In the far southern outskirts of Dallas County, Chad Houser pulled off the I-45 highway, drove onto a dead-end road leading to several shooting ranges and made a quick right turn to his final destination: the Dallas County Youth Village, a non-secure juvenile detention facility for 10-to-17-year-old boys. Stepping out of his car, Houser, a chef at the acclaimed Dallas bistro Parigi, noticed a putrid stench rising from the nearby landfill and water treatment plant. He grabbed a bundle of fruits and herbs from his car and strode into the compound, where he planned to teach a class on making ice cream.
The whole ride over, Houser fretted about the disrespect and back talk he was about to endure, and he steeled himself as he signed in. But when he arrived in the kitchen, none of the eight boys were the tattooed toughs he’d expected. “I had stereotyped them before I even met them,” Houser recalls. “All eight looked at me when they spoke. They said, ‘Please,’ ‘Sir,’ and ‘Thank you.’” They all listened closely, he adds, eager for “a first-time feeling” of crafting something they could take pride in and savor.
After class, Houser hosted the kids at Dallas’s central farmers market, where all their ice cream flavors were entered into a competition. One of the boys took home first place and the $100 prize, beating out culinary students and trained professionals. The young man ran up to Houser and told him, “I just love to make food and give it to people and put a smile on their face.” “Wow,” Houser thought, amazed at this teen’s desire to use food to give joy to others. The young man continued, “When I get out of detention, I’m going to get a job in a restaurant.” But he had one question for which he wanted Houser’s input: “Sir, where do you think I should work?” Fast food like Wendy’s or casual dining like Chili’s? he asked. Houser paused before saying, “Sir, I think you should work for whomever hires you first.”
That exchange occurred in 2007, and Houser pondered it for more than a year, feeling helpless at first, then angry at the lack of opportunities for the young men trying to leave their mistakes behind. One night in 2009, as he was closing up Parigi after dinner service, he told his business partner he felt dishonest. A year had passed, and the boys at the Youth Village weren’t any better off. He felt like he’d broken a promise. “I just want to open a restaurant and let these kids run it,” he confessed. He wanted a place where kids were could learn “more than how to cook.” He wanted them to gain life skills like personal responsibility, social skills and financial management. “I wanted them to be exposed to things they had never been exposed to,” Houser says. When his partner told him it sounded like a pretty good idea, he devoted all his energy to making the establishment a reality.
In 2011, Houser hosted his first pop-up dinner cooked by former juvenile offenders, a long awaited-moment where he “put knives and fire in front of these kids.” Within 15 minutes of prep, the fish he’d ordered was ruined and the smoke alarms were sounding. The staff recovered, and at the end of service, each one of the patrons shook Houser’s hand or gave him a hug and mentioned how closely the young workers resembled their own children. By late 2012, these 50-seat dinners, where proceeds went towards the boys’ wages and a mentoring program, were selling out within minutes, and Houser sold off his ownership in Parigi to pursue opening a restaurant that would employ young ex-offenders full-time. Café Momentum, which can host 150 diners nightly, opened in January 2015 with a baguette-cutting ceremony. This month, nine formerly incarcerated young men became the first to graduate from its first yearlong training program.
For almost all of them, the world of fine dining is an eye-opening experience. For one, there’s some sticker-shock that comes with glancing at the menu: a family ordering three mains (wagyu beef, $26; pork chops, $26; seared scallops, $23) spends as much in an hour as the employees earn in a full day’s work. But the more lasting impression is the taste of cuisine the boys never knew existed.
“Most kids come from parts of town that are federally recognized food deserts, which means they don’t have access to grocery stores. These kids literally think that raspberry is a flavor of candy. They’ve never tasted it fresh,” Houser says. “And if raspberry was foreign, imagine having them smell fresh tarragon. It’s absolutely mind-blowing.”
That exposure to luxury may be foreign to these young ex-convicts, but Houser assures them that they deserve to be there. In addition to paying a $10 hourly wage (more than the state’s $7.25 minimum) over the 12-month post-release internship, Café Momentum offers intensive social services, including identifying permanent housing, medical attention, parenting classes and other case management. With those obstacles taken care of, Houser believes he’ll see the young men rise to the demanding expectations he set, which includes making everything from scratch — from the vinegars to the goat cheese. Even the bacon and pork chops are butchered from a whole pig, cut right from the whole animal in the kitchen. As the young men pick up various techniques, they also learn how to glean as much as they can from produce. Take a beet: it can be diced and cooked with coffee grounds, its root grounded up into a sugary powder or its leaves can be fermented into kimchi.
From the very first pop-up dinner, Houser realized that large receipts and fabulous food were well and good, but the most important aspect of dinner service would be breaking down stereotypes, in exactly the same way his conception of juvenile offenders was shattered the first time he met any. And that process, he adds, needs to happen on both sides of the table. Diners need to see that, with some support, these young men aren’t career criminals, and the workers need to see that the rest of the city wants them to succeed. In a city that has a long history of racial segregation, interaction between these two groups of people is rare outside the dining room. Yet, in the ritual of a multi-course meal, a bond is forged between the wait staff and customers and barriers come down.
For the young men in the program, however, needs are more immediate. Two interns working in the kitchen recently took a break from prep work to talk with NationSwell. They said the program’s most significant benefit was a stable income — something that’s hard to come by for most ex-offenders. “As long as I got money in my pocket, I don’t got no worries. That’s been the hardest thing, to even have a dollar in my pocket,” says Raymon, a 19-year-old who lives with his mom and four siblings. He politely declines to talk about why he ended up in jail in the first place: “Different person” was all he would say of his past. Today, he’s staffing the pastry station at Café Momentum. He doesn’t eat a lot of the restaurant’s food himself (“I’m really a burger type of person”), but he enjoys being around other employees who’ve gone through “the struggle.” To him, his boss, Houser, is “a cool dude,” he states. “He’s trying to make sure I stay out of trouble.”
So far, of the 150 youth who staffed the restaurant over the past 14 months, only five went back to jail (two because of a prior charge), Houser reports. That low recidivism rate is unheard of in Texas where 71.1 percent of juveniles are rearrested and 25.5 percent are reincarcerated within three years, according to state data. (Among the 172 kids who staffed Houser’s pop-up dinners and didn’t receive the same intensive social services, a slightly higher 11 percent were reincarcerated, still about half the state average.)
That’s not to say that getting a job at Café Momentum fixes all the problems. After release, the interns are usually living in the same neighborhoods, where they committed their first crime. Jose, 18, another intern living with his mom in West Dallas, started work in February, but says he faces a constant temptation to slip back into his old ways whenever he isn’t working. (When his friends seem interested in causing trouble, he tells them he has to go home.)
Houser says that self-doubt is common after the first few months of working in the program. Akin to the sophomore slump, the high of a brand new job has worn off, and the young men often begin to question whether the program is all it claims to be. “They’ve used to being deceived. They’re used to people overpromising and underdelivering,” he says. Once that phase ends, the boys become self-sufficient, Houser adds.
It’s important to note that Houser has taken a key first step in employing these young men during that difficult year of post-release, but it remains to be seen whether their experience cooking at Café Momentum translates into long-term employment. When Jose finishes the internship, he is planning to look for a job in a hotel. Raymon is saving up for a place of his own. For his next job, he knows he’s a “good waiter” or “servant.” (He struggles to pick the right word, one without racial overtones.) But he also says, “That’s not a dream job.” At night, he thinks about being a cardiologist. Only time will tell whether the recidivism rates stay low for the entire three-year period over which they’re normally measured.
In talking with the boys, however, Houser believes that even the most hardened of the bunch seem to benefit from working at Café Momentum. The boys who were thrown back into jail for a second offense have all written Houser letters, explaining where they “tripped up” and how motivated they are not to return to jail a third time, he says. And earlier this month, a boy Houser thought would never make it through the program graduated with the first class. Twelve months ago, Houser helped him off the streets and into stable housing. He made sure the young man had groceries and money to get to work. But for much of the first month, the employee wouldn’t show and didn’t call to explain why; when he did arrive, he was either stoned or defiant, Houser recalls. As the months went on, he grew more dependable. But there were still slip-ups, like the time he asked Houser for help after he got his girlfriend pregnant. A few days before graduation, the boy pulled Houser aside and asked if they could have another talk. From experience, Houser expected the teen was back in hot water.
“What’s going on?” Houser asked.
“Well, the boy said. “I want to give you a hug.”
“Okay,” Houser answered, unsure where this was leading.
“You’ve changed my life,” the boy said. “I’m serious.” He went on, “Last year, I knew I was going to prison, so I was preparing myself to go.” He confessed to Houser that, shortly after his release from juvie, he sold as many drugs as he could to ensure his mother’s finances would be sound, and he made gang connections to ensure he’d be protected once he was back in the slammer — a return he once believed was imminent. “But, you know, I’m never going to go to prison,” the boy said. “I’m not. I’m going to succeed, and I just wanted to say thank you.”
For these young men, life once looked like a series of lockups. But as Houser’s argued and as the graduates are now making clear, working in the kitchens of Café Momentum has given these young men a taste of a better future.
Tag: recidivism
Former Prisoners Find Redemption Running a Prosperous Business in San Francisco’s Public Housing
At the age of 13, Tyrone Mullins had his first contact with the justice system in 1998, handcuffed for starting a small tussle at school. He could’ve been hit with a minor reprimand, serving a few weeks of detention or even a suspension, but instead, he was formally charged with a crime — setting Mullins on a path of near-permanent incarceration for the next half of his life. “From that point on, it was juvenile hall, county jail and prison,” says Mullins, a San Francisco native who grew up in a Western Addition public housing project. As a felon, Mullins had limited employment opportunities after each release. Rejected from positions at hotels, supermarkets, department stores, doughnut shops, Jamba Juice and McDonald’s, Mullins subsided on money from the government ($336 a month, split into two checks). “All that allows is temptation to come in and make you do another thing, follow another walk of life,” Mullins explains. “You may not necessarily want to take that route, but people do things when they’re hurting.” And Mullins was hurting.
Navigating past numerous hard knocks, in 2010, Mullins co-founded a successful business that provides jobs to public housing residents, regardless of their parole status. At three Bay Area public housing complexes, Green Streets pays employees $12.25 an hour to sort trash from recyclables and compostables. While handling garbage is far from glamorous in a city that’s home to Salesforce, Twitter and Dropbox, Green Streets’s roughly two dozen workers wear their grey jumpsuits with pride. For many, it marks the first time they’ve financially supported themselves. (“Legally,” Mullins likes to add.) In a city that’s witnessed a mass exodus of low-income African-Americans due to the rising cost of living, these denizens of the projects can finally point to ownership of an enterprise in a world where so much is out of their price range.
Green Streets got its unofficial start in 2010, when a work crew arrived at a Western Addition affordable housing development, managed by the for-profit company McCormack Baron Ragan, to install solar panels. Worried about thieves, round-the-clock security was desired. David Mauroff, McCormack Baron’s vice president at the time, didn’t have the money for guards, but he had another idea: “Why don’t you hire the guys who you think are gonna steal your stuff?” Resident DeMaurio Lee staffed the job, and nothing was stolen. Mullins, meanwhile, with two out of three felony strikes against him, installed panels himself, after finding the job through a nonprofit. Four months later, after the ribbon-cutting ceremony, DeMaurio and Mullins gathered the courage to approach Mauroff (despised by most residents, Mauroff says of himself, as the man who personally signed off on evictions) and asked for more work. With a background in city-run gang intervention programs, Mauroff could see the determination on their faces and agreed to see what he could do.
The solution appeared when the complex’s next waste disposal bill arrived. At just one project, Buena Vista Plaza East (193 units, known to many as “O.C.” or “Outta Control”), McCormack Baron faced a $14,000 annual charge from Recology to haul trash to the landfill or an incinerator. As part of San Francisco’s plan to become a zero-waste city by 2020, the bill could be significantly lowered by removing plastic bottles, aluminum cans, food, soiled paper and garden clippings from the overflowing dumpsters. Mauroff, who’s now credited as one of Green Streets’s co-founders, told Mullins he would pay residents to sort through waste, earmarking any savings on his bills for their wages. “I’m not telling you how to do this. I will just help you get the resources in place for you to launch this business,” he told the two men.
Neighbors made fun of the crew digging through rat-infested trash piles in their white protective suits. Yet within six months, thousands of gallons of trash were diverted each month, saving the property 60 percent on its bills. Soon, neighbors started handing Mullins their résumés.
To turn the model into a business, complete with hiring plans, a mission statement, marketing and sound financials, Mullins enrolled in free classes at San Francisco City College’s Small Business Institute. Severely complicating matters was the fact that in the Western Addition complex, danger and temptation were omnipresent. In the courtyards, residents had to dodge literal bullets. Mullins himself was sent back to prison for two years for violating his parole.
While Mullins served his time, the rest of San Francisco’s black population continued its decades-long “black flight.” (Since 1970, the city’s portion of African-Americans has been halved, from 13.4 percent to just 5.8 percent in 2014.) Green Streets employees interviewed for this story feel keenly aware of their skin color. Unprompted, they often identified others by race: Mauroff was a “white dude”; neighbors, a “bunch of black people.” They feel that racial differences have been exaggerated by California’s penal system, with which many public housing residents come into contact. In the past, more than half the lockups in San Francisco’s jail have been African-Americans, and last year, four city cops were investigated for trading bigoted text messages. Even in this famously tolerant city, race continues to be a point of tension, says London Breed, one of two African-American city supervisors on the city’s nine-member board. “I am just trying to hold on to evidence that blacks ever existed in San Francisco,” Breed, who grew up in Western Addition public housing, tells the Los Angeles Times.
For those African-Americans who have stayed in the city, the economic outlook looks bleak. The median household income among black residents has fallen to a slim $29,500, while all other racial groups have seen wages rise. (By comparison, the median household pay for white residents, thanks to tech money, now exceeds six figures: $104,300.) Roughly one quarter of the city’s black population relies on subsidized housing, according to data from the Mayor’s Task Force, but the lifeline doesn’t begin to meet demand (only 3.6 percent of applicants receive housing through a lottery system). For the lucky few, like Green Streets employees, housing may be affordable, but the city is anything but.
Gentrification isn’t the only reason why some neighbors are gone: gun violence regularly racks the housing developments. “In San Francisco, with this extreme wealth and income disparity, most of our crime is really centered, not in, but around public housing, these little pockets of poverty isolated from the $1 to $2 million homes right across the street,” Mauroff observers. Last summer, a 19-year-old girl was gunned down in a spray of bullets. The girl’s aunt, Shannon Watts, is Green Streets’s human resources manager. A victim of gun violence herself (taking a bullet in her right leg in 2012), Watts says that her work with Green Streets helped her overcome the debilitating trauma that once kept her captive inside her apartment, door locked and shades drawn.
The difficulties that Green Streets’s employees encounter are considered a badge of honor, a sign of how much they’ve overcome to reach their current success — meager as a minimum-wage job might look to any of the Bay Area’s elites. When Mullins finished his two years in prison, he enrolled in Project ReMADE, a 12-week program at Stanford that trains ex-cons to be entrepreneurs. “I see the transformation I’ve made, and I’m honest with myself,” Mullins says today. “I continue to be a work in progress.”
Reinstated as Green Streets’s operations manager and the leader of the business development team, Mullins took his education back to the informal economy of the projects, where some residents earn extra cash by doing each other’s hair, fixing cars and babysitting, while others sell drugs and break into cars. This self-contained marketplace arose because so many are kept out of workplaces by criminal records or lack of job experience, Mauroff notes. Green Streets bridges that transition to the working world, though it’s not without its bumps. Turf wars between gangs in different housing projects sometimes bleeds over when rivals are staffed together on company cleanup crews. Randolph Lee, the 48-year-old operations supervisor, says he’s responded to fights, stabbings and “a little bit of gunplay.”
A “two-time ex-felon” convicted of murder, Randolph has regularly been tempted to snap back to his old ways. Before he got the job with Green Streets, he says, “I was ready to go back to what I had done before. Just hustling, you know?” he recalls. “I was on my way back to do something I wasn’t supposed to do: I was going to go get it, go get some bread to pay bills.” Since starting with Green Streets in 2013, Randolph has been promoted through the ranks. In his current role as supervisor, he helps employees productively deal with their anger, pointing to his own story: “The only thing we have is our pride, and how far could that go if we allow ourselves to get incarcerated for life,” Randolph says. “I done terrorized and fought my community. It was time to heal my community. I never wanted my last legacy of myself just being a screwup.”
Mullins envisions the same impact helping the poorest residents of Detroit, St. Louis, Miami and Phoenix, but a recent failed expansion to nearby Richmond and Oakland shows any scaling must overcome logistical issues. Because the two East Bay cities don’t have strong zero-waste initiatives that discount hauling of recyclables and compostables, the trash bill at housing projects only increased by hiring Green Streets. That’s not to say the model can’t be applied elsewhere, but green subsidies will have to be in place for it to work.
The Western Addition and Plaza East projects serve as evidence of just how successful this business can be. There’s a changed vibe and it’s cleaner, too, as 60,960 gallons of trash are being diverted into other waste streams. But more importantly, there’s fewer men on the corner, whispering street names for drugs to passersby. Many, like Randolph, now work for Green Streets, a model demonstrating that an entrepreneurial spirit can be found in any community, Mauroff says, no matter how unexpected. “A bunch of guys and girls in public housing aren’t given the credit for showing they can do that,” he argues. “I want people to understand that: Under the right circumstances, everyone will go back to work and try to compete in the market.”
For all the frustrations tech startups have unleashed on the Bay Area, they’ve also instilled a sense that the calcified structures of the past don’t necessarily need to be around tomorrow. Mullins brought that Silicon Valley ethic to the Western Addition projects. He deserves credit for his own powerful disruption: not just finding a new way to sort trash and manage its pickup, but for an entirely new vision of labor for those the tech world’s prosperity is leaving behind.
All It Takes Is Some Honey, Peanut Butter and Oats to Reduce Recidivism
As an inmate working in the kitchen at La Tuna, a low-security federal prison in Anthony, Texas, Seth Sundberg pulled a box of chicken out of the freezer with a label warning, “NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION.” Unsure of what happened to the meat once the container left his hands, Sundberg never ate at the prison dining hall again and decided to come up with a healthy alternative to the cafeteria meals. Using honey, peanut butter and other items stocked in the commissary, he and a partner (who’s still incarcerated) made granola bars. Within a short time, Sundberg had a sales team working the prison yard. Technically contraband, the bars were “criminally delicious,” he says. He moved 3,000 in the first seven months.
Standing seven-feet-one-inch tall, the former professional basketball player who transitioned from playing in the NBA to working for a mortgage lending company, was sentenced in 2010 to seven years of hard time for swindling the IRS out of more than $5 million. Out of prison, Sundberg is now cobbling together his own business venture, Prison Bars. Adapted from his jailhouse recipe, the granola bars are produced by a team of four formerly incarcerated individuals. (To meet demand, they are transitioning from handmade to commercial production.) Sundberg has plans to sell the bars to Silicon Valley tech companies as snacks for employees and to San Francisco tourists at attractions like Alcatraz Island. Eventually, he wants to see them stocked at grocery stores nationwide and envisions hiring 100 formerly incarcerated individuals as account managers, easing their re-entry into society.
“You think everybody that’s in prison fits into three groups: those not intelligent enough to have avoided it, those not wealthy enough to have bought their way out of the system or paid a good attorney and those who are really bad people and deserve to be there,” he says. But after serving time, his opinions changed dramatically. “The degree of separation between someone behind bars and someone that’s not is much less than I ever thought. Once you start hearing those stories, you think, ‘Wow, that’s not too different than an avenue I could have gone down. Or one I have gone down but didn’t get in trouble for.’”
In lockup, Sundberg says he often felt “worthless.” The way the system is designed made him feel like “you screwed up so bad,” making it difficult to reclaim “anything left that you have to offer to anybody else,” he explains.
Once he’d been released, with a box of Prison Bars in his pocket, Sundberg looked for support from outside organizations. He enrolled in school full-time and worked at a laundromat on the weekends as he planned his next move. In the prison library, he’d read about Defy Ventures, a New York-based organization that helps people with criminal histories develop careers as entrepreneurs.
“They say that America is the land of second chances, but it’s really not. Once you have an X on your back, you almost have no opportunities,” Catherine Hoke, the nonprofit’s founder, tells Fast Company. “Of people who are rearrested in America, 89 percent of them are unemployed at the time of their arrest.” Hoke, a former venture capitalist, says a tour of Texas prisons made her realize that organized crime rings were often sophisticated operations, on par with corporations in their management, marketing and bookkeeping. She wondered, was there a way to put those skills to work in a legitimate enterprise? Or as Sundberg puts it, can you “transform your hustle?” Through a Craigslist ad, he signed up for Defy’s first class of entrepreneurs-in-training in the Bay Area.
Sundberg hopes the granola bars will appeal to both the health-conscious consumer (gluten-free, non-GMO bars are on the way) and those who want to do good. “If you can make a small change by eating a granola bar, helping provide jobs, a lot of people can get behind that,” he says. With individual profiles of their employees on packages or their website, Sundberg wants to put a face to the 2.2 million Americans in federal and state prison. By humanizing felons who have been locked up, he hopes his business demonstrates the power of second chances.
Sundberg knows he needs one himself. Now managing his own business, he’s going to do things right this time — in the eyes of both IRS auditors and his employees. Prison “just rips your soul out, and it’s a process to get it back. It’s something I’m still going through,” he says. “I spent the first two and a half years being upset at other people, at the system, all these outside things, before I fully realized I’m truly responsible for all this stuff. These were my issues and my decisions.” He spent a lot of time thinking about how to make amends, pondering what else he had to offer. “I screwed up and made a mistake,” he says. “But I’m not doing that again.”
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.”
California Jailed a Man for Life for Stealing Beer Mugs. Meet the Woman Who Fought for His Freedom
Susan Champion found her first client in 2009. She was an enthusiastic student at Stanford Law School, and he was serving a life sentence in a California state prison. The crime that put him away for life? Three relatively minor thefts.
High on meth, he used a key hidden under a mat to sneak into his mother’s house and steal her VCR player, wanting to sell it for more drugs. Strike one.
He did his time. Got sober. But soon after he got out of the pen, he relapsed. On the waiting list for a bed at a rehab facility, he was homeless, sleeping outside in the bushes. One day, the police picked him up at a bus stop and found items in his backpack that had been reported missing in a daytime break-in. Strike two.
After being released from prison a second time, he committed a third burglary, stealing beer steins from someone’s commercial storage unit and trying to sell them at a flea market. Strike three.
Under California’s Three Strikes sentencing law, “persistent offenders” at the time had to be incarcerated for 25 years to life if a third felony was preceded by two crimes that were “serious or violent,” even if the last felony didn’t meet those criteria. Because of the stringent rule, this man was sentenced to life in prison without parole, simply for swiping a few mugs.
Champion submitted a habeas corpus petition (a motion asking the courts to review his detention) on her client’s behalf to determine if life for stealing beer glasses counted as cruel and unusual punishment. She won the case, convincing the judge that his sentence had been disproportional to the crime. Since then, she’s stayed on at Stanford to help many more like him through the law school’s Three Strikes Project.
The Three Strikes Project is currently the only legal organization in California working to reverse excessive sentences for minor crimes. Michael Romano, a law school professor and the program’s director, realized the need for services like it while clerking for the Ninth Circuit Court: Since there’s no right to legal counsel for habeas corpus petitions, convicts were sending in handwritten documents to his court, pleading with justices to take another look at their case. Since the project was institutionalized as one of Stanford’s 11 legal clinics in 2006, more than 1,000 inmates have sent letters to the school asking for pro bono assistance. The clinic currently represents 25 individuals and has already freed or reduced prison sentences for dozens more. So far, Champion, Romano and their students haven’t lost a case. Each time, they’ve convinced a judge to immediately release the prisoner or commute the lengthy sentence.
Champion became a lawyer late in life — at age 40 — to fight systemic injustice, like the Three Strikes Law’s misguided “one-size-fits-all” approach or jailing of the mentally ill. After working for years in a hospital that catered to the formerly incarcerated, non-English speakers, mentally ill and others “dealing with incredibly challenging circumstances,” Champion planned to study the intersection of mental health and criminal justice. But after her first year of law school was spent in required classes that focused on contracts and civil procedure, “stuff that doesn’t seem relevant to anything, let alone social justice issues,” Champion wondered if she’d made the right choice.
A job at the San Francisco district attorney’s office while still in school led her to focus directly on sentencing. In preliminary hearings — an early part of a case during which the judge decides if there’s enough evidence for a trial — Champion “saw a parade of poor black people. They were the only people coming in and out. It was just so stark and heartbreaking to see that’s what we’re doing with people who could be leading productive lives.” When California’s Three Strikes law appeared on the ballot, it promised “to keep murderers, rapists and child molesters behind bars, where they belong,” but those were not the people that Champion saw filling the courtroom.
In the early 1990s, the bill that initially proposed Three Strikes languished in Sacramento — until a horrific murder spurred a frantic campaign to crack down on crime. In October 1993, Polly Klaas, a 12-year-old with dimpled cheeks and a fondness for floral-print dresses, was abducted from her home in Petaluma, a small farm town in Sonoma County. Richard Allen Davis, a career criminal whose rap sheet included kidnapping and assault, broke into the three-bedroom home during a slumber party, bound and gagged two other girls and kidnapped Klaas while her mother slept nearby. Two months later, police found Klaas’s body on a trash pile adjacent to a freeway off-ramp, badly decomposed. Before Davis was convicted, legislators passed a slew of tough reforms, including Three Strikes. The measure was approved by a ballot initiative, winning approval from 72 percent of voters.
Since then, California’s Three Strikes Law — the first and harshest mandatory sentencing guideline of its kind — has been responsible for sending 46,000 inmates to prison for 25 years to life within the first decade since it passed in 1994, a government analysis found. Together, these “strikers” made up roughly one-quarter of California’s already overcrowded prison population.
Twenty years later, the need for change was also voiced through popular approval. In collaboration with the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, Romano and Champion helped draft the text of a statewide ballot measure (Proposition 36) to modify the law. The Three Strikes Reform Act captured more than two-thirds of the vote. Surprisingly, voters weren’t persuaded by arguments about the cost of prison as much as the law’s inherent unfairness, Champion says, referencing internal polls. As written, the original law could assign the same harsh penalty to the psychotic kidnapper whose crimes escalated to murders as the guy who faltered by stealing golf clubs, a disparity that seemed particularly unfair to voters, especially when it meant the difference between life in notorious San Quentin versus a few months at the local jail. “They thought an injustice had been done. What they thought they’d voted for in 1994 was not what they’d seen result. In fact, quite a few of our clients’ families voted for Three Strikes and would tell me after they never would have voted for it if they knew it would put someone like their loved one away when they might have just had a drug problem.”
Adding to the law’s insults was the fact that within California’s penal code, certain crimes are classified as “wobblers” meaning that people who commit them can either be charged with a misdemeanor or a felony, depending on the district attorney’s judgment. Because the third of the three strikes could have been applied to any felony — not merely a serious or violent one — a prosecutor could jail someone for life for a crime that might have been charged as a misdemeanor elsewhere in the state. With the passage of Prop 36, judges regained discretion over sentencing, so that the punishment would fit the crime, not public hysteria or prosecutors’ ambitions. It’s part of the reason why after the reform passed, hundreds of prisoners from “tough-on-crime” strongholds like Orange, San Bernardino and Kern Counties were eligible to have their cases reviewed, while only three from liberal San Francisco qualified.
The spike in crime that opponents of Prop 36 predicted never came to pass. Of 2,000 former lifers released under the reform, only 4.7 percent have re-offended (over an 18-month period, on average) — far below California’s usual recidivism rate of 45.2 percent over a one-year period and 56.9 percent over two years. Additionally, the change in the law made 3,000 second-strikers who’d been incarcerated for a third non-violent, non-serious offense eligible to appeal their sentence to a judge. There are still 700 cases pending (mostly in Los Angeles), Champion says, but those who have been released have largely kept out of trouble. Only one in 20 reoffended, and those were largely for theft or drug charges.
“I hope the enduring lesson is that people are not hopeless recidivists,” Romano tells the New York Times. “Those who remain dangerous should be kept behind bars. But there are many people in prison who are no threat to public safety.”
Champion will tell you her clients are no angels. Unlike the famed Innocence Project, which uses DNA testing to exonerate the wrongfully convicted, Champion says her colleague “Mike [Romano] calls us the Guilty Project. It’s true, we never claim that our clients are innocent, that’s never the basis of our argument,” she says. The prisoners broke the law — three times, at least — but her work is proving that slamming the convicts behind bars isn’t the solution.
They may not be saints, but they’re not monsters either.
Behind Prison Walls, This Program Demonstrates That It’s Never Too Late to Learn
While spending a year and a half in a New Jersey prison on drug charges, Walter Fortson enrolled in a class offered by a local community college, knowing that the credits would change the way the world saw him. But he didn’t expect them to affect the way he thought about himself and his future.
“In prison, I realized that there is an incredible value to learning,” Fortson says.
Fortson, a 30-year-old from Philadelphia, dropped out of college prior to his incarceration, but his epiphany resulted in a reversal of his approach to education. While living in a halfway house awaiting parole in 2009, he enrolled at New Jersey’s Rutgers University and graduated with high honors. Later, he received the prestigious Truman Scholarship to study criminology at the University of Cambridge in England.
Fortson believes that educational opportunities for prisoners are key to giving them a chance in a justice system that “does a good job of dehumanizing people,” and so when he returned from overseas, he got busy — expanding upon work that he started as an undergrad, that brought Rutgers students into New Jersey prisons to tutor inmates.
It was tutoring, if not fate, that introduced Fortson to Jim Farrin, 78, a longtime businessman who had recently returned to Princeton, where he was a member of the university’s class of 1958. There, Farrin founded the Petey Greene program, which has students tutor prison inmates (some of whom are working toward their high-school equivalency degrees) three hours each week. Fortson started a chapter at Rutgers, and now serves as a regional field manager for the initiative, working to help bring more inmates closer to the educational transformation that he experienced.
He believes that tutoring the incarcerated has the power to change the attitudes of college students who provide lessons — and that putting a name and a face to the anonymous prisoners housed in our nation’s jails is something that’s essential in order to reform the criminal justice system. “You understand that everyone who goes to prison isn’t some serial rapist murderer that’s trying to kill you or break into your house,” Fortson explains.
Farrin and Fortson are correct about the transformative impact of the program: A 2013 New Jersey Department of Corrections study found that program participants have higher passing rates on high-school equivalency exams, while also demonstrating statistically significant improvements in reading and math.
More than 400 students have volunteered with the organization. Currently, 16 colleges and universities on the East Coast have Petey Greene programs and Princeton’s remains the largest, with around 100 volunteers. But Farrin and Fortson aren’t done; these pioneers aim to have Petey Greene programs in 100 schools by 2017.
The ongoing expansion has been made possible by an army of committed students who, much like Fortson, were changed in unexpected ways by prison tutoring. Those students, Grace Li, Shaina Watrous, and Joe Barrett, all classmates at Princeton who graduated in 2014, got involved with Petey Greene early in their time on campus, and they say the tutoring defined much of their college experience. “Prison reform became the thing that I cared about most,” Li says.
The recent alumni all work full-time as regional field managers (like Fortson) and serve alongside another former Princeton tutor, Sandra Knuth, to facilitate the initiative’s growth. Already, they’re seeing progress — Petey Greene is now active at 11 schools outside of New Jersey. But with each new chapter comes additional challenges.
Dealing with large, bureaucratic institutions is difficult to say the least, and catering to their needs has created tutoring programs that vary from the original model developed at Princeton. To make Petey Greene work in 100 schools, partner agreements for universities were recently created that include mandatory workshops on cultural humility, which help tutors understand their privilege and prevent misunderstandings that might damage the relationship between tutor and student. There is also a strict attendance policy: One unexcused absence and a tutor is out of the program.
The expansion is taking the program into some of the country’s most notorious correctional facilities. It is currently working to bring NYU and Columbia University undergrads to the Rikers Island New York City jail complex to tutor 16- and 17-year-olds. Li, who serves the New York region, says that program participants will likely include some teens recently removed from punitive segregation — the official term of what’s commonly referred to as solitary confinement. (In December, the New York City Department of Corrections ended the use of punitive segregation for adolescents.)
Before the official launch of Petey Greene at NYU, Li worked with a group of students who, as part of a class they took, held a theater workshop for incarcerated boys. When the semester was up, they looked to Petey Greene to stay involved, and in their enthusiasm and transformation, Li sees echoes of her own.
That passion led Li and her equally inspired classmates to not only advance Petey Greene, but to fight the injustices they observed in prisons through other channels, too. They founded the rapidly growing advocacy group Students for Prison Education and Reform (SPEAR) at Princeton, which remains closely linked to Petey Greene. Oftentimes, tutors who want to address bigger issues in criminal justice reform join SPEAR, and when student advocates want to get a hands-on experience with the issue, or feel like they are making a more concrete impact, they sign up to tutor with Petey Greene.
Both Petey Greene and SPEAR understand that education is the key to reform — something that Fortson can personally attest to. “[While incarcerated,] I was looking for redemption,” Fortson says, “and I felt like education was the most viable way to transcend the stigma of having a criminal conviction.”
(Homepage photo: Joe Raedle/Newsmakers/Getty Images)
The New Way to Govern: Paying for Progress
For too long, government has dumped millions of dollars into treating the effects of social ills without ever addressing their causes. Lacking funds or political will, it’s routine for legislators to salve the symptoms rather than cure the disease — let alone prevent new outbreaks. But the pioneers of a new public financing model claim there’s a better way for government to do business.
New partnerships between public and and private, known as social impact bonds (SIBs), are fronting the money for much-needed, underfunded social programs. More importantly, the sponsors argue, these bonds introduce data-driven performance metrics in order to find the greatest return for taxpayers.
These bonds redefine our conception of government. Striving to better the public good doesn’t cut it anymore. SIBs require programs to be successful and to do the work at a cheaper price. They also tilt the emphasis from activities to outcomes. Chances are, there won’t be a second New Deal or Great Society these days. But the innovators of this new form of financing hope to change government, using data to reshape it into an agile, efficient and performance-driven machine that can achieve our most ambitious goals.
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SIBs are generating buzz nationwide as an innovative way to fight the most intractable social problems, ones that indiscriminate government spending — without demanding innovation or results — has yet to make a dent in. The bonds (or as they’re now often called, “pay for success” contracts) allow nonprofits to scale their operations with private investment dollars. If their programs prove more efficient at solving problems than the current public services, corporate funders turn over long-term financial responsibility to the government. Taxpayers repay the investors’ up-front capital (with interest and a small return) only if the program works. Otherwise, if agreed-upon benchmarks aren’t met, the public’s off the hook — and backers lose their entire investment.
Governments are already using these bonds to address juvenile justice, chronic and family homelessness and early childhood education. Advocates say the alternative funding model allows cash-strapped governments to experiment with preemptive action that’s normally cut from tight budgets, rather than paying for expensive remedial programs later.
“If we procured music the same way we did social services, we’d all be listening to 8-track recording machines. Thirty years ago, we would have said, ‘This is great technology,’ and there’d be a law that you could only play music if it was on great technology just like this. That really is what social services look like in America,” says George Overholser, CEO and co-founder of Third Sector Capital Partners, a nonprofit with the goal of bringing data-driven performance metrics to government. The public sector has “a hard time recognizing when something new and better comes along,” he believes, but pay for success provides that for communities with “measurable ways that lives can be improved.”
Overholser’s firm serves as a “project intermediary” (essentially, a middle man) between lenders, the government and a nonprofit for the country’s largest SIB to date, an initiative that is aimed at reducing recidivism among at-risk young male inmates in Boston, Chelsea and Springfield, Mass., through behavioral interventions, educational prep and job training.
Here’s how it works: Third Sector Capital raised $18 million in cash from private investors — such as Goldman Sachs’s Social Impact Fund, plus five charitable foundations. Third Sector turns all of that money over to a service provider, in this case, Roca, Inc., a nonprofit that’s been around for 25 years and has developed a four-year program to help young men exit prison’s revolving door and enter the workforce. Over the next seven years, Roca will target a group of 929 men, ages 17 to 23, who are either on probation or aging out of the juvenile justice system.
“This project can be viewed as a laboratory. We are testing and evaluating the types of interventions to prove their worth, quantify their impact, and determine whether . . . this would make a meaningful impact on other young people,” Glen Shor, the state’s former secretary of Administration and Finance, tells The Boston Globe.
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With this bond, the investors are repaid by the government (which does not provide any initial funding) only if the program reduces re-incarceration by at least 5.2 percent compared to a control group. The goal, however, is to reduce recidivism by 40 percent. That may seem like a huge discrepancy, but it’s the level at which the Bay State will start saving money. Any less than that, and the program breaks even; any more, and the investors are entitled to a fraction of the savings — which are called “success payments.” That’s because the bonds operate just like any stock market investment, providing a return on a successful investment (though at a much more modest rate, given the risk compared to the market). For Roca and the nonprofit brackers (like Third Sector Capital, the criminal justice-focused The Arnold Foundation or Boston-based New Profit, Inc.), most of that return would be recycled into further scaling or future bond projects.
For a social impact bond to work, “so much needs to be just right: a rigorous way to evaluate impact, a strong cost-benefit analysis, a service provider that can scale with quality, government partners that are willing (and able) to engage deeply, investors and boards that have an appetite to understand and embrace new financial constructs, and last but not least, a willingness by all parties to communicate, communicate, communicate as the multiparty problem-solving process tumbles forward,” Overholser reflected as the Massachusetts initiative began.
The pay-for-success model has been thrown around among policy wonks as “the next big thing” since the early 2000s. During a time when public and charitable coffers are hard pressed to respond to all the existing need, SIBs emerged as a new stream of funding. Shortly after the first pilot project in England (also targeted at recidivism) launched in 2010, the model journeyed across the Atlantic. In 2012, New York City embarked on the first American bond to provide therapeutic treatment to teenagers locked up on Rikers Island, its central correctional facility.
Though none of those projects have been completed, the purpose of the model is already shifting from its early origins. For one, insiders now shy away from the initial term “bonds” since it’s a misnomer because investors aren’t guaranteed payback. More importantly, proponents argue that SIBs are not merely a new revenue stream, like municipal bonds, but a new way of doing business. Because all the funding is centered on data-based outcomes, it forces all the partners involved to rethink their programs. The public is paying for success, not services.
Many of the first bonds focused on recidivism and homelessness because they could be measured with simpler data sets and figures that were readily available — a person’s either in jail or not, for instance — but they are now targeting increasingly complex problems. Projects in Massachusetts and Denver, for example, started out with simple Housing First programs to provide homes to the chronically homeless. But a project launched in December in Cuyahoga County, Ohio, is targeting the much thornier issue of helping mothers who have been in homeless shelters avoid being separated from their children. Additionally, as data capabilities increase, pay for success programs promise to find the best investment of funds for problems like asthma, maternal depression and child welfare, advocates say.
“Historically, the obstacle was that we had no way of measuring social outcomes, but the information revolution has finally reached government,” Overholser says. “It’s now tuned not to what sounds good, but to what’s actually helping communities advance their goals. … We are, in a sense, retooling the way folks get paid to deliver services to the community.”
At city halls and statehouses across the country, lawmakers are studying whether to implement the pay-for-success model in their own jurisdictions. Currently, there’s seven projects underway in five states — rural and urban areas, red as Utah and blue as California — and at least 30 more on the horizon, says Nicole Truhe, government affairs director for America Forward, the nonpartisan public policy arm of New Profit, a venture philanthropy fund. Even the federal government is getting in on the action. Congress already approved legislation appropriating $600 million to assist in repaying bonds related to workforce development from successful state or local projects. Another bill pending would do the same for education dollars, Truhe adds.
“Elements of pay for success resonate with both conservatives and liberals,” she says. “There’s the cost savings efficiency piece to it, and there’s the focus on issue areas that are important to both parties, whether it be juvenile justice, early childhood education or healthcare.”
The question of whether social impact bonds will prove a lasting model or just the latest fad will likely depend on results from these early projects. Some skeptics say that private sector dollars are only being fronted for the bonds to boost a corporation’s image or even to make a profit. These observers say governments could realize the savings through their own pilot projects, innovation labs and direct contracting with established providers. Advocates respond, however, that mustering bipartisan political support for multi-year, multi-million-dollar projects hasn’t happened before and likely won’t anytime soon — especially since, as critics point out, the government must budget for full repayment of the bonds anyways, when a program is successful.
There’s also the question of how to calculate a government’s savings, some analysts worry. One problem stems from the concept of “fixed cost fallacy.” Calculating the expense for each day a prisoner spends in jail, for example, is often done by dividing the total cost of running the facility by the population. Keeping one person out of jail might mean saving on food and medicine, but there’s still the overhead costs, which don’t decrease unless the location is closed, argues David Juppe, senior operating budget manager for Maryland’s Department of Legislative Services. Another criticism leveled at SIBs is “creaming” — resolving the easiest cases or creating short-term gains in order to win success payments — and leaving the taxpayer to foot the bill for the long-term problems that remain unsolved, Juppe adds.
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While the full-scale calculations and evaluations are yet to be completed, Roca’s work is already improving the lives of those it reaches. Ralph Bonano, a 20-year-old who grew up across Boston’s Mystic River in the dense suburb of Chelsea, had been assigned to probation after an unarmed robbery. He tried to dodge Roca’s counselors, but they tracked him down and talked to him every chance they had.
After more than a year, Bonano finally softened and started attended Roca’s job training program. He now has a job in a manufacturing plant that makes military equipment and is working toward his G.E.D. Bonano says it gave him and “other kids an opportunity to change and to be treated as a normal person, not just a criminal.” He credits the program with helping him “stay out of jail.”
Before, Bonano’s story would be evidence of success. A life changed. Case closed. The intervention worked. But today, arbiters will consider Bonano as just one data point among many. Along with hundreds of other men, he’ll be entered into a complex calculation of avoided incarceration costs, Roca’s price of services, interest rates and income tax. Analysts will see whether Bonano fits the trend or is an outlier and question whether he changed enough to become a profitable member of society. In the emerging era of data-driven governance and payment for success, social good is only worth it if it saves us cash.
It’s still too early to tell whether Bonano is worth the price.
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In a Single Year, This Determined Arkansas Woman Helped 2,000 Ex-Felons Find Full-Time Jobs
Finding employment after being in prison can be next to impossible.
Not only do these people have to battle the stigma of a criminal record, they are also barred from some types of jobs entirely, including those in the childcare, education and healthcare fields. It’s no wonder that so many ex-felons turn back to a life of crime just to get by; two-thirds are re-arrested within three years of their release.
But in Little Rock, Ark., one woman has given thousands of former inmates a second chance to contribute to society, local station THV11 reports.
For the past three decades, Darlene Lewis’s nonprofit organization, the Lewis-Burnett Employment Finders Inc., has helped ex-offenders prepare for interviews, assisted with job placement and provided help with resume writing and GED prep — all at no cost.
Last year alone, the nonprofit aided 2,000 men and women find full-time jobs, reports say. The organization also helps with housing and advocates for offenders in court.
Yes, it costs a lot of money to help a former felon find gainful employment, but reducing the rate of recidivism ultimately saves the country even more. According to Lewis-Burnett, about $3.6 million in taxpayer money is saved for every 100 ex-offenders who avoid rearrest or living on welfare.
MORE: The Legislation That Has the Potential to Reduce Youth Recidivism in California
Lewis started her nonprofit in 1987 for very personal reasons. “I had a son go to prison many years ago and when he got out of prison it was so difficult for him to get a job,” she tells the station.
In a touching radio broadcast, former inmate James Taylor (who served seven years for weapons possession and drug charges) describes the “almost impossible” task of finding jobs. After getting in touch with Lewis, she was able to help him find a job at a local McDonalds as a manager. Although he lost the job and admits he could have easily found “quick money” by going back on the streets, he went back to Lewis, who was right there to help him back on track. Taylor now works as a videographer and a youth mentor and also volunteers at the nonprofit.
“She saves people, she need a cape,” Taylor tells THV11. “I’ma get her one, one day.”
DON’T MISS: The Restaurant That Serves a Second Chance to Kids Who Need It Most
The Restaurant That Serves a Second Chance to Kids Who Need It Most
A hot, new restaurant is coming to downtown Dallas early next year. But Café Momentum does more than just serve food.
As Good News Network reports, the nonprofit restaurant will be staffed by boys and young men that have served time at the Dallas County juvenile detention center.
According to the Christian Science Monitor, the new restaurant will allow 30 to 35 formerly incarcerated youths to take part in a 12-month internship that pays $10 an hour (well-above state minimum wage), learning the ins and outs of the restaurant business, such as food preparation, assisting chefs, waiting tables, and washing dishes. They interns will also take classes on financial literacy, anger management, art and social media.
MORE: 5 States’ Innovative Plans to Keep People From Behind Bars
The Café Momentum program started off as a pop-up restaurant concept in 2011, and more than 40 dinners have been held since. These once-monthly events are held in restaurants around the city, where patrons dine on a gourmet meal designed by a popular chef, with food prepared and served by the formerly incarcerated youths. CS Monitor notes that Café Momentum’s dinners usually sell out — bringing in $8,000 to $10,000 each in ticket sales and donations.
The program is so much more than giving these kids a job; it’s an opportunity for them to stay out of the prison system. Co-founder Chad Houser (who will also serve as executive chef at the new permanent restaurant) says in the video below that while the recidivism rate for juvenile offenders in the state of Texas is 47 percent, of the 160 kids he’s worked in the last three years, their recidivism rate is only 11 percent.
“[This] means that in a little over three years we’ve saved Dallas county taxpayers almost $8 million,” Houser says. “That’s almost $130 million in deferred in lifetime savings from keeping them away from being career criminals. Think about all the lives that could be changed, all the good that could be done in this community with that money.”
DON’T MISS: The Legislation That Has the Potential to Reduce Youth Recidivism in California
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.”