Not long after settling into the prison in Pendleton in 2007, Chancy "Chance" Scott turned into a "high-risk inmate."

Sentenced for beating a man who was taunting his mother, Scott joined a prison gang, branded himself with tattoos and began extorting money. He attacked inmates who resisted -- or got others to do so.

Even behind bars, he was a special danger.

But now the 26-year-old is among 840 inmates, including 25 women, in an

program unlike any other in the United States.

The

program zeroes in on any inmate -- not just gang members -- judged to be a safety threat at the state's six biggest prisons. It uses carrots and sticks: Improved behavior can lead to better jobs, better housing and transfers to minimum-security prisons; misconduct can bring anything from confiscation of fashionable sneakers to a 120-day ban from the recreation yard.

Scott felt the attention at the

. He couldn't move without counselors and other staffers knowing who he was talking to and what he was doing. He could no longer shrug off schooling or behavior class.

Forged five years ago by

, deputy director of the Corrections Department, the program aims to tame violence, extortion and illegal trading in Oregon prisons. They're no small problems: Last year, the department logged 2,302 assaults on inmates and staff -- an average of six a day.

Officials also want to reform more inmates so they're released into society with plans for a productive life instead of more crime. Driving down the recidivism rate is crucial to curbing soaring prison costs.

View full size

The program isn't without controversy. Some national experts are aghast at Oregon's decision to stop tracking what they consider critical information: membership in prison gangs. Morrow acknowledged lingering opposition within the agency, saying he recently discovered officers at two prisons keeping secret lists of gang members.

The state also hasn't researched whether the program works, though the Corrections Department recently launched an assessment after The Oregonian sought information.

Analysis by The Oregonian, however, found an inconclusive trend for assaults but a decline in inmate misconduct. Prison lieutenants at five prisons, plus counselors, inmates and union leaders, believe the program is reforming inmates and making prisons safer.

And Scott, who expects to go free this fall, said he's an example.

No "how-to" manual

Morrow, a career corrections staffer, decided while managing a Salem prison that Oregon's focus on prison gangs made no sense.

For years, special Corrections Department squads spent hours identifying gang members and tracking gang rituals and enterprises. But the gang unit held its information closely, earning the sobriquet "Secret Squirrel Society" for tucking away information like nuts for winter.

Morrow saw little value in intelligence that wasn't shared with front-line staffers. He concluded that focusing on "strategic threat groups" -- corrections jargon for gangs -- left other dangerous inmates all but unchecked. Research showed more prison crimes were committed by inmates with no gang ties. Morrow was promoted to deputy director in 2003 and four years later stopped the $5 million-a-year gang program. At about one-tenth that cost, he tasked six lieutenants with identifying and dealing with every threatening inmate. Let misconduct, not gang affiliations, drive the work, he directed.

With no model, creating the Security Threat Management program wasn't simple. "There really was no 'how to' manual," said Phil Morrison, a prison counselor in Pendleton who helped design the program.

Motivating inmates is at the core of STM. Prison officials use praise and pressure to get an inmate to stick with schooling, counseling or work.

Before, inmates could refuse to participate with little consequence. No longer. An inmate skipping class might be restricted to his cell, making schooling seem preferable. An inmate causing trouble in a recreation yard can be banned for a month, a hated restriction among inmates.

At

in Wilsonville, a 25-year-old inmate serving time for auto theft and assault was caught stealing from the prison kitchen. She was barred for a month from corresponding with other inmates and couldn't buy food or personal supplies from the prison canteen.

At Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem, a 28-year-old inmate sentenced for assault was caught getting a prison tattoo. For two weeks, he lived without any personal property except toothpaste, a bar of soap and deodorant.

Prison officials pay particular attention to what inmates hold dear.

"If we take away your fancy sneakers and issue you basic issue flip-flops, you just don't look cool while walking the yard," said Leonard Williamson, Corrections Department inspector general who oversees the STM program.

Inmates in the program face more intense monitoring by staffers, who now learn about misconduct quicker and are briefed on inmates' improvement plans.

"There are more eyes on the guys considered threats to the institution's security," said Mary Jean Winter-Schuller, a counselor at

in Ontario.

Time in "the hole"

Prison officials are under no illusion that STM turns inmates into angels, though. Rather than hope an inmate won't ever get into trouble, they are encouraged when an inmate who got into fights every three months goes a year between brawls.

Others need longer to adapt. Travis L. Taylor, who said he was convicted of his first felony at 12, went to prison in 2008 for assault. In Pendleton, Taylor landed on STM in 2010 for attacking another inmate.

But despite restrictions, he was soon in "the hole" -- segregation -- for a dining room brawl. When he returned to the general population, the STM lieutenant barred him from every place inmates gather -- the recreation yard, the day room and the television room. Twice more, he was locked in segregation, spending 23 hours a day in a stark one-man cell. Finally, he had enough.

Taylor, now 24, stepped away from his gang and took anger-management and business classes. He hasn't been cited for misconduct in months and may soon transfer to a minimum-security work camp outside Tillamook, a favored posting.

Once freed, Taylor is determined to start a nonprofit to give kids real-life lessons to stay out of trouble.

"I want to talk to kids, to tell them how it really is," he said. "I want to get them into after-school activities, because if I had that, I might not be here."

Other inmates doubt they can change. But "when they get just a little bit of motivation, when they have someone in their corner, it helps them out," said Lt. Doug Yancey, who runs STM at the

.

That was the key to reaching Dustin V. Miller, 47, who arrived in prison in 1998 after a series of robberies.

He joined a gang and ordered attacks on both an inmate and a corrections officer, landing in segregation. Then he lost his job at Snake River and was cut off from prison music programs.

Lt. Claude Schultz of the prison's STM program used Miller's hunger for music as an incentive to get him to behave. Now Miller is organizing music shows and has a job he wants.

"Right now I want to do nothing but good," Miller said.

Work with dogs

Gangs remain part of Oregon prison life. Miller, for instance, wouldn't consent to an interview until his "home boys" -- members of his gang -- approved.

And getting away from gangs or other controlling inmates isn't easy. Inmates who drop their gang activity can be considered disrespectful or weak, inviting attacks. They also fear being viewed as "punks" -- informers.

But the program "gives them an out, even for your toughest guy," said Lt. Bill Powell, assigned to the Pendleton prison. "They can tell their gang buddies, 'Hey, I'm in STM. I need to back off.'"

View full size

Some inmates won't change, remaining a danger to inmates and staff. In that case, "I can make them disappear like that," Morrow said, snapping his fingers. Last spring, for example, three gang leaders were split up and shipped to prisons in other states after a series of big fights at the Oregon State Penitentiary.

But more often, prison officials see inmates shake off troublesome conduct.

"We have seen inmates making a more positive change in their lives, through the STM program," said Lt. Daren Dufloth at

outside Umatilla. "I've heard it several times. 'I'm done, you win. Just take me off the restrictions.'"

Chancy Scott thought he'd never have anything to be proud of. But then during a rare visit from his children, he called to his 3-year-old daughter to "come sit on Daddy's lap." The girl replied, "You're not my daddy."

Jolted, Scott decided to take advantage of STM to straighten up. Working with counselors and other staff, he steered clear of trouble, earning his GED and a place on an outside work crew. Then he won transfer to minimum-security

in Baker City.

There, he is one of six inmates training dogs for adoption. He's eager to show results with Zeb, a terrier mix who knows basic obedience and a handful of tricks.

Scott has learned from the dogs as well. "They taught me I still have a heart and I can still care," he said.

Now, six months from parole, he has big dreams. He's already met with Small Business Administration advisers for help setting up a business, Equality Dog Training and Boarding. He also wants to help counsel young people, using the dogs to connect.

As for prison staffers who kept on him through the STM program, he said, "I owe them a lot."

Prison officials say the program is working, too.

"We're identifying the troublemakers. They're getting special attention," Morrow said. "It appears we're keeping more of them from going back to segregation."

Williamson, the inspector general, wants to quantify that success, but he's convinced Oregon is on the right path.

"Even if I got only one of those guys to modify their behavior, get their GED, walk out the door and they can get a job, I think it's worth spending the money on these six lieutenants," Williamson said. "Otherwise, this group is just lost."

--