LAKE COUNTY JAIL TRIES TO TEACH LESSONS OF LIFE

At 45, Lynn Daniels says he's finally ready to get his life together.
Across the room in Lake County Jail sat the slap in the face he
needed: Cory Jones, his 22-year-old son. "When I saw my son in the
same cell, I said, 'What are you doing here?' He said, 'What are you
doing here?'" Daniels said recently.

A drug habit has kept Daniels locked up most of his adult life. But
now he and about 50 other men, some facing prison time, are part of
an innovative program that tries to keep them from cycling in and out
of the system. It's unusual because most programs to stop recidivism
are found in state prisons, not county jails, officials say.

The idea, which has been used in Florida but is new to Illinois,
tries to guide the inmates, who live in a dormitory setting, toward
becoming dependable fathers, husbands and men, in many cases for the
first time in their lives.

"[It] has given me a new way of thinking--hope," said Daniels, who
fathered his first child in his late teens and has never held a steady job.

He has five kids, but the monkey on his back--cocaine--received most
of his affection.

"I was in and out of my kids' lives because I was always in the
Department of Corrections," said Daniels, who is awaiting trial for
burglary, drug possession and domestic battery. "[So] my kids see me
as more of a homey" instead of a dad."

His son, who was released after serving 30 days on marijuana
possession and battery charges, said he carries no grudge.

"The past is the past," Jones said.

Like a few others, he was placed in the dorm because of overcrowding,
not to participate in the counseling program.

"I don't feel it's for me," Jones said.

But Jones said his dad seems to be making progress--and that he had
better if he wants to see Jones' two children.

"That's all he talks about is his grandkids," Jones said. "I ain't
going to have that kind of bad influence around me or my kids, but I
feel like if he can get it together, I will give him another chance."

Because the program is just six months old, officials have no data to
support their faith in it, but Sheriff Gary Del Re, who implemented
it, is a believer.

"I recognize full well that there are those who need to be
incarcerated long-term," he said. "But so many people do return to
society ... we have to assist them in developing those social skills
that we find are essential."

Murderers, sex offenders, gang members and other violent criminals
are not eligible for the program. Inmates who live in the dorm--even
if, like Jones, they don't participate in the classes--are carefully
screened, and there is a one-strike-and-out policy on fighting or
belligerence toward guards.

Sheridan Correctional Center, a state prison in LaSalle County, uses
a similar program but does not have a common sleeping area, which
experts say encourages inmates to work together.

Many of the inmates are serving "county time," sentences of a year or
less, but Daniels and others are awaiting trials on charges that
could land them in prison for years.

Daniels hopes a judge will look favorably on his attempt to change
his life and send him to drug court, where he can be sentenced to an
intensive cocaine rehabilitation program.

"I'm a little old to be coming in and out of here, thinking they're
going to keep giving me second chances," he said.

Like Daniels, Lonnie Henderson said the hope of being a better father
motivates him.

Henderson, 26, began drinking at 10 and was sent to his first
juvenile facility at 12.

He now faces a fourth prison term for burglary and DUI. He rejected a
plea deal that would have given him a 10-year sentence because he
says he cannot bear being away that long from his 3-year-old
daughter, born while he was in prison, and his 1-year-old son.

"It's never made a difference before," said the tattooed, burly
Henderson, a construction worker. "It didn't bother me being locked up."

Like Jones, he was sent to the dorm because of overcrowding.

"I didn't want anything to do with it," Henderson said. "I was angry."

But his attitude changed as he watched Miguel Garcia's life-skills class.

Garcia, a barrel-chested ex-soldier who is an instructor at the
College of Lake County, once teetered on the edge of a life of crime
himself and understands the challenges his students face: abusive or
unstable childhoods, bad role models, addiction.

Instead of coddling, he delivers a blunt message of responsibility.
But the classes are also a form of group therapy where hardened men
find themselves exposing their souls in a way they never would have
imagined, especially in jail.

"I don't have anyone telling me, 'You punk,' if I cry," Daniels said.
"I can just cry."

Garcia starts by defining what a man is and what a man isn't. He
tells the story of the skinny kid with glasses who gets picked on.

"Then one day, you get out of prison and you go for a job, and the
man sitting behind the desk was that kid," Garcia says. "That is a
man. He put up with all the crap. ... He achieved his dream."

The men also take classes in substance abuse, domestic violence and
men's leadership. High school dropouts must work toward a GED.

Unlike most of the other men in the program, Ron Schneider, 43, is
not a habitual criminal, but he has killed a man.

Exhausted after days of working and partying, Schneider, a carpenter,
fell asleep at the wheel of his pickup truck in July 2004 and swerved
onto the shoulder, where he struck and killed a man checking the
mailbox at the end of his driveway. He was acquitted of reckless
homicide but convicted of having cocaine in his system and sentenced
to a year in jail.

"Since coming here, I've found out that a lot of my life was dealing
with stress [by drinking]," Schneider said.

The accident and conviction cost him a 16-year marriage, but he still
hopes to mend fences with his three teenage children after his
release in October.

The jail program has led Daniels to think about the sort of father
and man he has been, and now, as a grandfather of eight, he says he
wants to put things right.

"I take this guy's stuff, which he probably worked hard to get, so I
can put these drugs in my veins or in my lungs," he said. "I can see
the ripple effect of what I've done, to the guy whose stuff I took,
the taxpayers, my kids, my woman."