The Fight Against Crime: Notes From the Front : Woman Offers Ex-Cons a 2nd Opportunity

Claudia Ryan is a believer. She has been raped. Her daughter has been kidnaped. And she doesn’t profit from helping ex-cons.

Yet, she does it anyway.

Eight months ago, Ryan, 47, essentially turned her back on her own economic security and opened a residential home for parolees in North Hollywood so ex-cons will have a softer landing once they get out of jail.

None of the other stuff matters. Nor does it matter, says Ryan, that she doesn’t understand precisely why she picked ex-convicts to care about in the first place.

“I don’t know exactly,” she admits. “It’s something I don’t really have an answer for. I know, it doesn’t seem to make sense, but it makes perfect sense to me.”

One possibility, she said, is that her own bouts with the criminal justice system, particularly after her rape 26 years ago, brought less than satisfactory results.

“I’ve dealt with the system for years, so I know how frustrating it can be,” she said. “It makes you feel like you’re nothing. You’re worthless.”

The Claudia Ryan Center, occupying the site of the North Hollywood shelter on Laurel Canyon Boulevard, houses about 25 male ex-cons. Among them is a murderer, a couple of people convicted of attempted murder, robbers and burglars.

Ryan, who sports several large turquoise and silver rings on her fingers and wears her fingernails painted pink, said she feels comfortable around them.

But being the lone woman among a group of men who in some cases haven’t seen a woman in a decade makes it necessary for a few rules. “I explain to them that when I give them a hug, it’s just that and nothing else,” she said.

She calls them “my guys.” Some of them call her “mom.”

All are here voluntarily and pay about $200 a month to room at the center. They do chores, handle most of the cooking and adhere to a 9 p.m. curfew.

In return, they get security and Ryan helps find them work. So far, her guys have gotten jobs working in auto parts stores and doing construction, plumbing, retail and telemarketing work. A couple have even landed jobs at a major Hollywood studio.

She also sets them up in mandatory counseling--whether that means Narcotics Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous or Bible study. Drugs and alcohol are forbidden.

The men also take part in discussion groups with kids at schools and erase graffiti on neighborhood walls. Because they want to avoid heat from the police and their own temptation, the parolees have also chased away the drug dealers who used to hang out in front when the building was still a homeless shelter.

“It’s not just an idea of living clean and sober and working, but also giving back to the community and working with kids,” Ryan said.

In case anyone gets the wrong idea, Ryan says she is neither on a mission from God, nor does she have any interest in saving the world. “I’m no do-gooder,” she says, with unconcealed disgust. “I don’t want to save the world. I want to help the people that want to help themselves.”

Ryan, a graduate of Taft High School, grew up all over. Her grandfather, the warden at the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kan., used to bring inmates home, including one woman accused of hacking her husband to death.

“My grandfather told me, ‘Just because someone has done something wrong doesn’t make them a bad person,’ ” she said.

A few years before her mother died from drug and alcohol abuse, Ryan had begun to counsel substance abusers. She eventually became a job placement counselor at a prison.

In 1968, Ryan was raped by a friend’s boyfriend--a crime she said made her hate the system.

“They put me through questioning like I was the one who raped him,” she said. “Then the guy jumped bail and was never found. I had to watch my back for years.”

In the end, however, Ryan, ever the survivor, is optimistic about herself and her guys.

“Things do work out,” she said. “You just have to have a lot of patience . . . and believe in yourself.”