Out of prison, and into a pandemic
In fall 2020, as the coronavirus spread quickly through prisons, many states released people early in attempt to halt spread of virus
For 13 years, Richard Gonzalez had nothing but time. Now he cannot find enough. Until a year ago, he had spent his days mostly reading and thinking — in prison. He was serving a sentence for armed burglary when he was released eight months early — in the middle of a pandemic.
In fall 2020, as the coronavirus spread quickly through prison populations. Many states, including New York and New Jersey, released people early in an attempt to halt the spread of the virus.
New York state has released at least 3,900 people since the beginning of the pandemic. New Jersey released some 5,300 early. Gonzalez was one of them.
The path from an open cell door to home has always had its obstacles. Gonzalez’s sister — who works with the formerly incarcerated — has guided him in ways overworked agencies often cannot.
But for most people, piecing together a patchwork safety net is a daunting task. The recidivism rate in New Jersey is just shy of 30 percent. In New York, 43 percent of people released from prison eventually return. In New York City, more than half the people leaving prison are sent into the shelter system.
During a pandemic, the journey to finding places to live, work and study can become a labyrinth, especially for those who have no one waiting on the other side.
Genisis Goss returned to New York City in June after serving a sentence for murder and robbery. A transgender woman who has long fended for herself, she came back to a place where waterfront promenades are now lined by luxury towers and her onetime havens have vanished. Still, some, like Mychal Pagan, found a silver lining: His application to a small, nurturing community in the Bronx was accepted, providing him with a sanctuary to focus on his studies.
Richard Gonzalez was released from Northern State Prison in Perth Amboy, N.J. in November 2020 after serving 13 years for armed burglary. The best gifts Gonzalez got this year were his driver’s license and a beat-up Chevy from a relative. No more spending $12 on taxis to do laundry or buy groceries, or waiting an hour for the bus after finishing a night shift at his warehouse job to get to school the same morning.
“Those were the final pieces I needed to be normal,” said Gonzalez, 44, who without a car or license relied on an unreliable bus system and his own two legs to move between work, school and family responsibilities. “Once, instead of going home, I stayed up 48 hours, just work and school, work and school. By the time I got home, I was dying!”
Normal is good, and Gonzalez does not take it for granted as he reconciles his past with his future. In the year since his release, he has doubled down on school, his family and himself, relishing moments with his nephews and nieces at the mall and the playground, or quiet time in the sunny living room of his new fiancee’s home.
Gonzalez’s life before prison was marked by poverty, domestic violence and drug use. His mother, he said, had mental health issues, while her boyfriend at the time would beat Gonzalez and his siblings. He started selling heroin, he said, when he was 14. By 16, he was using, and his entanglements with the law began. After endless cycles of arrest-release-repeat, he was sentenced in 2008 to 15 years. His time inside, along with therapy, led him away from prison gangs and drugs.
He credits his progress to finally confronting his childhood trauma and anxiety. He earned his high school equivalency and began college classes while still in prison.
When he was released, the Department of Corrections connected him with an advocacy and service group for the formerly incarcerated run by James McGreevey, the former New Jersey governor.
While that was helpful, Gonzalez credited his sister Carmen Mercado, who works for the New Jersey Department of Labor, with helping him get a summer internship at an urban farm, as well as finding a local group whose expertise helped him cut through red tape to get a government ID two months after his release.
“Even if I wanted to work, I couldn’t without an ID,” he said. “I applied to Amazon, but I couldn’t even go to the warehouse because you needed ID to get in.”
Lack of an ID also prevented him from opening a bank account, so instead he let a relative deposit the money and give him access when needed. As it is, he carries only $40 with him, enough to satisfy a mugger — not that he is unaware of his surroundings. When he sees groups of young men outside bodegas or inside parks, he crosses the street.
“Things could happen with them that could affect me when I walk by,” he said. “Could be a cop sees a guy throw a bag on the sidewalk. Or a cop might ask what I’m doing there. At least I don’t look young anymore. These kids who get busted, they’re automatically disqualified from some government jobs because of a conviction.”
He speaks quietly, his glasses lending him a bookish look, which allows him to fit in at Rutgers University, where he is studying public policy. He has not let too many people know of his past, but when the issue of prison reform arose in a criminal justice class, he spoke from deep experience.
“We’re quick to blame the person and not the conditions that led to that crime,” he said. “A person commits a crime, and that’s wrong, but you have to look at the conditions that led to it. You have to look at systemic racism in schools and housing. That’s not directly under justice reform, but it affects it.”
With the mobility that comes with his new car and license, he is eager to keep at his commitments to work — he has a new day job operating a forklift — and school, where he has shifted to night classes. He is optimistic heading into his second year of freedom, even though the threat of the coronavirus looms.