Has this “soft-on-crime” approach resulted in safer streets?

SALT LAKE CITY — A decade has passed since former Utah Governor Gary Herbert signed a massive justice reform bill into law in hopes that the state could reduce its prison population and manage low-level offenders through rehabilitation programs instead of incarceration. Has this reinvestment resulted in lower crime and recidivism rates?

According to the Utah Department of Corrections, that landmark Justice Reinvestment Initiative aimed to “continue holding offenders accountable and securing our communities, but in a way that considers individual risks and treatment needs.”

Are communities really safer when mental health and substance use needs are addressed through programs administered outside prison walls? The idea was to treat criminals differently based on their mental health needs and backgrounds. But at least one retired Adult Probation and Parole Officer, believes this “soft-on-crime” approach hasn’t resulted in safer streets.

LOOKING BACK

State Senator Todd Weiler, in that legislative role since 2012, helped drive the passage of the Justice Reinvestment Initiative (JRI), a massive bill that enjoyed broad-based approval among state officials and the Legislature as a whole.

In November 2014, Weiler attended the national summit on the issue in San Diego, an event hosted by Pew Charitable Trusts. 

“I was very involved in it. We had a lot of high hopes,” Weiler, a Woods Cross Republican, said in a recent interview. “That was about the time we were finalizing plans for the new prison. And we actually said that because of JRI we don’t need as many beds because we’ll be incarcerating fewer people. So that new prison was designed with this idea.”

A key part of JRI dealt with adjusting sentencing for crimes related to addiction, dividing offenders into two basic groups: dangerous criminals who are a threat to society (that group goes to prison), and low-level offenders who get help kicking addictions through state-sponsored programs or private-sector rehabilitation.

“The ultimate goal was if we have an otherwise good person who got caught up in an addiction, and as a result committed crimes, they need to be punished for their crimes,” Weiler said. “It’s not that we’re going to overlook what they did, but we wanted to focus primarily on helping them overcome their addiction and [that means] getting them back to their job and their family.” 

Before JRI, low-level drug offenders with felonies would spend years in prison, which wreaked havoc with their lives and future prospects. Addressing the root cause of their theft and property crimes through supervision and treatment made sense. 

“We’re all imperfect people,” Weiler said. “So we want people working their jobs, paying their bills and raising their kids rather than sitting in jail and watching TV or playing cards.”

Moving away from your hometown can come with many blessings. But for some, it also comes with just as many bouts of loneliness. That ache of not knowing where to meet people, or grieving the friends you left behind, comes in waves. Workplaces and churches can sometimes provide ready-made communities, but what happens when they don’t? Where do you go to find true belonging?

Before Alta was known for powder days and lift lines, it was a silver mining town clinging to the side of a narrow canyon. In the late 1800s, men lived at 8,000 feet, went underground each day, and endured winters that regularly buried buildings in snow. This past summer, that mining town resurfaced — literally — during construction at the Alta Ski Area.

To understand what Alta really looked like, you don’t begin with legend. You begin with its trash — and this time, that happened almost by accident.

Alta Ski Area was installing underground water reservoirs to support snowmaking. Because the project sits on Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest land, an archaeologist was required to monitor the excavation. No one expected the trench to produce much.

But, It did.

Artifacts began surfacing almost immediately. Enough that the Forest Service contacted the Utah State Historic Preservation Office for help. Lexi Little, who coordinates the Utah Cultural Site Stewardship Program, helped mobilize nearly 30 volunteers to assist with what quickly became a focused two-week excavation.

Winter deadlines were approaching. The pipes for the reservoirs had to go in the ground. There wasn’t time for a slow, extended dig.

“It was two weeks of digging in the dirt and helping figure out exactly what we were looking at,” Little said.

Most of the people screening soil weren’t professional archaeologists. They were trained stewards from around Utah — part of a statewide volunteer network that now approaches 500 people. They poured dirt through shaker screens, scanning for fragments that could piece together a town long buried.

“Archaeology is human trash,” Little explained. “Archaeologists are very into trash.”

Alta had left plenty behind.

https://youtu.be/hzIHzx3OGoo?si=dKcl2CEz-t6FZzYw

Victorian-style ceramics appeared first — the kind typically used in hotels. Medicine bottles followed. Ink bottles. Hand-blown glass. A porcelain doll’s foot surfaced from the soil, a small detail that shifted the mental image of the town. Families were here. Children were here. This wasn’t only a camp of miners.

The bottles helped establish time. Manufacturing details — whether glass was hand-blown or mold-made, whether a maker’s mark appeared on the base — allowed archaeologists to date many of the artifacts to the 1870s through the 1890s, when Alta was booming as a silver mining town.

“That gives you that range of dates for when Alta was really booming,” Little said.

One reusable soda bottle clearly stamped “Salt Lake City” connected the canyon to the valley economy below.

Then something unusual rolled out of a dirt pile.

A corked bottle. Intact. Liquid still inside.

When families cannot afford homes near their jobs, the daily math becomes brutal. Commutes stretch longer. Childcare costs pile up. Mortgages consume more of a household’s income. The result is what economists call “house-poor” families—people who technically own a home but have almost nothing left over to live on.

The obvious question is: why isn’t this being fixed?