DEER LODGE — Clive Kinlock is serving 70 years in prison for a violent crime fueled by alcohol.
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| Clive Kinlock |
That‘s an all-too-common problem here.
At the Montana State Prison, 85 percent of inmates are behind bars because of behavior caused by alcohol or drug abuse, according to chemical dependency counselors.
"I know a few people in here who say they don‘t have a drug or alcohol problem," inmate Marty Quick, said in a recent interview, "but I don‘t believe I know any that I actually believe."
It‘s a costly problem, more so than most taxpayers realize. The state spent $46.8 million last year locking away its adult criminals and another $1.5 million on prerelease centers and parole officers.
Those figures don‘t include expenses for county or city jails.
The U.S. prison population is on the rise – from 1980 to 1996 it tripled, in large part because of criminal activity spawned by drug and alcohol abuse, according to the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University.
Although illegal drugs share the blame, alcohol was the real culprit, center chairman Joseph A. Califano Jr. said.
"Contrary to conventional wisdom and popular myth, alcohol is more tightly linked with violent crime than crack, cocaine, heroin or any illegal drug," Califano said in a report last year.
Booze is why Kinlock is serving a 70-year sentence at the prison, a sprawling complex surrounded by guard towers and fences in the shadow of the Bitterroot Mountains.
A native of Jamaica, Kinlock was stationed at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls, but got kicked out of the service because of his violent behavior.
"I was blasted, and a couple of guys got in my face," he said quietly in a recent interview. "I dealt with it the best way that I could, which was physical violence."
As his military career was ending, Kinlock increasingly was unable to deal with the responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood.
"Marriage drove me to drink," he said. "Baby after baby caused me to run from responsibility. Drink caused me not to be the husband I could have been or the father I should have been.
"That was a simple lack of responsibility on my part."
In November 1991, as the bank was foreclosing on his Great Falls home, Kinlock spent the night drinking, then abducted the barmaid, raped her several times and slit her throat.
"When I woke up the next morning and realized what I had done, I wanted to turn myself in," he said. "Then the police took matters out of my hands and arrested me.
"I sobered up real quick then."
Expanding programs
Recognizing the need for treatment, the 1995 Montana Legislature expanded the prison‘s chemical dependency program and funded six counseling positions.
But even that wasn‘t enough. Waiting lists contained the names of 500 or 600 inmates seeking help, and Ken Ingle, supervisor of the Prison‘s Substance Abuse Program, was forced to concentrate on treating those closest to release.
With a 70-year sentence, Kinlock wasn‘t eligible for a treatment program — but he wasn‘t about to be stopped by a mere policy.
"Clive was one of the meanest p––s in this institution," said Bill Martin, head counselor on the prison‘s high-security side. "He did a lot of fighting in the yard, and he hurt a lot of people."
Kinlock‘s perspective changed, though, when his wife came to visit him in prison and he wasn‘t allowed to hold his newborn son.
"I realized then that I would never have a significant role in my son‘s life," Kinlock said. "So I decided to connect with my higher power to become a better person."
That wasn‘t easy to do, however.
"Clive was in communication with me for six months, persuading me to get him into the program," Martin said. "He was so persuasive that I finally let him in.
"I figured he‘d probably break in about a month, but he took off, and now he‘s a real leader, a positive force in my groups."
Key is changed thinking
The substance-abuse program is designed to help chemically dependent offenders by breaking down their denial and leading them to voluntary self change.
At a recent group meeting, inmates talked about their problems. One convict discussed his anger when he got only beatings from an alcoholic father while his younger brothers got toys and new clothing.
"One day, my brother got a new jacket, and I was jealous," he said. "So I poured gasoline on it and set it on fire and told him to go jump in a mud puddle."
"You‘ve had an awful childhood, and you‘ve done some awful things yourself, but you can‘t go on being a victim and using that as an excuse to keep going down the same path," counselor Dan Oberweiser told the inmate.
Similarly, Oberweiser said many inmates use their drinking as an excuse to continue criminal behavior.
"We usually committed our crimes sober and then partied later," agreed another inmate. "But when I got caught, I‘d tell them I was drunk and plead diminished capacity."
The groups spend a lot of time looking at a chart called "errors in thinking," a list of excuses people use for continuing criminal behavior: things like being a victim themselves, being irresponsible, having personal fears and a need to control events and people.
"For years, we used to turn loose clean and sober criminals," Oberweiser said. "Now we have found that we need to change their thinking.
"Many of them don‘t like themselves, and that‘s why they self-medicate" with drugs and alcohol.
Learning to live with self
For Kinlock, sobriety and treatment meant coming to terms with the consequences of his crimes.
"I began thinking about the pain I caused my own family, but also the pain I caused my victim and her family," he said. "That‘s when I knew I needed help."
Kinlock said he can make between $20 and $25 a month working for the prison‘s chemical dependency program. He has begun sending $10 a month to a battered women‘s shelter.
"That‘s my way of making amends," he said. "Before everything happened to me, I battered my own spouse.
"I‘m not proud of it," he said slowly, "but I feel I‘m one of the reasons those places came about, so I want to help. It‘s a way of healing, of learning to live with myself."
Kinlock is still married, but his wife and family live in Calgary
and he sees them only about once a year.
He also expects to be deported to Jamaica when he finishes his sentence.
For now, however, he works as an inmate counselor with the chemical dependency program on the high-security side, which provides a huge challenge — even behind bars.
"It‘s still about choice," Kinlock said. "It would still be real easy to go back into the unit and smoke a joint or drink some pruno," a prison-fermented liquor made of fruit and sugar-water.
Virtually everyone is prone to such temptations, Kinlock said.
"In this institution, I don‘t believe I‘ve run into five people who didn‘t have a problem with alcohol or drugs in the commission of their crimes or in the aftermath," he said.
Inmates helping inmates
The prison‘s chemical dependency program has been successful because it is run primarily by inmates.
Kinlock counsels fellow inmates, and half a dozen others form an inmate advisory group to brief Ingle on their concerns and suggestions.
As inmate advisers sat around a table on recent afternoon, their enthusiasm was contagious.
The program "was the first time anyone had asked my opinion about anything," said Scott Rule, who heads the prison‘s inmate advisory council and who is serving a 20-year sentence, with five years suspended, on a 1990 incest conviction.
"It got inmates talking to other inmates," he said. "It allowed us to take responsibility for our own treatment."
That‘s not an easy process for anyone.
"You have to be committed to a turnaround," said Ed Cowan, serving a 30-year sentence, 20 years suspended, for molesting a child. "I‘ve committed to changing my behavior, my feelings and some of my bad thoughts."
Rule said he entered prison the first time with a drinking problem, but he returned the second time with a sobriety problem.
"I couldn‘t live life sober," he said. "But now I‘m learning to live my life sober. I‘m doing the sweats (sweat lodges) and working with a priest who‘s a Zen Buddhist and encourages meditation."
To supplement the counseling, inmates have formed several Alcoholics Anonymous groups at which attendance is voluntary.
"It‘s the one thing I do for myself, and when I miss it, I feel like I‘ve been cheated," said Quick, who is serving a 15-year sentence for intimidating a witness in an earlier drug case.
With those attitudes, the treatment programs have been successful.
Three years ago, the prison offered two recovery groups attended by about eight inmates each. Today, nearly 150 inmates are enrolled in the chemical dependency programs.
Three years ago, there were two Alcoholics Anonymous groups attended by three or four inmates. Today, there are five, attended voluntarily by about 100 inmates, Ingle said.
"Now I‘m glad I‘m in prison," said Derek Montoya, serving a 20-year sentence, 10 suspended, for sexual assault. "It has taught me a lesson: I don‘t ever want to be back here again.
"I‘d be lying if I told you I‘m never going to have a drink again, but as long as I hold onto the spirituality I learned here, I‘ll be OK."
Although there has been some improvement, the waiting list for alcohol and drug treatment at MSP is substantial.
Three years ago, as many as 600 inmates awaited treatment, and Ingle estimated he could treat only about 25 percent of the convicts who needed help before their release.
Last month, the waiting list was down to 345.
Ingle also did a followup check on inmates who had been through his program. One year after release, only 9 percent had been re-arrested and 1 percent had violated their parole.
By comparison, 48 percent of all prison inmates violate their parole or probation or commit a new crime within three years after their release, Department of Corrections spokesman Mike Cronin said.
It costs more than $20,700 to lock up one prisoner for a year, so it doesn‘t take long for the chemical dependency program to justify its $280,000 annual budget.
"If this program keeps 18 inmates out of prison for a year, it more than pays for itself," Ingle said.
While the program makes an impact, so does prison itself, Ingel said.
"You won‘t find an 80-acre patch of land anywhere in Montana that contains more human suffering than there is here," he said. "So if it‘s pain that turns people‘s lives around, it lives right here in MSP."
