Maya Fisher-French spends a harrowing day at the Pretoria Magistrate’s Court observing Nicro’s new sentencing programme in action
In September 2008 a non-custodial sentencing programme was introduced in the Pretoria Magistrate’s Court by the National Institute for Crime Prevention and Reintegration of Offenders (Nicro).Nicro’s philosophy is self-evident: longer and tougher prison sentences are not dealing effectively with crime. Since 1995 the number of inmates has increased by 44%, yet our crime rate continues unabated. Prison, says Nicro, does not rehabilitate offenders — it is simply a breeding ground for future hardened criminals as inmates are often forced to join prison gangs to survive. An estimated 65% of released prisoners re-offend. But research shows that non-violent offenders who serve their sentence outside of prison, within their communities, where the root causes of their behaviour are addressed, have a far better prospect of turning away from a life of crime. Nicro has social workers at 25 magistrate’s courts and 230 offenders have joined its programme. Once an offender is on the programme it’s compulsory and breaking any of the rules puts the offender back in court to face jail time. The Nicro programme is usually served in conjunction with court-ordered alternative sentences, including community service, fines and suspended sentences
I meet Chrizelda Coetzee at the Nicro offices at the Pretoria Magistrate’s Court — a beautiful old building with a gloomy, windowless interior lit by flickering flurorescents.
Coetzee is already rushing around getting the day’s cases organised. She asks volunteer Thembela Dom to go to the courts and get the file for her next interview.
I follow Dom at a half jog as he briskly navigates his way through the court’s maze of floors and rooms and corridors.
“We had a meeting two weeks ago to ask the magistrates and prosecutors to give us more referrals, so when I have time I go up and check if there are any,” he says.
One magistrate hands him the file of a shoplifter; another a case of possession of dagga. It is clear he has a good relationship with the court officials — there has to be a fair amount of trust to hand over court documents that are notorious for going “missing”.
As we whizz from one floor to the next, Dom tells me he plans to study for a degree in social work through Unisa, after which he aims to start a branch of Nicro in his home province, the Eastern Cape. “I want to help my people. Nicro helps people.”
A few weeks ago, he says, he bumped into a 16-year-old boy who, thanks to Nicro’s alternative-sentencing programme, had avoided going to jail. The teenager grabbed his arm and introduced him to his mother: “He said: ‘Mama this is the man who helped me.’ This is what makes the difference.”
He collects the file he has been sent to fetch and we return to Coetzee’s office. The case concerns a 22-year-old male (let’s call him M) who is suspected of trying to burgle the company he was recently dismissed from. His court-appointed lawyer asked Nicro to assess him to see if he qualifies for alternative (non-prison) sentencing. M is still in the holding cells awaiting sentencing, so Coetzee will have to interview him there.
It is a race against the clock, as the report must be ready before M goes to court. We go back through the maze of stairs and lifts, just focusing on not getting lost. I still have my empty teacup in my hand, and feel a bit stupid.
The holding cells are a shock. They remind me of the cages dogs are kept in at the vet — only dirtier. They reek of urine. The cell where M is being held is in darkness, so it is hard to see, but I make out four or five people inside. We are not allowed to take photographs.
Coetzee has to conduct the interview through the bars, with the other prisoners pushing in around M, listening in. It quickly becomes clear that Coetzee and M need a translator and Coetzee leaves to find Caroline Nkuna, another volunteer, to do the job.
Coetzee returns empty handed — Nkuna is busy elsewhere – so the court allows us to use its translator. We re-enter the cell, but this time we meet the warder from hell. He starts shouting: “This is my cell! What are you doing here? Get out, get out!” Coetzee explains that we have permission from the courts to allow a journalist to witness the interview. He doesn’t care, here he is a god, here he has total control. We leave, wait for a new warden and enter again.
M denies that he was trying to break into his former place of employment. He says was just going back to fetch his clothes. He saw the broken window and just went to touch it. He is so young and fresh-faced that seeing him in this hell hole with screaming wardens and hardened criminals is traumatic.
Coetzee finds M’s mother sitting in the courtroom and asks if she will come down to Nicro’s offices to assist with the assessment. It turns out she is not his mother but his aunt. She is dressed in her Sunday best and has been at every hearing.
M’s real mother died five years ago and the aunt raises her sister’s three children. She starts to cry. “I don’t know what happened to him. He was traumatised by his mother’s death. It’s my fault, I should have taken him to see someone. He needs help.” I try to hold back my own tears.
Coetzee phones the young man’s uncle. He worked with him, got him the job. She wants a character reference — what his friends are like, whether they influenced him. She is trying to find mitigating circumstances, something that will suggest that jail is not the answer for M; that he can be rehabilitated.
M is the breadwinner for his siblings — this is good, the court looks favourably on breadwinners. The uncle swears the young man did not do it: “He doesn’t do those sorts of things.” Coetzee is not convinced; she thinks the uncle may be involved. There was an earlier incident involving the theft of metal drums.
Coetzee writes up her report. She argues that jail time is unwarranted, that M needs correctional supervision and community service. She recommends a programme run by social services, but she turns him down for the Nicro programme because M has not taken responsibility. “We can work only with people who want to change. People who argue they are innocent have a negative effect on the group.”
We talk about the system and how it is working. Coetzee says a lot depends on the magistrates: “Some believe in rehabilitation, others only in prison.” It is a roll of the dice, then the luck of the magistrates’ draw that will determine an accused’s future. Those at Pretoria are among the lucky ones. To date, Nicro’s alternative-sentencing programme has been rolled out to 25 magistrate’s courts where social workers are in place. Counselling is included, as is strict supervision. The threat of being jailed if the programme rules are broken is never far away.
The next Nicro candidate arrives. He is out on bail, so the interview is held in the offices. He is a 31-year-old with a drinking problem. He is charged with stealing a cellphone. He says he was drunk when he pawned a friend’s phone, but the man’s previous record is what poses the problem — drunk driving and assaulting his wife.
He lives 200km from Pretoria and there is no Nicro programme in his area. “It’s a pity, he would have been a perfect candidate,” says Coetzee, who recommends for him a rehabilitation programme and correctional supervision with random alcohol tests.
The man insists he will start the programme in January, but he can’t take the time off work now. Coetzee reminds him that if he hits the bottle again or causes any more trouble he faces jail time.
Coetzee and I grab some lunch and talk about the challenges. Nicro desperately needs a room at the holding cells to do private interviews, but there are no police officers to escort the prisoners. It also needs a full-time paid assistant instead of being solely reliant on volunteers. Nicro survives on donations and a stipend from government, which covers a portion of salaries.
I ask what people can do to help Nicro. “Paint the office!”, says Coetzee, laughing. “They can bring plants, even just come and help us take the junk away – we are too busy. Just ask, we will find something.”
After lunch we join the adult life skills group session. We watch a movie about a bright young boy whose father mugs a woman who turns out to be the boy’s teacher. Participants talk about responsibility, about the people they hurt with their actions and about who the victims really are.
Latecomers are forced to do a dance and sing to apologise for being late. The regime is strict — no-shows get one warning; second time and they are back in court. Random urine tests are carried out. Jail is always imminent. So far it has worked: to date no one who has been through the programme has re-offended.
A worsening situation
South Africa’s prisons are 143% over capacity. At the end of May 2009 there were 163 698 inmates, of which 48073 are awaiting sentencing. There are 58873 inmates under the age of 25.
Between 1995 and 2007 the length of prison sentences has increased, with nearly 70% of offenders receiving sentences of 10 years or more, compared with 30% in 1995.
Nicro aims to have a presence in 52 courts nationwide by 2013.
Source: www.dcs.gov.za