cover of episode Deep Reads: The man who drives prisoners home

Deep Reads: The man who drives prisoners home

2024/12/28
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William Nguyen: 弗雷迪·诺尔在监狱服刑49年后获释,却难以找到工作。他决定帮助其他获释囚犯,接送他们并提供生活建议。这个故事展现了希望与绝望之间的界限,以及获释囚犯在社会再融入过程中面临的巨大挑战。 John 'Freddie' Knoll: 诺尔出狱后,他最初的计划(拥有自己的事业、与家人重聚等)都落空了。他尝试过很多工作,但都因为背景调查而失败。由于找不到工作,诺尔开始接送其他获释囚犯,并通过狱友和狱警寻求帮助。他目睹了获释囚犯在希望与绝望之间摇摆不定,有些人重回监狱,有些人则在现实面前失去希望。

Deep Dive

Key Insights

Why did Frankie Nole start picking up prisoners on their release day?

Frankie Nole started picking up prisoners on their release day because he struggled to find work after his own release and felt a loss of purpose. He wanted to help others who had no family or friends to give them a ride, offering them support and advice on how to survive outside prison.

What challenges do released prisoners face according to the story?

Released prisoners face significant challenges, including difficulty finding jobs due to background checks, struggles to secure housing, and the temptation to return to old habits or criminal activities. Over 60% are rearrested within three years, and more than 80% within 10 years, highlighting the systemic barriers they encounter.

What was Frankie Nole's experience with job applications after his release?

Frankie Nole faced repeated rejections from jobs despite managers appreciating his attitude. Positions like bathroom cleaner, janitor, and dishwasher were denied after background checks revealed his criminal record. He kept a stack of rejection letters on his kitchen table as a reminder of his struggles.

How did Frankie Nole's prison experience shape his life after release?

Frankie Nole's prison experience taught him survival skills, resilience, and the value of helping others. He earned his high school diploma, learned about the law, and created a center for imprisoned men to connect with their children. Despite missing major life events, he felt his life wasn't wasted and focused on what lay ahead.

What advice did Frankie Nole give to Franklin Hans during their car ride?

Frankie Nole advised Franklin Hans to focus on the basics, such as finding a place to sleep, securing a job, and avoiding old habits that could lead him back to prison. He also encouraged Hans to make wise choices, like staying away from his ex-girlfriend to avoid potential conflicts.

What was Franklin Hans' plan after his release from prison?

Franklin Hans planned to stay in Scranton for at least a year due to parole terms, build a log cabin on his father's Arizona ranch, and avoid old acquaintances to prevent returning to prison. He also aimed to secure essentials like a wallet, belt, and phone using his $159 prison earnings.

How did Frankie Nole's wife react to his job rejections?

Frankie Nole's wife, Susan Beardnall, was more angered by his job rejections than he was. She questioned how qualified someone needed to be for basic jobs like cleaning bathrooms and emphasized that he had paid his debt to society and deserved a chance.

What surprising donation did Frankie Nole receive for his cause?

Frankie Nole received a $1,000 donation from lifers at his old prison, who collected the money from their prison jobs paying as little as $0.25 an hour. They expressed pride in his efforts to help others transition out of prison.

What was Frankie Nole's concern about Franklin Hans after dropping him off?

Frankie Nole worried that Franklin Hans might not have gone to his friend's house as planned and could have been heading to his ex-girlfriend's motel, potentially leading to trouble. He also suspected Hans might have been seeking drugs or alcohol instead of focusing on his new life.

Shownotes Transcript

Translations:
中文

Hi, I'm William Nguyen, a national enterprise reporter for The Washington Post. I wrote a story as part of our Deep Read series, which showcases narrative journalism here at The Post. The story is about John "Freddie" Knoll. When he was 17, he robbed a candy store and was sentenced to life in a Pennsylvania prison. And after 49 years, he finally got out, but he struggled to find anyone willing to give him a job.

So he did this crazy thing. He started picking up prisoners on the day they're released. These are men who can't find a single relative or friend willing to give them a ride when they get out. And the story is about what happens on these car rides. The advice Noel gives these men about how to survive on the outside, even as he struggles to do the same. And it's really a story about the thin line that exists between hope and despair.

I wanted to tell the story because I wanted to understand the challenges and the temptations that these men face. How hard it can be, once you get out of prison, to stay out. The story is read by a narrator from our partners at the app NOAA, News Over Audio. Okay, here we go. Norristown, Pennsylvania. As he waited outside the razor wire next to the prison gate, John Freddie Knoll struggled for the right words to say to the man who would soon be walking out.

It had been five years since Noel came out those same prison doors. He remembered the gleaming plans he had back then. He'd run a place of his own, reconnect with family, revel in the pride that comes with a paycheck and a purpose. It all seemed naive now, looking back. I didn't have a clue, said Noel, 72, shaking his head. He kept a stack of rejection letters on his kitchen table from all the jobs he'd tried to get in recent months and failed.

bathroom cleaner and janitor at Walmart, late-night cook at Arby's, dishwasher at Longhorn Steakhouse, shelf stocker at Target. Managers unfailingly loved his attitude. Then, as always, came the background check and email. Unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with other candidates.

At loss for a purpose two years ago, he started picking up other prisoners on the day they were released. He put out the word to friends on the inside. He persuaded guards to put up notices in prisons across Pennsylvania. Anyone who didn't have family or friends to get them, he'd be their ride. That was how Noel found himself on a scorching day in May, returning to the prison system he'd hated and spent 49 years trying to leave.

Noel knew little about the man being released that day. All he had was a letter sent weeks earlier by the prisoner, Franklin Hans. I need all the help I can get from yous, Hans wrote to Noel. He asked for a ride to his hometown, Scranton, two hours away. He also begged Noel to secure for him a TV, VCR, sofa, and stereo.

On the drive to the prison that morning, Noel and a friend, a minister named William Jones, debated how best to help Hans. This long list of stuff he wants, I'm worried, said Noel. Holding Hans' letter in the passenger seat, he's thinking too grandiose. He needs to be focusing on the basics, getting a place to sleep, how to find a job, how to stay off the streets and out of jail.

The pastor nodded. Jones had worked in prison ministry for 34 years. He first met Noel during the five decades Noel spent locked up. Now free, Noel still couldn't afford car insurance, so the pastor had offered his for the prison pickups. Between the pastor and a handful of other drivers Noel had recruited, they had picked up 42 prisoners in less than two years. Hans would be number 43.

More than 600,000 people are released from America's prisons every year, vowing never to go back. Yet, more than 60% are rearrested within three years, studies show. More than 80% within 10 years. Politicians, especially in election years, often focus on punishment, depicting havoc in cities and the need to put away those perpetuating it.

Polls show that even as violent crime rates are dropping, Americans feel that crime and criminals are getting worse. Prisoner advocates argue that the system is rigged against people who were once incarcerated. They struggle to find anyone willing to rent them a home. They often find it difficult to find work and a way to escape the poverty, conditions, and drugs that landed them behind bars.

Back and forth, the pendulum has swung. Tough on crime, pushes for more lenient, rehabilitation-focused policies. Meanwhile, from his perch waiting at the prison gate, Noel has watched those walking out caught by a pendulum of their own, between hope and despair. He'd seen guys come out without the plans or belief needed to pull their lives together and end up back in prison within weeks.

He'd also seen those with the biggest ambitions lose hope after running into bitter reality. All of that was on Noel's mind on the morning he and the pastor arrived at Noel's old state prison, a 3,830-bed maximum security complex outside Philadelphia called SCI Phoenix. In the car, Noel wondered aloud how much they should warn Hans, the man coming out, of the uphill battles he faced.

The pastor pointed to the Bible verse engraved on a silver cross hanging from his rearview mirror. We love because he first loved us. We just gotta show him love, he said. I mean, that's really all we have. While the pastor parked the car in the prison lot, Noel walked past the familiar cement walls to a heavy outer door. A lot of memories here, Noel said quietly, like coming home.

With a wrenching metallic sound, the doors opened, and out walked a bearded man with long hair. In one hand, he clutched a white plastic bag. In the other, he held a stack of papers and notebooks. Franklin Hans? Noel asked. The man, formerly known as inmate QM0091, nodded. Hans was wearing a rough-cut maroon uniform issued by the prison.

It reminded Noel of his own release day and how he ate his first meal at a restaurant in prison clothes. He could still remember the searing looks he got from other customers, the shame and hurt as he choked down his food. Noel squinted at Hans, sizing him up. "'I don't know if they'll all fit,' he said as he popped open the car trunk. "'But we got some clothes for you.' Noel was 17 when he first entered Pennsylvania state prisons. By the time he walked out, he was 67."

He had grown up in South Philadelphia's poorest neighborhoods with 11 siblings, surrounded by drinking and gambling. At age 8, he was sent to Juvenile Hall, the first of many stints for petty theft and truancy. He joined a street gang and cracked open parking meters for quarters. He was 17 on February 22, 1969, when he and two teens decided to steal from a candy store.

Armed with a toy gun, they snatched money from the change box and ran, Knoll said. It wasn't until later that they learned the owner, an 81-year-old Polish immigrant named Joseph Sheka, had died of an aneurysm in his abdominal aorta, according to court records and news accounts. The two other teenagers spent 18 months and 11 months locked up, but Knoll was charged as an adult.

Authorities said Knoll poked the gun into the store owner's stomach, contributing to his death. Knoll's prosecutor was a young, aggressive assistant district attorney named Lynn Abraham. Decades later, she would be called the Queen of Death by local media and the deadliest DA by the New York Times for seeking death penalties more than any other prosecutor in America.

Knoll said he didn't strike the owner, but the prosecutor described the teen as a vicious monster who set out to kill the store owner for $12 in change. It took the jury two hours to convict, according to local news accounts, and just seven minutes to arrive at the penalty of life in prison.

Knoll was released in 2019, a few years after the U.S. Supreme Court decreed that life sentences for children and teens amounted to cruel and unusual punishment. But after five decades inside, his body still behaved as if it were in prison. It forced him to awake daily at 5 a.m. He still caught himself calling the bedroom his cell and a bowl and plates his tray.

Even after his nieces spent weeks teaching him to use a smartphone, he got overwhelmed by its apps and struggled to make a single call. But prison also taught him to survive. Old heads on his cell block had mentored him. They showed him he had value in something to offer others. In prison, he got his high school diploma and learned enough about the law to file appeals.

While inside, he won a Spirit of Philadelphia award for creating a center where imprisoned men could play with their visiting children. He filled the space with books, paintbrushes, and games. But the most precious thing prison gave him? It was there he met his wife, Susan Beardnall, a volunteer from a local church.

They married in 1984 in the sparse visiting room, not knowing because of Noel's life sentence whether they would ever truly be together. I lost three brothers and two sisters while in prison. I missed every funeral, wedding, graduation, he said. It's hard to explain, though, to people that I don't feel like I wasted my life. Yes, I did wrong and things were done to me that I felt were wrong, but all you have is what's in front of you.

Upon release, some men were eager to chat. Others were quiet and wary, distrustful that anyone would help without wanting something in return. Noel always made food the first order of business, giving them their first taste of freedom after years of having to swallow what others forced on them. "'Order anything you want, Frank,' Noel urged Hans as they sat down at a local diner.

"'Noel ordered bacon and eggs. The pastor asked for an omelet, but Hans shook his head. "'Not hungry,' he told the waitress. "'Just get me a black coffee.' It wasn't until after Hans went to change in the diner bathroom that he began to open up. He returned in jeans and a red flannel shirt and took a long sip of the coffee. "'I couldn't throw away them old clothes fast enough,' Hans said. He told Noel and the pastor he hadn't slept a wink the night before.'

I kept thinking about what I'd do when I got out. He showed them drawings in his notebook. There were sketches for a log cabin he planned to build on an Arizona ranch owned by his aging father. A new home for his new life. But because of his parole terms, he said, he'd have to stay in Scranton for at least another year.

"'The thing I gotta worry about is staying away from the old crowd,' said Hans. "'I'm fifty-five and been locked up four times already. If I start hanging around the same people, I'm gonna get dragged right back down.' The last time he was free, it was a fight that got him sent back, he said. "'My ex-wife's sister. Her boyfriend was beating her up. She called me to come get her,' Hans said."

When Hans arrived, the two were still yelling. Amid the argument, Hans said, a buck knife he used for hunting fell out of its case. The other guy said, oh, you're going to pull a knife on me? Hans recalled. So, Hans said he threw the knife away as police arrived. Hans was found guilty of assault and tampering with evidence, according to court records. Officers said they saw Hans threaten another man with a knife, then hide it between a cement wall and a tree.

I turned a simple assault charge into something much worse. An 18-month sentence into four years, Hans said. I know better now. If I ever try to break up a fight again, better believe I'm taking a cop with me. That's good, Frank, the pastor said, slapping him on the shoulder. You're learning. Hans said he'd been worried lately about a new argument brewing, one he feared could get him arrested again. Two weeks earlier, his girlfriend had called and said she wanted to see him when he got out.

But she let slip in the call that there was another man staying with her at the motel where she lived. For days, the call left Hans seething. "'I decided that I'm not going there,' Hans said. "'It's a fight just waiting to happen.' Noel nodded. With Hans finally opening up, he didn't want to lecture him or seem judgmental. So all he said was, "'Good choice, Frank.' Noel paid the waitress and the three men piled into the car."

While the pastor drove, Noel and Hans made small talk in the back about the different cell blocks they'd lived in. Hans recounted how he had given up alcohol while locked up and how hard it had been to stay away from prison hooch and drugs. Half an hour into the drive, Hans' thoughts returned to the girlfriend and her last call.

"'She's telling me they're best friends and nothing's going on,' he said from the back seat. "'But anyone knows. If you got another man in a hotel with you, taking you everywhere, come on, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out.' Hans had asked Noel to drive him to a friend's house in Scranton, but now he was going over their route. They'd be passing right by the motel, Hans noted, the one where his girlfriend was waiting. A quick stop. It would be so easy.'

Knoll told Hans they weren't able to get the TV, VCR, sofa, or stereo he'd asked for, but they had enough money for a few essentials if he wanted to stop at Walmart. Hans nodded, I need a wallet. He pulled out a debit card that the prison had given him upon release. On it was $159 earned from four years of prison labor. That now constituted his life savings and would need to get him through the next month.

Be careful, Noel warned. Every time you use it, the bank's going to take a heavy fee. They decided to take all the money out in one transaction at Walmart. But huddling over an ATM near the entrance, the two men couldn't figure out how. The machine was new and unfamiliar to both of them. Insufficient funds, it read at first. Then, indispensable amount.

After 17 minutes, they realized that the ATM dispensed cash only in $20 increments. In the men's aisles, they found a wallet, $14. They grabbed a belt, $12, to match the dress pants Noel had given Hans for job interviews, and a phone with a prepaid one-month plan, $84. Noel had forged a partnership with a non-profit for his pickups, and was starting to get donations from churches and prison ministries.

There was no pay in it for Noel, only enough money for gas, food, and a few clothes for the men he picked up. His most surprising donation had come just weeks earlier when Noel had returned to his old prison as a guest speaker for men with life sentences. The lifers surprised him with a $1,000 check for his cause, money painstakingly collected from prison jobs that paid as little as $0.25 an hour. They told Noel they were proud of him.

Of all the people in his new life, the neighbors on his block who knew nothing of his prison record, and the prospective employers who seemed to know it all too well, his old friends from inside were the only ones who understood everything he'd been through, he said. You got everything you need? Noel asked Hans as they headed to check out.

What Noel didn't tell Hans was that he'd interviewed at the same Walmart months earlier for a janitorial job. The store manager that day, a young woman with a cheery smile, told him, We could really use someone like you. She asked him how soon he could start and which night shifts might work best. The only thing missing, she said, was a background check. It took Noel a month and several calls to learn in an email that the store had decided to go with more qualified candidates.

The rejections often angered Noel's wife more than they did him. How qualified do you need to be to clean a bathroom? Beard Noel would fume. This is a man who has paid his debt to society. A man with so much to give, and no one will give him a chance. During Noel's five decades in prison, he had learned to farm and deliver calves and give them shots for pink eye. He'd been a dental technician, making false teeth.

He'd worked his way up to bookkeeper for his prison's correctional corporation, helping to tend its extensive prison labor industry. None of it mattered. In job interviews, he usually told managers up front about his criminal sentence. It was awkward, finding a way to bring it up and watching them struggle to respond. Each interview feels like getting tried all over again, he said.

He worried about being a burden to his wife, a retired computer programmer. It had taken them months to find someone willing to rent them a home in Norristown, and they'd paid tens of thousands they couldn't afford in medical expenses for Noel's ailing body and broken cavity-riddled teeth. To get out and not be able to contribute, that's not being a man, a real husband, Noel said.

Two days before picking up Hans, Noel applied for a job at Lowe's. Within hours, the store called him back. The manager wanted Noel to come in the following week for an interview. Noel spent the entire next day trying not to feel nervous. But he mentioned none of this to Hans as they walked out of Walmart and into the parking lot. Let's get out of here, Noel said. We've got to get you home.

As their car entered the city limits of Scranton, Hans' plans seemed to change. He had given them the address for a friend's apartment, where he planned to crash for the weekend. On Monday, he said, he planned to meet with his parole officer, then find a more permanent place to stay. But when the GPS app on the pastor's phone said to turn right, Hans told the pastor to ignore it. They're taking you through back roads. That'll take forever, he said. Keep going straight.

make a u-turn the pastor's phone said at the next intersection go straight trust me it'll take us right there hans insisted as they neared downtown hans told noel and the pastor that they could drop him off at the courthouse his buddy's house was a block from there he said and he could walk

We can take you all the way, though. You got all these bags, Noel said, pointing to the two Walmart bags and another one full of donated clothes his wife had packed for Hans. Please, we can take you there. Nah, I need a cigarette anyway. That way you guys can get going on your long drive back, Hans said. Drop me off at that corner.

The pastor pulled over. Noel helped Hans move his bags onto the street across from the courthouse, just outside an empty bar, still closed for the afternoon. All right, man, sorry we couldn't take you the whole distance, Noel said, shaking Hans' hand. But if you're all right, we're all right. Thanks, Hans said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I'm all right.

Noel eased back into the pastor's car, then thought of one last thing he wanted to say. He rolled down the window. Welcome back, Frank. Noel and the pastor were quiet as they drove away. Finally, the pastor said, It bothers me a little that he didn't want us to drop him off. Yeah, Noel sighed. I don't think he was going to his friend's house. Noel asked the pastor if they should have confronted Hans about the address and GPS directions.

I worry if the reason he pulled over was for a drink or for drugs, Noel said. I wonder if he isn't headed back to that motel, to the ex-girlfriend and the guy she's with. As they drove, Noel thought about the interview he had the next week with the store manager at Lowe's. He thought about a pile of prison letters waiting for him on his couch. More men looking for help and a ride to their new life.

He's going to get enough suspicion and doubt from everyone else now that he's out, Noel decided. He needs a lot, but he didn't need that from us. You were listening to The Washington Post, where William Wan writes, He spent 50 years fighting to leave prison. Now, he helps others get out. This article was published on the 12th of October, 2024, and was read by Sam Scholl for NOAA.

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