Humanity Does Make A Difference

Congratulations to Bob Braudis for taking good care of the people there for nearly 25 years.

"The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons."

So reads a quote from Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky, framed on the office wall of Pitkin County Sheriff Bob Braudis, who oversees and helped build the Pitkin County Jail.

It has been nearly a quarter-century since the current jail opened in Aspen.
In that time the population of American jails and prisons has increased five-fold, with an influx of mentally-ill and drug-addicted offenders who go untreated in the catacombs of steal and concrete that make up our country's corrections system.

But the Pitkin County Jail is a far cry from those overcrowded human warehouses.

It is one of a handful of "direct supervision" facilities that began opening around the country in the early 1980s. Direct supervision jails encourage rehabilitation, socialization between inmates and contact with jailers.

Instead of the usual steel bars and rows of cells, the Pitkin County Jail has 18 carpeted rooms grouped off into four suites. There's a multi-purpose area at the center where inmates gather during the day, while jailers keep watch behind a Plexiglas wall.

Jim DeBerge, who has worked at the jail since the beginning, remembers the day they opened the facility in January 1984. "Bob came to the staff and said, 'This is just a building. You guys are going to make it whatever it's going to be.'"

Braudis, who hires staff for the jail along with Jail Supervisor Billy Tomb and Jail Administrator Don Bird, has filled the facility with a diverse crew who subscribe to an empathetic philosophy focused on preparing inmates for re-entry into society.

"It'd be easy to find the types who turn into Nazis and fascists and sadists when given some power over inmates," Braudis says. "It's harder to find the kind of staff we have here."

AN ECLECTIC STAFF
"I'm a Christian and I try to approach my job here with the Golden Rule in mind," says DeBerge. "I never know what guys are in here for because I don't look. I don't want to know. I want to treat everyone the same, without judging, because anybody can make a mistake and end up in here."

Fellow jailer Debbie Kendrick was a special education elementary school teacher before she came to work at the jail three years ago.

A mother of three and foster mother to others, she says she approaches her job with the same balance of patience, discipline and nurturing that she used when teaching special needs children and when raising her own kids.

"The goal is to get them to operate independently," Kendrick says. "You strive to get them do things on their own. When you do that, you find most respect it. But I know also when something fishy is going on. Remember, I'm a mom. I have eyes in the back of my head."

Jill Costigan, who has worked here for almost six years, says she easily could have ended up wearing an orange inmate's jumpsuit instead of a badge.

Eight-and-a-half years ago, Costigan was homeless and strung out after years spent abusing cocaine. She got help and got on her feet. After she was clean for three years, she started working at the jail.

"I've finger-printed guys I used to run with," she says.

The first time she put on her uniform and looked at herself in the mirror, Costigan says she literally fell down laughing.

"I remember thinking, 'Don't these people know who I am?' But then I realized that, yes, they do know who I am and how I turned myself around. That's why they hired me, in fact. It's an advantage that I used to run on the other side of things, because I know what a lot of these guys are going through."

HOPE
Inmate Ryan Wagster said he recently spent a year-and-a-half in Colorado's super-maximum prison in Canon City. "Supermax" facilities house convicted criminals in an environment of almost total sensory depravation, do not allow them to socialize and do not offer rehabilitation programs.

"I didn't see the sun for 19 months in there," he said, motioning upward to the blue sky visible through the bay windows of Pitkin County Jail's multi-purpose room. "When I got out I walked to a Greyhound Bus station and sat there for two days just staring off. I was in shock.

"Here the guards help you get ready to go out and be a better person, they don't want it to be a revolving door. They don't want you coming back. Here I feel like there's hope."

Inmates who need help can attend Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous meetings in the jail. Doctors treat inmates for both mental and physical health problems. GED and ESL classes are also available. And inmates can request books from the library on a daily basis.

"The worst part of this job is seeing someone's potential flushed down the tubes," says Debbie Kendrick. "But the best part is when you get to see someone take advantage of all that we offer here and become the best person they can."

The jail also has a work-release program, through which inmates selected by a judge can go out and work during the day. "We monitor them closely when they're out but rarely have any problems," says Roger Ryan, who runs the program. "They appreciate that they're able to go out and support their families. They understand what a privilege it is and don't want to mess that up."

Costigan is developing a "re-entry manual" for outgoing inmates that she hopes will keep them from coming back.

At 32, inmate Seth Gates says he has been in and out of jails since his first stretch as a kid at the Lookout Mountain juvenile facility in Golden.

"It's uncomfortable all the time in other jails," Gates says. "You're in two-man cells. You're wearing stripes. It's gray. There's no morale. Here it's not degrading like that -- they take care of you physically and spiritually. We feel like the community has support for us here."

THE PITKIN COUNTY SPA?
This jail replaced a five-bunk steel facility in the basement of the Pitkin County Courthouse that was built in 1890. Sheriff Braudis says it was "a tiger cage."

"That place was unconstitutional on every level," says Braudis, who as a Colorado sheriff is statutorily obligated to oversee a county jail. "The only reason we were never successfully sued is that the staff treated inmates with humanity and dignity."

Braudis and then-sheriff Dick Kienast began pushing for funding for a new jail in the early 1980s. After failing twice, the new jail was approved by the people of Pitkin County on a ballot initiative. Construction was completed in 1983 and the first inmate entered in January of the following year.

Some said the new jail was too soft, that the amenities in it made inmates too comfortable.

"They called it a 'spa,' because it's carpeted and has wooden furniture and a gym," Braudis says. "But it's hardly a spa."

The jail can house 26 full-time inmates in its 18 cells, two of which hold up to four inmates.

Each individual cell has a bed, a desk, a porcelain toilet and sink and slender window.

They're clustered around four common areas, where paintings of cowboys and Western scenes hang on the painted brick walls. Each common room has a table, chairs and a television equipped with basic cable.

Inmates do all of the cleaning and day-to-day chores in the cells and common areas.

The workout room has a half basketball court with a volleyball net, a universal weight machine, exercise bikes and free weights.

The multi-purpose room at the center of the jail has a high ceiling with four bay windows that fill the room with natural light. There is one computer with a word processor and games like solitaire, but no Internet access. Cereal, coffee and other snacks are available there during the day.

Saturday night is movie night. Inmates choose a movie or two to rent and pay for it themselves. On those nights, the jail provides pizza from Domino's or New York Pizza.

Otherwise, all meals are provided by Aspen Valley Hospital.

"I've paid to live in apartments much worse than this," says inmate Ryan Wagster. "But you're still locked up. It's no vacation."

GOOD NEIGHBORS
"We see former inmates on the outside all the time, at City Market and on the streets," says Costigan. "When we run into them we're not afraid. We're not embarrassed about the way we treated them in here. I know guards at Denver County (Jail) who carry guns when they go to Rockies games because they're so scared of running into a former inmate."

The average stay at Pitkin County Jail is between three and four months.

"The bottom line is that these guys are going to get out of here," says Kendrick, "and they will be members of our community when they do. We want to care for them as much as we can so that they become good neighbors."
Aspen Daily News