DAY FIVE
Posted on Thu, Oct. 21, 2004
Left adrift on parole
OVERBURDENED SYSTEM AND LITTLE HELP LEAVE MANY STRUGGLING TO START OVER
By Karen de S�
Mercury News
Four months after his release from the California Youth Authority, former inmate No. 86660 is scrambling for a new identity.
The 21-year-old, who just finished serving 2 1/2 years in the state's youth prison system for assault, is back in Morgan Hill, feeling constantly ``on edge.'' Simple tasks are baffling -- ordering sandwiches, filling out a check -- and who's there to watch your back? At the Youth Authority, Angel Caurillo could count on fellow Norte�o gang members.
The local Youth Authority parole office is supposed to be the bridge between incarceration and freedom. But too often, it collapses.
Three out of four young adults paroled from the Youth Authority are arrested on new criminal charges within three years after emerging from a system that failed to prepare them for a constructive, law-abiding life. Overwhelmed by violence, the Youth Authority provides insufficient academic education and negligible counseling and life-skills training. When a ward is released, the Youth Authority parole system cannot make up for those failures.
Focused too narrowly on surveillance and rule infractions, critics say, rather than the housing, jobs, education and personal relationships crucial to stability, parole agents all too often end up rearresting parolees and sending them back to the Youth Authority. Overstretched and underfunded, the Youth Authority's 16 statewide parole offices often can't provide the intensive care that could help keep a parolee on track, even as he returns to poverty, a violent neighborhood or a troubled family.
Caurillo wants to have some of his tattoos removed, but the closest tattoo removal service is backed up for months. He is supposed to be attending an anger management class, but the parole office ran out of money to cover the cost. He has managed to attend several Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but enrolling at community college looks more and more like a distant goal.
Caurillo has advantages compared with other wards -- a welcoming home with relatives in a fairly safe community, a girlfriend, a positive attitude. But experts say it is crucial to help parolees establish new habits in the first three months after release so as not to lose momentum. As time passes, the challenges of daily life and the difficulty of meeting parole conditions intensify.
``I'm changing,'' Caurillo said in late July, ``but I'm not fully changed yet, I'm not fully rehabilitated.''
Getting grilled
� Tough questions before release
Critics of the Youth Authority's parole system stress that a ``trail 'em, nail 'em, jail 'em'' mentality has taken root among agents during the past 20 years. Agents focus on administering drug tests and watching for infractions. They wear guns and Mace, or keep them stashed at all times in the trunks of state-issued sedans.
``Large caseload sizes, inadequate training and geographic limitations frequently translate into an emphasis on surveillance over treatment,'' states a 2002 independent report on parole services commissioned by California senators.
As Caurillo neared the end of his sentence, he ached for the outside world so much that he really wasn't worried that his parole agent might be overworked or looking for a reason to ship him back. He felt confident, optimistic, ready to replace his old impenetrable thug image with a new one: hardworking and responsible.
May 26 is the day to convince the parole board he's ready. At 9:05 a.m., after three hours of restless sleep, Caurillo faces a solemn group of four administrators, including two parole board members who appear on a television screen by remote video feed.
Parole board member Irene Raymundo spends just seconds on niceties -- ``butterflies in your stomach Angel?'' -- before launching the questioning. At her side, fellow board member Chuck Supple rests his fingers on his cheek and stares.
In less than an hour, the board will decide whether Caurillo remains a danger to society.
``Tell us what you did Aug. 25, 1999,'' Raymundo says.
It started with a three-week binge of partying, smoking pot and boozing, Caurillo recounts, sweating, his knee bouncing up and down. When he returned to his 18-year-old girlfriend's South Bay home, jealous accusations hurled back and forth and they shoved each other. Caurillo pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and stabbed his pregnant girlfriend in the legs and arms ``three or four times.''
He stopped when the couple's infant son started screaming. Caurillo was still holding baby Angel when police arrested him for assault with a deadly weapon.
``Do you think you're capable of doing it again?'' Supple asks.
``No.''
``I disagree,'' Supple shouts back. ``That behavior is deeply ingrained in you.'' The drugs, the family history, the violent rages, ``you've got an extremely dangerous mixture.''
But the board members also acknowledge that Caurillo made progress inside the Youth Authority. Early in his sentence, he managed to complete a drug program and parenting classes at the DeWitt Nelson Youth Correctional Facility near Stockton. But then he leaped into a riot, landed in an isolation unit and was transferred to the toughest prison, N.A. Chaderjian. There, he spent six months confined to a cell 23 hours a day -- a reflection of how dangerous authorities once considered him.
After that, Caurillo realized that he simply had to stop getting into trouble. He went to work in the laundry, tried not to fight and earned a coveted spot at the Ben Lomond Youth Conservation Camp, working on a fire crew -- an unusual direct transfer from one of the Youth Authority's strictest facilities.
The camp's superintendent, Rudy Luna, said before the hearing that working fire lines and a desk job for the California Forestry Department helped Caurillo lose the ``gang-oriented, hard personality'' he brought with him after three years in Youth Authority institutions. Other staffers reported similar observations to the parole board, concluding that Caurillo was ready to leave.
Weighing these recommendations, Caurillo's demeanor before the board, and his eagerness to reject his criminal past, the board authorizes his release. But there's still time for one last reprimand: Caurillo shouldn't have made an unauthorized call seven months earlier to (800) SEX-TALK.
Living outside
� Parole officer sets tone, rules
Less than an hour later, Caurillo flashes a victory sign to his bunk mates and heads out of the camp barracks. His current girlfriend, a medical accountant he met three weeks before entering the Youth Authority, is waiting for him, a moment they've anticipated over long years of phone calls, photo exchanges and visits.
He changes into the plush white sweatsuit and matching tennis shoes she bought for him and they drive out of the Santa Cruz Mountains, her sport-utility vehicle gleaming in the sun.
It's a first step that bodes well, and highlights one of the advantages Caurillo has compared with many parolees: friends and relatives who want to help him build a life that does not include his gang.
The key official in his reintegration effort will be his parole agent, Chris Pi�a, a stern but soft-spoken man who worked for nine years as a Youth Authority guard before progressing to youth correctional counselor and up the ladder to his current post out in the field.
Thirty-six years old and conscious of creating a certain image, Pi�a keeps his mirrored shades on most of the time. He wears baggy shirts, always carefully pressed, to cover the gun, Mace and handcuffs at his waistband. His tie-clip is a miniature pair of handcuffs.
Pi�a is the kind of agent parolees hope for but don't always get. He walks the line between disciplinarian and coach, laying down the rules, but also offering a hand.
``Parole is about trust,'' said Pi�a, who is responsible for 50 parolees at a time.
Pi�a has approved where Caurillo will live: with his aunt and uncle in Morgan Hill. It isn't perfect -- their teenage son is on court probation -- but the household is acceptable because it is free of drugs, weapons and violence. The Youth Authority tries whenever possible to place parolees with relatives, if their homes are determined to be safe. Group homes are the usual alternative.
Pi�a explains the rules matter-of-factly: Caurillo must show up for all his weekly meetings and stick to his parole plan, or face possible arrest; Caurillo must work or study full-time, or prove he is looking for work; Pi�a can search any home Caurillo lives in, at any time, for contraband or weapons. Visits, planned and unannounced, will most often include urine testing.
This is the way it will be until 2007, when Caurillo turns 25 and his parole ends. If he makes it until then without any new arrests, he'll have the chance to petition the court to have his juvenile records permanently sealed.
For most parolees, the lingering effects of life on the inside can make life on the outside almost an impossibility. Inside, surrounded by the daily rumble of fighting inmates and punishing guards, parolees acquire a new vocabulary, new tattoos, new habits of glancing nervously over their shoulders. They are hardened. When they come out, their parents don't recognize them.
And reincarceration is just a mistake away. A joyride with a convicted felon, a failed drug test or an unauthorized out-of-town trip could become tickets back to lock-up. Freed on parole, ``you have to undo all the lessons learned in the Youth Authority,'' said Dan Macallair, author of the 2002 report ``Aftercare as Afterthought: Reentry and the California Youth Authority.''
Pi�a praises Caurillo's girlfriend, Marjorie Castrillo, 24, for her support. ``Call me if you have any problems or see him kind of struggling,'' he tells her.
``She's already said if I act up, she's going to call my parole agent,'' Caurillo adds with a laugh.
Like most newly released parolees, Caurillo pledges to change. He vows to have some of his seven tattoos removed, including the dots on his fingers and a 408 behind his ear. These are symbols of gang territory, represented by an area code; he had some when he went into the Youth Authority and even more when he came out.
Caurillo says he's eager to start paying child support for his son and daughter. He will avoid wearing red -- his gang color -- and heed Pi�a's fervent advice: ``No gangs, no gangs, no gangs.''
Returning home
� Family welcomes, offers to help out
It all sounds manageable in the confines of Pi�a's office. But when Caurillo steps out the door, it's on him to make it work.
Later that afternoon, at his grandparents' home in south Santa Clara County, many of his nine aunts and uncles have gathered. They greet Caurillo with hugs and tears and icy drinks, thrusting newborn cousins into his arms and offering him an extra bedroom.
In the evening, smoke from thick slices of carne asada on the grill billows into the quiet, suburban street as relatives arrive with bowls of fresh strawberries and guacamole. Smiling at the balloons and a ``Welcome Home Angel'' sign, Caurillo pauses before joining in. He still has to face his grandfather, 72-year-old patriarch Norberto Esquivel.
The immigrant from Mexico picked mushrooms for 25 years to take care of this family. It was too painful for him to visit his grandson in prison. So when Caurillo approaches, the old man cries and grips his shoulders. ``Now you need to change your life, and we're all going to help you,'' he says softly in Spanish. ``It's never easy to change, but here with us it's better. We're going to make it easier.''
Catching up
� Series of challenges in everyday life
As Caurillo begins to put a life together, he faces what for many people would be ordinary challenges. But he comes unprepared, and additionally burdened by his tendency to explode in the face of frustration or disappointment. His girlfriend can't be with him every minute, and neither can his parole agent.
He has to acquire basic skills he didn't learn because he was inside the Youth Authority, like how to manage a bank account or how to drive. His uncle hires him as a carpet cleaner for $10 an hour, and before too long, Caurillo is sent out to pick up lunch at Togo's for the crew.
``I was like -- OK, what the hell do I do now?'' he recalls.
He couldn't find the menu, didn't know how to navigate the snaking line of customers or the separate ordering and paying stations. Finally, he winked at a sympathetic employee and confided that he wasn't just ``trippin' out,'' he'd been ``on vacation for a while.'' She guided him through.
Residue from his past stands in the way of his future. He keeps asking his girlfriend, indignantly, ```Why do I have to hide from your parents? I'm a human being.' They stereotype me -- `He's been in jail.' ''
There is also the way his gang let him down, and yet still tries to draw him in. ``I thought they were going to love and embrace me, but none of them stopped by my family and said, `Hey, is there anything I can do for you?' '' Caurillo says. ``I never listened to my family when they said they weren't my friends.''
Caurillo tries to remember that and avoids them, but it isn't easy. ``Sometimes guys be muggin' me, but I don't stop, I just give them a look and keep moving,'' he says. ``I'm kind of happy I did get locked up because it was an eye-opener.''
Then there is his mother, who has few words for him during chance encounters in the neighborhood. She never went to see him in the Youth Authority and didn't come to his welcome-home party. Caurillo says her boyfriend has turned her against him, and it continues to upset him.
Caurillo is supposed to attend counseling to help him manage his anger. As soon as he was released, he signed up for a class offered by Community Solutions in Gilroy -- $195 for 12 weeks, which the state would pay. Pi�a encouraged Caurillo to enroll but the next day had to tell him not to go because his office couldn't cover the cost just then. Caurillo could take a similar class offered by the San Jose parole office for free at a later date, he said.
That was in June. The class still hasn't started.
He also is supposed to start having his tattoos removed -- a crucial psychological break from his past life, as well as a practical step to eliminate his gang identification and make himself more presentable as a job candidate. Caurillo called a tattoo removal program run by a Monterey County community agency that waives the fees for parolees, and was told he would have to wait in line.
Caurillo's tattoos will take months or years to remove or reconfigure, depending on the size. But he will have to wait at least six months to start, because there are 600 people ahead of him on the waiting list. Budget cuts have forced 2nd Chance Youth and Family Services to cut its staff to four from 16, slowing its work considerably.
The community agency's director, Brian Contreras, is concerned about delays like these. A young offender needs to begin counseling and tattoo removal programs during the first few months out on parole in order to not fall back in with his gang or become a target for rivals.
For now, Pi�a is satisfied that Caurillo is holding down a job. ``Sometimes it's frustrating,'' Pi�a said of the difficulty in getting help for parolees, ``but then I just have to work it out.''
Heavy loads
� Agents must juggle scores of parolees
In the South Bay region, eight parole agents each carry 50 cases or more -- twice as many as an acceptable case load should be, said Macallair, author of the 2002 parole report. Pi�a's territory stretches across a four-county swath including Santa Cruz, Pacific Grove, Salinas and Hollister, and Pi�a often drives several hours to visit a parolee. The workload makes it impossible to give the individual attention many parolees need.
From 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. he makes himself available by cell phone and juggles calls constantly. The calls can cover car loans, how to navigate the working world and how not to blow up when someone offends you. Agents chip in for bus fare and help fill out college financial aid forms.
But the role of friend can end dramatically when a parolee fails to show up for appointments, tells slippery stories or appears to be using drugs or alcohol. In those cases, agents have to decide, with a supervisor's approval, whether to send a parolee back in.
Pi�a says he is optimistic about Caurillo and is satisfied that he checks in regularly. But he hasn't had time to give him any special attention. Since Caurillo was released, Pi�a has arrested nine other parolees. One young man fled a residential drug treatment program the same night he arrived. A teenage girl bailed out of a foster home and was arrested for driving a stolen vehicle without a license. All nine are either back in the Youth Authority or awaiting final decisions in county jails.
Each case adds paperwork and time-consuming trips to jails. They drag Pi�a away from the parolees who are doing well but need his support.
``The other guys you need to see have to wait,'' Pi�a said. And without consistent support, he added, they too often fall into trouble.
That also worries another person important to Caurillo's success, Rebecca Hernandez, the 23-year-old mother of Caurillo's two children and the victim of his crime. Hernandez said that when Caurillo jabbed her with the screwdriver, it didn't puncture her skin. But she cries when she thinks about his rage and says she is afraid he still can't control himself.
Officials say they alert victims of their right to attend parole hearings. Crime victims are usually most concerned about their immediate safety, said Cynthia Florez, the Youth Authority's assistant director for the office of prevention and victim services.
But victims also want to know ``that the system worked,'' Florez said. ``Did this young man or woman get the help that they need -- the treatment and training? And when they are released, will they not harm anyone again? They really don't want anyone else victimized.''
Hernandez said she was not notified of Caurillo's release. But she stresses that she will never let his attack ``come between him and his kids. I don't think that's right.'' And it's a relief no longer to stretch the truth, to tell her children that ``Daddy's in school.''
But when she talks with him on the phone, she senses his insistence, his impatience, and these signs of the old Caurillo make her nervous.
Caurillo had long imagined what it would be like when he first saw his son -- now 5 years old -- again. He pictured the boy leaping into his arms, even though he had been away for more than three years and was essentially a stranger.
It didn't happen that way. Little Angel refused to get out of the car to greet the burly man covered in tattoos who they said was Daddy. Only under pressure did he agree to spend time with Caurillo.
``I got frustrated, but I understand,'' Caurillo said. ``He hasn't seen me in a while.''
But by the end of the next morning, Caurillo was bragging that his son ate two helpings of breakfast at McDonald's and the boy was showing off the new Spider-Man shoes and matching T-shirt his father bought him. When he gave his son a bath for the first time, he nearly cried.
``I feel bad I missed him growing up,'' he said, handing his son some toy superheroes to play with in the tub.
Violations
� Slip-ups can haunt parolees as adults
Pi�a says that's a good sign. Family bonds are the surest way for Caurillo to stay on track, especially when so much else in life is not in his control.
He tried to pass his driver's test, but failed twice. He dreams of landing a better job, one with health benefits and a bigger salary, so that he can move out of his uncle's house. He applied for a job at Safeway, but didn't get it. He has taken a full-time job as a machinist and laborer, but it has no benefits and ends in November.
After about four months out, Caurillo slipped off to Arizona without Pi�a's permission, breaking one of the conditions of his parole. But he returned a few days later, called his parole agent and told him about the trip. Pi�a grilled Caurillo but let the technical violation slide. If Caurillo racks up enough violations, though, he'll lose his chance at an honorable discharge, which means his juvenile record will remain open, haunting him throughout his adult life.
His girlfriend, Castrillo, went with him to Arizona. She has waited for him for three years and now wants to move her life forward. He keeps telling her to be patient, that it will be a while before he'll even consider marriage and more children.
``I still don't trust myself,'' Caurillo said. ``I'll probably never be able to trust myself.''