Boot Camp Inmates' Final Salute / Alternative prison program to end as its effectiveness is debated

Twenty-three members of the "Screaming Eagles" platoon marched past an old schoolhouse at San Quentin Prison the other day -- sharing the distinction of being among the last graduates of a soon-to-be-eliminated program.

As the platoon leader barked commands, the men in dungarees and gold caps performed a series of military-style drills with nicknames like "Razzle Dazzle" and "Shuffle the Deck." Their faces revealed no trace of emotion.

It was an extraordinary display of discipline, physical fitness and teamwork from a group of former gang members, crooks, drug addicts, alcoholics and troublemakers. Precisely on cue, the men moved in step, chanted, turned, froze and shouted: "Yes, sir!"

The inmates' family members stood in awe, barely recognizing their loved ones' shaved heads and changed demeanor. The men had left their hometowns four months ago to take part in Boot Camp -- an alternative sentencing program aimed at rehabilitating first-time, nonviolent offenders.

In 1992, Governor Pete Wilson touted the Boot Camp program as a potential breakthrough in law enforcement. San Quentin was the only California prison to take part in the five-year pilot project. If successful, the governor planned to expand the program to other state prisons.

Instead, the governor's office quietly has decided to end the program. The final Boot Camp platoon will graduate on September 19.

Top brass at the Department of Corrections in Sacramento concluded that it made little difference in inmates' lives.

"Our best estimate was that the rate of return for arrest or return to prison was virtually the same" for Boot Camp graduates as "general population" inmates, said John Berecochea, the department's chief researcher.

The program was "kind of a wash financially," added Mike Neal, a legislative liaison for the department. Boot Camp graduates spent less time in prison, but those savings were offset by the program's staff cost. "The real problem was that the recidivism rate was equal to or greater than the regular recidivism rate."

The study reveals that only 40 percent of men who take part in Boot Camp actually complete the program. About 34 percent of participants are returned to prison -- a statistic that is comparable to inmates with similar criminal histories. But of those men who graduate, only 5 percent are returned to prison within a year following their release on parole.

Last month, the governor's office instructed the warden to phase out the program.

Since 1993, the Boot Camp program has graduated 1,460 men. Supporters say they have witnessed many individual success stories among the graduates that are not measured by the statistics.

"The staff believed the men had made great strides in the right direction," said San Quentin spokeswoman Joy Macfarlane. "They believed the program had great merit, and they saw a lot of men turn their lives around. A tremendous effort was put into this program by staff as well as inmates."

Macfarlane recalled the case of one young man who was illiterate when he started the program. When he graduated last year, he had not only learned how to read and write, but he also made a speech at graduation on behalf of the whole platoon.

During the program, inmates go through four months of intensive training at San Quentin, where they are housed in a low-security area. Next, they live for 60

days in a halfway house in Oakland or Los Angeles and take part in a work-furlough program. Finally, the men return to their communities and are monitored closely by parole agents for the next four months.

"These men are fortunate that they had the option of coming to Boot Camp," Warden Art Calderon told inmates' families. "One of the things we try to accomplish in Boot Camp is to change a person's attitude. These men are going to go back into their communities, and with your help, they'll become productive members of society."

Lieutenant John McAuliffe, the Boot Camp commander, described how the men would sit in a circle and talk about their troubled lives. An inmate "starts to realize that he's not alone and that teamwork is what counts," he said.

One of the graduates, Curtis Rickey, spoke of how the program's 16-hour-a-day schedule of physical training, academic study, psychological counseling and community work had made him "stronger in body and mind."

"Four months is not a long time to change a lifetime of bad habits, but four months can be a beginning," said Rickey, 42, a warehouseman from Stockton incarcerated for driving under the influence and causing a traffic accident. He said each member of the platoon had pledged to stay out of prison in the future and set an example so that "our children don't repeat our mistakes."

Eight inmates were awarded General Equivalency Diploma certificates at the graduation ceremony. Four inmates also were honored for helping to tutor the others.

Moments later, the graduates cheered and tossed their caps in the air.

"I finally accomplished something in my life," exclaimed inmate Ted Cole, 37, of San Pablo, who was incarcerated for receiving stolen property.

Successful graduates are able to cut the time they serve in prison by half. Others drop out of the Boot Camp because it is too demanding, or they are removed from the program for disciplinary reasons.

A big part of the program involves community work. Among other jobs, Boot Camp platoons filled sandbags to guard against floods and worked to clear fire-prone brush off Mount Tamalpais and Angel Island.

Recently, a Boot Camp platoon cleaned out the rat-infested back yard of a hospitality house in San Quentin village and turned it into a play area for inmates' visiting children.

Cyr Miller, a San Rafael city councilman, recalls how a Boot Camp platoon planted 100 trees in his city's downtown two years ago.

"You've never seen more discipline in your life," he said. "They would march up and down Fourth Street with shovels on their shoulders. They dug those holes to perfection. They were the most efficient work crew that I have experienced. They were congenial and so respectful of the citizens. It was a real sense of joy that they brought to the downtown. The public loved them."