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Almost Out

(Continued)

VISITATION

Under the hum of fluorescent lights, Bobby Johnson leans in close to his girlfriend, Alyssa Vernon, until their heads nearly touch. Visitation is almost over for the evening, and empty tables and chairs surround them. Even with one all glass wall, the visitation room is still one of the most private places in SEPTA. Staff does not directly supervise the visits. Bobby stay's with her on his weekend furloughs, but since she lives right in town, she comes to see him whenever she can. There has been some difficulty at home about the status of some pets.

"I'm telling you, the rabbit is going outside," he tells her.

They argue halfheartedly. Visits are key to the reintegration program at SEPTA, even if inmates are only allowed one 30 minute session a week. Real life—arguments about parenting, money, bills and things as mundane as where the pet rabbit sleeps—waits for the residents once they leave, and the sooner they get involved in these concerns, the better.

Alyssa is slumped on the table, held up by her elbow, trying not to fall into him. He runs his fingers through her blond hair. She wipes her eyes.

Bobby Johnson comforts his girlfriend, Alyssa Vernon, during visitation on a Wednesday in May 2010. Alyssa lives nearby and sees Bobby at the facility as well as during his weekend furloughs. Inmates are allowed one thirty-minute visit per week.

Bobby Johnson comforts his girlfriend, Alyssa Vernon, during visitation on a Wednesday in May 2010. Alyssa lives nearby and sees Bobby at the facility as well as during his weekend furloughs. Inmates are allowed one thirty-minute visit per week.

"She's only 22," he says later. "I always depended on her. Now I'm depending on myself, and she ain't used to that."

Bobby is 27, tall and handsome with dark eyes, a close-cropped beard and Japanese script tattooed on his neck. He is in SEPTA after years spent running around shooting and selling heroin. He and Alyssa have a two-year-old daughter, Jada. He used to leave her at his grandma's when he went out to score heroin. He would drop her off for a visit, then stay gone for hours, because as he says, "I'm not taking my daughter on a dope run—no way."

He understands the justice of his girlfriend's indignation. "She's stuck with me through a lot. Basically, she could be mad at me for the next three years, and I got it coming." But getting clean gets complicated. "I'm at home, and it's really stressful because Alyssa doesn't know me," he says. "Here I am. I don't know how to act. I want her to like me. Alyssa said when I was high, I was real loveable."

"Why are you crying?" Bobby asks her, his voice hovering between concern and annoyance.

She chokes back a sob and looks toward the ceiling. "Because I have to go in 10 minutes, and you have to stay in here."

INSIDE

On Sunday afternoon at 4:15p.m., monitor Tony Six pulls on a pair of rubber gloves. He slides a plastic card through a slot and lets in three inmates returning from their furlough. Each grabs a cup for a urine sample and heads into an isolation cell. Six holds up a metal flap in the door and watches each one piss for their drug test. They kid each other about the awkwardness of it. He complains to them about coming all at the same time, minutes before the 4:30 p.m. curfew, why they don't come earlier. "Then we wouldn't get to see each other naked, Six," one of the guys shoots back. He searches through their clothes and looks in their shoes. Six walks into the cell, watches them strip. "Drop your sack. Cop a squat. Cough. Ok, buddy." He waves them on, back inside for another week and places the gathered bottles in a refrigerator for testing.

Monitor Colleen Rutter performs an afternoon count from inside the security pod in the East Wing of SEPTA.  SEPTA focuses on helping convicts reintegrate into their communities after serving time in prison, as well as providing minimum security incarceration for low level felons.

Monitor Colleen Rutter performs an afternoon count from inside the security pod in the East Wing of SEPTA. SEPTA focuses on helping convicts reintegrate into their communities after serving time in prison.

The residents gather on the rec yard to smoke, forming small islands of men, or sitting by themselves on the blue benches. Cigarette butts melt in the grass. A twelve-foot fence with a coil of concertina wire on top borders the yard. SEPTA is a lockdown facility, but inside, the residents move freely. On the East wing, they sleep in rooms with five beds; on the West side, it is one large dormitory. Counselor offices and classrooms line the hallway between the wings, decorated with small attempts at creating a normalcy that is tough to maintain when 124 adult men live together under one roof. Bulletin boards with cartoon characters remind everyone to "Catch someone doing good." There are some plants.

All day last names bark over the intercom, directing residents to visit this counselor or the other. If they can not find a job for work release, if they are not in the intensive program, and if they already have their diploma, there really isn't a lot for SEPTA residents to do. The idle time makes the days drag on. Breakfast in the cafeteria at 6 a.m. Morning classes and Intensive Outpatient Program counselor meetings. Some days, there is community service to do. The guys complain relentlessly about the food. They drop weight in SEPTA, shedding pounds and they put on during idle prison stints. There are no weights to lift—an attempt at creating an environment distinct from prison. Horseshoes and basketball are about the only physical activities.

The day room has two televisions, two laundry rooms off it and six tables for card playing and letter writing. There is a sink and a microwave and two vending machines that can not be used until recreation starts at 3 p.m. The residents are expected to spend their days studying, working or writing. They are not allowed to sleep.

An uncooperative inmate is forcibly removed from the facility after a positive drug test at SEPTA. The facility has a zero-tolerance policy for drug use and fighting, and inmates that violate these bans are terminated from the program. Violent confrontations are rare, but the facility has law enforcement personnel on staff and isolation rooms like other prisons for inmates that violate rules.

An uncooperative inmate is removed from SEPTA after a positive drug test. The facility has a zero-tolerance policy for drug use and fighting for inmates. SEPTA has law enforcement personnel on staff and isolation rooms for the inmates that violate rules.

Minor rule violations are written up, are tickets handed out. Major ones are filed and reviewed resulting in the privilege of wearing a hot pink SEPTA Correctional shirt for a number of days, depending on the severity of the infraction. Four majors and you are kicked out. SEPTA has a zero tolerance policy for both drug use and fighting, which creates a complicated dynamic. Older, experienced convicts mix with young guys sent directly to the facility in lieu of prison. When someone gets mouthy, there is no recourse for a settling of scores. The normal hierarchies can not be enforced. It is the same with drugs. So much is demanded of the guys; if they are getting high, it is difficult to hide it. Between the counseling sessions, the classes and the regular drug testing, guys that use in SEPTA do not last long here.

In fiscal year 2010, 203 people left the SEPTA program. 151 offenders did it successfully. A few left for administrative reasons, and 38 got kicked out. On average, they were 28 years old, had committed low-level felonies and were overwhelmingly white. About half had been locked up before, and 85 percent required substance abuse treatment. According to the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections, after three years, 68 percent of those successfully completing SEPTA stay out of prison—only two-percentage points better than the rate for the rest of the Ohio prison system.

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