In the summer of 2015, Anthony was in a downward spiral, soaked in booze and clouded in a haze of marijuana smoke. “I saw no way out of my addiction,” the 56-year-old from Jamaica, Queens, says. He had stayed on the right side of the law since 2002, but he slipped up one day last July and found himself in handcuffs, booked on a felony charge of grand larceny. Advocates from The Fortune Society, a New York City nonprofit that provides court-approved rehabilitation, interceded on Anthony’s behalf and convinced a judge to let him try their program as an alternative to a three-year prison sentence.
The Fortune Society’s Alternatives to Incarceration (ATI) is one of New York City’s most prominent pretrial release programs. With it, judges offer second chances in the courtroom and accused felons are voluntarily diverted into treatment. Enrollees remain under strict supervision — they must check in at Fortune’s offices daily — and spend their time working with a case manager to obtain stable housing, take classes to prep for the high-school equivalency test or job certifications and attend group sessions on anger management, decision-making and 12-steps to sobriety (these days, often for addictions to prescription painkillers). Those that fail to show up are remanded to court and their trial begins immediately, with little leeway from the judge; those that complete the requirements, are released without any time in lock-up. (Some receive probation or community service.) Of the 341 people who are assigned to Fortune’s ATI annually, roughly three out of every four successfully complete their court mandate, which usually means they have no new contact with law enforcement.
Counting down the days until the end of his court-ordered year in the program (which concluded on July 19), Anthony hopes to be included in that statistic. It isn’t that he is eager to leave Fortune behind; rather, he wants the external validation of the progress he’s made in 12 short months. Over a plate of ginger-poached chicken (part of the free lunch served daily) at Fortune’s headquarters in Long Island City on a recent afternoon, he spotted a journalist talking to two young guys and approached him.
Anthony located two free chairs, set his ID on the table and started talking. He credits his time in the program with transforming his criminal past into something good. “I really can’t overstate the positive difference [Fortune] had on my life,” he says. For starters, he got sober. Every one of his urine tests came back clean, and his attendance marks were high, he reported. He completed several job trainings and applied to LaGuardia Community College for next fall. He’s fully aware that employers are reluctant to hire a someone only a decade away from retirement — let alone a person that age with a criminal record — but Anthony is determined to be a nurse, a job that pays “a decent dollar.” He expected the judge would release him the following week.
“We, I think, have some of the most amazing folks walking our halls, who, because of poverty, because of race, because of lack of opportunity, are here. It’s such a criminal offense, I believe, to have somebody in our intake unit that dropped out of school in eleventh grade but tests in reading at a third grade level,” says Peggy Arroyo, ATI’s director. “That almost guarantees there is going to be a population that needs these services,” she says, adding that she “will gladly flip burgers at McDonalds” on the day when mass incarceration ends.
The quick turnaround in Anthony’s life would be an impressive accomplishment for anyone, but it’s particularly striking in comparison to the average results from New York’s correctional system. Those awaiting trial on Rikers Island, New York City’s main jail, struggle to maintain their sanity against the threats from fellow inmates and the barked orders or beatings from guards. (Last year, press attention focused on Kalief Browder, who was held on Rikers without trial for three years, much of it in solitary confinement. He committed suicide at his parent’s home in the Bronx in June. But there were also the lesser-known stories of Fabian Cruz, an inmate who killed himself on New Year’s Day, and Kenan Davis, an 18-year-old who hung himself in his cell while waiting for a psychiatrist.)
“I think if you’re arrested, you have PTSD. The mere act of somebody putting handcuffs on you: you have no control, you’re told what to do and maybe not why. I’ve never been incarcerated” — Arroyo knocks on her desk — “so I don’t know firsthand, but it seems that, for the young people who come through our program, there’s just this cloud of confusion and pain, like ‘What am I doing here?’”
But getting through New York City’s jails might be the easy part. The difficulties of obtaining an apartment or a job — all the things people need to do to “survive in this insane city,” as Arroyo puts it — can be overwhelming for someone who’s just traded in his orange jumpsuit. Committing another crime might seem like the only fix. That’s likely why close to one-third of probationers — 32.4 percent — are re-arrested within three years, according to the most recent data from the state’s Division of Criminal Justice Services (DCJS).
It’s stats like those that explain why there’s been a national push to curb mass incarceration in state and federal prisons. New York City has long been ahead of the curve, offering the country’s first pretrial release program in 1961 and witnessing significant drops in prison population without any major legislative mandates from the state capital. Most of the change can be attributed to a small core of nonprofits: among them, Fortune Society, the Center for Alternative Sentencing and Employment Services, the Osborne Association, the Women’s Prison Association and the Center for Court Innovation. Their alternatives to incarceration were designed to rehabilitate and reintegrate one-time criminals.
With the same clients cycling through courtrooms, diversion programs save money, encouraging prosecutors and judges to get on aboard, says Peggy Arroyo, ATI’s director. “It’s much less expensive to put somebody in Alternatives to Incarceration, and we believe it’s much more effective,” she explains. (DCJS is currently analyzing Fortune’s three-year recidivism rates; no data is publicly available yet.) “The higher the charge, the more of a sentence you would be facing. That’s more time we displace from prisons, and there’s a dollar figure attached to that,” she explains. Last year, ATI saved the state $2.95 million, Arroyo adds.
Among the select group of nonprofits, Fortune’s staff members say its size distinguishes their organization from others, allowing it to offer wraparound services to clients. “We’re very fortunate to be a one-stop shop,” Arroyo says. “We have everything: we have housing, mental health, substance abuse, employment services, education. We have it all.” The average day begins with educational classes — whether GED prep or vocational skills like cooking, construction and asbestos removal — from 10 a.m. until 3 p.m., then several hours are spent in group therapy. Three evidence-based therapies make up those sessions: Moral Re-cognition Therapy focuses on how to make decisions that lead to a virtuous life, recognizing the errors in their previous thinking, making amends and reformulating a new process; Seeking Strength instructs how to led a healthy life, as it relates to safe sex, smoking pot and other choices; anger management classes teach participants how to defuse tense situations. Additional seminars — on parenting skills, relationships, relapse prevention — are also offered.
Those classes form the core of ATI’s programming, changing mindsets first so that men in the program choose to take advantage of Fortune’s other opportunities. They come to understand, not that they should be punished for breaking a law, but that the action they took hurt someone, the people around them and themselves. Fortune Society builds up the person, rather than the prisons, Arroyo says.
Josh, one of the boys in the lunchroom, says he never knew how to control his temper. When somebody would step on his foot on the subway or lost interest in conversation and looked away, Josh would lash out, sometimes violently. “I used to like to fight,” the 21-year-old from the Bronx admits. Initially at Fortune, he remained closed off. It wasn’t until he was remanded in January and sent back to jail that he straightened up. He hadn’t really cared whether he was in or out of prison, but he noticed that the advocates from Fortune fought for him to be released back to the program. “They went to bat for me harder than I did for myself,” he says. The judge gave him one more try. Josh stopped playing hooky, and listened more closely in the groups to older guys like Anthony, who, “have been through what I’ve seen.” Josh came to understand that he wasn’t a bad person, he “just didn’t go about it in the right way.” “I’m not innocent,” he cautions, but one day, he could be.
Arroyo says ATI helps these men realize their own potential and seize it. “By the end of the program, they realize things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. Now they have the opportunity to change that,” she explains. “We can’t undo what was done, but I hope for each individual to say, ‘No more. Not for me.’”
Fortune Society participants may not be able to change their past, but they can certainly modify the course for their future.
MORE: Who’s Responsible for Mass Incarceration? Van Jones Weighs In
Tag: prison
This Former Inmate Fights for Others’ Freedom from Life Sentences
Jason Hernandez never thought he would see the outside world again.
Since 1998, he had been serving a life sentence in federal prison for selling crack cocaine in his native McKinney, Texas. It was his first criminal offense, but due to the Drug Act of 1986 and the mandatory minimum sentences it required, Hernandez found himself locked up at the age of 21. Then, in 2013, his prayers and petitions were answered: He was granted clemency by President Obama.
Watch the video above and see how Hernandez uses Crack Open the Door, his sentencing advocacy nonprofit, to spotlight and fight for the release of other first-time nonviolent drug offenders serving life without parole.
MORE: Criminal Justice Reform Is Imminent. Here’s Why
Open Doors in a Maximum-Security Prison: Why This Counterintuitive Approach Works
Within his first two weeks on the job as the new warden of Lee Correctional Institution, a maximum-security prison in South Carolina, Michael McCall faced a hostage situation. Prisoners captured a guard and held him in a closet until other corrections officers rushed the dorm. Three months later, a group incited another riot. Inmates and guards alike were afraid to walk across the yard. Three or four times a week, McCall dealt with a stabbing, he recalls.
In the wake of the dangerous violence, McCall pondered how to excise the brutal culture that dominated the Palmetto State’s largest Level 3 facility. Instead of imposing further punishment, McCall responded by allowing convicts to improve themselves. Solitary confinement wouldn’t change behaviors, but some taste of freedom could.
He created the Better Living Incentive Community (BLIC), a special dorm for prisoners with a clean record where security feels laxer and they’re allowed to take classes. Offenders must apply for acceptance to the dorm — 256 live in the dorm at Lee; another 300 are on a waiting list — and they have to remain on good behavior to stay. Since its founding in 2012, there hasn’t been a single incident requiring discipline: no thefts, no drugs, no contraband phones, no emergency responses. Nothing. Why? The simple fact that no one wants to go back to the pen.
“I was raised an old country boy: ’Lock ‘em up and throw away the key.’ Being born here in the South, you hear a lot of people say that,” McCall tells NationSwell. “That does not work. These guys are going to be our neighbors some day. Our job is to make them a better person, and [through BLIC] we’re giving them an opportunity to do that. I learned that very quickly in my career.”
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McCall, who took a job in corrections because he couldn’t find other work, has since been promoted to deputy director of operations for the entire state’s corrections department. He’s on a mission to bring his more humane methods to other max-security facilities and eventually convert whole institutions — not just individual dorms — to the BLIC model. If his version of criminal justice can work at the state’s toughest prison, he reasons, it can work anywhere.
McCall first developed the BLIC model in 2009 while he overseeing Perry Correctional, another Level 3 facility. His superiors asked him to come up with a faith-based program, but the idea didn’t sit well with him. “I wanted to see a community — a character institution — where everyone was involved,” McCall says. “Muslim, Christian, atheist: I didn’t care what you were. You were coming together as one.” BLIC’s precursor at Perry focused on self-improvement and community-building. Inmates held one another accountable. They talked out problems, rather than resorting to violence.
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The same concepts took hold quickly at Lee. If you walk into the BLIC dorm there, the first thing you’d notice is the serene quiet. Some inmates might be dipping brushes in acrylic paints; others are practicing chords for bass guitar (the advanced group) or keyboard (the beginners). You almost forget you’re in a maximum-security prison.
Elsewhere in the dorm, there’s beekeeping, barbering and Biblical Greek. Instructors are talking about improving character, resolving conflict and reconnecting with emotions. Unlike classes at South Carolina’s other prisons, which are taught by volunteers, all classes at Lee are taught by the inmates themselves. Even with this restriction, there’s four dozen classes at Lee alone.
The opportunity to enrich themselves proves transformative for many prisoners. They begin to realize they may have made a mistake, but that error doesn’t necessarily determine what they do next. “I put myself here [in prison]. I’m responsible for the actions that I took that got me here. I’m guilty. I’m paying man’s price for what I did,” an inmate named Randy, who’s serving a life sentence for murder, tells a local TV station. “But I’m at peace with myself,” he adds about his life in the BLIC dorm. “For the first time since 1977, I can relax.”
Offenders like Randy are the people McCall hopes to reach. They’re the ones who are making the most of their time behind bars, the ones who see incarceration not as a sentence, but as an opportunity.
”Having lived in this department for decades, this new BLIC unit has given me the opportunity to learn what it is to be a man in my six-decade life,” Randy says. “I’ve been a slave my whole life to alcohol and drugs and I couldn’t be freer in this prison.”
The Reformed Prisoner That’s Paying It Forward to Current Inmates
We all struggle to find purpose and meaning in life. But few of us struggle for as long or as painfully as Raul Baez, the founder of WITO, Inc.
Baez founded the nonprofit, which is named after his late son, to teach inmates financial literacy and character development. The unique acronym stands for “We Innovatively Transform Ourselves.”
The idea came to Baez while he was in prison serving 12 years for a failed armed robbery. Before being imprisoned, he fell into a life of crime while heavily abusing drugs and reeling from the loss of his son, who was killed in the Bronx in 1993, the victim of drug violence.
About halfway through his sentence, Baez experienced a transformation. Walking through the prison yard with a fellow inmate, they heard a service going on in the nearby chapel and decided to go in for no other reason than to procure donuts and coffee. But upon entering, Baez had an experience that ultimately changed his life.
“I heard Matthew 11:28,” says Baez, “‘Come to me, all of you who are heavy at heart for I will give you rest. My burden is easy and my yoke is light.’ And the words just penetrated my heart.”
Baez found faith and slowly began to turn his life around. Over the course of two years, he quit abusing drugs — choosing instead to spend all of his free time reading, taking courses and learning everything he could about finance, real estate, personal budgeting and healthy habits. Eventually, he felt that God was asking him to assist others, so he began sharing his knowledge with his fellow inmates. In 2010, he was released from prison, and three years later, he officially launched WITO Inc. as a nonprofit, teaching inmates about the various subject matters he studied so intently while behind bars himself.
WITO is now present in six New York City correctional facilities. Since its conception, 140 inmates have graduated from the six-month program. So far, 43 percent of those have found jobs post-incarceration. But perhaps the biggest measure of WITO’s success is the recidivism rate for its graduates, which stands at 23 percent — compared to 67 percent for New York State as the whole.
Baez shows no plans of slowing down, describing his mentoring work as his calling.
“These men and women will never break out of this cycle,” says Baez, “if somebody didn’t take the initiative.”
Republicans and Democrats Rarely Agree On Anything. Except This
Republicans and Democrats indicated at the start of last week’s legislative term that 2015 is the year for criminal justice reform.
With an ideological split dividing President Obama and congressional leadership, you can probably expect more bickering than legislation to come from Washington over the next two years. But one of the few issues lawmakers seem to agree on is the need to reduce our prison population, now surpassing 2.3 million inmates. High-profile Republicans are lining up behind sentencing reform at the same time that Democratic leaders, including Rep. G.K. Butterfield, the new chairman of the Congressional Black Caucus (CBC), announced that the overhauling of the criminal justice system is the top priority.
“We believe Congress has a critical role to play in helping to restore trust in the criminal justice system, ensuring that every American is treated equally before the law,” write Reps. Elijah Cummings, John Conyers, Jr., and Bennie Thompson, the ranking Democratic members on three powerful House committees. “This is a transformative moment for our country.”
Statistics about our country’s prison system are disturbing, to say the least. There are now more black men in prison, jail or on parole than were enslaved in 1850, The New Yorker calculates. The entire populations of Philadelphia and Detroit could fit in the bunks of our jails, Pacific Standard adds. And the costs of all these cells are staggering: Detaining inmates now eats up almost one-third of the Justice Department’s annual budget.
This growing federal bureaucracy has caused many Republicans to pivot away from the party’s traditional tough-on-crime stance. Why? It just makes economic sense. Add the nationwide anger over the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, and the rallying cry for change is louder than ever — from both sides of the aisle.
“There is a well-founded mistrust between the African-American community and law enforcement officers. The statistics are clear. Video clips are clear,” says Rep. Butterfield. “You will see the Congressional Black Caucus make criminal justice reform a centerpiece of our work.”
As solutions, black legislators have promised to push for updates to “outdated” mandatory sentencing laws, accountability for police and “unethical prosecutors” and access to competent public defenders, says Butterfield, a North Carolina Democrat.
This progressive rhetoric is expected from Butterfield’s caucus — known on the Hill as the “Conscience of Congress” — but what is unusual this year is that a group from the right, including Sens. Rand Paul of Kentucky, John Cornyn of Texas, Mike Lee and Orrin Hatch of Utah and Rob Portman of Oregon, are also trumpeting reform. Each of these lawmakers has introduced bipartisan legislation aimed at undoing decades of slamming criminals behind bars.
“I say enough’s enough. I won’t sit idly by and watch our criminal justice system continue to consume, confine and define our young men,” Paul, a likely presidential candidate, told the National Urban League last summer. “I say we take a stand for justice now.”
Reform still won’t be easy. Last year, the Smarter Sentencing Act, a proposal to shorten prison sentences for low-level drug crimes, and the Federal Prison Reform Act, a bill that would have given inmates credit for time served in job training and drug rehab programs, both stalled and died without a vote on the floor.
Looking ahead, any future bills will have to win approval from Sen. Chuck Grassley of Iowa and Rep. Bob Goodlatte of Virginia, the Republicans chairmen of each chamber’s judiciary committee. Both boast reputations for being tough on crime, and both can delay any bill indefinitely with exhaustive reports, hearings and amendments. But in a hopeful sign last month, Grassley introduced a bipartisan bill with Sen. Sheldon Whitehouse, a Rhode Island Democrat, designed to prevent “at risk-youth from entering the [prison] system” and helping juvenile offenders already “in the system become valuable members of communities.”
As is usually the case in Washington, compromise seems to be the way forward. “There will be times when I will encourage the CBC to reach across the aisle and try to reach some bipartisan deals that will not make us feel good, but will move the needle in our communities and communities of color,” Butterfield tells BET. “The fight for the future is not a black fight, a Democratic or Republican fight; it is a fight that all fair-minded Americans should promote.”
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Despite Living Behind Bars, These Moms Read Nightly Bedtime Stories to Their Children
In Utah’s State Prison, almost half of the 700 women currently incarcerated have children, according to Department of Corrections data.
To help these moms connect with their kids, the Bedtime Stories program allows them to meet with volunteers to read and record stories for their children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren, according to the Salt Lake Tribune. Forty-five women at the Timpanogos Women’s Correctional Facility (who haven’t been convicted of child-related crimes) participate in the program, mailing CD recordings of beloved children’s books each month, according to Corrections spokeswoman Brooke Adams.
The recordings are reviewed and copied to CDs by volunteers and mailed with the corresponding books by the United Way of Utah County, which operates the Bedtime Stories program. The program has been in operation for about 12 years and has helped parents like inmate Maria King reach her children, 6-year-old Aston and 8 year-old Blaze, who were adopted by her parents after she was convicted of drug possession. King is serving a term of up to five years but has not seen her children for the last two.
For King’s children, according to her mother Kim Abney, the books are a way to stay connected to their mom.
“They love it. They get to hear her voice and they listen to them every night,” Abney says. “It makes me happy that they get (the books), but it makes me sad because of the situation we’re all in.”
The program first began as a Brigham Young University student’s service project for her Mormon church Young Women’s group, receiving a $100,000 grant from the United Way and the Ashton Family Foundation.
For inmates like Debra Samples, who is serving time for up to five years on a theft conviction, the program symbolizes hope. Samples said the monthly meetings giving her something to look forward to as she gets to select something to read to her 7-year-old grandson.
“Hi Damyen! This is grandma. Grandma loves you so very, very much,” she says into the digital recording before reading the holiday-themed book, “Santa’s Magical Cookies.”
The program may not make up for missed time, but it allows inmates like King and Samples to be a part of the parenting ritual of tucking children in from miles away.
MORE: Born in Prison Herself, She’s Helping Women Break the Incarceration Cycle
How Tablets Are Helping San Francisco Inmates Get Back on Track
It’s no secret that education programs in prison may help reduce recidivism and better transition inmates back into society, which is why California is launching a pilot program to supply tablets to prisoners.
The two year, $275,000 pilot program is directed toward helping inmates tap into the technology that’s now available in most elementary schools. The state is distributing 125 tablets, enabling access to only four websites but allowing prisoners to read books, do homework or prepare for their criminal cases through the use of a law library, MSNBC reports.
The tablets also feature an education application and curriculum developed by Five Keys Charter School, which donated $125,000 to the initiative. The California Wellness Foundation has also bestowed a $75,000 grant for the project, while San Francisco’s Adult Probation Department gave $75,000, according to Steve Good, the executive director for the Five Keys Charter School.
“We hope this will help bridge the digital divide and provide inmates access to technology that every elementary, middle and high school student already has, but has been out of reach for those forgotten by society,” Good says.
The majority of the 125 tablets will be given to men and women who are already part of the Five Keys programs. The tablets, developed by New York-based American Prison Data Systems, can be remotely monitored or disabled and will be available to prisoners most hours of the day. American Prison Data Systems also provides similar devices to juvenile jails in Indiana, Kansas and an adult prison system in Maryland.
“This is really cutting edge,” says San Francisco Sheriff Ross Mirkarimi. “Historically, there’s been resistance, if not prohibitions, on allowing technology into the living quarters of inmates.”
Inmate and former army veteran Dennis Jones hope the use of a tablet will help him earn a high school diploma and keep him off the streets the next time he’s released.
“I’m five credits shy of getting my diploma,” Jones says. “I’m willing to work toward that goal — and hopefully this will help me.”
Why Shaka Senghor Never Uses the Word ‘Inmate’ to Describe Men and Women in Prison
At a recent NationSwell Council event, Max Kenner, Shaka Senghor and Bill Keller discussed the problems and potential solutions to reforming the country’s broken prison system.
Shaka Senghor Doesn’t Let Mistakes Define Him
Shaka Senghor is a motivational speaker, a Director’s Fellow at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) Media Lab and the author of six books. At age 19, however, he shot and killed a man.
“I was a young drug dealer with a quick temper and a semi-automatic pistol,” he reveals during a TED Talk in March.
Twenty-three years ago, that was Senghor’s story. With the support of his family, mentors, literature and a newfound passion for writing, Senghor changed his narrative.
His story begins like any other American child growing up. He was a scholarship student on the honor roll with aspirations of becoming a doctor. But his parents’ separation and divorce affected his upbringing, leading him to spiral down a dark path.
As a 17-year-old drug dealer working the corner on the streets of Detroit, Senghor was shot three times. A brief trip to the hospital led him directly back to the neighborhood with a bitter outlook.
“Throughout this ordeal, no one hugged me, no one counseled me, no one told me I would be okay,” he recalls. “No one told me that I would live in fear, that I would become paranoid, or that I would react hyper-violently to being shot. No one told me that one day, I would become the person behind the trigger.”
Violence is a vicious cycle, and for criminals it’s exacerbated by an incarceration system that perpetuates recidivism rather than affording inmates opportunities to turn their lives around.
“…the majority of men and women who are incarcerated are redeemable, and the fact is, 90 percent of the men and women who are incarcerated will at some point return to the community,” Senghor notes, “and we have a role in determining what kind of men and women return to our community.”
Hostility over his situation led Senghor to continue his criminal activities behind prison walls, ultimately landing him in solitary confinement for seven and a half years. But one day, Senghor received a letter from his son, which read, ‘”My mama told me why you was in prison: murder. Dad, don’t kill. Jesus watches what you do. Pray to Him.”
The sobering realization that his son identified him as a murderer forced introspection, and for Senghor to finally confront his actions. With guidance from mentors he met inside prison, delving into texts by inspirational authors like Malcolm X, unwavering support from his family and a penchant for journaling, Senghor was afforded an opportunity to leave behind his troubled past.
In the four short years since his release, that checkered history has been replaced with a bright future.
Among his other achievements, Senghor is a 2014 W.K. Kellogg Community Leadership Network Fellow, teaches at the University of Michigan and serves as a national spokesperson for Black Male Engagement (BMe), a network of black males engaged in their communities.
His personal transformation, he adds, was possible because of three components: acknowledgement of hurting himself and others, apologizing to those he hurt and atonement for his actions. For Senghor, atoning helps at-risk youth and former inmates transform their lives.
“Anybody can have a transformation if we create the space for that to happen,” he says. “So what I’m asking today is that you envision a world where men and women aren’t held hostage to their pasts, where misdeeds and mistakes don’t define you for the rest of your life.”
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MORE: How a Second Chance Can Benefit Prisoners and Taxpayers
Former New York Times Executive Editor Says Our Courts and Prisons Are Failing Us
It takes a lot to lure a longtime New York Times journalist and former executive editor away from The Grey Lady. But the “pressing national need for excellent journalism about the U.S. court and prison systems” and a belief that the time has come to launch a national conversation on how to reform our criminal justice system drew Bill Keller to The Marshall Project, where he now serves as editor in chief.
In an email interview ahead of the NationSwell Council event “Reforming the American Prison System,” which Keller will join as a panelist, he discusses the “vicious cycle” of the system, the “lack of public urgency” around the issues and the one question not enough people are asking.
Why do you believe this country needs a media outlet like The Marshall Project focused exclusively on our criminal justice system?
Three reasons. First, there is a pretty broad consensus, across the political spectrum, that the criminal justice system is wasteful, inhumane and largely unsuccessful at its primary mission, which is making us safer. Second, the economic trauma of the media industry has meant cutbacks in the staff, space, airtime and commitment devoted to investigative journalism and to reporting on complicated policy issues like criminal justice. And, third, this feels like a moment when the conventional wisdom about these issues can be moved, from a lock-em-up-and-throw-away-the-key mentality to something more thoughtful and strategic. This opportunity is created in part by a surge of conservative support for reform and the coming of age of a generation that was not raised on high crime rates and fear-mongering.
You’ve made it very clear that The Marshall Project is a journalistic organization — not an advocacy group. But it does have a mission. So how will that shape the stories you tell?
Our mission is to create public awareness and a sense of urgency about the dysfunctions of the [criminal justice] system and to test the potential of various reforms. It will guide our choice of targets — an emphasis on stories that have been under-reported or misunderstood and a preference for stories that will have an impact. Our reporting will be shaped by the traditional standards of high-quality journalism: accuracy, fairness, independence and impartiality. I hope our work will combine eye-opening reporting with engaging writing.
Why is now the appropriate time to launch The Marshall Project, and how does the 2016 presidential campaign play into your plans to participate in a national conversation?
The political climate has shifted, with a growing conservative discontent with the status quo and a millennial generation that seems to have a less fearful, less instinctively punitive mindset. Neil Barsky, the founder and chairman of our venture, likes to say that in 2016 every serious candidate should feel obliged to have a criminal justice plank in his or her platform. Just as candidates are expected to have positions on taxes or the Middle East, they should be expected to have views on policing, courts and incarceration. We’d like to help push these issues into the 2016 spotlight.
When you look at the host of systemic problems facing our courts and prisons, which ones really stand out to you?
There are so many problems in the system — from policing to prosecution to incarceration to parole and reentry, that it’s hard for me to choose one or two. What stands out to me above all is the vicious cycle of it — the way the system scoops up young (mostly) men (mostly) from distressed communities, uproots them from family and community, does little to prepare them for a non-criminal life, and then deposits them back in those same communities.
More broadly, what do you see as the most innovative solutions in this country when it comes to prison reform or criminal justice?
We plan to take a hard look at programs that claim to work, so I won’t attempt to prejudge. The largest share of creative energy seems to be focused on diverting non-threatening people from the path to prison (drug courts, mental health treatment, etc.) and assisting reentry of those who leave prison.
What are some of the challenges that stand in the way of local solutions for criminal justice scaling across the country?
A lack of public urgency, in large part because the Americans with the most political influence are less likely to be exposed to the system in any direct way, and a system of incentives (political and financial) that tends to protect the status quo. And — although this, I believe, is beginning to change where criminal justice is concerned — a polarization of American politics that makes it extremely hard to enact reforms.
What question is no one asking with regards to criminal justice in this country?
Not enough people are asking: What is the criminal justice system for? My answer would be, first and foremost, it’s to keep us safe, and if you proceed from that answer, you have to judge the system severely wanting.