By Debra McKinney
The Anchorage Daily News
KENAI, Alaska — Last January, Steven Cable, a 45-year-old single father, walked out of prison in Kenai after serving 16 months on an assault charge. It was 17 degrees outside and his only coat was a prison-issued jacket with Wildwood Correctional Center emblazoned across the back. So that’s what he wore as he stepped out into the snow a free man.
About all he had to his name was a list of conditions for parole and a check for $341 in his pocket, money earned doing various prison jobs at 50 cents an hour. After making his way to Anchorage and four nights at the Brother Francis Shelter topped off by a bout of strep throat, things slowly started falling into place. He had a friend who gave him a beater car, a brother who helped him get a job and a stepmother who found an apartment manager willing to rent to a felon.
All in all, Cable had a lot more going for him than most newly released offenders. He ended up homeless anyway.
A bad back cost him his job; losing his job cost him his apartment. That’s how he and his daughter, 5, and son, 12, ended up at the Salvation Army’s McKinnell House.
“I hate to say it,” he said. “Things are ... ah, I just get a little discouraged now and then.”
It could be a lot worse. If he hadn’t had support of friends and family, as well as strangers willing to give him a chance, he knows where he’d be right now.
“I’d be back in jail, without a doubt,” he said. “It’s so easy.”
In line with the national average, 66 percent of offenders in Alaska end up back in the criminal justice system within three years of release, according to a recent study by the Alaska Judicial Council. The first six months are the most precarious, accounting for 43 percent of all re-arrests during the three-year study period.
In many cases, doing time behind bars is the easy part. For those who truly want to change their lives, the “hard time” comes once they’re out.
“You feel useless, worthless, hopeless,” said former prisoner Linda Smith. “You’re free, but free to what?
“People don’t want to rent to us, they don’t want to hire us. What are you going to do? Where do you go?”
Releasees heading out into the unknown with nothing but the pair of prison sweats they’re wearing are not a myth, according to Joe Schmidt, commissioner of the Alaska Department of Corrections.
“There’s absolutely the possibility of people stepping out the door with nothing in their pockets.”
Or, they may have lost their Social Security card, or have no identification. Or both. There’s no cashing a check without an ID, no getting a job without a Social Security number. Not that landing a job is easy once you’ve checked the “yes” box asking if you’ve ever been convicted of a felony.
And many of the newly released have nowhere to go.
Janice Weiss, former education director at Hiland Mountain, learned that as a newcomer to corrections. When she started in November 1995, and women told her they’d soon be getting out, she’d say, “That’s fantastic. You’re going to be home for Christmas. Isn’t that nice?”
Was she ever naive, she said. Not everyone has a home to go to or a family waiting with open arms.
Most of those released early for good behavior finish their sentences under DOC supervision in halfway houses. Since there aren’t enough beds to go around, the rest are left to find their own places to live, subject to approval by their parole or probation officers.
Offenders who do “flat time,” serving their entire sentences behind bars, are free to go when their time is up, no strings attached. But no transitional services, either.
Offenders who’ve done time in high security prisons have even more issues since they haven’t had to make personal decisions in, say, 10 years.
“Like opening doors for themselves,” said Sarah Williams, DOC program coordinator. “They’re not allowed to touch them” in prison.
When offenders get the chance to “practice” functional living under DOC supervision, it’s best for the community, Schmidt said. Going from a structured environment to the streets can be enough of a shock to revert to old habits, particularly substance abuse.
Besides figuring out the basics — food, clothing, a roof overhead and a job to pay for it all, most likely a part-time, minimum wage job with no benefits — anyone on probation or parole has a lot of personal work to do. There can be a dozen conditions for release, or several dozen, from staying away from alcohol to not associating with other felony offenders. Technically, having coffee with a fellow felon could send a person back to prison.
Depending on the individual’s crime and circumstances, there are appointments with parole officers to keep, treatment programs to attend, urinalysis to get done, anger management classes to go to, parenting skills to learn, restitution to pay, child support to catch up on. And typically, releasees are relying on buses to get where they need to be, when they need to be there.
All this takes money.
Of those re-arrested within three years, 59 percent have new charges. The rest boomerang for fumbling conditions of their release.
“The conditions placed on people sometimes are overwhelming,” said Bryan Brandenburg, DOC deputy director. “They may not have a lot of skills in the first place and can’t handle it.”
Not being in top form to begin with doesn’t help.
Drug and alcohol issues are huge among prison populations. Mental illness, too.
“Forty-three percent of our prisoners have some sort of identifiable mental health issue,” Schmidt said. “And 18 percent have a serious, chronic mental illness.”
As difficult as re-entry can be, sometimes a simple thing makes a difference.
Smith, 49, a repeat offender due to drug addiction since her early 20s, got out of Hiland Mountain 21 months ago for what she’s determined will be the last time. The turning point, she said, was being asked in treatment to write her own obituary.
“I talked about how I had been in and out of jail my entire adult life, how I never followed any of the dreams that I had for myself, I never raised my kids, I never amounted to anything, that I OD’ed.
That’s not how she wanted to be remembered.
Now it looks like that’s not how she will be. She still wears an ankle monitor, but that should come off by spring. In the meantime, she’s working as an assistant manager at a fast food restaurant, living in her own apartment and learning to be a good grandmother.
What she’d like to be remembered for now is giving back to the community. Because now that her head is clear, that’s her plan.
Copyright 2007 Anchorage Daily News