Recidivist Phantoms

It was some 18 months into the AI overhaul, and a pattern began to emerge.

It started with just instances, here or there. There was no great wave. There were just punctuated happenings, miles apart, entirely without relation. Though, over enough time, droplets made up an ocean.

Prison releases in any iteration of society had always been a complicated matter. The statistics were seldom positive on the side of rehabilitation. Worldwide, recidivism was a reality – between 18% and 55% of released prisoners could return within two years. Even in a day and age where western penal systems found themselves creaking with overpopulation, there was no immediate remedy for the complications of life after release.

Irrespective of their sentences, fundamental issues of housing and having any kind of reliable support or income stood in the way for a significant proportion of released individuals. That’s not to say many couldn’t go on to form a stable life, but this was, of course, entirely conditional. Public support was high for businesses hiring ex-offenders, but promising outcomes remained low. Those who could rejoin the workforce knew the barriers they were heading towards.

Barely 15% found themselves back at work within six weeks of release, while a little over 20% received employment after six months. These were the fortunate few, typically with support systems in place for them, and low-wage, low-security work their means of money. Ultimately, the broadest of barriers to life after prison were stigma, mental health complexities and homelessness. Yet, something began to change, to show up, bit by bit, across international probation reports.

***

Jobs were being vacuumed up at light speed as juries became a thing of the past. AI became the replacement for judges and every last piece of visual media’s origins and intentions were entirely unknowable. The most affluent of areas segued into universal basic utopia, while the most deprived areas became enclaves of isolated desperation. The world had become a fully automated riddle. Few roles remained for human beings, yet low-wage, low-security work, deemed befitting of released prisoners, was still available.

Probation officers were also among the remaining jobs, relying on some last human faces to reintegrate other human faces into society upon their release. Curiously, the ex-offenders who managed to gain interviews and employment started to display peculiar trends across their probation reports. Ad-hoc, instantaneous compiling of information meant AI noticed these patterns first. This notice was soon passed on to their human counterparts. Abby Nelson received hers via email the night before her 9:45 am appointment with a Mr. Derek Rogers.

Some months ago, Abby weathered the initial shock of being reposted to the role of a Probation Officer. She did though, with enough experience, acclimate and soon counted herself lucky. Firstly, she had a job. Secondly, she had a job that was solely based around people with acute needs; her role was necessary and desired, and it most certainly should have been carried out by a human being. Abby found herself as much an agony aunt as a useful resource to many of her clients. They were simply trying to get through, consistently trying and applying in hope that a stable job would materialize soon.

She often ruminated on the fact that poor literacy is one the most profound themes of prison populations, and, while it stands as an obstacle to employment prospects, this can also result in remarkably expressive, poetic, and connected speakers. Without the rigidity and constriction of schooled literacy, individuals often found themselves adept as perceptive talkers and listeners. They might not be able to recall the pedantic insides of a peer-reviewed academic textbook, but they could distinguish a lie from the tone of a voice. They knew the threat of manipulation from a pressed syllable. They also recognized a good soul from a bad one, all from the choice of words and their delivery. Abby relied on this fact, and respected it, as she approached any client conversation.

Derek was a success story. Abby had always found him polite and straightforward. His sentence had been four years for, in his own words, “getting up in business that was none of my business.” He didn’t reek of self-loathing or wanton mental health crises as so many releases did. Abby saw his story straight; Derek had fallen for an offer to make quick money in a moment of weakness, and he’d been caught in the act. He accepted his sentence and made no bones about his crime, following a quiet, drama-free sentence: he was released.

Derek’s life story was one of a self-made man, and his life after release continued that motif. Within two months he’d secured a single room flat and began to make a modicum of regular income as a plasterer and plumber. He also kept himself well clear of anything nefarious. With an ex-wife “somewhere out there” and “few friends worth talking to,” Derek was a fifty-something in the process of reintegration and, ultimately, doing incredibly well.

***

Abby and he had been seated for some ten or so minutes before she realized something was off. Derek always sat to face her and was somewhat chatty. He had the slightly grating, chauvinistic habit of calling her “Abby girl.” However, Abby weighed this endearment against every other name prison releases had called her in the past months and decided to recognize its warmth. Today, though, Derek wasn’t chatty. He gazed out and away from Abby and… he looked tired.

“Is everything okay, Derek?” Abby implored, genuinely hoping bad news was not afoot.

Derek shuffled a bit in his chair. He half-muttered under his breath, interrupting himself from responding more than once. He briefly glanced back at Abby and let out a little chuckle before setting himself. His eyes shifted to another corner of the room while he said,

“What is it? This… AI? This, this new world. Photographs, now videos. Vehicles with nobody driving. None of it real. You know, even when you walk down a street full of people – it feels empty. Nobody… talks anymore. Don’t even acknowledge your walking on the same street. It’s quiet but the cars. My last three jobs; I get sent the job on my email, I go to the door, I’m answered by the door bell… I didn’t even see the last three people whose homes I was in. There were no photos on the walls, either. It doesn’t matter where I take a job, it’s the same everywhere I go.”

Derek looked up and out, ruefully, mournfully.

“Is… is… this it? Dead streets. Nobody behind the counter. Talking to a computer. Everything’s a computer program. It feels cold. The whole thing, it’s… it’s… not like people live here anymore. It’s like everybody is scared. Too scared for a greeting. Too scared for even a ‘hello’.”

Derek looked pained. His voice softened. Abby’s throat felt dry.

“A child spat at me.”

His gaze set upon Abby once more. His face stopped moving; his eyes felt hollow. 

“Just a little thing. 5, maybe 7 years old… he – it, didn’t hit me. But… the mother… she moved her kid away from me. Didn’t confront or discipline him. Didn’t make an apology. She grabbed him and moved away… like I was the problem.”

Derek paused.

“That’s not about me. I have no sign on my head. People don’t know I’ve been to prison. They can’t read minds… this is people. People are just scared.”

Derek briefly brought himself back from his thoughts, back to Abby, back to the present. He began with an exhale,

“Abby girl, I may be talking crazy, but… and don’t misunderstand me when I say this… I don’t ever want to… do something stupid again. That’s not what I’m talking about. Don’t misunderstand me. But can you believe me when I say this; I had a dream the other night of being back inside. Do you hear that? This… out here… there’s no society. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think something in me wants to go back.”

Abby sat in silence, looking at the glassy wetness filling Derek’s eyes. This was as honest and intimate an exchange as she’d ever had with a released prisoner. Abby didn’t know where to begin.

The email memo she’d received the night before was as if prophecy:

En masse, successfully reintegrating prison releases were longing to be back in prison.