Inmates try boot camp for kicking drugs

In this remote section of Minnesota woods, the 14 prisoners of Echo Squad march in seamless military formation, dressed in neat khakis and blue hats, repeating cadence calls that are more Dr. Phil than Sergeant Hartman:

"Now it's time to be a man; fix our problems while we can. Restorative justice, giving back; trying to get our lives on track."

The men are almost done with the boot-camp portion of a Minnesota program that gives early release to nonviolent drug offenders, most of whom are in on methamphetamine-related crimes. (A similar camp exists for women inmates.) The state's program has become a rare model. At a time when the federal and several state governments are moving away from boot-camp programs, Minnesota is showing how nonviolent drug offenders can return to society and remain sober.

With meth use becoming a serious problem across the Midwest and West, states are fighting back by restricting the sale of ingredients, like cold medicines, used to make the drug and increasing mandatory minimum sentences. The House of Representatives is considering a bill that would do both at a federal level.

But some states are also seeing economic and social benefits by replacing prison time with treatment, particularly with those who are in the drug business because of a personal addiction rather than for profit. Proponents say they alleviate the growing burden on prisons and improve the chances that drug offenders will be able to kick their habit and return to society.

Such early-release and prison-alternative programs can be controversial. In January, the US Bureau of Prisons decided to close its 14-year-old boot-camp program, calling it a failed concept. At its peak, that program involved more than 7,000 inmates in 27 states.

In Minnesota, by contrast, the Challenge Incarceration Program (CIP) will double in size next year to 180 beds. It has earned support from even conservative state legislators, in part because of its very low 2 percent recidivism rate for those who complete the program. The CIP also has had good success with meth addicts, who can be particularly hard to treat.

"They're going to be released anyway," says Minnesota Corrections Commissioner Joan Fabian. "It is just so much wiser to actually change their behavior than to send them out unprepared. This is one of the only programs I've seen that really does that."

Minnesota, like many states in rural parts of America, has been hit hard by methamphetamine abuse. In 2001, 230 state prisoners were meth offenders. Since then, the number has grown 390 percent to more than 1,100, among the prison system's 8,700 prisoners.

"It truly is an epidemic," says Ms. Fabian. She works with corrections officials in Wisconsin, who are trying to start a similar program, and will speak about CIP at both a National Governors Association conference and a state commissioners meeting later this year.

Minnesota's program, which started two decades ago, was never intended to focus on meth offenders. But in the past few years it's changed to reflect the state's trends, and today about 70 percent of its prisoners are there because of the drug.

Mike Barsness is typical. An older man from the Grand Rapids area, he's married, has a daughter and two grandchildren, and has been using meth since 1990. "It got to the point where the drugs consumed my life," says Mr. Barsness, who hopes to return to his work as an auto mechanic.

He, like almost all the prisoners here at Willow River, says he applied to CIP for one reason: the reduced sentence. If he successfully completes the 12 months of supervision after six months of boot camp, he'll get about three years off his nearly eight-year sentence for possession. (Prisoners like Barsness, who have served enough time that they have four years or less to go, are eligible for the program). But he's come to see CIP, and even the jail time, as a blessing.

"Quitting was something I wanted to do, but I couldn't do on my own," he says. In the six months of boot camp he's changed physically - a good diet has brought his weight back up from 130 pounds to 176 pounds, and he can run four miles. He says the biggest changes have been mental: For the first time, he acknowledges his addiction, and is confident about being able to beat it.

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