Residents Rattling Local Prison Bars : Economics: Del Norte County residents sought the facility to solve its money problems. But it has brought near-bankruptcy instead.

At one time, Norma Moell thought a state prison would be the economic salvation of Del Norte County, a remote, impoverished region in the northwest corner of the state.

She joined a committee of civic leaders formed to land a prison and was named petition chairman. The committee was so successful that the Department of Corrections in 1987 named Del Norte as the site for its next prison.

But in the years after the decision, the financial bonanza that Moell expected, she said, turned into a bust.

So she ended up joining another committee--this one formed to investigate the negative effects of the prison.

“This prison hasn’t helped us one damn bit,” Moell said. “This county was in bad shape before the prison, but now it’s in even worse shape.”

The rapid growth precipitated by the maximum-security Pelican Bay State Prison, which opened in December, has almost bankrupted Del Norte County. Last year, to stay solvent, the county borrowed $1.2 million from the state, after depleting its $1-million reserve fund providing services for the influx of new residents.

As a result of Del Norte County’s experience, residents in many other Northern California rural counties have realized that, contrary to the claims of many local businessmen, a state prison is not an economic panacea. In the last three years, five other rural counties near Del Norte have voted to reject state prisons. Residents in these communities brought in speakers from Del Norte County, many of whom complained about the spiraling county budget and a rising crime rate.

Now the Department of Corrections, which once had numerous Northern California communities vying for prisons, is “beating the bushes for prison sites,” said Judith McGillivray, head of community relations for the state prison system.

But McGillivray and many business leaders in Crescent City say the economic problems are only temporary and that the community has a much stronger financial future because of the prison. They point to a drop in the unemployment rate, higher property values and an increase in sales tax revenue. In a few years, they say, revenues from growth will catch up with county expenditures and the prison will provide the region with the economic stability it lacked for so long.

During the early 1980s, when civic leaders first tried to land a prison, Del Norte was one of the poorest counties in the state with an unemployment rate of more than 20% and all of its major industries severely depressed. Twenty years ago there were 17 sawmills in the area and now there is only one; there are only six dairies left, down from a high of more than 25; and the commercial fishing, once a mainstay in this region, was also on the decline.

“Our community was dying on the vine,” said Jerry Cochran, the county assessor. “We had to do something. . . . We had to find some kind of industry that would provide jobs.”

In 1984, Cochran headed a committee, organized by the Chamber of Commerce, to bring a prison to Del Norte County. Initially, the committee told residents it was seeking a minimum- or medium-security prison, and most residents expressed support.

But the Department of Corrections offered, instead, the largest maximum-security prison in the nation that could house almost 4,000 of California’s most hard-core prisoners. What irritated many residents was that the Board of Supervisors immediately accepted the state’s offer without letting county residents vote on the issue. Because there is no initiative process available at the county level, and because the supervisors did not call for an election, residents were stuck with the prison.

Many of those pushing for a prison had real estate interests or owned businesses that stood to benefit from a large prison project, critics of Pelican Bay say.

“We were tools in someone else’s game. . . . Some people made a lot of money off this prison,” said Dr. Richard Mize, a member of Concerned Citizens of Del Norte, a group that opposed the prison project. “And we got something completely different than was promised; we weren’t told what was happening until it was too late.”

Cochran said the Department of Corrections only offered a top-security institution, and the prison committee accepted because “when the security level is higher, there are more jobs.” And, he said, the committee agreed that a countywide vote “was a waste of money. . . . Every indication we had was that the vast majority of the people were on our side.”

It was not the inmates, sequestered in one of the nation’s most secure facilities, who had the most immediate effect on the community. Del Norte County has been inalterably changed by the thousands of construction workers, prison guards and employees of new businesses who flooded into the area.

The population of the county--about 22,000--has increased by 25% since the prison construction began, and within five years is expected to top 30,000. The growth and the construction of an enormous prison project in a small, rural county has required millions of dollars in improvements and expanded services. New roads have been built, utilities improved, county dumps and landfills expanded.

Dozens of teachers have been hired and new schools have been built. Because of all the new construction, the county had to hire more planners and building inspectors. And the sheriff and district attorney’s office had to hire personnel because the population boom caused the crime rate to soar, law enforcement officials say.

Some of the costs will be paid for by the state, but only costs directly linked to the prison, such as the expansion of the county courthouse and the construction of a new jail. The vast majority of the growth-related costs must be paid for by the financially strapped county.

“This county wanted the prison so bad they just gave away the farm,” said Mize, an emergency room physician. “Instead of doing some hard negotiating with the state over who is going to pay what . . . they just rolled over and got virtually nothing.”

During the 1980s, as California embarked on a massive prison construction project, many residents of rural counties considered vying for prisons. But the problems created by Pelican Bay--the first prison built in this region in almost 30 years--have discouraged nearby counties and raised questions about how much the state should contribute to prison communities. Since construction on Pelican Bay began, Plumas, Modoc, Tehama, Siskiyou and Lake counties all voted to reject state prisons.

“What happened at Pelican Bay woke us up,” said Laura Harris, a member of a group that successfully opposed a prison project in Modoc County. “A lot of people realized that a prison won’t instantly solve all your financial problems.”

Today, eight months after Pelican Bay opened, the controversy still divides Del Norte County. Some residents, including real estate agents, owners of big businesses and those working at the prison, have clearly benefited. Property values have more than doubled since the prison project began, and a number of new subdivisions, just a few miles from Pelican Bay, have been built.

Before the prison, the economy was so depressed that the largest supermarket in Crescent City was planning to close. But now there are a number of new supermarkets and chain stores in the county.

At the Koffee Cup, however, a small restaurant near Crescent City’s main drag, it wasn’t hard to find residents who were willing to turn away from their pie and coffee and rap the prison. Yes, they said, property values have gone up, but all that means for people making $6 or $7 an hour is their rents have doubled. Others complained that, while the prison has generated numerous jobs, most of them have gone to outsiders. Only about 20% of the correctional officers at Pelican Bay are from Del Norte County.

And some small merchants complained that the chain stores that recently opened have benefited the most from the population increase. Burt Rhodus, owner of Del Norte Feed, said during his lunch break at the Koffee Kup that his business has not improved. Most of the newcomers, Rhodus said, buy their garden supplies and pet food at the new Payless, rather than shop at his small, downtown store.

Many at the Koffee Kup said that although the county had been in a chronic recession they stayed in this remote backwater because they love the mountains, the towering redwoods, the rugged coast; they enjoyed the small-town life and distance from urban problems. But now the nation’s largest maximum-security prison is here and residents fear their community will never be the same.

“We’re all concerned about how this prison’s going to change the social fabric of our community,” Mize said. “We wonder if a lot of the prisoners’ families will start moving up here. . . . We wonder if there will be more drugs, more crime, more AIDS. . . . Our county officials tell us that somewhere down the line the prison will really boost our economy. But the question we all have is: Will it be worth it?”