Nancy Adams felt safe sharing her Compton townhome during the COVID-19 pandemic after renting out her spare bedroom to a traveling nurse.
Still, it was a long leap of faith to open his home to his current house guest, a paroled murderer.
Adams, 72, has retired from his career as a banker, but still enjoys his backup job as a bartender at Crypto.com Arena.
“I try to keep it exciting,” she said. “What’s the point of waking up?”
But it was something deeper, a mixture of her Christian faith, her family’s experience with incarceration, and a touch of loneliness, that drew her to social media posts searching for homes for ex-convicts.
“When I think about the books I’ve read, I can’t leave myself alone.”
After thinking about it for a week, Adams answered. In October, she hosted the Homecoming Project, a prison reentry program that turns private homes into transitional housing for men and women in their first year out of prison.
Adams, who took his younger brother into his home after more than 10 years of estrangement and cared for him until his final years, instinctively identified with the mission.
“This is amazing,” she said. “When my brother was in and out of prison, they had nothing like this.”
Considering the profiles of the three prospects, her choice was easy.
After 29 years in prison, Nicolas Nabors has moved into his own bedroom.
(Allen J. Scherben/Los Angeles Times)
A lonely man who spends most of his days in his room was not feeling well. Smokers were definitely not allowed.
The third may be the least likely fit. Nicolas Nabors robbed and murdered a convenience store clerk when he was 16 years old. He was released on parole after completing just under 30 years of his 34-year to life sentence.
But there was something about him that attracted Adams. He earned his AA degree and had a successful job making DMV tags in prison. He met his fiancée through correspondence in prison. He worked as a maintenance worker for the California Department of Transportation.
“He seems like a good person at heart, a guy with dreams and vision and a desire to move forward in life,” she says. “He just needs a little help to do it.”
::
The Oakland-based Homecoming Project was launched in 2018 by Impact Justice, a national nonprofit organization with a mission to invest in community-based justice reform models.
The Homecoming Project housed 157 former inmates in Bay Area homes. After a six-month stay, none of the 37 people who have graduated so far have returned to prison.
With a grant from the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation and funding from the California Workforce Development Commission, the Homecoming Project expanded to Los Angeles earlier this year. Adams was the fifth volunteer to answer the call. The program currently serves six former inmates, two have graduated and six more are enrolled to start in January.
The project is funded to add more than 80 participants next year, half of them in Los Angeles, as it seeks to provide a model for addressing high rates of post-incarceration homelessness.
According to a study by the Prison Policy Institute, about 2% of former inmates were homeless. That’s about three times the general population of Los Angeles County and about 10 times the national homeless population, meaning the prison system could add hundreds of people to the state’s homeless population each year.
Bernadette Butler, director of the Homecoming Project, said that the scale of the effort to date is that the state is working to help re-enter the 35,000 to 40,000 inmates released from California prisons each year. admits that it is not a significant alternative to the contracted group home system.
She considers it a demonstration.
“We are showing the world what is possible.”
::
When Nabors was released, he had no immediate family to turn to. He is prohibited from contacting his brother, who took part in the fatal robbery, and is also ordered to stay away from his mother, who gave him the gun used in the robbery and later made national news by testifying against him. Strongly recommended by the Parole Board. At his trial.
Paroled to Los Angeles, he spent 90 days in a drug rehab program near MacArthur Park. Addiction is not an issue, he said, but he completed the program as needed and moved into a transitional home in South Los Angeles.
Six months later, funding from the state’s STOP program expired and they had to start paying $750 in rent for their shared room.
When he felt down, he turned to the Los Angeles office of the Employment Opportunity Center, one of four organizations affiliated with the Homecoming Project. They gave him a job at Caltrans, and the staff saw his potential and introduced him to the Homecoming Project.
Three months later, Neighbors moved into a four-bedroom house in a gated community just east of Compton City Hall. On moving day, he and Adams exchanged ideas about what brought them together and what might come of it.
“I don’t have to live in a house by myself anymore,” Adams said. “That’s good.”
Nicholas Neighbors moves into his bedroom with the help of Homecoming Project program associate Ashley McKay (left).
(Allen J. Scherben/Los Angeles Times)
Her own experience of salvation was also revealed.
“Part of my life being a Christian and a practicing Christian requires me to step out of my comfort zone and do something different,” she said.
When her brother appeared and asked for forgiveness, she did so.
“You can tell sincerity when you see it,” she said. “He apologized for everything he did to our family.”
She admitted him to the hospital and nursed him for the last four and a half years of his life as he died of kidney disease.
“It freed me up so much. I don’t think I would be doing this if my brother hadn’t done it.”
Nabors articulated his hopes for the program as if he had already experienced it.
“It put me in a normal environment,” he says. “It allowed me to live with people who weren’t system-oriented. They didn’t necessarily see me as a prisoner, they treated me like a normal person. I had freedom. I was going to have the space to grow and figure out exactly who I am outside of prison. Traditional programs don’t necessarily do that.”
After a month, both parties said their relationship had developed more like roommates than landlord and tenant. They don’t spend much time together. He goes to work in the morning and she leaves for work before he returns.
“The good thing about Nick is that he’s a really cool guy and easy to talk to,” Adams said.
Nabors was even more reflective than he had been the first time, delving into his own journey.
“I did something terrible at 16 years old, and for the next 30 years, whenever I tried to prove myself, the picture they had was of me at 16 years old. I didn’t want anyone to show you that.” It’s a fistfight and a brawl that makes you see it as something other than that.
“And for me, it’s been a struggle. But at this point, I feel like just accepting it gives me strength.”
Butler said Nabors’ awareness is no different for Homecoming Project clients. All must be active for at least 10 years and given time to reflect and complete the three required rehabilitation programs. Many have had their life sentences commuted, and the recidivism rate for that subgroup is less than 3%, the lowest of all released prisoners.
Mr Butler said the parole process, which grants only 14 per cent of applications, is “an incredible first stage of review”.
Candidates are further informally reviewed by parole officers and staff from partner organizations, such as the Employment Opportunity Center, who make the referrals.
According to Butler, in the balance between clients and hosts, there are always more clients.
“There is never a shortage of people coming out of prison. Our growth depends on the recruitment of hosts.”
To compensate them, the Homecoming Project will provide a six-month stipend of $8,600. We also prepare potential hosts with all the details about their future guests’ pasts to make the best match. This includes a psychological evaluation of future criminal behavior from prison time.
One complication in Nabors’ profile was that he was engaged. But it was also a strength. He credits much of his character development to their nine years of correspondence.
“People don’t believe in the idea of having a relationship in prison,” he said. “Well, the truth is, being in prison increases communication because that’s all there is to it. I can tell any man that he wrote a 37-page letter to his wife, and you wrote her a 35-page letter. Read her letter and literally take your time, line by line, to understand what she’s saying, then respond to what she said. Please. Not necessarily how you felt.”
He said writing through his own emotions and reading through hers helped him think more deeply.
“What am I angry about? So I have to go back. I have to read her letter. OK, what did you say to make me so angry?” But what we do in that is we practice active listening.”
Now she and her teenage daughter are welcome guests on weekends. After the six-month program ends, Neighbors plans to work with her to build a business that operates temporary housing for ex-convicts.
Nabors and her fiancée asked for their privacy and got married on November 11th, with their mother not present, although her former boss at the Bureau of Prison Industries attended the ceremony.
Nicholas Neighbors looks out the window as he moves into his bedroom in Compton.
(Allen J. Scherben/Los Angeles Times)
“I’ve made amends for those things. I’ve done my time. I’ve explored my life. I’ve gained insight and everything I need to be a better person. My mother didn’t do that.”
Adams took a longer view.
“You know it’s not good right now, right? You know what I mean, but at some point before he leaves this world, he’s going to want to meet that woman.”
