Mom moves forward after serving sentence

BY CARY ASPINWALL & ADAM WISNESKI World Staff Writers
Sunday, July 10, 2011
12/22/11 at 8:19 AM

Read past stories and watch a video about Oklahoma’s female incarceration rate, which ranks #1 in the nation.

Editor's note

This is the latest in a series of stories by Oklahoma Watch, the Tulsa World and The Oklahoman examining Oklahoma's female incarceration rate. Oklahoma Watch is an independent investigative and in-depth reporting team that partners with news organizations and higher education to produce impact journalism in the public interest. For more, visit tulsaworld.com/okwatch

Megan Olmstead has a tan now, one of the telltale signs that she's no longer living in a correctional facility.

She lives at her mother's house, where there's a pool, a dog and toys for her 3-year-old daughter Chloe - and no warden, no bars, no bed checks.

A few weeks ago, her Department of Corrections ankle monitor was removed, and the last remnants of her life as a prisoner began to fade like late summer tan lines.

The freedom will mean her first family vacation with her daughter, a trip to Branson next week.

But it's the small, everyday freedoms that Olmstead is most grateful.

Twists of fate

Her freedom disappeared after a string of bad choices she made in her mid-20s, after her life was struck by a series of tragic events.

She had a miscarriage and went through a divorce. Two of her best friends died. She totaled her car, lost her job and started selling meth - and using it.

Things quickly spiraled out of control. She got clean for a while when Chloe was born but relapsed soon after.

"I just gave in to life, I guess," said Olmstead, now 31. "I played 'Oh, pity me.' I thought I was the victim."

In December 2008, Olmstead was serving probation with a five-year deferred sentence for drug possession when she picked up another charge for drug possession. She was out of jail on bond awaiting trial on that charge when the house she was living in was raided by police.

Cops found drugs, guns, scales. The police took 1-year-old Chloe and Tanner, her 7-year-old son from her first marriage.

Olmstead was denied a shot at drug court and sentenced to six years.

But who would care for Chloe?

It was a question that left Olmstead in agony as she began serving her time at Hillside Community Corrections Center in Oklahoma City.

Tanner went to Houston to live with his father, who was granted custody.

Chloe's father's parental rights were terminated, and her grandmother had a medical condition that prevented her from being able to care for Chloe full-time.

At first, a family friend took care of Chloe, and then Department of Human Services' foster parents.

Prison gave Olmstead laser-like focus: "Get sober. Get out. Get my kids back."

A new home

After serving several months with good behavior, Olmstead got permission to move to Center Point, a transitional living facility in Tulsa for inmates struggling with substance abuse.

Olmstead was an ideal client, said Regina Price, the program director. She was willing to face up to the demons that landed her behind bars and take steps to change.

She landed a full-time job working the front desk at a Fairfield Inn. Soon, she was promoted to assist with sales for the hotel.

The DHS caseworker assigned to her case had an idea: What if Chloe came to live with Olmstead at Center Point?

They didn't need to convince Price. She believes, in her heart, that children should be raised by their parents, if the parents can provide what they couldn't before - a safe and loving home. No matter where that home might be.

Together, they were able to persuade a judge, and Chloe became the first child of a convict to live with her parent while still in Oklahoma DOC custody.

Oklahoma has the highest per capita rate of female incarceration in the country. An estimated 85 percent of female inmates in the state have children.

For a select few of those women, Center Point offers a unique opportunity: Children can stay with their mothers for weekend and overnight visits.

Many residents were eyeing Olmstead's arrangement, wondering what it might mean for them.

Olmstead was glad to be a test case. She hoped it would someday make a difference for other women who come to Center Point.

But really, she just wanted out.

The call

For a month, she waited on the call. It came at the last minute, close to 5 p.m. on a Tuesday this spring.

On the bus ride home from work that day, she was distracting herself, trying not to think about it, as she sometimes did.

She'd gotten excited before, only to be let down by what seemed like an unnavigable bureaucracy.

When she walked in the door at Center Point and heard the news, she broke. The tears began flying.

She would be released a few months early, with a GPS ankle monitor.

Olmstead quickly pulled flattened cardboard boxes from behind her metal storage cabinet. She'd been saving them for this day.

A few of the center's 32 women entered the room for a high-five or a hug.

"I'm going to be right behind you," one woman said.

While Mom was packing, 3-year-old Chloe shook down her regulars for treats and attention. She got lipstick and a piece of gum from the facility manager. She begged another to perform a trick where she turned her eyelids inside out. She had their undivided attention.

Some told Olmstead she had been their hero. They, too, have custody battles, and nights when they cry for their kids. They, too, have decorated their recovery binders with cards and love notes and photos of their families. And because of Olmstead's story, they believe they might be closer to getting to be with their kids.

In May, Oklahoma passed a package of landmark corrections reforms that aims to increase the number of Oklahoma offenders eligible for electronic monitoring and community sentencing programs.

A child who has a parent in prison is five times more likely to end up in the correctional system, Gov. Mary Fallin noted as she signed House Bill 2131 into law.

Onward

With removal of her ankle monitor June 23, Olmstead officially left the prison system, hoping to make a new life for her children and keep them from taking the same path.

On that day, Olmstead begged her mother to take off work the next day to give her a ride downtown. A busy DOC worker handed her the wire cutters without looking away from his computer.

She snapped the plastic ring on the ankle monitor and set it on the desk. "Thank you, Jesus!" she said. Her mom smiled, and she smiled. It was finally over.

Olmstead's parole officer handed her a certificate, she filled out five minutes of paperwork and left.

"At least I know they can't take anything away now," she said.

But freedom isn't carefree. There are loads of responsibilities Olmstead must face.

She works Monday through Friday at the hotel and buys groceries and helps pay utilities at her mom's house. She cleans and takes turns cooking dinner.

Chloe started at a day care center closer to home after leaving Center Point. But Olmstead still depends on her mom and city buses for rides, because she'll need to save $1,500 to get her driver's license reinstated. She owes nearly $2,000 in utility bills she'll have to pay before she can get her own place.

And $50 per month of her salary goes to pay the $6,700 in court fees she owes.

In September, Chloe will turn 4, with a proper birthday party. Olmstead had to miss the past two.

"Now that I'm out, I take her to everything. I just want to do all the fun things with her that I couldn't do before," she said.

They go to the zoo and take every outing possible. Olmstead is saving money to put Chloe in gymnastics classes.

She wishes she had a car and driver's license so she could take Chloe for Happy Meals at McDonald's. That used to be her mother-son date with Tanner.

Although they talk on the phone regularly, she hasn't seen her son in 2 1/2 years. She misses Tanner and hopes she'll get a chance to visit him next month.

She has a handful of pictures and a DVD he made at school for a Mother's Day present. Tanner talked about how he loved his mom's "dorky laugh."

"I lost it," she said. "It was just hard to watch."

July 25 will be monumental. That's when Olmstead will have her DHS hearing to determine whether she gets full custody rights of Chloe - no more visits, no more caseworkers. Just a mother and a daughter. And maybe someday, a son.

Chloe was young when they were separated, but she remembers her brother. She keeps a picture of him near her bed.

Olmstead looks forward to the day when it's all a distant memory for her and her children.

"I'm the kind that it only takes once," she said. "I'm not going back."

Original Print Headline: Mom moving on after serving time

Cary Aspinwall 918-581-8477
cary.aspinwall@tulsaworld.com

Associated Images:

Megan Olmstead laughs with her daughter, Chloe, 3, as their friends at Center Point say their goodbyes a few months ago. Since then, Olmstead finished serving her time while wearing a GPS ankle monitor. She has been released from Department of Corrections custody and plans to take a vacation with her daughter and mother soon. ADAM WISNESKI / Tulsa World

Hailee Bullock cries while Jennifer Turnbough holds Megan Olmstead's daughter, Chloe, 3, as the group says goodbye at Center Point in Tulsa before Olmstead was released to GPS monitoring. The other women grew attached to Chloe while she lived there with her mother for several months. ADAM WISNESKI / Tulsa World

Program director Regina Price (left), Megan Olmstead (right) and Olmstead's daughter, Chloe, 3, get ready to leave Center Point, a Tulsa rehab facility for DOC inmates. After nine months there, Olmstead was granted a GPS ankle monitor so she could serve the remainder of her sentence while living at her mother's house. ADAM WISNESKI / Tulsa World