First of a two-part series

Photo by Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times

After seven years as a federal probation officer, Lollie Burns has gotten used to late-night drives to visit offenders.

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• Facts about supervision

About this story

Probation officers like to work from the shadows, in effect becoming shadows of the people they are trying to ease back into a law-abiding life.

For this story, reporter Mike Gangloff and photographer Jeanna Duerscherl rode with federal probation officers as they visited offenders with the understanding that officers could not be photographed in a manner that would lead people to easily recognize them, and that offenders could choose not to have their stories told.

The rest of this series

• Offenders need skills, chances to find employment
• Proposal touts active support

The huge television glowed with an ad for legal assistance, but Mary Ellen Solomon wasn't looking.

She already had a lawyer. More to the point, she'd already been found guilty of a federal charge of possession of cocaine with intent to distribute back in 2006, and more recently of a string of violations of the supervised release that followed her prison sentence.

Solomon, a short 56-year-old with long, brown hair and a mischievous smile, would be back behind bars already, except her brother had put up a $10,000 bond and promised to keep her out of trouble until a hearing could be held on what to do with her. Solomon was allowed to leave her brother's home in Southeast Roanoke only to go to work at Burger King or to the 12-step meetings that doubled as dates with her fiance. Her brother also gave her a ride each week to the federal probation office for drug testing.

A string of failed drug tests had brought her probation officer, Lollie Burns, whom Solomon described as "my sister," into her most personal decisions — even whether to act on her boyfriend's recent marriage proposal.

If it's true love, you can wait, Burns had said, warning Solomon to expect more incarceration. Federal rules mandated revoking supervised release after so many violations.

Now it was mid-November and the hearing was just hours away. Solomon sat in her brother's living room, the giant screen looming over her, sound turned down, her fiance sitting across from her. Dressed for court, hands clasped in her lap, she kept coming back to the points she hoped the judge would consider.

"I have not had no urge to want to pick up. "

"I'm doing the best I can. I haven't always done in the past."

"I don't have an urge for dope no more. I don't."

"I hope they see the good in me and not the bad. Because the bad is in the past."

"I don't have the desire for the taste of drugs no more."

"Today I'd have it all if I didn't do drugs."

'Neither a social worker nor law enforcement'

In the Western District of Virginia, federal probation officers joke that they're with offenders from cradle to grave.

Unlike in many federal districts, where probation officers specialize in pretrial or post-conviction work, officers here are assigned to an offender when a charge is filed. They stay with that person until the case is finally resolved.

Because more than 90 percent of people across the country facing federal charges end up convicted , a probation officer's duties usually progress from pretrial supervision to preparing a presentencing report to trying to shepherd someone back into society.

Burns, a 42-year-old, seven-year veteran of the federal office, has responsibility for two to three dozen offenders at any given time. Tall and blond, and married to Todd Burns, a spokesman for Appalachian Power with whom she has two children, she'd grown up in a law enforcement family and gone to Marshall University on a basketball scholarship. She had worked as a counselor for runaway youth, a police officer in Kentucky and a state probation officer in Virginia.

She had long ago become used to the varied roles required by her federal job. She would drive rural back roads late into the night, knocking on doors and administering drug tests, talking to family members and watching for the return of old habits — but also helping to find housing, pointing toward job opportunities and counseling on finances, family issues and more.

Buddy Ross , the longtime chief of the district's probation office, described the work this way: "You're neither a social worker nor law enforcement. You're neither, but you're both."

Ross, who plans to retire in May after more than three decades of probation work, has seen the job's emphasis change nationally, from a more counseling-centered orientation in the 1970s to a harder-edged approach in the 1980s and '90s that some officers described as "trail 'em, nail 'em and jail 'em." Now the pendulum has swung back, he said, and the focus is on helping offenders overcome whatever barriers separate them from a productive and law-abiding life.

A counseling and rehabilitation psychology major in college, Ross said the newest shift in the work fits his own preferences.

"You find a redeeming quality in most people," Ross said.

But with Solomon, Burns had run through her tools. She'd offered advice about jobs and housing. She'd lined up drug rehabilitation after tests showed Solomon was smoking crack cocaine. She stepped up her visits and issued warnings. Solomon, who'd had no prior criminal history before her cocaine conviction, and a relatively short history of drug use before prison, would agree that things needed to change.

But positive drug tests continued, frustrating Burns, who felt that some essential connection wasn't being made.

"I don't know what I could have done other than move her into my house," Burns said.

'Anything illegal, we did it'

Bobby Joe Hood's transition to a new life was going better than Solomon's. But Burns had her doubts when she first took Hood's case.

Affable and barrel-chested, sporting a graying goatee and an unruly shock of brown hair, the lifelong Franklin County resident said he dropped out of school at 14 to help in his family's moonshine business.

"Anything illegal, we did it," Hood said, describing a history of bootlegging cigarettes, making liquor and, eventually, dealing drugs.

Burns met Hood in 2003, after he acquired his first federal charge as part of the roundup of a powder cocaine ring.

At that point, he'd been a felon for two decades, beginning with a state conviction for selling methamphetamine. He'd served less than two years on that charge, then began a series of parole violations that continued for years. Repeated stints in jail seemed to have no effect on his selling and using drugs.

"He was just a nightmare case. … I'd never seen so many revocations in Franklin County," said Burns, who at first considered trying to turn down the assignment on the grounds that Hood just wasn't amenable to supervision.

She recommended that he be kept in jail pending trial.

But a judge let him bond out, and Hood, who said he'd used cocaine every day for years, surprised Burns by passing his pretrial drug tests. He was convicted in 2004 on federal cocaine distribution charges and sentenced to 42 months incarceration, a term he reduced by completing an intensive drug rehab program in prison.

Photo by Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times

During a visit to Bobby Joe Hood’s house in Sontag, Lollie Burns talks to Hood about his son. "He wants to be the stability" in his family, she said of Hood, who spends a lot of time with 10-year-old Caleb.

In late 2006, Hood began three years of supervised release. He came out of prison seeming more set on changing his life than when he'd gone in, Burns said. He quickly found a trailer to rent and fixed it up.

He began putting in long hours as a house painter, working for a contractor he knew and finding his own jobs when he could, using his paychecks to buy appliances and furniture.

And he stayed clean. "I'm not saying I'm an angel now," Hood, now 47, said recently. "But there's no drug use."

The reason, he said, was his 10-year-old son, Caleb, who was 5 when he went to prison. Awaiting trial, Hood said, he realized he'd missed the beginning of his son's life because he was either high or dealing with drug transactions.

Perhaps the biggest test of his new life came in February.

First, on Feb. 26, Burns visited Hood's trailer and found him sweating and sick. Hood said he couldn't feel his arm. Burns stayed with him until a relative came to take him to the hospital. Hood said he was told the attack was probably linked to his history of high blood pressure and poor diet.

Two days later, Hood got a call while painting a house in Roanoke. His mother and brother had heard on a police scanner that his trailer was burning. Hood got back to Franklin County to find nearly all he owned had been destroyed.

The loss meant moving in with his parents and starting over with his savings. Family and friends supported him, giving him clothes and other items, he said. He went back to painting the next day.

The temptation to get back into his old business, to raise money quickly, wasn't something he gave much thought to, Hood said.

"The only thing I could think of was, 'Thank God Caleb wasn't there,' " he said.

Burns said she continues to be amazed by Hood's determination.

"He wants to be the stability" in his family, Burns said recently, "which is really, really remarkable considering where he's coming from."

Hood gave his probation officer a share of the credit for his new life. "She believed in me to start with. Just having somebody do that is a big help," Hood said.

'I'm different now. I want a life'

Burns was trying to get Solomon to see the big picture. Her immediate problems — having to ask her brother for rides to work, the weekly drug tests — didn't stem from her supervision, Burns argued. They were caused by Solomon's inability to stay away from drugs, by her decision to play a role in a former boyfriend's drug dealing.

Month after month, Burns tried to make links: actions and consequences, actions and consequences. But Solomon seemed more focused on just enduring.

She'd had much to endure. A lifelong Southeast Roanoker, she was married at 15. Her husband was a factory worker and motorcycle enthusiast whose drug use escalated over the course of their 32 years together, until he left Solomon for a woman he met in Narcotics Anonymous. Then Solomon rented a room to a boyfriend who was busted for dealing drugs. Eventually she started to use drugs herself.

For decades, Solomon said she'd been the "neighborhood mom," taking care of her two children and any others who were around while her husband and their friends partied. But as personal hardships mounted in the last year of her marriage, Solomon said she began occasionally dipping into the crank, crystal meth or powder cocaine that was usually around. In 2000, her husband left her, she said, initiating a several-year divorce process that left her with few personal possessions.

Then came a series of deaths: her mother in 2003, her father in 2005 and, in early 2006, one of her brothers and her former husband, whom she said she still loved. "It was like taking a part of me," Solomon said.

By that point, she'd been arrested in Bedford County and was awaiting trial with her boyfriend, who was charged with drug and firearms violations. In federal court in Lynchburg — where all her subsequent hearings would be held — Solomon pleaded guilty to one count of possession with intent to distribute.

Burns became her probation officer after she was charged. Solomon reported she was still smoking crack, and Burns got her into outpatient treatment while she awaited trial. She did not keep all her appointments. Then came prison. Her 10-month sentence was too short to qualify her for rehabilitation programs there.

In April 2007, Solomon began what was to be three years of supervised release. She quickly found a job at Burger King, where she had worked previously, and began working double shifts. After living with her brother for a few months, she found an apartment of her own.

Burns worried that it might be too soon for Solomon to be on her own. It was.

Solomon's hours at work were cut back, and after just a couple of months in her new apartment, she was having trouble keeping up with rent and bills. She couldn't find a roommate. As the stress mounted, she just left.

When Burns found Solomon's door posted with overdue bill notices and couldn't find her at her brother's house or at work, she had a federal warrant issued. Days later, in October 2007, U.S. marshals arrested Solomon.

She had been living with her sister in Roanoke and working a new job at a warehouse. She'd been smoking crack.

Photo by Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times

Mary Solomon visits with her fiance, Larry King, while on a break from her job at Burger King. Solomon continued working — and attending 12-step meetings — while on house arrest.

She'd also met Larry King again. King — he'd taken a lot of ribbing about his name — had known Solomon since childhood, and he said he'd had a crush on her back when both were in their early teens. Like Solomon, King had been through a marriage, and through substance abuse problems that included a state charge for possession of cocaine, an arrest he said had saved his life.

Solomon moved into the Roanoke house where King lived with his parents, and they began dating.

Burns was still trying to get Solomon to focus on the future, on how her own actions would influence whether she remained free or returned to prison. She imposed a tighter supervision regimen, requiring Solomon to come to the probation office every Monday.

For a while, things seemed back on track, but there were more positive drug tests this year, in February, March and April.

King said he'd started drinking again, and Solomon said that brought back the hopelessness that had plagued her for years.

"It would get me so mad when he came in drunk," she said. "Then doggone, I'd go use. … I just couldn't deal with death, depression, the alcohol — I couldn't deal with stuff like that because it brings back memories of the bad times with my husband. …"

"I just gave up. I didn't have nothing else to live for."

In April, Burns put Solomon into a 30-day inpatient rehab program. She emerged swearing to stay clean and found another job, this time at Arby's.

In June she again tested positive for cocaine use. Burns turned in a violation report and recommended Solomon remain in jail until a revocation hearing.

Discussing the case this past summer, the probation officer sounded puzzled. "She's such a wild card," Burns said. "I'd have her in my office and we'd look eye to eye … then she comes in hanging her head."

But Solomon didn't go back behind bars right away. A judge decided she could stay out after her brother put up a bond and let her move in with him, his wife and a niece they were raising. It was tight quarters, and it went on longer than expected — Solomon's hearing was scheduled for September, then pushed back to November as dockets were adjusted.

As Solomon dealt with the new limitations on her day-to-day activities, her boyfriend suddenly proposed, presenting a diamond ring and saying he wanted them to get a house together.

Solomon was ecstatic, saying she had a new reason to keep away from drugs. Under house arrest, she couldn't go out with King, but he began attending 12-step meetings with her. The key chains handed out at Narcotics Anonymous meetings and the pins from Alcoholics Anonymous became the symbols of their courtship.

Solomon began making plans to get a puppy, a tiny Yorkie from a friend's dog's litter. Burns begged her to wait, both on the puppy and the marriage.

Solomon was likely facing more prison time, Burns warned. Who knew what that would do to a new marriage? And who would take care of the dog?

Solomon was philosophic. While she wanted to get it over with, she knew the delay in her hearing gave her more time to prove herself. She was back at Burger King — her favorite food and her favorite job, she said — and she had hope again.

"I lost everybody and I gave up on life," Solomon said. "But I'm different now. I want a life."

She would wait, impatiently.

'I do a lot of things … I didn't do before'

It was 8:30 at night when Burns dropped in unannounced at Hood's home in Sontag. Hood's parents were getting ready for bed. His brother, who also lives in the home and is very ill, lay in a hospital bed listening to a police scanner.

Hood had just returned from a day of painting and was about to smoke a cigarette, shower and turn in for the night. He made a good-night call to Caleb, then sat in the kitchen to talk to Burns. She was still worried about his health.

Photo by Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times

Bobby Joe Hood pressure-washes the roof of a church in the Henry County community of Koehler. Hood started working long hours as a house painter after getting out of prison. His probation officer, Lollie Burns, said he emerged from prison set on changing his life.

Hood reported that for the first time in months, he recently drank beer, celebrating a friend's return from incarceration. Burns shook her head.

"I didn't enjoy it," Hood said, laughing. "I don't like it no more."

"We just need to get you to stop drinking, stop smoking," Burns replied.

"I quit everything else," Hood said, raising his hands.

"I'll keep working on you," Burns said.

The talk turned to Hood's plans to buy a gun safe and rifle for his son's Christmas present. Hood said he never carried a gun during his drug-selling days but had sometimes hunted, and wanted his son to hunt, too.

As a convicted felon, he was not allowed to possess a weapon himself, but Burns said he could fund the purchase of the gift as long as it was locked up when he was around.

Hood shrugged. "I've been a convicted felon since 1984, so I know I can't have one," he said.

Hood said he'd been seeing Caleb regularly, and twice recently had gone out to dinner with his ex-wife and her new husband. He mentioned that Caleb probably has 200 video games, many of them gifts from him.

Burns looked at him. "How much do you have in savings?" she asked.

Hood laughed again. "None. I've got none in savings."

Then he added quietly, "I do a lot of things with him that I didn't do before I was in — because I was high on cocaine."

"I know," Burns said, also quietly. "But you don't have to buy him everything."

'Three months just to calm down'

Solomon's hearing finally arrived.

At midday, she, King, her brother, his wife and her niece had made the drive to federal court in Lynchburg.

After all the waiting, the hearing took only minutes. Burns already had turned in a report detailing Solomon's year and a half of supervision.

Photo by Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times

Mary Solomon emerges from the federal courthouse in Lynchburg a happy woman after learning that she won’t be sent back to prison. Although she'd violated the terms of her supervised release by testing positive for drugs, the judge gave her another chance.

Solomon took the stand and told the judge she had changed. She was working regularly and saving money, she told him. She was going to 12-step meetings and praying for strength to stay off drugs.

She'd been clean for five months.

U.S. District Court Judge Norman Moon said he would give Solomon another chance.

Her violations required revoking her supervised release but did not require sending her back to prison. If Solomon could stay out of trouble during three more months of house arrest, Moon said, her supervision would be over and her sentence would be served.

That was it.

Filing out of the courtroom, Solomon and her family seemed dazed, barely able to contain their smiles. At the door of the federal building, Solomon raised her arms over her head. King stood beside her.

Burns stood off to the side, smiling but not approaching until the family waved her over.

"We're even putting off getting married until it's all done with — even the three months," Solomon assured her.

King laughed. "It'll take you three months just to calm down," he said.