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inside:
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review



Number 19

Page Three

March 17, "1974


March 17, 1974

Washtena w Count Jait

The

rehabliltative ideal

weathers a storm ea

By TONY SCHWARTZ
"When you are up to your ass in
alligators, it is difficult to remind
yourself that your initial objec-
tive was to drain the swamp."
-sign in Paul Wasson's office
A SWAMP. That's what conditions had
long been like at the Washtenaw County
Jail on Ann and Main Streets when Molly
Reno, a 21 year old University senior, be-
came interested in it early in 1972. After
hearing a s p e a k e r describe conditions,
Reno's concern focused on the fact that in-
mates were vegetating in their cells nearly
24 hours a day. Shortly thereafter, however,
a class action suit filed on behalf of the
inmates made it clear that idle time was
by no means the worst of their problems.
Among the suit's specific allegations were
building and health code violations, over-
crowding, insufficient light and heat, lack
of due process, illegal mail censorship, and
inadequate medical facilities. And that list,
in a twisted American irony, gave it
striking resemblance to most of the other
4,036 county jails around the country.
Reno was moved enough to spend the
next two months visiting and writing re-
habilitation programs at other jails and
prisons, and finally applying for a federal
grant to fund a structured educational and
counseling program at the jail.
Her efforts couldn't have come at a bette
time. It was nearing election time, and
Sheriff-Jail Administrator D o u g Harvey,
whose '68 base of support was decidedly
right wing, was on the verge of defeat at
the hands of a huge group of newly en-
franchised student voters.
Meanwhile, Fred Postill, a young Demo-
crat, was running his campaign on liberal
issues and itching it heavily to young peo-
ple. The promise of a humane rehabilita-
tion program at the county jail was a
natural position to push with that con-
stituency, and when Reno approached him
with the idea, Postil immediately express-
ed interest-contingent on her funding and
his winning.
November arrived, Postill rolled to vic-
tory and a short time later Reno received
word that she'd been awarded a one-year
$47,000 Law Enforcement Assistance Ad-
ministration grant, and matching .local
funds of $16,000. Enough to pay for four
program workers and two classroom trail-
ers to be parked in the jail parking lot.
A PLAN TO DRAIN THE SWAMP
BY THE TIME the staff had been hired,
and the program was ready to begin
operation in January of 1973, it had an
impressive look about it.
Postill's first move was a bold one-
hiring 49-year-old Paul Wasson as civilian
Jail Administrator and overall Program Di-
rector. Wasson had himself done three
years in prison in the late fifties (on a
gambling charge), received a full pardon
from the Governor of Michigan in 1968, and
today is believed to be the only black, ex-
convict Jail Administrator in the country.
Next, Reno and Postill found two other
ex-convicts to fill the inmate-counselour
positions - one black and one white; the
latter, Frank Donley, with a background
in the juvenile corrections field; the form-
er, Clifford Stephens, a popular, local Mod-
el Cities worker still on parole f r o m
Soledad.

The program design, for its part, seemed
nothing short of ideal. In a field where
failure has become endemic, community
corrections - rehabilitation at the local
level - is perhaps the one remaining ap-
proach viewed with optimism. Although it
was not a conscious effort, the final plan
for the Washtenaw County Jail inmate Re-
habilitation Program looked like a near
carbon copy of the 1973 Michigan Commis-
sion on Corrections suggestions for a model
institution.
At the core of the design were two inter-
related programs: daily counseling of in-
mates by the ex-convict workers, and a
range of educational offerings. The counsel-
ing was designed to help inmates gain
the confidence and insight to move toward
a law-abiding lifestyle; the educational and
vocational training programs focused on
providing the skills which could make such
a commitment possible. Classes ranged
from a GED program leading to a high
school equivalency degree (held in the
trailers at night); vocational training on re-
lease at Washtenaw Community College,
and general interest trailer offerings such
as Black History, Legal Criminal Proced-
ure and Drawing.
THE PROGRAM'S original statement of
purpose made clear its immediate ad-
vantages over the prison setting: "(We)
should offer a community-based rehabilita-
tion program with a range of services de-
signed to meet individual needs. The com-
munity setting avoids isolating an inmate
from the environment to which he/she will
eventually return, and the smaller institu-
tional population makes possible the kind
of close personal attention which is neces-
sary." Judges were encouraged to sentence
inmate to one year in an individually de-
signed rehabilitation program at the jail
rather than the typical 3-5 years at the
prison. Explained one program worker:
"If a person knows he's gonna be some
place for five years, his orientationis more
'How am I gonna cope with the time?'
If he's gonna be there for ten months, he
thinks immediately 'What am I gonna do
when I get out?' That's where the pro-
gram steps in with options."
The first changes were in the day-to-day
operation and atmosphere, for certainly
three ex-convicts could be expected to know
the demoralizing and dehumanizing effects
of arbitrary discipline, censorship, awful
food, inadequate medical care and the hun-
dreds of other petty harasments which
so often make institutional life unbearable
and explosive. The emphasis, whenever pos-
sible, was on de-institutionalization through
programs of work-release, study-release,
weekend furloughs and reduced sentences
based on progress in the program.
In the larger sense, the inmate was never
to be considered in an institutional vacuum.
From the beginning, community 'service
groups were enlisted to help in stabilizing
an. inmate's often precarious family en-
vironment, and after his release, the pro-
gram was there to help with adjustment
and financial problems, and to assist in job,
placement and school enrollment.
In short, the foundation which M o 1 I y
Reno set rolling was formidable, fueled by
the inputs which Wasson and the two in-
mate counselours could make using their
previous prison experience. Taken as a
whole, there were a lot of people who
agreed with Reno's blunt assessment of the
Laurie Cohen, a registered

nurse, examines inmate Dan-
ny Baldwin. The medical pro-
gram has been called one of
the most advanced in the
.F ' country at a county jail level.
In addition to Ms. Cohen, a
doctor is available at the jail
two hours a day, five days a
week.
f4

program's significance: "If this doesn't
work, nothing will."
.* * *
TODAY, the program has been in opera-
tion for slightly more than a year, and
although perhaps long-term recidivism rates
are the only ultimate indicator, there is
no denying certain tangible successes. And
there have also been failures, both with in-
dividuals' and with structure; times when
the program has sputtered and had to
change directions. The failures have been
proof that doing the 'right' thing isn't always
enough, and can even rudely backfire; the
sucesses have all come after struggle.
Like nearly any ideal, the illusions have
fallen short when they move off paper
and into action. And perhaps that is the
most important lesson this program has to
teach so far: that even in the best, most
dedicated attempt to clean out the prison
swamp, you'll still find alligators.
What follows is a discussion of the fate
of just three of the most important program
ideals; the snags along the road to their
implementation and the degree to which
they are being overcome. It could have
been any of a hundred, for they have been
there at every turn, even in trivial tasks
like getting electricity, renting office space
and signing clearance passes. And given
the experience and perseverence of the
program leadership, and the ambitious-
ness of their design, these may well be a
clue to the fate of future rehabilitative
efforts in penal institutions everywhere.
IDEAL No. 1: Hire a civilian Jail Admin-
istrator who is black (like most of the in-
mates), has done prison time (like all of
the inmates), and you couldn't be off to a
better start.
THE ALLIGATORS: Paul Wasson is a
respected man in the Ann Arbor commun-
ity, the kind of guy who long ago payed
any dues he may have incurred. Active in
civil rights groups, and admired by a list
of employers since his release from prisoni
in 1957, he gave up a lucrative bail-bonding
business to take the Jail Administrator's
job at a salary less than 1/3 of what he
had been making.
That wasn't enoughsfor some people. Un-
der the watchful eyes of many of the law
enforcement people he was working with,
the most salient facts about Wasson were
that he was% an unproven black who had
once been caught breaking the law. And
undoubtedly his personal style only made
it more difficult. Wasson is an overpower-
ing man in many ways, tall, handsome, with
a wisp of a moustache, penetrating eyes,
impeccably styled and expensive clothes
and a lime-green Mark IV which he parks
in the jail parking lot. From the outset, he
exuded a confidence which gave him the
ability to control a situation, bt which
also likely fired even deeper resentment
and prejudice in those who already had it
out for him. Given the climate, Paul Was-
son has had to spend much of his first
year fending off and defending himself
against criticism from those who thought
he was a man misplaced.
"We've always had to be on our toes,"
Wasson explains to a young black man
who is about to take over a progressive so-
cial action-program in the courts. "In order
not to fail, I've got to stay on to of it.
We can't afford to slip, because if some-
thing gets out, even if it's a lie, once it's
there, people are turned off. You'll be cal-
led a tom and a honkie but don't given
any favoritism, cause everyone has a friend,
and then your ass will be in a bind. And
you're black, so it'll be double as hard
for you."
PAUL WASSON has stayed on top of
things, but the effort has taken its
toll. He has often felt unable to delegate
authority and that has meant both long
hours and haphazard organization. Having
been accused of hitting an inmate and of
seducing a woman inmate he was taking
to another prison, Wasson has learned nev-
er to go anywhere without a witness. He
usually stays at the jail until late at night,
as many as 16 hours a day, six or seven
days a week. At the beginning, when Was-

son was almost completely alone, he was
forced to maintain a stoic stance. And one
person who unexpectedly found himself in
themiddle of the controversy vas inmate-
counselour Frank Donley. It turned out
that Donley and Wasson - hired for the
program independently - had done time
in prison together, become friends and then
lost toch. In this new job, lbnley was
Wasson's natural ally. Although Donley's
original mandate was to work in the cells

PAUL WASSON, Jail Administrator: "The toughest
thing is trying to keep myself out of trouble, with all
the traps the past personnel laid, the lies they told. I've
been steadily defending myself, trying to outsmart them;
I sleep fast and wake up early. And no matter what
happens, there is going to be a lot of criticism. No mat-
ter how good or bad I am, there's always someone on
the fence to criticize." And as advice to a fellow black
in a similar situation : "You'll be called a Tom and a
honkie but don't give any favoritism, 'cause everyone has

Daily Photos by ROLFE TESSEM
DELBERT ANDERSON, 21 year old inmate: "I've changed. I
think it was the attention I was given. There were a lot of times
when I just wanted to say forget it because of the pressure, but
the individual attention they (the program workers) gave is what
really helped. I'm at ease with them, for one, because they're not
comin' out of a book or off the top of the head. They've been
inmates before, and they don't project the police thing. It makes
you more comfortable; you can be open and be yourself. With
police, you hold yourself in more. I tend to believe Wasson. It's
like a professor or an ex-dope fiend telling you about drugs. I'd
take the ex-dope fiend. If you experienced it, I think it's an
advantage."

a friend, and then your ass will be in a
black, so it'll be double hard for you."
been,and perhaps it couldn't have been
any other way at the start, but it has really
taken its toll on the counseling."
A year later, some of the pressures on
Wasson have begun to ease. But they
haven't disappeared, as comments he re-
cently made indicate: "The toughest thing
is trying to keep myself out of trouble, with
all the traps the past personnel laid, the lies
they told. I've been steadily defending my-
self, trying to outsmart them; I sleep fast
and wake up early. And no matter what
happens, there is going to be a lot of
criticism. No matter how good or bad I
am, there's always someone on the fence
to criticize."
IDEAL No. 2: O.K., so you've got a per-
ceptive Jail Administrator, who has the
advantages of empathy with inmates which
come from being black, non law-enforcement
oriented and an ex-con. And among a slew
of law-enforcement associates, despite an
atypical background, he's managed to stay
afloat.
What's more, he's begun a series of
changes aimed at humanizing the jail rou-
tine -no more required haircuts or censor-
ship of mail, a vastly improved 21-day
menu prepared by a certified nutritionist.
An old jail room has been converted into
a well-equipped, brightly decorated medical
examining area. There is a full-time regis-
tered nurse, and a doctor is available there
five days a week, two hours a day where
there was previously none. At the suggestion
of psychologists, the once pale-green walls
are repainted a far less depressing brown
and white. Fans are repaired, the inmate
store is expanded, visiting is made easier,
clothes storage and inmate bank accounts
are standardized, the segregation 'hole' is
closed.
Each of the changes is designed to ease
the oppressiveness of confinement and to
encourage an atmosphere conducive to re-
habilitative efforts. All indications are that
the program should be ready to roll.
THE ALLIGATORS: The first snag the
program hit was structural - and therefore
largely inflexible. Quite simply, the facil-
ity, like most county jails, had long ago
been built with confinement rather than re-
habilitation in mind. As a result, at the out-
set no more than 20 to 30 of the jail's
135 or so inmates could be in the program
at any given time: there just wasn't
space. Moreover, no matter what color the
walls were painted, many of the oppres-
sive aspects of maximum security type con-
finement couldn't be erased. The tempera-
tinre in the cells remained oppressively hot
in the summer; chillingly cold in the winter.
The dark, old jail forced inmates to live
too close to each .other for long periods
of time, and with almost no privacy. Per-
hans Marta Manildi, who coordinates the
jail's educational program, puts the vexing
nature of the nroblem best: "It makes re-
hlbilitation always peripheral to the cen-
tral jail experience. There nrpQ-11 inur.

bind. And you're

flexible one. Put simply, so long as the
deputies (carryovers from the previous Jail
Administration) continued to harass in-
mates, nearly any substantive atmospheric
changes could be undermined and over-
shadowed. Deputies had been used to free
reign under Harvey. They defined justice
as they chose -often arbitrarily, whimsi-
cally or viciously. Wasson remembers his
first and last introduction to the old system:
"A couple of guards came in and asked
me "Who you gona favor between us
and the inmates?' I said I was gonna
favor who was right. Their jaws drop-
ped. They told me, 'You gotta believe
us first and them second.' "
When it became apparent that he had
a small war on his hands, Wasson resolved
that he would maintain tight control over
jail discipline. "That's why a lot of other
programs have died," says Frank Donley.
"They try to divide custody and treatment,
rehabilitation and detention. You can't do
that, because if you treat people inhuman-
ly in custody, you can't expect to start
working with them in a rehabilitation pro-
gram."

THE REPORTS of petty harassment of
- inmates by deputies continued to filter
down to Wasson until he finally put his foot
down. He posted a rule about disciplinary
jurisdiction which the state of Michigan
was preparing to include as part of a list of
suggested regulations for all state penal in-
stitutions. Wasson would personally re-
view any request for discipline of an in-
mate from that point on, and decide on
the course of action. "If something hap-
pens," he explains, 'I bring the deputy and
the inmate in here and it ends here. If the
officer is wrong, he has no advantage. Noth-
ing will hapen to the inmate."
A second obvious tactic was to fire the
deputies who failed to cooperate, but that
proved unexpectedly difficult. First of all,
a strong deputy's union and Wason's preo
carious political position made it difficult
to fire anyone for less than a clear and
provable offense. More of a surprise, how-
ever, was the discovery, through long in-
terviewing, that to find deputies with a solid
corrections background was extremely diffi-
cult. As Wasson explains, "It's hard to
find people with experience, true blooded
people who really want to help, who are
(Continued on Page 7)

SERGEANT CHARLES CORNELL,
hired under Harvey's administration
and still at the jail: "The inmates
were neglected and overlooked be-
fore. They were looked down on -
it's a cruel word - but like animals.

FORMER SHERIFF DOUG HAR-
VEY, now tending bar in Saline,
Michigan: "In eight years I made
this police force the finest in the
state and in less than half a year
Postill is well on his way to destroy-