News

Calif. Inmates Gain Skills, Hope at Fire Station

12/24/2011

There aren't many things to be grateful for when you're locked up in San Quentin State Prison.

But here's one: It's a heck of a lot better serving time in the fire station than in a conventional cell.

That's especially true at holiday time, when the comfy fires of home are about as far out of reach as the North Pole.

For the prisoners lucky enough to be riding fire engines at the bay side's ancient lockup, the food is better, the rooms are better, the view is better - even the cut of inmate is better. Three of the inmate firefighters were nominated this year for bravery citations from the prison system, and a fourth is an ordained minister who serves as the prison chaplain.

Nobody is anointing them as model citizens yet, Fire Chief Gary Maresh noted. But in a prison with 5,247 of the state's most offensive people, he said, the ones in the firehouse are "the cream of the crop."

"Winding up in prison is all about choices, and everyone in this prison made bad choices that put him here," Maresh said. "But these guys - they're all nonviolent offenders for burglary, embezzlement and the like. And they do a lot of good things.

"If you're going to be in prison, this firehouse is where you want to be."

No fences, no bars

Nestled just outside the barbed-wire-topped western wall of the prison, the firehouse looks like any other, with three engines, one truck and one ambulance. The garage and the machines are sparkling clean, and the prisoners are considered so low-maintenance that there are no fences between them and the shoreline.

The main visual standout between this firehouse and one at, say, Sebastopol, where Maresh is still a volunteer firefighter, is that 13 of the firefighters wear prison blues. The four other fire officers are civilians, as is the hazardous materials analyst.

Maresh handpicks every firefighter. He takes only prisoners who have lesser offenses and good conduct records, and show the intelligence and aptitude needed for on-the-job fire training from his captains. It helps if they have firefighting or medical experience, he said, but it's not mandatory.

Having this kind of crew means that when Christmas morning comes and there are no kiddies rushing to the holiday tree, no relatives strolling through the door, there will nonetheless be some small sense of holiday cheer in the firehouse.

The inmate firefighters will have a turkey dinner cooked by a chef assigned solely to the fire crew. They'll get to gaze across the bay from the firehouse door - which has no bars - to a free land they intend to return to someday. And they will get to sleep as always in their bedrooms above the fire station garage - which also have no bars.

It will be cheer in a somber, prison-confined kind of way. But cheer nonetheless.

'It's all about hope'

"When you look at the meaning of Christmas, it's all about hope anyway - not so much about presents and trees and the rest," said Robert Lott, the 44-year-old chaplain who is 12 years into a 20-year sentence for burglary. "We always need hope here, but at Christmas that becomes even more special with celebrating the birth of Christ."

Lott was standing the other day in the prison firehouse with a half dozen of his colleagues and the chief, contemplating what they'll be doing on Christmas.

"That's what it's all about, hope," said one, 39-year-old Elbert Kirby, who is three years into a six-year burglary hitch.

"The challenge for each one of us is to make sure we don't come back here," added Sean Tiger, 43. He's due for parole in June after serving six years for peddling cocaine in San Francisco, and the advice he is giving himself now is, "Don't be selfish, and concentrate on your family life."

"That's exactly the kind of thing I will be preaching about on Christmas," Lott said. "We're going to make it a good day."

That's a tall order for each of these men.

Stiff crimes

Lott is from El Cajon San Diego County, and when he went into prison on his third burglary rap, he was addicted to methamphetamine. He'd trashed his marriage and his sales career by stealing to feed the drug habit, and it was only after pulling serious time that he woke up, he said.

"I figured, 'OK, I've now messed up enough to be in here a long time, so God must have a plan for me,' " he said.

Since Lott has been locked up, the prison's rehab programs have helped him finish high school and earn a bachelor of science degree in theology from the Moody Bible Institute. In 2008, he became the first inmate at San Quentin to earn minister designation while behind bars.

A team from the American Evangelical Christian Churches conducted his ordination ceremony in the prison chapel, and not long after that he was tapped as San Quentin's chaplain.

For Kirby, the transformation came through his training as a firefighter. He is now the lead firefighter and is certified as an emergency medical technician. He hopes to find similar work when he goes back home to Hayward.

"I found that I have a passion for fighting fires, and that's helped me in my life," he said. "It's hard work and keeps you focused. And being here in the firehouse keeps you out of the madness of the yard," the general area for prisoners to congregate.

"It gives you purpose," Kirby said.

The chief said he appreciates the strides Lott, Kirby and the others made. He's quick to point out, though, that "they may come across as good guys, and I'd even say they are noble guys, but they are still inmates."

"You can never forget that as long as you are at this prison," Maresh said.

Work them hard

Maresh's contribution to the inmates' rehab comes 24/7 - there's no time off at Christmas - by working them hard at his station.

The firefighters are tasked with watching over the prison's 432 acres, with its sprawling cellblocks that include the state's Death Row, wooded hillsides and 85 single-family homes for 171 civilian prison workers and their families.

"We do pretty much what any small-town fire department does, with about 80 percent of our calls being medical," Maresh said. "About twice a month, someone sets their cell on fire. Two weeks ago we had a suicide hanging, and we do get structure fires in the houses, though they usually just burn up a room and its contents.

"We stay plenty busy."

The most notable call in years came in April, when most of the crew and fire Capt. Scott Long saved a pair of boaters who had fallen into the frigid waters alongside the prison. They had to scramble down a 25-foot-tall seawall and use a hose as a rope for the 1 a.m. rescue. One of the boaters, a man, was unconscious and later died, but the other, a woman, lived.

"They did a great job, and I have nominated three of the inmates for meritorious citations," Maresh said.

Good deeds

In off hours, the fire crews fix up hundreds of cast-off bicycles a year to be given to homeless or other charity programs. They also train and heal dogs from nearby Marin County's animal shelter, and Lott oversees an inmate organization he created called Reaching Beyond the Walls, which has raised $30,000 from prisoners to support international Christian missionary programs.

These efforts take on extra meaning during Christmas, the men said, and this week they were stepping up the pace to finish more bicycles to be handed out on the big morning.

'Live like I'm saved'

But really, they said, they get a form of Christmas every day just by serving in the firehouse. It reminds them that they can be useful, not just a number in a cell.

And that, in turn, reminds them that if they keep their noses clean, they might just have a better life once they get back to the real world.

"I never forget this," Lott said, pointing to words he wrote in the Book of Galatians in a well-thumbed Bible: "If I'm saved, let me live like I'm saved."

"A lot of us in here," he said, "will be thinking that a little bit more than usual on Christmas Day."