Jailhouse Cop

To help inmates who faced similar upbringings, and to break the cycle of neglect and crime, Curran has started the Malachi project at the jail, which includes Bible-reading and discussions on parenting. The program requires inmates to write their children every week.

As any politician knows, there isn't much sympathy for thieves, rapists and murderers. "But how about their children?" the sheriff asks. "Are you so hard-hearted that you don't care about the children?"

Despite his deep religious faith, which shapes his anti-death penalty views, Curran doesn't come across as a meek choirboy. His language can be salty. He mentions that he "used to drink," and says that he's not worried about some inmate trying to make a name for himself by picking a fight with the sheriff. "I'm a big enough guy, I'll take a swing," he says.

He takes the same meals as the others, "The food is awful—I'm not going to lie about that." But Curran, who will be "released" on Wednesday, knows it is absurd to compare the experience of an ordinary inmate, typically an impoverished, poorly educated man, with his voluntary incarceration as a high-profile local politician, "Who are we kidding? I'm being paid a salary of nearly $140,000 to sit in here."

While Curran sat in his cell, where someone had scratched a gang symbol on a shelf, some other inmates were gathered in open spaces in the "pods," watching television or playing cards.

One of them, Henry Bell, 29, scoffed at "special treatment" for the sheriff, saying the guards made sure his cell was clean and in tip-top shape. "Can't you smell the fresh paint?" said Bell, shaking his head.

Still, another inmate, Jamie Harris, 47, says he's learned something from his latest stint in the Waukegan jail. Harris, a father of 11, says he promises to stay straight this time. He also vows to show his children that he loves them.

© 2008