APPLETON, Wis. (AP) - Julie Angell was nervous. She was about to get out of prison, but didn’t have anywhere to go.
Her sister agreed to pick her up from Taycheedah Correctional Institution, a women’s prison on the outskirts of Fond du Lac. Where she would go from there, she didn’t know.
Angell, a 60-year-old who grew up in Combined Locks, was convicted of fifth-offense drunken driving in Outagamie County and, on March 23, 2017, was sentenced to prison.
“It was very disruptive,” Angell said. “I lost almost everything I owned.”
She got out of prison on Jan. 10, 2018, and had arranged to stay at a house in Appleton that serves as transitional housing for women getting out of prison.
But there was a problem: there were only two beds and hers wasn’t available for almost two weeks after her release.
So, she spent two nights at a homeless shelter - and waited more than an hour in the cold both times to get inside - before her sister agreed to let her stay with her. She arrived at the transitional living residence about two weeks later with only her clothes and an extra blanket.
There is similar transitional housing in communities all over Wisconsin - 377 beds in 44 locations - meant to provide a stable place to live for people released from prison with nowhere to go and give them time to look for a job or save money to get a place of their own, the Appleton Post-Crescent.
The number of beds available in transitional housing is a fraction of the number of people released from prison every year in Wisconsin. In 2019, there were 9,341 releases, an average of 774 each month.
Even with help, the challenges faced by many people getting out of prison can be immense and it isn’t uncommon for some to end up homeless if they’re unable to afford a place of their own or can’t find somewhere willing to rent to them.
Neighbors sometimes see transitional housing as a threat to their safety. In Oshkosh, neighbors of one such house have concerns about the choice of location and the overall management of the facility. They warn their children to avoid the people who stay there.
Angell was out of prison, but while staying in transitional housing, she still had rules to follow: she had an ankle bracelet to monitor her location, a curfew at night and wasn’t allowed to have visitors. At any time, staff hired to monitor the house could show up to check on her and her roommate.
The stability helped, she said. She felt relatively safe and had time to look for a place of her own, even if that was a challenge with a felony on her record.
“I knew I had a place to go,” she said. “I had my own room.”
But there was another rule: she could only stay for 90 days. When her time came, she still had not found another place to go.
She went back to a homeless shelter until months later, when - after paying twice the normal security deposit - she finally got a place for herself in Appleton. After a long struggle, she finally felt at home.
“I don’t feel lost anymore,” she said.
At first, Betsy Kunde and her husband, Bruce, didn’t know what to think. The house next door to them on Jefferson Street in Oshkosh had been sold, but it wasn’t clear who was actually living there.
A man showed up to mow the lawn now and then, but seemed to come and go at all hours of the day. Then, a group of men they didn’t know started “hanging out on the stoop,” she said, “talking on their phones very loudly.”
They weren’t told in any formal way, Kunde said, but eventually learned the house had become an eight-bed transitional housing facility for men recently released from prison.
“All of a sudden, it just showed up,” she said.
That was more than 10 years ago. As time passed, Kunde grew even more concerned. A school, Merrill Elementary, is nearby, she said, and children often walk in the area.
When a sex offender moves to the house, neighbors get a notice about “the severity of their sexual offenses,” Kunde said.
Kunde used to wake up early to drive to work in Appleton - she now works from home because of the pandemic - and would see men already in front of the house, waving at her.
Betsy Kunde and her husband, Bruce, sit in the living room of their house in Oshkosh, where they use large plants and opaque window coverings to block the view of residents living in transitional housing next door. They have also installed security cameras.
“They knew when we came, when we left for work, when we came home,” she said. “They knew who was in the house at any given time.”
There was one night, Kunde said, that a group of police officers with flashlights searched a part of their yard in the middle of the night for drugs after a transitional living resident overdosed.
Jamie O’Brien, who also lives on Jefferson Street, put up a fence over the summer to block her children - a 14-year-old girl and a 9-year-old boy - from view when they play in their backyard.
She worries every day about how the situation is affecting her children. Her son wrote a letter to a judge to say he is afraid to play outside, she said, and her daughter doesn’t want the men to see in her bedroom, so she put a blanket over her window.
“Your children shouldn’t have to be afraid in their own home,” she said.
O’Brien said she has witnessed a variety of problems at the house, including visitors, which aren’t allowed, or even people living at the house who aren’t supposed to be there.
When her children were learning to ride bikes, O’Brien said she didn’t teach them in front of her house because the men tend to sit outside and stare most of the day.
O’Brien spoke at a workshop held in September by the Oshkosh City Council to discuss the issue. She said her daughter hasn’t played in their front yard for years and her son knows to be aware of the house “where the bad men are.”
“We are prisoners in our own homes,” she said.
The transitional living residence in Oshkosh was “sited with notice,” including notices made to “law enforcement, local government and the local newspaper,” according to the Wisconsin Department of Corrections.
“While no location is perfect, transitional housing greatly assists clients toward a successful transition,” said Aaron Sabel, a regional chief in the division of community corrections, in a statement to USA TODAY NETWORK-Wisconsin.
The Oshkosh facility is only available to people who were either convicted in Winnebago County or were residents before they went to prison, Sabel said.
The location was chosen with proximity to nearby schools in mind and it was “determined in partnership with law enforcement that this location was appropriate,” Sabel said.
The neighbors place much of the blame on Triniteam, a vendor contracted by the state to operate the facility.
Rob Peitzman spoke at the September workshop in Oshkosh, identifying himself as being with Triniteam, and said he believes there is a sense in the neighborhood that the men at the house “should be inside at all times and really not be seen,” adding that the men are allowed to be outside in their yard.
Brain Munsch, who also identified himself as being with Triniteam, said at the same meeting that they’ve never had any complaints about children in the neighborhood being propositioned or spoken to in inappropriate ways.
Triniteam is expected to do three unscheduled checks each day to check for visitors and other violations of the rules, along with upkeep of the house, Sabel said.
The neighbors requested and eventually received time sheets that show when the unscheduled checks took place at the house. In six months of 2019, from May to October, the documents show there were 35 days listed with only two checks.
They’ve sometimes checked footage taken from cameras on their property to see if the checks are actually taking place.
“I don’t see these checks that are supposed to be happening three times a day,” said Bruce Kunde.
Triniteam didn’t respond to a request for comment.
The neighbors have gone to police with their concerns, but they’re told police are only able to help if an actual crime has been committed and can’t get involved if the issue is only with rules at the house, such as having visitors.
At this point, the neighbors think the location of the facility should be changed and Triniteam should be replaced with a different vendor.
“This isn’t good for anyone, including the people living in the house,” O’Brien said.
The neighbors aren’t opposed to the concept of transitional living, even in their own neighborhood, Kunde said. But they’ve grown tired of what they see as a lack of communication and consistently unresolved problems at this particular house.
“I don’t want to have to worry about who is watching us or who is watching them,” O’Brien said.
They would like to see the men succeed in their transitions back to the community, but under these circumstances, O’Brien said, that no longer seems possible at this location.
“They’re not setting them up for success,” she said.
Transitional living is “sometimes a last resort,” but it’s still a valuable resource for anyone recently released from prison, said Peggy West-Schroder, a coordinator for Ex-Incarcerated People Organizing, a group that works to end mass incarceration in Wisconsin.
“It’s not by any means like getting out and being free and being able to roam and do what you like,” she said.
The rules transitional living residents are required to follow make it a less desirable option for anyone with alternatives, but for those that can’t afford a place of their own or lack a support system, “it’s definitely better than nothing,” West-Schroder said.
There is stigma to deal with too, she said. Most people tend to think anyone in transitional living is a sex offender, when that isn’t always true.
“In most cases, there isn’t any real reason for people to be concerned,” she said.
The challenges faced by people released from prison can be overwhelming, especially when they have an entirely new set of rules to follow on extended supervision, West-Schroder said.
“That is the biggest fear for everybody getting out of prison: you don’t want to be revoked and you don’t want to go back,” she said.
Lisa Hanneman volunteers with Community Circles of Support, a support group for women in northeast Wisconsin adjusting to life after spending time in prison. She works directly with social workers who help people transition out of prison.
Many people don’t have a place to live when they get out, she said, and don’t have family to go to for help.
“It’s a roadblock right away,” she said.
Some people who get out of prison without a place to go network with each other, sharing leads as they search for landlords willing to rent to them, Hanneman said.
“They’re overwhelmed,” she said. “They have low self-esteem. They’re desperate to find housing or a job.”
Something as simple as a security deposit can be a significant barrier, Hanneman said, and there aren’t enough beds in transitional housing to help everyone in need.
Angell, who still attends Community Circles of Support meetings most weeks, said if nothing else, her time in transitional housing gave her a safe place to stay and a sense of stability. She never heard any concerns from neighbors, who she knew well enough to greet when they ran into each other outside.
Now, Angell feels like her life has taken a turn for the better. She has a job and still has relationships with members of her family. She has found friends who support her sober lifestyle.
“I’m in a very happy place right now,” she said.
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