ALTERNATE CORRECTIONS PROGRAMS HAVE BASE OF SUPPORT

Officials charged with fixing Alabama's prison overcrowding face a simple
yet vexing math problem: For every inmate they let out early, there is more
than one to take his place.

That's why many experts contend that even as the state seeks to speed the
early release of prisoners, it cannot solve the problem without doing a
better job preventing people from passing through prison walls in the first
place.

But no one wants to let convicts off easy.

As a result, a concept known as "community corrections" -- an intermediate
form of punishment between probation and prison -- enjoys growing
popularity with a wide range of criminal justice officials.

The locally run programs place convicts under intense supervision, with
strict work requirements and drug testing. In a few jurisdictions, counties
have facilities where the convicts live during times when they are not at work.

"The trick of criminal justice is to do something with offenders so that
they are no longer offenders. And that's always more effective closer to
home," said Robert Sigler, a criminal justice professor at the University
of Alabama.

The Alabama Sentencing Commission has backed community corrections as a key
component of its reform agenda. Judges have expressed satisfaction at
having more choices when sentencing defendants. A master plan developed by
the Department of Corrections encourages it.

Even district attorneys appear united in favor of community corrections.

The problem, however, is that such programs have limited reach. More than a
decade after the concept was introduced in Alabama, 24 community
corrections programs serve 30 of the state's 67 counties.

"I can remember when I started, we had 12 programs in 15 counties," said
Joseph A. Mahoney, the director of Mobile's program. "Now we have 30
counties and 24 programs. So we're inching along."

Under a program in which the Department of Corrections pays community
corrections programs for each convicted felon diverted from a state prison,
Alabama stopped about 2,000 people from entering penitentiaries in the 2004
fiscal year.

Mahoney said the actual number is much greater. The state, using a formula,
pays only for inmates whose crimes and backgrounds make it likely judges
would have handed down sentences of prison, rather than probation. But many
of the programs' participants who do not meet those criteria likely would
have been sentenced to prison as well, he said.

Rosa Davis, the state's chief assistant attorney general and a member of
the Sentencing Commission, said she thinks Alabama could increase the
official number of convicts diverted from prison to 5,000 a year by
expanding community corrections to unserved counties. Mahoney, who also
serves as president of the Alabama Association of Community Corrections
Programs, said the number might be even higher -- perhaps as many as 6,000
a year.

Cutting prison admissions by an additional 4,000 a year would not eliminate
overcrowding by itself, backers acknowledge. But it would make a dent,
cutting the population from about 185 percent of the system's capacity to
about 155 percent.

Mobile's was one of the earliest programs in Alabama, created by a 1991
local legislative act. It has about 550 convicted felons and another 1,500
people convicted of misdemeanors.

Rather than serving time in prison or the county jail, though, participants
work at jobs during the day and remain under house arrest at night. Fees
paid by participants help pay for the system.

Although similar to state probation, Mahoney said, community corrections
programs are locally run and, thus, provide greater flexibility. He said
they also place a greater emphasis on drug treatment and matching
participants with education, jobs and job-training programs.

"Our programs are much more involved in rehabilitation or habilitiation, or
the people-fixing end of things," he said.

Community corrections administrators maintain the programs are more
successful than prison at preventing convicted criminals from re-offending,
although they have no hard data to back up that claim. Mahoney said they
are developing a system to track participants for several years after
completing the programs.

In Mobile County's community corrections program, a counselor passes out
want ads and offers tips for getting and keeping jobs three times a week.

Carole Roberts, a probation officer for the program, said participants
often struggle with drug abuse, a lack of reliable transportation and
old-fashioned laziness. All add up to serious roadblocks to employment, and
a stable job is the most important key to rehabilitation, she said.

"This is one of the biggest battles. ... If we can solve this problem, we
can make a real difference," she said. "It's difficult to start at the
bottom. They don't want to make $7 an hour. They think they should make $15."

Shelby County's community corrections program, which began in May 2000 in
suburban Birmingham, is one of the few in the state with a residential
facility. Deborah Reeves, the program's director, said the facility has
space for 74 men and 24 women.

The program charges fees for supervision and drug testing, like in Mobile.
To pay for housing inmates overnight, it also takes 40 percent of their
incomes.

The fees paid by participants have been important politically since they
keep costs down for local governments, Reeves said. But she added that
taking such a high percentage of an income makes it harder for a convict to
succeed.

"The idea is to get him on his feet, not drown him financially," she said.
"None of us have had the support that we really, really need (from
government)."

Community corrections programs do not enjoy universal support, at least the
way they are constructed in Alabama. Baldwin County District Attorney David
Whetstone said they merely offer state officials an opportunity to shift
the burden of incarcerating convicted criminals onto local communities.

Whetstone said he believes the payment offered by the Department of
Corrections -- ranging from $5 to $15 per inmate each day -- is too low and
that the criteria for determining when a program is eligible for
reimbursement is too narrow.

"We should not take on state prisoners unless the state pays us to take on
state prisoners," he said.

Supporters, though, said community corrections programs are far more
cost-effective than state prisons. In Shelby County, for instance,
community corrections costs about $11 per inmate each day. The daily
per-inmate cost in a state prison is about $26.

Mahoney said he believes changing criminal behavior works best in local
environments. Most lawbreakers will stay out of trouble if they can beat
addiction and find jobs, he said.

"Who needs work-release centers when community corrections can handle it?"
he said.

The state paid nearly $2.9 million in fiscal year 2004 to community
corrections programs for diverting people who otherwise would have gone to
prison. The cost to house them in a penitentiary would have exceeded $7.8
million, Mahoney said.

But Davis, the assistant attorney general, said those are not real savings.
The $7.8 million figure comes from multiplying the annual per-inmate
incarceration rate by the number of felons sent to community corrections.
But she said most of the prison system's costs are fixed, she said.

"You can't save money in the penitentiary, because there ain't no money to
save," she said.

And Mahoney conceded that even if community corrections programs existed in
every corner of the state and worked to maximum effect, they would barely
make a dent in the state's overcrowded prisons.

"Community corrections is only one part of the solution," he said. "It's
not just a matter of where you put people. It's a matter of how you
sentence them, too."