EDDIE JORDAN
Charge: Petty theft with a prior conviction of theft
Value of stolen goods: $32 (one men's shirt)

Eddie Jordan, 33, of San Diego is a heroin addict who has spent years dealing 
with the consequences of his addiction. He is also a hard-working man trying to
build a future for himself and the woman he loves. "I guess he's a good 
worker," says his parole officer, Jose Lopez, "because when I put him into a 
detox program or back to Donovan [Correctional Facility] for a dryout, he still
manages to find work pretty quickly." In fact, it was Jordan's determination to
find a job and work his way out of a run of bad luck that put him in jail 
facing the "three strikes" penalty. 

On September 15, at the Chula Vista J.C. Penney store, Eddie Jordan stole a 
shirt to wear the next day at a job interview. Ironically, he needed the shirt 
because his clothes had been stolen a short while before. It is for the theft 
of that shirt that he may spend the next few decades in prison.
When parole officer Lopez was asked if he thinks Jordan is a "violent and 
serious" criminal, he said the man wasn't like that at all. "He was into a lot 
of drugs, but as far as my supervision was concerned, he was low-key sort of a 
guy.  He is not aggressive at all.  Of course, most heroin addicts are 
laid-back kind of guys." 

Jordan comes from a very close family. His siblings have also also had their 
share of troubles, but Jordan blames only himself for his own misdeeds. 
He has an older brother and sister and a younger brother and sister. One of his
brothers has a much more serious criminal history than Eddie but has been doing
well since his release from prison in 1981. Eddie Jordan is so close to his 
siblings that, he reports, in 1992 he "took a conviction" for possession of 
crystal methamphetamine for sale to save his sister from possible charges. The 
methamphetamine was found in the house he shared with his sister, and Jordan is
a heroin user and doesn't do crystal. Rather than take the chance that his 
sister would be charged, he "took the fall," he says.

Jordan's mother, Martha, and father got divorced when Eddie was 4 years old. 
Martha recalls that Eddie was always very nervous when he was going to visit 
with his father, but he couldn't explain why. In later years the family has had
discussions about the kids blaming Martha for her husband's departure; they now
have come to believe that it was their father who abandoned them, leaving their
mother to raise them all.

Martha Jordan remarried, to a man that Eddie says "was a good man who always 
treated me fair. I got a lot of respect for him." Jordan shakes his head and 
sighs deeply. "Even when he told me I couldn't live at the house no more, he 
had warned me earlier that I could have one more chance but that if I messed up
again, that was it. So even that was on me." Jordan says that 
straightforwardly, adding: "I had my chance and blew it."

Jordan played baseball beginning in grade school and did fine academically 
until about his sophomore year in high school, when he started having problems.
One family member thinks that one of the kids' uncles was the person who first 
turned the children on to dope and then had them selling it for him. Because 
there was no work for his stepfather, the family moved to Yuma, Ariz., in 1980,
returning to Chula Vista in 1981. After they returned, Jordan finished his 
education, graduating from Montgomery High School.

It was about that time that he became addicted to heroin. As he tells it, it 
wasn't supposed to happen that way. "When I was 18, before we went to Arizona, 
I had this beautiful Cadillac that was cherry [in mint condition]. I put all my
money into that ride. So I started off just selling dope here and there, 
thinking that I'd never use it myself." He shakes his head and looks you right 
in the eye with a look of self-deprecation. "What a joke."

His first "strike" came for a 1982 residential burglary. He needed money for 
heroin. "I was hooked bad, and my regular job couldn't keep up with my Jones 
(addiction)," he reports. He kicks back in his chair in the San Diego County 
jail interview room and laughs out loud. "I make a lousy thief. I just barely 
even got out of the house before the cops were there." He was sent to the 
California Rehabilitation Center (CRC), which was developed to provide program 
services for addicts while they were in prison. "The program was pretty good, 
you know," Jordan acknowledged, "but you've got to stay with the NA [Narcotics 
Anonymous] and 12-stepping when you get out. I did pretty good for a while, but
then I started sliding again."

In 1984, he was helping to fix what he thought was a relative's truck. The 
relative, he says, had neglected to tell him that the truck was actually 
stolen. They were both convicted of receiving stolen property, and Jordan went 
to prison again. "But I got to go back to CRC," he recalls, "so all in all it 
might have done me some good." He grins at the thought. "At least I stayed 
clean in the joint." Since receiving stolen property is not considered a 
"serious" felony, it does not count as a "strike," but it does count as a prior
prison term for the purpose of sentence enhancement, even without the "three 
strikes" law.

In a year, he was again paroled. After a few months of not being able to find a
job, he got depressed and went back to using. He got addicted again and was 
arrested for being under the influence of a controlled substance. 

In 1986, he was caught for his second strike -- another residential burglary. 
"But it was such a lame beef," he said, "that in spite of my priors they gave 
me probation and six months in jail." It seems ironic that an offense that the 
authorities did not think was worth putting Jordan in prison for at the time 
may now help put him there for life.

Within months of his release, he was strung out again. "You know, I would be a 
rich man if I had a dollar for every time I tried to get into a decent program.
I've even had my parole agent out there beating the bushes for me," he says 
appreciatively, "but unless you got some big bucks or some juice somewhere, it 
takes you forever and a day. Those programs all have waiting lists a mile 
long." He shakes his head again. "What junkie can wait?"

Then, nearly five years ago, Jordan got into a long-term relationship with 
Wendy (a pseudonym). She was a young, unattached mother who became a source of 
stability for him, and they have been making plans to live together. When you 
ask Jordan when he met Wendy, he answers immediately, "March 11, 1990." When 
you ask Wendy when she met Jordan, she answers immediately, "March 11, 1990." 
Neither answer reflects that they have known each other for years; neither 
answer reflects that each one's mother was already the grandmother of the same 
child, born to Wendy's brother and Jordan's sister. But they didn't really know
each other, and had never even thought about dating until the day Jordan was 
released on parole -- March 11, 1990.

When interviewers caught up with her, she and her mother were in the kitchen of
Wendy's condominium cooking dinner. As soon as we explained we were there to 
talk about Jordan, Wendy's mother began spewing a mouthful of cold-steel 
invective against Jordan. From her point of view, Jordan is a "no-good thief 
... a filthy convict ... a man without honor, integrity or brains" and "the 
worst thing that ever happened" to her daughter. Wendy's brothers are convicts,
too, and one of them is currently facing a violent third-strike charge of his 
own. Says their mother, "I'm their mother. How could I not love them?" 

"Face it, Mom, your son is much worse than Eddie and you still love him," Wendy
says as she holds out her hands plaintively, palms outstretched, "so why can't 
you understand that I love Eddie the same way?"

Possibly the mother was hoping for something better for her daughter. But after
five minutes, Wendy took her guest outside to talk and escape her mother's 
verbal torrent. "There is real bad blood between our families," she explained, 
"and it has nothing to do with Eddie." It seems it is about the baby that joins
the grandmothers. Custodial squabbles about the young girl have apparently 
resulted in a "Hatfields and McCoys" feud between the grandmothers that has 
fallen on the younger generation as well.

Except for Wendy and Eddie. When Wendy talks about Jordan, there is palpable 
caring and wistfulness. "You know, I'm all he has," she begins, and then her 
eyes start to sparkle and she wipes away a tear, then another. Then she doesn't
even bother. "His folks don't really care for him. You see what my mother 
thinks. But he's not like Mom was saying at all. He's really so different from 
my brothers."

On that March day in 1990, Jordan's sister had invited Wendy over for his 
prison homecoming party. Watching him really for the first time, and talking to
him, Wendy liked him right away.

She says the first thing that struck her about him was that unlike most other 
convicts she knew, Jordan was ashamed of being an addict. The more they talked,
not just that day but thereafter, the more she came to like his personality. He
was quiet and respectful, sort of shy and conservative. He was curious about 
things, and he seemed more mature, not foolish and irresponsible. "He was just 
different from most of my brothers' friends," Wendy said.

"And there was this other thing that I love about him, too," she remarked. 
"When he was still living at [his parents' home and working steady, we would go
to Disneyland or the beach or park or some place with my kids. He didn't try to
buy their love or affection. He told me one time that he wants them to just 
have fun with him, and that if we all did fun things together, he would win 
their affection that way. He wasn't pushy about it like other guys I've dated."

Wendy has never used drugs, and she made it clear to Jordan that she wanted to 
help him quit. For a while, it seemed to be working out. Jordan was employed 
full-time by a painting contractor that he really liked, and the company liked 
him. Wendy worked for the State Department of Economic Development, in an 
unemployment unit, and also made good money. 

Then came the prison term in 1992. "That was a real bummer," Wendy says. "It 
was a very shaky case, but Eddie didn't want it to fall back on his sister, so 
he agreed it was his dope."

"But better me than her, you know," Jordan says with a shrug of his shoulders. 
"She's never been down, and what's one more time for me?" He served eight 
months in prison for that decision.

When he was released, they got lucky again. He got another good job, with a 
different painting contractor, this time in El Cajon. His boss, Dave Wageman, 
had a list of people he would call, and the workers' position on the list 
depended on how well they did their work and how well they responded when 
called. Jordan was a good worker, and as long as he had a car he could respond 
to wherever the job site was.

Then Wendy got conned. She fell for what dope fiends call the "okee doke." The 
way she tells it, her brother pleaded with her to help him stay clean while he 
was desperately trying to find a job -- no easy task for an ex-con. All he 
needed was some money to tide him over, and couldn't she please just make a 
couple of entries in the computer at work so he could qualify for unemployment?
Out of love and pity, she says, she did it. A short time later, he wanted her 
to do it for a friend. She refused. He reported her to her superiors, and she 
lost her job. At the same time, her mother had problems of her own and moved in
with Wendy.

"That put too much pressure on me," she recalls, "and I guess I didn't have 
energy left over for Eddie." In January 1994, Jordan tested positive for heroin
use and was sent back to Donovan Correctional Facility for what parole agents 
call "a 30-day dryout."

When Jordan got out at the end of February, his stepfather told him that this 
was his last chance. If he used dope again, he would have to move out of his 
parents' house. At the same time, he had been dropped to the bottom of 
Wageman's hiring list. Because of a general slump in the economy, Wageman 
wasn't getting enough jobs to reach the bottom of the list. Jordan got only an 
occasional day of work. Then, on March 19, he was arrested again by the San 
Diego police for being under the influence of a controlled substance. That's 
when Eddie had to leave his house because of the understanding with his parents
that he would not be living there if he used drugs again. He was now officially
homeless.

Whenever he could afford it, he stayed in cheap motels. When he couldn't, he 
either flopped with friends or stayed in someone's car. He was going out with 
Wendy just on Saturday nights. "You know," he said, "it was just like that old 
joke. Wendy told me, `Cheer up, things could be worse.' So I cheered up, and 
sure enough things got worse." His car quit running while he was on the 
freeway, and before he was able to get back to fix it, it was impounded. Now he
had no way to get to a job even when Dave Wageman was able to offer him one. "I
thought to myself, you know, if it wasn't for bad luck I wouldn't have no luck 
at all."

But with strong support from Wendy, he was clean until about two weeks before 
his arrest. Then he got an abscessed tooth. He went to the public hospital but 
couldn't get an appointment with a dentist for several days. He couldn't handle
the pain from the tooth, so he shot up some heroin for the pain. "But I had it 
under control, you know," he rationalizes. "I took just enough for the pain. I 
wasn't going to let the monkey get on my back again. I just know that if I had 
made that job interview they would have hired me."

Jordan is referring to an interview he had lined up for the day after he was 
arrested for his third strike. But that day, with the bad luck that seems to 
dog him, he was ripped off. Jordan had stashed the two garbage bags with his 
clothes in a clump of bushes while he went out to get some food and to line up 
more job interviews. When he came back, the bags had been stolen and his 
clothes were gone. He had the job interview to go to and had only the clothes 
he was wearing. He felt he needed at least a clean shirt for the interview.
"You know something, I never had been off parole since 1982," Jordan said at 
the close of the interview. "Maybe I'm nuts, but I'm kind of proud of the fact 
that since 1986 I haven't done no more burglaries. When I went into that J.C. 
Penney store, I really thought God was on my side and that He wanted me to get 
that job the next day."

Jordan stuffed a new shirt into his trousers and was apprehended just after 
leaving Penney's without paying. He confessed, offered no resistance, and 
calmly waited for police to arrive.

All that remained was to sort out what society should do with him, and the 
manager of the Penney's from which Eddie Jordan had stolen the new shirt has 
very definite feelings about the matter. "You must understand, I'm a very 
conservative person," said the trim, almost dapper man in his 50s, who prefers 
that his name not be used. "I think the prison system is sadly misguided. For 
many of these people, they have it much better inside than they do at home. 
They get clean clothes, three meals a day, all the showers they want, 
television -- everything."

"How would you change that?" the manager was asked. 

"I think they should get two meals a day, no television, a shower and clean 
clothes once a week, no weights so they can't pump themselves and come back out
to beat up the rest of us. Make it painful to be in there," the manager 
replied. "Then they'll think twice about committing another crime and getting 
sent back."

What should the prisoners do all day?

"Let them make little rocks out of big rocks," he said.

The Penney's manager was unstoppable. He talked of the "three strikes" 
initiative, the state of the schools and neighborhoods, immigration, 
politicians, Christianity and crime rates. The conversation worked its way 
around to the finances of incarceration and the projected cost of 
three-quarters of a million dollars each to keep offenders like Eddie Jordan 
off the streets for 25 years to life -- for a $32 shirt theft. "If the cost 
keeps going up and up," the Penney's manager asked indignantly, "who is going 
to pay the piper? Obviously, taxes will have to be increased and new taxes will
have to be imposed."

He considered for a while the balancing of social costs and concluded, "I want 
to discuss these facts with some of my friends. We may have to think about this
issue some more. As a businessman, maybe I need to recheck the bottom line."

Jordan's parole officer Lopez also has given some thought to the bottom line. 
What puzzles him is that since quadrupling the number of state prisoners over 
the past 15 or so years hasn't brought the crime rate down, "then why all the 
hysteria to lock up so many more guys? I mean, if putting four times the number
of people in prison hasn't lowered the crime rate, what is going to change 
except that we spend more money?"

"And you know," he closes, "it would be nice to have some program money for 
people like Eddie.  I mean, some serious program money for some serious 
programs, not just the short-term programs we have now."

#   #   #

According to his parole agent, Jose Lopez, "Eddie is just a hope-to-die doper. 
He's easy to supervise because he comes out, reports to me once, then the next 
time I see him is when he starts taking dope again.  Heroin is his drug of 
choice," says the former Santa Barbara probation officer [he isn't currently a 
parole officer?], "and he just can't seem to stay away from it for very long.  
Lopez says that Jordan has been lucky to find a pretty good job, usually 
construction work of some kind or, more recently, painting.  
This is unusual for most of a parole agent's caseload, who are often 
chronically unemployed.


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