Among Murderers. Sabine Heinlein
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that conform to the principles of effective treatment reduce recidivism by 20 to 25 percent. Interestingly, they also stress that the propensity to commit crimes decreases with age.24
Taking these findings one step further, advocates of America's evidence-based rehabilitation movement believe that treatment should not be limited to our nation's prison population, stressing the need for reentry agencies that provide aftercare and early childhood intervention for children at risk.25
One obvious problem with these noble principles and suggestions is that academic findings take time to permeate the spheres of those they target. Although criminologists like Latessa have examined hundreds of service programs for ex-cons and made suggestions on how to improve them, there is still a large fraction of “rehabilitation” programs that work without the existing knowledge of what causes crime and what has to be done to prevent it. Work continues to be seen as both the desired method and result of rehabilitation, despite the fact that it is only marginally linked to recidivism.26 But even if a reentry organization has the best intentions, its positive results may be skewed. In order to prove reduced recidivism rates and gain private and public funding, many organizations “cherry-pick” the most promising ex-offenders, leaving behind those who need their services the most but who may be the least promising in terms of recidivism.
MEASURING SUCCESS
At first glance, considering the hardships facing a majority of ex-offenders, Angel's, Bruce's, and Adam's journeys read like success stories of rehabilitation: each man served his extensive sentence and was released into the Castle, a halfway house with an excellent reputation. The Fortune Society helped them search for work and housing, get medical insurance, and apply for food stamps; as of this writing, all three have managed to stay out of prison. On the surface the system works smoothly and in favor of those who need it the most. But these “ideal” circumstances make Angel, Bruce, and Adam exceptions to the rule. For most ex-cons the transition into the free world looks much bleaker. Fortune’s halfway house offers only sixty beds—not nearly enough to accommodate the tens of thousands of New Yorkers coming home from prison each year. Few of the other halfway houses are as clean and safe, and most offer neither practical nor emotional support. Many ex-cons struggle with addictions and have to spend their days on the street and their nights at unsanitary and unsafe homeless shelters.
But behind Angel’s, Bruce’s, and Adam’s alleged successful rehabilitation unravels a far more complex and untidy story. The men have been “incapacitated” and “deterred” for decades; they have been institutionalized for almost as long as they can remember. The Division of Criminal Justice Services determined their sentences; the Department of Correctional Services decided how and where their sentences were served and what programs they were to attend; religious institutions promised their redemption before God; the Division of Parole dictated their release and determined their curfew and their reappearances before their parole officers and the board. Now the Fortune Society continues this strict regimen, controlling their lives with its various programs, obligations, and daily drug testing. The three men have yet to realize freedom fully.
In the light of all this we have to ask ourselves what effects incapacitation and deterrence, as well as life within an endless chain of institutions and rehabilitation programs, have on the individual. Within this institutional maze, how does the individual balance his or her own needs, fears, and desires? Will he or she ever be allowed to cross over into “our” world? If I interpret Cullen and Jonson’s definition of rehabilitation accurately, these needs, fears, and desires dwell in the “other aspects of an offender’s life,” aspects that, “where possible,” should “also” be improved. Yet I have found little to no information on these “other aspects” and virtually none on the moral dimension of successful rehabilitation. Finding a job, housing, and staying out of prison are certainly important. But what about rehabilitation at heart, an individual’s (lack of) remorse, his or her insights and moral growth? I would argue that true rehabilitation has to do with the willingness and capacity to take responsibility for one’s crime. It is internal. Rehabilitation at heart lies buried beneath statistics, academic principles, and public policy because it is hard to measure and generalize. My book tries to explore this phenomenon with the tools of literary journalism: intimacy and extensive dialogue between journalist and subjects, expository scenes, and an acknowledged subjective view.
Adam, Angel, and Bruce are certainly grateful for Fortune’s help, but they are also dismayed about their newly gained “freedom.” The men were spit out of one system and into another; their old selves were shattered. Forced to reassemble themselves, they began marking time yet again. After decades behind bars, decision making becomes a real problem, and freedom can be outright frightening. What if I hurt someone again? How does one cross the street, use an ATM, or ride the subway? And how do you shop? Intimate relationships are hard to find after being “away” for such a long time. Despite the assumption that they have served their time for committing their crime, suddenly, the men’s criminal past moves once again into the foreground. How does Adam, for example, negotiate his debilitating shame, guilt, and insecurity—those stumbling blocks on his endless road to rehabilitation? How can Bruce carry his burdensome past yet move on? These are just a few, seemingly mundane, yet existential questions that have occupied Bruce, Adam, Angel, and me.
Whereas Bruce and Adam try to deal with their problems internally, Angel deals with his externally. He uses the media (and the media uses him) to help him prove his successful rehabilitation. This book highlights not only the stumbling blocks but also the resources its protagonists find within themselves and in their new world.
Considering their differences in character and coping strategies, it becomes clear why each man’s story—his needs, desires, risks, failures, and moral responsibilities—calls for a highly individualized approach. (In that sense my modus operandi honors Andrews’s emphasis of the individual.) I observed each man trying to figure out his own measure of successful rehabilitation. Angel, Bruce, and Adam had to figure out which forces to fight and which ones to employ on their path.
As the book’s narrative continues, it becomes clear that the only jobs available for people who have spent decades behind bars for murder are the ones offered by reentry agencies themselves, serving the same population the offenders have known—and possibly tried to leave behind—since they were children. Reentry appears to be a microcosm hermetically sealed from the outside world it parallels. This seal is penetrable only when it comes to religious groups. (Not coincidentally, Adam converted to Islam while in prison, and Angel joined the Quakers.) Believing that human beings are created in the image of God, most Christians consider no one beyond redemption. But Adam, Angel, and Bruce move freely only within their religious and reentry communities; beyond those domains genuine integration remains an illusion. By inserting myself into the world of my subjects, by listening and engaging in an intimate—and fearless—dialogue, I am attempting to crack the hermetic seal.
Initially, I thought I would follow Adam, Bruce, and Angel during their first year of freedom and then write my book. But I quickly realized that after twenty or thirty years in prison, these men would require much more than a series of traditional interviews. I didn’t want to listen only to predigested experiences and describe “the approach” of institutions that claim to rehabilitate. My protagonists’ attempts at rehabilitation happened on the subway, at the barbershop, onstage, at the park, at a Halloween party, at work, and over dinner. I wanted to be there when things were happening and ended up shadowing my protagonists for more than two years—from spring 2007 into the summer of 2009. I continued to check in with them periodically in the years that followed. My goal is to provide a visceral sense of their odyssey from prison to freedom. I couldn’t have predicted what their new experiences in the free world entailed—their obstacles, the things that puzzled them about “our” world, what delighted them, what scared them, and, perhaps most surprising, what they missed about prison.
Among Murderers examines through my own personal viewpoint the pariah status of three men who have been convicted of society’s most heinous crimes and who have returned to the free world. Although I rely on interviews, parole and court documents, hospital reports, and letters to tell the men’s stories, I also admit to my personal struggles in coming to terms with their complex characters and crimes. I have immersed