"It's like looking at a train wreck in slow motion," said Thomas L'Heureux, a risk management specialist at the Stafford Creek Corrections Center. "And there's nothing you can do."
L'Heureux was talking about a 27-year-old inmate scheduled for release from the prison southwest of Aberdeen some time this year. In order to get access to the planning process and the inmate The Daily World agreed to keep the offender anonymous.
The man has been doing time for assaulting an off-duty police officer and has a long history of drug addiction. He is also a convicted rapist, has been disowned by his family, has mental illness issues and has been fired from almost every legitimate job he's ever had.
In other words, L'Heureux said, transitioning back into the outside world likely won't come easy.
L'Heureux has long since grown accustomed to this sort of sobering reality. His job is to prepare plans for inmates on the verge of being released from prison. Often there's not much he can do to stop the train, but it's his job to make sure that there's no collateral damage.
Every inmate on the threshold of freedom gets a release plan. They have to do some of the work themselves by trying to find housing, drug treatment programs or job opportunities within the strictures of the rules they will have to live by on the outside.
L'Heureux deals with the riskiest prisoners. Some are incarcerated for violent crimes; some have behaved poorly in prison, while others have serious mental health issues. For others, it's "all of the above." And when they have victims that they may return to harass or otherwise harm, L'Heureux works with local law enforcement and victim advocates to keep those people safe.
"I'm the prison's professional worrier," L'Heureux said.
A corrections officer at McNeil Island Corrections Center for eight years, L'Heureux came to Stafford Creek as a counselor when the prison opened and was promoted to risk management specialist four years ago.
On Valentine's Day, L'Heureux had called together other prison staffers a psychologist, three counselors and an administrator in the "segregation" unit, where the offender in question was being held after being involved in a fight. By phone, they could also talk with the people who would manage the inmate's case on the outside a community corrections officer and a community re-entry specialist. They were going to all meet with the prisoner and talk to him about his pending release.
The meeting was partly set up to help the inmate mull his options and determine which resources he could tap into. But the team was also meeting to test the waters and see how the offender reacted to the limitations he would face and whether he was likely to endanger innocent people on the outside.
Because the prisoner had been involved in a fight that was still under investigation, he had been moved to "segregation" a few weeks earlier. There, in the same building as the Intensive Management Unit, which handles the most dangerous convicts, he is kept in a cell on his own 23 hours a day, with one hour dedicated to yard time in either an indoor yard or outside yard not much bigger than a box and surrounded by concrete walls.
Shortly after the offender was moved to segregation, however, the toilet in his cell flooded. Although the man swears he didn't do it on purpose, this is a common ploy to get attention and it's against the law. If the investigation into the incident shows the man did flood his cell on purpose, it will push back his release date. The flooding also raises red flags for L'Heureux and the other staffers.
Where, they wonder, is this guy's impulse control?
When the prisoner is brought to the conference room, he sits on a little metal chair while officers chain his cuffs to the wall and lock his ankle irons to the floor. He's skinny, and has a slight speech impediment that is underscored by an accent. When he's agitated his voice abruptly begins to bellow and resonate.
And he gets agitated fairly easily early on in the meeting. There is a state law that forces the Department of Corrections to release inmates back to their "county of origin" the county where they committed their first offense, even if it was as a juvenile, even if their support networks are no longer there. This chafes at the offender, who is adamant that there is nothing for him in Island County, where he must be sent. He wants to go to King County.
The man will do anything to get the team to put him in King County. He wants special training at a community college there, but when he's told the same programs exist in the Skagit Valley he says he can't get an apartment in Island County and he'll be homeless unless the Corrections Department pays his first month's rent. There are no more funds available from the state for that, he's told, and he will need to work hard to save money to get a place after a period of inevitable homelessness, and there are many work opportunities in Island County.
His voice gets louder and more insistent as he lists reasons he wants to go back to King County. He wants to open a cafe there; this guy he knows there has his wallet and he has to get it back. Moreover, all his stuff is in King County "everywhere."
"King County is way down the road," Helen Desmond tells him. She will be his community corrections officer basically his parole officer when he gets out. "Right now we know Island County is where you're going to be. Let's work from there."
Desmond tells the man part of his release is getting a drug evaluation. He tells her he's been clean since the day he was booked over a year ago. He'll take mandatory tests, but he said he's not up for treatment.
"Do you feel you have a drug problem?" Desmond asked.
"No," the inmate says emphatically. "I've changed."
Moments earlier he had told the team he'd done all the drugs he could get his hands on right before he was sent to prison "A to Z," he said. He was living with friends before he was arrested, and spent all his money on drugs.
Prodded by the psychologist and L'Heureux about the extent of his changes, the offender tells them he's been reading a lot "Psychology, philosophy, self-help" and that he has "good willpower."
The man has been on disability from Social Security before and although it isn't likely he'll be reaccepted to the program, L'Heureux asks whether he would be open to getting a payee to manage his bills. Basically, a third party would receive his check and pay his rent and utilities, passing on what might be left over.
"Ain't gonna happen," the inmate said.
Optimism on the part of his counselors is in short supply, a point that is underscored when L'Heureux asks the prisoner to explain why he is locked up.
"I was stealing food at Safeway," the inmate said. Then he switches gears. "I was giving food to them. The officer started swinging at me, and I said, 'Look, I'm here to return these items.'"
Kelly Loykasek, a psychology associate with Stafford Creek, called the inmate on his story. He was stealing food from Safeway when he was confronted by a security guard an off-duty Seattle police officer and the inmate took the first swing, she said. It took two customers to restrain the inmate, she added.
The meeting is over; it did not go very well.
But that is why all those professionals were in that one room. This prisoner, like so many others they work with, is not expected to fair well once he gets out. And knowing that, they are blunt with each other.
"He's going to buy drugs on the bus to Olympia," L'Heureux predicted.
The released offender will have to be transported by prison staff all the way north.
"He's gonna run," Desmond said. She sardonically suggested she start writing up a warrant before hes even out, noting, "This guy is not gonna stay in Island County." "He's very manipulative, narcissistic," Loykasek said. "He gets defensive about his marijuana use, saying God created it, therefore it's not illegal."
She heaves a sigh.
L'Heureux asks Desmond if Island County has GPS locators.
No, she says.
"Get 'em," he urges.
If the outcome of the meeting isn't promising, at least the team knows that if the inmate runs, the team is ready to help catch him.
And in spite of the team's apparent cynicism, none of them would be able to do their jobs if they had no hope. L'Heureux said he has been pleasantly surprised before. Although almost none of his clients are expected to thrive on the outside, more often than not they manage to establish a decent life. As long as he knows that even the highest risk inmates can become productive members of society he can't give up hope on all of them.
"Every time I go to Chehalis I go to a restaurant where one of the waiters was someone I worked with here," L'Heureux said. "It's been several years, and he is still there when I go in."
