Life after prison

This story is about the lives of five Highlands County residents who have been down a dark, lonely road. They were once criminals and addicts who served time in prison or in jail, and are trying to move on with their lives. Most have been "saved" through their faith and now they are asking society for a second chance. Is society ready to give it to them?

Saverio "Sammy" Telesco

Strung out on crack, Saverio "Sammy" Telesco, an Italian tough guy from Connecticut, needed money.

On March 19, 1991, he and an acquaintance drove down South Federal Highway in Pompano Beach and pulled into a bank. There were no windows facing A1A, a busy road in Broward County. Telesco, strapped with a pistol, zipped up his black jacket, put on his red baseball cap and walked into the bank filled with 31 people.

He leaped over the counter and cleaned out three teller drawers and a drive-through of $42,000. As he escaped he jumped over a green dumpster and heard two pops, then felt his skin burn. The dye or gas packs had exploded. Soon Telesco was stripped down to his underwear and T-shirt in the parking lot of the bank. He returned four minutes later to pick up his ID he left behind.

That was the last of 39 banks Telesco robbed, he said. The next day his picture was all over the news. A few days later his acquaintance who drove the getaway car ratted him out.

Telesco was sentenced to 25 years in prison for robbery. He served seven of those in solitary confinement and was released on parole after 18 years on April 1, 2009.

Ma'hya'deen Mu'min

It was just after dark in Polk County on May 22, 1994 and Ma'hya'deen Mu'min was in an aggressive mood. He was visiting his girlfriend of three years at her mother's house. She had been separated from her husband who was locked up.

That night her ex-husband walked through the door. Profanities flew between him and Mu'min. A fistfight through the living room ended outside and the ex managed to get into his car and drive away.

Mu'min, a 230 pound 5'9 man with a vicious attitude, jumped into his 1985 Buick Skylark with his pistol and chased him. He fired shots for the first block and a half and continued to pursue him down residential streets at 35 mph for seven blocks.

Mu'min decided to grab a beer at the convenience store. His girlfriend's ex-husband drove across town to grab the police. Twenty minutes later, as Mu'min walked out of the store, he saw the ex at the stop sign across the street.

Minutes later Mu'min was bracing himself with his car door as he heedlessly fired his gun. He didn't see the police officers, parked behind the man, who had just pulled out their guns.

"I was too enraged to see that they had come to get me," Mu'min said.

The cops yelled, "Drop your weapon!"

Mu'min kicked his pistol over to them.

"I was lucky, they didn't shoot me," Mu'min said.

He was initially charged with second degree attempted murder but the charges were later dropped to assault with a weapon without intent to kill. He spent three years in prison.

Scott Wilkie

On a Wednesday afternoon in February, Scott Wilkie, 34, returned to the place where he spent years injecting methamphetamine and a cocktail of other drugs like cocaine and methadone.

It's a secluded, wooded area behind a cemetery in Highlands County and it was about 10 p.m. His story goes back to when he was 10 years old but he started with a 15 day "tweaking" trip that took him across several states. He can't remember how many people he ripped off along the way or the types of scams he pulled, but there was a lot of drugs, sex and high-speed getaways.

The dates are fuzzy but it was four years ago in Vero Beach, Wilkie was with his ex-girlfriend and he was just about to hit the first of several rock bottoms on his trip.

The week before, he broke his ex out of detox - at that point he had been up for seven to eight days and was on an empty stomach. They drove to a campsite in Vero Beach. He shot up about five to 15 times a day, depending on the quality of the dope. She told him she was leaving him for an ex-boyfriend in Tennessee. He let her go and walked into the ocean, the water was just above his knees when he felt his body give out and everything went black.

"She saved me," he said. "She pulled me out of the water and slapped me 'til I opened my eyes."

The duo continued their seven month drug binge until the day before Thanksgiving, when they returned to Sebring to visit Wilkie's mom.

It was suppose to be his last dope run. After that he was going clean and living a normal life. He was going to work on being a father to his daughter who he hadn't seen in months. But the routine meeting with the drug dealer was a sting.

He was given a year in prison, but looking back that was a light sentence compared to what he had served. He was in and out of prison since 1997 and spent more than 10 years in the system.

Matthew Chapman

Matthew Chapman ended up homeless after a domestic dispute with his brother. At 18 years old it took him three weeks to learn the tricks of living on the streets. Local hustlers showed him how to make money selling Z-bars (Xanax), crack, cocaine, oxycontin and "anything he could make a penny on."

A storage facility off of Sebring Parkway and Lemon Street was home. But on occasion he paid so-called associates $30 to $40 to crash at their place just so he wouldn't have to worry about his stash of drugs being stolen. That was his life for five years.

In October 2007, his waywardness caught up with him. He, along with four other acquaintances, burglarizing a home. He just wanted a place to crash. He says he stood in the home and watched his friends ransack the place. They broke the walls and a marble counter top. They ripped the drawers and cabinets out of the kitchen and packed their truck with what they could find.

A few days later one of them snitched and Chapman was blamed for the work of five rebellious juveniles. He was looking at a minimum of 5 years but took a plea and served one in the county jail and is currently completing three years probation.

Joy Chada

For Joy Chada, 31, a recovering crack addict, the memories of chasing the high are vague. She does remember waking up in a cold sweat with a stomach ache and feeling itchy all over. Those were the worst days - she had to find her next fix.

She lived in a crack town environment where her friends were drug dealers, hustlers and prostitutes. It was her reality for 10 years.

The constant pheening and drug use kept her up for up to three weeks at a time. Her mind raced. "Where am I going to stay, I can't trust anyone, how am I going to get money for my next high, where am I going to score my next hit?"

She was arrested for forging checks, all together she served three years in county jail and prison.

Second chances hard to come by

Despite their callous past these former addicts and criminals have changed their lives and most attribute their rehabilitation to their newly found faith and support network. For them their church community has been more open-minded about accepting them and forgiving their past than society has.

A half hour before a Tuesday night Jail Alternative to Substance Abuse meeting at the Highlands Community Church in Sebring, Wilkie was heating up dinner for the members. Within the hour Mu'min arrived.

Wilkie has been in the program for seven months; Mu'min's going on three years. To their mentors their change is nothing short of a miracle.

"Part of being successful when they come out of prison is changing their mind. We call it stinkin' thinkin'," said Bruce Linhart, the church's pastor and Wilkie's mentor.

Linhart boasted about Wilkie's progress. The Monday following Valentine's Day, Wilkie and two other members showed up to an elderly church member's home with flowers. He works landscaping and does some handy work for members of the church for a donation if they can afford to, otherwise a thank you is enough.

"His mind has taken on a new direction. This is not someone who wants to slack off the rest of his life. He wants to pay his way," said Linhart, as he discussed Wilkie's progress.

JASA's success rate is high: 94 percent of its graduates remain out of jail for two years. The program is offered to offenders being released from jail or prison and combines secular and faith-based systems to rehab ex-offenders with addiction recovery.

"They're learning to be part of society and have healthy relationships ... part of that process is having a job and keeping busy," Linhart said.

That's easier said than done. Most of these ex-offenders have been looking for work for months and some are going on years.

Chapman, 24, turned his life around. He became a licensed minister in 2007 through the New Testament Mission and Church in Sebring, where he feeds the homeless and is working towards getting his GED. But in the two years he's been out of the county jail he's filled out about 1,200 job applications and this is what employers tell him:

"We'll call you back."

"We're not hiring," but he later finds out they were.

"Wait for the season to pick up."

Wilkie chuckled at what one employer told him, "We're accepting applications but not hiring."

"Your record is too bad," is another, he said.

Chapman, Wilkie, Mu'min, Chada and Telesco are up front about their past to potential employers and to the new people they meet. Since most employers ask about past criminal offenses in their applications they take that chance to tell them about who they were and who they are now.

Take Chada. She wanted to volunteer at her daughter's school but was denied because of her past criminal record. She appealed the denial to the School Board of Highlands County appeals committee in late January. The 70 support letters, the phone call from a state politician who is a family friend and her honesty about her past did not change their minds.

Chada's employer, Rhonda LaGrow, who adopted her 5 year-old daughter through an open adoption process, wants to know, when is enough, enough?

"She Chada has proven herself to be an upright citizen in the last four years," LaGrow said.

LaGrow took Chada in for a year after she was released from prison and helped reconnect her to God and herself. LaGrow also gave her a job for her company, KDL Underground Development Inc. in Sebring.

"I feel bad for people coming out of that situation because when do ever get to be who they've become and really who you were suppose to be to begin with ... When do we as a society say this is who you are and not the things you did?" LaGrow asked.

Chada volunteers for Relay for Life, Alpha Omega Crisis Center's Potter's House Girls Home and numerous other community organizations. Her friends say she's a role model for young girls and someone they can turn to for help.

After years of not finding steady work, Mu'min was hired as a cook two weeks ago at Homer's in Sebring. He credits JASA for helping him change his ways.

"It was difficult for me to find work ... I was going everywhere, I applied everywhere," Mu'min said.

"I'm the complete opposite of how I use to be. I'm not going to say I'm a holy roller but I help my community. It's a 360 for me."

From felon to sought-after speaker

"My name is Saverio Telesco and here's my 'But God' story," Telesco said to a crowded Sunday night service at Florida Avenue Baptist Church in Avon Park.

That was one of numerous speaking engagements where he was invited by the pastor to share his testimony.

Despite his past criminal background, since he's moved to Lake Placid and joined the First Baptist Church of Lake Placid, he's become a sought-after speaker among the Baptist community.

In June 2005, he married former correctional officer and former Highlands County Deputy Dana Telesco, who he met while he was in prison at Okeechobee Correctional Institution. Her inspirational letters helped him find God and when he was released last April he was welcomed with open arms by his community.

It didn't take him long to find a job. He applied for a position at Big T Tire in Avon Park and the owner, Virgil McIvale, called him up and said, "I can't offer you the job as a laborer. But I need you to be my supervisor."

Telesco, 42, was given a second chance and he's giving back. He works with the youth at his church and is starting a youth ministry outreach group.

"It's all about the youth for me. I want them to learn from my experience," Telesco said.

Their message

For the hundreds of felons released from prison and the county jail, most find it difficult to adapt to their new life. That's why programs like JASA, secular and faith-based support groups are important for their success in re-entering society. Without it they will end up where they left off before entering the correctional system.

These programs can keep offenders from re-entering the system, which in turn saves the jail or prison money and reduces crowding, said Mell Williams, JASA program supervisor.

In the meantime, while that settles in, these five ex-offenders message can be summed up like this:

"I was punished for my crimes. I went to jail...They society don't have to punish me for it. Let it stay with the courts," Chapman said.