Margie Fishman|The News Journal
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Before Lori Alberts climbs under her rainbow-themed covers at night, she says goodnight to her guys.
The ones who got out and the ones still in.
Dozens of photos of her prison pen pals are tacked up on either side of the bed in Alberts' baby blue split-level in Smyrna. Some men appear icy and defiant; others crack easysmiles, savoring the sunshine alongside relatives.
Nearby, a quote from abolitionist Frederick Douglass warns: "It's easier to build strong children than to repair broken men."
After writing to roughly 300 Delaware inmates over seven years, Alberts, a blunt yet merciful cafeteria lady, does her best to mend frayed edges and gaping holes.
"If you just lock somebody in a cage, then they forget what they did wrong and they just know that you're mean," she says. "I would want someone to write to me and care that I was alive."
As chairwoman of Link of Love and Partnership in Reentry, the prolific 58-year-old spends all her free time outside of her full-time job advocating for and supporting inmates, ex-offenders and their families in Delaware.
That means coordinating support groups, gathering donations of furniture and other household items, tracking prisoners when they are moved abruptly,running interference withthe upper administration at the state Department of Correction, helping ex-offenders adjust to life without scheduled meals and recess, and sending personal notes and Christmas cards to her all-male felon fan base.
Some write back with endearing poetry; others outright proposition her.
"That lastsabout one letter," Alberts, whosemiddle part is goinggray,insists. "A real woman doesn't fall in love with a man on paper."
Instead, a real woman says "suck it up, buttercup" in a gravelly voice translated for print, responding to a prisoner griping about feeling hopeless, lonely and victimized.
Alberts is "straight up," says Rollin Laub, Link of Love's vice chairman. "That's why she gets the respect she does."
Laub, who resembles a more weathered version of rocker Alice Cooper,was sentenced to three life terms in 1975 for kidnapping and raping a nurse. After serving nearly 40 years at theJames T. Vaughn Correctional Center in Smyrna and petitioning for a reduced sentence five times, Laub was released in 2015.
"I never lost faith about getting out," he said. "[Lori] built that hope up. There is always a chance."
STORY: Delaware to pay $7.5 million to settle Vaughnprison lawsuit
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Alberts took theregistered sex offenderinto her home, where "Toy Story" meets "Prison Break." Amid an army of Smurffigurines and handmade cards from prisoners decorated with swirling roses and calligraphy are a handful of coffee mugs labeled and ready to be claimed.
There's the Florida-themed paradise mug for Warren, who was locked up at age 16 without parole. He is now in his forties and hopes to get out on work release sometime around next IndependenceDay, says Alberts, who has "watched him evolve and devolve."
Song buff Alan has dibs on the "Let there by music" mug, while sarcastic Chris gets "Good morning is an oxymoron."
Alberts keeps the mugs pristine and patiently waits.
More than once, she has received pages of cramped penmanship on yellow loose-leaf detailing an inmate's plans to harmhimself.
"If you kill yourself today," Alberts tells him, "today will be the worst day of your life. And you won't have any chance to get any better."
Postcards from the SHU
Alberts rises at 7:30 a.m. every Saturday, gulps down her coffee and spends the next seven or so hours feverishly typingat her kitchen table.
The former Air Force sergeant won't go more than two weeks without responding to an inmate's note; she writes about 75 men a month – occasionally, 16 in the same day.
All of this effort is meticulously tracked in dozens of three-ring binders teetering on her bookshelves –organized by name, not serial number–and in a barely decipherable grid on her bulletin board.
Not surprisingly, Alberts calls her alter ego, "super wonder batty woman –emphasis on batty."
"If I was incarcerated and the only lifeline I had to the outside world was some crazy lady who was writing me," she reasons, "I wouldn't want her to stop."
Alberts admits that she'll cutand pastethe same personal stories from her week tosave time. Around Thanksgiving, she wrote the inmates about a family tradition of going around the dinner table and asking each guest whom they would choose to have dinner with if they could pick anyone dead or alive.
Alberts chose her late husband and Indian freedom fighter Mahatma Gandhi.
One teary-eyedinmate responded in his letter that he would pick his grandmother, the smartest, most beautiful, selfless woman he knows.
Other prisoners prefer tocomplain about the guards who they say are disrespectfulat best or, at worst,physically abusive. They tell Alberts stories about being denied hot water for coffee, cleaning supplies for their cells, and, in more egregious cases, receiving inadequatemedical care.
Alberts responds with tough love, Dr. Phil-style. She reminds the inmates to focus on their rehabilitation process, file grievances according to prisonprotocol and hang tight. Meanwhile, she pesters the DOC — "they think I'm a mosquito" — enlists lawyers fromthe American Civil Liberties Union and follows up with her extensive list of contacts as any real-life superhero would.
Other prisoners appear more aloof in their notes, inquiringabout the weather on the outside, or scribbling 18 pagesabout how many pens and pencils they have collected.
Some write for a few months and are never heard from again. "No foul play is suspected," Alberts is told.
She signs every letter "beLieve in God,"(emphasis on live). Albertsis against both capital punishmentand extended solitary confinement in the "SHU."
There are cases of DNA evidence exonerating prisoners after they succomb to lethal injection, she notes.
And throwing someone in solitary can lead to lasting psychological and behavioral problems, along with increased recidivism and a hefty bill for taxpayers. Vaughn, alone, houses some 2,500 inmates. Each onecosts the state about $36,000 a year, according to DOC statistics.
Leading the world in the number of people locked up, the U.S. incarcerates 2.2 million people in prison and jail – a 500 percent increase since the war on drugs ramped up – according to data from the Sentencing Project.
Alberts believes in repaying society for your misdeeds, but also supports "compassionate release" when a prisoner no longer poses a threat.
"Are you who you were 34 years ago?" shesays. "Have you spent 34 years in hell?"
"Staying there until he dies isn't going to bring back the life he took."
"For the majority of guys, they don't do anything," she continues. "They're warehoused."
"At least in solitary, they have air conditioning."
Beyond the wall
Alberts has been a driving force for state prison reform both before and after the Februaryrebellionat Vaughn – an 18-hoursiegethat endedwiththe deathof corrections officer Lt. Steven Floyd.
At the time, inmates demanded better counseling and medical treatment, along with job and educational opportunities. Earlier this month, the state agreed to pay $7.5 million to settle a federal lawsuit filed by Floyd's family and six other prison workers taken hostage during the standoff. It is believed to be Delaware's largest payout in a civil suit settlement.
The situation has improved under Vaughn's new warden,Air Force Lt. Col. DanaMetzger, according to Alberts. Metzger established an inmate advisory committee with adirect line toher administration.
"For the most part, correctional officers have toned down quite a bit," Alberts says.
Herpen pals know she has their backs. One sold his breakfast tray to send Alberts a holiday card. Another asked Albertsto write the man a few cells over because he hadn't received a single letter in four years.
A group at Sussex Correctional Institution made purses out of folded paper and sold them to raise money for Alberts' organizations. Then there are the sentimentalportraits that landinAlberts' Dover post office box, including one of Martin Luther King Jr. and a cartoon version of Alberts floating above metal chains. The man who sketched it died in prison.
Part Irish, part Native American, Alberts grew up in Hawaii as a military brat, the youngest of three children. A devout Christian, she joined Link of Love in 2008 after her niece, Heather Hamlett, founded the program to support the mothers and wives of incarcerated men.
Hamlett eventually went back to school and joined the state correction department as a counselor; Alberts inherited the program.
At the time, the mother of twohad no direct experience with the incarcerated. Her nephew has been in and out of jail, she says, but none of her close family members got caught up in that.
"I kinda always thought that they may not be my older brother, but they are somebody's loved one," she says.
Alberts rarely asks what led her pen pals behind bars. But she knows that who they are when they come out is largely determined by how they are treated in jail.
She paraphrases a quote repeatedover the years by spiritual and political leaders: To gauge a society's humanity, one must look at how it treats the most disenfranchised.
Alberts can recite by heart the portion of Title 11, Chapter 65 of the Delaware code that deals with the rehabilitation of the incarcerated: The Department of Correction, the law reads, was established "to provide for the treatment, rehabilitation and restoration of offenders as useful, law-abiding citizens within the community."
Dissatisfied with DOC's pre-release training, Alberts hands out her own pamphlets, including a re-entry checklist of important identification documents, a job search log, a list of felony-friendly companies, and a sample cover letter explaining the ex-offender'scriminal record. She also provides resources for emergency housing and medical care.
As their release dates approach, many inmates panic that they won't be able to integrate seamlessly back into society, Alberts says. She spoon-feeds them information in an attemptto closethe revolving door of prison life.
It doesn't always work out.
One ex-offender, who stayed on Alberts'couch shortly after his release,ended up getting drunk and assaulting an elderly woman during a home invasion. Alberts still writes to him in prison.
Some prisoners' families want nothing to do with their incarcerated relatives, going as far aschangingtheir last names and movingout of state. Alberts encourages them to stayin contact, but admits that "it's not a requirement that you have to love your loved ones."
Alberts and Laub check in periodically atthe Society of St. Vincent de Paul in Dover, which provides temporary housing to a half-dozen ex-offenders. Joe McLaughlin, a longtime St. Vincent de Paul volunteer, says he's impressed by Alberts' determination given her skeletal volunteer staff.
"I don't see anything for the [prisoner's] family out there other than Lori," he says. "When you total all the little things, it's huge."
Alberts, who is most comfortablewearingbrightly-patterned scrubs and a silver cross,holds Memorial Day barbecues at her home for ex-offenders. She has kept in contact with about 60 of them.Some promise to advocate for their friends still behind bars — until theyget busy with theirnew homes, wivesand babies.
Recently, Alberts and a half-dozen other donors with Partnership in Reentry raised nearly $400 to provide Christmas for an ex-offenderand his family.
Earlier this month Jonath Chapman and his wife steered their cart through a Walmart in Dover, diving intoHatchimals, Shopkins andfuzzy kitten jammies for their granddaughter, Mackaleigh Slaughter, of Georgetown. When the register tally came toonly$333, Alberts sent them back for more.
"This is a blessing," declared Chapman, a disabled55-year-old built like an offensive lineman. He served three years at Vaughn, after being convicted of stalking and harassing a former girlfriend and, subsequently, violating probation.
On Dec. 16, the6-year-old Slaughter stooddumbfounded by the tables of gifts, along witha bicycle, lined up for her at Centennial United Methodist Church in Smyrna. After more donors kicked in, hergrand total of Christmas cheer came tonearly$1,000.
"All these presents are for you," Alberts told the blonde-hairedchild.
"Nah," came the reply.
"Yeah, they are."
Molested as a child and raped as a teenager, Alberts hadher innocence stolen, but sheneverlostthe capacity to forgive. Today,she's still more comfortable locked in a room with rapists, murderers and drug dealers, she says, than being on the outside with the guards.
"I always believed that the police are the good guys," she explains. "And when they cross the line, it is more damning than when a criminal acts like a criminal."
Asked if she would write to notorious pedophile Earl Bradley, Albertsnodswithout hesitation.
"I love my guys," she says.
Contact Margie Fishman at 302-324-2882, on Twitter @MargieTrende or mfishman@delawareonline.com.
To donate
Link of Love and Partnership in Reentry are asking for donations of stamps, paper, cards, pens, canned food, personal hygiene products, cleaning supplies andclothing. Contact Lori Alberts at 302-659-5633.
