Regaining Her Halo in the City of Angels

Jacqueline Hendricks was sentenced in 1990 to federal prison for drug conspiracy and possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance. After serving time in various institutions, last July she was sent to spend the last six months of her sentence in a halfway house where newly released prisoners live while looking for work. This is her story of a convicted felon’s search for a job.

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In all the days that became the months, then years, Los Angeles was what I wanted, the beacon signaling home. For six years of incarceration, to be home and all that this dream meant motivated me. There was a reason to climb out of the bunk, to listen to the constant complaining, to tolerate the incomprehensible and, yes, to rake rocks in the hot Arizona sun. It was the promise of home, the City of Angels.

I had envisioned a return that included a flight from Phoenix into LAX, but my route was a detour through San Diego with arrival in L.A. at the bus station. I stepped out of the bus and breathed the unique exhaust, sea, air scent of the city. A close friend arrived to take me to a halfway house in Inglewood. I would live there until I found a job so that I could get my own place.

It sounded so simple. Find a job. The economy is growing; the unemployment rate is dropping.

First, compose the resume and cover letter. What were my job objectives? In prison, I had spent 4 1/2 years working as a law librarian. I learned a great deal about federal criminal case law and procedure. In addition, I had taken two paralegal classes, so I wrote “to obtain a position doing legal research and writing.”

Education? “B.S. and M.S. in education.”

Work history? I filled in the spaces from 1986 to 1996, 10 years of work history, using active verbs stressing the positives and my skills. I had worked from the first week in prison until the day I left. I had job skills. I sat and composed the sheet that would sell me to the city with the great job market.

I networked with friends I met while incarcerated, a definite nono, but no one else was offering fax access, a computer, laser printer and telephone. The Sunday paper came and I scanned the tiny rectangles that in five lines describe a job. Additionally, I read the Daily Journal, the legal newspaper with its own job listings.

Each morning, full of hope and optimism, I left the converted Mardi Gras motel at Prairie Avenue and Century Boulevard with bus tokens to seek my fortune. And so began a pattern--ride downtown, read the Daily Journal, prepare a package to be sent to those law offices that needed a librarian, clerk, administrative assistant, general office support or messenger.

The responses to my letters and resume were minimal. From 75 plus firms and growing, I received no acknowledgment.

I sent resumes and cover letters to the legal temporary help agencies. I was called for an interview at one of the five contacted. The helpful director of the agency advised that I downplay the prison experience. She gave me one useful suggestion: “Contact all the criminal attorneys in town; explain your situation. Ask if you can do legal research for them. They will understand.”

My job search continued. I altered the cover letter, eliminating any mention of my incarceration. I revised the work history to make it appear I was employed by the Bureau of Prisons. It was deceptive, but I needed to at least get the interview.

Of course, when the employment application was presented, there it was: “Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If so, please explain.”

In years of working before prison, this was a non-question--N/A or no. Now it had to be answered. It must be like this to get old. I felt as if I was the same person, but I’d been marked. As one fellow inmate used to cry to me, “I’m dirty.” It is a dirt that can’t be washed, or brushed, or swept, or bleached or hauled away. And so I straightened my shoulders and said, “I am what I am. I am a good person. I violated one of the laws of the United States. I didn’t hurt anyone, no murder, no violence, no gun, no victims. Yes, conspiracy.”

Silly me, thinking that I had paid the bill and it was time to move on. I kept spinning out resumes and getting nowhere.

And how hard it became not to internalize, not to take the rejection personally, but after 10 weeks, I sometimes cried. I wanted so much to start this life in the free world quickly, hit the ground running. I needed a car, an apartment, clothes--I had only the basic prison issue jeans and T-shirts.

But it wasn’t to be. Welcome home. There were no yellow ribbons. As one attorney pointed out to me, “All things being equal, an employer is going to pick the one without the prison record.”

There it was, a harsh reality that I had not truly considered. It was me, the me I’ve always known, personable, sense of humor, even keeled, educated, but now one description that overshadowed all the others--felon.

I did not resort to the advice of one temp recruiter: “Lie. Have some friends in L.A. lie for you, saying you worked for them all these years.” He told me bluntly that there was no way his company could place anyone with a felony conviction. So I was placing myself, calling all the criminal attorneys.

My two children are now independent young adults. They have become a part of the work force, each with their own place. I am a weakened person, and I approach them from my position of need. I raised them on my own, a single parent, an independent woman and strong caretaker. Now my place in their lives is a squeeze.

This was not the return of the prodigal mom. I was not prepared for the great difficulty in rejoining the angels. I often asked myself if there was a date marked somewhere when I would have satisfied the requirements of membership and all the angels of the city would shake my hand and say, “Congratulations, you made it.”

I now understood why many people return to the “comfort and security” of “three hots and a cot” in a jail. But that is a backward step, and I refuse to back up, no matter how hard I am pushed. Just stepping off the bus was not enough; it was only a first step.

The week of Oct. 7 was typical. I read the want ads. I saw one ad that was unique: “Demanding boss, hard work, low pay.”

I answered in kind. “Been there. Done that.”

And so it happened. My response was well received. I went for an interview that Friday.

The attorney, a sole practitioner, confirmed that she was demanding and detailed what the hard work--general office / legal clerk responsibilities--would be.

She asked why I went to prison. I said, “I carried two kilograms of cocaine from L.A. to Seattle.”

She asked if I was going to do that again. I said no. She said, “Good, that’s all I need to know.” She offered me the job. Did anyone hear me shouting? At that moment, no one could have been happier than me.

I started work last Monday. It took 11 long weeks, but finally I can begin to rebuild.