SECOND CHANCE

Jailhouse Classes Offer Hope

Gary Rush was a tattoo artist before he got busted for taking his ex-wife's
car after an argument.

Now, he's baking banana cream pies, fudge brownies and layer cakes.

A man named Bobby was a logistics analyst at Vandenberg Air Force Base
before he was taken into custody for being a felon in possession of weapons.

Now, he's turning out cream puffs and tuna and crab salads.

As Rush squeezed whipped cream from a pastry funnel onto a gooey pudding
dessert one recent afternoon, his instructor smiled approvingly - relieved
he finally got the technique down.

In a setting that's not quite the California Culinary Academy, Rush and
Bobby are two of the 65 inmates attending a class that teaches them how to
prepare culinary delights in the kitchen of the Santa Barbara County Jail.
It's one of many courses offered daily to inmates at the main jail and at
the women's and men's honor farms in a focused attempt to lower recidivism.

In a largely unheralded and little publicized effort, the jail offers more
treatment and educational opportunities to its inmates than just about any
other facility in the state - more than 100 hours of classes a week to help
inmates gain skills that will help them find work and keep them sober.

The programs could have particular relevance with the approach of a
countywide election that will decide whether another jail should be built.
If voters decide in the March 7 election to fund another facility, the
entire treatment and educational program would be duplicated at a new North
County Jail.

Critics suggest that rather than build more facilities to lock up
criminals, the priority should be to rehabilitate inmates through treatment
programs in the community. They reason this would ease jail crowding, and
negate the need for more cells.

But the criminals themselves are quick to say they are unlikely to attend a
community program. Classes, they say, work better when they're in custody
because they have no where else to go.

While there are no hard recidivism statistics when it comes to the
effectiveness of the educational and vocational courses, a study of the
jail's drug treatment program shows only 38 percent return. Jail staffers
say they know a program has succeeded when the inmates don't return.

Keith Green has been in and out of jail on drug charges most of his life.
Like many other inmates at the County Jail, he supports the notion of
rehabilitation programs. He says many won't participate in programs unless
they are behind bars. He knows he wouldn't.

"I'm not one to cry over spilled milk," said Green while in a recent drug
education class at the jail. "But if we had these classes 20 years ago,
some of us might not be in the situation we are now or in the lifestyles
that we have grown to know."

For Green and more than 300 others like him at the jail, the first step to
changing is through attending classes offered by Inmate Services at the
facility.

"Anyone can sit in a cell and wait for them to call you for release," said
Green, 44. "But we have these classes, opportunities to make a difference.
A chance, a choice to do something with your life. These programs are a
blessing in disguise."

Eight years ago the state mandated that county jails offer voluntary
education to inmates. But what began in the Santa Barbara facility as a
small literacy program with a couple of volunteers has far exceeded state
requirements, developing into an extensive program that boasts top-notch
courses taught by 10 full-time teachers.

All of the classes come at no expense to the jail because the instructors
are paid through the Continuing Education Program of Santa Barbara City
College, which took over administration of the program in 1998 when the
contract with Oxnard Adult School ended.

"We have a captive audience," said Sheriff Jim Thomas. "And if there is a
way to take some of those individuals and have them go out better prepared
to deal with society than when they came in - then, in my opinion, we're
doing a good job."

More than 75 percent of the county's inmates are in custody because of
drug- and alcohol-related issues, authorities assert. And, in addition to
academic and vocational courses, the jail also offers a treatment program,
referred to as STP. Participants partake in 12-step meetings and group and
individual counseling. There are 83 slots in STP at any given time, and in
a year about 300 inmates pass through it.

The New-Press spent a week observing these classes to better inform voters
about these jail programs, as they consider a half-cent sales tax increase
to pay for another jail.

Dozens of inmates volunteered to be interviewed and spoke candidly about
the programs. Some frankly admitted they are in the classes just to get out
of their cells. A couple said nothing will help them and they'll just
continue to make bad choices until they're either dead or locked up forever.

But the majority, however, say they want to better themselves. Their only
criticism is that these classes should have existed years ago. Many even
want more.

THE GALLOPING GOURMETS

The tattoo artist and logistics analyst never thought they'd be baking
brownies and whipping up cream puffs. But Rush and Bobby spend a good eight
hours a day in the County Jail kitchen doing just that.

They work alongside a paid kitchen staff of eight people and, in return,
get to do their time at the minimum security Men's Honor Farm. They and the
other inmates prepare more than 1 million meals per year for the jail,
saving the county more than $200,000 annually.

In preparation to work in the kitchen, inmates attend a weekly class on
food safety.

"We go over E-coli, salmonella, proper handling procedures and personal
hygiene," said instructor Julie Hobbins, who also prepares the inmates for
a state certification test and job interviews in the food service industry.

"A lot of these guys are in for selling drugs and don't have a high school
education," Hobbins said. "I provide them with enough information and
experience so that they can at least get a good entry level job."

Rush and Bobby may use these newly found skills until they can get back
into their usual lines of work.

"I'm going to try to get part-time work at a store baking," Rush said after
preparing the pudding dessert. "Then I can do baking until I can get back
on my feet and open my own tattoo shop. And then, no matter what, I'll
always have something to fall back on."

THE GRASS IS GREENER

Landscaping may be Deneane Hamby's salvation.

Hamby argued with her husband one afternoon and, before she knew it, one
thing led to another. A couple of hours later, the Montecito woman was
arrested for her third drunken driving offense.

Hamby had to put her telecommunication business on hold while she served
out a sentence at the La Morada Women's Honor Farm. Weeks after her
release, the 39-year-old businesswoman missed a probation appointment --
prompting a judge to readmit her to the 36-bed minimum security facility.
She's now serving out a four-month sentence there.

She has remained sober, but these two stints in custody may have cost Hamby
the business she's nurtured for the past 17 years.

"It's hard to conduct business when you're in jail and maintain clients,"
Hamby said.

But the jail's landscaping class, La Morada's most popular program, has
taught her new skills - she's learned about plant biology and floral
design, pruning, propagation and pest control and gained self-esteem.

On a recent afternoon, the class seemed much like a college course, with
the women actively engaged in discussion and avidly taking notes, some in
preparation for a test that will lead to a state certificate in landscaping.

"There are women who come here who have never planted anything before,"
said instructor Julie Hess. "They get so excited when they see it grow - it
makes you want to cry."

Hamby spends up to 60 hours a week maintaining the grounds and working in
the many herb and vegetable gardens which produce food for the women.

When she gets out of jail, Hamby says she plans to reevaluate her
relationship with her husband, stay sober and check out employment
possibilities in the landscaping business.

"The field offers so much variety and you can make a lot of money," Hamby
said as she walked through the gardens, proudly pointing out her projects.
"But money isn't an object at this point in my life - sobriety is."

FAMILY MATTERS

Martha Gladish is afraid she'll die behind bars. In October, Gladish
violated the terms of her probation, which originally stemmed from a
cocaine conviction. Now, she's looking at the reinstatement of a 10-year
suspended sentence.

She's also been recently diagnosed with a terminal disease.

"I'm fearful of being sent to prison and dying in prison," Gladish said.
"I'm fighting hard to try to get the courts to give me another chance and
to take the sobriety time I have seriously."

While Gladish awaits the judge's final decision on the reinstatement of
prison time, she's enrolled in the Sheriff's Treatment Program and in a
parenting and drug education class known as DEUCE, which stands for
Deciding, Educating, Understanding, Counseling and Evaluating.

"I find that if you open your mind, you can apply what we talk about in
these classes to any aspect of your life," Gladish said. "You may not hear
what you want to hear all the time. But it's usually the truth."

Gladish has a 20-year history with drugs and alcohol. But she also quickly
points out that she's been clean and sober for 15 months.

"I've never had this kind of sobriety time in my whole life," said the
44-year-old woman. "And it all started in this jail. It's these programs
that have helped me out."

Even women who aren't mothers attend the class in preparation for the future.

"I grew up being punished a lot because I was always in trouble," said
Barbara Doyle, 39. "I don't have any children, but I'd like to some day.
I'm trying to learn about parenting now, so that when I do get my life
together - I can do it right."

COMPUTING THE FUTURE

Brandon Harper comes from a good family with parents who are teachers - the
only reason he says he's in trouble is because he just fell into the wrong
crowd in high school.

He's serving out a three-month sentence after violating probation for
threatening a police officer.

"This all happened for a reason," said Harper, 19, while attending a
computer class. "I'm not happy to be here, but I'm glad I am because it's
made me realize what an idiot I was being."

Through individualized instruction, class participants learn skills,
ranging from typing to manipulating spreadsheets.

"They just need a lot of encouragement and building up," said instructor
Chris Sprenger. "And they need to be given an opportunity to learn."

Certificates of proficiency are earned after inmates successfully work
through computer programs that develop skills in math, writing, personal
finances and job searches.

Harper says he realizes he needs to also develop a new group of friends
when he gets out. If he can get financial aide, Harper says he plans to
become a business major at Hancock College; if not, he'll enlist in the Army.

"I normally do plumbing, but I don't want to be a blue-collar worker my
whole life," he said. "So computer skills are a must. Education is power."

TIME TO CHANGE

Glenn Grant has been in jail 12 times since 1985 - mostly for drug- and
alcohol-related offenses. His wife has left him. And he hardly ever gets to
see his five young children.

After more than three years sobriety, Grant relapsed and is now serving
time for using meth.

"It's sad - who knows where I'd be, if I weren't in here," said the
40-year-old construction worker. He's says it's time for a serious change.

But what's to prevent him from ending up in jail a 13th time?

"If I don't stay focused, I will be here again," he admitted. "For those
who want to change, the classes make an immense difference."

An exercise aimed at self-examination in a recent DEUCE class, he says, has
helped him determine the priorities in his life.

"What came out is that my family is important," Grant said. "The lack of my
ability to provide for my family is what's hurting the most - not the lack
of my freedom or the lack of my getting loaded."

Not all 30 or so men in this class are as eager to work on change as Grant.
Unlike the inmates in the women's classes, most of the men are gang
members. They noisily chat while class gets under way. Very few take notes.
Some even admit they're only there to visit with friends.

But then there are the ones like Hector Cardena.

"I've been an addict for 16 years," said the 31-year-old man who is serving
time for possession of heroin for sale. "They didn't have these classes the
last time I was in."

The worst part about being in jail again, he says, is being away from his
wife of 13 years and his 7- and 12-year-old daughters. But jail time, he
says, may finally force him to deal with his problem

"For once, I'm admitting that I'm an addict - it took me all these years,"
he said. "I've never been in a program. I've never had help. I thought I
could do it on my own, but I just can't."

GENERAL EDUCATION

Daniel Macias Jr. hasn't had the best of role models in his life. His
mother, his father and his older brother are all in prison.

Now, Macias himself is serving out a 60-day sentence at the County Jail.
The 19-year-old violated his probation when he failed to attend anger
management classes - mandated by a judge for a domestic violence conviction.

But Macias is using his time in custody to attend a class that prepares
inmates to take a GED test.

"Right now, I need to focus on myself and not worry about my family," said
the young father of a 2-year-old boy. He wants to be a technician that
fixes sewing machines. "I need to work a lot when I get out to keep out of
trouble. Maybe I can try to get two jobs."

Instruction is one-on-one and centers mostly on math and writing skills.
About 90 percent of County Jail inmates who take the test pass.

Sitting near Macias in class with his head in his GED book was one of the
men held responsible for the armed robbery of a Paseo Nuevo jewelry store.
"I started this class four months ago when I first came in," said Demetrie
Taylor, 20. "I want to get my GED so it looks good in court and to help me
out."

But others seemingly want more. Macias and Rocky Nartatez Jr., 20, often
study from their GED book in their cell.

"I was close to getting my diploma when I was on the outs," said Nartatez,
who is serving out an eight-month sentence for a violation on a petty theft
conviction. When he's released, Nartatez plans to enroll in Hancock College
and join the California Conservation Corp.

"I told my parents I just want to do my time," Nartatez said, "and just put
this behind me because I have the rest of my life ahead of me."