Bus ministry links inmates, families

By John Johnston • jjohnston@enquirer.com • August 1, 2009

Jasmine Bush, 4, jumps into her father's arms during a family visit at the Pickaway Correctional Institution in Orient, Ohio. (The Enquirer/Jeff Swinger)

A church van pulls into a Bond Hill parking lot shortly after 7 a.m. Eight people are waiting, including a single mother with three children who settle into the third row of seats.

The youngest, 4-year-old Jasmyn Bush, is excited to be going "to my daddy's school."

The state of Ohio has another name for it: Pickaway Correctional Institution. The prison, 93 miles northeast of Cincinnati, houses the girl's 30-year-old father, Edgar Bush, who is serving a two-year sentence for trafficking in cocaine.

For Jasmyn, the next 10 hours are a mix of anticipation, excitement, exhaustion and tears.

She lives in Pleasant Ridge with her 11-year-old half-brother, Joseph McClure; her 7-year-old half-sister, Zabrina Hall; and her mother, Jaimee McClure, who is 32. They're riding to the prison in a van provided by Linking Families Together, a bus ministry of the Council of Christian Communions since 2004.

Joellen Grady, the council's executive director, is not among the passengers on this Friday in July, but she has made trips to other prisons. For incarcerated parents to have any chance of remaining a part of their children's lives, it's essential they maintain a bond throughout the separation, she says.

"You've got a father who may have been gone nearly all the child's life, and then he's going to come back - having had no connection to the child - and be a father?" she says. "That's impossible."

So each month, Linking Families Together schedules trips to 10 adult prisons in Ohio. Adults pay $40 per round trip (except to Noble Correctional, in eastern Ohio, which is $55); children ride free.

Grady says it's the only nonprofit service one of its kind in Southwest Ohio. Last year it served more than 500 families, including 300 children.

"Can we go to Kings Island?" Jasmyn says, peering out the van windows as the sun rises over the amusement park.

The van keeps rolling up Interstate 71. Two members of Mount Zion Baptist Church in Glendale share driving duties this day. Behind them are two women. One is going to visit her son; the other, her husband.

Behind the women are Jasmyn, Zabrina, Joseph and their mother. Both girls are dressed in pink T-shirts and jeans. Both have had their hair done in beaded braids for the occasion.

Because Zabrina and Joseph are not Edgar Bush's children, McClure lets them decide whether to make the trip.

"I wanted to go because (Jasmyn's) daddy is nice," Zabrina says.

"I play checkers with him," says Joseph, a slender, curly haired boy.

It's because of Jasmyn that McClure says she has scheduled more than a dozen prison the visits the past few years.

"She loves her father so much. I don't want to be the reason they don't have a relationship. I just think there are enough children growing up without their fathers."

McClure is ambivalent about her relationship with Jasmyn's father, whom she has known for nine years. Since 1997, he has been jailed five times for offenses that include cocaine possession, trafficking in counterfeit controlled substances, receiving stolen property, escape, assault and theft.

Yet, when he is home, he's a loving father, she says.

Jasmyn thinks her father is away at school. McClure has instructed her other children not to say otherwise.

They pass the time quietly in the van. McClure distributes snacks and drinks. The girls put on stretch necklaces and bracelets.

Joseph and Zabrina eventually nap. Wide-eyed Jasmyn puts her thumb in her mouth and looks for cows in farm fields.

About 8:30, the van exits the interstate.

"Wake up," Jasmyn says to her siblings. "We're almost to my daddy's school."

McClure dabs fragrant body oil on the girls' wrists, then gives each an application of lip gloss.

The van passes through the village of Orient, crosses Big Darby Creek and motors past fields where buzzards perch on fence posts.

"It is over there," Joseph says, pointing past a cornfield toward a gray building made of sheet metal that rises out of central Ohio farmland. It's surrounded by razor-wire fence that shimmers in the morning sun.

Pickaway Correctional is a minimum- to medium-level security prison. Its inmate population this day is 2,466.

McClure and the children know the routine: In the visitor reception area, McClure takes a number. While waiting for it to be called, she inserts money into a machine that spits out a prison debit card. She'll use it to buy food from vending machines in the visiting room, where currency is not allowed.

A few minutes later, a guard checks McClure's identification and reservation number. He stamps everyone's right hand with invisible ink. After McClure places most belongings in a locker, she and her children walk through a metal detector.

Ahead is a sally port, a narrow space with metal doors on either end. Only one unlocks at a time. The visitors step through the first door, and McClure shows her ID again while she and the children hold their hands up to an ultraviolet light. The stamps glow. The first door locks, the second door opens and they enter the visiting room.

It has the open, airy feel of a cafeteria. Dozens of molded chairs are arranged on either side of small, square tables. Adult visitors sit on one side of the tables. Inmates, wearing light blue shirts and dark blue pants, are on the other side. Children can sit beside inmates.

There are about 30 inmates and visitors in the room, but few kids.

"Daddy, come out!" Jasmyn says, looking toward a closed door. On the other side of it, her father is being strip searched.

When Edgar Bush appears, he smiles broadly as Jasmyn rushes toward him. She jumps into his arms, shouting "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" She repeats the word more than a dozen times.

Bush and his four visitors spend the next 6½ hours together. He asks about the kids' summer activities, movies they've seen, toys they play with. McClure uses her prison debit card to buy vending machine food: White Castles, doughnuts, cupcakes, popcorn.

They play checkers. They color and draw. They sit a bit at an outdoor visiting area with picnic tables, but the heat soon drives them back inside. A reading room, with books and a computer, helps occupy the children.

Bush says he's thankful for such visits. He acknowledges having made "a lot of bad decisions," and as a result, "I've been out of (Jasmyn's) life a lot.

"When they come up here, it gives me a sense of hope. It helps me get through another month.

"Just seeing them and being with them will help me to make better decisions, as far as maintaining the relationship."

It's clear the prison visits keep father and daughter connected. Far more uncertain is whether Bush will turn his life around or again run afoul of the law. He's scheduled for release in early October.

McClure seems willing to give him another chance.

"As long as he stays focused on a positive path, I will be with him," she says. "But if he goes back to the street life, I can't take my kids or myself through that."

It all will play out in due time. For now, Jasmyn's tired eyes say she's had enough. As the time to leave draws near, she plops into a chair, and tears well in her eyes. She does not want to leave her daddy at "school."

Her father picks her up, gives her a kiss.

"Time to go," a guard announces. "Visiting's over."

As her mother carries her out, Jasmyn lifts her head and sees her father, standing amidst other inmates, waving goodbye.

source: The Cincinnati Enquierer