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Colorado inmates: Making license plates since 1926
Gazette, The (Colorado Springs), Mar 5, 2006 by ANDREA BROWN THE GAZETTE
Rodney Serna's dad used to warn him that if he didn't behave, he'd wind up making license plates in prison.
He should've listened.
Serna, 33, serving life for murder, works at the "tag plant" inside Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility in Caon City.
"I never thought it was for real," he said, casting a slight smile at his fate as he bagged plates rolling off the assembly line.
The adage about inmates making license plates is a reality in most states.
In Colorado, they've been pounded out since 1926 at the state's oldest prison, which produces about 2 million plates a year for cars, trucks, motorcycles and trailers. Serna says it beats the other prison jobs he's had over 15 years.
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"Mostly cellhouse porter jobs -- cleaning the pots, showers," he said. "This is pretty good."
Workers earn the standard prison wage of 60 cents per day -- plus production bonuses of about $100 a month.
"It's the premier job in the facility," said Andy Klinkerman, Colorado Correctional Industries manufacturing division manager.
Of 818 inmates at the medium-security prison, about 75 work at the "tag plant."
Workers must be referred by a case manager and have no recent discipline violations.
They run machines. They use tools, including box cutters. They dress like prisoners, in green garb and state-issued shoes, but for six and a half hours a day, Monday through Friday, they are working men.
'WE HOLD OUR OWN'
Inmates in Fremont make fish tanks. Saddles are made behind bars in Buena Vista. Trash bags are the specialty at Crowley.
Other Colorado Department of Corrections facilities make office furniture and inmate clothing, run a dairy supplying milk for all state prisoners, and grow flowers for bouquets delivered nationwide.
Prison industries save taxpayers money, Klinkerman said.
"We hold our own. We're cash funded," he said. "Any profits are plowed back into the organizations. All of our (factory) staff are paid out of proceeds."
"A lot of guys have never had a job before. To get up and go to work in the morning is a job skill for them."
The Caon City plate factory makes about 25,000 license plates a day during full production.
There are 159 different Colorado plates, of which 34 are embossed and 125 are digitally styled. Digitally printed plates include special interest, college alumni and militaryed designs.
Standard embossed plates -- raised green-and-white letters and numbers against a mountain backdrop - cost $1.63 to make. Digitally printed plates cost $2.54.
The 20,000-square-foot brick building, built as a cannery, sits between a stone mountain and cellblocks in the compound girdled with razor wire. Inside, machines clamor and whir. Plates clatter along a maze of conveyers, chutes, rollers, ovens and coolers. Inmates stack plates, fuss over smudges, check number sequences. The odor of paint mixes with the aroma of coffee.
The process begins at the "blanking machine" with Mark Dolan, 60, a man serving 32 years for, as he unabashedly puts it, "lots of crimes." It ends with Serna's tattooed arms bagging plates for distribution to county Department of Motor Vehicles offices.
Earplugs in, gloves on, safety glasses secure, Dolan runs a machine that cuts a 1-ton aluminum roll into 7,000 blanks with rounded corners and four bolt holes.
The former Silverton miner was convicted in 1988.
"I was a dope addict," he said. "I robbed a place and kidnapped a woman behind the counter. I knew I'd get caught, but I was going to get my dope."
The job instills pride.
"They don't look at us like a bunch of scumbags here," Dolan said.
He figures it also gives him an edge when he gets out.
"I've got some money saved. If you step out of here with no work ethics, you're going to fall down and do crimes again."
LIKE A JOB OUTSIDE
Nearby, embossing machines sport graphics warning of danger. An image of bloodsplattered fingertips severed from a hand doesn't shake Emmitt Jackson, 64, a Denver roofer convicted of secondgree murder.
He unflinchingly puts his hands close -- not too close -- to the 200-ton hydraulic machine's "teeth" to feed blank plates for text stamping.
"You have to be conscious of what you're doing," said Jackson, an eight-year platemaking veteran.
The way he sees it, a job inside is like a job outside.
"It supports our needs. It relieves the pressure from our families from sending money," he said.
He buys toiletries, sweat pants and items he otherwise couldn't afford. "I love candy bars. Snickers. I'm a big kid."
Jackson looks forward to being paroled someday.
"I can go buy me a vehicle and say, 'Hey, I made these plates.'"
He and Earl Witherspoon, 51, emboss about 8,000 trailer plates a day on a two-man machine.
"Time goes by," said Witherspoon, a Colorado Springs man serving four years for a drug conviction. "Before you know it, it's 3:30 and time to go home, take a shower, watch TV, play some cards or dominoes, eat dinner, go to bed. Rise early."
