INMATES IN UNIQUE COUNTY PROGRAM GET A SECOND CHANGE BY LEARNING A NEW
DISCIPLINE

A YEAR ago, 4 o'clock in the morning was prime time for Marcus Ward, 19
prime time for partying or selling drugs.

Now, that's his wakeup time.

Before most of Silicon Valley has even had their morning coffee, Ward has
already made his bed, shined his shoes, done his pushups and attended an
anger management class.

That's his new life as an inmate sentenced to a unique program, the
Regimented Corrections Program, or RCP, at Santa Clara County's Elmwood
Correctional Facility in Milpitas. He and about 75 other men and women
convicted of drug and alcoholrelated felonies are test cases in a new
effort that combines some of the discipline of Marinesstyle boot camps for
convicts, which are popular around the country, with an intense drug
recovery and postcustody program focusing on conflict resolution and life
management skills.

``When I got in here, I was real hardheaded. I didn't listen to anybody. I
was always trying to find ways to `get over,' '' said the cleancut teen,
who looks like he should be shooting hoops at the playground rather than
serving a year's sentence for possession of crack and a loaded firearm.
``But now, I know I got to learn to listen up. I got to take care of
myself, get myself together, or I'm gonna end up back in this place.''

In RCP, inmates trade longer jail sentences of a year or more for an
intensive eight to 12 weeks of militarystyle jail time followed by another
eight to 12 weeks of supervised drug recovery and life management classes.
In Phase II, they are allowed to sleep at home at night and report to jail
during the day. Throughout the program, inmates are randomly tested for
drugs and can be sent back to the jail's general population if those tests
come up positive.

``With other programs, we were turning people loose, right back into the
same environment that got them here,'' said Robert Conroy, deputy director
of the county's department of correction.

Jail officials said RCP differs from more disciplined, yet less successful
boot camp programs around the country in that inmates are required to
participate in strict, postcustody aftercare after their release from
Elmwood.

``This is not by any means a softoncrime approach,'' Conroy said. ``This
is a tough program. If they screw up, they do the time.'' And in Phase II,
the supervision and consequences are just as strict.

``If they fail to show up at 8 a.m. at Phase II, it's just like they
escaped from jail,'' said Ben Cordero, the tall, wellbuilt exMarine who
serves as one of the RCP's correctional officers. ``We can issue a warrant
and go out and get them.''

In fact, one inmate released that day later failed to appear at the Phase
II facility off Gish Road in San Jose after attending his first two days of
aftercare. Cordero said the inmate had tested positive on his first
postcustody drug test and ``just didn't show up'' after that. He was being
sought for rearrest.

Cordero looks at the inmates, men and women, as his little family. He can
be the tough big brother, making sure they obey the rules and having them
do pushups ifthey forget to remove their hat or address a staff member as
`sir.' But he can also be their best friend and biggest supporter, often
talking one on one with them, or leading the applause when one of them
graduates.

``MOTIVATION . . . CHANT,'' shouts Cordero as he enters the barracks.

``MOTIVATE! MOTIVATE! MOTIVATE! HOOAH,'' respond the inmates as they snap
to attention and stand on a straight yellow line in front of their cots.

Eight of 10 are mothers

In a small trailer at the women's facility, about 30 young women wearing no
jewelry and little makeup sit in groups of four or five, drawing pictures
of their dream home. Eight out of every 10 of the women are mothers, many
with small children at home who are allowed to see their mothers only
during supervised visitation periods.

They have to draw the picture together, as a team. As one of them reports
on how the group worked together, who was bossy and who was timid, they
learn about group dynamics and conflict resolution. In another class, they
focus on their drug addiction, what got them into jail and what they have
to avoid when they get out.

``I have to start a new life, new friends,'' said Rania Spasioti, 28, who
was in her eighth week of the program and was expected to be released this
month. ``My old friends, they'd have me using as soon as I got out. I just
can't be around that kind of life anymore.''

Her buddy in the program agreed.

``Yeah, this is a selfish program. I need that. That's good,'' said Tammie
Nickle, 33, a convicted PCP user who has been in jail 12 times in the past
10 years. ``I need to start taking care of myself and taking responsibility
for who I am and what I do.'' That day, Nickle was to be released.

The women march Nickle to the front gate. And as they march in perfect
formation, they chant.

``Open up your eyes. . . . What do you see . . . a whole new life . . .
staring at me. . . . WHO ARE WE? RCP!''

Physical training first

Inmates start each day with militarystyle PT physical training
followed by a community meeting at which inmates get to air their problems
and talk about their conflicts.

And they march. They march in the rain. They march to class. And they march
because they want to.

``At first, we didn't want them to march, we didn't want it to be too much
like those other failed boot camps,'' said Capt. Virgil King of the
department of correction. ``But the inmates, they came to us and begged for
the marching. They said it built teamwork and camaraderie.''

Discipline and respect are keys to the program, said correctional officer
Todd Wyman, one of the closeknit group of officers who spend not only days
but sometimes nights with the inmates. But discipline doesn't substitute
for care and attention.

``This is not `shock incarceration,' '' added Wyman. ``We're not in their
face yelling at them, trying to break them down. We've found that just
doesn't work anymore.''

Boot camp programs at jails have been around for many years and haven't
yielded much success as measured by a reduction in recidivism, according to
Jenni Gainsborough, a spokeswoman for the National Prisons Project of the
American Civil Liberties Union.

What has been missing, experts say, is the crucial aftercare
rehabilitation and recovery component.

``Statistically, studies have shown that if you return those inmates back
to the same environment, without any support in their treatment and
recovery from drugs, they will again be back at your doorstep as repeat
offenders,'' said Santa Clara County Superior Court Judge Lawrence Terry,
one of the early proponents of the RCP program.

He and Judge Stephen Manley sentence drug felons who qualify and who they
think have the motivation, in hopes that by being placed in an environment
with other inmates trying to kick their habits, they will change their
behavior. Inmates currently in the jail's general population can also
apply to RCP but must go before a judge and be accepted into the program.
Currently, there is a waiting list.

``A program like this one is more likely to succeed. That's what we should
be doing, focusing on treatment,'' Gainsborough said. ``It doesn't do any
good to be locking people up if we don't treat what brought them to do the
crime in the first place, and that's drugs.''

There are those who see a program like RCP as a waste of time and money,
Terry said.

``The skeptical line is that anybody who does anything but lock people up
for the maximum time is a flaky, warmhearted liberal,'' he said. ``But
we've seen that recovery, in fact, works. It reduces recidivism and is
costeffective to the public.

Jail officials said it is too early to tell whether recidivism is less with
RCP inmates than with the general Elmwood population. The pilot program
started in January and is less than a year old. They also noted that it is
more expensive to run a program like this.

How program can save money

``But we're seeing that the faster you can get them out of the jail cell
and back into their own bed, and if we don't see them coming back into the
system as repeat offenders, then we will, in fact, save money,'' King said.

Marcus Ward is now a shorttimer, hoping to be released to Phase II before
Christmas. He is looking forward to being on the outside.

But he's scared, not for himself but for the baby daughter he expects in
February.

``I'm not going to be back here,'' he said. ``I'm not coming back to jail
with a child. And I'm definitely not going to let her see me in this kind
of a world.''

And what about his friends on the outside, the ones who still relate to him
as the drugrunning guy who would always ``hook them up''?

``I'm not going to be that Marcus again,'' he said. ``Never.''