Timothy Lopez is a sturdy man, with close cropped dark hair, a boyish face and a military-style vocabulary filled with "yes ma'am" and "no sir."
He's 30 years old, from Hispanic and Native bloodlines, a young man raised in chaos and the foster care system and then by an African American woman who became his guardian, but who he thinks of as a mother.
"She loved me nothing less than what a mother would, and gave me as much as she could give me," Lopez explains.
But it wasn't quite enough to keep him out of prison — for a more than 10-year stint — for a crime he committed at age 17.
Now, he's trying to get to a place in his life where he can say he's making it on his own, that he's succeeding.
As the Nebraska Board of Parole steps up its review of inmates for parole, mostly because of a pending declaration of an overcrowding emergency from Gov. Pete Ricketts that the law demands, a greater number of inmates could more quickly find themselves in Lopez's shoes.
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In the past 17 months, through May, the board held 2,700 parole hearings. And 1,546 — three out of five eligible inmates — were approved in that time to be released.
Many of them are coming out of a difficult prison confinement and into a complicated world. They are having to maneuver how to get support, a job, a driver's license and establish new relationships to keep them on a positive path.
Add to that the difficulties of a world filled with a deadly virus with restrictions of its own.
'Needs tremendous support'
Lopez was paroled at the end of January after serving 11 years, having entered, at age 18, a prison system already at 139% of capacity.
About half of his 11 years, he believes, he spent in segregation, which separates inmates into small confined spaces away from the general population with limited movement for 23 hours a day.
Some of that time he spent under the influence of a gang, establishing a reputation as a tough guy, a "thumper" who did the bidding of the gang's shot caller.
Jim Jones, founder of the Community Justice Center of Lincoln, eventually became a mentor to the young man after Lopez, as a 25-year-old, had given up hope and tried to hang himself in his cell.
Jones said Nebraska prisoners don't get enough help inside to aid in their transition back to society, including help with past traumas, mental health issues, drug and alcohol addiction, relationships.
In his , he screens inmates for adverse childhood experiences, which includes 10 questions about growing up with insults, humiliation, physical and sexual abuse, fear, lack of support, parents who are addicted or in prison. Those childhood experiences are linked to chronic health problems, substance abuse and a greater risk of ending up in prison.
A score of 4 or higher shows a person is at risk. The majority in his program, Jones said, score 8, 9 and 10.
Lopez went to prison as a teenager, but the trauma he suffered before prison, and then after he got there, put him in significant need of help, Jones said.
Given how violent he was in prison, JonesÌýsaid, Lopez's turnaround has been remarkable.
"Timothy, he's on his way, but he still needs tremendous support," he said.
Working to grow
Lopez lived with his mother and siblings until he was 6, when he was removed from his home and put into the foster care system. At 13 his foster mom became his official guardian until he turned 19.
His biological mother made it clear she didn't want him backÌýhome, he said. That rejection troubles him to this day.
In prison, he said, he felt abandoned, depressed, paranoid, lonely. Add to that segregation, a constricted room smelling of feces, urine, blood, and a worn out, smelly mattress to lie on, or sometimes just a metal frame. Nobody wanted to see him, he said, to hear him, to talk to him.
In lockdown, he deteriorated. He lost his mind, made poor choices over and over to get some kind of attention. He wanted someone to tell him things would be all right, he said, but that reassurance didn't come.
Six years into his sentence, Lopez lost hope and jumped off a top bunk to try to hang himself. That attempt at suicide left him in a coma and facing a critical road back to recovery.
But in 2016, he said, he was assigned a mental health practitioner who helped him, who didn't give up on him, and would fight with him through his recovery.
He survived, he said, and began to think about the possibility of change. By the time he was released on parole four years later, he had earned 12 certificates of achievement — in reentry programs, life skills and transition planning, a Thinking for a Change course, Moral Reconation Therapy, job readiness, communication and conflict resolution, personal finance ... the list goes on.
"What I love to do now is continue to grow," he said.
Staying focused, humble
The people who come to Michael House are all assessed by the Department of Corrections to be high-risk offenders, said Melissa Jauriqui, housing coordinator for the group of halfway houses where Lopez has lived for six months.
He has high praise for the help and support he has received there, and for Jauriqui in particular.
"She's very supportive in the things that I do, trying to build and become better," Lopez said.
When Jauriqui started this job, people told her not to worry if the parolees did not succeed, if they didn't stick around, if they ran off. They have minimal to bad to no support systems, she was told.
But she has seen them stay and improve.Ìý
"Honestly, I've had people complete the program," she said. "I've had people ... transition successfully."
There are three things they need, she has learned: Stability, support and proper identification.
In the 90-day program, the first task is to help them work on getting a job and establishing that much needed identification, beyond the grey card given to them as they leave prison, thatÌýallows them to cash the $100 checkÌýgiven to them by the state.ÌýThey need a birth certificate, a license, a state ID to be able to open a bank account and to get to job interviews.
The next thing to work on is finances and to understand how things work these days, with the internet, social norms, job interviews and cellphone etiquette, for example.ÌýThen they begin budgeting and saving for a car and insurance and housing of their own.
Lopez says he was scarred by his time in segregation, and carries around the stain of his crime and his gang involvement. Many parolees need help to move to who they are outside the prison walls, and who they could become.
The board will require as a condition of parole that the offender refrain from engaging in criminal conduct and can require the offender to submit to periodic testing for drug and alcohol use. It also wants to ensure the parolee has support and a good place to live.
At Michael House he has worked on his living skills and accountability. His new reputation is as a helper.
For awhile, Jauriqui said, it was a struggle for Lopez. It took time for him to adjust such things as curfews, daily meetings and other requirements. And the COVID-19 crisis hasn't helped any of them.
But some employers have been willing to look past Lopez's background. He's had a job with a demolition crew for more than a month now, after COVID-19 caused furloughs at his last job. He has his driver's license, a car and insurance. He's been hired for a second job by Michael House as a driver.
"He does seem to be really responsible. He's really strong vocally, and the guys will listen to him," Jauriqui said. "He's a really strong leader."
Five months out from parole, he's doing "really well," she said.
Jones believes if the state would spend more money on getting inmates ready to transition back to their communities, instead of pouring millions of dollars into building more prisons, everyone would be better off.
The department does have a number of programs that include teaching alternatives to violence, getting beyond trauma for women, journaling in segregation, recognizing the impact of crime on victims, and building relationships for dads.
It also has spent millions in recent years on community corrections beds, separate new quarters for women in Lincoln, and will be constructing new spaces in Lincoln for programming and a reception center.
Corrections Director Scott Frakes is also exploring building a new prison with a possible 1,600 beds with ability to expand.
But Jones said higher education, vocational skills, and more mental health treatment and drug and alcohol programs would go a long way to helping them get out on time andÌý navigate life when they get there, he said.
The Community Justice Center program helped Lopez take responsibility for the harm he had done, to find better ways to get his needs met and to process his emotions more effectively, especially the source of his anger.
Anger, Jones said, is just a secondary emotion to fear, shame or guilt.
Jones did three years in prison himself, and it took him a year to adjust, once he got out, he said.Ìý
"Imagine going in when you're a child developmentally," he said of Lopez. "He had raised himself on the streets and then in the gangs."
Lopez says he has learned a lot of coping skills, and his goal now is to maintain stability.
"I'm just staying focused and everything, you know? Staying humble," he said.