Justyna M. in Criminal Justice
“ Now you tell me who won
I see them, they run (hahaha)
They don’t wanna see us (take money) “ Tupac Shakur
I am dedicating this publication once again to those who are still trapped in that house, known as the Independence House South Federal, located in Denver, Colorado. Please stay strong and never give up. Don’t let the staff members dictate how you live your life—you are worthy, and you know who you are. Never forget that you have the power to make the best out of the worst situations. You’ve survived the toughest moments, and that strength should never be underestimated. There are people like me, and many others, who are always fighting for your voice. Sometimes it’s behind the scenes, sometimes in silence, but the fight is far from over. So don’t lose hope and don’t give up. I also hope the family members of those still in this community correction system never lose their hope either. Don’t let them back down. Remember, keep your friends close and your enemies closer—that’s a rule for life.
The Recidivism Interim Study Committee unanimously advanced three bills today aimed at improving the understanding of criminal activity by establishing a uniform definition of “recidivism,” exploring alternative ways to measure public safety and crime desistance, and analyzing how defendants move through the criminal justice system. “To effectively understand and leverage recidivism data, we need a unified approach,” said Senate Majority Leader Robert Rodriguez, D-Denver, who is sponsoring all three bills. “These bills will ensure that agencies are using the same definition of ‘recidivism’ and give the legislature a comprehensive understanding of how Coloradans navigate our criminal justice system. With these updates, we’ll be better equipped to create legislation that delivers fair outcomes and safer communities for all.” “Currently, different agencies in Colorado define ‘recidivism’ in various ways, which complicates its use in legislation addressing public safety,” noted Rep. Matthew Martinez, D-Monte Vista, sponsor of Bills 1 and 3. “By standardizing this definition across agencies, we’ll be able to better use recidivism as a tool for policy-making and ongoing evaluation of the justice system, ultimately working toward a safer Colorado.” Currently, definitions of “recidivism” differ significantly among agencies like the Division of Youth Services, Department of Corrections, and community corrections. Bill 1, sponsored by Senate Majority Leader Robert Rodriguez, Senator Julie Gonzales, and Representatives Judy Amabile and Matthew Martinez, proposes forming a working group within the Division of Criminal Justice to establish a unified definition of “recidivism” to be used by all state entities, facilitating clearer data interpretation and better evaluation of policy effectiveness.
“Tracking recidivism is an important measure of our success in reducing criminal activity. With this legislation, we’re broadening our view to include other meaningful metrics that inform policy,” said Vice Chair Rep. Judy Amabile, D-Boulder, who is sponsoring Bills 1 and 2. “Factors like housing stability, education, mental health, and social supports contribute to the likelihood of re-offending. By adopting a consistent definition of ‘recidivism’ and considering these factors, we can better identify what truly works to reduce crime and prevent people from cycling back into prison.”
“Data consistently shows that comprehensive strategies are the most effective at reducing crime,” added Senator Julie Gonzales, D-Denver, who co-sponsors all three bills. “This legislation will bring diverse perspectives and essential resources to assess the effectiveness of Colorado’s justice system, paving the way for more holistic crime reduction methods and improved reintegration outcomes for Coloradans.”
Bill 2, sponsored by Senate Majority Leader Rodriguez, Senator Gonzales, and Representative Amabile, would establish the Alternative Metrics to Measure Criminal Justice System Performance Working Group. This group will explore additional metrics beyond recidivism, aiming to assess risk-reduction and other life factors that lead to successful reintegration, and to evaluate the criminal justice system’s performance more effectively.
The working group would report its findings, including any recommendations, to the House Health and Insurance, House Judiciary, Senate Health and Human Services, and Senate Judiciary committees by July 1, 2025. Governor signed all bills in 2024.
Senator Robert Rodriguez, a prominent figure in Colorado’s criminal justice reform, is once again raising questions about the integrity of his role in the system. His involvement in legislation defining and measuring recidivism—specifically through bills he sponsored and committees he now sits on—appears to directly benefit the very community corrections facilities his family has ties to. This situation reveals a troubling conflict of interest, casting doubt on the real motives behind reform efforts and highlighting how the criminal justice system continues to prey on vulnerable populations.
The Recidivism Agenda: Reform or Self-Serving Cycle?
Senator Rodriguez has pushed for a standardized definition of recidivism, intending to create a uniform measurement across Colorado agencies. However, concerns are growing over how this measure will actually be applied. Community correctional facilities, like the Independence House on South Federal Boulevard, are reportedly involved in tracking recidivism rates. Given that Independence House is one of Colorado’s federal halfway houses, and closely associated with Rodriguez’s family, it seems likely that the new metrics may end up serving his political and financial interests.
This conflict of interest is further amplified by Rodriguez’s role in passing and overseeing bills directly impacting these halfway houses. I fought against these bills, arguing their potential for misuse, only to witness them pass with overwhelming Democratic support. It’s disturbing that such clear conflicts of interest are overlooked, or perhaps purposefully ignored, by those who should be safeguarding public interests rather than exploiting them.
Matthew Brandt and the Recidivism Illusion
Matthew Brandt, the director of Independence House, exemplifies another layer of questionable leadership. Brandt claims the recidivism rate is “one in three,” meaning every three years, individuals are likely to cycle back through the system. However, my research and observations indicate a much higher rate of recidivism in the South Federal halfway house—closer to 80%. Brandt’s assessment appears either willfully misleading or drastically uninformed.
It’s crucial to understand that recidivism isn’t merely a consequence of individuals failing to adjust. It is often the result of systematic pressures, insufficient support, and intentional manipulation by staff to maintain high turnover rates. These practices serve to justify the existence of community correctional facilities and halfway houses, securing their continued funding and operation while failing to genuinely rehabilitate or support those they’re supposed to help.
The Business of Incarceration: Profiting from Vulnerability
This issue isn’t isolated to Independence House; other for-profit entities like ICCS and the GEO Group, Core Civic also exploit this broken system. These private, profit-driven facilities effectively turn vulnerable populations into steady revenue streams. The incentives to rehabilitate are overshadowed by the financial gains of high recidivism rates. The push to retain people within the cycle of supervision and incarceration is no longer about justice or public safety; it’s about maintaining a reliable income from those who have little choice but to comply.
In the past, judges who had financial stakes in these operations openly benefited from this revolving door of criminal justice. While outright ownership by judges was deemed a conflict of interest, the same scrutiny is not applied to legislators like Rodriguez, whose family affiliations suggest an equally problematic overlap of interests. This underscores a disturbing lack of integrity among public officials who profit from the system’s dysfunction.
A Broken System: Setting People Up for Failure
For those ensnared in this system, the future often looks bleak. The system’s design makes it nearly impossible for individuals to break free from supervision. Those who show signs of success are sometimes undermined by staff who, either knowingly or unknowingly, reinforce a message of failure and hopelessness. This cycle of demoralization not only pushes some to give up entirely but also contributes to a sense of entrapment that can lead to devastating outcomes, including suicide.
The obstacles to reentry aren’t always rooted in the individual’s behavior; rather, they stem from a structure built to maintain its own existence. When someone is deemed unlikely to “make it,” staff can impose restrictions, delays, and disciplinary actions, systematically creating the conditions that lead them back to prison. This perpetuation of failure is a form of institutionalized cruelty masquerading as rehabilitation.
Where’s the Real Reform?
It’s time for a sweeping overhaul of community corrections in Colorado. Starting over with new management, fresh staff, and genuine support programs could help break this exploitative cycle. Implementing stringent guidelines for staff conduct, including zero tolerance for personal relationships between residents and staff, along with fair compensation, would incentivize accountability and commitment to true rehabilitation. Only by raising the standards for staff pay and qualifications can we begin to build an environment conducive to genuine reentry success.
Reform doesn’t mean recycling the same players or creating new definitions to manipulate data; it means eradicating the conflicts of interest and financial incentives that perpetuate high recidivism rates. If we are serious about justice, Colorado must recognize that its community corrections system, as it stands, is a trap—one that needs dismantling, not preservation.
We need a criminal justice system that prioritizes fairness, genuine rehabilitation, and support for vulnerable populations—not one that profits from their failure.
In a prior article, I highlighted Senator Robert Rodriguez’s conflicts of interest, especially concerning his family’s ownership of a community corrections halfway house. But that was just the beginning; there is so much more to unravel within this broken reentry system. There are countless stories, systemic problems, and still, no meaningful solutions. To fully address this, I’ll need to break down each issue into multiple parts, examining the specific challenges and failures of reentry.
I’ve received numerous emails, calls, and messages from people directly impacted by the unprofessional and inhumane practices in the halfway house run by Matthew Brandt, who oversees this facility under Rodriguez’s family’s ownership. Brandt’s infamous directive to “not make your boss look stupid” is, at this point, a hollow command. He and his boss both look foolish, and the public deserves to know exactly why. Brandt’s behavior in the facility has been marked by a lack of kindness, integrity, and basic decency toward the vulnerable residents there.
Reports from residents paint a picture of Brandt as someone intoxicated by power—sometimes literally. Allegations of him coming to work under the influence, indulging in narcissistic behavior, and even engaging in inappropriate relationships with staff have surfaced. Despite his track record, he clings to this job because other facilities, public or private, have consistently refused to hire him.
As I continue to explore these stories, I’ll expose the unchecked power abuses, cover-ups, and unprofessional conduct that define this so-called “reentry” system. The time has come for accountability, and I will keep pushing for transparency and justice until Rodriguez and Brandt are both held responsible for the harm they’ve inflicted on those they claim to help.
“She told me in the in your face yeah face to face she said she tried what she exactly said she said and I tried to send you back to BOP she’s already sent me back ….I don’t know what her authority is but that’s what she told you … you know what’s happening is I don’t know what your guys are authority is but she’s taken everything from me she I asked her multiple times I said I’m getting out soon I’d like to get on the MAT program I said because I need assistance and she’s like you have to do that you know MAT I have problem so I was like you can’t even set me up an appointment and she’s like you have to do all that on you know that’s bullshit because you know what you…. you have aftercare right you’re I am scared huh did you enter the CTS ever no why not why did she not put the referral I don’t know she told me no everything for a long time and let me tell you even if I’m not here just remember that you are worthy and you can do this !!! I did ask her this I did I did ask her for help to be on the spot on the MAT program can you please help me get it set up she said she didn’t she said you have to do that on your own when you get out … you mean from the house …. Yes ….. “. Former IHSF resident case manager Serenity. 09.07.2024
Imagine a system meant to help vulnerable individuals transition back into society, yet instead, it amplifies their struggles. For those struggling with mental health issues or addiction, a skilled, compassionate case manager can make all the difference. But what happens when that responsibility falls into the hands of people lacking both education and empathy? This article aims to expose the unsettling reality in community corrections—where case managers, wielding unchecked authority, use threats rather than support, pushing residents into cycles of fear, failure, and often, back into incarceration.
In too many cases, residents in halfway houses and community corrections live under the constant threat of being sent back to prison. The power dynamics here create an environment of paranoia, where case managers frequently remind residents, “I can send you back,” or, “You’ll lose your job,” if they don’t toe the line. This kind of fear-driven authority is not only unproductive; it’s deeply damaging to people who are already vulnerable, often with untreated mental health or addiction issues. Proper training in mental health care and addiction support could make a significant difference in these environments. Still, without it, the approach taken by many halfway houses fails the very people they’re supposed to help.
Take Independence House North, a state-run community corrections center, as an example. It’s been marred by tragedies, including suicides—a desperate outcry that has been largely kept out of public view. One man reportedly took his own life by hanging himself from a tree outside the facility, a symbol of how broken the system is. And while these issues persist, new policies like Proposition 128 require people to serve 85% of their sentences before becoming eligible for parole, leading to even less hope for those trapped in this cycle of neglect.
These issues aren’t limited to one center or even one state. On the federal level, the story of FCI Dublin, the notorious “rape house,” exposes the broader failings in the justice system. FBI investigations revealed years of sexual abuse by staff, with thousands of complaints lodged by female inmates. The administration initially resisted shutting down the facility, and only after public outcry and federal investigation was action finally taken. The fact that it took such drastic measures to close a place where staff had repeatedly victimized women demonstrates how deeply rooted and ignored these problems can be.
As a society, we often overlook what goes on in these “transitional” facilities because they’re out of sight, out of mind. People who haven’t experienced or don’t know someone affected by the system can be quick to assume that all is well, or worse, that these people “deserve” harsh treatment. This apathy and ignorance leave room for further abuse, making it easier for corrupt figures within the system to continue profiting from vulnerable populations. And while billions of dollars in federal and state funds pour into corrections budgets, including $1.3 trillion requested by the Federal Bureau of Prisons and another $1.3 billion by state prisons, the system remains under-resourced and understaffed, especially where it matters most: quality personnel and mental health care.
The Reality of Community Corrections: Broken Systems, Bureaucracy, and Neglect
In a properly structured community corrections facility, a board typically meets monthly to assess incoming residents and determine appropriate placements. This board, composed of trained individuals, is tasked with deciding which candidates are the best fit based on various factors, including the nature of their offenses, risk level, and available resources. For high-risk categories like arsonists or registered sex offenders, this assessment is essential, both for the safety of the community and the well-being of the residents. In theory, these meetings create a fair, transparent process by weighing each applicant’s needs and risks objectively.
Unfortunately, in certain community corrections facilities, including one in our jurisdiction, this standard practice has been disregarded. Here, decisions are largely made by one individual, Anastasia Lynn, who appears to wield unregulated power over admissions and placements. Decisions are made quickly, without the careful, inclusive discussion that a board offers. Even more concerning is the noticeable racial bias evident in her decision-making patterns. Many applicants are dismissed without a fair review, casting doubt on the integrity of this entire system.
A Lack of Professionalism and Competence
Anastasia’s Lynn leadership style has also created a chaotic environment, reminiscent of an unstructured daycare more than a structured community corrections facility. Imagine giving a five-year-old the responsibility of running a kindergarten—this analogy isn’t far off. Her lack of experience and professionalism results in frequent absences, emotional outbursts, and inconsistent enforcement of rules, creating a constant atmosphere of instability and drama. Staff members are left to clean up her messes, cover for her inefficiencies, and bear the brunt of her chaotic leadership.
Medical Neglect: A Flaw in the System
A critical responsibility for community corrections facilities is ensuring that residents, especially those placed by the Bureau of Prisons (BOP), receive adequate medical care. In this facility, however, the BOP relies on NaphCare, a provider notorious for delays and poor service. Residents routinely face long waits—sometimes six to eight months—to see a doctor. This delay is unacceptable and is largely attributed to ineffective management and systemic laziness among the staff, including case managers who are responsible for coordinating these services.
For residents on state parole, Medicaid is often granted automatically for the first year, but for BOP residents, the facility does not allow access to Medicaid, despite its clear benefits. While I have encouraged my clients to secure Medicaid where possible, and even provided guidance on how to avoid “double-dipping” between Medicaid and other services, the lack of proper medical support here is troubling. If the facility fails to submit medical bills to NaphCare, residents are left with substantial out-of-pocket expenses—a situation that has become all too common. This unnecessary financial burden on residents is due to an administrative system that is either too disorganized or too apathetic to function properly.
The Cost of Administrative Negligence
The negligence in this community corrections facility extends to a disturbing lack of staff accountability. Basic tasks like documenting medical appointments, submitting bills, and recording service receipts fall by the wayside, leading to errors that directly impact the residents. Instead of performing these essential duties, many staff members, including the assistant director herself, are more focused on socializing, gossiping, and attending unnecessary lunch meetings than on fulfilling their roles. This behavior is a gross misuse of taxpayer resources and an insult to the residents who depend on these services to reintegrate successfully.
An Urgent Need for Reform
The issues within this community corrections facility highlight a broken system in need of urgent reform. A board should handle placements, ensuring that decisions are fair, well-informed, and free from bias. Medical care must be a priority, with streamlined processes for residents to access necessary services without undue delays or personal financial consequences. Above all, the leadership of these facilities needs to be entrusted to professionals who are capable, empathetic, and committed to supporting residents in their journey toward rehabilitation.
If we continue to tolerate such a dysfunctional approach to community corrections, we only perpetuate a cycle of neglect and injustice. Change is not just desirable—it is imperative for the future of these programs, their residents, and the community at large.
Inside a Flawed System: The Reality of Intake and Mismanagement in Community Corrections
When you arrive at this halfway house, you’re met with a seemingly endless pile of paperwork to complete during intake. You’re tired, anxious, and in a completely new environment where you don’t know what to expect, yet you’re required to sit and go through stacks of forms. Frankly, a lot of it is redundant and feels pointless—half of it is just busywork, adding nothing meaningful to the process. One document, however, should be taken seriously: the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) form. Every time I go over it with residents, I emphasize the importance of maintaining boundaries, especially as relationships in these facilities—romantic or otherwise—are a common issue. Though relationships can happen, I maintain that professional boundaries are non-negotiable.
This commitment to boundaries goes both ways. I’ve had residents attempt to get too familiar with me, but I always make it clear that there are limits, and I take steps to protect everyone involved. In one case, I quickly reassigned a resident to another case manager when he tried to push boundaries. It wasn’t well-received by him, but it was a necessary step to safeguard both our interests and maintain professionalism.
The halfway house I worked at fails to understand the nuances of prison culture and dynamics, making serious mistakes when assigning rooms. They don’t consider risks, gang affiliations, or other potentially dangerous dynamics, which often leads to volatile situations. For example, designating a particular room for sex offenders was problematic, as it isolated them, making it clear to everyone who was housed there. Labeling people this way only fuels tension and hostility. I always insisted that everyone should be treated equally and not singled out for their convictions, yet my concerns were largely ignored.
Then there’s the issue of handling conflicts and investigations. When fights break out, especially among female residents, the aggressor and victim are often left in the same room until an “investigation” is conducted. The person in charge of these investigations lacked professionalism, with more concern for appearances than for conducting a thorough review. Internal investigations were a mere formality—everyone knew the outcome was predetermined, whether that meant evicting someone onto the street or sending them back into custody.
Every night, a case manager is on-call, rotating the responsibility, but are they actually answering the phone? Almost never. I was assigned to be on-call many weekends, and weekends are when incidents spike—especially during long holiday weekends when no one from the management team is around. Case managers don’t work on federal holidays, so even in an emergency, residents are on their own. I took the calls, making sure residents got timely answers and solutions, even reaching out to the security director if I needed help. But calling the director or Anastasia was pointless; both had power trips and were clueless about prison dynamics. And frankly, Anastasia was often too distracted, partying or socializing, to be reliable. These days, she’s apparently settled into a relationship with Director Matthew Brandt, which seems to have brought her some stability.
Here’s an example of what this setup looks like in action. Over a long weekend, two female residents got into a serious fight. The first priority in prison is to separate the parties immediately to prevent further issues, but this halfway house lacks an available room to keep individuals separated when tensions flare. I decided to move one of the residents out of the room as a preventive measure. Anastasia questioned my decision, though I was on-call and handling it directly. I reminded her that as someone who didn’t grasp the criminal justice system and had little real experience, she was in no position to overrule me. She tried to override my decision, but I held firm, leading to her frustrated emails and a lengthy two-hour phone argument over how to do my job.
Anastasia Lynn, who recently became assistant director (likely due to her close relationship with Matthew Brandt), didn’t speak to me for nearly a week after this incident until I resigned. She seemed to think she could control the staff and residents, but the residents themselves couldn’t stand her. Rumors about her relationship preferences circulated, with some residents saying she favored African American residents over others. Whether true or not, her biases and lack of leadership have affected the dynamics in the house, highlighting a serious need for better, more professional management.
And then there are the incident reports (IRs). Residents are asked to sign these, but copies are rarely provided, which I always advised against. It’s important that they keep a copy of anything they sign because in too many cases, if an IR isn’t properly documented, staff will alter it or create a new version to suit their needs. If a resident is seen as problematic, staff can easily use the system against them by manipulating paperwork or claiming refusal to sign, creating false documentation to jeopardize their freedom. These practices reflect a system that prioritizes control over rehabilitation. As long as those in authority continue to wield their power irresponsibly, residents will remain vulnerable, caught in a cycle of fear and instability instead of receiving the support they need to reintegrate successfully.
Let me shed some light on the IR (Incident Report) process, particularly its flaws. If you’re a Bureau of Prisons (BOP) resident, meaning you’re under federal jurisdiction, removing you from the program is challenging. In reality, there’s hardly a structured program in this community corrections center; the so-called “program” is simply about surviving day to day. To face custody transfer, a resident has to be considered extremely high-risk.
I had a stalker in the facility, a high-risk offender who harassed and attempted to assault me. Despite my repeated warnings about his dangerous behavior and mental health needs, it took nearly a month for the Marshals to finally take action. He was eventually given three years in custody with an additional two years, but only after he attempted assault in front of other staff members.
However, if you’re a public law resident—meaning you’re on federal probation or sent here by court sanction—the rules are different. A single administrator, the director, can remove a resident immediately, placing them in Marshal custody with no hearing or real cause. One minor write-up, like being 10 minutes late, can be enough to force someone out overnight.
This arbitrary approach is exactly what I’m challenging in federal court. I’m arguing to the judges that this community correctional facility has become ineffective and unjust. At this point, the more I examine it, the more I believe this place needs to be shut down—just as FCI Dublin was.
Here’s the real story: as a BOP resident, the facility earns $125 per day for your stay, while public law residents bring in just $65 per day. Do the math—you’re basically a revenue figure to them. If you’re public law, you’re expected to have a spotless record to stay, which is nearly impossible. I’ve seen cases where federal probation specifically directed us to make sure certain residents would fail, intending to send them back to prison. This directive came from Anastasia Lynn, the assistant director of the facility. Did I follow those instructions? Absolutely not. I use my own judgment to assess each resident’s risk level, and I’m fair about it—whether a person is high or low risk, everyone is treated the same under my watch.
Every Wednesday, we had so-called “weekly meetings.” They were more like lunch breaks with everyone grabbing takeout and chatting. There was also CTS, a contracted company for aftercare services like mental health, addiction, and more. In reality? It was a joke. I worked closely with an excellent therapist, Michelle White, who saw right through the place’s issues and didn’t hesitate to call them out. Anastasia Lynn despised her for it. Michelle even came to my office one Friday to discuss it, and we devised a plan to help some of our residents escape the facility’s pitfalls—although we couldn’t save everyone, we made a difference for those we could.
This stance made me Public Enemy #1, but they had no choice but to keep me on staff. An audit from the BOP was approaching, and they knew I was the only one meticulous enough to pass it with my paperwork skills. They thought I’d joined their team mentality, but the truth is, I had my residents’ best interests at heart. I protected them, covered up staff errors they’ll never even realize, and adhered strictly to the law and the facility’s handbook—not their version of the rules enforced over Wednesday lunches.
I kept my distance from my coworkers—I didn’t socialize, didn’t join them for outings, and honestly, I preferred it that way. My office was tucked away on the third floor in a little closet of a space, away from everyone. It became a safe haven for my residents, a space where they could come without the interference of other staff.
You might wonder what went on during those infamous Wednesday “lunches.” Well, let me tell you, the conversations were anything but professional or constructive. Instead, it was just endless, degrading gossip about our residents—name-calling, insults, labeling them as stupid or incompetent. It was almost uncomfortable sitting there, hearing the very people tasked with helping residents belittle them. And when I looked around at these coworkers, hiding behind tattoos, heavy makeup, inappropriate clothing, and a lack of integrity, I couldn’t help but compare them to my residents, who had intelligence, drive, and potential they themselves couldn’t even see.
These meetings weren’t about supporting our residents—they were focused on who could be removed from the program or sent back to prison. Yet, the truth is, everyone has their own struggles, some bigger, some smaller. Instead of stability, new rules for the residents were thrown around every weekend, creating confusion and inconsistency. Finally, I spoke up, saying they needed to stop and provide stability. Anastasia Lynn shot back, claiming this was her “house” and she’d run it as she pleased. I reminded her that, last I checked, she wasn’t the one on the mortgage, and she’d better get it together quickly.
While she tried to make my job miserable after that, she had her own problems—like losing a case manager who’d been in a secret relationship with a resident for years. But that’s a story in itself.
The Security Gap: Incompetence and Overload in Community Corrections
Your first interaction at the halfway house will likely be with the security staff, but don’t expect much competence. The front desk is run mostly by Gen Z staff who seem more focused on their sandwiches, makeup, or clocking in late than on ensuring safety. Their primary responsibility is to protect the community and residents inside, yet they’re often inattentive—ignoring calls, barely listening when interacting with residents, and even mishandling medications. Many times, they’d call me to ask how to dispense someone’s medication or inform me they couldn’t manage a resident who was five minutes late. In those moments, I had to step in, reminding them that residents must get their meds on time, no excuses.
Basic tasks like logging residents in and out are also frequently mishandled. Some security staff are so slow and disorganized that a line forms out the door, with residents waiting endlessly to check in or out. The staff person in charge on some shifts acts more like he’s playing “Mr. Director,” sipping coffee (possibly spiked) and dragging the process out by asking endless questions. The result? Residents end up with unnecessary write-ups or absconding charges because the staff didn’t log their comings and goings correctly.
There were some competent technicians who kept things in order, but they couldn’t withstand the pressure and eventually left. This leaves the system in the hands of less capable staff who make it difficult for residents to maintain their responsibilities. Missed work shifts, lost income, and stalled reentry efforts are common outcomes, which hardly support a successful transition.
The overworked security director, Julio, is one of the few reliable figures left. He’s exhausted, barely keeping up, but his efforts are the only reason this place functions at all. While he manages to keep the place intact, he’s clearly overwhelmed and underpaid. If Julio ever leaves, the entire operation would likely fall apart. It’s disheartening to see such a crucial role filled by someone so overworked without sufficient support. Meanwhile, the rest of the administrative team, including Anastasia and the case managers, are either absent or unavailable, leaving residents to fend for themselves.
This situation highlights a major flaw in the system: overburdened leaders like Julio bear the weight of responsibilities that should be shared, while a lack of trained and attentive staff creates unnecessary chaos for residents trying to reintegrate.
The Troubling State of Community Corrections: Corruption, Conflict, and Neglect
One might assume that Anastasia Lynn, the assistant director of this community corrections facility, would work closely with the security director and his team. But the reality is far from cooperative. They’re often at odds, with Lynn acting as though she alone runs the operation, disregarding collaboration and oversight. Known among staff as “Miss Congeniality” for her superficial charm, Lynn’s alleged misconduct could soon catch up with her. If investigators arrive with charges of fraud, conspiracy, or corruption, she might attempt to shift blame to her boyfriend, Matthew Brandt—though, given his reputation for self-interest, he’d likely abandon her to protect himself.
The issues, however, go beyond individual personalities. Community corrections is supposed to offer meaningful programs to support residents, yet this facility appears to lack any genuine rehabilitative programs. Grants from state and federal sources require a defined program structure, but what “programs” are actually in place here?
None that address real resident needs—whether it’s providing nutritious food, managing cases without bias, or offering actual therapeutic support. Instead, the focus seems to be on covering up absconding cases, hiding incidents of sexual harassment, and turning a blind eye to inappropriate staff-resident relationships.
An audit seems like a necessary step, but unfortunately, the current audit process is compromised. Chris Stamp, the regional director responsible for auditing this facility, doesn’t conduct unannounced audits. He schedules his visits in advance, ensuring that by the time he arrives, any concerning issues are temporarily covered up. Stump, known for accepting “envelopes” after audits and enjoying fancy dinners hosted by the facility, gives the impression of a compromised, corrupt official. His lack of impartiality only deepens the issues.Stamp’s approach to overseeing compliance, particularly with the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA), raises additional concerns. Despite evidence and direct appeals for independent investigations into harassment allegations, he appears more interested in sweeping these complaints under the rug than addressing them transparently. The Bureau of Prisons (BOP) and DOJ should take a closer look at these corrupt practices and examine the financial connections that allow these abuses to continue unchecked. It’s time for meaningful reform, and for this facility to be audited thoroughly by an independent authority. Perhaps the introduction of competition—such as an additional federal halfway house in the region—would encourage higher standards and bring an end to these severe issues.
The need for reform is undeniable. It’s not enough to change policies on paper; we need new, ethical leadership within community corrections and the Bureau of Prisons. Those in charge must take accountability for failures, including neglect that leads to suicide, recidivism, and despair among residents. Real change means ensuring these facilities are staffed by educated, compassionate professionals who are committed to helping individuals reintegrate, not punishing them further. And for that change to happen, we need to start by confronting the corruption, apathy, and abuse that have allowed this crisis to continue unchecked.
Let’s hope that with new leadership in government, the criminal justice system can begin to uphold true justice and compassion for those within it, especially in community corrections and halfway houses.
In conclusion, the injustices and abuses taking place within this community corrections program highlight a deep-seated need for change. How many of you have felt mistreated, like when John received the same write-up as you but was dismissed while you faced sanctions? Who’s responsible for that? Anastasia Lynn. She plays favorites, choosing certain individuals based on racial profiling. You might be wondering why you had to quit your job when you did nothing wrong, just being late by five minutes or not having my location changed—yet others were allowed to work without issue. The blame lies with her because she made those rules. If you’re one of the residents trying to succeed in this place, proving them wrong, they’ll sabotage you. Why? Because you’re not just a person with a criminal record; you’re someone who could succeed despite it, and they can’t stand that. It’s rooted in jealousy, insecurity, and low self-esteem from the case managers.
I can’t even imagine sitting in those awful chairs in those offices, listening to their condescending attitude, their emotional outbursts, and how they talk to people. I’ve witnessed Director Matthew Brandt yell, scream, and abuse residents, acting like he’s on a power trip. He tells residents, “Don’t do it again,” in a disgusting way. I’ve confronted him multiple times, telling him he needs to learn how to speak to people respectfully. His response? “I’m the director, don’t compromise my program.” He’s referring to the program where he shows up drunk to work. He is very abusive not just against resdients but certain staff members.
I could write volumes about Anastasia Lynn and Matthew Brandt, but the point isn’t to just complain. We need a solution to get them both out of this program and create a healthier, more positive environment. Maybe shutting down this halfway house and rebuilding it with a new leadership structure is what it will take.
If someone reading this article is interested in opening a new, healthier federal halfway house in Colorado, I would be happy to work toward creating a space for successful reentry.
Not everyone is going to succeed, and that’s understood. But Anastasia Lynn’s bias towards certain individuals, based on racial profiling, is undeniable. You can see it in her caseload: people involved in drugs, bringing drugs into the facility, bringing women inside, and facing no consequences. Who’s benefiting from this? Who drops a bag of drugs in the director’s office, picks it up, and turns a blind eye? It’s corruption, and it’s unacceptable. This behavior must end.
“The only constant in life is change, and without change, there can be no progress.”
Disclaimer: This article discusses a real story involving real people and real events. It is published with the intention of informing and raising awareness about the complexities of such narratives. The content does not intend to defame or slander any individuals, and there are no legal consequences associated with the publication of this story regarding defamation or character slander.
If you or someone you know has been impacted by inadequate services from any community corrections organization in Colorado, whether at the state or federal level, please reach out to me. I would like to give you a platform to share your story and highlight your experiences.
Justice Unlocked. 
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