Tightrope : Parole Officer Walks a Delicate Balance Between Being a Friend and a Disciplinarian

At 5 foot, 3 inches, Mary Cupp had difficulty landing a job keeping ex-cons on the straight and narrow.

“There is not much demand for a small, white woman with a Southern accent,” said Cupp, 57, who was turned down for several parole officer jobs before being hired 3 1/2 years ago by the Van Nuys branch of the Department of Corrections’ Parole and Community Services Division.

Cupp, who has a background in psychiatric social work, a knowledge of government bureaucracy and a will of steel, has become an expert at securing social services for parolees who are mentally ill, physically handicapped or have a history of drug and alcohol abuse, her superiors say.

“She is one of the most important people I have in this office,” said Hugh Alcott, unit supervisor of the Van Nuys parole office, and Cupp’s boss. “She is a tenacious little bulldog, and she will not take no for an answer.”

Cupp knows her efforts will not prevent some of her parolees from returning to prison. In fact, if she considers them a danger to the community, she orders them sent back. She said her top priority is to protect the community.

“You want them to succeed,” Cupp said. “And the more you know them, the more you like them. But you work always for the community.”

Before becoming a parole officer, Cupp worked with the mentally ill at Camarillo State Hospital for 12 years. As a psychiatric social worker there, she grew tired of protecting patients who came to the hospital merely to “beat a rap,” she said.

Now, Cupp walks a tightrope between being a loyal friend and a strict disciplinarian to the 69 felons, many of whom are mentally ill, who are under her supervision.

No statistics are available on the number of mentally ill parolees in California. But the total number of parolees is expected to soar from about 54,000 to about 82,000 in the next three years, and to about 98,000 in five years, according to the Department of Corrections. Of state parolees, about 46% live in Southern California.

Cupp said the Department of Corrections is hiring more parole agents to cope with the increased demand, but she has 69 clients, which is more than she would like. Cupp said she sometimes feels that she cannot spend enough time with her clients. And as soon as one case is off her list, another is added, she said.

“I do shotgun therapy,” said Cupp, who makes $42,216 a year. “If someone needs to see me, I do my best to see and help them as quickly as possible.”

Cupp, who moved to California from her native West Virginia in 1970, said her petite size has never been a problem in dealing with ex-cons, who often resent law enforcement officials. Sometimes it has even been an asset.

“My appearance is disarming,” she said. “I had one parolee who would just sit there and chuckle.”

Still, Cupp knows she is vulnerable. She said that because of threats she plans to take a weapons-training class next year so she can carry a firearm on duty.

During the course of a week, Cupp spends hours preparing reports, finding housing for prisoners facing release, attending parole violation hearings and filling out extensive paper work.

But most of her working hours are spent at her favorite part of the job: unannounced home visits.

On a recent October morning, Cupp called on Jesse Duran, 40, a former heroin addict and twice-convicted burglar with schizophrenia. Duran, whom Cupp considers one of her success stories, now lives in a board and care home for the mentally ill.

“I have put him together,” she said. “He is up to his capacity, and he is not hurting anyone, and all it costs the taxpayers is $650 a month. To me, that is cost-effective.”

But it wasn’t easy. She had to battle the Los Angeles County Department of Mental Health to get money for him to live at the board and care home, which offers the supervision, services, stability and shelter necessary tor keep him away from drugs and crime.

The county lends money from its general relief fund to mentally ill people who require sheltered living but who do not have approved Social Security benefits or Supplemental Social Income. But before Cupp sought the services on Duran’s behalf, the service was closed to parolees.

After the county turned down Duran for a loan four times, Cupp found a nonprofit legal service that helps the mentally disabled gain access to government benefits. Cupp and lawyers for the service argued that by closing general relief to parolees, the county violated a state civil rights law.

“If I want services for a parolee, there is no such thing as the word ‘no,’ ” she said. “If he is out there fending for himself, he cannot supervise money, he is confused, and sooner or later he is going to steal again.”

During the morning visit with Duran in his small but tidy room, the parolee seemed like a shy pupil trying to gain the respect of a teacher he fears and admires.

“I don’t take drugs. I don’t drink. I am a loner. I don’t want trouble,” he said. “I feel good. I have good health, and I am keeping my nose clean. I go to church on Sundays.”

Ten minutes after her arrival, Cupp was back in her unmarked car.

Each of the parolees on Cupp’s circuit deals with her differently. Sharon Larson, 39, the next to be visited, seemed to be testing her to see how much latitude the parole officer would allow.

Upon Larson’s release from state prison, she rented a room from a Panorama City housewife named Daisy, and found a job at a fast-food restaurant. On a previous day, Cupp had given Larson money to buy work shoes, and Cupp’s purpose was to be sure that Larson had not bought drugs with the cash.

While Cupp talked to her, Larson--who has a history of methamphetamine and heroin use, and a criminal record stretching back 20 years--sat at her dining room table and drank beer out of a red coffee mug.

Larson, who most recently spent a year and four months in state prison on a burglary conviction, protested vehemently when Cupp told her she would have to take a urine test for drug use.

Larson’s parole does not prohibit her from drinking, but Cupp asked, “Does Daisy know you’re hitting the sauce already?” She then advised the woman, “You might consider taking a few breath mints before you go to work.”

As she was leaving, Cupp said Larson probably wouldn’t make it to work that day. She was right.

Later that afternoon, Larson argued with her landlady, picked up her paycheck and moved out of her room. Although Cupp has not been able to locate Larson, the parole officer takes it in stride.

“I have a relationship with Sharon,” Cupp said. “She will call me when she is down and out.” And when she does, Cupp said, “I will take her right back to jail.”

Many parolees have no idea where they will live once they are released from prison, so they use the parole office as a forwarding address. After visiting Larson, Cupp had mail to deliver to William Bennett, a former physician who shot and wounded two people during a random shooting rampage.

Bennett, who served a six-year sentence for assault with a deadly weapon, has been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Now living in a comfortable Van Nuys nursing home, his medication has slowed him physically and mentally.

Bennett’s mail includes a letter with bad news from the Veterans Administration Hospital in Sepulveda. It said security guards will call police if he returns to the hospital. In the future, the letter said, he can only seek treatment at the Brentwood VA Hospital, which is more than an hour away by bus.

Bennett told Cupp that while he was at the Sepulveda hospital for urological treatment, he had jokingly asked a young night nurse to marry him. When she told him she was already married, Bennett said he replied, “If I kill your husband, will you marry me?” Bennett insisted that he had not meant the comment as a real threat.

But Cupp chides him, “You can never tell a joke like that.”

Although Cupp believes that Bennett was trying to intimidate the young nurse, she is also outraged that the hospital would ban a mentally ill man in need of medical care. After leaving Bennett, she promised to seek reinstatement of his rights to medical treatment at the Sepulveda facility.

“If you are on parole, you are still entitled to adequate medical treatment,” she said.

Cupp said she generally maintains an emotional distance from her parolees but admitted that she has become attached to some.

Her last visit of the day took her to the Salvation Army Harbor Light Center in downtown Los Angeles to say goodby to Joseph Fay, an alcoholic and convicted burglar. Fay has been one of Cupp’s favorites, although he periodically has gotten himself into trouble.

Twice in the last two years, an intoxicated Fay was hit by a car while crossing the street. Both times he called her to take him to the hospital. She said he was so apologetic that she found it easy to forgive him.

Fay had been living on the streets in Van Nuys until Cupp enrolled him in the downtown alcohol treatment program. She said it was critical for him to get away from Van Nuys, because “all his drinking buddies are there.” But as a parole officer assigned to the San Fernando Valley, she cannot continue to supervise him.

Fay was visibly shaken when Cupp told him in the din and chaos of the Salvation Army common room that his case had been transferred to another parole officer.

“I don’t have any people in California,” he said, his eyes avoiding hers. “It was nice to know I could always call somebody.”

She smiles brightly and pats his hand. “You can still call me--you can even call collect.”

Driving back to the Van Nuys office, Cupp said that her goodbys are rarely that tough.

“The best thing you can say to a parolee is, ‘I hope I never see you again,’ because if you do see them, it means they are in trouble.”