Success Stories

ARTICLE: Six Rrison Success Stories & Learn About Criminal Justice Reform

Education can lower recidivism rates & encourage success for life after prison. Read 6 prison success stories & learn about criminal justice reform.

Group of smiling graduates in black robes and caps, clapping in a room with stained glass windows.

Ample research and results show that education has a massive impact on lowering crime rates and reducing recidivism — the likelihood of individuals returning to prison after release.

A study by Emory University found that:

Individuals who complete some high school courses have recidivism rates around 55%.
Vocational training cut recidivism to approximately 30 percent.
An associate degree drops the rate to 13.7 percent.
A bachelor's degree reduces it to 5.6 percent.
A master's brings recidivism to 0 percent.

If someone in prison receives the opportunity to learn an industrial skill or acquire knowledge in a specialized field, not only do they rarely return to prison (less than 10%), but they also go on to build businesses, create jobs, and inspire their local communities.

This shouldn't sound new to any of us. We all know education can be effective. But what does it actually look like in the context of individuals who are incarcerated? How does education actually change lives?

Below are six stories of individuals who turned their lives around and illustrate the impact that applied education can have on career building and community impact — even after incarceration.

1. Sean Pica — Hudson Link for Higher Education

Sean entered prison as a 9th grade New Yorker with a 24-year sentence. He said he had little hope in himself or any sort of redemptive future.

Over the past two decades, hundreds of men and women have earned college degrees — while incarcerated — through Hudson Link. Partnering with Stand Together, the program has grown from three to five prisons, reaching more than 600 students.

But, when he began reading children's books to fellow inmates and teaching them how to write letters to their loved ones, Sean witnessed how learning created a flicker of joy amid the isolation.

Soon, he enrolled in an organization called Hudson Link, a degree-granting program in prisons, and took college classes. Through that experience, he saw how the minds and hearts of individuals transformed through education and how it helped them learn about themselves and what was possible once released

After Sean was released, he went on to earn 400 credits from Nyack College and two master's degrees from New York Theological Seminary and Hunter College. In 2007, Pica returned to lead Hudson Link as its executive director.

Today, Hudson Link's programs provide postsecondary education to thousands of men and women in prison, less than 2% of whom return to prison, compared to the rate of 68% nationwide. Pica's work saves New York State taxpayers over $21 million per year, and that number continues to increase.

2. Kenyatta Leal — The Last Mile

Growing up with an absent father, Kenyatta's dealing with drugs and robbery with firearms led him to a life sentence in the San Quentin, California prison at the age of 22.

Photo of Kenyatta Leal, a Hudson Link graduate — *"Software engineers who are judged by the quality of the code they develop," says Kenyatta Leal, "not by the stigma of criminality."*

But when he turned 25, someone gave him a chance in spite of his past and hired him full time. He went to real estate school and asked plumbers and electricians questions like, "How did you fix that?" He learned quickly.

In prison, Kenyatta learned about The Last Mile, an entrepreneurship program for inmates. "I was always looking for a way to channel my entrepreneurial energy and gift."

The Last Mile inspired Kenyatta to launch Code.7370, an education program that teaches incarcerated individuals how to code.

To overcome the challenge of no internet connection, Code.7370 created a proprietary programming platform that simulates a live coding experience. Once inmates graduate, they're invited to join TLMworks, the first web development agency to provide individuals coming out of prison with the opportunity to earn a living, professional wage.

Kenyatta now helps train Fortune 500 companies to hire and retain employees who are exiting the criminal justice system, to create more inclusive work opportunities for those starting their second chance.

3. Richard Miles — Miles of Freedom

From ages 19 to 34, Richard spent 15 years in prison for serious crimes he didn't commit.

Wrongfully incarcerated for 15 years, Richard Miles founded Miles of Freedom to empower people transitioning out of prison with the support they need to flourish and lead productive lives.

Even after his release, employers and apartments offered him nothing. "The perfect mixture for recidivism," he wrote, referring to the obstacles he faced over and over again upon release.

When the case Miles vs. State of Texas exonerated him completely, he had one mission: to give men and women re-entering society housing, employment, and the opportunity to regain the dignity to rebuild their lives.

Miles of Freedom offers educational classes, including a three-month Job Readiness Workshop, which results in financial literacy, resume building, and placement with employers.

Stay up to date

Sign up for the Strong & Safe Communities newsletter for stories, ideas, and advice from changemakers breaking cycles of poverty and bridging divides.

4. Hector — Getting Out and Staying Out

A group of Getting Out and Staying Out program participants in a gymnasium — *Getting Out and Staying Out has emerged as one of the most effective re-entry programs in the country, with 86% of program participants never returning to prison.*

During his time at the infamous Riker's Island prison in New York City, Hector regularly corresponded with Getting Out and Staying Out (GOSO), one of the most active re-entry programs in the New York City area for 16 to 24-year-old men.

During his five year sentence, Hector received study materials and career counseling. While incarcerated, Hector earned his High School Equivalency diploma, obtained a Masonry certification, and facilitated the prison's Alternative to Violence curriculum.

Since his release, Hector completed a successful internship at a Brooklyn-based bakery, Ovenly, one of GOSOWorks' employer partners, and was hired as their head of porters.

His story of transformation is one of many, as 86% of GOSO participants never return to prison and many have earned degrees or certificates from leading colleges and universities.

5. Tim Arnold — Lawn Life

By the time he was 18 years old, Ohio-based Tim had 27 convictions on his record and spent the next six years incarcerated. "By everyone else's account, I was a failure."

In 2008, he launched Lawn Life, a nonprofit that employs formerly incarcerated young men and teaches them work ethics and business skills.

Today, Lawn Life has hired over 700 at-risk youth in five different cities.

6. Marilyn Barnes — Root and Rebound

In and out of prison for 20 years, Marilyn struggled with drug addiction. Her time in California prison as a young woman made things even worse.

With the help and guidance of Root and Rebound's Roadmap to Reentry guide, Barnes went on to earn her master's degree in education, authored the book From Crack to College and Vice Versa and founded a non-profit, Because Black Is Still Beautiful.

Having experienced systemic problems firsthand, Barnes' education fuels her passion to help people break free from the cycle of recidivism.

Source: CBS News (www.cbsnews.com)

ARTICLE: From Pimp to Paralegal: The Redemption of Taquarius Ford

In the beginning, he particularly focused on geriatric inmates, studying their cases, and helping them reduce their sentences.

A person in a gym

Description automatically generated Taquarius Ford's story isn't your average tale of a man who made a mistake, did his time, and walked quietly into the sunset. His is the story of transformation raw, honest, and unapologetically hopeful. Once a notorious pimp, Taquarius now walks the legal corridors as a paralegal, driven by an unshakable mission to right not only his past wrongs but to help others do the same.

Convicted in a prostitution bust after exercising his right to a trial, Taquarius found himself staring down a lengthy prison sentence. The court's hands were tied by mandatory-minimum sentencing laws, despite Chief Judge Marco Hernandez himself acknowledging that, in his words, "I have seen evil defendants before and that is NOT Mr. Ford." There were no minors involved, no violent offenses, but still, Taquarius paid the price. Yet, that price wasn't the end, it was merely the beginning of something remarkable.

It was behind bars that Taquarius experienced what he calls a "spiritual awakening." While many might see a prison sentence as the final chapter, for Taquarius, it was the first step toward redemption. He hit the ground running, enrolling in every available theology course and becoming an autodidact in criminal and civil law. But learning wasn't enough. He wanted to apply that knowledge especially to help the people around him. He particularly focused on geriatric inmates, studying their cases, and helping them reduce their sentences.

And he didn't stop there. His love for learning led him to the Duke University School of Divinity's prison-to-collegiate program, where he studied theology and law side by side, while also penning several books on personal transformation, law, and spirituality.

In prison, Ford became a paralegal, taking on real cases, helping fellow inmates navigate the maze of legalese that often leaves them lost. In fact, he saved a fellow inmate's life, quite literally, by responding swiftly when the man was assaulted and left for dead. Taquarius's quick action and ability to get the medical help that revived the man is a testament to his dedication not just to the law, but to humanity.

What sets Taquarius apart is that he didn't waste a single moment. While many inmates waited for time to pass, Ford was working. Whether it was learning, mentoring, or advocating, he was determined to make his time count. His legal skills, empathy, and focus have earned him the respect of both inmates and prison staff alike. His dream now? To pass the bar exam upon his release and help those who cannot afford legal representation.

Taquarius is particularly focused on mentoring young men, especially those who have made poor decisions like he once did. His advice comes from experience, not theory, and his impact is profound. He speaks openly about his remorse, offering his life as a warning and a guide to others. Every day, he makes amends for his past through his work, his faith, and his deep penance. He has never shied away from admitting that he was wrong, and his actions show his commitment to a better future.

Ford's story challenges the stigma often attached to people with prostitution-related crimes. Studies show that individuals convicted of prostitution offenses are statistically less likely to re-offend, especially when given the chance to rehabilitate themselves. And Taquarius is living proof. His journey from pimp to paralegal isn't just a headline-grabber; it's a call to rethink our justice system and how we treat those who have fallen but are ready to rise again.

Taquarius Ford deserves his second chance, not because he asks for it, but because he's earned it. Through his actions, he's proven that people can change, that redemption is possible, and that even in the darkest of places, light can shine through. Ford's ultimate goal is to help others find that light to be the mentor, advocate, and paralegal they need but may never be able to afford.

As Taquarius continues his journey, one thing is clear: his story is far from over. And if his work inside the prison walls is any indication, his future is bright not just for himself, but for everyone whose lives he touches.

ARTICLE: I Was Sentenced to Die in Prison. But After 27 Years, I’m Finally Free

I Was Sentenced to Die in Prison. But After 27 Years, I’m Finally Free

When I went to jail in 1995, I had never used the internet. As I play catchup, the simplest things are everything.

Filed 6:00 a.m. EST | 02.24.2023

An illustration shows Bobby Bostic, a Black man, opening a refrigerator door. Light shines out of the refrigerator. Photos of family are on the side of the refrigerator. A white dove flies above, and the background shows a pattern of leaves and plants.

Shyama Golden for The Marshall Project

By Bobby Bostic

For almost three decades, my life as a Missouri state prisoner was a matter of numbers. I was only 16 when I took part in robberies that resulted in 17 felony convictions. I was just released on parole a little over three months ago, at age 43. And one thing I can honestly say is that life is beautiful on this side of the fence.

Without the tyranny of the numbers, the simplest things make me feel liberated, like being able to reach into an ice box and choose what I want to drink. It’s a celebration every time I open the refrigerator door and see the light shining on all the food inside. Then there’s the joy of getting up and taking a bath with no time restrictions. I even hear birds chirping in the morning.

I can fully appreciate how precious everyday moments are because I lost my freedom so long ago. No one was killed or seriously injured in my crimes, but they took place in 1995, during the youth “superpredator” panic. Among my 17 felonies were first degree robbery, attempted robbery and armed criminal action. I will never forget the moment at my sentencing hearing when the judge told me, “...Bobby Bostic, you will die in the Department of Corrections.” I was 18.

Technically speaking, I didn’t get the death penalty, or even life in prison — a sentence that would have made me eligible for parole in 15 years. Instead, the judge ruled that I would serve my sentences consecutively, for a total of 241 years. As if it mattered. I wouldn’t be able to even apply for parole until age 112.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen: In 2021, the Missouri state legislature passed a law inspired by my case that gives people who committed their crimes before age 18 a better chance at parole. They did so with the blessing of the judge in my case, who had retired and apologized for imposing such a long sentence on a teenager.

I walked out of Algoa Correctional Center in Jefferson City, Missouri, on Nov. 9, 2022 — exactly one year after my successful parole hearing. The weather was great, and my family was waiting for me. So were my attorneys and Evelyn Baker, the retired judge who had sentenced me.

Although I’m out of prison, I’m not totally free. I lost my final appeal in 2018, so I still have to serve the remainder of my sentence. I will probably be on parole for the rest of my life.

But prison taught me to never take anything for granted. For instance, I love seeing my 2-year-old great niece running around, and I listen closely to her chatter. I can’t understand her words, but we are still able to communicate with one another. I often think about how her mother — my niece — wasn’t even born when I was arrested.

Top of Form

Another one of my great nieces just had a daughter of her own, named Miracle.

Because almost everything in the world is new to me, sometimes I feel like I’m the newborn. Many of the places where I used to live or hang out have been torn down or stand vacant. I’ve lost count of how many of my peers are dead or incarcerated. The little kids I babysat before prison have children taller than me.

It might be hard to imagine, but when I went to prison, I had never used the internet or a cellular phone. I still don’t know how to swipe my credit card without someone’s help. Things like GPS and Alexa also leave me dumbfounded. While prison slows everything down, time flies in the free world. I can feel my perception of time shifting. There just aren’t enough hours in a day to get everything done.

I am not complaining; I’m grateful for my full days. I have my own one-bedroom apartment, and I drive myself everywhere I need to go in the car that I purchased. I work at Dear Mama, an organization that provides basic needs to poor mothers, which I co-founded with my sister. I am also a motivational speaker, a published author, and I own a publishing company called Mind Diamonds, LLC.

Now that I know how to use the internet, I run the Instagram and Twitter accounts my loved ones started when I was in prison. Besides the human body itself, the internet is the most amazing creation I have ever seen. I can’t believe how much easier it has made life on earth. Soon, I will release a new book, “Humbled to the Dust: Still I Rise.” It’s a fitting title for a memoir by a man who is living in gratitude, a man who is finally in the free world.

Bobby Bostic, a St. Louis native, was released on parole in November 2022. During the 27 years he spent in prison, he wrote 13 books, including “Dear Mama: The Life and Struggles of a Single Mother” and “Life Goes on Inside Prison.” Follow him on Twitter and Instagram using @FreeBobbyBostic.

Source: The Marshall Project (www.themarshallproject.org)