‘This is my way out.’ In Maine, remote work gives prisoners a lifeline.

By Katie Johnston Globe Staff: Original Post

Every weekday morning at 8:30, Preston Thorpe makes himself a cup of instant coffee and opens his laptop to find the coding tasks awaiting his seven-person team at Unlocked Labs. Like many remote workers, Thorpe, the nonprofit’s principal engineer, works out in the middle of the day and often stays at his computer late into the night.

But outside Thorpe’s window, there’s a soaring chain-link fence topped with coiled barbed wire. And at noon and 4 p.m. every day, a prison guard peers into his room to make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be at the Mountain View Correctional Facility in Charleston, Maine, where he’s serving his 12th year for two drug-related convictions in New Hampshire, including intent to distribute synthetic opioids.

Remote work has spread far and wide since the pandemic spurred a work-from-home revolution of sorts, but perhaps no place more unexpectedly than behind prison walls. Thorpe is one of more than 40 people incarcerated in Maine’s state prison system who have landed internships and jobs with outside companies over the past two years — some of whom work full time from their cells and earn more than the correctional officers who guard them.

A handful of other states have also started allowing remote work in recent years, but none have gone as far as Maine, according to the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison, the nonprofit leading the effort.

Unlike incarcerated residents with jobs in the kitchen or woodshop who earn just a few hundred dollars a month, remote workers make fair-market wages, allowing them to pay victim restitution fees and legal costs, provide child support, and contribute to Social Security and other retirement funds. Like inmates in work-release programs who have jobs out in the community, 10 percent of remote workers’ wages go to the state to offset the cost of room and board. All Maine DOC residents get re-entry support for housing and job searches before they’re released, and remote workers leave with even more: up-to-date résumés, a nest egg — and the hope that they’re less likely to need food or housing assistance, or resort to crime to get by.

Some crime victims would rather have their perpetrators “rot in hell” than see them have these kinds of privileges, said Randall Liberty, commissioner of the Maine Department of Corrections, and victims are notified, and their concerns considered, when offenders line up remote jobs. Executives say they have also encountered apprehension, at least initially, from community members and coworkers when they hire incarcerated people.

Tensions can arise inside prison walls, too, given the vast income disparities with residents working in the kitchen or woodshop who make far less. But there hasn’t been much grumbling, especially since those who land outside employment often give up more desirable prison jobs that then become available to others, said Laura Rodas, Maine DOC’s director of adult education. The DOC is in the process of formalizing its remote work policy, which will open up opportunities to more residents.

The benefits are undeniable, Rodas said: “The systems that we’ve set up to send people home with virtually nothing makes no sense at all if we want them to become good neighbors.”

More than anything, incarcerated residents say, these jobs give them a sense of purpose and dignity. And hope.

“You build this identity of being a convict and it just becomes so ingrained, and you start to drink the Kool-Aid and think that that’s all you’re resigned to do,” said Thorpe, 32.

Thorpe was a “pretty big computer nerd” growing up, he said, and started coding 12 hours a day when he got access to a laptop to take college courses during the early years of the pandemic. In time, he established trust with the DOC staff, and started helping the education department’s IT staff manage its network.

Thorpe has been promoted twice in his first year at Unlocked Labs, which is working to make education more accessible in prison, and said he’s had several other employment offers. He’s anxious to return to Michigan, where he recently used his earnings — which he didn’t want to reveal publicly but are on par with typical tech salaries — to buy a house across the street from his parents.

“This is my way out,” he said.

The shift in Maine toward prison as a place of redemption accelerated in 2019 when Liberty was appointed commissioner. Liberty — who first set foot in the old Maine State Prison as a 6-year-old visiting his father and started making changes when he became warden there in 2015 — increased educational and vocational opportunities and introduced new programs to treat addiction and mental health issues. Treating these “foundational causes” of crime, along with trauma, poverty, and neglect, Liberty said, is key.

“What more can we ask of these residents than to redeem and become pro-social and contribute to the community?” he said.

Something seems to be working. In Maine, 10 percent of people who served time in state prisons are back in custody within a year, on average, compared to 31 percent in a survey of 18 states.

But there’s been resistance to the Maine DOC’s progressive ways. Liberty said he was reportedly called a “liberal activist” by a high-ranking government official. And some of those affected by crime may balk at the idea of incarcerated people working remotely.

The ability to make good money could make it seem like they aren’t being held accountable, said Renee Williams, chief executive of the National Center for Victims of Crime. But they’re still locked up, she noted. And if this work experience sets them up for success once they’re released and the community is safer for it, she said, everyone wins: “No one benefits from a correctional system that only seeks retribution.”

In the Maine prison system, residents who want to work for private companies must comply with treatment plans and behavioral standards, and abide by internet limits and laptop monitoring. Phones aren’t allowed, but video calls are. The corrections department is also considering finding a way to designate an additional portion of their salaries for funds to assist fellow inmates, though some remote workers don’t like the idea of having more of their earnings taken away.

Remote workers’ wages must be commensurate with nonincarcerated coworkers — some make $18 an hour, while a few make over $50,000 or even $100,000 a year — for doing everything from data entry to product design to qualitative research. They’ve used their earnings to enroll in master’s programs, and help family members with car repairs, college tuition, and vacation costs.

Beyond Maine, there are roughly a dozen incarcerated remote workers in Kansas, Ohio, and California, according to the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison, and a few other states are actively considering it. The Massachusetts prison system doesn’t have a remote work program, though it recently increased training opportunities for tech and other in-demand jobs.

Victoria Scott, who was convicted of manslaughter in 2017, has managed to save nearly $30,000 through her work. She applied for supervised community confinement and was able to rent an apartment. She’s ready to show the world who she has become.