The images of jail as a place for bad guys is still mostly accurate: Nationally, 819 of every 100,000 men are incarcerated, compared to 51 in the same number of women. Yet since 1980 the incidence of women imprisoned in the U.S. has been rising at nearly double the rate for men, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics. It took Vermont a little longer to catch up, but in the past six years, the number of women entering the prison system has skyrocketed 600 percent, says Jill Evans, who directs correctional services for women offenders at the Vermont Department of Corrections.

The numbers may still seem relatively small: 43 women at the 4-year-old Dale Women's Facility in Waterbury; 110 at the Southeastern State Correctional Facility in Windsor, which opened in fall 2003. But these don't reflect the more than 2000 women under DOC supervision in the community.

Oddly, though women's rates of conviction and incarceration are going up way faster than men's, women's crime rates are not rising at a higher rate. What gives? Drugs, for one thing. Though Vermont was slow to admit it had a heroin epidemic, a state study last year indicated that some 95 percent of women in DOC custody have substance-abuse problems. A corollary statistic: The fastest-growing population of female prisoners is between 16 and 23 years old.

"Women coming into the system have significant histories of trauma, mental-health issues and drug abuse," says Evans. "Women's pathways to crime are very different than men's they tend to be property crimes to support their drug habits. The most serious, and most frequently committed, crime for women is writing a bad check," she notes. "For men it's assault on a minor."

Accordingly, the recidivism rate for women has more to do with violating conditions of parole - drinking or taking drugs - than with committing another crime. While few in the penal or legal system might argue that jail time is the ideal solution for non-violent female substance abusers, at this time it is pretty much the only solution.

But in the light of prison crowding, rampant drug use, and the recent startling revelation that the state is spending more to incarcerate than to educate, Vermont legislators are taking a closer look behind those locked doors and considering potential alternatives.

Meanwhile, one post-prison effort is trying to keep women from re-offending. The Burlington-based Vermont Women's Mentoring Program is nearing the end of its first year, and anecdotal evidence has been mostly positive. The idea is this: A female mentor in the community is matched with a female prisoner about to be released, and both make a minimum yearlong commitment to each other. The mentor is available for phone calls as needed, and a weekly visit. Even if the mentee has a relapse and is temporarily re-incarcerated, she and her mentor stay in touch by phone or email. So far 25 pairs of women have been matched, and a new group is being trained this month.

As director of women's correctional services, Jill Evans came up with the mentoring idea and put out a bid for its development and implementation; Mercy Connections and Northern New England Tradeswomen won it. The Sisters of Mercy run Mercy Connections was launched after Trinity College closed four years ago. It also coordinates the Women's Small Business Project and a transitional education center at Joseph's House in Burlington. NNET recruits, trains and employs women in the trades and has long worked with women in and out of prison. The two non-profits seemed a perfect match for the project.

Evans says the program was necessary because, frankly, traditional prisons and re-entry programs follow a male model. And not only is the female prisoner profile different; so too are the needs of women once they've been released. "Until recently women were kind of invisible in the system because of the numbers," Evans explains. "But women tend to be very 'relational,' and because women have generally had so many bad relationships in their lives... studies suggest that for a woman to have a relationship with another person who does not judge her, and supports and respects her, is one of the most powerful things she can have in her life."

Pam Greene, coordinator of the Vermont Women's Mentoring Program, explains that six months were devoted to design - looking at similar models around the U.S. and Canada - and research, which included focus groups with women in prison. What she heard echoed Evans' report: "Everyone asked for one true, trustworthy friend," Greene says. "And I can't overstate the untreated trauma histories that led them to use drugs, alcohol and other substances."

"My mentee says I'm the only person who consistently communicated with her in jail," says Williston-based mentor Lynn Kennedy. "She knows very few people who aren't involved in drug and alcohol abuse... I know the reason for prison, but it seems to me [these women] need counseling more than they need prison."

Greene notes some other significant ways in which the female population differs from the men's:

• The women tend to have more education; 70 percent have a high school diploma, and many have been to college.
• Seventy-two percent have experienced domestic/physical abuse as adults.
• Eighty percent of incarcerated women have children.

This resonates with both Kim Jacobs, a former inmate now living in St. Albans, and her Milton-based mentor Maureen Cooney-Moore. Jacobs has been in and out of jail since she was a teen, for shoplifting. "It started as a means to support myself," she says. "I was let out of SRS custody when I was 17, and I stole to live. Then it turned into an addiction." Eventually, so did heroin and cocaine.

Jacobs' older daughter lives with her grandmother. Now 14, the girl "had to clean up messes I left out, take care of her sister and clean me up when I couldn't move," Jacobs says. "She's been through a lot for her age." Jacobs, 35, now shares a small apartment with her 10-year-old. Though she carries the stain of "habitual offender" on her record, she's been drug-free for a while, and has had steady if unsatisfying, employment for 10 months. Last week Jacobs "made parole," which means she can leave Franklin County to look for a better job.

Along with a buprenorphine program in Swanton, Jacobs' anchor has been her mentor. Though she has family nearby, "They don't understand the whole addiction thing," she says. Cooney-Moore does: Back in the 80s, the "nice, middle class girl" became addicted to cocaine herself and spent two months in prison. The two women clicked immediately, she says. "I was amazed by Kim's honesty about getting high; she was really wrestling with her demons. Her daughter was the same age as mine when I was addicted." Cooney-Moore would like to see the mentoring program extended to kids - "They need to deal with what they saw mommy go through."

LeeAnn Woodhull spared her son the sight of his mother's downward spiral; she left the 3-year-old with her parents in New Jersey when she came to Vermont 18 years ago, seeking "a break." What she found instead was a ruinous alcohol addiction and domestic violence. But the Burlington resident, now 43, says she was "a functional alcoholic" and didn't get in trouble with the law until she was 40. Her boyfriend claimed that she chased him with a knife during a fight; Woodhull denies there was a weapon, but in retrospect she's grateful that her arrest at least got her away from that relationship.

Being placed in 24-hour lockdown for 16 days was "the worst experience of my life - I felt like a bad animal," Woodhull says. She found some salvation last year when "two ladies from Mercy" selected her for the mentoring program. "Maybe some girls coming out don't want that close relationship, but I really needed it at this point in my life - somebody to hang with, talk with, be friends with. I didn't have any close friends when I was drinking," Woodhull adds. "We trust one another. It's a good feeling. I like it."

On parole until early next year, she's now taking classes and making new friends at Joseph's House, and looking for a new job. "Someday I might become a mentor, after I get my life together," Woodhull says. "More people need to know about this. They've taught me it's a good thing to reach out."

Testimonials like this are encouraging to the mentors, and to the DOC. And along with building networks of female friends and role models, Pam Greene anticipates an eventual side benefit to the mentoring program: "an advocacy community that's getting educated about incarceration in Vermont, and over time that may lead to public policy programs or legislation." She's particularly excited by the idea of alternatives to prison. "It's ridiculous to lock people up," Greene says. "It's a waste of human capital."

Maybe some girls coming out don't want that close relationship, but I really needed it at this point in my life - somebody to hang with, talk with, be friends with. I didn't have any close friends when I was drinking. LeeAnn Woodhull.

At 22, Nia Prentiss is fresh-faced, bright and full of spunk. Clad in a hooded sweatshirt and wearing her dark hair in a casual ponytail, she could pass for a normal college student. She looks younger, actually - perhaps because she gave her adolescence to heroin, and now she's trying to catch up.

Prentiss was 15 when she started using. She grew up in the Burlington area with a single mother who abused drugs as well. When her father, also an addict, died in prison last year, Prentiss was in jail herself. In fact, she has spent about a year and a half of her young life incarcerated, not including intermittent stay at Woodside, a juvenile facility in Colchester. "I got in trouble for stealing, and bad check charges," she says. "I spent so much time covering up my feelings with drugs; my morals just kind of went to shit."

Prentiss was shooting such "crazy amounts of heroin," it's a wonder she survived. Though her need for the drug made her do things she never would have done while "straight," she says, her last re-incarceration was for not following through with a detox program - she had begun supplementing her daily dose of methadone with heroin. "I really wanted to stay clean, but it was so hard," she says.

Even harder was going cold turkey in a prison cell. In August 2003 Prentiss was put in "the hole" - solitary confinement - for a month at the Chittenden Regional Correctional Facility in South Burlington, and was given only Benadryl, she says. The allergy medicine was "useless" for dealing with the agony of detoxification. "I'd been on methadone for nine months; they should have reduced me down," she says plaintively. "They said it wasn't kind practice, but it wouldn't kill me. I'll never forget the gut saying that. There's so much more they could do for drug rehabilitation for women in prison."

If you get her going on the topic of prison life, Prentiss is openly critical - particularly about what she sees as inadequate medical treatment, and lack of exercise opportunities. And making post-release arrangements from the inside is a serious challenge. "If you don't have enough money on your debit card, you can't use the phone," she says.

Prentiss is also outraged about how she was finally shown the door: With just an hour's notice, she says, "They put me on the front steps with my stuff in a plastic bag and told me to use the pay phone for a cab." That experience contradicts the general practice in which women are not released unless they have a place to live. Prentiss claims she spent her first month on a series of friends couches.

"And you wonder why people re-use, when there's absolutely no support," she says.

It's not hard to imagine her becoming a prisoner-rights advocate someday. For now, though, Prentiss is focused on the present, one day at a time, and she blames no one for what she's gone through. "I didn't choose to go to jail, but by my actions I did," She says. "I sat with my thoughts for a year, and really took a look at my life, my emotions."

In a way, Prentiss is one of the lucky ones, suggests her mentor Amanda Kolifrath: "She's young and still has her whole life ahead of her, and she doesn't have any children." Prentiss agrees, noting, "how many times I've seen women cry because their drug addiction got their kids taken away."

Prentiss is also lucky to have Kolifrath, with whom she was "matched" by the Vermont Women's Mentoring Program (see accompanying story) about a month after her release. At 29, Kolifrath is not that much older than her mentee and, like Prentiss, she's had a hard time finding the right path. But for Kolifrath that has simply meant changing jobs, not shooting heroin. Now she's settled into work at a cable company and has developed a passion for lots of physical activity. "Nia and I are going to take kickboxing together," she says with a grin.

"I was pretty shy, and I was skeptical about meeting someone coming out of jail. I wasn't sure I could be the positive role model," Kolifrath recalls. "I'm kind of a take-responsibility-for-yourself person and not good at dealing with bitter people who blame others. When I met Nia, I realized she was the complete opposite."

Kolifrath chose to become a mentor because of her compassion for women who have these kinds of problems." She believes women are often victimized by circumstances beyond their control, and fall into drug or alcohol abuse as a reaction to trauma - a notion that is supported by statistics. She says Prentiss is much harder on herself than she needs to be, and is more competent than she realizes. "I have to remind her of this," Kolifrath says.

She has also helped with preparing a resume, and by being a friend who can talk about relationships. Prentiss has found a "kind gentle boyfriend" at Narcotics Anonymous meetings, but learning to trust isn't easy.

"Nia is really open to suggestions and advice; She's willing to listen and doesn't act like most 22-year-olds who think they know it all," says Kolifrath. "She's just a very sweet girl; she's been a beacon of light for people who feel hopeless."

Prentiss smiles at the praise, and acknowledges that she might like to be e mentor, too, when her life is stable. "Amanda's compliments are so good for me," she says. But Prentiss still calls herself a "lost soul trying to find her way," and is candid about difficulties of being responsible. She has trouble focusing and feeling motivated sometimes, and has to own up to her past even as she's trying to move forward. "You really have to humble yourself and say, 'I just got out of jail - please hire me'," She says wryly.

But the logistics of normal life have proved just as daunting as the stigma of prison time on her record. "I don't think people realize how hard it is to find a job when you don't have a car or a steady place to live," says Kolifrath. "Rent in Burlington is so high. and we take the cell phone thing for granted - there aren't any pay phones anymore."

Since her inauspicious release last July, Prentiss has made it past these hurdles: She has a job at a South Burlington restaurant, an apartment and a phone. She's been clean for a year and a half. She's taken some classes and hopes to eventually earn her GED. She's gone skydiving and sailing. And she learned to stay away from "90 percent of the people I knew" before prison - the ones who still have drug habits.

"I really appreciate life now," Prentiss says. "My life isn't a picnic - I still have a lot of emotional stuff, I don't have the self-esteem." NA meetings, she says, give her the tools to stay clean, and Kolifrath helps her with the tools for living. "Amanda is my eyes when I can't see sometimes," Prentiss says. "I was so far gone in my drug addiction I couldn't see anything. But now at least the insanity, the chaos, in my life is gone."