The San Quentin redemption

Local filmmakers focus their cameras on prison’s vast network of community volunteers

BY MICHAEL MCCARTHY

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” wrote Dante in The Divine Comedy, describing the entrance to hell. He wasn’t talking about San Quentin Prison, but anyone passing through the front gate of this ancient dungeon must feel the same sense of doom. Optimism is not an emotion normally associated with entering America’s prisons, but thanks to the efforts of thousands of Marin volunteers, there may be light at the end of the tunnel for those prisoners in California who really want to change their lives.

“Everybody pay attention,” says San Quentin Public Information Officer Vernell Crittendon, leading a small group of media and community volunteers into the prison recently. “If you don’t follow the rules exactly, you will be asked to leave.”

The media at the prison that day included two Marin filmmakers working to spread a message of hope through a documentary film they are currently shooting inside the walls of this vast, ancient, crumbling edifice. Producer Kramer Herzog and producer/director Richard Pechner’s film—working title Inside, Outside, Upside Down—focuses on the successes of the community volunteer-led self-help programs for inmates currently operating inside the prison walls. San Quentin Prison officials say these volunteer programs will be greatly expanded and this film will become a great tool to spread the message to other communities that there are alternative strategies for successful rehabilitation of inmates.

“Now, we’re going to lock all of you in the sallyport for a minute,” says Crittendon, as the giant cell doors slammed shut. Lockdown is an ugly feeling. Security is tight as a drum at the prison; media seldom get to peek behind the giant walls that house over 5,000 hard-core prisoners. “We want you to exit one by one, and stand right next to the gate until we count heads.”

Crittendon recently retired after 30 years at San Quentin as the prison’s official voice of to the public. Former warden Jeanne Woodford called Crittendon the “heart and soul” of the prison. His reputation for honesty and integrity gained him the respect of prisoners and guards; the community volunteer programs—he put 3,400 names into his database over the years—are his legacy.

Even in retirement, Crittendon can’t seem to stay away from the prison where he spent his entire working life; he still volunteers for two programs inside that help inmates change their lives for the better and help keep “at risk” youth out of the state’s prison system.

“Everybody follow me closely,” says Crittendon, heading for the Lower Yard where the inmates exercise. There are no guards with the group; inmates nod cheery hellos. It seems Crittendon knows every person at the prison. “No stragglers, no photos, no lagging behind.”

Just to the left of the East Gate looms an ominous three-story gray building, circled by razor wire. Here the Adjustment Center and Condemned Unit No. 2 (a.k.a. “Death Row”) stand guard over an empty yard across from the crumbling Education Unit (a relic dating from 1885) and the Investigative Service Unit, also circa 1885. Construction efforts to remodel the overcrowded Death Row have begun, quashing any attempts to have it or San Quentin moved to another location in the state. The focus now is not about moving the prison elsewhere, but making it better.

“Boy, would I like to film all this,” whispers Herzog. “It’s like a different century in here.”

• • • •

THE GROUP MAKES a hard right turn, then left down a steep lane and around the corner and comes out facing the Lower Yard, where thousands of tough guys gather to exercise. Or, on occasions in the past, to riot. Some hang out, others are engaged in games like basketball, tennis, baseball or cards. To the left of the yard is West Block Unit, where thousands of other inmates are crowded into tiny cells; to the right, the furniture and clothing factories, vocational buildings and print shop are in full gear.

The film crew takes up positions around the small tennis court. They are surrounded on all sides by murderers, bank robbers and thieves who pretend to pay no attention to the cameras, but the feeling is electric; both sides are very aware of each other.

Today Pechner and Herzog are shooting footage of the San Quentin Tennis Team, which is sponsored by the U.S. Tennis Association. Professional tennis instructor Loretta Conway is instructing the inmates’ technique; it’s clear from the action that some of the inmates have become pretty good players.

“When I first came here, I was quite leery of going into an all-male prison,” says Conway, “but I was amazed at how polite and respectful the men have been. We got the men to write stories about their lives, how they ended up in prison, and shared them with ‘at risk’ children with whom the U.S.T.A. works. The inmate stories had a big impact with the kids.”

“The purpose of our film is to demonstrate the value of these programs for the future success of the inmates and their integration back into their respective communities,” explains Herzog between takes. “Our film supports the fact that new strategies emphasizing healthier behavior, education and job training must be promoted to overcome the acknowledged failures of the current system, indicated by a recidivism rate of nearly 70 percent.”

A resident of nearby San Quentin Village, it took Herzog years to gain the trust of the prison staff in order to make this extraordinary film, shot entirely on location inside the prison walls. Crittendon and San Quentin authorities have real reason to be careful about allowing Herzog, Pechner or any community volunteers onto the grounds. These are real convicts, not actors. Many are very violent men who have been incarcerated for very violent crimes. When a siren suddenly sounds, everybody—film crew, volunteers, media and convicts—hits the ground, fast. Anyone standing up or walking around is at risk of being shot. Machine gun-toting guards watch carefully from towers above the yard. This isn’t a Hollywood stage; it’s the real deal.

Correctional Officer Peter Healy maintains a position next to the tennis court, watching the prisoners rather than the game. Healy is the only protection that the volunteers have, but he seems as unconcerned as they do.

“Some people on the outside might think the activities on the Lower Yard are frivolous, but it’s my opinion—and I think the opinion of other correctional officers—that these programs provide a major benefit not only to the inmates but to the correctional officers as well,” he says. “They provide unity among the races, and leadership and teamwork among the inmates involved, which makes our life in the Lower Yard much easier.”

Players on the tennis team agree. One inmate, white and middle-aged, explains why. “The most important thing is, with tennis there are rules. A lot of us are in prison because we couldn’t follow the rules. So if we have a disagreement, we just play the point over again.”

His Latino playing partner echoes the same thought. “We are, for the most part, violent men who came to prison for violent crimes, and tennis is like therapy for us, to apply our new social skills. For me, it is like going to a psychologist. When we are here, we are growing up, like men.”

A third teammate, a young black man, offers another opinion: “Tennis has given me an outlet for the anger that is within these walls.”

Just behind the tennis court, the prison’s dusty baseball diamond is packed. Today the members of the San Quentin Giants are practicing. An African-American slugger waiting in the on-deck circle answers Pechner’s questions: “This baseball league has taught me to appreciate everybody, no matter what color you are. We win together, we lose together. If you’re on the team, you’re my brother. The San Quentin Giants is a team with integrity.”

• • • •

RECREATION MAKES UP only a small part of the two-dozen community volunteer programs at the prison. There are 12-step programs, literacy classes, college-level courses, anger management and much more. Crittendon explains that San Quentin has a long history of rehabilitation projects.

“It was the very first prison in the U.S. to recognize that inmates needed formal education. Classrooms were first set up inside the prison starting in 1868. In 1942 San Quentin reached out to Alcoholics Anonymous,” he says. “That was the first such program in the U.S., but today it happens in every prison and county jail in the country.”

What makes San Quentin different from other prisons? “The public perception is that it’s because of the community we’re located in, here in beautiful Marin. I don’t believe that for a moment,” he emphasizes. “You need the volunteers, but if the attitude of the facility leaders and its employees does not embrace those belief systems, it wouldn’t happen.

“We understand here at San Quentin that there is a value to these programs, that public service equates to more than electrified fences,” he continues. “Real public safety is returning an inmate back to his community who is most likely not going to commit crime or violence. You do that by educating them and addressing the issues that brought them to prison.”

The depth of San Quentin’s volunteer programs is unparalleled. The only other state prison with a large number of volunteers is the California Institute for Women in Riverside County, which has 600 community volunteers. The new public information officer replacing Crittendon at San Quentin, Lieutenant Eric Messick, says the prison will soon be expanding its inmate programs, and will even take them to a new and higher level; and he hopes that other prisons take note.

“There is a waiting list of inmates from other prisons who want to transfer here. That’s because the Bay Area is a culturally rich metropolitan region that gets great support from volunteers. Over at Folsom, Solano, Vacaville and R.J. Donovan Prison near San Diego, they get some community support too, but not like here. To expand these types of programs, what we really need is statistical proof that they reduce recidivism,” says Messick. “The current theory is that 70 percent of all inmates will re-offend, but I personally think the real recidivism rate might be more like 59 percent. Former warden Jeanne Woodford used a figure of 55 percent. Some faith-based organizations claim a figure of 35 percent, but recidivism is something really hard to measure. We really need to find out if these programs work as well as we think they do.”

How to do that? “We’d like to see these volunteer groups keep track of inmates after they are released, for a long period of time, and report back what they learn,” says Messick.

San Quentin authorities also want to expand the scope of the prison programs out into the communities where the inmates will reside upon their release. To that end, prison authorities have created a new position of community partnership manager. Captain K.J. Williams says his new role will be to work with communities to see that the volunteer programs’ successes are maintained.

“Everything from anger management to self-help skills, addictions, all the programs the inmates can access inside San Quentin,” says Williams, “we want to see them mirrored out in the community after the inmates are released.”

Tracking inmates after they leave San Quentin is something that filmmakers Herzog and Pechner also say they would love to do. Even though they haven’t finished documenting some of the major programs held inside the high stone walls, they agree that the real story doesn’t end there.

“We’ll be looking for funding to continue what we have started,” says Herzog. “I originally came up with the idea for this documentary because, as a community volunteer at San Quentin, I really care. I have a lot of empathy for those inmates who are trying to turn their lives around, and there’s a long ways to go yet. For those programs to continue, community volunteers need to show that these programs actually work to reduce recidivism, and come up with the stats to prove it. Otherwise these programs could be canceled, and that would be a disaster.”