INMATES FIGHT THE PRISON OF FADING "PRE-PAROLE" SYSTEM

MINERAL WELLS -- If you have to be behind bars, the "pre-parole
transfer unit" here is about as good as it gets.

The 2,100 inmates wear street clothes instead of uniforms; live in
air-conditioned dormitories instead of hot, cramped cells; and have
access to telephones where they can make collect calls to friends and
family, instead of relying on the U.S. Postal Service.

But tension has been building for months behind the razor
wire.

That's because the Mineral Wells unit is a "pre-parole transfer
facility" in name only -- a remnant of an ambitious program launched a
quarter-century ago aimed at relieving prison overcrowding and
reducing repeat offenders.

Three inmates have gone "over the fence" since August. Others have
paid hundreds of dollars to join a lawsuit protesting the parole
system. And still others have sent lengthy letters to the "free world"
venting their frustration.

It has reached such a critical point that officials have started
moving some of the inmates back into regular prison facilities for
security reasons. Between 50 and 60 inmates who had been denied
"mandatory release" four times were transferred .

"If you've been denied mandatory supervision four times, then those
offenders may become more frustrated," said Bryan Collier, director of
the parole division. "And then they feel they may be more prone to
[escape]."

Sonny Morris understands -- he's been denied parole twice since
arriving here.

"I can't do my time here," he wrote in mid-May. "I'm desperate to get
home ... to get back to TDC and out of this ... abyss called Mineral
Wells."

Shortly after that letter, the convicted burglar from Dallas committed
a minor infraction in the hope that it would get him a transfer out of
the parole division and back to the prison system. He asked an officer
to smuggle contraband out of the unit. Until then, he had worked hard
to maintain a record of good behavior so he would be granted parole.

His plan worked. He is due to be transferred to another unit --
without the perks of "pre-parole."

Still, Mr. Morris hopes his chances of release will be better there
than in Mineral Wells.

Only about one in 10 Mineral Wells inmates is any closer to release
than inmates elsewhere in the system, estimated Rissie Owens,
chairwoman of the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles. The other 90
percent simply have been assigned there by the parole division of TDCJ
and haven't been approved for release by the board.

Because of the name, inmates "probably think ... based on what
'pre-parole' would mean in the perfect world -- that they're going to
be released," said Ms. Owens.

"The purpose, the role, whatever of the pre-parole transfer facility?
Talk to TDCJ," Ms. Owens said.

TDCJ spokeswoman Michelle Lyons said the original purpose of
pre-parole units was akin to halfway houses. But little of that
program survives. Today, Mineral Wells "functions as a prison unit,"
said Ms. Lyons, though inmates are no longer counted in the prison
population, but in the parole division population.

Fellow inmate Robert Lovett, a convicted forger who has been at
Mineral Wells since 2005, emphathizes with Mr. Morris. He too hopes to
be transferred out of the parole division back to the institutional
division.

"It gets kind of hopeless," he said in a telephone interview. The
"carrot" of parole is always in front of the inmates, but "when you
behave, they smack it out of your hand."

When Mr. Morris was assigned to "pre-parole" in 2005, he assumed his
release was imminent.

"When you come here you're supposed to go home," said Mr. Morris, who
was sentenced to 10 years in 2002 on charges ranging from burglary to
credit card abuse to evading arrest, in Dallas, Collin and Denton counties.

That seemed a safe assumption based on the definition of "pre-parole"
facilities. To get to a "pre-parole" facility, inmates must be within
12 months of their presumed parole date, have a good disciplinary
record and be classified at a minimum custody level.

Inmates who arrive at Mineral Wells receive "a new identification
badge stating that they are under the supervision of the parole
division," said Ohio attorney Norman Sirak, who has filed suit on
behalf of Texas inmates. Initially, Mr. Morris' time behind bars was
"a godsend," the 38-year-old said, because it helped him clean up
after years of drug abuse. But though he requested drug treatment, he
said, the only programs available are the voluntary ones he already
joined. .

He believes his "good" time credits combined with his "flat" time
behind bars total more than 100 percent of his sentence, he said.
"There's no reason I shouldn't be gone."

He said he requested reassignment to a regular prison unit, hoping a
different parole board would release him. But he never got a response.
Finally, he decided to force the situation by breaking the rules.

Ms. Owens, the parole board chairwoman, is not familiar with specific
cases, but she's heard complaints like Mr. Morris' before.

"You can't serve more than 100 percent of your sentence," she said
patiently. "You've only served five years [and] you've got five years
of good time credit. They feel like they've done their 100 percent but
[they] have not."

Mr. Morris and other inmates claim the board violates state guidelines
by not granting parole when suggested criteria are met -- an argument
also made recently in the Legislature.

But, Ms. Owens said parole guidelines are simply decision-making
tools.

"Parole guidelines do not say 'yes' or 'no,' " she said. "It's static
and dynamic factors that are merged together to get a parole score to
tell us if a person would be a good risk on parole supervision. "

Mr. Morris is frustrated on various levels. In addition to maintaining
a good prison record, he lined up a place to live, a job and even a
church to help him ease back into society.

Yet the parole board keeps denying him parole saying his accrued time
"is not an accurate reflection" of his "potential for rehabilitation"
and that his release would "endanger the public."

How can he "endanger the public" Mr. Morris asked indignantly, when he
has no record of violence in or out of prison?

The inmate may not be a murderer or rapist, Ms. Owens said, but "there
is a victim."

"I guess 'danger' means different things to different people," she
said. If you're the one whose home was burglarized, or who was
swindled by a white-collar criminal at the Mineral Wells unit, "you'd
probably consider them dangerous, too."

Mr. Morris was to come up for parole again in September, but TDCJ
spokeswoman Lyons said she doesn't know when he will be eligible
again. Though Mr. Morris claimed the board didn't pay attention to his
good behavior, Ms. Lyons said, "any type of infraction...will be
considered."

T.J. Daugherty, who implemented the "pre-parole" program in the
mid-1980s, said warehousing was not the original intent. It "was
written for the inmates," to better prepare them for re-entering society.

"The thinking was to find a humane way of letting inmates out into the
community with support," said Mr. Daugherty, now retired.

In the early years, 1,100 inmates were placed in small "residential
settings" across the state.

Mr. Daugherty screened inmates for placement by checking their
original crimes and prison records. Once in the units, they had access
to counseling and classes -- and paying jobs in the community in some
instances. Part of their wages went for room and board and part for
victim compensation. The rest could be set aside for use upon release
or for their families.

Inmates could come and go -- and some of them simply left, which was
one problem with the program, said Mr. Collier, of the parole division.

There was no "one event that shut pre-parole transfers down," he said.
But many facilities folded "because of the 'not in my backyard,' "
sentiment.

Pre-parole programs also suffered from poor timing, said Dr. Elmer
Polk, associate professor of criminology at the University of Texas at
Arlington. They were "successful in reducing costs of incarceration,"
he said, "but we did still have a high recidivism rate among the releasees."

The push to crack down on crime signaled the end of the program in
Texas.

Bob Glasgow, the former state senator who sponsored pre-parole
legislation regrets the dismantling of the program.

"We could cut recidivism better that way than any other program I've
seen," he said. "It still should be done...[but] since the mid-90s to
today the Legislature has taken the attitude that nobody can be soft
on crime and get re-elected."

Remnants of the pre-parole program remain scattered throughout the
prison system, Ms. Lyons said.

For example, a few units offer prison industry programs that pay
inmates -- but the jobs are within the unit, not in the community.
Other programs such as Project RIO (Reintegration of Offenders) help
inmates find work. Job fairs are held at all units.

Meanwhile, Sonny Morris marks time, back in the prison
system.

"It's very misleading for my family," he said. "It's misleading for
me," he said.

His lament is not likely to affect members of the parole
board.

"I've been on this board for a number of years," Ms. Owens said, "and
no one has ever said to me 'you need to release more people.' "