plus 4, Obama Applauds Wall Street Overhaul Bill - CBS News

Obama Applauds Wall Street Overhaul Bill - CBS News
Donors help brighten season for senior citizens - Staunton News Leader
At 57, she's new mom to six - Cincinnati.com
Burglar steals $128,000 at AUW - Honolulu Advertiser
Lifelong criminal tries to put prison behind him - Jefferson City News Tribune Online

Obama Applauds Wall Street Overhaul Bill - CBS News

Posted: 12 Dec 2009 08:41 AM PST

fivefilters.org featured article: Normalising the crime of the century by John Pilger

Donors help brighten season for senior citizens - Staunton News Leader

Posted: 12 Dec 2009 08:13 AM PST

STAUNTON — Brightly wrapped presents fill every corner of one Bentley Commons apartment, and more are on the way from the gift-wrapping station next door.

For a week, volunteers and senior citizen care workers have been wrapping gifts donated by the Staunton, Waynesboro and Augusta County communities as part of the "Be a Santa to a Senior" program.

Sponsored by Home Instead Senior Care, the national program seeks to provide holiday gifts to low-income seniors who may not otherwise receive any this season.

"The theme is very basic stuff," said Jeanne Kettlewell Russell. "It tends to be things to stay warm, like blankets and socks, a lot of jogging suits. They tend to be very basic needs."

Valley Mission, the Department of Social Services and other local homes and agencies who work with low-income seniors — many of whom receive Medicaid — submitted the names of seniors they think might not spend Christmas with family or receive any gifts as well as a wish list from each senior. Home Instead wrote the lists on paper ornaments and hung them on Christmas trees at Augusta Health and the Walmarts in Staunton and Waynesboro, where shoppers selected the ornament, bought corresponding gifts and donated them to the cause.

Volunteers have been wrapping the gifts all week and tucking them into gift bags decorated by local students and kids from churches and Boy Scout troops.

"They're everything from Pre-K doing the most darling little drawings to very, very fancy ones form the art students at Stuart Hall," Russell said. "The bags are just as special as the gifts. They really have personalized that this is something special from someone's heart."

Russell said last year, the group donated almost 1,800 gifts to 650 "low-income and rather isolated" seniors. She said there are about 600 seniors on this year's list, because the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank opted out of submitting names to focus on the heightened demand for food items.

In the rooms Bentley Commons lent the group for a wrapping station, Melissa Bosserman tucked some wrapping paper around a fluffy bathrobe. She's a Home Instead employee, but she's volunteered several hours this week to wrap dozens of gifts.

"I just wanted to help the seniors who didn't have families," she said. "To bring a smile to their face, that really makes a difference."

Bosserman said the people who've given gifts to the cause this year have been especially generous. For example, one woman asked for clothes or shoes, and a family gave her a couple full outfits with shoes and accessories.

"You'd think with the economy you'd see less, but they're getting a lot more," she said.

Russell said there are still some remaining wish tags on the trees at the Staunton and Waynesboro Walmarts and she hopes the gifts listed will be donated before the collection ends on Dec. 14.

fivefilters.org featured article: Normalising the crime of the century by John Pilger

At 57, she's new mom to six - Cincinnati.com

Posted: 12 Dec 2009 08:20 AM PST

FOREST PARK - The 6-year-old boy, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, bounded down the stairs, across the living room carpet, past a table holding Scrabble and other board games and into the arms of the slim, graying woman sitting on the couch with her cup of coffee.

After raising three children, Veronica Parish, 58, thought she put those days behind her, but that changed May 23.

On that day, her son-in-law shot to death of one her two daughters, Ronnique "Mawusi" Burton, 37, who had a promising career as a chef. He then turned the gun on himself, leaving seven children without their parents.

Now, not only is Parish left to grieve her daughter's death, she now has custody of six of the seven children - who range in age from 2 to 17 - and struggles to make ends meet.

After Michael Jarrell, 31, shot Burton and himself in an upstairs bedroom of their Wells Avenue house, their daughter, Amatwa, 12, raced to a neighbor's, dragging along her 10-year-old sister, Sesheta, and brother, Taharqa, 6, to escape an argument that turned violent.

That night, Parish squeezed seven parentless children into her two-bedroom townhouse. "I was about to lose it," she said. "God's grace is the only thing that kept my mind together. I have no choice but to take the assignment God gave me."

Parish and her husband eventually moved into a four-bedroom rental house on a cul-de-sac not far from Winton Woods High School so they could keep the children together although Amatwa lives in Symmes Township with Burton's sister but sees her grandmother every daily.

The daily demands of caring for the children - six of whom live with her have recast Parish's life.

Since taking in the children, she's lost 20 pounds and exhibits a nervous anxiety. Four times during a 90-minute conversation, Parish walked into her kitchen and refilled her cup with coffee and sugar. She no longer can work outside of the home because she can't spare the time away from that many children.

Each child attends a different school, so she's constantly on the run in her truck. Her day starts at 5:45 a.m. and runs until 10:30 p.m.. She does laundry every afternoon and is learning to prepare vegetarian meals. Burton, a Rastafarian, brought up her children as vegetarians.

Money is tight, no matter how strictly Parish holds to her budget. Four of the five youngest children, ages 6 to 14 - are in grief counseling. The two oldest, ages 17 and 16, don't want to go and are embarrassed by any reference to their mother's death.

Parish's rent is $935, not counting utilities. They paid half as much rent for the townhouse.

She dreads the water bill alone. "Showers, laundry, the dishwasher," she said.

An account was set up at Huntington Bank to help the family. It has just $60 in it.

Parish said she receives $700 a month in public aid for the children or $100 for each child, plus help from Ohio Works First cash assistance and food stamps.

Otherwise, there has been little help. Her husband of 24 years, Delmar, 77, is retired and has a serious lung ailment that prevents him from exerting himself.

One source of help was the Hands Ministry at Parish's church, Christ Emmanuel Christian Fellowship in Walnut Hills.

A member of the ministry, which performs American Sign Language for hard-of-hearing church-goers during services, Parish received school supplies from her fellow signers for the children in August.

There was never a doubt Parish would care for her grandchildren, no matter how it changed her life.

"They've always been the apple of her eye," said LaVerne Thomas, 50, a Hands Ministry member. "She always talked about her grandbabies."

Church members know what Parish is up against.

"It's two-fold," Thomas said. "She lost her daughter and gained her children. She's giving them what they're going to need. She will not fail them."

Parish is taking them to counseling.

With help of therapists, Parish said she can handle the emotional needs.

Every now and then, a child will cry about their mother, who was a month away from receiving her associate's degree from the Midwest Culinary Institute at Cincinnati State Technical and Community College.

"She had her cap and gown ready," Parish said.

Burton had won a scholarship as a graduate of Cincinnati COOKS, a free, 10-week training program of the Freestore Foodbank that prepares poor, at-risk adults for employment in the food service industry. She worked at the Summit Restaurant at Cincinnati State and started her own catering business, Mecca Gourmet, with a partner.

"She was just an amazing woman," said Dennis Coskie, Cincinnati COOKS director. "Her children were always well-dressed and in school. She was enthusiastic about her life."

Another source of help is the Freestore, which provided food shortly after Burton's death.

Still, sometimes at night, the pressure is too much. She cries.

"In the beginning, I didn't want them to see me," she said of her grandchildren. "But it's OK for them to cry when they want to. They need to see it's OK for me once in a while, too."

The additional bedrooms in the new house have helped strengthen family routines, the centerpiece of which - Parish insists - is 6 p.m. dinner at the table.

Foster care and separate homes never were an option.

"My payoff is to see them smile and hear them laugh, just watching them with each other," Parish said of her grandchildren. "I know they're sleeping at night and not having the nightmares."

fivefilters.org featured article: Normalising the crime of the century by John Pilger

Burglar steals $128,000 at AUW - Honolulu Advertiser

Posted: 12 Dec 2009 07:30 AM PST

Aloha United Way has notified its donors that someone broke into the charity's office and stole about $128,000 in checks, cash and credit card receipts.

No arrests have been made in the theft, which is believed to have taken place Nov. 29 or 30, police spokeswoman Michelle Yu said.

"We haven't heard how the AUW will deal with this, but it is a real tragedy for the agencies it serves," said Brian Schatz, chief executive officer of Helping Hands Hawaii, one of AUW's 96 partner agencies. "It's sad for our community that some people would stoop so low."

Bank of Hawaii said it will waive stop-payment fees for its customers' checks that were made out to AUW.

Susan Doyle, Aloha United Way president, said the charity is adding additional security measures to try to ensure that a burglary like this won't happen again.

"We are saddened that monies donated to the Aloha United Way were stolen," Doyle said in a written statement. "More importantly, we are truly sorry that this has directly affected our generous donors. When a criminal act of this nature occurs, it affects everyone, including our community that benefits from the much-needed services."

Aloha United Way, which is in the middle of a fundraising campaign that began in September, said monetary donations are down about 10 percent from last year — a decline of about $1 million. The charity said it helps an estimated 500,000 people each year through its partner agencies.

Jody Shiroma Perreira, AUW vice president for marketing and communications, said its general donation campaign and the Pacesetter campaign, which runs May through July in 95 workplaces statewide, generates more than $9 million in contributions.

The Hawai'i State Teachers Association, which is a Pacesetter contributor to the Aloha United Way, pledged to continue to support the nonprofit.

"Aloha United Way is an important institution in our community and helps the people of our state in many ways," HSTA president Wil Okabe said. "We are saddened that they have been victimized. Those who stole money from AUW hurt a lot of worthwhile causes, not just AUW."

Reach Suzanne Roig at sroig@honoluluadvertiser.com.

fivefilters.org featured article: Normalising the crime of the century by John Pilger

Lifelong criminal tries to put prison behind him - Jefferson City News Tribune Online

Posted: 12 Dec 2009 07:08 AM PST

ROCHESTER, N.Y. (AP) -- On a rare visit to his childhood home, Eddie Williams is 16 again, peering down a shotgun barrel as he crouches in the kitchen doorway. The intruder then swivels and shoots, and Williams sees his mother, a pastor's widow, tumble face down on the yellow linoleum floor.

"I was never scared, just shocked," he recalls in a voice husky with emotion. "I distinctly remember the blood coming from under her."

Twenty-five years have passed and the careworn house on Tremont Street is hardly changed. Williams points out the two-story rear extension his father built to accommodate 11 children, and it triggers a tide of happy memories. "I can never say I didn't feel love as a child," he says.

At 41, having spent more than half his adult years behind bars for a string of drug-fueled burglaries and thefts, Williams is back chasing ghosts. Released from prison in January for a fourth time, he has signed up with a re-entry program designed to help even high-risk convicts adjust better outside.

By late summer, he hasn't found a job, has broken up with a longtime girlfriend and is looking the worse for wear. So the old questions loom once more: Can Eddie Williams put his life of drug addiction and crime behind him, soothe family betrayals, find a redemptive place in a society that has passed him by?

Ann Graham, who oversees therapy, job training and other re-entry services at Catholic Family Center, gives newly released inmates plain advice: "You're not good at this, so stop doing it." Williams would agree: During one drug-addled break-in, he sat down to eat a sandwich, dozed off and was awakened by a cop.

An internal change is invariably the key, re-entry advocates say. The 380 men in this year's Rochester-area program, a model tried across New York since 2006 after finding success in Georgia, Michigan and other states, range from 16 years on up. It's the older ones who seem to hear Graham's message best.

"The hardest thing for many guys, especially as they get old, is to have anything to live for when they get out," she says. "They've burned a lot of bridges, and the connections they make get broken over and over again.

"In the end, most want what everybody else wants, to earn a decent living, have a family who will love them and who they can love. Unfortunately, a lot take this very circuitous route" before realizing that what "really makes them happy in life, they're X-ing themselves out of by their actions."

* * *

Weeks before walking out of Orleans prison in western New York, Williams feels acutely the "doubled-edge sword" sensation of imminent freedom. "There's always the euphoria coming at you and, at the same time, fear of the unknown," he says in a dimly lit canteen as the warden stands listening.

With his radiant smile, the muscled, 220-pound, 5-foot-9 felon puts a sunny cast on his dreams of getting married and becoming a draftsman. Or perhaps a preacher. He speaks persuasively of an earnest effort to mend his ways, but is often cagey when pressed for details.

Williams blames his wayward life on a devastated childhood. A suitor spurned by his 39-year-old mother showed up one August night in 1984, shot her dead and threatened to harm Eddie and elder brothers Ray and Jesse before killing himself. Six younger children were asleep upstairs.

Jessie Mae Williams took a bank clerk job after her husband, Cliff, a no-nonsense Pentecostal minister, died of cancer in 1979. Losing control over her six rambunctious sons, she befriended neighbor James Florence, a married mechanic, and realized too late she had reason to fear. He had served three years for killing a girlfriend with a rifle blast in 1975.

In a neighborhood burdened by a culture of violence that was transforming Rochester into New York's perennial murder capital, a tight-knit, church-going family unraveled.

Ray got hooked on alcohol. John was caught dealing drugs. Eric was accused of scaring an 89-year-old woman to death during a 1990 burglary with two other teens; his murder conviction for ignoring her pleas to fetch her heart pills was overturned on appeal. By that time, Eddie was finishing his first prison term.

A cousin gave him his first gun, Williams says, and they practiced by shooting at stray dogs. He locked in with a street crew and progressed from selling drugs to fleecing rival dealers. He says he splurged on cocaine and prostitutes and bought cars for cash off the showroom floor.

While his brothers eventually gave up lawbreaking, got jobs and raised families, Williams' singular focus was stealing valuables, typically jewelry from unoccupied houses, to pay for his next fix.

Arrested 40 times, he has totted up six felony and 16 misdemeanor convictions mainly for burglary, grand larceny and drug possession. In 2003, he drew five years for attempted robbery.

Williams says drugs have turned his waking hours into "100 percent manipulation" of everyone he knows and loves. "For my parents to have to go out like that, that's where my anger came from. I blame everybody else."

His siblings call him the talent of the family -- a gifted sketch artist with a sharp wit and a good heart -- but their sympathy is outweighed by weary frustration at his utter lack of motivation. Williams has never kept a job for more than a few weeks.

"He was always just a big waste," gripes John Williams, a restaurant cook. "Give me half of the choices this guy got. (Mom) dying didn't happen just to him.

"I've been locked up, but I learned. I had my first kid, I said that was it. Eddie's more dangerous to himself than to others. You expect the light bulb is going to come on and it don't. I think he took it out. We keep hoping."

* * *

Inmates moved into special dorms at Orleans prison meet for up to four months with counselors, community agencies and employers to prepare them for re-entering society. "This is probably the biggest thing that has come along in years," Superintendent Sibatu Khahaifa says.

Instead of leaving with just $40 and a bus ticket, re-entry's holistic approach helps them find affordable housing, treatment for mental health and substance abuse, even jobs. Williams is signed up right away for health insurance, food stamps, group therapy.

He moves in with Shenequa Washington, 30, a mother of two he charmed in 2003 during her jail visit with a cousin.

Within weeks, Williams steals $1,000 she's been saving to buy him a car. He blows it on a crack binge. When he returns to her home in a low-rent neighborhood, she takes him back in, and he manages to pass periodic cocaine tests required by his parole officer.

Barred from seeking a job for six months so he can concentrate on staying clean, he fills the days visiting relatives, lifting weights at the YMCA, accompanying his new family to church. Bewitched by Washington's 9-year-old daughter, Robynnique, he dons a thrift store suit and accompanies her to a Valentine's Day prom.

"She's one of the main reasons I'm still at my record-setting pace," he says gleefully in July, already his longest span of freedom in a decade. But despite "moments of clarity where I see it's dumb to live your life like this," he admits getting high remains foremost in his mind.

With Washington working two jobs as a cashier, their quarrels over his emotional withdrawal, his preference for video games over simple chores, take a toll. He's now breaking his curfew by disappearing at night. In September, she tells him to move out.

"I'm easy to please as long as I'm being loved," she says. "He's an awesome person but he's not hacking it being out. I don't understand why he won't use his talents. He don't be dealing with the real world."

Williams moves in with John for two weeks, steals stereo equipment and an Xbox 360 from a sister's house, and vanishes. His return to trouble raises questions about his capacity to lift himself from his past.

Police responding to prank 911 calls spot Williams near a deserted intersection. Fearing he's armed, a sergeant says he shines a flashlight into Williams' bulging pocket, sees a crack pipe and then finds cocaine in his sock.

His bid to plead guilty to drug possession is turned down by a judge who decides police lacked probable cause to search him. The charge is to be dismissed.

Still, after missing a court appearance, Williams has his parole revoked and he's ordered back to prison for 12 months.

* * *

The Orleans re-entry unit easily beats the national recidivism rate of 39 percent in the first year out: Only 8 percent of the program's inmates freed in 2008 have so far returned to state prison, officials say.

Addicts are invariably the hardest to help.

"If not for drug issues, Williams would probably melt into oblivion" in middle age because "crime is a young man's game," Graham says. "What we're really asking people to do is mimic a middle-class lifestyle with neither the money nor the social underpinning. Some are not going to do it."

She says it's "not impossible" Williams may get into a lengthy residential drug center for the first time. "Really, what's the point of locking him up to the tune of $35,000 a year?"

In his jail limbo, Williams is 50 pounds lighter, his eyes clouded from medication for a 2001 stroke that makes his left side tingle. He doesn't feel he can function outside. "I don't love this place either but it's like an escape from all the other stuff," he says.

"The minute they let me go, I let this insane dude loose to take over and run my life. It's not just the drugs. I buy into the whole lifestyle, the fast pace, the dangers, an underworld filled with hookers, dealers, gunslingers, and I love it. I become a completely different person. You can't tell me nothing."

He cannot fathom what his future holds. All he knows is the past is littered with "crazy and impossible dreams left crushed and broken" while, up ahead, "the road is clean."

EDITOR'S NOTE -- To report this story, AP correspondent Ben Dobbin visited Eddie Williams in prison a year ago and met him periodically since then to track his progress.