Strikes

My Friend,

I was heartbroken when I heard the news. The anguish you must feel right now may seem to be more than you can bear, but you are not alone. I know that sitting in a segregated cell, far away from the people you love, not knowing when you will breathe free air again, is the jailer’s way of compounding hopelessness.

I want to remind you that you are still the person who worked with all your heart to recover from addiction. You took an honest look at yourself, and determined to become a man your sons can admire. You didn’t blame your chaotic past for you actions; although, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.

Your family was no stranger to addiction, and the men in your life pretended to be outlaws. They ripped through the lives of others without regard for you. You deserved better, and they deserved better from the men who came before them.

Yet, you decided to break the cycle. You had five more years to serve in prison, but you acted as though there wasn’t a moment to spare. I admired you for pursuing a degree. It was a goal that few of your friends had ever considered.

You had to subtly step away from the people in your circle who remained hell bent on outlaw ways. I didn’t fully appreciate until later how difficult that must have been for you. Where you come from, turning one’s back on a friend, no matter how destructive that person may be, is a nearly unforgivable betrayal. I respect you all the more for trying to break away. I now understand how challenging it must have been for you to return home to the social circles of your youth.

This may come as a surprise, but I know how you feel. I was also given a second chance at freedom, only to relapse - spinning out of control, committing dire criminal acts to remain high, desperately trying to avoid the sober realization of the damage I had done to everyone I loved. I have never in my life felt so alone.

I also know how afraid you must be right now. We live in a society where it’s easy to throw someone away. This is how the criminal justice system is designed. Specialty courts, jail/prison diversion programs, pretrial interventions – these are alternatives to the norm. 

The truth is that courts process cases, not people.

This is why the average length of sentence for those sent to prison in Texas is more than 19 years. There are prosperous and democratic countries in the world where it would be unthinkable to send someone away for more than 15 years, no matter how egregious the offense.  In those countries, they never give up on rehabilitation, even for those people that Texans casually refer to as “the worst of the worst.”

I want you to know that you are worth more than that. You made a serious mistake. So did I. There will be a consequence for that mistake, and it may be years before you can fully make it right. But, there must also be a path to redemption. 

A system that metes out punishment without also creating a pathway to rehabilitation cannot be called justice.

I’m writing this not to cause you more despair, but to remind you of who you are - courageous, determined, and responsible. I want the people in charge of processing your “case” to see you as a human being with dignity and worth. You have value – to your sons and to your community. Our society loses nothing if the court determines to send you to long-term intensive treatment instead of another decade in prison; 

and what we gain when you succeed is beyond measure.

Your Friend,

Doug 

Commencement

It seems that media coverage of criminal offenses and irredeemable “criminals” dominates local news, giving a strong impression that crime runs rampant and those who commit crime are incapable of becoming productive members of our community. The truth is far more complicated. Most people commit crime due to a variety of factors including substance-use disorder, mental illness, and past abuse; factors that can be addressed through strong rehabilitation. 

Tragically, sensational media stories dampen public support for rehabilitation; and create massive barriers as people with criminal histories try to rejoin society.

Considering these barriers, it is extraordinary when people with past criminal involvement manage to chart a productive life in the community. These stories are not nearly as rare as people think, and they are deserving of the same level of coverage local media grants to the “crime of the week.”  A great example is Reginald Smith, who will be graduating from the University of Texas at Austin on Saturday, December 3rd.

Reggie was sentenced to prison five times in his adult life, the last stint for nearly six years. Like many of the people he met while in prison, he struggled with substance-use disorder. Finding limited rehabilitative resources in prison, he continued to struggle each time he was released to stay sober, find a job, and rent a place to live. 

Against the odds, Reggie kept working towards recovery from addiction both in prison and out.

After his last time in prison, Reggie connected with the local recovery community. Determined to stay out of prison, he became a house manager at a sober-living home. He stayed sober. He enrolled in the University of Texas to earn his Bachelors in Social Work, and quickly became a leader on campus. He served in the UT Center for Students in Recovery and championed efforts to create opportunity for formerly incarcerated individuals.

Because of his work, Reggie was awarded a fellowship from the Hogg Foundation for Mental Health to advance public policy that will promote substance-use disorder treatment and mental health care to divert people from jail and prison.  He is an invited speaker and recognized leader among those with a lived history of mental illness and criminal justice involvement. He is also a mentor to those who are striving for recovery and a productive life despite the stigma and shame of a criminal record.

Reggie graduates Magna Cum Laude with his Bachelors in Social Work this weekend. He was selected by the student body to give the commencement address. His journey inspires countless people who have been discarded by society because of past mistakes.

 NOTE: I alerted contacts in both print and visual media about Reggie’s story. As of today, December 2^nd, no reporter had picked up the story; so, I decided to post on my blog. I appreciate readers sharing this post with others.  Thanks!

Labor Day

I grew up watching the television program M.A.S.H. One of my favorite characters was “Radar”, the unassuming clerk with an uncanny ability to sense incoming casualties well before the sound of helicopters could be detected by human ears. He could anticipate the commander’s orders before they left his lips, and often had work completed before anyone else knew it was needed.

In prison, I met someone exactly like Radar. He was the gas garage clerk for the large mechanical shop where I was assigned. The department managed the entire fleet of gas-powered vehicles for the largest prison system in the country, and my co-worker seemed to know the mechanical history of nearly every vehicle in the fleet. You could give him the six-digit vehicle number, and he’d be able to tell you where it was assigned as well as its maintenance schedule.

During my time in prison, Texas cut state agency budgets dramatically, and prohibited the Texas Department of Criminal Justice from purchasing new vehicles. The departmental bosses relied so heavily on my co-worker to anticipate repairs before they were needed that they were able to keep vehicles with more than 400,000 miles on the road long past their life cycles.

I learned that the man had the same standard in his personal affairs as he did on the job. He volunteered in the Chapel and was a leader in the 12-step community. He practiced the principles of recovery, treating people with dignity and volunteering to help anyone seeking to recover from addiction. He became my mentor and my trusted friend. 

My friend was serving a 40-year sentence for stealing a package of cigarettes. 

He had experienced a traumatic childhood, and struggled his entire life with addiction. He had been arrested twice before for burglarizing vehicles, always to feed his addiction. After his second release from prison, he was able to stay sober for nearly five years before relapsing. On his last night of freedom, he pocketed cigarettes from a convenience store and fled in his car as the clerk ran after him to get his license plate. The prosecutor decided to charge him with robbery instead of theft, and claimed that my friend’s car was a deadly weapon because it could have harmed the convenience store clerk.

My friend refused to characterize his circumstance as injustice. He took responsibility for all of his mistakes, and believed that his work ethic and personal standards needed to be higher than anyone else’s if he were to be of use to others. 

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t paid anything for his work behind bars; he just needed to know that his efforts were valued by others.

He was not alone. During my time in prison, I met countless men who were driven by the same motivation. I will never forget the look of determination on the cook’s face when the kitchen boss allowed him to prepare chicken Parmesan for nearly 1600 men using frozen chicken patties and the limited ingredients available in prison. He beamed with pride when he returned to the cell block after a twelve hour unpaid shift.

In the mechanical shop, I knew a transmission expert who was small enough to fit into the engine compartment. He had no qualms about getting covered in grease and climb into the engine in order to avoid having to send a vehicle to an outside shop for a costly repair. Similarly, maintenance workers gladly sprang from bed in the middle of the night when called upon to fix toilets or electrical issues. Working around these men taught me to value my work in ways that I never had before.

Prison officials and state leaders often taut the occupational opportunities available to people in Texas prisons, framing them as an essential to rehabilitation. What is missing in this narrative is the fact that prisoners are doing the work of keeping the prisons operating, prisons that wouldn’t need to exist if we were to adequately address the factors that lead to crime in the first place.

The reality of Texas prisons is one of incapacitation, not of rehabilitation. People like my friend were thrown away by their communities; men who would have otherwise been productive members of the community had they had an opportunity for treatment or vocational programming. It should come as no surprise that Texas ranks near the bottom in terms of substance abuse treatment availability, yet ranks number one in the number of state prisoners.

I was proud to get to work alongside these men. They taught me to rise to the highest standard, even when there was no reward. It pains me to think about their children who will grow up without getting to learn from the example these men set for me. 

When I think about the human resources locked away behind our prison walls, I think of Texas as one of the most wasteful states in the entire world. 

Father's Day

No one wrote to me more faithfully during my nearly six years of incarceration than my father. I remember his first letter shortly after my arrest. He was shocked and heartbroken, not able to reconcile my criminal actions with my true character. He said he was horrified by what I had done, but that the real Doug would never have done such a thing. He attributed my crimes to addiction.

I took his words as a sign of grace and generosity. He had forgiven me the moment he heard the news. In truth, he probably blamed himself.

My father had left our household while I was still a child. Years before, his own dad had abandoned his family, and his mom later married an abusive man who tormented and bullied my father throughout his childhood. My father carried unhealed wounds into adulthood, so he never felt completely at home in his own skin. When I was in the 6^th grade, he removed his wedding ring and moved into a small one-bedroom apartment across town.

His departure was so devastating, that I also carried unhealed wounds into adulthood. Like many children of divorce, I blamed myself. I wore the anguish visibly, making me an outcast among my peers. Adolescence was an internal prison, worse than any of the 109 facilities scattered across Texas. When I discovered drugs and alcohol, life seemed to improve. I had no idea that I was watering a toxic seed that would one day lead me to real prison.

I never met a man in prison who didn’t also carry childhood wounds related to fatherhood. At the mere mention of fathers, men grew serious. Otherwise hardened men talked of abandonment, disappointment, or abuse. Even those whose fathers were consistent and loving shared feelings of deep shame for having disappointed their dads so gravely. Talking of fatherhood also reminded men of their own children.

More than 68 percent of the men in Texas prisons are fathers, and there is little question that incarceration has a terrible effect on the well-being and healthy development of their children. The loss of financial support increases the likelihood that children will live at least a portion of their childhood in poverty. Also, a significant number of the incarcerated parents actually lived with their children at the time of arrest, disrupting their lives in ways that have lifelong consequences.

I was often shocked by the number of men in prison who had children serving time in other units. On the unit where I served most of my time, at least two men shared cells with their fathers. I will never forget the tears of my cell mate when he learned that his adult son had committed his third felony and was being sent back to prison on a life sentence as a habitual offender.

He didn’t blame his son, nor did he blame a system that fails to adequately rehabilitate men during early interactions with the criminal justice system. Instead, he blamed himself and his own failings as a father.

I came to understand that there was a difference between taking responsibility and taking the blame. Taking the blame is a helpless response that originates in shame. Heaping shame upon oneself or another denies the possibility of change.

Probably the most tragic element of the criminal justice system in Texas is the extent to which it is steeped in shame. It is a system that refuses to acknowledge the problems at the root of criminal involvement, and allows us to write people off as irredeemable. It allows the officers of correctional control to dehumanize incarcerated individuals, often entrenching them in destructive mindsets.

The men that I met in prison were not irredeemable. They carried the unhealed wounds of childhood, and cycled in and out of the courts as they encountered a state jail and probation system that set them up to fail.

The men who overcame this viscous cycle were those who cast off the shame and took responsibility for their own rehabilitation. They began taking classes or volunteered in the Chapel.  Along the way, they met unlikely allies - usually fellow inmates - who helped them to see that they were more than the worse thing they ever did. These men became like father figures to those who had never known a father.

I gravitated to these people from the start, following their example. I volunteered as a peer educator, working to end the culture of violence inside prison. I volunteered in the Chapel and in the 12-Step meetings, becoming a mentor and ally to others. I felt as though my life were starting over, and I began to see that I could one day be a decent father to my own daughter.

My father celebrated whenever he received a letter from me. He saw me taking responsibility for the crimes I committed and becoming a man on whom others could rely. Midway through my fourth year in prison, my father came to visit me. He had lost weight and appeared frail, but his face lit up when he saw me. During that two hour visit, he looked me in the eye and said, “Doug, I’m proud of you.” I never saw him again.

One year later, my father died. I was still in prison and unable to leave for a funeral. The Chaplain allowed me to call my Step-Mother, and she shared the news with me. I walked out of the Chapel numb, holding back tears until I could reach my bunk.

I berated myself for not being with my father during his battle with cancer. I thought of how I was depriving my own daughter of a father in her life, and shame welled up inside. It occurred to me that I was repeating the toxic pattern. After a day on my bunk, I got back to work doing the things that had made my father so proud. Six months later, I was paroled.

Today, I get to be a father to a beautiful daughter. I never use the language of shame with her, either toward myself or anyone else.  I don’t even use that language toward the system itself. I believe people can change, even those who want to keep the criminal justice system exactly as it is.  

Desert Dreams

I spent the first week of my Christmas vacation in Big Bend National Park. I had dreamed of returning to this beautifully desolate region during my time in prison, so I immediately felt at home in the park. While in prison, memories of past trips comforted me during the countless moments of sadness. I’d also imagine future trips, planting the details in my mind to give texture and definition to uncertain hopes.

I had learned that planning for the future brought the future into the present. A friendly chaplaincy volunteer visited me twice a month, and we talked at length about my plans for the future. All of these plans were dependent on me being granted parole, and parole was far from certain; so my mentor suggested that I ask instead, 

“What am I doing today that will lead me to my desired goal?”

I embraced the exercise with enthusiasm. I imagined the type of life I wanted to lead when given my freedom. I knew that I wanted to be free from addiction, so I participated in every program available to me in order to practice the principles of recovery.  Soon, I found myself mentoring others who were drawn to my positive outlook. Recovery stopped being a future goal, and instead became my daily reality. 

I also knew that I wanted to rebuild the career I had destroyed. During my downward slide into addiction, I had succumbed to a paralyzing apathy that made me a liability to employers. In prison, I shook off the apathy. I worked diligently as a clerk in a mechanical shop, and brought even greater determination to my volunteer position as a Peer Educator.  For the first time in many years, I received praise from bosses and coworkers alike. I am often shocked when I hear people suggest that individuals coming out of prison aren’t ready to become productive members of the workforce, as if this were a general rule. 

It occurred to me as I hiked the desert trails that my dreams in prison had created a path to freedom, and the vast December sky amplified the liberty. I stopped to look into the blue sky, and grabbed some bottled water from my pack. Big Bend is so dry that visitors must bring their own water; yet it teems with life.  Peregrine falcons darted playfully above me as I hiked through a canyon, and I could see signs of black bear along the mountain trails. Purple cacti and thorny bushes with indigo-colored leaves charmed me on my desert hikes. 

It surprised me that such an unforgiving environment could produce such living beauty, but it does.

I found such living beauty while in prison, people who guided me on my path to freedom. I’ll never forget my friend Michael. In prison, he had envisioned the life he was supposed to lead. He had an intelligence and discipline that would have led most people to Ivy League schools. In the mechanical shop, he found a book on how to program databases and network computers. With no help other than the book, he programmed a sophisticated database and networked five separate shops together. He became the de-facto IT manager, almost indispensable. 

People in prison aren’t destined from birth to lead a life of crime, regardless of what some third-rate criminologists might suggest. Someone had hopes for their future, but something went terribly wrong along the way. Michael had endured such loveless abuse from his own father, that a dark core of rage lay hidden beneath his warm exterior. He was also a Vietnam War veteran, and the psychological scars of battle entwined with the rage to bring out a shocking violence. By the time I had met him, he was in his 60s and had spent the better part of his adult life in prison.

Yet, he had imagined a future where he could be the loving and gentle father he never experienced. He practiced this daily, imperfectly at first. He had to apologize countless times, especially when the rage invaded his eyes and words. Over time, the gentleness on the exterior permeated the angry core within him, and he no longer had to restrain the rage. Fatherless men started calling him “Dad.” His dreams for the future became his present reality. Michael is now a free man. He is the IT manager for a family-owned business, and volunteers with men as they make the difficult transition from prison back to the community.

Thoughts of Michael and others like him arose in my mind during my lonely hikes. The unfriendly land does not nourish life. I walked along the dry cracked dirt, yet I could see life all around me. 

The plants and animals had developed spines and claws to protect themselves, but their determination to survive had given them resilience.

This is what happens sometimes in prison. The community willfully ignores the painful trauma and neglect that had taken beautiful lives off track, and they discard and label these wounded souls: offender, convict, criminal. Prison is one of the harshest places on the planet; yet, the men and women who live there continue to dream. It’s as if the dreams someone had for their lives when they were born are seeds that only need a little water to grow. 

Even in the desert, it rains sometimes.   

I wake up daily with enormous gratitude for the life I get to live today. Years ago, I strayed off course; yet, the gentle rain from volunteers and men like Michael helped me to heal. Eventually, I found a path that led back to the life I was supposed to live. When I think of people in prison, I think of the resilient men who changed my life. 

People who attempt to describe prisoners while failing to see these beautiful souls reclaiming their lost dreams are like those who walk through the desert and see only cracked dry ground instead of brilliant purple cacti.    

Never Been Better

A few months ago, I spoke with a good friend of mine who is still doing time in prison. It had been more than a year since I had last spoken with him, yet I could feel his warmth and gentleness as if we were in the same room together.  It is true that the prison environment does little to engender the core attributes of friendship like trust, empathy, and compassion.

Yet, many people had shown him extraordinary kindness during his two decades in prison, and had had learned to pass that kindness on to others. 

I asked him how he’d been doing, and he said to me, “Never been better!” His familiar positivity brought a smile to my face. It was that bright optimism that drew me to him in the first place. Being close to him lightened the shadows I still carried at that time, and gave me hope for the future.

He had embraced faith while in prison, and it became a living force within him. Unlike many people I meet out here in the “free” world, he actually lived his faith. It propelled him into service to others. He had been teaching newcomers in prison about sexual assault prevention for nearly five years before I met him. When he wasn’t teaching, he worked in the chapel as a clerk, where he could assist the Chaplain and volunteers. Over time, they stopped seeing him as an inmate, and put him in charge of facilitating the Friday night chapel services. 

He told his story one Friday night. I’ll never forget it. He had experienced a traumatic childhood, with a chaotic home life and a father in prison. The turmoil led him to drugs and unhealthy acquaintances. Weeks before his 19^th birthday, he accompanied two young men to buy some drugs. Unexpectedly, the two men attacked the drug dealer and killed him. My friend was horrified.

He spent an entire year in county jail claiming that he never had any intention of harming the man who lost his life. The two men responsible for the murder quickly accepted plea agreements that would assure them of release from prison in their late 30s. My friend dared to claim innocence, and asked for a trial. Under the law of parties, my friend was charged and convicted of Capital Murder. 

To punish him for refusing the plea agreement, the prosecutor demanded a sentence that would keep him in prison at least twice the length of time given to the actual murderers. 

The judge agreed with the prosecutor, so my friend won’t even be eligible for parole until 2033. His right to appeal expired long ago. Unless Texas passes a law that makes my friend eligible for a second look by the sentencing court, he will remain in prison until he is at least 58 years old. Some states allow certain individuals, like those who were children themselves at the time the crime was committed, to appeal for a sentence reduction after serving a certain percentage of the sentence. Such a law could be extended to those sentenced under the law of parties, particularly when the actual murderer(s) received more lenient sentences.  Sadly, no such law exists in Texas.

My friend had to learn to forgive others in order to cope with injustice. After having served two decades in prison, my friend learned that one of the men who had committed the murder was on the unit awaiting parole release. The Chaplain accompanied my friend to the release gate, where they met the man. 

My friend looked the man in the eye and said, “I forgive you.” They shook hands, and the man departed the unit to begin his adult life outside of prison.

Both of the men who committed the murder are now free from prison. They are living their lives, able to pursue careers and family. Out here in the “free” world, the same prosecutor who abandoned all sense of fairness, demanding that my friend serve 20 years for being a party to a murder and an additional 60 years for daring to defend himself in court, gets to sleep in a comfortable bed and perhaps enjoy a round of golf this weekend. The judge who went along with the prosecutor, forgetting his sworn duty to remain just and impartial, also gets to enjoy his life, perhaps fishing along the Texas coast. My friend will experience none of these things. 

As for my friend, he’s “never been better.” He’ll teach a class this week that will make prison safer. He’ll share his kindness with people like me, helping them to heal and grow into the men they were intended to be. People who experience his friendship will return to the “free” world with a deeper commitment to improve the lives of others. 

My friend will probably bring a message at the Friday night chapel service. He may talk about an ancient king named Solomon who knew a thing or two about justice. Perhaps my friend will teach others that, when it comes to matters of justice, where lives are at stake, one needs a double portion of wisdom. 

Because wisdom is often lacking in the Texas courts, we need a Second Look Law. It's also time to take a second look at Law of Parties.  

Nature of the Crime – Community Supervision

The sad truth about the criminal justice system is that it often serves its own purposes.

 One of the most confusing moments for me during the most recent legislative session was when I advocated for an improved funding formula for probation departments.  The bill merely called for a study of the current funding allocation formula to reward positive outcomes and move past the overreliance on probationer fees.  The goal was to improve quality, rewarding departments that lowered probation revocation rates.  It would have led to an increase in the number of people on probation because exorbitant fees are often the primary reason people choose state jail time over probation. 

What was the response by many of the members of the Texas Probation Association to the prospect of more clients and financial incentives for good outcomes?  They came out in force to oppose the bill.  

I was shocked. A general rule of thumb in the Texas Legislature:  when an interest group opposes a study bill, they either have something to hide or they are afraid that potential changes will make things worse. 

It saddened me that the Association was so unwilling to discuss improvements to the system, because we all have something to gain if community supervision is successful.  Making probation more effective is one of the most important things we can do to decrease incarceration rates in Texas. Moreover, effective community supervision ends the cycle of relapse and reoffense that characterizes untreated addiction.

I was on probation at one point in my downward slide toward addictive destruction.  While grateful for the chance to remain in the community, I continued to struggle with addiction. I often wonder whether I might have succeeded on probation had the department supervising me utilized best practices. In fact, I have no recollection of them ever conducting a risk and needs assessment, an essential element in effective supervision; nor did they check on my progress in recovery.

They did indeed make sure I paid my fees on time. I paid a monthly fee, roughly $50, just to see my probation officer.  On top of that fee, I paid $130 per month in victim restitution.  The latter fee was a form of amends for the crime I committed, and I paid it without resentment.  However, the combined fees and community service requirements proved to be a challenge, especially when I relapsed.  

The challenge I faced is typical. It is not uncommon for people to be required to pay the probation fee, restitution, treatment costs, and electronic monitoring fees. Some people have to pay out of pocket for classes that allow them to renew their drivers licenses.  Increasingly, probation has become a significant obstacle to recovery instead of a resource to overcome the root causes of criminal behavior.  

I know of professionals charged with Driving While Intoxicated who gladly chose jail time over probation because the community supervision requirements are nearly impossible.  

People living at or near the poverty line often view probation as a trap. Probation costs alone will exacerbate economic challenges.  If one has children, the classes and community service requirements are often too difficult to balance. Knowing that their inability to meet probation requirements will lead to probation revocation and a longer prison sentence, defense attorneys routinely advise clients to accept county jail or state jail time over community supervision. This is one of the reasons that the number of people on probation in Texas has decreased by 40,000 since 2005.

It’s critical for my own recovery not to blame anyone for my own relapse. I had family support and help from the Veteran's Administration.  Probation did not help me to deal with the problems I was facing in terms of addiction and mental illness, but I take responsibility for not embracing the tools of recovery offered to me.  

What I can say affirmatively is that improving community supervision standards will likely prevent someone from having to experience what I did. 

The decline in the number of people taking community supervision as well as the high probation revocation rate will derail any effort to end mass incarceration in Texas.  For more information about fixing the community supervision system in Texas, click here. 

Nature of the Crime

Holliday Unit, Huntsville ,Texas

I appreciated Scott Henson’s recent Grits for Breakfast post related to prison release rates in Texas (see “The arithmetic of de-incarceration: TDCJ edition”). Scott has a way communicating about complex issues that paints a simple and easy to understand picture for the reader. It’s one of the reasons why his reporting often leads to tangible policy changes, like the recent adjustment of property offense penalty thresholds.  That measure will likely decrease the number of felony theft cases and shift additional cases into community supervision, hopefully leading to treatment and services for people with addiction and mental illness. 

In Scott’s recent post, he provides a graph comparing the number of people sent to prison each year to the number of people released.  You can immediately see a problem that could stall progress on criminal justice reform in Texas.  

If the number of people received into the Texas Department of Criminal Justice is not equal to or less than the number of people released from prison each year, we will soon have to build more prisons.  

Texas prison populations have declined, but only by 3.6 percent.  We have a long way to go before we come close to the reductions in prison populations achieved by New York and other states.  Most advocates believe that Texas should decrease its prison population by at least 30 percent.

There has been undeniable progress.  The number of placements into pretrial diversion programs has nearly doubled since 2005, with a 63 percent increase in felony diversion.  Also, thanks to the leadership of the outgoing Chair of the Board of Pardons and Paroles, Rissie Owens, with support from former Governor Perry and the Legislature, the number of people approved for parole release has increased by several thousand each year. 

Also, the Parole Board decreased the number of parole revocations each year by 30 percent.  This happened because the Board was given additional options in terms of treatment and intensive supervision, allowing TDCJ to address higher levels of risk and need in the community instead of in costly prisons. 

But the numbers illustrated by Scott Henson bring up important concerns.  The number of people sent to prison each year remains relatively stable when it should be declining along with crime rates and greater use of diversion programs. Further, even with increased parole approval rates, the number of people released from prison each year remains fairly low.  There are at least three issues that need to be addressed by the next Legislature to prevent criminal justice reform from going backwards:

1.      Increase the number of people sentenced to community supervision instead of prison;

2.      Reduce probation revocations; and

3.      Increase parole release rates. 

I’ll follow with three posts to a discuss each of these issues.  As an introduction, I should emphasize why this is important. Despite all of the progress, there remain 150,000 incarcerated people in Texas, a staggering number.  The prison population in Texas increased by 200% during a period when the actual population increased by only 48%. Prison stopped being the last resort for those who commit violent offenses, and the state created an assembly line to process more than 70,000 new prisoners each year.  

If you pass by one of the prison units built rapidly in the 1990s, you’ll see a half mile stretch with two rows of buildings that look exactly like warehouses. 

The state spends $6.2 billion every two years on this out-sized system.  It separates families, often forcing parents and children to travel 600 miles across the state for a brief weekend visit with their loved ones. Even prison officials argue that the system is too large, making it nearly impossible to adequately address the factors that led to criminal involvement in the first place. There is a better way to deal with crime in this state. Stay tuned for the next post on more effectively addressing social issues through community supervision instead of prison. 

SNAP

In 1996, Congress passed the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act, also known as welfare reform.  The law included a provision which imposed a lifetime ban on the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), formerly called Food Stamps, to anyone convicted of a drug-related felony.  It didn’t matter whether the felony conviction related to drug possession or dealing.  This was the era when Democrats and Republicans at every level of government were caught in a “tough on crime” frenzy. The “war on drugs” raged furiously, and “three strikes you’re out” applied to any felony, not just the violent crimes that inspired the movement in the first place. In the mad rush to severely punish all wrongdoers, the SNAP policy seemed reasonable.

Only when the dust cleared some years later did Congress realize what it had done. The SNAP program is a crucial resource for people trying to start new lives. It not only provides help with buying groceries in the first months out of jail or prison, it connects people with employment and training programs. Most convicted felons have drug and alcohol problems, but Congress had targeted the most minor of all “offenders.”  People convicted of rape and murder could access SNAP upon release from prison, but not those caught with half a gram of cocaine.

It was like trying to prevent cheating in public schools by permanently expelling first graders when they copied the answers from someone else’s test.

Instead of simply overturning the policy, which is the prerogative of Congress, lawmakers simply left it up to the states to retain or discard the lifetime ban. Nearly 41 states had eliminated the lifetime ban by 2015, but Texas remained entrenched in its instinctual distaste for public assistance programs. Nearly 70,000 people are released from prison each year with a $100 check, a ten-day supply of medication, and the clothes they wear as they exit the prison.  Because of Texas’ inaction on SNAP restoration, about 20 percent of these men and women were unable to access SNAP assistance, making their reentry back to the community a challenge for even the most resourceful person.

I learned this first hand.  When I got out of prison, I experienced a solid wall of rejection from employers. I turned to the SNAP program for short term assistance during that time. The state gave me three months of emergency food assistance. More importantly, I connected with unexpected employment resources such as the Texas Veterans Commission and Goodwill.  Because of support from the reentry organizations I learned about thanks to the SNAP Employment and Training Program, I found a temporary job.  A short time later, I found my dream job.

I don’t need SNAP assistance any longer.  

After many attempts over several legislative sessions to eliminate the SNAP drug felony ban, a bill by Representative Senfronia Thompson made it out of Committee. The bill still faced daunting opposition despite the favorable committee vote. With almost two-thirds of the Texas House affiliated with the Republican Party, the bill was likely to die. Instead, two conservative lawmakers offered a compromise in the form of an amendment that would restore eligibility, but impose a two year lock-out if the recipient violated probation or parole, and revert back to the lifetime ban if the individual was later convicted of another felony. In this way, Texas would become a “second-chance” state while remaining tough on drug crime.

Within seconds of offering the amendment, a progressive member stepped to the back microphone to be recognized by the Speaker. “Mr. Speaker, will the gentlewoman yield for a question?” The Texas House chamber is a massive square theater, with the audience observing from the gallery on the floor above. Exactly 150 desks form neat rows enclosing the Speaker’s platform, which is elevated to give authority to the presiding officer. A lonely microphone stands in the central aisle near the back row.

Members wishing to interrogate someone laying out proposed legislation or an amendment stand at the back microphone until recognized by the Speaker. Members use the front microphone to defend their position or answer questions.  The strict parliamentary procedures add a comical element to every debate. Members at the back microphone can only ask questions, and members at the front microphone can only answer questions or state positions. The dialogues are not so much debates as they are clumsy dances where the leaders must follow, pulling their partners in the direction they want to be led.

 

The debate ensued with the member at the back microphone making arguments in the form of questions: “If someone violates probation, what happens to their kids? Do we starve them? Is that what we want to do?” The barrage of inflammatory questions forced the conservative member to defend not only the amendment, but the SNAP program itself: “Right now, people with drug convictions get no SNAP benefits. This is an effort to go from the very most punitive, which is a lifetime ban, and to give people a chance to do the right thing once they have served their time.”

She went on to highlight the employment and training programs attached to SNAP, arguing for increased opportunities for people who made mistakes. She argued for second chances to those who made mistakes. She also argued that the amendment would keep the bill alive and help thousands of people trying to start new lives after prison. Two-thirds of the Members voted for the amendment, and the bill passed the Texas House of Representatives.

Despite the renewed efforts by advocates to push the measure through both chambers of the Legislature, the bill never received a committee hearing in the Senate. Therefore, Representative Thompson, who authored the SNAP bill, masterfully amended the language from her bill, including the second chance amendment, onto another bill reauthorizing the continued existence of the very agency that administered the SNAP program.  The SNAP restoration passed the House again, and the Senate grudgingly accepted the language. The Governor signed it several weeks later, giving the SNAP program a second chance to assist people to start new lives after past mistakes.

On Tuesday, September 1^st, people getting out of prison or serving time on probation for drug crimes will have an additional resource to help them stay off of drugs and begin productive lives.  

3g

Months ago, I attended a hearing of the House Judiciary and Civil Jurisprudence Committee to give testimony for HB 1510, which ultimately passed. When the legislation goes into effect in January, it will remove the risk of lawsuits from landlords when they decide to lease property to individuals with criminal background records.  The bill was entirely about the perception of risk.  The actual risk associated with leasing property to someone with a history of involvement with the criminal justice system is rather low. 

There are a number of factors that mitigate risk.  Consistent participation in recovery groups is a strong indicator that the person will be a responsible renter.  Successfully completing probation or parole are good signs, but so are meeting all community supervision conditions such as paying fees on time and fulfilling all community service requirements.  From the standpoint of a potential landlord, the most likely indicators that an individual is unlikely to commit a new crime include employment and housing stability. 

That is to say, if a person can meet the criteria on a rental application, a landlord can rest assured that the applicant is worth the risk, regardless of criminal history. 

All HB 1510 does is encourage landlords to place the criminal background check aside and have a conversation with someone who is trying to create a new life.  Landlords who take the risk and lease property to people with criminal histories actually promote stability and reduce the risk of recidivism.  They can do this today.  They don’t have to wait until the bill goes into effect. 

Despite the gap between the perceived and actual risk, Legislators remained concerned that the bill would remove the right to sue landlords who rent to people who have committed violent crimes like murder, aggravated robbery, or sexual assault.  These are known as “3g” offenses, shorthand for the section of the Texas Code of Criminal Procures that lists the most serious crimes.  Before HB 1510 could proceed through the legislative process, the bill had to be modified to retain imaginary barriers between violent “offenders” and unsuspecting neighborhoods. 

The Committee hearing ran very late, so only a few people testified. It was one of those strange moments in the session when a bill has such strong support that too much testimony actually does more harm than good.  I decided to merely thank the Members and invited them to read my written testimony.  Then I sat down.  There is so much I wish I could have said. 

I thought of my own time in prison and the “3g offenders” I knew.  Every incarcerated individual doing time in the general population of Texas state prisons wears white.  There is nothing that distinguishes one individual from another with respect to the crimes that led them to prison.  There are three paths available to them:  become more entrenched in criminal thinking, make no progress at all, or work to change the factors that led them to prison.  I surrounded myself with people who chose the more difficult path.  My mentors and friends were people who had fully committed themselves to exemplary lives.  Most of them had committed 3g offenses. 

Seldom have I met people more selfless than the “men in white” serving others while serving time.  For example, when an increasingly large number of young men were transferred to my unit, a group of mature men created a ministry to mentor these younger individuals. They formed group discussions and developed classes. They taught these young men to take pride in living upstanding lives, and they helped them to see that being accountable for your behavior is a sign of strength.  

The sad irony is that, had these young men experienced as youth such unconditional regard from committed adults who were truly invested in their lives, they would have gone to college instead of prison. 

I joined another group of men to teach classes on sexual assault and HIV prevention. My fellow educators had spent years in a culture that told them to mind their own business if they witnessed a rape. In the decades they had spent in prison, they learned that there is nothing worse than a “snitch.” Somehow, my peers summoned the courage to oppose the culture of silence.  They refused to tolerate sexual assault, and they dared to encourage others to report incidents to prison authorities. Because of them, the culture is changing. I deeply admired the courage of these men, most of whom had committed violent crimes.

My greatest teachers were so called “3g offenders.”  The man who helped me to take responsibility for my crimes was serving 40 years for aggravated robbery.  I learned from him that, in refusing to blame addiction for the robberies I committed, I empowered myself to change the destructive ways in which I dealt with anger, fear, and shame.  Another man spent hours every week teaching me how to find serenity in the face of grief and uncertainty. He is serving a life sentence for murdering his wife during an alcoholic blackout. He became a father figure to me, especially after my own father died.

These men were not atypical. I found positive lights on every unit, in every dorm, and on every cell block. When I asked for help, men-in-white stepped up to help me live a productive and meaningful life. 

Every challenge I successfully master out here in the “free” world, be it professional, emotional, or interpersonal, I owe to my neighbors inside prison. 

About 95 percent of those serving time will eventually return to the community.  Interestingly, the recidivism rate for those convicted of violent offenses is slightly lower than the rate for those convicted of certain nonviolent offenses.  Further, when the crime is drug-related, those convicted of violent offenses respond even more favorably to drug treatment than those convicted of nonviolent offenses. I saw this first hand while in prison.  The "3g offenders" I knew embraced rehabilitation and worked hard to share it with others. These are exactly the types of people I'd like to call "neighbor."  

Arrested Humanity

Last Thursday, July 30^th, I gave testimony before the House Committee on County Affairs regarding the issues arising from Sandra Bland’s death in a small county jail in East Texas.  The tragedy raises so many concerns, that it’s impossible to frame solutions within one policy.  The series of mistakes span the distance from racial profiling to dismal treatment inside county jails.  To emphasize one aspect over another deprives Sandra and her family of justice. 

I showed up to offer six strategies for reform.  My colleagues and I had worked 14 hours per day leading up to the hearing, studying racial profiling data, de-escalation techniques, and Supreme Court decisions urging states to stop arresting people for minor infractions.  We also researched pre-booking diversion programs, mental health assessments, and county jail oversight.  We prepared our written testimony, and I drew the short straw to testify at the actual hearing. 

The hearing room was crowded with news media.  I had to edge past camera crews to make my way to a seat near the front.  More importantly, the room was crowded with people who had ventured across the state to give witness to generations of police encounters that have divided communities into “us” versus “them.”  I could hear the women in the row behind me groan with impatience when the first panel spent too long discussing mental health assessments and jail standards.  

To them, the issues were clear – Sandra Bland dared to assert her rights, and she was treated with brutality as a result.  She shouldn’t have been in jail at all, and now she’s dead. 

I realized that we were grappling with issues as a community, and that I couldn’t go to the microphone as merely a policy analyst.  The issues were too personal.  I remembered my own treatment inside county jail, and I shared it with the Members.  I admitted that my descent into addiction and criminality included several stops at psychiatric hospitals along the way, including two Intensive Care Units after I had attempted suicide.  Out of desperation for drugs, I had committed four counts of robbery with a highlight marker wrapped in a shirt.  When I was arrested and taken to county jail, I told the truth about my mental health history. 

What happened to me because I told the truth was nothing short of torture.  They sat me in a metal chair and strapped my head, arms, and feet to immobilize me for hours.  Later, they stripped me naked and put me in an icy cold padded room for the night.  They kept me in isolation for days. Someone in the next cell had combined alcohol with Xanax, and spent the night screaming at imaginary attackers.  It was a horrific experience. 

I recounted my experience to the Legislators to help them see the inhumane treatment people experience inside county jails.  It didn’t change the fact that Sandra should never have had to step foot inside of a jail.  I tried to relate the issues to mass incarceration, the need for bail reform, and pre-booking diversion, but it was my personal story that seemed to have the most impact.  When I sat down, one of the women seated in the row behind me put her hand on my shoulder and leaned forward to say something in my ear: 

“I want you to know how much good you’ve done for my people today.” 

The issue is about inhumanity at every level of the criminal justice system from law enforcement to corrections.  Racial minorities are treated with suspicion and contempt by law enforcement.  We arrest people for minor infractions, and allow counties to complain about jail costs and overcrowding.  We treat drug addiction as a crime instead of a disease, investing untold sums into the criminal justice system that could have been used for treatment.  We allow the bail industry to dominate the system for their own profit, holding low income people in jail for months, often for crimes they didn’t commit, simply because they can’t afford to post bail.  We do this despite the fact that people are just as likely to show up for trial on a personal recognizance bond as they are when they post bail. We deprive people with mental illness continuity of care while they are incarcerated, and subject them to torture.  And then we deprive children and families the right to a face-to-face visit with loved ones, because jails have learned to cut costs and make a profit on video-only visitation. 

Yes, there are so many issues involved that it’s difficult to name just one reform.  It starts with humanity.  Police must have an actual reason to stop someone.  Suspicion is not enough.  Nearly 71% of the people whom police perceive as “suspicious” are racial minorities.  Anytime a police officer uses force outside of the context of defense of self or others is a failure of good policing, and police departments must be held accountable when it happens.  We have to recognize that the criminal justice system is not equipped to deal with problems of addiction and mental illness, and we must divert people to community organizations more frequently.  Finally, we must acknowledge that most of the people who enter the criminal justice system will rejoin our community.  

When we allow mistreatment of our once and future neighbors by police and jailers, we all must be held accountable. 

For more information about the six strategies for reform in the wake of Sandra Bland's death, check out our written testimony on the Texas Criminal Justice Coalition's website:

http://publicpolicycenter.texascjc.org/download/county-affairs-law-enforcement-and-jail-standards-testimony