The House that Wayne Built

by C. L. Stambush

Wayne Trockman’s penchant for going against the norm is barely visible in his downtown Evansville office. Equipped with an ordinary desk, a small plain conference table and a row of ordinary book shelves, there’s little to indicate that he advocates a way of thinking some have condemned. Yet, if you look closely, the tell-tale signs of his less-than-traditional perspective are visible through a scattering of cylinder heads, from old motorcycles he’s rebuilt, that hold up his law books. While some might see a ‘disconnect’ between the gear-head and legalscholar, Trockman doesn’t. In his mind, they both come down to the same thing: making something work.

When Trockman—a 1981 USI graduate with a bachelor’s in management—was appointed as a Vanderburgh County Superior Court Judge 16 years ago, one of the first things he noticed was a system that didn’t work when it came to dealing with non-violent felony drug offenders. Yes, they’d broken the law, but the judicial system’s sentencing requirements weren’t working in the best interests of anyone.

The minimum sentence for such offenders was six years, but depending on their past record they could receive eight, 10 or 20 years in prison, served alongside society’s most antisocial people. “I’ve been accused of being soft on crime, of having ‘drunk the kool-aid,’ sometimes by other judges,” Trockman says. “But it sickened me to see these young kids— 20, 21, 22 year olds—getting mandatory, non-suspendable sentences. Once you go to prison [for] that much time, you’re not likely to ever function normally in society again.”

As a defense attorney, Trockman was aware of the problems, but as a judge he had the power to try and change the sentencing laws to help rather than hurt people whose addictions led them to criminal behavior. There was more at stake than the individuals being sentenced; their children, spouses, parents and grandparents, as well as the community at large suffered too. “I saw whole generations of families being destroyed,” he says, “kids being put into foster care.”

Trockman could see that the costs to personal lives were devastating and the financial expense borne by taxpayers was set to become staggering. “In the ’80s and ’90s, we couldn’t build prisons fast enough,” he says. (During that period, the nation’s prison population reportedly increased an estimated 600 percent.) “What we found was we’d be building prisons forever, and we already incarcerate more people than any other nation in the world. That’s not something we should be proud of.” 

Researching the problem in the late ’90s, Trockman learned that when people who were unlikely to reoffend were housed among some of society’s most anti-social and repeat offenders, they became more likely to commit a crime and land back in prison. On the monetary side of imprisonment, things weren’t much better. When Trockman did the math, he discovered that long-term imprisonment (an average of 12 years for non-violent, drug-related crimes) cost taxpayers $254,040, and did nothing to change those prisoners’ behavior.

Turning it over in his mind, he believed that treatment, as opposed to long-term incarceration, was best for offenders, their families and society as a whole. What was needed was a collaboration between the courts and the corrections system. Trockman, who had been operating his own drug court on a small scale for a few months, worked with the Indiana Department of Corrections to establish a Therapeutic Community at the Branchville Correctional Facility in Perry County, Indiana—what he calls a “small house within The Big House”—where 600 select inmates serve nine-month sentences for their drug-related crimes while receiving treatment, counseling and many other services designed to modify their behavior and prepare them to return to and become productive members of society. This rehabilitation program would save taxpayers $238,380 over time and change lives. “We did [risk-to-reoffend assessments] at sentencing on these people before sending them into Branchville’s Therapeutic Community,” Trockman says, “and guess what? After nine months at the therapeutic community, their risks to reoffend came down.”

The program isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card, however. Once released from prison, parolees enter the Re-Entry Court that Trockman lobbied Indiana legislators hard to establish. Traditionally, the parole system operates on a “track ’em and whack ’em” basis, but in the Re-Entry Court (phase two of the Drug Treatment Court’s process) participants are rigorously monitored for three years by the court and the Vanderburgh County Sheriff’s Office, who perform home visits to ensure they stay on course. During this time, they’re required to be employed, pay their way through the program, be engaged in a 12-Step program, undergo mental health evaluations, report and be breathalyzed daily, be randomly drug tested twice a week, be drug-free and follow the treatment plan specifically designed for each of them, and more. The court insists that participants be involved in pro-social activities such as church too. It’s working. At the end of their three-year probation period, participants’ risk-to-reoffend scores dropped significantly.

“We provide incentives for accomplishments ranging from bus tokens to gas cards to phase changes [which allow participants more freedoms, such as to report less often],” Trockman says, noting that slip-ups do occur. “Breaking one or more of the rules always involves an immediate sanction ranging from writing assignments to community service and, ultimately, a period of time in jail.”

To be eligible for Branchville’s Therapeutic Community and later Trockman’s Re-Entry Court, James Akin M’05, social work, performs a battery of tests to determine if a person is suitable for  the program or not. Akin, however, isn’t the only USI graduate involved in the program’s operation. Jodi Uebelhack ’87, social work, is director of the facility where participants engage in the required programs.

Trockman’s connection to and reliance on USI goes beyond hiring other graduates to work with him in the program. He’s developed a life-long affiliation with USI’s expert faculty. “One of the best decisions that I made in the beginning,” Trockman says, “was to contact USI about hiring someone to keep the statistics and produce quarterly reports.” He had two key concerns he wanted a researcher to tackle: where the program excelled and where it didn’t. “It turned out that it was best to know where we were not excelling, because then we could fix the problems,” he says.

Dr. Iris Philips, professor of social work and the department’s chair, tracked and reported findings for the first 12 years, and now Dr. Jay Dickerson, assistant professor of social work, provides Trockman data that supports the program’s success. “We’ve had the benefit of this research for 16 years and the state’s had the benefit of the research. That’s been very helpful.” The statistical findings have resulted in 25 to 30 counties in Indiana implementing similar drug treatment courts, marking a new direction for criminal justice in Indiana. For the first time since the program began, Trockman says the number of felony drug offenders is decreasing, which was his ultimate goal. “We’re saving money, lives, families, and improving the quality of life and safety in our community,” he says. “Also, for the first time, money to run programs such as ours is more available.”

The men and women who enter one of these small houses within The Big Houses still pay for their crimes, but they’re given an opportunity to redeem their lives by rechanneling the way they think and act. And while there is some failure, for 70 percent of them the program is working. “I have thousands of graduates around town who stop me and say, ‘Thank you for saving my life.’ Their parents stop me and say, ‘Thank you for saving my son’s or daughter’s life.’”

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