A handful of other states have also started allowing remote work in recent years, but none have gone as far as Maine, according to the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison, the nonprofit leading the effort.

Unlike incarcerated residents with jobs in the kitchen or woodshop who earn just a few hundred dollars a month, remote workers make fair-market wages, allowing them to pay victim restitution fees and legal costs, provide child support, and contribute to Social Security and other retirement funds. Like inmates in work-release programs who have jobs out in the community, 10 percent of remote workers’ wages go to the state to offset the cost of room and board. All Maine DOC residents get re-entry support for housing and job searches before they’re released, and remote workers leave with even more: up-to-date résumés, a nest egg — and the hope that they’re less likely to need food or housing assistance, or resort to crime to get by.

Some crime victims would rather have their perpetrators “rot in hell” than see them have these kinds of privileges, said Randall Liberty, commissioner of the Maine Department of Corrections, and victims are notified, and their concerns considered, when offenders line up remote jobs. Executives say they have also encountered apprehension, at least initially, from community members and coworkers when they hire incarcerated people.

Tensions can arise inside prison walls, too, given the vast income disparities with residents working in the kitchen or woodshop who make far less. But there hasn’t been much grumbling, especially since those who land outside employment often give up more desirable prison jobs that then become available to others, said Laura Rodas, Maine DOC’s director of adult education. The DOC is in the process of formalizing its remote work policy, which will open up opportunities to more residents.

The benefits are undeniable, Rodas said: “The systems that we’ve set up to send people home with virtually nothing makes no sense at all if we want them to become good neighbors.”

More than anything, incarcerated residents say, these jobs give them a sense of purpose and dignity. And hope.

“You build this identity of being a convict and it just becomes so ingrained, and you start to drink the Kool-Aid and think that that’s all you’re resigned to do,” said Thorpe, 32.

Thorpe was a “pretty big computer nerd” growing up, he said, and starting coding 12 hours a day when he got access to a laptop to take college courses during the early years of the pandemic. In time, he established trust with the DOC staff, and started helping the education department’s IT staff manage its network.

Thorpe has been promoted twice in his first year at Unlocked Labs, which is working to make education more accessible in prison, and said he’s had several other employment offers. He’s anxious to return to Michigan, where he recently used his earnings — which he didn’t want to reveal publicly but are on par with typical tech salaries — to buy a house across the street from his parents.

“This is my way out,” he said.

The shift in Maine toward prison as a place of redemption accelerated in 2019 when Liberty was appointed commissioner. Liberty — who first set foot in the old Maine State Prison as a 6-year-old visiting his father and started making changes when he became warden there in 2015 — increased educational and vocational opportunities and introduced new programs to treat addiction and mental health issues. Treating these “foundational causes” of crime, along with trauma, poverty, and neglect, Liberty said, is key.

“What more can we ask of these residents than to redeem and become pro-social and contribute to the community?” he said.

Something seems to be working. In Maine, 10 percent of people who served time in state prisons are back in custody within a year, on average, compared to 31 percent in a survey of 18 states.

But there’s been resistance to the Maine DOC’s progressive ways. Liberty said he was reportedly called a “liberal activist” by a high-ranking government official. And some of those affected by crime may balk at the idea of incarcerated people working remotely.

The ability to make good money could make it seem like they aren’t being held accountable, said Renee Williams, chief executive of the National Center for Victims of Crime. But they’re still locked up, she noted. And if this work experience sets them up for success once they’re released and the community is safer for it, she said, everyone wins: “No one benefits from a correctional system that only seeks retribution.”

In the midst of Liberty’s changes, the pandemic hit. With college instructors no longer allowed inside prisons, the Maine DOC gave incarcerated students internet access for online classes, increasing the acceptance of technology behind the wall almost overnight, said Ved Price, executive director of the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison. In 2023, incarcerated individuals became eligible for Pell Grants to pay for college, and education became a “trojan horse” of sorts, Price said.

For a while, incarcerated college students were allowed to have LinkedIn accounts to apply for internships. Access was taken away because of the site’s internal messaging feature, but the door to job searches remained open. In 2022, an incarcerated Maine prison resident started teaching a class over Zoom at Colby College. The next year, another started a remote paralegal internship at his cousin’s law firm, and was released with enough money to buy a car and rent an apartment.

The DOC is developing formal policies that will give eligible residents access to job search sites such as Indeed.com, though each application and job offer must be approved and candidates’ incarceration status disclosed. Those convicted of sex- or drug-related offenses aren’t allowed to apply to school districts, for instance, and those barred from using the Internet can’t participate in the program — but no criminal backgrounds are automatically disqualifying. Currently, people serving decades-long sentences for murder in Maine’s prison system are among those working for private employers.

Remote workers’ paychecks are sent to the state, which deducts room and board, child support, and other court-ordered fees, then transferred into personal accounts that can be accessed to buy snacks and supplies at the canteen or to send money home. Workers are also required to build up at least $1,000 in savings.

Given the expansion of remote work, almost any employer with the right technology and staffing could hire incarcerated employees, said Rebecca Villarreal, senior director at the Center for Justice & Economic Advancement at Jobs For the Future, a Boston-based nonprofit that earlier this year hired a program manager who is serving time at Maine State Prison. For the most part, she said, he’s just another remote employee who occasionally has to be reminded not to work too much.

These opportunities aren’t taking positions away from non-incarcerated workers, Villareal said — they’re expanding the talent pool.

Beyond Maine, there are roughly a dozen incarcerated remote workers in Kansas, Ohio, and California, according to the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison, and a few other states are actively considering it. The Massachusetts prison system doesn’t have a remote work program, though it recently increased training opportunities for tech and other in-demand jobs. Implementing initiatives like this requires a culture shift that takes “time, commitment, and bold leadership,” said Carole Cafferty, codirector of The Educational Justice Institute at MIT, and most state corrections departments aren’t there yet.

In the Maine prison system, residents who want to work for private companies must comply with treatment plans and behavioral standards, and abide by internet limits and laptop monitoring. Phones aren’t allowed, but video calls are. The corrections department is also considering finding a way to designate an additional portion of their salaries for funds to assist fellow inmates, though some remote workers don’t like the idea of having more of their earnings taken away.

Remote workers’ wages must be commensurate with nonincarcerated coworkers — some make $18 an hour, while a few make over $50,000 or even $100,000 a year — for doing everything from data entry to product design to qualitative research. They’ve used their earnings to enroll in master’s programs, and help family members with car repairs, college tuition, and vacation costs.

In Maine, one of the whitest states in the country, close to 90 percent of the 1,800 people serving time are white, while more than a quarter of those who’ve had remote jobs are Black or Latino. DOC officials said more data needs to be collected to determine why people of color make up a disproportionate share of remote workers.

Moses Okot is among them. Okot came to Maine with his family to escape a civil war in South Sudan and ended up on the streets of Portland as a teenager. Now 36, Okot, is serving an 18-year sentence at Maine State Prison for attempted murder and gun charges.

After a previous stint in prison, Okot couldn’t even get a job at McDonald’s. This time around, he’s doing it differently. He recently earned a bachelor’s degree and is now paying for his master’s and helping support his four children with earnings from his internship writing a newsletter for the World Affairs Council of Maine. His boss, Allison Hodgkins, calls him “the best intern I’ve ever had.”

“Prison is a time capsule,” Okot said. “Why not allow us to better ourselves when we’re in here?”

Going to prison has also been transformational for Victoria Scott. Scott, 31, was convicted of manslaughter for the 2017 fatal stabbing of a Belmont, Maine, man following an altercation in a driveway. Prosecutors argued that she provoked the assault, but Scott said she was acting in self-defense. At the time, she noted, she was self-destructive, dependent on medication, and entangled in abusive relationships.

Scott never thought much of herself, she said, and after being sentenced to 11 years in prison, she felt she would forever be labeled a “criminal.” But then she enrolled in college, got involved in MIT’s Educational Justice Institute, and in the spring of last year, landed a fellowship making $25 an hour as a project manager for the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison, where she helped develop a guide to remote work.

Being part of professional networks that valued her contributions has helped her redefine her place in the world, Scott said, and “see a better version of myself.”

In all, Scott has managed to save nearly $30,000. She applied for supervised community confinement and was able to rent an apartment after her father persuaded the landlord to drop the “no felonies” clause by showing him her résumé and bank statements.

Scott could be released soon. She has a place to live and another possible job on the horizon.

She’s ready to show the world who she has become.

Katie Johnston can be reached at [email protected]. Follow her @ktkjohnston.