“It’s not even just as simple as, oh, I wake up in prison every day and that in itself is a reminder of the harm that I’ve caused,” Coleman said. “It’s the way that I choose to live my life. It’s being in AA. It’s being a part of these DUI programs. Sharing my story in those spaces, that’s what keeps me sober.”

Her story is a hard one to tell.

On Dec. 8, 2020, Coleman ran a red light and slammed into a car carrying a family of five. Gabriela Andrade and Henry Saldana-Mejia were killed. Their three young daughters, strapped in the backseat, were injured but survived.

DUI-related homicides often leave victims’ families and entire communities searching for answers. Without any intent to harm, the person responsible is frequently left trying to reconcile the person they were with the damage they caused.

More than 1,300 alcohol-related driving deaths occur each year in California, though it’s difficult to know exactly how many of those cases lead to criminal charges or convictions, since state murder statutes don’t separately track DUI-related homicides.

Coleman is now serving her sentence at a time when California’s approach to prison rehabilitation continues to shift. Gov. Gavin Newsom has pushed reforms designed to better prepare incarcerated people for parole and successful reentry into society. After decades of tough-on-crime policy, the state has increasingly embraced trauma-informed programming and second-chance opportunities for those willing to examine why they did what they did.

That kind of self-examination is not something every offender is ready to take on — some need years, some decades, some never get there. But Coleman said she began working on herself almost immediately.

“In the beginning, I was like, all right — I clearly got to get therapy,” she said. “I need to get my mental health in check. Clearly something is wrong with me if I just woke up and found out I killed people. This doesn’t just happen.”

While awaiting trial in Orange County Jail, Coleman met face-to-face with relatives of Andrade and Saldana-Mejia — a rare occurrence, especially before a conviction. Her defense attorney, the judge, the prosecutor and the family’s lawyer all helped arrange the meeting. Coleman listened to the family’s grief and tried, through her own tears, to answer their questions.

“As a daughter, and as an only daughter, I knew that feeling that my parents were my everything,” she said. “And I just couldn’t even, like, stand the fact that I had taken away the two most important people in a child’s life.”

Soon after that 2022 meeting, Coleman pleaded guilty to two counts of murder and was sentenced to 21 years to life in prison.

“For me, it definitely started with that day,” she said. “Any bit of denial that I was stuck in was gone. Any bit of selfishness that I still had — and caring about myself and what was going to happen to me — didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. But it definitely at the same time brought a sense of hope versus just all of this devastating hopelessness.”

Jeff Roberts, who represented the victims’ family, recalled meeting Coleman during that private sit-down and later during depositions for a civil wrongful death lawsuit. “I did get to know Grace a little bit, and I know she’s got a story too,” Roberts said. “She had a bit of a broken situation, even though she seemed like a young lady of privilege.”

Roberts said he hopes Coleman will eventually leave prison and continue warning others about the dangers of drunken driving and substance abuse. He admitted he was surprised her sentence doesn’t come with a guaranteed release date.

“Grace needed to serve a good length of time,” Roberts said. “But I don’t think she needed to serve a life sentence, because quite frankly — that she killed two people and left three people orphaned is a life sentence. Emotionally, she won’t forget about that.”

Coleman’s ordeal began in a hospital bed, where she woke up groggy, sedated and confused. Her left arm was in a sling; her right wrist was cuffed to the bed rail. A nurse gave her the barest details while a police officer stood by in silence.

“I didn’t know what happened, who I killed, how I even got into my car that night,” Coleman said. “Because the last thing I remembered, I was nowhere near my car — so I had a lot of questions.”

She was later moved to a jail medical unit under COVID lockdown conditions, with visits suspended and communication limited. It took weeks for her to fully understand what had happened.

Her boyfriend had dropped her off at home shortly before the crash. What should have ended with her stumbling toward her front door instead ended with her getting behind the wheel of her Range Rover in a blackout, fueled by alcohol, drugs and the tension of a troubled relationship.

In jail, she began meeting with a private mental health specialist who was allowed to see her despite pandemic restrictions. Coleman said she had always believed in therapy but had never fully committed to it before.

“I talk about it like an identity crisis, because you’re stripping away layers of yourself and going through such a huge transition in your life,” she said.

Weekly sessions and newfound sobriety helped her examine what had led to her substance abuse — a deep lack of self-worth, codependent patterns and years of trying to be the person who always said yes.

“The crime would have never happened without deep levels of alcoholism, and then, bringing it back to the reasons why I drank or how I even ended up in these alcoholic states,” she said.

As a 22-year-old white woman from Laguna Beach, Coleman worried how others in jail might view her privilege. Her case had been covered on local television, and many recognized her. To get by, she said, she needed both humility and self-assurance.

She leaned on her faith to manage anxiety she once numbed with alcohol, marijuana and Xanax. With little formal programming available in jail, she created her own routines — organizing nondenominational worship and recovery groups, collecting positive affirmations, cooking with others and carving out space to practice yoga and meditation.

When old friends visited, they were struck by how healthy she looked compared to the years when she had been drinking heavily.

“That party girl version of me was something that I had to let go of,” she said. “I struggled with that for sure because I felt it was like a part of who I was — being fun and being social. But I realized I could be all of those things without needing to be like, you know, that horrible blacked out friend.”

Her guilty plea reflected her desire to move forward, even though she had little understanding of how the state prison system worked. During her 18 months in county jail, she learned that CDCR could offer more structured rehabilitative programs and education opportunities than she’d had access to before.

When Coleman arrived at her first state prison in fall 2022, other DUI offenders welcomed her into peer support circles, where she heard stories that mirrored her own and realized she wasn’t alone in carrying guilt, shame and grief.

She became active in Alcoholics Anonymous and later discovered Felons Against Distracted and Drunk Driving, known as FADD.

The transition to prison made consistent mental health treatment more difficult. Phone sessions with her old therapist weren’t the same as in-person visits, and the prison health system assigned her a rotating cast of psychiatrists and psychologists, each with different approaches.

Within prison culture, seeking mental health treatment could also carry a stigma — some feared it might be seen as weakness or hurt their chances before the parole board.

“I come from the generation who very much believe in mental health and therapy as a positive thing and, like, a healthy thing,” Coleman said. “So coming into the prison system and there being this whole stigma, but also fear of it, was very different to me.”

As she adjusted to long-term incarceration, Coleman gravitated toward rehabilitation-focused programs rather than the more disruptive behaviors some young offenders fall into. That often meant spending time with women decades older than her who had been incarcerated for far longer.

“Everybody’s older than me,” she said. “I’m always the youngest by like 20 years.”

Watching some of those women grow old in prison, without guaranteed release even after parole hearings, made her question her own future.

“I look at older women in here and especially like older women who do the same things I do,” she said. “Because one day, they could be me or I could be them. Having a life sentence, I know that my way home isn’t promised.”

For a long time, Coleman resisted psychiatric medication, worried it might undermine her hard-earned sobriety. She leaned instead on exercise, yoga, peer support and her faith.

In October 2023, she was transferred to the lower-security California Institution for Women in Chino, which offered more programming and a calmer environment. She began teaching yoga, took a leadership role in AA meetings, and joined Responsibly Driven, a curriculum designed to help DUI offenders understand and change the decision-making patterns that led to their crimes.

She also took on a vocational training assignment in audio-video production, joined the prison newsletter team and was appointed to the Inmate Advisory Council. Still, she continued to wrestle with anxiety.

Sabrina Limon, who has been incarcerated since 2016, befriended Coleman early on, bonding over their shared commitment to sobriety and the 12 steps.

“You could see her anxiety just all over her face and body language,” Limon said. “It just looked like she was searching to find like, ‘What am I supposed to be doing? Where do I go?’ And you could really really see that anxiety on her.”

Limon, 46, said she had long avoided mental health treatment herself, wary of rumors that it could hurt her standing with the parole board.

California Institution for Women eventually opened an onsite guidance center, making counseling more accessible without requiring inmates to be formally classified as psychiatric patients. The open approach made it easier for Coleman to seek help, and she eventually agreed to try antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication under psychiatric supervision — something she once thought conflicted with her sobriety.

“Anxiety is a part of like my daily life,” Coleman said. “It’s something that I ignored for a very long time and why I turned to alcoholism and smoking weed in the first place, so I think acknowledging my anxiety today is really important.”

Watching Coleman work through therapy inspired Limon to seek treatment of her own.

“I’ve seen such a change in Grace as far as her anxiety goes and really working on her mental health one-on-one with a therapist,” Limon said. “I decided I’m gonna go check it out for myself. And sure enough, thanks to Grace, now I have a therapist. It’s wonderful. It’s helping me so much.”

Because she was 22 when she committed her crime, Coleman qualifies as a youth offender under California law, making her eligible for a parole hearing in 2033. What happens between now and then, she said, will shape how the board views her.

“Rehabilitation isn’t presented to us on a silver platter or silver bunk beds,” Coleman said. “It’s something that we actively work for.”

She runs laps on the prison’s rec yard even when Chino’s summer heat climbs past 90 degrees, though she says her yoga mat remains her most reliable refuge. Drugs still circulate through most prison populations, and staying clear of that world requires constant vigilance.

Coleman lives in a housing unit built around a code of personal accountability, home to the prison’s Puppy Program, where residents train rescue dogs to become service animals. Participants must remain free of disciplinary violations and agree to regular drug testing.

“You see a lot of people who want to start doing better and who want to be in like a better living environment to stay sober,” she said. “They come over here so that they feel like they have a positive support system to get out of the mix.”

Coleman keeps herself occupied through outside partnerships as well. She shares her story through UCLA’s Sentencing Project, writes poetry through the nonprofit Poetic Justice, and participates in restorative justice discussions organized by ReEvolution, a group that brings formerly incarcerated mentors into the prison to talk about the cycles of harm — both experienced and caused.

Barbara Van Sickle, ReEvolution’s executive director, has worked with Coleman in group settings for some time.

“I’ve seen her get to a place where she’s living in responsibility, accountability, and remorse, and not feeling that she can move forward,” Van Sickle said. “But I believe she’s working through that with a lot of introspection and is beginning to find her value again.”

Original source: CalMatters

The post Behind Bars at 22: One Woman’s Journey to Understand a Fatal Mistake appeared first on The Hemet & San Jacinto Chronicle.

With his hands cuffed behind his back, Morales walked across the prison’s upper yard before dawn. An officer stayed close, holding his arm as they crossed the empty yard. For 19 years, that was how Morales experienced nearly every moment outside his cell: restrained, escorted and separated from others under the rules governing condemned prisoners.

Morales, whose murder case began in San Bernardino County, was among hundreds of men sentenced to death who have been transferred out of San Quentin as California dismantles its traditional death row. The shift follows Gov. Gavin Newsom’s 2019 executive order halting executions in the state and later steps to close the condemned housing unit and remove the execution chamber at San Quentin.

The move does not erase Morales’ death sentence. He remains condemned and has no current path to parole or release. But it has dramatically changed his day-to-day life, placing him in a lower-security setting at California State Prison-Sacramento, commonly known as New Folsom, where he can live and participate in programs more like other incarcerated people.

For Morales, the first sign of that change came after a long wait in a small holding cage at New Folsom. Officers eventually removed the handcuffs.

“That was weird right there,” Morales said. “But it felt good, too.”

The transition from San Quentin’s condemned unit to a general prison population is part of a broader debate in California corrections: whether prison conditions should be centered on punishment and isolation, or whether even those convicted of the most serious crimes should have access to programs, education and mental health support.

Dave Lewis, a retired facilities director for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, said public sympathy for condemned prisoners is often limited. Still, he said, the state has an obligation to maintain conditions that do not further damage a person’s mental health.

“Creating opportunities for self-improvement and programming really goes a long way,” Lewis said.

Morales’ path to death row began more than two decades ago in the Inland Empire.

Born in Honduras, Morales came to the United States when he was 17. Johnny Morales is not his birth name; he said his real name is Mario. Johnny was the name he had used to obtain legal work, and it was the name in state records when he was arrested.

On June 9, 2001, Morales joined a group of six men who targeted drug dealers for robberies. According to Morales, one member of the group said he knew of a methamphetamine lab that would be easy to rob. Morales agreed to drive.

When the group arrived, they were unsure where the lab was located and split up to enter separate buildings. Morales said he soon heard a gunshot from the other building. The others ran out, saying a woman, Elia Torres Lopez, had been shot in front of her young children.

As Morales drove the group away, he recognized the victim’s name. He had met Lopez socially and had danced with her several times at a club they both frequented. He learned the next day that she had died.

“The moment I agreed to go with these people, I agreed to be a part of whatever happened,” Morales said. “I have to be responsible.”

Morales said he spoke little English when he entered San Bernardino County Jail about a month after the shooting. He said the experience of facing the courts and jail staff in a language he did not understand pushed him to learn English quickly.

He was the only member of the group arrested in connection with the killing. Prosecutors pursued the death penalty after he refused a plea deal and declined to identify the others involved. In 2005, a jury convicted him of first-degree murder with special circumstances because the killing occurred during a robbery. The same jury later sentenced him to death.

Within days, Morales was transferred to San Quentin.

By then, he said, reading and education had become essential to his survival. As his English improved, he read constantly. He also relied on religious study for comfort. Raised Catholic, Morales later converted to Judaism while incarcerated.

Life on death row, he said, was defined by confinement and death. His cell measured about 4 feet by 11 feet. When condemned prisoners were moved through open areas, they were handcuffed or shackled. Other incarcerated men housed at lower security levels were required to stop and turn away when condemned prisoners passed.

Morales was on death row during California’s last two executions: Stanley “Tookie” Williams in 2005 and Clarence Ray Allen in 2006. He said he did not know them personally, but he remembers the atmosphere before they were put to death.

“The officers, the inmates — everybody knew what was about to happen,” Morales said. “You know someone’s coming to kill your neighbor tonight, but there’s nothing in your power to help your neighbor.”

Executions have been rare in California, which has long been divided over capital punishment. The state Supreme Court struck down the death penalty in 1972, calling it cruel or unusual punishment. Lawmakers later moved to restore capital punishment for certain crimes, and voters codified the death penalty in 1978. In 2016, voters approved a measure intended to speed up executions.

Three years later, Newsom issued his moratorium, saying the state would not carry out executions while he remained governor. The order did not commute death sentences, but it began a transformation of how California houses condemned prisoners.

Morales said that while executions were uncommon during his years at San Quentin, suicides were not. He estimates about 40 men died by suicide in the condemned unit during his time there.

“It was very hard, because you get to know people,” he said. “We’re going through the same thing.”

Outside his cell at San Quentin, Morales said, the only time he could interact without restraints was during limited recreation periods, when small groups of condemned prisoners were released into segregated outdoor areas. Showers, religious services, visits and other activities took place in cages or other controlled spaces.

The isolation worsened during the COVID-19 outbreak that swept through San Quentin in 2020. Morales said he was among the first condemned prisoners to test positive. He recovered, but others around him died.

“That really hit me hard,” he said. “Everybody has hope to one day go home. That’s the last thing you lose in this kind of place.”

Support also came from outside prison. Through a Jewish care network for incarcerated people, Morales was paired in 2022 with Liz Silver, a Marin County woman who became his pen pal. Their letters soon turned into phone calls and prison visits. Today, both describe the other as their closest friend.

Silver said she was struck by Morales’ persistence and hope despite his circumstances.

“There was an integrity about him,” she said. “How did this person, in this little teeny size of a cell, have the hope and the drive? I saw that about him, and I admired it.”

Morales said he also benefited from San Quentin’s mental health staff, who walked the tiers of East Block checking on condemned prisoners and offering counseling.

“I’ve never been afraid of asking for help,” he said. “If you can get help, why not?”

Morales was moved to New Folsom two years ago after the state began transferring condemned prisoners to other institutions. Because of his strong disciplinary record, he qualified for the lowest security level available to someone with no current possibility of parole.

New Folsom, built in the 1980s, has historically been known as one of California’s tougher high-security prisons. But the yard where Morales now lives was converted to a lower-security, non-designated setting. In prison terms, that means it generally accepts incarcerated people from groups that may be targeted elsewhere, including openly LGBTQ prisoners, former gang members, sex offenders and others who might not be safe on more rigidly segregated yards.

Such facilities typically emphasize education and rehabilitation. Prisoners who cause violence or serious problems can be moved to higher-security settings, while those who follow the rules and participate in programs can remain in the lower-security environment.

The change was disorienting for Morales. When he first arrived, he said officers sent him to pick up state-issued clothing and bedding. For the first time in years, he stood near staff without handcuffs and without a barrier between them.

“I was just trying to remain calm,” he said. “I want them to know I am not a violent person.”

Four days after his arrival, Morales was assigned a cellmate. It was the first time he had shared a cell with another incarcerated person. Although the cells are larger than those at San Quentin, sharing living space required skills he had not used in nearly 20 years.

“To me, it’s more opportunity to reconnect with what I call being normal,” Morales said. “When you live in the cell by yourself, who do you complain to? I’m learning to communicate.”

On the New Folsom yard, Morales can play chess and handball, talk with other prisoners and move between areas without the same restraints he knew at San Quentin. He said the atmosphere has allowed him to focus more directly on personal growth.

His bilingual ability quickly became useful. Remembering how difficult it had been to enter jail and prison without understanding English, Morales began tutoring Spanish-speaking prisoners when he could. The prison’s education department noticed and gave him work as a clerk and teaching aide.

He later applied for and was accepted into the Peer Literacy Mentor Program, which trains incarcerated people to help others study for GED coursework. Morales has also enrolled in his first community college course, English 101. Through the college program, he received a laptop and submits assignments electronically.

Morales said the opportunities have changed how he thinks about rehabilitation. For years, he believed staying out of fights, avoiding drugs and alcohol, and following prison rules meant he was becoming a better person. At New Folsom, he said, he has come to see rehabilitation as deeper work.

“I really want to rehabilitate myself,” he said. “I want to do it the right way.”

Much of that work, he said, comes through conversations with others serving long sentences who have spent years examining the harm they caused. Sometimes he tutors others; sometimes, he said, he is the one learning.

Silver continues to visit Morales on weekends and said she has seen him wrestle openly with remorse.

“He is so remorseful about his crime and that a mother was taken away from her children,” Silver said. “He’s accepted everything. Sometimes I feel like he’s accepted it too much.”

Morales said speaking about the crime brings back pain, including the trauma he caused Lopez’s family. But he believes confronting that harm is part of the work he must do.

“It’s hard to process,” he said. “When I think about all the harm and damage, I’m just blessed to be alive. We never gave the victim the opportunities that I have now.”

Original source: CalMatters

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PERRIS, CA — Due to maintenance and rehabilitation projects, 91/Perris Valley Line service will be interrupted on Saturday and Sunday, June 22-23, 2024.

That weekend, 91/Perris Valley Line trains will not operate between the Perris-South and Riverside-Downtown stations. Alternate bus transportation will be provided at all stations between Perris and Riverside. Expect delays as the buses negotiate traffic congestion.

Safety is foundational at Metrolink, and we are regularly working to ensure our system’s long-term safety and reliability in the communities we serve. We apologize that these necessary infrastructure enhancements result in the closure of the rail line and the inconveniences it causes our riders. We will continue to look for ways to minimize the impact of these closures as best as possible as we continue this critical work.

• Will the buses be able to carry bikes?
  • Yes, but not all of them. We work with bus charter companies to have space for both luggage and bicycles, but the compartments are not necessarily designed to secure bicycles. When we can secure buses that routinely provide public transportation, traditional bicycle racks are located outside of the buses.
    
• Are the buses ADA-accessible?
  • Yes. At least one bus will be ADA accessible within each scheduled bus group providing alternate transportation.
    
• Why will trains be delayed by up to 1 hour late?
  • Buses will take the fastest, safest route available; however, we can experience delays from 30-90 minutes due to traffic. It takes buses longer to travel between Metrolink stations than our trains.
    
• Do I need to buy an extra ticket to ride the bus?
  • No. Your Metrolink ticket is all you need.
    
• Where do I catch the bus?
  • • Perris-South Station: 1304 Case Road, Perris CA
  • • Perris-Downtown Station: 121 South C Street, Perris CA
  • • Moreno Valley/March Field Station: 14160 Meridian Parkway, Riverside CA
  • • Riverside-Hunter Park/UCR Station: 1101 Marlborough Avenue, Riverside CA
  • • Riverside-Downtown Station: 4066 Vine St., Riverside CA
• 
  Will there be personnel at the stations to assist us?
• Metrolink will make every effort to have staff at stations with bus bridge service. For additional assistance, call or text 800-371-LINK (5465).

The post 91/Perris Valley Line Trains To Be Out Of Service June 22-23 appeared first on The Hemet & San Jacinto Chronicle.

In conjunction with a presidential proclamation designating April as Second Chance Month, the initiative is part of the Biden-Harris administration’s goal to provide meaningful redemption and rehabilitation for formerly imprisoned persons.

“Justice-involved Veterans deserve an opportunity to fully reintegrate into society,” said VA Secretary Denis McDonough. “During Second Chance Month, VA is taking action to enable Veterans committed to rejoining society, post-incarceration, by expanding the use of a web-based tool to identify and connect them to needed VA care, while also restoring VA benefits faster.”

In partnership with the Social Security Administration and Bureau of Prisons, the Veterans Benefits Administration is working diligently to streamline information-sharing processes among these three agencies to ensure VBA receives prison release dates for Veterans within 30 days after release to improve timeliness to reinstate benefits as applicable.

Currently, Veterans bear the administrative burden of restoring benefits post-incarceration. Once released, a Veteran notifies VA, the department then must obtain verification of prison release dates from corrections facilities. This multi-step process causes a delay in the restoration of a wide range of health, rehabilitation and subsistence benefits for Veterans. It also hinders their successful and full reintegration into our communities. Through collaborative information-sharing, VBA will ensure the load is on the agency, not the Veteran.

Assistance available to impacted Veterans includes:

• Expansion of VA’s existing outreach campaign to state prison systems and jails to increase the number of Veterans to whom it can offer individualized reentry services and connect more Veterans to post-release services while they are still incarcerated.
• Assistance through VA’s Veterans Reentry Search Service, a free web-based tool criminal justice partners and prison and jail staff can use to identify incarcerated Veterans and connect them to needed services post release.
• Help through Health Care for Reentry Veterans and Veterans Justice Outreach which make up Veterans Justice Programs. Its mission is to identify justice-involved Veterans and engage them through outreach to facilitate access to VA services at the earliest possible point.
• Outreach by Veterans Justice Programs specialists for the purpose of linking Veterans to needed Veterans Health Administration services and other community resources.  

The Bureau of Justice Statistics reports there are approximately 107,400 Veterans in state or federal prison. Following release, these Veterans are at increased risk of homelessness, suicide and death by drug overdose — that’s why it’s vital to re-connect Veterans to VA care and benefits to which they may be entitled, post-incarceration.  

More information on Second Chance Month and its offerings can be found at the National Reentry Resource Center.

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