JAIL JUNKIES

Who Knows More About Stopping Property Crime: Kevin Mannix or an
Ex-Addict WHO Stole 1,000 Cars?

Kevin Mannix, meet John Goodman.

Twelve years ago, Mannix was a Democrat and a candidate for Oregon
attorney general.

Twelve years ago, Goodman was a hardcore drug addict who financed his
habit with other people's property.

"I broke into way more than 500 houses," Goodman claims. "And I stole
maybe 1,000 cars."

Both, you could say, are adaptable creatures.

The Queens, N.Y.-born Mannix switched parties in 1997 and became a
Republican. The former legislator ran unsuccessfully for higher
office several times, built a law practice and is once again in the
headlines thanks to Measure 61--his tough-on-crime initiative that is
among the most costly measures on the crowded November ballot.

Measure 61 would mandate minimum sentences of 14 to 36 months for a
batch of property and drug--i.e., nonviolent--crimes, including those
committed by first offenders.

The measure would require more than $1 billion to build new prisons,
according to state estimates, and another $200 million annually to
operate them. And the measure would lead to the imprisonment of about
5,000 more Oregonians--boosting the prison population by more than one-third.

Like Mannix, Goodman also reinvented himself.

"I'm a pretty creative person and was able to succeed in various
different criminal activities," says Goodman, a fireplug-sized ex-con
with a Yosemite Sam mustache.

Hooked on heroin as a teenager in the 1970s, Goodman switched to meth
after going cold turkey in solitary confinement.

The 55-year-old Southeast Portland resident also switched from
stealing to a more lucrative trade--cooking. Mixing ephedrine,
phosphorus and sodium in no-tell motel rooms and schlocky rentals, he
made money quicker than any celebrity chef.

"You could turn $1,000 of chemicals into $100,000," he says.

When a couple more prison stretches ended Goodman's meth-dealing, he
switched to identity theft.

Back on the street, he bought magnetic ink and a CD full of
Oregonians' DMV data ($50 from the Nickel Ads). After Dumpster-diving
for customer information at local banks, he began manufacturing--and
cashing--checks.

Today, Goodman is clean, thanks to a program run by Central City Concern.

Both he and Mannix seem close to achieving what they have long
struggled for--Goodman a victory over the demons that trapped him in
Portland's underworld for more than 30 years, and Mannix vindication
after five consecutive high-profile electoral losses.

Crime and punishment have defined both men, but, not surprisingly,
they disagree about the value of building more prisons.

"The essential problem is that our society is not giving justice to
victims of crime," Mannix says. "It's time to stop this
'catch-and-release' approach."

Goodman's experience gives him a different view.

"More prisons will do nothing to help anybody. Prison allows you to
heal up, get some rest, eat good and figure out how to do better
crimes," says Goodman, who is nearly finished earning his
certification as a drug and alcohol counselor.

It's safe to say no Oregonian has had a greater influence on the
state's criminal justice system than Mannix. Measure 11, the 1994
initiative he wrote that created mandatory minimum sentences for
violent and sex crimes, is now responsible for two of every five
inmates in Oregon prisons. He single-handedly changed the rules of
the game, a victory that took thousands of dangerous criminals off
the streets and radically shifted state spending toward corrections.

A genial 58-year-old raconteur with a pitch-perfect skill for
anecdote and a keen sense of populist outrage, Mannix knows locking
up bad guys holds an emotional appeal even among liberal voters. He's
a master at making the complex realities of crime and punishment seem simple.

What is less clear is whether Oregon can afford his vision for drug
and property crimes--or whether that vision is actually effective.

John Goodman and Kevin Mannix do agree on one thing: Drug and
property crimes are extremely costly.

"I used to think I was providing a service when I sold meth," Goodman
says. "Now I realize I was a pebble, and every crime I did caused ripples.

"Say I steal a guy's car," he explains. "Now, maybe he can't get to
work. Then he has to go to court and spend a lot of time and effort
getting his car back."

Now consider the economic impact of Colandus "Slim" Moore. For 38
years, Moore lived for one thing--to shoot heroin into his arm, his
neck, or wherever else he could find a vein.

A gravelly voiced Mississippi native who moved to Portland in 1983,
Moore spent most of the past 25 years--when not in jail or
prison--working the corners of Old Town and the bus mall.

"They should put a statue of him up on 3rd and [West] Burnside," says
Randy Sorvisto, a founder of Central City Concern's Recovery Mentor
Program. "He was one of those guys you'd always see hustling in Old
Town and never expected to see clean."

On a busy day, Moore says, he might shoot up 15 or 20 times. Before
he finally kicked his habit in 2005, Moore says he commonly spent
$100 to $250 a day on heroin.

(A study by Portland State University researchers of 97 hardcore
addicts in the Central City Concern programs found they spent an
average of $206 per day--or more than $70,000 a year--just on drugs.)

That's a lot of money, especially if you have no job.

Now clean and a working carpenter's apprentice, Moore says he rarely
came by a dollar honestly when he was addicted.

"I've got a sorry-assed work history," he says.

Moore adds that people underestimate junkies' economic savvy.

"If you are a dummy," he says, "you won't make enough to feed your addiction."

And feeding that addiction is all that matters.

"Every day, all that runs through your mind is, 'Where am I going to
lay my head tonight, and how am I going to clean up enough to go into
the store and steal something?'" Moore says.

As an example, for years, Moore exploited Nordstrom's longtime "no
questions asked" return policy.

In one scam, he and an accomplice would go to the downtown department
store. One would rub toothpaste around his gums and, when inside the
store, sip some water. When the toothpaste foamed up, he would fake a
convulsion. As onlookers rushed to help, the accomplice would grab
items, often women's purses, and head for the door.

"We'd get somebody, usually a white woman, to return them," he says.
"That's enough for one day."

Moore says junkies have tricks of the trade, like any profession.
(First rule: Never carry bindles of heroin in your pocket where a cop
can find them. Carry them in your mouth so you can swallow the
packets or put them in a crushed coffee cup near where you are selling.)

When dealing, Moore often duped his customers. He'd make "marijuana"
by wetting Yellow Pages and rolling them under his foot on a rough
sidewalk. "Looked just like a bud," he says.

To "manufacture" heroin, he'd moisten instant coffee, package it in
plastic and then drop the package into a cup of vinegar to mimic the
drug's sour smell.

Goodman and Moore are off the street now. But plenty of others are
still out there. The Oregon Department of Human Services says 88,000
Oregonians suffer from "drug abuse or dependence." (Nearly twice as
many are addicted to alcohol.)

Earlier this year, the Portland consulting firm ECONorthwest
estimated alcohol and drug abuse costs Oregonians about $5.9 billion
annually. About $2 billion of that is attributable to "illness,
institutionalization and incarceration," and another $1.2 billion is
attributable to "crime and the victims of crime."

That addiction tax is about as much as the annual general fund
budgets of the City of Portland, Multnomah County and Portland Public
Schools--combined.

Kevin Mannix doesn't know Goodman or Moore. But they were exactly the
kind of habitual, nonviolent offenders he wants off the streets.

"The Legislature was not doing anything about this issue," he says.
"So I had to."

With the financial help of Nevada medical-device millionaire Loren
Parks, Mannix easily gathered 149,000 signatures to place Measure 61
on the ballot.

He's right about "catch-and-release" justice. In 2007, for instance,
according to Oregon Criminal Justice Commission statistics, only 7
percent of those convicted of felony drug offenses went to prison.
Eleven percent went to county jail and 82 percent got probation. For
property crimes, 35 percent of those convicted of felonies went to
prison or jail.

Historically, property-crime rates in Oregon have been among the
nation's highest. Even today, a property crime occurs in Oregon every
four minutes.

Mannix's solution? Measure 61 would remove judges' discretion,
stiffen prison sentences and make them mandatory.

And it would bring dramatic changes for people like Moore. Over the
past couple of decades, for example, Moore got arrested dozens of
times for dealing drugs. Usually, he just got a slap on the wrist.
Under Mannix's measure, he'd get a mandatory sentence of 30 or 36
months, depending on the drug.

Initial polling found that voters overwhelmingly supported Measure 61.

"The Mannix mandatory minimum initiative will pass," pollster Lisa
Grove wrote in a January 2008 email to legislative leaders. "Messages
to defeat it do not work."

That news panicked legislators, Oregon district attorneys and others
worried about the measure's cost. Rather than try to defeat Mannix,
opponents proposed a cheaper, more palatable alternative.

In February, lawmakers referred Measure 57 to the November ballot. In
addition to tougher sentences for drug and property crimes, it also
includes minimum sentences for a variety of nonviolent crimes,
including elder abuse and white-collar crimes.

Unlike Mannix's measure, which punishes first offenders, Measure 57
is targeted at repeat offenders. Officials estimate, however, that
Measure 57 would mean the incarceration of 3,000 fewer prisoners than
Mannix's measure. And because it would require far less construction,
Measure 57 would cost a quarter as much as Measure 61.

And, unlike Mannix's proposal, the legislatively referred option
would mandate treatment for drug-addicted felons.

Voters face an unusual and confusing situation in November. If both
measures pass--which polls suggest is likely--then the one with the
most votes becomes law.

Thus, even if the legislative referral tops Mannix's measure, he will
still have accomplished his goal of imprisoning vastly more felons.

"Either way, we make progress," Mannix says. "I win some if [Measure]
57 passes, and the people win more if 61 passes."

One cannot deny the pain and expense that result from dope fiends
invading Oregonians' homes, swiping their cars and stealing their
identities. Mannix is a master at tapping the anger inspired by such crimes.

But responsible public policy should also address a few basic
questions about Measure 61:

Is 2008 the Right Time to Embark on a Prison-Building Campaign?

Normally, dramatic policy results from high-profile trends--such as
Oregon's 2006 crackdown on payday loans, or the proposed $700 billion
Wall Street bailout.

But by a couple of measures, Mannix's timing is poor. The use of
meth--which is tied to property crime--is declining significantly,
according to figures compiled by the state Department of Human Services.

And Oregon's property-crime rate, although still above the national
average, is also dropping sharply. Over the past two years, FBI
figures show, our property-crime rate has dropped far faster than in
other states--we've gone from fourth in the nation in 2005 to 18th in
each of the past two years (see chart, above).

"Oregon's crime rate began decreasing in the 1990s," wrote Kenneth
Kreuscher, co-chairman of the National Lawyers Guild, Portland
chapter. "Mandatory minimum sentences have no measurable effect on
reducing crime."

Can Oregon Afford Mannix's Measure?

Oregon already spends a greater percentage of its budget on
corrections than any other state, according to a recent Pew Research
Center study (although some Oregon officials argue with Pew's methodology).

And the 2009 Legislature already faces a deficit of more than $500
million, state economists say. That deficit will probably grow before
lawmakers convene in January.

Mannix's measure includes no funding. As a result, the billion-plus
dollars Measure 61 would cost would come on top of the looming
deficit and at the expense of other state programs.

"If 61 passes, it will blow a hole in the state's budget and have a
huge impact on other services," says John Kroger, who is both the
Democratic and Republican nominee for attorney general.

Victims'-rights advocates might object to trying to place a dollar
value on the benefit of preventing a Measure 61 crime.

But in many states, including Washington, New York and even Texas,
corrections officials and lawmakers have come to rely on cost-benefit
analyses as they explore cheaper alternatives to incarceration.

Officials in those states--and now Oregon--have found that, like any
other investment, prisons are subject to fundamental economic principles.

In 2006, the Oregon Criminal Justice Commission began to evaluate the
cost-effectiveness of incarceration.

Researchers found that when Oregon embarked on a prison-building boom
in the early '90s, each crook imprisoned corresponded to a reduction
of more than 30 crimes.

As the state has locked up the most prolific offenders, however, the
incremental benefit has shrunk. For the past few years, the number of
crimes prevented by each additional prisoner incarcerated has hovered
at about 10. Oregon Criminal Justice Commission economist Michael
Wilson says the smaller benefit reflects the law of diminishing returns.

Mannix argues--correctly--that incarceration provides unquantifiable
benefits, such as victims' emotional well-being and a sense of
fulfilled desire for justice.

But economists here and in Washington state have calculated that in
terms of return on investment, it makes little sense to build
additional prisons for drug and property criminals.

Each dollar spent locking up violent criminals saves about $4.35. But
Washington economists found that each dollar spent locking up
property criminals returns far less: about $1.10.

And money spent locking up drug criminals produces hefty losses: Each
dollar spent returns only about 35 cents in value.

"That doesn't necessarily mean we should stop locking people up,"
Wilson says. "But it gives us a much better idea about the costs and
benefits of doing so."

Will Mannix's Measure Be Effective?

Putting drug and property criminals behind bars certainly keeps them
off the streets. But it does little to change their behavior.

"Drug addiction is a driver of both drug and property crimes because
people who are addicted are driven to find the resources to buy more
drugs," explains Ginger Martin, director of transition services for
the Oregon Department of Corrections.

And federal Bureau of Justice statistics found that recidivism for
property crimes--about 75 percent--nearly double the rate for violent crimes.

Put simply, imprisoning property criminals without addressing their
addiction is an expensive game of Whac-a-Mole.

Mannix's measure contains no provision for addiction treatment, which
is partly why Kroger, the Oregon District Attorneys Association and
the state's other major law enforcement groups are supporting the
legislative referral of Measure 57.

A 2006 study by the Washington State Institute for Public Policy
often cited by both supporters and critics of drug treatment examined
results from 571 treatment programs around the country.

The study found that some treatment methods are ineffective, but that
some community-based approaches such as drug courts (which are now
widespread in Oregon counties) can be extremely effective and could
return as much as $4 in benefits for every dollar invested.

Kroger is a believer. The Lewis & Clark law professor has made
Oregon's failure to spend money on drug treatment a central plank of
his candidacy.

Over the past 10 years, even as spending on Oregon prisons has
soared, state figures show that the money allocated to treat inmates
has shrunk 34 percent.

Kroger argues that simply locking up drug and property criminals
without addressing their addiction is an expensive recipe for failure.

"We can't afford to throw money away, and that's what you do when you
lock addicts up without treating them," he says.

Since his signature achievement, 1994's Measure 11, Kevin Mannix's
political career has nose-dived.

He lost two races for attorney general, two for governor and, earlier
this year, the 5th Congressional District's Republican primary.

But Mannix may end up influencing budget choices and criminal justice
policy far more through the fall ballot than he ever could have as an
elected official.

He says regardless of the outcome in November, he will have forced
lawmakers and the public to focus on an ill too long ignored.

"This isn't about me," he says. "It's about doing something for the
greater good."

John Goodman hopes that if either measure passes in November, it will
be Measure 57.

Having racked up 47 felony convictions, and having seen his former
running mates rack up countless more, he's convinced that addicts
will keep committing crimes until they're no longer hooked.

"Until you address the addiction," he says, "there's nothing anybody
can do to stop them."

Getting Clean

For many Portland addicts, Randy Sorvisto is the end of the line.

Sorvisto, an ex-con and former heroin addict, came up with the idea
for Central City Concern's Recovery Mentor Program in 1999.

Since then, Sorvisto and colleagues with similar backgrounds have
used their experience to help 1,500 addicts try to get straight.

One of the Recovery Mentor Program's success stories is Tammy Wilkins.

From the age of 13, when she dropped out of Binnsmead Elementary in
Southeast Portland, until almost her 40th birthday, Wilkins was an
addict and one-woman crime wave.

Wilkins got her first felony drug conviction right after her 18th
birthday and spent 15 of the next 20 years in and out of Oregon prisons.

"I had complete tunnel vision," says Wilkins, now 40. "Anything that
was not about drug-seeking or criminal activity didn't exist."

Most people might find the prospect of prison terrifying. But Wilkins
says that compared with her life on the street, where she often slept
in doorways, got beaten by a boyfriend, and was hungry and dirty,
incarceration was a welcome respite.

"Prison is not as bad as they make it out to be on television,"
Wilkins says. "It's like a big, dysfunctional daycare."

After spending nearly all of the '90s in prison, Wilkins was on the
street from 2000 to 2005.

She says freedom nearly destroyed her.

"I was homeless," she says. "I lost [custody of] my son."

In 2005, she returned to prison for 13 months for possession of a
stolen car (under Mannix's Measure 61, she would have gotten 18 months).

Before going back to prison, she says, she finally hit bottom and
applied to enter the Recovery Mentor Program, which includes
supervised housing, addiction treatment, life-skills tutoring and
career counseling.

A Portland State study of mentor-program participants completed in
January found "profound reductions in both drug use and criminal
activity post-treatment."

Wilkins says unlike other programs, the CCC effort worked because the
leaders were not social workers or medical professionals.

"I'm going to be an asset to the community," says Wilkins, now
studying Web design at Portland Community College. "Because for the
first time in my life, I feel like I've got something to lose."

[sidebar]

ECONorthwest's 2008 study found that the cost of drug and alcohol
abuse exceeds the positive economic contribution made by the state's
agriculture, forestry, fishing and hunting industries.

Oregon has consistently had more than double the national rate of
drug-related deaths, according to Oregon Department of Human Services figures.

It costs $28,470 annually to house one inmate in an Oregon prison,
according to Department of Corrections figures. That expense does not
include capital and debt costs.

Oregon has fewer police per thousand residents than any other state,
according to the Oregon Criminal Justice Commission.

Per-household, inflation-adjusted spending attributable to the Oregon
Department of Corrections increased 179 percent, from $245 to $684,
between 1987 and 2007.

Oregon's 2007-09 general fund budget already contains about 36
percent more for corrections than higher education.

Last year in California, New York and Texas, state prison populations
fell, according to the Pew Research Center.