley says. "Recidivism is just a number. ... [Helping people] is why most of us do this, I think."

One such changed life is that of Sandy Finelli, Ridge House's fiscal administrator. If you met this intelligent, smartly dressed professional woman, you'd hardly think she spent eight years in Nevada State Prison. She's been out for 10 years.

While incarcerated, Finelli took advantage of every available educational opportunity. She finished high school at age 29 and went on to receive two college degrees. She graduated with honors.

"A teacher there believed I could do it," she says. "I never knew I could do it."

Finelli's life was turned around, she says, by the folks from the Kairos ministry. The word kairos, Meneley explains, is Greek and means "in God's time."

"Those people came in from the outside and offered me unconditional love," Finelli says. "They opened their arms and their hearts to me. They showed me that I wasn't disposable, that we're all redeemable."

It was a turning point. When Finelli left prison, Ridge House needed a part-time receptionist. The education she received gave her the confidence she needed.

"I told them I could make their computers do everything but the dishes," Finelli says, laughing. "And they believed me."

Now she considers herself a "pretty productive" citizen. But there's a catch.

"It really makes me upset that I don't get to vote," she says. "I pay taxes."

If Nevada really wants felons to return to the community successfully, Finelli and others argue, it needs to provide the incentive of restored rights. State law makes it difficult for individuals who've committed felonies to regain the right to vote or to possess a firearm for hunting. The state also bars felons from becoming licensed in many professions from hairdressing to working as an athletic trainer.

A bill in the Nevada Assembly seeks to change these laws, restoring rights to those who've successfully done their time and changed their lives.

Assembly Bill 337, which was approved on April 21, would restore basic rights to people who've been honorably released from prison and who've completed parole requirements. Besides voting, it would also allow individuals like Finelli, who've proven themselves, to receive specific occupational licenses -- as long as their crimes didn't involve the area in which the license applies. (A person convicted of a barber-related felony, for example, wouldn't be able to receive a barber's license.)

The bill would go a long way toward helping people walk the straight and narrow, say proponents like Bob Fulkerson of the Progressive Leadership Alliance of Nevada.

"Once a felon has paid the debt, there should be no demeaning roadblocks put up to keep him from getting re-enfranchised," Fulkerson says. "There are people who have definitely made mistakes in the past, but have paid their debt. Our Western civilization is all about redemption, and we need to provide that."

Transitional programs work. And a reformed felon who's hard at work in the community saves taxpayers money.

So what stands in the way of a better corrections system?

Well, it takes money to get re-entry programs off of the ground. And in these days of budget deficits, not many would argue to raise taxes on behalf of bettering the state's prison system -- especially around re-election time.

That's why prison reform isn't exactly the most pressing issue on many legislators' minds.

Crawford credits Sen. Sandra Tiffany (R-Henderson) for her support of the re-entry reform and Assemblywomen Chris Guinchigliani (D-Las Vegas) and Sheila Leslie (D-Reno) for supporting restored rights in the areas of voting, licensing and other reforms.

Still, with so many social programs on the line -- and with Nevada's public schools facing a potentially dismal future -- corrections reform could take a back seat.

"Prisons are not a popular topic," Crawford says. "It's not warm and fuzzy. But they have a tremendous impact financially and emotionally on communities."

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At Ridge House, Carol finishes painting her clay pot and sprays it with a clear fixative. The recovery pot concept: If you can keep a plant alive and healthy for a year, you can get a pet. If you can keep the pet around for a year, then you can think about a relationship.

Carol takes the pot outside, fills it with dirt and gently inserts a few green plants.

She tells a story about riding home on the bus earlier that day, sitting near some young kids who were wearing red bandanas.

"They asked me for a cigarette and I said: 'Where's your mother at?' I gang-banged, and I'm still a Blood because the only way to get out is to get killed. Now I just stay away from [gang members]. I've been to prison twice, both gang-related, for selling drugs."

One of the boys seemed to be bragging when he mentioned to Carol that he'd just been released from juvenile hall. She went off.

"'You just got out of juvie and you're proud of that?!' I found myself preaching to this kid!" Carol puts the side of her hand to her mouth. "I'm in shock!"

She looks around at the other women, who listen attentively.

"Maybe I would like to work with kids," Carol says.

"Nip it in the bud," adds another woman.

"I'd say, 'Get your ass outta the streets!'"

Deidre Pike is a contributing writer to CityLife and a contributing editor to the Reno News & Review, in which a version of this article first appeared. She can be reached at 775-324-4440 ext. 3522 or deidrep@newsreview.com.