Finding freedom behind bars

Looking at Danielle Barcheers, it's impossible to imagine her as a killer.

The perky 34-year-old often wears a smile and makes repeated apologies for the "mess" in her spotless cell. She comes off like a beam of light amid the 1,640 women serving time at the California Institution for Women in northern Corona.

She's come a long way. In 1997, 15-year-old Barcheers became the youngest girl in California at the time to be tried and convicted as an adult after helping murder her boyfriend's grandmother.

Sentenced to 25 years to life, politicians bragged about locking away a child they considered an uncorrectable bad seed — a distinction Barcheers found herself believing for a long time.

But in the 18 years since she first said goodbye to her physical freedom, she's found another way to free herself and other women as a mentor and certified drug counselor.

Most of these women were victims themselves, prison counselors say — victims of addiction, physical abuse, sexual violence and broken homes. But somewhere along the way, they became the victimizers.

Since Barcheers was sentenced, she's seen a 180-degree change in the political attitude about rehabilitation. Today, prison officials look to education, counseling and social programs to help provide the women their greatest opportunity to escape the cycle of violence.

Of those who are given a second chance, only half will make enough of a change to leave behind the mistakes and traumas that haunt them. But others find hope.

Barcheers may never banish the ghosts of her past completely, but she has made peace with them and, for the first time in her life, herself.

She was 15 and angry.

Abandoned by her father and subjected to physical, sexual and psychological torture by two of her mother's boyfriends for 13 years, court documents paint the picture of a girl lashing out at the world in which she saw and experienced so much evil.

When she was 14, she was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder and suffered from severe depression and suicidal tendencies, according to court appeal documents, none for which she was being treated, despite doctor recommendations.

She found solace in 16-year-old Jarred Viktor, her boyfriend and eventual co-defendant.

"Soon, Viktor too began to abuse Danielle," court documents read, describing instances in which Viktor would place lit cigarettes on her skin and carve a design onto her breast using a razor knife. "On one occasion, Danielle was on all fours, coughing up blood due to having ingested rat poison. Viktor left to go play hackee sack with his friends."

On Sept. 23 1995, just four days after Barcheers turned 15, she and Viktor went to his grandmother's house in the northern San Diego County community of Escondido in order to rob her. Once inside, there was a struggle, during which the two teens stabbed 53-year-old Elizabeth Carroll more than 61 times. She bled out on the floor while the couple ransacked the house.

"All I was thinking is that I was hurting and I wanted other people to hurt, too," said Barcheers, now 34, sitting on the bottom bunk in her cell at CIW. "Nobody heard my voice or believed what I was saying. I felt empowered through anger, through violence because that's what I had learned, that when I'm angry or upset that I act out, so that's exactly what I was doing — was acting out, unfortunately."

At 3:30 a.m., police arrested Barcheers and Viktor after a car chase that ended with Barcheers suffering injuries from the crash as well as several bites from a police dog. She was drunk and hadn't slept in 24 hours, court documents state. Questioned by police, she soon confessed.

After a relatively brief trial in 1997, Barcheers was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to 25 years to life. At the time, she was the youngest girl to ever be sentenced as an adult.

In a separate trial, Viktor was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.

The sentencing was cited in many speeches by then-Gov. Pete Wilson as an example of his tough stance on crime.

Two years later, Barcheers was granted a second trial after an appeals court overruled the original verdict saying her public defender erred by not presenting evidence of her extensive abuse and mental health problems.

Despite Barcheers’ history of abuse, prosecutors have repeatedly called her actions “indefensible.”

They argued that the couple lay in wait to kill Carroll, and that the couple had previously discussed what it would be like to commit a murder. Based on statements made to police and three juvenile females with whom Barcheers was originally incarcerated, they argued that despite her distress, the girl offered little evidence of regret for her actions.

She was convicted once again. In 2003, Barcheers’ attorney filed a petition in federal court asking for a third trial, which was denied. A federal appeals court agreed with the lower court’s decision.

Barcheers would have to serve her time.

The first decade or so in prison didn't have much of an effect on the lifestyle Barcheers was living.

"Prison was a location. It was just a place. I was still the same person," Barcheers said. "I kept doing drugs and drinking, relationships, running from my pain. I was a very bitter, angry, resentful person when I first got arrested and that carried through for a long time. ... My focus was very centered on prison living, getting by and surviving, because that's really what I'd done for most of my life."

She'd never imagined there was another way to be in prison, a mindset she now deigns naive, until she was transferred to the honor dorm at another of California's three women's prisons. There, women were actively working to better themselves while staying out of the prison yard drama. She decided to try being sober — a distinction she still calls the most important in her life nine years later.

One of her most vivid memories of her time there is of a Compassion and Self-Forgiveness class she took.

"I basically put it all out there, the worst thing I'd ever done and I was waiting for this man to punish me, to tell me I was a monster, I was worthless, I was horrible, because that's what I was telling myself," she said. "And when I finished telling him, he said, 'OK, now what?'

"At first I was mad! I was like, 'Now what?' Now you're supposed to tell me I'm horrible," she recalled.

But the 'Now what?' stuck in her head. She decided that life in prison meant just that — living life, only in prison.

The CIW's dorm-like buildings and festive murals could look like a Southern California college campus if not for the barbed wire fences, and its course and program offerings are almost as extensive.

Barcheers began to take advantage of everything the prison had to offer, earning a degree in business, a certification in drug and alcohol counseling and joining the prison mentorship program. Today, she counsels women who, just like her, have come in so wrapped in themselves they find it hard to look outward.

Classes such as Anger Management, Substance Abuse Treatment (SAT), Family Relations and Transitions help them to look at the world differently, whether it be recognizing the consequences of their actions to learning how to support themselves and their loved ones in a healthy and positive way. Some women are assigned coursework by the court, but many more choose to partake in the classes, said Correctional Counselor and Reentry Hub Manager Maggie Thorpe.

Since Thorpe began working in the California correctional system, she's seen these kind of rehabilitative classes grow exponentially, she said. Although the percentage of women who participate fluctuates, the number of courses and the waiting list for inmates who are interested in signing up is now so long she has to prioritize them by need.

"I tell them, 'You know yourself better than anyone else, so just be honest with yourself,' " she said. "I have had volunteers based on that."

Thorpe sees the pipeline from trauma to crime every day, especially when it's mixed with factors such as mental illness or substance abuse.

"With the women, our percentage is very high with women who have mental health issues and when you mix it with alcohol or other illegal drugs, it's just a bad combination," she said.

Other programs focus on furthering the women's education or giving them a chance to contribute to a feeling of community.

One of the more popular programs involves matching a woman with a future service dog. By spending almost 24 hours a day training and socializing the animal for its future helping individuals with physical disabilities, the women are given a sense of responsibility and service while relating to another living thing in a loving way.

For lifer and mentor Arlecia Kelly, taking care of her dog has been one of the most valuable experiences of her life, let alone in prison.

Her current dog, Zera, sits patiently at her feet, every once in a while nudging Kelly's hands for the stash of kibble stored within. She's trained two dogs prior, Kelly said, one of which was very shy and anxious and another that was very analytical and cautious.

"That was me when I was younger," she reflects.

In her nearly 20 years of incarceration, Barcheers said she's seen the political pendulum swing toward more punitive prisons and then back toward more rehabilitation-based facilities.

"We're definitely in more of a help mode," she said.

Watching the women come through the programs and emerge anew is the best part of her job, Thorpe said. She regularly gets letters from women on the outside who have continued their new lease on life.

"It's just finding the right program for them and if they're ready, because that's what it comes down to," Thorpe said. "We offer all the services, but if they don't want it, it's very hard."

Barcheers is far from the only success story. On Aug. 14, she and Kelly swelled with pride as they watched from the audience as the women to whom they opened their hearts and doors graduated from the SAT program — cap and gown included.

Seeing these women walk across the stage, celebrating often for the first time with cake and punch instead of alcohol and drugs, Kelly and Barcheers look back on the women who first came to them, many reluctantly.

"When I say I came in an angry person, I was really a rage-filled angry person, and so (working with the women) it diffuses my anger because I think that's just a really hurt person," Barcheers said. "Who's going to believe it's possible if I'm not doing it?"

For many of the women coming through CIW, these programs marked a turning point in their lives as well. Due to privacy concerns, many spoke to The Desert Sun under the condition of only using their first names.

Soon after being arrested for driving under the influence with her children in the car, Nicole found herself homeless and vulnerable.

She had been ordered by a Northern California judge to take a year-long parenting class, but when she returned to Oregon and couldn't find an equivalent, she grew frustrated.

Then she was taken in by people she thought were her friends. That's when her hell began.

"I was tortured physically and mentally every day for several months," Nicole said. "That pretty much paralyzed me. ... I was stuck in this house where I was being tortured and I couldn't move. It was almost like my legs were cut off. And finally one day, I don't know, something clicked and I just got up and walked away and I didn't go back."

After she was sentenced to prison time after failing to appear in court, Nicole was able to find the help and support she needed.

The structure of prison life and the ability to distance herself from her abusers help with the extreme anxiety she now suffers from after her trauma, she said, as does the firm and consistent pressure by her SAT counselors to push her limits.

"My counselor has made me do things I don't want to do at all, but she has me do them because I know it's better for me," Nicole said. "Without the SAT program, I wouldn't be able to go out in public and be human like I was before at one point."

After her imminent release, Nicole will attend a treatment program in Los Angeles, where she can be near family and continue to battle her anxiety.

The prospect of getting her children back is enough to motivate her to keep making progress, she said. But getting out is like walking a tightrope.

"I chose prison because it was safe and they couldn't get me in here. ... I'm a lot better in here than I was for the last three years before the DUI," she said. "But at the same time, I don't want to be in here, so I'm doing everything I can to take these classes to get out of here. ... I'm a walking contradiction."

Graduating just weeks before being paroled, Susan said the skills she's learned in SAT will be invaluable while making the tough transition to life as a free woman.

Arrested when she was 18 for assaulting a man who tried to molest her sister, Susan came of age in prison, getting clean from drugs and asserting her independence from her mother, with whom she served the first several years in prison.

Even though she had long been sober by the time she became involved with SAT and began training her service dog Hummu, the programs helped her come to terms with her past and allowed her to feel like she can contribute her community.

"They don't just focus on drugs; they focus on how you came to use drugs," she said. "It helped me look at myself in another way."

Overcoming the trauma of her boyfriend's death in a car accident during which she was driving drunk is an ongoing process. Doing so in prison is even more difficult.

"This place is the worst place to be," Ashley said. "This program, though? That helped."

Through the SAT program, Ashley was able to confront her drinking problem and begin to ready herself for release.

"It's like kind of therapy but it's intense," she said. "They bring it out of you and that's what I think we need is for them to pull it out of us no holds barred."

Now, as she waits to be released, she thinks of her family and counselors, whose support and visits have helped get her sober and begin to heal.

"I think I'm ready," she said. "I'm not fully recovered from the situation, but they did help me."

In just a few weeks, Tara will be released from prison for the 10th time.

Before her most recent stint for selling drugs and attempting to escape from prison, she was a perfect example of the 61 percent recidivism rate seen in the California prison system.

"I was adapted to the prison life and adapted to the chaos," she said.

The impetus for chance came only during her 10th sentence, during which she took full advantage of the SAT program, earned her high school equivalent degree and regained a sense of accomplishment she'd never had.

"I didn't have self worth or anything, but with SAT's help, I got my confidence back, I got my GED," Tara said. "I accomplished that and when I accomplished something, I was like, 'Whoa! I can do this.' I'm unstoppable. I felt like, who is this person?"

With her newly-found confidence, Tara is set on mastering her already considerable cooking skills at culinary school.

Looking back at who she was and all she's become, Tara would have some choice words for her past self.

" 'You're an idiot,' " she said with a laugh. Then she paused and straightened in her chair. " 'But you did it. You had it in you the whole time. Look at what you did. ... There's still hope and you deserve it and you are worth it.' "

Seeing these women she's helped get ready to reenter the world, talking excitedly about what their first meal on the outside will be — In-N-Out is a popular choice — Barcheers hopes that will someday be her. At the beginning of 2016, she’ll be able to apply for parole suitability, which she was denied once before.

While the reasons for her previous denial are not released publicly, according to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, most inmates are denied parole release after their first application.

Six general factors go into a sustainability hearing — the original crime, counseling and psychological reports, prison behavior, vocational and educational achievements, parole plans and involvement in self-help programs.

Many victim’s advocates aren’t happy with the possibility that those who commit violent crimes like murder could be set free.

“I am not a supporter of releasing early or providing additional support and services for ones that traumatize and victimize because the victims have to live a life sentence and ones that were murdered do not get another chance at life,” Founder and CEO of the Irvine-based Crime Survivors Inc. Patricia Wenskunas said. “They do not get educations, drug rehabilitation and their families will never have an opportunity to hold, kiss, or be with for the holidays, birthdays or marriages, child births. We believe the victims deserve justice and the offenders should not, should not be released on parole.”

Barcheers still has hope.

When she was sentenced, Barcheers said the political and social climate saw her as unable to be redeemed. She agreed for a long time.

"It was a very put-them-away fear-based reaction, like how are these young kids committing these heinous, monstrous acts and how can we accept them as human beings?" she said. "They must be genetically defective so let's lock them up and throw away the key and forget they ever existed. Only in the last handful of years have I seen that shift."

She understands that reaction.

"A woman didn't lose her life, it was stolen, it was taken from her, she was murdered," she said. "I can understand people thinking 'What right do you have for another chance? What right do you have to get to eat good food or watch a sunset as a free woman or maybe someday have kids? What right do you have to have when she doesn't get these things?' "

But she also understands how emotion-driven kids are, how feelings and impulses ruled her life at that time, and how she didn't have the coping skills to deal with her past trauma the way others might.

"Do I deserve parole? Not necessarily. But do I hope for it? Yes," she said, walking the Goldendoodle she cares for named Bronco back to her cell.

If Barcheers could somehow get a message back — to that hurting 15-year-old in Escondido, that rage-filled 19-year-old finding her way through the prison yard — both people that seem so far away from who she's become and yet are at the very core of who she is, it would be one of hope.

"I am not the worst thing that I've ever done and I don't have to be a hostage to the worst thing that's ever happened," she said. "There's hope and there's healing and I'm safe and I can keep myself safe. That I don't have to live hurt, that there's freedom from that. Wherever I am, there's freedom."

Anna Rumer is a public safety reporter for The Desert Sun. She can be reached at (760) 285-5490, anna.rumer@desertsun.com or on Twitter @AnnaRumer