San Diego Reader

Once he leaves a California state prison, a man gets (at max) 200 bucks “gate money,” a set of “dress outs” (post-prison clothes), and his freedom. An unmarked white van drops him and a handful of other former prisoners off at a bus depot or public-transportation hub and, from then on, ­he’s on his ­own.

The total number of current parolees is unknown, as this ­year’s statistics on prisoners and parolees have not been calculated. But figures for 2007 are available. According to data from the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, 121,286 parolees were ­male.

In San Diego County alone, there were 8145 total males on parole; ­that’s 6.7 percent of the total number of males on parole in California in ­2007.

These men, known as “parolees,” generally fall into one of two categories once they are released from prison: those who return home to a supportive network of family and friends, a good meal, and a spot to lay their heads…and those that return to little or nothing at ­all.

S.N., 60, is a tall and stately army veteran originally from New York City. He was a decorated staff sergeant when he discharged, having served three tours in the Vietnam War. Seated at his favorite bar in San Diego, the name of which has been withheld at his request for privacy reasons, he speaks about the seemingly insurmountable loss he faced after returning from his last stint in ­prison.

“I had a beautiful place,” he says, eyes wistful behind his glasses. “I lost my brand new car, everything. They ­repo’ed [it]. After three months of nonpayment, they came and picked it ­up.”

He ­pauses.

“I lost a great deal. My big thing was clothes. I love clothes. I had thousands of ­dollars’ worth of wardrobe. And I lost all of that. TV set, furniture…And then, most importantly, mail and pictures that I can never get back again. They threw it all away. But they ­didn’t throw away my clothes, trust me. [They kept them.] And they ­didn’t throw my TV and DVD player away…”

S.N. says he contemplated ­suicide.

“[­I’ve] never been without money like that and without a ride, and I always used to dress nice,” he says. Then he smiles. ­“I’m old, ­I’m ugly, so I like to look nice. And I ­don’t have any of ­that.”

S.N.’s most recent sentence, for parole violation, was five months long. He served it at the R.J. Donovan Correctional Facility in San Diego. His original offense was for “getting into a little scrape,” as he describes it, with someone in El Cajon, an incident that ended, ultimately, in a shooting. S.N. held the gun. The result was a 24-year ­sentence.

The catalyst for the parole violation was, according to S.N., murky, until he spoke with his parole ­officer.

“When I did get out, I [told him], ‘You ­didn’t have to violate me. I had 29 days to go.’ Then he told me, ‘I violated you because you ­didn’t open the door when ­I’d been knocking.’ He said, ‘You pissed me off, so ­that’s why I violated you.’ With that violation, I was not only out of work, but I lost everything I owned. Everything. My daughter, I reunited with [her] in 2006, ­hadn’t seen her since she was five, she finally gave me pictures of my son and her growing up and we connected again, and now I have none of those ­pictures.”

In contrast to S.N.’s experience, T.C., 46, who did his most recent time at the Chuckawalla Valley State Prison — also on a parole violation — has had an easier time post-release.

“For me,” T.C. says, ­“it’s always just a relief to get out of there. I just ­can’t stand being in there. My friends came to pick me up. It was a good thing. Saved me a lot of money, and we went to the tramway [in] Idyllwild and had a good time. It was nice. So, for me, I had a good release this ­time.”

T.C. is a lanky guy in a white shirt; he is quick to smile and just as fast with a quip or joke. Glasses on his nose, he furrows his brow in concentration as he dips the tip of his needle in a small puddle of ink and, delicately, applies it to the back of the woman he is ­tattooing.

For T.C., prison was a familiar landscape; ­he’s been in three times prior to his parole violation, booked for his first offense in 1994, which landed him two years in the Level Two (Level Five is the most dangerous) section of the California Correctional Institute (known simply as ­‘Tehachapi’) in Tehachapi, California, for the transportation of methamphetamine. His second time in was in 1998; he served one year in the Avenal State Prison in Avenal, California, for possession of stolen property. His third incarceration, in 2002, was, T.C. says, technically for trespassing — according to him, a case of being “in the wrong place at the wrong ­time.”

“They ended up getting me on that one for three years,” he says ruefully. “Because ­that’s what they do. Once you have a prison record, it really ­doesn’t matter. What they did is they gave me 16 (extra) months for prison priors. Every time ­you’ve been to prison, they can give you an extra year on top of ­it.”

While each of his offenses have been different, and each time he has been at a different facility, the process of being released, T.C. says, is fairly uniform everywhere ­he’s ­been.

“On your release date, you go to [the] Receiving and Releasing [department], and they check you out, ask you a bunch of questions [to make] sure ­you’re the right person,” he says. “Because there are people who have escaped that way. And then they give you 200 dollars” gate money “to get yourself home and to live on while ­you’re out ­there.”

It takes about four hours in total to be released, according to S.N.

“They will come to you the night before and let you know that you are to get up at 4:00 in the morning and ­you’re going to what is called ‘R and R’ [Receiving and ­Releasing]. And then ­you’re in a cell until they process your release. They also [give you your clothes], if you have any change of clothing, if anybody sent you a package with a change of clothing — ­they’re called ‘parole clothes.’ ”

At R.J. Donovan, released prisoners are driven to the Iris Avenue trolley stop, says S.N., in an unmarked van — “as if everybody ­don’t know.” S.N. ­chuckles.

This last time, though, S.N. caught a ride with a friend who happened to be released on the same day. Without a set of “dress outs,” he was provided with the ­prison’s standard-issue duds for those being released: beige pants and a white shirt, a telltale sign, to those in the know, of where one has ­been.

S.N.’s first order of business post-release was to ditch the state clothes. The second was to get a good, filling meal with his ­buddy.

“We went to eat and everything like that,” S.N. recalls. “And the first thing I did was go have me a beer. When you get out, you want to do what ­you’re not supposed to. So I went to get me a beer, and then I went to the porno shop on 30th Street and stayed in the booth for a couple of ­hours.”

Not always does a release run so smoothly, S.N. cautions. Generally speaking, it takes four hours from wake-up time to hitting the streets, but… ­“That’s only if you ­don’t piss them off. If you make them angry, ­they’ll take you to the trolley whenever they feel like it. They can take you down at one minute to 12:00 at night, knowing that no trolleys are running ­anymore.”

The drive to whatever transportation stop is nearest — gratis — is normal at most prisons, but Chuckawalla, where T.C. was detained, is the exception. Instead of driving the newly released to a bus depot and paying for tickets home, they must either be picked up or catch a bus along the dusty desert roadside. The bus company, Desert Transport, which services former prisoners exclusively, charges $50 to travel from Blythe to San Bernardino, and if there are enough people, will go to San Diego for a total of $76. There is an alternate route, which involves taking the Metrolink line to Oceanside, then getting on the Coaster to San Diego, for $69. With $200 in their pockets, that leaves released prisoners with an average of $120 ­dollars.

“If you ­don’t have [anything] on the streets, then ­you’re pretty much screwed,” says T.C.

For S.N., this was almost the case (though he was not detained at Chuckawalla). While he knew where his friends lived, he says, he ­didn’t know the exact addresses and could not write to them after ­he’d been arrested, telling them he was “inside.”

To make matters more difficult, part of the conditions of his parole (which he is no longer on) for a prior crime required him to wear a GPS ankle bracelet so that his whereabouts were known 24/7. The prior offense classified S.N. as a sexual offender — he ­

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