By Scott Brinton
Robert "Bobby" Moore appears perfectly at ease as he moves through the cinder-block grayness of the Nassau County Correctional Facility in East Meadow. Moore's natural charm and bright wit contrast sharply with the dimly lit corridors that he walks with such familiarity.
The Freeport resident knows the lay of the jail better than just about anyone, as he has seen it both as prisoner and county employee.
Moore, 53, is a recovering alcoholic. He started drinking at age 13. Before finding God during a Catholic retreat at St. Ignatius House in Manhasset in 1978, he committed crimes like sticking his hand through a liquor-store window to grab a bottle of alcohol and get drunk.
"I never hurt anyone except myself and my family, of course," he says in his deep, raspy voice. He was imprisoned 16 times, once for four years at Dannemora state penitentiary (a.k.a. Little Siberia).
After sobering up and committing to follow God, he earned his certification in substance-abuse treatment. In January 1981, he wrote a grant proposal with help from the late Rev. Peter Sweisgood, a Catholic priest and executive director of the Long Island Council on Alcoholism and Substance Abuse. Moore's idea was to start an intensive drug-treatment program at the Nassau County jail.
At the time, there were no such programs in correctional facilities throughout New York State. The grant, from the Council on Alcoholism and Substance Abuse, provided monies for 30 inmates to take part.
This year, the DART (Drug Alcohol Rehabilitation Treatment) program marked its 20th anniversary and now treats up to 180 prisoners (known by DART counselors as clients) year-round. It is the only licensed, substance-abuse treatment program in a New York State jail today.
Two Irish nuns and a Teamsters Union minister, who was born Jewish, helped design DART, which is based on principles of the 12-step Alcoholics Anonymous program, says Moore.
Over two decades, some 7,000 inmates have graduated from the 90-day DART program. Moore hasn't tracked DART's recidivism rate. He, however, judges its success by the hundreds of letters and phone calls he receives annually from former prisoners who thank him for helping get their lives in order.
DART has also become an international model for in-prison drug treatment. Representatives have come from as far as China and Russia to observe the program. Moore proudly notes that, since visiting DART in 1987 and '88,
Russian prison officials have done away with electric-shock treatment for alcoholics.
As for Moore, he earned certification in substance-abuse treatment administration 10 years ago and is now coordinator of drug-treatment services for the Nassau County Correctional Facility.
He has also earned the respect of a host of powerful elected officials. Photographs of Moore with former Gov. Mario Cuomo, county Executive Thomas Gulotta and several judges grace his office walls.
County Sheriff Ed Reilly, 55, says of Moore: "When you're in Bobby's presence, you're humbled quickly. There aren't too many Bobby Moores."
Moore and Reilly appear close as they chat in the sheriff's Spartan office, which overlooks the jail's barbed wire-enclosed parking lot. Moore notes that the sheriff, who effectively acts as the jail's warden, keeps DART going. He "doesn't have to provide the services we do," says Moore.
Salaries for DART's 12 counselors today come from the jail's $127-million general budget. Three of the counselors are county corrections officers, whose annual salaries and benefits can run up to $100,000 each; civilian counselors cost on average $50,000.
The belief is that, if inmates can kick their drug habits, they often can lead productive, law-abiding lives, say Moore and Reilly. The sheriff notes that more than 80 percent of the Nassau County Correctional Facility's 1,600
prisoners arrive hooked on drugs. Many times, like Moore once did, they commit crimes to support their drug habits.
Moore says treatment for drug abusers is a far less-expensive alternative to incarceration. Imprisoning convicts at the Nassau County jail costs $40,000 each per year. Treating their addictions at the Father Peter Sweisgood sober home that Moore helped found in Uniondale runs $6,000 a year.
Treatment, however, remains a hot-button issue with the public. Berlinda Myers of Lakeview is a 40-something DART counselor and corrections officer who holds two master's degrees. In many other countries, drug abuse is seen as a public-health issue. "We [in America] look at it as a criminal issue..." says Myers. "Fiscally, it's more prudent to put someone in treatment. But politically, people want to hear you put someone away."
Ralph Smith, 53, under-deputy sheriff in charge of Nassau County jail programs, including DART, says, "We feel by treating the person while they're here...we make them a different person, a better person."
Corrections officers at the jail didn't see the value of treatment when DART began, says Andy Rea of East Meadow, a retired, 20-year officer who has served as a DART counselor since 1989. "We were not into it. Now, though, "the officers are well into rehabilitation," says Rea, 72.
DART clients are housed in their own cellblock, in E Building, which went up eight years ago. It is the most-modern type of corrections center, with two tiers, as opposed to three, of cells. Gone are the heavy, metal bars.
Doors with small, shatterproof windows enclose the cells.
Prisoners meet for group therapy in the Y-shaped common, which is filled with a cluster of built-in tables with checkerboards, as well as one pull-up apparatus. A neon-colored sign with the cartoon character Garfield is hung at
one end of the cellblock. It reads, "Winners never quit, and quitters never win." A picture of a tearful Jesus Christ is taped at the other end. It reads, "May God bless all on this road to recovery."
Inmates don bright, orange jumpsuits. They never leave E Building's sterile walls, and they are rarely allowed outside their cellblock. During individual therapy sessions, prisoners meet with counselors in offices along a dark hall, feet from the common. All the while, corrections officers closely watch over the inmates, both inside the common and from a control room.
Myers says that, in DART, "You can't save everybody, but there are people who will attempt to change. We plant seeds as counselors."
Of DART's accomplishments, Moore says simply, "Our biggest legacy here is the people."
Next week, the Herald looks at how DART works and speaks with two participants, one a former heroin dealer, the other a former crack addict.
