Crafting Public Institutions: Leadership in Two Prison Systems 9781626373204

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CRAFTING PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS

EXPLORATIONS

IN

PUBLIC POLICY

SERIES EDITOR James J. Gosling, University of Utah

EDITORIAL BOARD Charles W. Anderson, University of Wisconsin Dennis J. Dresang, University of Wisconsin Marc Allen Eisner, Wesleyan University Stephen L. Elkin, University of Maryland Jeffrey R. Henig, George Washington University Cathy Johnson, Williams College Ira Sharkansky, Hebrew University of Jerusalem

C RAFTING PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS Leadership in Two Prison Systems

Arjen Boin

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2001 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2001 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Boin, Arjen. Crafting public institutions : leadership in two prison systems / Arjen Boin. p. cm. — (Explorations in public policy) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-58826-009-7 (alk. paper) 1. Prison administration—United States. 2. Prison administration— Netherlands. 3. Institution building—Case studies. I. Title. II. Series. HV9469 .B65 2001 365'.068—dc21 2001019620 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984. 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

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Acknowledgments 1

The Pros and Cons of Institution Building: Outlines of a Debate

1

Building Institutions: Promises, Doubts, and Fears, 1 Institutions, Institutionalization, and Institution Building, 4 Building Institutions: Can It Be Done? 6 Building Institutions: Should It Be Done? 9 Two Prison Systems, 13 A Note on Institutional Research, 15 2

A Theory of Institution Building The Challenge of Institution Building, 21 Institutionalization and Leadership, 22 Building Institutions: Infusing the Organization with Value, 25 Maintaining Institutions: The Importance of Institutional Integrity, 34 Strategies for Responsible Leadership, 37 Principles of Institutional Leadership, 43

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Two Prison Systems: The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons and the Dutch Prison System Assessing Institutionalization, 50 The Bureau Family, 52

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49

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Contents

The Dutch Prison System: Variety, Fiefdoms, and Friction, 63 Cohesion in Contrast, 77 4

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The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons: Leadership and Integration Leadership and Mission: A Tradition of Adaptive Change, 82 Leadership and Inculcation, 100 Leadership and Autonomy: Protecting the Mission, 108 Field Leadership and the Willingness to Comply, 114 Institutionalizing Leadership: The Self-Perpetuating Machine, 118 The Dutch Prison System: Leadership and Fragmentation Leadership and Mission: The Failed Quest, 126 Leadership and Inculcation, 141 Leadership and Autonomy, 147 Field Leadership: From Emancipation to Recalcitrance, 151 The Dynamics of Fragmentation: Policy Controversy and Field Recalcitrance, 156 Leadership and Fragmentation, 161

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Leadership, Institutions, and Public Administration Refounding Public Administration, 169 The Origins of Penal Policy: Leadership Matters, 170 Lessons for Correctional Leadership, 177 Institution Building: A Question of Leadership? 181 Leadership and Public Administration, 189

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Designing for Performance Why Build Institutions? 193 Correctional Performance: In Search of a Bottom Line, 195 Administrative Performance: Rigidity or Resilience? 204 Public Performance: Recalcitrant or Responsible? 210 Designing Safeguards for Institution Building, 218 The Promise of Institution Building, 222

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Bibliography Index About the Book

229 255 265

Acknowledgments

A great number of people have made invaluable contributions to the writing of this book. First of all, I want to pay tribute to all the prison administrators, policymakers, and experts, both in the Netherlands and the United States, who donated so much of their time and insight to educate me about the intricacies of prison government. Most remain unnamed in this book, but their efforts are recognized here with respect and gratitude. Several correctional experts have read the empirical accounts of this book and provided me with their candid evaluations and sage advice. Herman Franke, Jan Piek, and Hans Tulkens commented on the Dutch case study. Jos Verhagen, the institutional memory of the Dutch prison service, provided me with additional information upon my frequent requests. Norman Carlson, Thomas Kane, and Richard Rison have saved me from many factual errors in the case study of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons. Mark Fleisher shared his experience and introduced me to the staff of the Federal Correctional Institution, Pekin, Illinois. This research owes much to the discussions held over the years with colleagues and friends. Uri Rosenthal has been the perfect mentor over the years on this and many other projects. Paul ‘t Hart has played an essential role throughout the project; his endless enthusiasm and keen eye for detail have made this a better book. Marc Otten has subjected many ideas and countless drafts to rigorous but always constructive review. Jos Rijpma, Marie-Louise de Vreeze-Verhoef, Richard de Wit, and the late Bert Pijnenburg commented on earlier versions of the manuscript. Yaacov Vertzberger helped and encouraged me to strengthen the book’s argument. Mark Bovens, Paul Nieuwenburg, and Frank de Zwart vii

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contributed important comments on the final chapter. Anonymous referees provided me with useful feedback. Last but not least, I wish to thank Celesta Bos for her editorial assistance. The writing of this book has been a rewarding experience, thanks in large part to the support of loved ones. I thank my parents for their continuing love and encouragement. I dedicate the book to my wife, Mary Helen, mother of Charlotte and Désanne and a wonderful source of inspiration. — A. B.

1 The Pros and Cons of Institution Building: Outlines of a Debate

Building Institutions: Promises, Doubts, and Fears Every once in a while we encounter a successful attempt to build an institution. Take the General Accounting Office (GAO), which is the investigative arm of the U.S. Congress. The GAO is a nonpartisan, independent agency that audits and evaluates federal agencies, programs, and policies. When, for example, Congress questions the effectiveness or efficiency of, say, the medical services offered to inmates of federal prisons, GAO officials are requested to take their “accounting logic” and their “investigative instincts” to the federal prison system and return with a thorough evaluation (Walker, 1986). This valued if slightly dull agency is, as Walker shows, the outcome of institutional design. Under the leadership of Elmer Staats, who served as comptrollergeneral from 1966 to 1981, the penny-counting and control-oriented GAO was transformed into a respected auditing institution. The recent history of the Public Prosecution Office (OM) in the Netherlands shows us how difficult institution building can be. The OM has long evolved without any design; it was traditionally a home for independently thinking prosecutors who prioritized judicial considerations over policy or organizational concerns. The organizational shortcomings of the OM were chastised by a parliamentary inquiry into unsupervised police experiments with drug informants (Commissie Van Traa, 1996). The findings of the commission proved that earlier attempts to transform the organization of professionals into a professional organization had failed. The resulting shortcomings were directly linked by the Van Traa Commission to a “deep crisis” in the Dutch criminal justice sector. 1

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Britain’s National Health Service (NHS) is quite similar to the Dutch OM, as it remains impervious to all sorts of design efforts. The free health care system was set up in 1948 to make the benefits of medical science available to everyone. Long waiting lists, angry providers, and a series of scandals have invited a steady stream of organizational design efforts. The results remain wanting, as the NHS has proved to be an organizational black hole: everything gets sucked in, but one is never sure what happens inside.1 The British do not seem to care. Even though the NHS has been in perpetual crisis since its inception, it is still seen by the British as something worth defending the Cliffs of Dover for (Klein, 1996). Institutional design can be very effective. After the Germans had imposed their reign on Dutch public administration during the first years of the occupation, which began in 1940, they sought to bring the police under control. Sybren Tulp, who possessed all the qualities of an institutional architect, was appointed chief of the Amsterdam police. Tulp welded the demoralized and fragmented force into a cohesive and professional corps. Under Tulp, the Amsterdam police obediently and efficiently assisted the German authorities in their efforts to round up the city’s Jews, incarcerate them, and place them on the eastbound trains (Meershoek, 1999). Between 1942 and 1943, 55,000 of Amsterdam’s 80,000 Jews were arrested and deported. These examples capture the promises, the doubts, and the fears that efforts of institution building evoke. On the optimistic side, we expect institutions to improve the process of public governance and policymaking. It is widely accepted that the functioning, structure, and outcomes of policy systems are “shaped, mediated, and channeled by institutional arrangements” (DiMaggio and Powell, 1991:2; March and Olsen, 1984; Chisholm, 1995; Hall and Taylor, 1998). If politicians, public managers, and policymakers could assert control over these institutional arrangements, the recipients of public administration and policy should benefit. But considerable doubt exists among scholars of public governance with regard to the abilities and resources that are needed to build institutions. Experience with the Dutch prosecution office and the British NHS reflect the conventional wisdom in the fields of public administration and policy research that suggests that large-scale, complex bureaucracies cannot be controlled or designed. One is reminded of Karl Popper’s admonition, paraphrased here by Dryzek (1992:520), that “the result of holistic planning is generally repression, but never anything

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remotely resembling the original blueprint.” The strong legitimacy of the NHS leads to additional questions about the necessity of institutional design. Fear replaces doubt when we read the case studies on, for example, the German SS or the Amsterdam police force in wartime. This fear for institutions and their leaders—well founded in these cases—has clouded the debate on institution building and its consequences. The question of feasibility (Can we build institutions out of public organizations?) often draws answers that are informed by considerations of desirability (Should we build institutions?). The call for institution building is easily muffled by warnings of repression. Here I consider these questions of institutional design in the context of prison systems. The questions are highly relevant in this context, as imprisonment is “the largest power that the state exercises in practice, on a regular basis, over its citizens” (Morris, 1974:2). Penal policymakers and prison administrations are tasked with protecting society (keeping inmates inside), running safe and decent facilities, keeping the inmates busy, and offering them possibilities for a new start (through training and education). This is a complex and challenging (some say impossible) task. The question is whether prison systems can be built into institutions and whether institutional design can benefit the performance of prison systems. To find an answer to this question, we will explore the institutional development of two prison systems. In 1930, the U.S. Congress created the Federal Bureau of Prisons, which was to take control over several existing federal prisons and merge them into a new federal prison system. In 1946, the postwar Dutch government decided to abolish the prewar practice of solitary confinement and to build a new and modern prison system. We will trace how penal administrators and policymakers in both countries guided the development of small prison systems to large-scale and internationally known correctional systems. In this book I focus on efforts of institution building and document the many problems that institutional leaders may encounter in the process. I also demonstrate the possibilities of institutional design. The leaders of a correctional system can affect the functioning of their prisons in a way that benefits society, and so, presumably, can policymakers and senior executive bureaucrats in other fields of public governance. I return to this claim in the final chapter. However, before we consider the various positions in the debate on institution building, we must first settle on what we mean by institutions.

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Institutions, Institutionalization, and Institution Building An institution, in its most general characterization, is nothing more than a “stable, valued, recurring pattern of behavior” (Huntington, 1968:12; Goodin, 1996a:21). But in the diverse fields of economics, political science, sociology, and anthropology, the term institution is applied to very different events, processes, activities, structures or entities (DiMaggio and Powell, 1991; Scott, 1995).2 An institution is situated here at the organizational level.3 Following Selznick (1957:17), an institution is defined as an organization or administrative system that is “infused with value beyond the technical requirements of the task at hand.” Institutionalization refers to the process by which an organizational system takes on the characteristics of an institution. When organizational leaders control, manage, or guide this process of becoming an institution, we speak of institutional design or, preferably, institution building. Selznick’s definition is illuminated by his analytical distinction between what should be understood as two theoretical ideal types: the organization and the institution (Selznick, 1957). An organization is nothing more (or less) than a formal association of individuals whose efforts are more or less purposefully related to the attainment of some formulated goal.4 The organization can be terminated as soon as the goal is accomplished or whenever powerholders feel the organization is no longer of any use. The organization “refers to an expendable tool, a rational instrument engineered to do a job” (Selznick, 1957:5). An institution, on the other hand, is an organization that over time has become more than an instrument in the hands of an owner, policymaker, or politician. It is an organization that has developed a certain identity, which, in turn, determines to a significant extent the administrative behavior of its members—in the same Freudian vein as individual actions are guided by their character.5 An institution is an instrument “that has come alive,” as “it takes on a distinctive character or function, becomes a receptacle of vested interests, or is charged with meaning as a vehicle of personal satisfaction or aspiration” (Selznick, 1992:233). An institution is no longer expendable, because its activities or functions have become valued outside the organization itself. Several characteristics set an institution apart from an organization. In an institution, a specific and consistent set of assumptions and beliefs (the institutional “software”) defines in a basic taken-for-granted fashion

Pros and Cons of Institution Building

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an organization’s view of itself, its primary goals, and its environment. Institutional members, in other words, are strongly aware of the “organizational essence” (Halperin, 1974:28). The organizational essence is reflected in the operational goals or critical tasks of the institution (Wilson, 1978). Institutional members have both the will and the capacity to work toward the defined purpose of the institution. They act within the parameters set by the critical tasks and the established rules and routines. This combination of purpose and critical tasks forms the institution’s mission (Wilson, 1989). The mission is “spontaneously protected” by the institutional members, because it works for them (Selznick, 1957: 100). The mission also nurtures a certain “like-mindedness” among members; institutional members share similar “decision premises” (Simon, 1945:123). The institution is valued by its members. Their membership becomes a vessel for identification, self-esteem, and self-development. Moreover, the institution is valued within its environment. It has a “distinctive competence,” a consistent and effective way of operating that is recognized and valued by relevant actors in the environment of the institution. In other words, the institution has established a high degree of legitimacy: a generalized perception or assumption that not only the actions of an institution but the institution itself is “desirable, proper, or appropriate within some socially constructed system of norms, values, beliefs, and definitions” (Suchman, 1995:574). An institution is appreciated, valued, and perceived as an essential element of society. These characteristics create a powerful relationship between the institution and its members—one that can be constraining in nature, because an institution defines parameters of (in)action and labels alternative forms of behavior as deviant. But institutions also have an enabling effect on social behavior; they help to make sense of a situation, providing guidance in deciding between various courses of action. Institutions succeed where so many organizational theorists and management consultants have failed: in an institution, members do “the right thing the right way.” The mission aligns task perceptions and partially determines the way in which employees use their discretion (Rose, 1993). This returns us to the question of whether public managers can build these institutional characteristics into their organization. There is, perhaps surprisingly, little consensus on the possibilities and desirability of institution building in the public sector (Lindner and Peters, 1995). On the pessimistic side of the debate, we find scholars who argue that the public

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sector does not lend itself to ambitious blueprints and enlightened leadership. But even if bureaucratic leaders could design institutions, pessimists warn that unintended consequences will undo the potential benefits of these efforts. Optimists claim that institution building is possible and that it will lead to improved performance. In the following sections, I briefly summarize these two opposing, and crucial, perspectives.

Building Institutions: Can It Be Done? A Pessimistic Perspective: The Limits of Administration Institutional pessimists have conventional wisdom in the field of public administration and policy research on their side. They argue that the influence of designers is limited at best. The leader of a public bureaucracy, as Kaufman (1981:91) observed in his research on six federal agencies, is “hemmed in by a set of constraints limiting his capacity to make things happen in and to his bureau as he [wants] them to happen.” The idea that organizational design can meaningfully affect how employees think and act is at odds with accepted insights among students of public organizations. The many factors that seem to preclude effective design efforts can be ordered in two categories of inherent constraints on administrative capacity. First, there are environmental constraints. Public managers cannot do as they please; they must stay within the parameters of legitimate actions. Policymakers, elected or not, must account for their actions in democratic forums. Public managers (who are appointed bureaucrats) must answer to policymakers and sometimes, often indirectly, to these same democratic forums. Second, public managers must deal with the organizational deficiencies that come with large and complex bureaucracies (Hood, 1976). The Weberian bureaucracy is ill equipped for correctly translating vague and conflicting policy goals into intended outputs. Both types of constraints beset the prison systems of liberal democracies. Penal policymakers must somehow translate the multiple, complex, and general aims of punishment—retribution, rehabilitation, deterrence, and public protection—into effective bureaucratic routines that can be accomplished without gross expenditures of human and financial resources. They must design regimes—a body of rules and routines according to which a prison is managed—without emphasizing one penal end while downplaying or sacrificing others (Cressey, 1965). Explicit

Pros and Cons of Institution Building

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choices tend to disturb the fragile political consensus on crime and punishment. As Richard McGee (1981), a former corrections commissioner in California, points out, prison policymakers have to gain the support of their “coaches, customers and critics.” Much of the empirical research on prison administration shows how difficult that is; correctional policymakers may simply have an “impossible job” (DiIulio, 1990a; Hargrove and Glidewell, 1990). As a result of these administrative limitations, the inherent dilemmas of correctional policy are often left up to officials in the field to resolve. The wardens and their staffs must deal with the tension that exists between punitive and rehabilitative goals of imprisonment. If they fail to translate these abstract and conflicting goals into some sort of coherent management model, it is left to the correctional officers to resolve the dilemmas of correctional policy. In many prisons, guards indeed possess substantial discretionary freedom in their interaction with inmates. These correctional officers ultimately determine how penal policy is implemented. We should therefore expect a great deal of variety in organizational practices between prisons. Correctional officers possess particular personal values, habits, skills, and routines when they enter the organization. Upon entering the organization, prison employees learn from their co-workers and adopt certain working methods that are not directly controlled by management. During their career, they gain additional skills and develop routines in their dealing with inmates. Wardens, in turn, bring to the job their personal correctional philosophies. In fact, each level of administration nurtures a somewhat unique perspective on the appropriateness and feasibility of policy goals, means, organizational structures, clients, and street-level actions. In virtually all empirical prison studies, indications can be found that prisons operate on correctional philosophies that originated within that particular prison rather than at the central level (Sykes, 1958; Morris and Morris, 1963; Hawkins, 1976; Johnson, 1996). The challenge for the policymakers who bear ultimate responsibility for the performance of the sector as a whole is to bring the use of this implementation discretion in line with official policy intentions. The limits of administration mentioned above prevent them from doing so (Hood, 1976). Policymakers are unable to formulate clear and accurate policy instructions due to their bounded rationality (Simon, 1945; March and Simon, 1958). They cannot determine whether implementers deviate from policy directives, because complete and unambiguous

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feedback is seldom available (Wilensky, 1967; Kaufman, 1973). Even if they could detect implementation practices that are at odds with official policy, their means for intervention are limited. In many public systems, civil servants cannot be easily fired or replaced. Policymakers would be unwise to adopt coercive tactics to ensure compliance, because that would only make matters worse: “The use of coercion . . . is an invitation to sustained sabotage . . . and leads to disaster” (Landau and Stout, 1979:151–152; cf. Gouldner, 1954; Lipsky, 1980). The notion that policymakers exercise—or ought to exercise—some kind of direct, top-down control over policy implementation has been denounced by Elmore (1979: 603) as a “noble lie.” Institutional design cannot bring together the different worlds in which policymakers and field administrators live. This “appreciative gap” is therefore best bridged by providing implementing actors with as much discretion as they can handle (Handler, 1986). Policymakers are encouraged to rely on their civil servants for carrying out their task in the best way they see fit—policymakers should trust that they know what that best way is in concrete situations (van Gunsteren, 1976). An Optimistic Perspective: Leadership For those who think purposeful institution building is unattainable, Kaufman’s (1960) classic study of the U.S. Forest Service must be somewhat disturbing. When Kaufman set out to study the forest rangers, he expected them to use their discretion to adapt central policies to local circumstances. The rangers could easily circumvent central policy, because they operated mostly by themselves in the woods far away from Washington, D.C., headquarters. Kaufman presumed to find an organization dissolved into “an aggregate of separate entities,” the local discretion “destroying it as an integrated functioning organization” (Kaufman, 1960:87). Instead, Kaufman found a surprising degree of unity. The forest rangers approached their tasks in very similar ways, even when local circumstances seemed to allow for flexible interpretations of policy directives. The rangers followed rules and procedures. Whenever the Forest Service manual failed to provide an answer to a problem encountered in the field, rangers would devise a solution that could actually stand headquarters scrutiny. Kaufman was surprised that he found no indications of tension or protracted conflict between central headquarters and the rangers, a division so often found in other organizations. At the time of Kaufman’s research, its characteristics made the U.S. Forest Service resemble the ideal-typical institution.

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This resemblance was no coincidence but rather the intended result of leadership. The leaders of the Forest Service built an organization in which field-level bureaucrats acted as “principled agents” and used their discretion to further organizational goals rather than personal motives (DiIulio, 1994a). Other public bureaucracies have managed to do the same (at least for a substantial time period). In many ways, Kaufman’s Forest Service resembles the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the General Accounting Office, the U.S. Marine Corps, and the Los Angeles Police Department. From these and other organizational histories we learn that bureaucratic leaders can and do leave their mark on their organization (Lewis, 1980; Wilson, 1989; Doig and Hargrove, 1990). Leadership refers here to the long-term application of what Kaufman (1960) called “integrative techniques.” Leadership is then conceptualized as a set of executive tasks; it is not viewed in terms of psychological traits or personal styles. When organizational leaders carry out their executive tasks, the organization will eventually adopt a clear definition of purpose and a core technology that is logically linked to the organization’s goals. Empirical studies show that it is possible to define a common purpose, formulate a set of clear goals, develop effective technologies, create the willingness and capacity throughout the system to act in line with centrally prescribed courses of action, and design a fitting system of communication, coordination, and control. Some scholars are very optimistic about the power of leadership. Rational choice scholars, for instance, lean toward the idea that leaders shape their organizations in line with their preferences (see Moe, 1985). We also read about public entrepreneurs who single-handedly create and expand public organizations (Lewis, 1980; Doig and Hargrove, 1990; Riccucci, 1995). Others are more careful and frame their optimism in terms of constraints (Wolf, 1999). They accept the power of the many constraints on public policymaking and management but claim there is enough room left to shape the structures and policymaking processes within a public organization.

Building Institutions: Should It Be Done? A Pessimistic Perspective: Unintended Consequences The idea of institution building meets with two types of normative criticism. One critique holds that institutional design leads to organizational rigidity. In this perspective, the inherently conservative nature of

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institutions makes it impossible to adapt in a timely and effective manner to changes in the institution’s environment. A second critique articulates a fear that institutions produce undemocratic, even immoral, behavior and associates them with intellectual blueprints, indoctrinated bureaucrats, and disrespect for political masters. From this perspective, there is no merit in trying to build organizations that may become rigidly inclined to undesirable courses of action. These unintended consequences are likely to thwart whatever good intentions may have lain at the roots of an institution’s design. Rigidity is inherent to the idea of institutions. By definition, institutions are characterized by stability, which is the result of a good fit between institutionalized values and processes on the one hand, and societal and political conceptions of appropriateness on the other. This sense of stability, in turn, tends to strengthen institutional resolve in maintaining what are considered the keys to success. Pessimists point out that the built-in tendency to preserve critical success factors of the past will inevitably lead to organizational rigidity. It follows, then, that institutions will be unable to cope with ever changing environments. Multiformity, debate, constructive conflict, and fluid structures are required if an organization must deal with shifts in political, societal, and functional domains (Rainey, 1991; Oliver, 1992). But institutions, in this view, are solid structures that preserve the status quo and are extremely vulnerable to the inevitable emergence of new paradigms (Baumgartner and Jones, 1993). Modern conceptions about public management have no room for the idea of institution building. Central missions and tight procedures are concepts from the past. Efficiency is better served by the decentralization of budgets and decisionmaking authority to lower organizational levels. The delegation of authority acknowledges the expertise of implementers and offers them the flexibility to use it discriminately. Middle managers and line employees presumably perform better when they are allowed to make more decisions by themselves and when they are personally responsible for a specific task. Extending discretion downward also fits modern conceptions of the public organization as a democratic institution (Peters and Pierre, 2000). For this reason, public administration theorists who subscribe to this ideal often recommend a certain degree of deinstitutionalization, allowing lower-level civil servants a greater say in the way they perform their job (Denhardt, 1984). A more serious concern is the relationship between institutions and their environment. If it is true that institutions have an innate “autistic”

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tendency, which undermines their responsiveness, this type of organization should not be tolerated. Institutions are built around values that, pessimists fear, may become more important than the values of democratic society. Formal goals that do not agree with accepted ways of working are at risk of being reinterpreted, translated, or simply rejected (Brunsson and Olsen, 1993). We should note how such strongly institutionalized organizations as the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), the Internal Revenue Service (IRS), the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD), and the U.S. Marine Corps have been criticized for a lack of responsiveness to democratically elected forums (Burnham, 1989; Gentry, 1991; Domanick, 1994; Ricks, 1997). Institutions may even be vulnerable to “moral capture” (Perrow, 1986). This happens when institutional recalcitrance serves morally ambiguous values and practices. The institutional characteristics of the Mafia, the German SS, or the administration of a concentration camp demonstrate that from a moral point of view, institutions may be positive or negative. The question is: Who will protect us against effective and stubborn institutions that work toward self-described and frightful aims? Pessimists have little faith in the leaders of institutions as a countervailing force against these inherent pathologies, since institutional leaders often seem to personify the institution’s drift from responsive, democratic behavior. The public persona and management style of the leaders of institutions have been intimately connected to such recalcitrant organizations as the FBI and the LAPD. Consequently, bureaucratic leadership itself has become a tainted concept. Ironically, the very same individuals are routinely featured in the fashionable celebrations of so-called public entrepreneurs (Lewis, 1980; Doig and Hargrove, 1990). These public administrators are singled out for their capacity to lead and, where necessary, to reform their organization in the face of environmental hardship. In a more skeptical interpretation, however, the heroic image of entrepreneurial leaders serves to disguise the undesirable single-mindedness of the organizations they lead. Pessimists fear that we have to rely on a few individuals to constrain the deviant potential of these powerful “organizational weapons.” Many in the field of public administration and policy research lean toward a more pessimistic view on questions of institutional design.6 They doubt the capacity of bureaucratic leaders to determine or even control the functioning of an administrative system. The systematic uncovering of more and more factors that seem to work against efforts of meaningful design—administrative deficiencies, political and societal

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shifts, the iron cages of Neo-Institutionalists—provides additional confirmation for this position. The colorful stories about bureaucratic entrepreneurs reinforce existing fears about undemocratic tendencies. An Optimistic Perspective: Institutional Benefits Optimists view institutions as the providers of effective and morally just solutions to problems of order, safety, and well-being (see Dahrendorf, 1985). Institutions accomplish this remarkable feat by maintaining normative and regulative structures that affect individuals inside and outside the institution (Scott, 1995). The underlying assumption is that through institutional design, the problematic aspects of administrative discretion can be solved. The optimistic perspective does not deny that institutions gravitate toward preservation of the status quo. This does not mean, however, that institutions are inherently rigid and allergic to change. The putative rigidity of institutions, Peters and Pierre (1998) argue, stands in contrast to the “dynamic conservatism” that characterizes most public institutions (Schön, 1971). All organizations change over time, but institutions do so while preserving the organizational essence that has been so carefully developed and protected over long stretches of time (Terry, 1995). Institutions thus allow for responsible adaptation to changing needs (emerging within and without the organization). A responsible balance between preservation and responsiveness is to be preferred over knee-jerk reactions to environmental change. Stability is preserved through flexibility (Offe, 1996). Optimists reserve an important role for leadership in maintaining a responsible balance between an institution’s past and the contemporary demands placed upon and institution. Through effective leadership, deinstitutionalization processes can be stopped or prevented. It is, indeed, institutional degradation that optimists worry about, instead of the overinstitutionalization feared by pessimists. If institutional integrity can be maintained, the consequences of institutionalization are overwhelmingly positive. Institutions are better than noninstitutionalized organizations in achieving their goals. Members of an institution know what to do, because the prescribed way of doing things is reflected in the powerful rules, regulations, and routines of an institution. This tacit knowledge is the outcome of trial-and-error processes: only best practices make it into the institution’s mission. Institutional characteristics thus enhance the problem-solving capacity of an organization. These characteristics facilitate an effective policymaking process by saving members the energy

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and costs “that would otherwise have to go into the cognitive assessment and moral evaluation of what is going on” and relieving them of “much of the need to generate ad hoc judgments” (Offe, 1996:205). Institutional characteristics are especially beneficial when it comes to organizations that work with complex technology and dangerous materials (the inmate population of an average prison meets this definition). For these organizations, high reliability is more important than high efficiency. The required safety culture is dependent on the clear formulation of safety as an important goal, on the near-automatic compliance with safety standards and procedures, and on a high degree of redundancy (LaPorte, 1996). Institutions facilitate high-reliability cultures (Weick, Sutcliffe, and Obstfeld, 1999). Institutions can also help to safeguard individuals against the abuse of power by, for instance, prison bureaucrats. Upon first inspection, implementation discretion may seem a trivial issue. The consequences are not always marginal, however, and certainly not when viewed through an inmate’s eyes. It is very important to an inmate how much time he spends in his cell, what (or who) he finds in that cell, and what he must do to get out of that cell. In many prison systems, significant differences tend to arise from the personal preferences of wardens or guards. This lack of uniformity is likely to be perceived by inmates as unfair and may thus become a source of discontent and unrest.7 Discretion by itself does not cause or even nurture moral deviance; street-level bureaucrats need discretionary room in order to mediate between general policy regulations and specific circumstances and demands. Unchecked discretion, however, creates niches for personal idiosyncrasies and deviance. According to the more optimistic approach, institutions help protect the weak by regulating the behavior of its members (Pettit, 1996). In this case, the well-being of clients and the inherent virtues of public service should be institutionalized as a crucial value. Institutions create structures in which discretion is an essential attribute that facilitates effective and efficient policymaking but in which it cannot be used as a resource for an agent’s own purposes (Desveaux, 1995). Institutions protect us from “the untamed lust of others for things and power” (Dahrendorf, 1985:125).

Two Prison Systems In this book, I show that institutional design can be both feasible and meaningful. My argument builds on an empirical study of two prison

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systems: the Dutch prison system and the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP). Both prison systems were built with particular institutional designs in mind, and these designs had much in common.8 Both prison systems were to become modern and safe environments in which punishment would serve the goal of rehabilitation. But despite the similar intentions of the two systems, their institutional development led to dramatic differences. The BOP has stuck with the basic premises of the original design and has taken on the characteristics of an institution. The Dutch prison system has developed into a loose association of prison organizations, some of which have taken on institutional characteristics (but many have not). The differences in degree and level of institutionalization are described in Chapter 3. These differences cannot be related to particular characteristics of the correctional systems or their environments. Conditions were, in fact, more favorable to institution building in the Dutch prison system than in the U.S. federal system. The Dutch system is of a modest size (thirtynine institutions in 1996, housing a population of roughly 12,000 inmates), the geographical area is very small (about half the size of Florida), the funding is quite generous, and the inmate population does not present extraordinary challenges. The political culture is characterized by consensual politics; Dutch administration has a long tradition of gradual, negotiated change. Furthermore, the Dutch have supposedly been more receptive toward adopting a balanced penal approach. Institution building appears to be a greater challenge in the U.S. political constellation (Peters and Savoie, 1996). For instance, Breyer (1993) claims that Americans’ confidence in virtually every institution has plummeted since 1970. Doig and Hargrove (1990:8) argue that “the fragmented structure of our tripartite and federal system is an important hurdle to sustained and coherent leadership” (see Baumgartner and Jones, 1993). Selznick (1957:viii) ventured that “it may well be that American culture—more unruly, more individualist, more careless of tradition—is not a rich resource for . . . ‘cooperative systems’.” The U.S. political culture is characterized by adversary politics; each new president brings in his own team of top civil servants, thereby providing periodic occasions for policy upheaval and imposed reform. The characteristics of the U.S. federal prison system compound the challenge. The ninety-two large-scale BOP facilities (September 1998) are spread out over a huge geographical area characterized by vast regional differences. In such a large system, in terms of both numbers and geographic spread, it is much harder to control discretion, collect accurate

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information, and prevent the development of an appreciative gap. The federal system houses a difficult inmate population (often two to three in a cell), and the average federal inmate has a long sentence to serve. The U.S. preoccupation with crime and punishment—especially with the retribution side of punishment—is not conducive to a balanced correctional approach. The institutional differences between the two systems are much better understood when we consider the role of institutional leadership. The BOP leadership has overcome the severe limits of administration imposed on their system and has built it into an institution. As we will see, the BOP is a textbook case of institutional design. Leadership also explains why the Dutch prison system gradually dissolved into an assemblage of separate institutions. The inherent limits of administration were not overcome by the Dutch prison leadership. The empirical findings make for an intriguing discussion on the effects of institutional design. The Dutch prison system is widely understood to be among the best in the world. Even if the U.S. federal prison system is better than any other U.S. state prison system—which is probably not true—I suspect that few professors of public administration would elect to serve their hypothetical sentence in a federal cell rather than in a Dutch cell. Does this mean that the level of institutionalization bears no relation to institutional performance? Would the U.S. federal prison system benefit from a dose of deinstitutionalization? I take on these and related questions in the final chapter.

A Note on Institutional Research In this study, I use an institutional approach to explore the possibilities and consequences of institutional design. More specifically, as the starting point, I take the “classic” institutional approach inspired by Philip Selznick. Selznick (1957) was one of the first scholars to formulate a theory of institution building. His was an optimistic voice in a world that was still reeling from the impact of Nazi leadership. With leadership low on the research agenda, Selznick’s “how to become a leader book” (as Seeman [1958] misleadingly labeled it in a review) did not inspire much empirical research. The relative obscurity of this institutional approach was furthered by two other factors (Wolin, 1960; Perrow, 1986). First, the abstract nature of Selznick’s institutional theory did not lend itself to easy application. Second, its tendency toward

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tautological reasoning may undermine the credibility of the research findings. Both criticisms are essentially correct but can be coped with. What remains is a powerful theory of institution building. The institutional development of a prison system depends on many factors; this research purports to establish if leadership is one of those factors. The emphasis lies on the causal power of a particular factor (leadership) rather than on the explanation of a particular outcome. Documenting a mere correlation between leadership and the presence of institutional characteristics is, of course, not enough. A causal relation must be established. Thus, when we observe a system that ranks as highly or lowly institutionalized, leadership activities will have to be linked to the outcome in a convincing manner. This presents the researcher with an interpretation problem. The researcher has to interpret outcomes and assess how certain factors have contributed to that outcome. This must be done in a way that is comprehensible and makes sense to the reader. Precise reasoning does not prove the existence of a certain relation; it makes the case for a certain relation and then puts it up for subsequent scrutiny and discussion. A process analysis is further required to offset an inherent weakness of institutional leadership approaches. Institutional analyses are notoriously vulnerable to tautological reasoning—creating a necessary truth. When both the outcome and the explaining variable (leadership) are defined in the same terms, a relation between leadership and institution will always be found. In the case studies, therefore, a strict distinction is made between the description of institutional features and the analysis of the institutional processes preceding the described time period. The institutional perspective implies both a holistic and a long-term approach. It is holistic because it trains our attention on the system as a whole and considers how the separate parts contribute to the whole. Thus, rather than studying one particular level of the prison system— central headquarters, prison managers, line officers—an institutional analysis focuses on the relation between the various levels. An institutional analysis also means a long-term perspective. It is assumed, then, that administrative relations, structures, visions, and outcomes are a product of long-term developments. If we wish to learn about the potential effects of administrative leadership, an institutional perspective presupposes study over a considerable time period. This study is comparative in the sense that institutional leadership is examined by contrasting two prison systems. The comparative nature is hampered, however, by the fact that the two prison systems are not

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fully comparable (the research does not control for all possible external variables). The two cases should therefore be considered in their own contexts. The congruence method, a method of within-case research, will be used as an alternative to the comparative method (George, 1979; George and McKeown, 1985). The value of the dependent variable (institutional degree) is postulated in Chapter 3. Each case analysis then “measures” the independent variable (leadership). Through process tracing we can check whether the connection between these variables is substantive or spurious. The choice for the case study method also entails fairly strict limits to generalization. Based on the in-depth exploration of prison leadership in two cases, we can conclude at most that leadership affects the institutional character of these particular systems. That in itself would certainly meet the goal of this research. But by contrasting the two systems, we also learn something about leadership itself. In the case of the U.S. federal prison system, we will see how powerful and effective leadership can be. In the Dutch prison system, leadership is a less dominant factor and thus allows fragmentary tendencies to affect the institutional design of the system. Keeping within these limits, we will consider if there are leadership lessons to be drawn that may be applicable in other institutional and cultural contexts. I have used the same research methods for both cases, although the emphasis has been somewhat different. For the Dutch case, I have made use of various instruments: interviews with (former) directors, policymakers, senior prison administrators, and knowledgeable observers of the prison system; prison visits; media accounts; internal reports and memos; and academic research.9 I have tried to do much the same for the U.S. case, even though constraints of time and distance made it impossible to do as much empirical work as I did in the Dutch system. In the fall of 1996, I visited the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons and several of its institutions, spent time at central headquarters in Washington, D.C., and interviewed several independent experts. Furthermore, I have relied heavily on the research published by U.S. BOP experts. Both prison systems were easily accessible for research purposes, which allowed me to get close to my object of study. Most wardens and policymakers were more than willing to donate hours of their time; they provided me with opinions, shared secrets, and recaptured history. The interview method undoubtedly provides a researcher with an incomplete, inaccurate, and sometimes biased view. I have tried to remedy these limitations by double-checking with respondents, checking against official

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documents, and subjecting certain observations to critical reflection and discussion with other respondents. I was assisted many times by other respondents who, in their eagerness to correct misinterpretations, provided me with official minutes of meetings, correspondence, and “ultrasecret” memoranda. Through this method of verification, inaccurate and biased information was separated from useful pieces of information. * * * In the following chapters, I show how institutional leadership can affect the “administrative DNA” of a prison system. In Chapter 2, Selznick’s theory of institutional leadership serves as point of departure for the formulation of an institutional leadership theory. Chapter 3 introduces both prison systems under study. Chapters 4 and 5 tell the stories of institutional leadership in the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons and in the Dutch prison system. I conclude the empirical component of the study in Chapter 6 with a discussion on the conditions that may facilitate or hamper leadership. In the final chapter, I reflect upon the normative implications of these findings.

Notes 1. Observation made by Brian Jacobs, Staffordshire University (personal communication). 2. A convergence of minds seems to be taking place, which may eventually reduce the varying meanings and usages associated with the concept of institution. For recent theoretical efforts aimed at the integration of the many institutional approaches, see Scott (1995), Goodin (1996b), Peters and Pierre (1998), and Soltan, Uslaner, and Haufler (1998). 3. In the context of this book, the concept of institution does not include entities that in other contexts may be referred to as institutions (think of marriage, the trias politica, law, or the market). 4. Thus, when two or more individuals cooperate in a coordinated fashion to accomplish a predetermined goal, we may speak of an organization (Barnard, 1938). 5. Wilson (1989:91) closely follows Selznick’s work, but he substitutes the term culture for character: “Culture is to an organization what personality is to an individual.” 6. In contrast, scholars of business widely accept that leadership plays an important role in preserving and reforming organizational structures and processes (Schein, 1985; Tushman, Newman, and Romanelli, 1986).

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7. It is precisely this tension between discretion and the requirements of uniformity that undermines the stability of treatment-oriented prisons (Cressey, 1959). 8. In fact, the chief architect of the postwar prison system in the Netherlands, Lamers, was inspired by the ideas of his American colleagues in the Federal Bureau of Prisons. 9. Most formal interviews were conducted during the period 1993–1997, a few more in 1999. I make a distinction between formal “sit-down” interviews (lasting at least one hour) and informal “walking-and-talking” chats with prison officials and policymakers. Formal interviews were held with fifty respondents. I interviewed several of my respondents more than once. Many informal interviews were held during site visits. Unless otherwise noted, all translations of interviews and published materials are my own.

2 A Theory of Institution Building

The Challenge of Institution Building In The Forest Ranger, Herbert Kaufman (1960) provides us with an excellent example of institution building. The U.S. Forest Service was charged with the protection, proper use, and development of national forests. The forest rangers (792 at the time) had to prevent and control forest fires, return abused land to its natural splendor, facilitate recreation, protect wildlife, plant and harvest timber, and act as landlords to the small farmers living on national forest land. Operating far from headquarters, the rangers “could conceivably go off in many directions, running their districts in widely varied and totally unrelated fashions” (Kaufman, 1960:64). But they didn’t. The rangers operated on a shared philosophy of forest management, which resulted in a uniform way of working and internal stability. They did use their discretion to adapt the philosophy to the situation when necessary, but they always acted in the spirit of the official Forest Service policy of resource management. Kaufman found the observed degree of administrative unity remarkable, given the centrifugal forces under which large public bureaucracies typically operate. These forces of fragmentation have been well documented by students of public administration and policy. The combination of administrative deficiencies and environmental change imposes strict limits on the capacity to govern public bureaucracies and networks (Hood, 1976). All the normal problems beset the policymakers and administrators in the Forest Service. Yet, the Forest Service had overcome these fragmentary forces. This was no coincidence, as Kaufman discovered, but rather the result of 21

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long-standing strategic efforts to create a high degree of administrative unity. The leaders of the Forest Service had designed and put into place an intricate set of administrative principles and practices that held this large organization together. As a result of these efforts, the Forest Service had become an effective organization—valued both by its members and by external stakeholders. Kaufman ventured that other large-scale bureaucracies could learn from the ranger experience and accomplish a similar degree of unity. Kaufman’s proposition that fragmentary forces can be dealt with finds support in Philip Selznick’s work on institution building. In his study Leadership and Administration, Selznick (1957) submits a theory that explains why some organizations take on the characteristics of an institution whereas other organizations function as loosely coupled associations.1 His theory explains how public managers may overcome the web of administrative and environmental constraints and build an institution through the conscious and continuing fulfillment of key organizational tasks.2 In other words, institutions can be designed. In this line of institutional thinking—now commonly referred to in terms of the Institutional School (Perrow, 1986)—leadership plays a crucial role. In this chapter, we explore this theory of institutional leadership and design.

Institutionalization and Leadership Selznick (1957:17) based his institutional theory on his earlier empirical work on a few large-scale organizations that had, over time, been “infused with value beyond the technical requirements of the task at hand.”3 He referred to these organizations as institutions. Selznick’s institution is, of course, a theoretical ideal-type. In reality, all public organizations are institutionalized to a certain degree. Where institutionalization is well advanced, “distinctive outlooks, habits, and other commitments are unified, coloring all aspects of organizational life and lending it a social integration that goes well beyond formal co-ordination and command” (Selznick, 1957:40; emphasis in original). Correspondingly, a low degree of institutionalization indicates that an organization harbors a significant level of uncertainty and ambiguity about the nature of desirable policies and mixes of policy instruments. What the organization does and why is the subject of continued discussion, ad hoc decisionmaking, and fragmented sensemaking

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processes. For the sake of argument, we will adopt this distinction between “organizations” and “institutions.” Institutions do not spring into existence overnight: they are the outcome of institutionalization (Merton, 1957; Scott, 1995). Institutionalization refers to the process by which certain values and practices become embedded in the structure of an organization. It is essentially a process of transformation from a set of formal ties between individuals (the rational organization) to a “unity of persons” that is the institution (Selznick, 1992:235).4 The reverse track is also possible: institutions may deinstitutionalize (Oliver, 1992). Institutionalization begins with the establishment of an organization, which is nothing more than the formalization of a rational structure. When two men join forces to move a stone, they have organized themselves (Barnard, 1938). This is, however, not formal organization as we know it. As soon as the stone is moved, their cooperative effort can be abandoned; their organization is then terminated. When cooperative efforts have a more continuous character—the two men might decide to move stones for other people—the organization takes on a more formal character. Organizational goals are defined and rules are set, work is divided, the line of command is made explicit, and communication channels are created. The formalized organization, then, is a blueprint of social interaction designed to accomplish a predetermined goal. Institutionalization is the process by which these formal blueprints become “infused with value.” In the shadow of the formal-rational design of an organization, informal structures develop as a result of reiterative, patterned human interaction (Weick, 1995). These informal structures help to establish dominant perceptions—nurtured by everyday work experience—with regard to the purpose of the organization and the means by which organizational goals are achieved (Berger and Luckmann, 1966; March and Olsen, 1984; Wilson, 1989). Normative pressures become embedded that will constrain administrative choices and bind the members of the organization to a common sense of purpose (March and Olsen, 1984; Scott, 1987, 1995; Zucker, 1987; DiMaggio and Powell, 1991). Some of these normative pressures originate in the social and political environment of an organization (think of such external sources as the state or the market). Organizations must adapt to these normative constellations, which, to a certain degree, determine how a public organization is structured, understood, and evaluated. These environmental

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pressures help to explain the origins of a certain type of basic activity that characterizes an entire public sector (schools teach; hospitals heal; prisons incarcerate). The work of so-called Neo-Institutionalists shows that institutionalization processes can be significantly affected by forces operating outside the organizational domain.5 Selznick does not deny the importance of environmental constraints, but he argues that institutionalization processes can be shaped or managed by the conscious efforts of public administrators. He reserves the term leadership for the deliberate efforts aimed at building and maintaining an institution in the face of these constraints. Leadership is defined as “a specialized form of activity, a kind of work or function” (Selznick, 1957:22). The work of leaders consists of making critical decisions that fall within the “area of character-defining commitments” (Selznick, 1957:35). Selznick identifies a set of executive tasks that, if correctly and consistently fulfilled by the organization’s leaders, will (eventually) help to fashion the organization into an institution. These executive functions—to be discussed in the following sections—are crucial to the promotion of an “appropriate adjustment of ends and means to new environmental conditions” (Barnard, 1948:20; Pettigrew, 1979; Tucker, 1981). In other words, leadership ultimately amounts to the establishment and maintenance of a tight fit between the nature and level of institutionalization on the one hand, and, on the other, the functional requirements, political demands, and societal expectations that make up the institutional environment. To avoid confusion and temper expectations, it is important to note here what Selznick’s theory is not. First, it is not a theory of leaders: leadership is not conceptualized as the property or product of some charismatic or visionary individual. This does not deny or preclude that personal traits and management styles can be important.6 The ability to motivate subordinates is, no doubt, an important aspect of leadership behavior. Selznick’s theory, however, focuses our attention on the structural incentives that shape the relationship between the institution and its members (Perrow, 1970).7 Second, Selznick’s theory primarily addresses the potential effects of leadership and has less to say about the actual conditions under which leadership may be effective. Leadership is here the independent variable, whereas it usually is the dependent variable. When Selznick wanders off to consider leadership in the latter form, he is suddenly less optimistic about the chances of success than a first reading of his work

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might suggest. He fully realized that environmental characteristics are influential, particularly during the initial stages of institutionalization (“institutional birth”) and during periods of internal crisis (Kimberly, 1980; Vizzard, 1997). In his preface to the 1984 edition, Selznick gravely remarked that U.S. culture in general may not be a rich resource for leadership and institutions. Selznick’s deliberate use of the term leadership must therefore be understood as an indication of the difficult nature of institutional leadership. Selznick’s theory is, in a way, an incomplete theory of institution building: it tells leaders what must be done to manage institutionalization, but it fails to specify under what conditions they are likely to be effective. The empirical chapters of this book will help to identify critical factors of leadership effectiveness. In the remainder of this chapter, however, I discuss how leadership can mediate between an organization and its environment. Despite its limitations, I use Selznick’s theory as a point of departure because it offers a framework for studying deliberate efforts to build an institution.

Building Institutions: Infusing the Organization with Value Mission: Facilitating Sensemaking Institutional architecture begins with a definition of institutional mission and role (Cohen and March, 1974; Meier, 1989).8 Such a definition helps both members and outsiders to understand what the organization is all about: “The formation of an institution is marked by the making of value commitments, that is, choices which fix the assumptions of policymakers as to the nature of the enterprise—its distinctive aims, methods, and role in the community” (Selznick, 1957:55). A clearly defined mission conveys an identity that is unique and favorable in the view of those who control resource allocations and those who have to work with the mission. The mission must answer two essential questions: “What shall we do? What shall we be?” (Selznick, 1957:65 [emphasis in original]; Weick, 1995). The first question requires that vague and conflicting policy goals be translated into workable tasks that are likely to produce effective action.9 But Selznick is quite clear that “organizational character”—What shall we be?—should also receive close attention. The core values of the

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organization must be clarified and all practical goals and activities must be aligned with these ultimate values. This first executive task can thus be reconceptualized as a process of purposing: initiating actions that induce “clarity, consensus, and commitment regarding the organization’s basic purposes” (Vaill, 1984:91). An effective mission saves an organization “the energy and costs that would otherwise have to go into the cognitive assessment and moral evaluation of what is going on” (Offe, 1996:205; Lord and Foti, 1986).10 Criteria for an effective mission. A successful mission satisfies four basic criteria. First, it defines the distinctive competence of an organization. It communicates to members and nonmembers what skills or capacities set the organization apart from other organizations. To become an institution, a public organization should be recognized for doing certain things extremely well (or at least better than other organizations). Institutional design therefore requires a thoughtful consideration of the organization’s strengths and weaknesses. Defining one’s competence may sometimes necessitate conceptual gymnastics and innocent exaggerations to hammer home the message (Sapolsky, 1972), but the claim of distinctiveness can be effective only when it is based on available competence. Second, the mission should come with a technical philosophy that formulates operational goals and clearly explains how these goals are to be achieved. Such a philosophy identifies one or more “critical tasks” that are essential for the achievement of the institution’s self-defined operational goals (Wilson, 1978:9; Lynn, 1987:245). Critical tasks are tailored to solve the “critical problem” of the institution, the problem that is most frequently and persistently encountered by administrators in their daily work environment. The philosophy prescribes a dominant way of working or, to use the language of organization theorists, a “core technology” by which “raw material” is transformed into organizational output (Thompson, 1967). This technology usually reflects long-term experience—accumulated in the institution’s history—with the execution of critical tasks. The mission becomes the institutional software providing decision support for those with discretionary freedom (Dryzek, 1996). Third, a mission should be simple and evocative (Sapolsky, 1972; Walker, 1986). It should be easy to comprehend, and it should have an inherent appeal to both organizational members and environmental stakeholders. Such a philosophy must be usable at all levels of organization. Line administrators and senior policymakers must be able to use

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the same technical philosophy as a frame of reference for solving what often are unique dilemmas. Feasibility is a fourth condition for the successful formulation of an institutional mission. A self-created or self-discovered identity must be acceptable to both internal and external stakeholders (we will return to this point shortly) and must reflect existing capacities. It must strike a balance between external demands and organizational needs. The purposing process is constrained (but not determined) by formal policy goals: prisons cannot define “education” as their core mission, just as schools cannot adopt “incarceration” as their prime purpose. When formal goals contradict each other, an institutional mission should reconcile policy goals rather than sacrificing one or more for the sake of others (DiIulio, 1990a; Wolf, 1999). Neither can institutions afford a flight into abstractions. A mission that sets overly ambitious goals but fails to explain how these should be accomplished cannot serve the purpose of institution building. An institutional mission should serve as a point of inspiration to all, but it cannot consist of hope and dreams alone.11 An example of an effective mission is found in Sapolsky’s (1972) evaluation of the U.S. Navy’s Special Projects Office (SPO). The SPO was responsible for developing the Polaris, a new ballistic missile to be fired from a submerged submarine. The SPO presented itself as uniquely qualified to build the missile. The created identity fostered an image of technological wizards undertaking the impossible: protecting the United States from Russian space-launched missiles (the United States had not recovered yet from Sputnik-induced hysteria). This image was somewhat inflated (the technology had yet to be developed by outside contractors). In order to achieve the highly ambitious goals, a technical philosophy was developed to guide this large-scale technological project. The philosophy dictated that the SPO would control all performance goals (instead of the Navy or outside contractors). All research had to be pragmatic (no technology for technology’s sake) and exclusively focused on rocket development. No Navy labs were to be involved (private companies were preferred). Quality had absolute priority. The research was carried out by contracting research institutes that had to compete for SPO funding. According to Sapolsky, the formulation of a clear mission proved to be a critical factor in explaining SPO’s success. The first Polaris was successfully launched well ahead of schedule. Top-down or bottom-up? In Selznick’s theory, the definition of institutional purpose is an executive responsibility. This implies a top-down

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process. It suggests that the ideas and preferences of the leader(s) shape the institution’s definition of its mission and role. It certainly happens that way. The purposing process in, for instance, the SPO was indeed closely managed by senior administrators. Leaders such as J. Edgar Hoover (FBI), Elmore Staats (GAO), and Robert Moses (New York Parks Commission) are other well-known examples of bureaucratic leaders who almost single-handedly created an identity for “their” organizations (Lewis, 1980; Walker, 1986). It is this form of autocratic leadership that nurtures the widely held fear that all institutions are headed by single-minded leaders who place their vision above values of democratic governance or participatory management. But the definition of mission and role may very well be the product of bottom-up processes. The definition of institutional mission and role is probably more often discovered or identified as the learned product of group experience (Levitt and March, 1990; Weick, 1995) than it is invented by a charismatic, all-powerful leader. In a bottom-up process of sensemaking, the learned responses to a group’s problems come to be taken for granted because their effectiveness and reliability in terms of survival and integration have been demonstrated repeatedly (Schein, 1985). Even though leaders play a crucial role in these processes, the existing capacities, experiences, and preferences serve as crucial and dominant input to the final equation. Institutional leadership, then, is facilitating, as the learned products are elevated to the central definition of mission and role. Selznick (1957:62) spoke of “a self-assessment to discover the true commitments of the organization.” Bottom-up processes typically result in “agreed-upon rules” that are voluntarily adhered to by most members (Gouldner, 1954). Even when institutional mission and role have been established in a bottom-up manner, it is an executive responsibility to ensure dissemination of that mission. Dissemination activities are deliberate efforts to generate support for the technical philosophy and the accompanying implementation model(s). For the promotion of the prevailing mission, several instruments are available to agency leaders, such as site visits and the use of an internal public relations apparatus. These efforts are best coordinated from the top down, even if it creates the false image of mission imposition. Building a Zealous Force The process of developing a mission does not automatically result in becoming an institution, certainly not when employees refuse to act in

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accordance with its central message. A second and complementary task of institutional leadership, therefore, is the “embodiment of purpose.” To become “the master of his organization,” as Selznick (1957:100) phrased it, “the leader must know how to deal with the social structure in all its dimensions.” This is the social engineering dimension of institutional design: institutional role and mission must be built into the social and formal structure of the organization. This integrated focus on both the formal and informal dimensions of organization harks back to Chester Barnard’s (1938) classic work on organizations, The Functions of the Executive.12 He recognized that the efforts of individual members had to be secured through a mix of inducements and incentives. Cooperation, then, depended on the formal-rational organization through which resources were acquired, distributed, and channeled to the organization’s members.13 Yet, Barnard recognized that cooperation could not be achieved by formal organization alone. Predicting the rise of the human relations perspective, Barnard pointed out that individuals need more than pecuniary incentives to cooperate. The informal organization, Barnard declared, should be a crucial object of managerial attention; to ensure the cooperation of members, administrators had to manipulate individual and small group decisionmaking processes. There are thus two sides to this second executive task. Designing structure. First, there is the techno-rational part of organizational design and reengineering. The translation of an institutional mission into organizational blueprints may still benefit from the oldfashioned, yet remarkably current, POSDCORB handbook (Gulick, 1987).14 Familiar “embedding instruments” include the formal division of labor and authority, the programming of administrative action, and the development of deviation-detecting mechanisms (Kaufman, 1960; Schein, 1985; Pettit, 1996). The clever use of formal mission statements and the design of space, facades, and buildings symbolically connect missionary words with “hard” structures (Schein, 1985; Goodsell, 1988; Rothman, 1990). These techno-rational instruments were used by the U.S. Forest Service to create and maintain its institutional character (Kaufman, 1960). First, a rather elaborate system of behavioral programming and control was set up for the rangers. With a precision reminiscent of scientific management efforts, the rangers had most of their workday planned for them in minute detail. Preprogramming was reinforced by central efforts to detect deviation. Rangers were required to keep diaries

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that showed “to the nearest half-hour how each workday is spent” (Kaufman, 1960:130). In addition, the rangers could expect regular onthe-spot inspections of their district. The Forest Service was “a system that has been ‘programmed’ and equipped with a built-in ‘feedback loop’” (Kaufman, 1960:159). It was no coincidence that the rangers under study displayed similarity in actions and thoughts. Institutional leaders may be inclined to adopt Weberian bureaucracy as the optimal organizational structure (Selznick, 1992). At first glance, institutional mission and bureaucratic structure appear to be a perfect match: a clear definition of institutional mission and role takes away much of the ambiguity that many bureaucratic leaders have to deal with. The formal hierarchy, in turn, helps to establish and maintain the mission.15 But an institution needs more than a mission, a formal hierarchy, and a variety of incentives. Top-down imposition of mission and formal blueprints invites shirking, sabotage, and alienation (Crozier, 1964; Dunsire, 1978). The institutional mission can work only if employees voluntarily embrace the goals and methods; bureaucratic structure can facilitate this process of internalization, but it is an executive responsibility to initiate and maintain inculcation efforts. Inculcation. The second and informal dimension of organizational design is therefore aimed at developing “the will and capacity to conform” (Kaufman, 1960:160). What sets institutions apart from organizations is that institutional members conform to rules and procedures. Their “zone of acceptance” is rather wide (Simon, 1945).16 In order to rally these internal sources of power—which are “not wholly controllable by official authority” (Selznick, 1957:93)—behind the mission and structure of the organization, institutional values should match the belief systems of members. This means that either desired values should be instilled into organizational members, undesirable views should be neutralized, or a place within the social structure must be provided for this type of pluralism. Institutional leaders can use several different techniques to “master” the social structure of the organization: selection, training, promotion and transfer, social control, and cohesive efforts. Voluntary conformity is most easily obtained by selecting new members who wish to join the institution precisely because the defined purpose and the way of working appeal to them. Inculcation, as Kaufman (1960:161) tells us, starts with the selection of “men who fit.” With a typical background of forestry, the ranger recruits shared a common set of technical tools and techniques and a common lore and body of

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knowledge; therefore, the Forest Service could “take for granted many things about how they would handle property under their jurisdiction” (Kaufman, 1960:166). The U.S. Forest Service maintained close ties with forestry colleges to make sure that curricula would fit their needs. Institutions that can draw their recruits from professional training programs—doctors and lawyers come to mind—have less difficulty getting their mission accepted (that is, if the mission does not violate professional codes of conduct). An institution does not have to leave it up to chance whether members conform or not. Institutions typically use postentry training to “indoctrinate” new members with the core values, founding ideologies, myths, and rules of the organization (Barnard, 1938). When members share a similar professional background, training sessions serve as gentle reminders of key values and crucial procedures. When they share less powerful background values (e.g., a college degree), more serious efforts are needed to generate a shared identity. Foreign service departments tend to run their university recruits through crash course classes. Transnational corporations and large consultancy firms do the same. If recruits have very little in common, training programs become the pivotal aspect of the inculcation effort. The U.S. Marine Corps shows how important training can be for the institutional character of the organization. They draw a substantial number of their recruits from a bottomless pool of college dropouts, ghetto dwellers, high school misfits, and deadend jobholders who seek a way out (Ricks, 1997). Boot camp on Parris Island is more than rifle training—it amounts to a “value system transformation” (Ricks, 1997:43). Recruits are mentally stripped, instilled with Marine values, and taught the Marine Corps way of walking, talking, and thinking. They have to “earn the right to call themselves Marines.” After graduation, most new Marines feel proud to enter this semiexclusive fraternity. The temporary effect of selection and training instruments necessitates mechanisms that help to preserve the institutional inclination of members. Periodic retraining is essential. Promotion and dismissal can also be effective, if rather crude, instruments. Promote conformers, fire the deviants—it is a familiar mechanism, but exclusive use of it leaves little room for flexibility in organizations that have few senior positions and that work with solid contractual agreements. A complementary and potentially useful instrument is the transfer system. Not only does a transfer system provide leaders with a more subtle means of sanctioning behavior, but the “bureaucratic merry-go-round” also provides the social

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glue that ties members to the institution (de Zwart, 1994). Their progress and satisfaction is directly related to their relation with the system as a whole. As Kaufman (1960:177) observes about the social impact of the transfer system on the ranger and his family, “Only one thing gives any continuity, any structure to his otherwise fluid world: the Service.” Institutional leaders also need to possess devices for detecting and discouraging deviation. In his study of a missionary institution, Miller (1994:102) describes the effectiveness of social control mechanisms such as self-criticism, formalized peer control, and informal peer surveillance. These help institutional members control themselves and each other. When individual members nevertheless violate the institutional core, some central control system should register this. A simple instrument such as periodic inspections helps to relate administrative processes to central values and prescribed technologies. Control mechanisms work best when they serve a two-way function: correction and communication. Effective control systems not only detect deviation but also open additional and structural channels of communication through which the mission is confirmed, adapted, explained, and criticized where necessary. To achieve voluntary conformity, some institutional leaders take on the role of educator (March and Olsen, 1984:739). Leaders identify and define core values by paying attention to, measuring, and controlling certain organizational aspects and outcomes while ignoring others; by reacting to critical incidents and organizational crises; and by initiating teaching and coaching efforts (Schein, 1985). Institutional values can be further promoted by public relations efforts, the use of symbols, and the creation of organizational myths and legends that convey a message about the historical origins of these values and their effectiveness through the years (Kaufman, 1960; Clark, 1972; Hargrove, 1994; Ricks, 1997). In his group-building attempts for the Polaris project, Admiral Raborn convinced his men and, very importantly, their wives that the development of the Polaris rocket was absolutely essential to America’s defense against nuclear war. The Polaris rocket was built by true believers (Sapolsky, 1972). Potential dilemmas. All in all, institutional leadership has many relatively cheap and potentially effective instruments to promote institutional values among its members—or correct those in doubt. The power of these instruments creates an interesting dilemma for institutional leaders who seek to improve relations between higher and lower levels

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of administration. For instance, by attempting to manipulate the will of field administrators through inculcation, institutional leaders may negatively affect the capacity of these same administrators. A brainwashed high school student makes a loyal Marine, but will he be able to make fast decisions on the battlefield? Bringing field organizations in line with the central mission requires strong field leaders (who must deal with “their” organization), but strong field leaders may help produce recalcitrant field institutions. The unintended consequences of control may also offset the potential benefits of inculcation. This can happen when institutional leaders rely primarily on the corrective dimensions of control mechanisms and forget about the communicative function of control. For instance, the longtime warden of the Stateville prison in Illinois, Joe Ragan, made use of an extensive set of rules and a refined system of oversight to keep his personnel in line (Jacobs, 1977). Stateville was run the way Ragan wanted it. For a long time, Stateville was considered nationwide a model prison. The heavy emphasis on control came at a high price, however. The sweeping developments of the 1960s and 1970s (emancipation of minorities, court interference, and the rise of Chicago gangs) demanded new styles of correctional management. Ragan’s men could not wrestle themselves loose from the traditional ways in which the penitentiary had been run (Kantrowitz, 1996). Stateville became a violent and filthy prison. This tension between short-term and long-term effects can only be solved by continuously relating inculcation efforts to the well-being of the institution. The question is not whether there are training programs or whether new members are socialized into the organization; the question is whether a continuing effort has been made to use such programs, rituals, and mechanisms in a deliberate and systematic fashion to imbue members with a sense of direction and belonging. Recruiting, training, promotion, and transfers must, therefore, be part of the executive domain of crucial decisions (Selznick, 1957). One important indicator is whether personnel issues are centralized. When, for instance, postentry training is conducted at the central level, such initial training programs help to tie the individual to the administrative system as a whole (rather than to a subsystem). We may also explore whether inspection programs extend to these administrative programs. A second indicator is the substance of training policy and practice. Training programs that merely consist of a technical curriculum do little to enhance an understanding and appreciation of the institutional mission. Only when training programs

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pay attention to mission-related issues, by explaining organizational history and core values, can an integrating effect be hoped for.

Maintaining Institutions: The Importance of Institutional Integrity By definition, institutions are characterized by a stable balance between organizational performance and external demands. The administrative fabric that connects societal goals with the will and capacity of institutional members to achieve these goals makes institutions valued entities in the political-administrative landscape. The third executive task, then, seems quite simple: Once the institution’s mission and role have been defined and built into the social structure, it is a leadership responsibility to preserve this balance between an institution and its environment. The protection of institutional integrity is, in reality, “at once one of the most important and least understood functions of leadership” (Selznick, 1957:63; Terry, 1995). Every institution faces a similar dilemma, which, if it remains unresolved, carries the seeds of crisis. This dilemma springs from the inherent tension between preservation and responsiveness (Nonet and Selznick, 1978). Protecting the integrity of an institution requires maintenance of agreed-upon values, preservation of traditional ways of working, and adherence to institutional rules. In contrast, responsiveness requires that the institution absorb new developments from its environment and be able to adapt, if not radically alter, its structure and policy ideas. This dilemma becomes acutely manifest when the institution’s environment experiences structural change. When societal and political acceptance declines for the institution’s self-defined purpose and the way the institution pursues its mission, the institution’s legitimacy is threatened. This process of deinstitutionalization can take three forms (Oliver, 1992; Suchman, 1995). First, the institution’s immediate constituencies and stakeholders may withhold their support as self-interested calculations shift their attention (and support) to competing institutions. Second, organizational outputs, techniques, procedures, or structures may become judged as violations of what is generally perceived to be the right thing to do. Third, the institution may suffer a loss of legitimacy when the reason for its existence, its taken-for-granted status, becomes threatened (as a result of, for instance, economic crises or political upheaval). The consequences of

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legitimacy loss can be significant, leading to such institutional nightmares as an imposed reformulation of tasks, mergers, or even termination. Irresponsible Tendencies The integrity of an institution is best served by retaining a balance between the requirements of integrity and responsiveness, a state of affairs Schön (1971) refers to as “dynamic conservatism.” When the pull of either preservation or responsiveness becomes unusually strong, two things can happen. An overriding concern with preservation leads to institutional rigidity, an excessive preoccupation with conserving the “way things have always been”—conservatism without dynamism. Past successes may, for example, have convinced the leaders of the institution that there is only one road to success—and they are on it. This may cause them to ignore or downplay the significance of environmental changes, thus breeding a degree of arrogance that undermines public and political trust in the institution. Institutional rigidity may safeguard institutional processes and outputs in the short run, but it undermines the continued viability of institutional processes in the face of changing environmental constraints or societal expectations. This conservative tendency certainly exists within institutions. The process by which institutional members accept commitments and reject alternative courses of action is not easily reversed. Because the distinctive competence of an institution is valued, in fact has become a source of legitimacy, institutions will actively resist change that threatens its distinctive competence. Selznick (1957:40) refers to “ways of acting and responding that can be changed, if at all, only at the risk of severe internal crisis.” Institutional leaders may find it hard to sacrifice proven structures for the certain uncertainty that comes with adaptation of institutional principles and practices. The mission captures the richness of relevant knowledge and canalizes the available tacit knowledge within the institution. Members believe in, and rely on, the “way things work around here.” Institutions can thus be expected to be reluctant to embrace new policy initiatives that are perceived by its leaders and members as a threat to the mission (Selznick, 1949; Merton, 1957; Gruber, 1987; Wilson, 1989; Hunt and Magenau, 1993; Terry, 1995). The underlying structures of routines, incentives and beliefs within an institution have the potential to be powerful enough to defeat centrally imposed reform initiatives (Coulam, 1977).

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Alternatively, when beset by fast and far-reaching environmental changes and altered patterns of demand, an institution may see responsiveness win out over integrity—a proclivity for change that is no longer balanced by conservation. An opportunistic and excessive response to outside pressures is a form of irresponsible leadership that may ultimately lead to deinstitutionalization as “outside elements may enter the organization and dominate part of it” (Selznick, 1957:146). Institutional leadership must avoid overreliance on outside demands, technological promises, or wishful thinking when it commits the organization as a whole to a course of action. Martha Derthick’s (1990) study of the Social Security Administration (SSA) provides an enlightening example of both overly responsive and conservative forms of leadership. The SSA used to be “the Marine Corps of the domestic civil service—elite and invincible” (Derthick, 1990:47). The SSA had an excellent track record in dispensing, promptly and efficiently, retirement and survivors’ insurance checks. Then, in the early 1970s, the SSA leadership volunteered to administer a freshly launched political initiative: the Supplemental Security Income (SSI) program. The administration of this complex program turned into a disaster (many checks did not arrive, mobs besieged field offices), basically because the type of program (need-based income support) clashed with the prevailing core technology in SSA (administering tax-based insurance programs). The SSA volunteered to implement this program because Commissioner Robert Ball feared that otherwise the IRS would do it. This institutional eagerness to please Congress and the president cost the SSA dearly, mostly (and ironically) in terms of legitimacy. Selznick suggests that institutions should assess core values and proven ways of operating before committing to a new policy. But an overreliance on core values, procedures, and routines may hurt the institution just as badly (Hargrove, 1994). The SSI disaster still fresh in mind, SSA officials feared another public flogging when the media charged that many disability recipients were not entitled to their benefits. In 1981, the SSA began to review these cases and removed 50 percent of the recipients from the rolls. Appeals clogged the courts (350,000 in 1983 alone). When an appellate court ruled against the SSA, citing due process violations, the SSA issued a formal ruling of “nonacquiescence.” The SSA simply refused to accept and internalize the wider impact of the court ruling. Officials were convinced they were right (and the court was wrong). When all appellate courts reached the same damaging conclusion, the SSA was forced to discontinue the

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review process. As a direct result of its recalcitrance, the SSA lost credibility with the judiciary, Congress, and its clients. Sometimes an institution makes successful adaptations to a changed environment. The adolescent years of the Bureau of Budget (BOB) were dominated by the twin values of efficiency and neutrality. Then the Depression hit in the 1930s. The continuing reliance on its core values made the BOB look unresponsive to external developments: it persisted in advocating cost cutting and balanced budgets, measures that were not only ineffective but also unsympathetic. When the Brownlow Committee finally forced the BOB to adopt a more responsive stance, it swiftly reformed and has consistently adapted ever since (Wolf, 1999). Such forced breaks in institutional history are not uncommon, nor do they pose insurmountable challenges (the GAO and the U.S. Marine Corps survived significant mission adaptations). These breaks usually trigger a severe crisis and come to serve as supporting logic for the new mission. These examples outline the extent of the executive challenge: institutional success must be balanced against external demands and perceptions. Timely adaptation is served by dynamic conservatism or, as Offe (1996) calls it, “institutional gardening.” But institutional leadership may also employ strategies that help to create and maintain legitimacy. As Majone (1989:95) argues, “Policy actors not only pursue their goals within the limits set by the existing framework; they also strive to change those limits in their favor.” In the next section, I discuss three potentially effective strategies that can help to maintain the relationship between an institution and its environment.

Strategies for Responsible Leadership To be most effective, the executive task of protecting integrity should address the three domains from which threats to institutional integrity may emanate. First, the institution’s environment may cause shifts in societal expectations and political demands. Second, endemic administrative deficiencies may prevent a public institution from recognizing or correcting a developing gap between institutional structures and processes on the one hand, and shifting environmental perceptions on the other. Finally, an institutional crisis can seriously undermine the integrity of an institution. In this section, I discuss general strategies that can help to preserve institutional integrity.

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Autonomy The capacity of institutional leadership to deal with environmental constraints determines whether institutions can come into being and whether they can persevere in hostile environments. The creation of a buffer between the environment and the institution is a crucial condition for institutional survival (Selznick, 1957:121; Thompson, 1967; Betts, 1977; Meier, 1989). Institutional leaders can try to create a buffer by establishing a degree of autonomy, defined here as a “condition of independence sufficient to permit public bureaucracies to preserve their distinctive values, competence and role” (Terry, 1995:52). Autonomy serves to minimize outside interference by establishing a “relatively undisputed jurisdiction” within the institution’s domain of action (Wilson, 1989:183). No public organization can, of course, ever hope to reach complete freedom from interference, as there will (and should) always be a minimal degree of democratic control (Kaufman, 1981). Autonomy is therefore contextually defined; it is related to the framework of the political system in general and the prevailing values operating within the specific public policy domain (Terry, 1995). Organizations can have more or less freedom in defining dominant goals and preferred means. This degree of autonomy depends on the ability of institutional elites to build and maintain a sufficient level of support for their programs and activities. Sapolsky (1972) identifies four conditions for substantial autonomy. First, an institution needs to create an identity that is unique and favorable in the view of those who control resource allocation. The institution’s special competence—captured in the institutional mission—sets the institution apart from its (potential) competitors. Institutional leaders can emphasize and support a distinctive identity through the creation and active dissemination of a favorable “agency myth.” A strong agency myth defines the goals and practices of a public system as altruistic, civilized, and essentially impossible (Hargrove and Glidewell, 1990). It is this latter characteristic that helps to shield the institution from inevitable discrepancies between set goals and actual performance: It is simply understood that the institution’s official aims reflect ambitious and laudable intentions (e.g., solve the poverty problem), but they cannot be resolved with the available means and technology. A certain discrepancy between official goal statements and actual performance is therefore taken for granted. In the context of prisons, for example, a strong agency myth may define rehabilitation efforts as a goal worth

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striving for, even though “everybody” understands that it is impossible to rehabilitate each and every criminal. The second strategy, co-optation, is aimed at silencing (potential) critics by bringing them on board and having them share responsibility (Selznick, 1949). This can be done in a variety of ways. In seeking support for the development of the Polaris missile, the Special Projects Office depended on the positive appraisals of leading scientists with regard to the feasibility of projected technological progress. A substantial amount of money was set aside to placate the scientific community. For instance, all suggestions made by outside scientists, no matter how irrelevant, were followed up with funding for research (Sapolsky, 1972). In the Netherlands, co-optation is sometimes used by policymakers to facilitate communications with outside action groups. The agricultural and aviation sectors routinely set up advisory committees in which environmentalists are invited to the table. Action groups may even receive funding from the sector they oppose (it is hard to bite the hand that feeds you). A third strategy instills a sense of moderation into the institution and its members. Effective organizations tend to enjoy special privileges and sufficient resources. But institutional greed invites public scrutiny. For public organizations, it always helps to stress frugality as a core value.17 Moreover, institutional leaders should refrain from unnecessary public attacks on bureaucratic competitors. Institutions are most effective in gaining autonomy when they attract the least attention. Institutional modesty is well served by a pendant substrategy of maintaining institutional transparency. This requires an active consideration of what Luban (1996) calls the “publicity principle.” Effective institutions keep the door open to politicians, judges, media representatives, and taxpayers. The Marines, for instance, are used to taking reporters with them on sensitive missions (Ricks, 1997). If public institutions explain what is being done and why, external stakeholders are more at ease with granting their trust. Institutions may not be able to show everything (a degree of secrecy is indispensable in, for instance, matters of national security or privacy). Secrecy is not problematic if it is reconciled with the publicity principle. In other words, institutions must be open about a need for secrecy and explain why secrecy is an essential part of their administrative repertoire (Luban, 1996). A fourth strategy to gain autonomy is to create an image of unique managerial competence. If society is to grant an institution the means and authority to achieve certain aims, a reasonable degree of trust must

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exist in the administrative capacity of that institution. Leaders should therefore avoid taking on tasks that are incompatible with the mission (Wilson, 1989). The FBI cultivated an image of managerial excellence and innovation with stories about its crime lab and its superior investigative techniques (Gentry, 1991). The FBI, as well as the Los Angeles Police Department, actively nurtured this image of professionalism through the television series they sponsored.18 The Special Projects Office became a model for other development organizations, public and private, as a result of its PERT system (Sapolsky, 1972). PERT was carefully marketed as a self-invented management model that actually helped to keep large-scale projects within time and cost limits. Even though the capacity of PERT was more myth than reality, it fostered an image of responsible and professional public management. These strategies should be applied with care, for they have the potential to “bite back.” A unique identity sets an institution apart from other organizations and may therefore alienate future partners. Co-optation opens the door to ill-wishing critics. A false image of frugality may prevent necessary budget adaptations. Finally, an exaggerated image of managerial competence may set the very standards against which organizational performance is measured. When the quest for autonomy conflicts with the aim of generating external support, institutional leaders are wise to realize that autonomy is a means toward the end of institutional preservation. If they do not elect to trade autonomy for support, they undermine the future of the institution. This set of strategies can help to create substantial leeway for institutional development, but only if institutional leaders recognize the limits of what is feasible in a democratic society. High Reliability The preservation of institutional integrity is not simply a matter of adequate public relations management. One might argue that integrity begins within the institution itself. Erosion is, after all, a constant threat. Routinized ways of working may not be accepted by new recruits who hold different beliefs that are based on experience within other institutions. The discovery of new technology may shake the members’ faith in the effectiveness of prevailing technology. Internal conflict may arise between different factions over the future course of the institution and the challenges that lay ahead. Sloppy management can gradually undermine institutional practices (Turner and Pidgeon, 1997), eventually resulting in a gap between performance and external expectations.

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Institutional integrity relies on high reliability of core values, standard procedures, and organizational outcomes (Terry, 1995). High reliability, in turn, requires permanent and strong commitment on the part of institutional leaders: they must “walk the walk and talk the talk.” Because leaders personify the institution, they can never assume that the institution runs itself, even if it seems that way. Institutional leaders should concern themselves with all events that touch upon the basic tenets of the institution. Core values should be permanently advocated by leaders themselves, and violations of institutional values should be acted upon. High reliability is, in a way, a function of leadership attention. An institution needs what some organizational scholars refer to as a “safety culture,” which reinforces a strong fixation on institutional norms and values, routines, and practices (Rochlin, 1996). Seemingly mundane matters of organization turn out to be pillars of high reliability. Selznick (1957) identified personnel issues—in many organizations not an issue of executive attention—as a matter of permanent consideration at the executive level. This point is corroborated by Miller (1994), who has shown how the awkward yet permanent presence of “strategic deviants” within an institution may help to keep the institution prepared for flexible adaptation. Strategic deviants are individuals whose behavior violates crucial behavioral norms that are directly derived from the institution’s core values. In a case Miller cites, deviant behavior posed a threat to the distant headquarters of a missionary organization, but the behavior was tolerated.19 The deviant missionaries in Miller’s account proved to be vitally important in finding new courses of action that ultimately ensured institutional survival in troubled times. The overriding lesson is that a small number of individuals can make a big difference in large-scale organizations. Institutional leaders must continually monitor the relationship between the institution and its environment. But they are often ill equipped to detect an impending crisis. There are many reasons for this: their strategic planning and foresight capabilities are limited (Simon, 1945; Dror, 1986); information they receive from within their organizations is often ambiguous or filtered (Wilensky, 1967; Vertzberger, 1990); and institutional blind spots cause institutions to miss obvious developments (Thompson et al., 1990; Turner and Pidgeon, 1997). Perhaps most important, many public managers hate to think about crisis. They engage in defensive avoidance and other psychological mechanisms to shield themselves from threatening information (Janis and Mann, 1977; Janis, 1989; Vertzberger, 1990). What they need is an early-warning system that calls attention to new demands and potential

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threats emanating from both within and without the institution. Those developments that directly affect the heart of the institution, now or in the future, must be considered before institutional leadership finds itself in a Catch-22 situation (renounce the heart of the institution or die). If such an early-warning system is implemented, leaders may be able to recognize when change is due. But they still need to overcome the potential deadlock between valued stagnation and feared uncertainty. Terry (1995:57) suggests a strategy of “selective adaptation”: making adaptations without violating the institutional core. His first admonition is to operate within both the spirit and letter of the law. Second, institutional leaders should use their intuitions to deal with this dilemma: when in doubt, leaders “should take orders from the situation; the ‘law of the situation’ governs what should be done” (Terry, 1995: 60). How leadership intuition is reconciled with the spirit and letter of the law remains unclear (and makes it hard to speak of a “strategy”). A more complex but potentially more effective strategy is to create stability through what Offe (1996:207) refers to as “ultra-stability.” Institutions should indeed try to preserve stability by remaining flexible. But instead of relying on seat-of-the-pants rules, institutional leadership should set rules for changing institutional rules. The combination of metarules and an in-built scope for discretion (e.g., strategic deviants or the institutionalization of a safety culture) helps to create a degree of resilience that allows for gradual adaptation. Such a strategy depends less on the intuition of individual leaders and more on lessons found in institutional history.20 Crisis Management An institution can still drift from a situation of relative stability and routine incrementalism into an unstable phase of institutional crisis (Boin and ‘t Hart, 2000). We speak of an institutional crisis when pivotal actors and public forums within and outside the institution have come to realize that the old way of doing things is no longer feasible when seen in the light of present and future problems. Traditional structures and processes must be adapted, because they are no longer effective or accepted. If a crisis is not immediately resolved, further loss of societal and political support is likely. Crises are the partial result of legitimacy loss,21 but they themselves can turn into an additional source of erosion when the remedial actions of authorities are perceived as inadequate or inappropriate. The unintended consequences of crisis management may

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cause second-order effects on the development and outcome of crisis periods (Boin and van Duin, 1995). This becomes most apparent when institutional leaders are perceived as trying to cover up earlier failures or avoid their responsibilities by shifting blame to others. When institutional leaders persist in these ill-fated attempts to manage a crisis, they may create downward spirals of rapidly diminishing trust in the existing capacity to resolve the institution’s problems (Masuch, 1985). Crises are defining moments for institutional leadership; within a relatively short time period, the leaders have to develop a line of action that aims to address both the source of legitimacy loss and the consequences of the crisis. It is within these crisis periods that the leadership may be forced to initiate a strategic change of values, tasks, technology, or structure in order to repair legitimacy. Institutional leadership must then switch from a more conserving role to a change-oriented role. Its ability to recognize that such a switch is necessary, coupled with the willingness and capacity to take on a new role, will have a considerable impact on the future of the institution. Crises can also present opportunities for institutional renewal. They may create breakthroughs that are simply unthinkable or politically infeasible in normal times. These opportunities are commonly referred to as windows for reform (Keeler, 1993; Kingdon, 1995; Cortell and Peterson, 1999). If there were something like a litmus test for institutional leadership, it would certainly include the leadership’s ability to turn adversity into opportunity. This involves the ability to recognize reform opportunities, to articulate the need for reform, and to redesign the institution within a relatively brief time span. This should not be read as a cue for unbridled Machiavellianism in crisis management. Exploiting crises for broader policy aims can be morally problematic (Edelman, 1977) and may seriously backfire (Boin and Otten, 1996). It does underscore the need for public managers to understand that, rather than attempting restoration and a return to the old ways, they may be better off anticipating and indeed instigating institutional changes.

Principles of Institutional Leadership Accepted findings of public administration and policy research make the odds for institution builders seem small. The forces of fragmentation simply appear too strong and too pervasive. We know that senior

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policymakers and administrators are incapable of controlling the behavior of street-level bureaucrats, middle managers, or senior field administrators. Policy implementers hold preferences frequently at odds with policy intentions and design administrative routines and practices in accordance with field insights. Central efforts to accomplish an increased degree of cohesion are hampered by political and societal factors and may even increase the gap between policymakers and policy implementers. All indicators point toward fragmentation rather than managed institutionalization. The institutional theory presented in this chapter explains how institutional leaders can cope with fragmentary forces and manage the process of institutionalization. If an administrative system has the capacity to fulfill the executive functions, the ever present forces of fragmentation may be dampened or even neutralized. Leadership thus helps to explain why some organizations are seemingly untouched by the forces of fragmentation while other organizations are overwhelmed. We have discussed two crucial dimensions of leadership. One dimension pertains to building values into the social structure of an organization. This task is particularly important during phases of institutional birth and institutional crisis—phases in which institutional structure is loose or undefined. These are also the phases during which leadership efforts are most vulnerable to the impact of environmental forces; there may not even be room for leadership efforts. The second executive dimension is more about monitoring, correcting, and adapting—in short, institutional maintenance. Following Offe (1996), these more mundane aspects of institutional leadership may possibly be institutionalized themselves. Selznick clearly recognized the limits of leadership. In fact, we might say that he combines a theory of constraint with a theory of action (Campbell, 1994). Institutional leadership must take “account of the conditions that have already determined what the organization can do. . . . It entails a self-assessment to discover the true commitments of the organization, as set by effective and external demands” (Selznick, 1957:62; emphasis added). Leadership cannot control everything, certainly not environmental norms and values. Institutionalization, therefore, should not be interpreted in terms of controlled or engineered processes. The process of institutionalization partially depends on “historic accident,” the occurrence of the right balance between constraints and opportunity at the right time (Miller, 1994). It is the task of leadership to

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recognize the right moment and to fulfill the necessary executive functions: “The art of the creative leader is the art of institution-building, the reworking of human and technological materials to fashion an organism that embodies new and enduring values” (Selznick, 1957:152; emphasis added). Institution building should thus be considered a very difficult job. From the preceding discussion on tasks, criteria, and strategies, we can distill three design criteria that should inform efforts of institution building (Goodin, 1996a). Institutional leadership should aim to • Build a robust institution through mission formulation, inculcation, and integrity. These institutional building blocks reinforce each other and hold the institution together. A well-defined sense of purpose allows for the development and understanding of rules and routines; a routine way of working with proven effectiveness, on the other hand, sustains the defined purpose. Organizational routines help institutional members relate their activities to a shared sense of purpose, which in turn provides a rationale to conform with these routines. A shared sense of purpose guides individual members in their administrative behavior, enabling them to solve administrative dilemmas, which in turn benefits organizational capacity and strengthens the institution’s position vis-àvis its environment. A close fit between these institutional building blocks helps to glue the institution together. • Build an institution that is respectful of its members. Institutional members have no trouble with accepting rules, imposed or not, when these rules are based on the members’ experience and thus serve as effective guides for administrative behavior. Those rules are voluntarily upheld, often with pride. In a respectful institution, membership becomes a vessel for identification, self-esteem, and self-development. Members stick with the institution, even when the organizational structure imposes behavioral constraints that in other organizations would not be acceptable. • Build revisable institutions. When an institution comes to “symbolize the community’s aspirations, [it] has some claim on the community to avoid liquidation or transformation on purely technical or economic grounds” (Selznick, 1957:19). As long as institutions remain within the limits set forth by society, these extraordinary organizations possess a degree of untouchability. But societies change and institutional policies can fail, thereby undermining the stability of the institution. If the institutional mission incorporates, or at least acknowledges,

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the possibility of occasional change and revision, the institution is likely to experience less trouble in adapting to a changing environment. In the empirical chapters that follow, I apply Selznick’s theory of institution building to processes of (de)institutionalization. Not only are we interested to see how leadership can affect institutionalization, but we want to know under what conditions institutional design can be effected. To this extent, we will study two prison systems and, more particularly, the institutionalization processes that gave rise to the contemporary institutional structure of these systems. Both prison systems are introduced in the next chapter.

Notes 1. For earlier theoretical efforts, see Selznick (1943, 1948). 2. It is interesting to note that Selznick (1957:113) used the U.S. Forest Service as an example of an institution, citing Kaufman’s unpublished doctoral dissertation. Kaufman (1960), in the later version of his dissertation, did not cite Selznick’s (1957) study. 3. Selznick (1949) authored a classic study on the Tennessee Valley Authority. In a lesser-known study, Selznick (1952) explored the workings of the American Communist Party. 4. In the case of religious groups, the reverse occurs: formal organization follows the “unity of persons” (see Mintzberg, 1983:367–388). 5. On the complementary nature of neoinstitutionalist and classic institutionalist approaches, see Desveaux (1995), Goodrick and Salancik (1996), and Selznick (1996). 6. There is an impressive and ever growing number of leadership studies on the more personal aspects of leadership (O’Reilly, 1991). However, disappointment over the results of these studies has mounted as well (Bryman, 1986; Wildavsky, 1989), and they continue to be marked by definition problems, methodological difficulties, and the absence of assessment standards or dominant schools of thought (Burns, 1978; Pfeffer, 1978; Ellis and Wildavsky, 1989; Wildavsky, 1989; Yukl, 1989; Bryman, 1992). 7. Both leadership perspectives are, of course, complementary (Kimberly, 1980). In Chapter 6, I return to the question of whether, and to what extent, individual characteristics determine how executive tasks are fulfilled. 8. Weick (1995) has argued that “sensemaking” is retrospective in nature: when the outcomes are known, leaders look back and judge whether the course of action can be considered appropriate. When this is the case, the course of action is structured in a “script” and applied in subsequent similar settings (Gioia, 1986). The question is what comes first—sensemaking or the script (Gioia’s use of the term script stongly resembles Selznick’s mission). Selznick argues, as we

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will see shortly, that missions can be devised after periods of institutional selfreflection. Gioia (1986:63) seems to agree: “Scripts permit an artificial shortcircuiting of the necessity to retrospectively bracket a discrete phase of experience to make sense of it.” 9. The vagueness of imposed goals is implicitly presented by Selznick (1957:16) as a general condition for institutionalization processes to occur. The more precise an organization’s goals, and the more specialized and technical its operations, the less opportunity there is for leadership to influence institutionalization processes. 10. We hereby implicitly adopt the position that institutions “have” cognition (Vertzberger, 1990). Within the field of organizational behavior, the study of organizational cognition has almost become a subdiscipline in itself (Hedberg, 1981; Sims, Gioia, and Associates, 1986; Weick, 1995).This type of research helps to explain the relationship between individuals and organizations (or institutions) in much more detail than Selznick’s theory does. Whereas some scholars treat cognitive processes as individual attributes (Argyris and Schön, 1978; Isabella, 1990), others argue that “organizations can be treated as sets of thinking practices and collective cognitive attributes” (Vertzberger, 1990:193; Mitchell, Rediker, and Beach, 1986; Weick and Bougon, 1986; Huber, 1991). The institutional mission provides a shared frame of reference that organizes, channels, and affects the cognitive processes of most members (Vertzberger, 1990). 11. The formulation (and display) of a sexy mission statement, an obsession found in all kinds of organizations, does little more than provide critics with ammunition by highlighting what all too often are impossible goals. 12. For a discussion on the importance of Barnard’s work, consult Perrow (1986) and Williamson (1990). 13. This insight lay the groundwork for what became known as the Barnard-Simon theory of organizational equilibrium between individual interests and available incentives, which is essentially a theory of motivation (Simon, 1945; March and Simon, 1958). 14. “Posdcorb is, of course, a made-up word designed to call attention to the various functional elements of the work of the chief executive . . . and stands for the following activities: Planning; Organizing; Staffing; Directing; Co-ordinating; Reporting; and Budgeting” (Gulick, 1987:96). 15. In an institution, a mission does not exist—as Gulick (1937:39) cynically remarked—to make “sweet and reasonable the absurdities of the hierarchical system.” The reverse is true. In an institution, bureaucracy enables purposeful action. 16. This is an obvious reference to Barnard’s (1938:167) “zone of indifference in each individual within which orders are acceptable without conscious questioning of their authority.” 17. The U.S. Marine Corps, for instance, makes a point of its frugality (Ricks, 1997). The SPO did too. But while maintaining austere facilities and emphasizing frugality, Admiral Raborn privately told his men in the Special Projects Office that “they would not get medals for saving money” (Sapolsky, 1972:189).

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18. The FBI endorsed dozens of motion pictures and radio and television shows; the LAPD sponsored the Dragnet series. 19. Ricks (1997:248) reports that some “eccentric officers” are “indulged” in the U.S. Marine Corps. 20. Creating institution-wide awareness of inherent vulnerability is one possible strategy. In the U.S. Marine Corps, this sense of vulnerability is reflected in the organizational wisdom that “nine presidents have tried to put us out of business” (Ricks, 1997:196). 21. The loss of legitimacy, as Oliver (1992) points out, may result from both intraorganizational factors and environmental conditions. A mounting performance crisis, for instance, may result in a loss of process legitimacy. A shift in dominant societal rules and values, on the other hand, may cause a loss of cognitive legitimacy. Such internal and external forces may lead to legitimacy loss and thereby indirectly threaten the continuing existence of the institution. Whether the institution will persist or perish, however, will depend to a considerable extent on the efforts of institutional leadership aimed at the repair of legitimacy (Suchman, 1995).

3 Two Prison Systems: The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons and the Dutch Prison System

In this chapter I examine several aspects of two prison systems: the dominant policy ideas in the two systems, the implementation of these ideas, and the interaction of employees within individual prisons and across the system. By analyzing principles, practices, and esprit de corps we can “gauge” the level of institutionalization of the systems. This amounts to an assessment of institutional character, one that is informed by a combination of personal observations, interviews, and the work of others. The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) is offered as an example of a highly institutionalized public system. The BOP story is a reminder of Kaufman’s U.S. Forest Service. The federal prison facilities are found scattered across the United States, often far away from the public eye. The distance between correctional officers, wardens, and policymakers in Washington, D.C., is bridged by a shared set of assumptions and aims and a view of how prisons should be run and for what reasons. Most employees are proud to be part of this public institution. The Dutch prison system, in a way, can be considered the antithesis of the U.S. federal prison system. If we consider the Dutch prison system in its entirety, variety would be the key word to describe it. There is not one correctional mission but many. The various missions come with unique implementation models. When we focus on individual prisons rather than the system, we see that some have taken on the characteristics of an institution. From a system perspective, these local institutions are perceived as fiefdoms that weaken, or at least decrease, the institutional character of the Dutch prison system. This chapter purports to show the reader that there is a clear difference in degree and level of institutionalization between the two prison 49

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systems. At this stage, I do not try to explain why this is the case. Nor do I intend to argue that one prison system is better than the other (I have deliberately omitted performance statistics in this chapter). We will return to these questions shortly. Before taking an institutional look at these two prison systems, I explain how I assess the level of institutionalization.

Assessing Institutionalization The level of institutionalization in a prison system is best measured in terms of administrative cohesion (Kaufman, 1960; Boin, 1998). In its broadest interpretation, the term cohesion refers to the strength of the ties between individual elements of a system and the system as a whole. In a highly institutionalized system, the ties between the individual parts (prison organizations) and the whole (prison system) are very strong. This prison system feels like one big organization: members think along similar lines and the subunits act in concert. A prison system marked by a low degree of institutionalization is an association of rather autonomous subunits that act in idiosyncratic ways. Principles vary with organizational units; administrative processes differ from prison to prison. Cohesiveness is, of course, not a bipolar state—fragmentation or integration—but a continuum, a matter of degree. When investigating cohesion in a prison system, we want to know to what extent ideas about the purposes and methods of confinement are shared and translated into integrated patterns of administrative action in the field. Three dimensions of cohesion are distinguished: principles, practices, and esprit de corps.1 The first dimension of cohesion refers to the like-mindedness of those who work in the prison system. Cohesion tells us something about the extent to which policymakers and field administrators share a mutual understanding and appreciation of policy aims and implementation strategies. In a highly institutionalized system, policymakers and field administrators adhere to similar correctional philosophies; they share a similar set of beliefs and assumptions about the role of imprisonment in combating crime and administering justice. Moreover, they share similar conceptions of what the ideal prison should look like. Where institutionalization is less advanced, correctional philosophies tend to differ across the system. The second dimension of administrative cohesion focuses on the variety of prison practices. Such variety is perfectly normal in prison

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systems that adhere to the principle of correctional differentiation (to my knowledge, most Western systems do). In these systems, inmates are categorized according to such criteria as sex, age, status, and behavioral characteristics. Prisons for women operate differently from institutions for male offenders; remand centers are different from prisons that house long-term inmates; juvenile offenders are separated from adult prisoners. Moreover, differences are bound to occur as a result of situational circumstances (for instance, prisons have different designs, locations, and climates). In a highly institutionalized system, however, this variety is limited because prisons are run according to the same managerial philosophy. When we find that prisons are organized along very different lines, that rule infractions are punished differently, and that wardens govern their prisons using very different management principles, then we observe variety in practice. Variance in practice is “measured” by looking at prison regimes. The regime is the “massive body of regulations which is erected as a blueprint for behavior within the prison and to which the inmate must respond” (Sykes, 1958:13). Prison regimes—when considering both their formal and informal dimensions—reflect how the goals of imprisonment are translated in practice.2 Key indicators of regime character are organizational structure (centralized versus decentralized), punishment practices (strict versus flexible), and management styles (control versus trust) (DiIulio, 1994a). The esprit de corps in the prison system constitutes the third dimension on which we can gauge cohesion. Departing from the necessary truth that field leaders possess substantial discretion in their daily management of the organization, I have defined the willingness of wardens to apply their discretionary freedoms in accordance with overall policy and guidelines as a prime indicator.3 I will look at the disposition of wardens with regard to their own position within the prison system and, more specifically, will consider their attitude toward headquarters. Do they subordinate their views and opinions to general policy or are they inclined to adapt general policy to their personal philosophies? A related question asks what is more important to them: their own prison or the prison system as a whole? In addition, I will look at acts of disobedience or—more subtle—acts of refusal to implement according to the letter and spirit of central instructions. In the following section, these rough indicators are applied to the prison systems under study. It is impossible to prove with absolute

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certainty that a prison system is highly institutionalized or resembles a state of fragmentation. But the available evidence strongly suggests, I believe, that these prison systems differ quite a bit when it comes to the level of institutionalization.

The Bureau Family The 1993 annual publication of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons states that “anyone who has worked in the Bureau of Prisons for any length of time knows there is no typical federal prison, there is no such thing as a typical inmate, and there certainly are no ‘typical’ staff.” That seems a reasonable statement. At the time of my research, the BOP comprised more than eighty institutions, ranging from minimumsecurity camps to maximum-security penitentiaries, all “with vastly different physical plants, staffing levels, histories, and traditions.” The inmate population, nearly 100,000 inmates in 1996, and the nearly 30,000 Bureau employees represent a “broad range of backgrounds, cultures, ambitions, ages, skills and personalities” (FBOP, 1993:5). Yet, despite all these differences, the uniformity in principle and practice across the BOP is profound. From central headquarters in Washington, D.C., to the six regional headquarters and the more than eighty field facilities, it is hard to detect fundamental differences in opinion or even interpretation when it comes to BOP principles of “sound correctional management” or the Bureau’s “core values.” The uniform outlook is matched by similar patterns of prison administration; Bureau facilities are managed according to the same administrative principles and methods. A sense of pride and commitment pervades the BOP’s work force. Cooperation and trust mark the administrative relationship between central headquarters and field organizations. The BOP, in short, has the characteristics of an institution. The Bureau Way of Doing Things Talking to BOP employees about prison policy, correctional principles, and management methods can become tedious after a while. The same story is told again and again with only slight variations. Policymakers in central and regional headquarters will consistently and frequently quote from the Bureau’s mission statement or the list of “cultural anchors,” recite the strategic goals of the BOP, and explain that this is the

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“Bureau’s way of doing things” (Rison, 1996). 4 The field staff repeats with great precision what is known to them as the BOP philosophy. Field administrators not only seem to understand what is expected from them but they tend to agree: “We buy into it” is the often heard phrase. To be sure, differences of opinion exist—among, for instance, the large group of federal wardens. Some wardens are more drawn to the development of correctional programs, whereas others are more inclined toward custodial aspects. But they subordinate their personal philosophies to the Bureau’s philosophy. The Bureau’s way is accepted as “sound correctional management” and cited by medical assistants, line officers, policymakers, and even chaplains.5 As one observer noted, Whether you go to the Central Office or Milan, Michigan, there is a fundamental belief in some of the core anchors of the Bureau of Prisons—in the correctional officer, in the family, in integrity, in hard work. That said to me that you can build on a strong foundation of agreement. (Green, 1989a:13)

The appeal of the BOP mission is at least partly due to the intricate combination of a simple correctional philosophy with an elaborate set of managerial principles. The BOP has translated a guiding set of ideas into a comprehensible and effective manual for daily practice. Let us briefly review how abstract ideas find their way into very concrete methods of correctional management. Bureau philosophy. The Bureau philosophy can be described in terms of compassionate ambition limited by pragmatic constraints. Inmates are viewed as victims of themselves, their history, and their surroundings: “They come from broken homes, they have long criminal records, they have drinking or substance abuse problems, they often suffer from longterm lack of medical care,” according to former BOP director Michael Quinlan (Corrothers, 1994:179). Corrections cannot do what society’s other institutions have failed to achieve. But correctional institutions can at least try to assist those inmates who genuinely seek to change themselves. As the late director Myrl Alexander phrased it, “We do not rehabilitate, we do not reform, we do not convert but we have the solemn obligation to create the opportunity for minds to be free to find themselves” (Corrothers, 1994:178). This ambitious aim must be reconciled with the other aims of detention. The BOP philosophy identifies four correctional aims. The primary goal is to keep the inmates inside. In addition to security, the Bureau is

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committed to safety within the facility’s parameters.6 A safe and humane environment should be provided for both employees and inmates. Inmates are to be protected from both inmate predators and the illegal use of staff violence. In addition, Bureau philosophy holds that inmates are entitled to a decent living environment and respectful treatment. The Bureau explicitly recognizes that offenders are incarcerated “as punishment, not for punishment.”7 A final but essential component of Bureau philosophy directs BOP administrators to provide inmates with opportunities to improve and prepare themselves for their return to society. The philosophy stipulates that those inmates who want to develop themselves should be enabled to do so (Morris, 1974). A standard regime. The Bureau philosophy prescribes a standard regime for achieving the set of goals described above. Discipline, structure, and communication are the pillars of this standard regime. In the standard BOP regime, order is a sine qua non for the provision of inmate services. Rison (1996:145) found that 98 percent of the Bureau’s senior staff endorsed this principle. A set of precisely formulated rules and regulations sets the parameters for daily life within a Bureau institution. These rules are informed by the “least restrictive means principle,” which stipulates that inmates should remain free of unnecessary restraints and enjoy a relatively unrestricted environment. This can work only when the rules are applied in a “firm, fair, and consistent” manner as Bureau people like to say. An intended side effect of discipline is that it teaches inmates an important lesson about normal life. As former and longtime director James Bennett (1970:21) wrote, “Prison discipline requires that each man be in the right place at the right time, and this is also sound rehabilitation.” Discipline thus facilitates structure, which, in turn, is necessary in order to provide a large body of inmates with opportunities. Inmate life is structured around work, education, treatment programs, and free time. Labor has traditionally been considered a powerful instrument to keep inmates occupied, thus enhancing safety while teaching them vocational skills and a worker’s ethos. All able bodies are required to work in federal prisons. If inmates do not work in the facility’s branch of the BOP industry (UNICOR), they should be employed in one of the house jobs such as cooking, cleaning, or maintenance. The daily schedule is supplemented by correctional programs, which emphasize education, treatment, or other types of formative goals. For instance, all inmates who possess less than basic reading skills are required to enter a

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remedial program (McCollum, 1990). The Bureau philosophy further articulates a strong commitment to substance abuse programs and selfbuilding courses. The third pillar of the standard BOP regime is open communication between inmates and staff. This principle serves both the purposes of safe custody and high-quality care. Open communication serves to humanize the inherently dehumanizing experience of being locked up. It ensures that inmates are clear about institution rules (“staff must be prepared to explain why the rules exist”) and the consequences of rule violation. Moreover, open communication provides staff with feedback, which enables the prison administration to maintain control in a more proactive manner. Bureau philosophy therefore dictates that inmates “must see staff as truthful, honest and dependable.” Staff are admonished to “never, never lie to an inmate.” As staff members often find themselves alone among large groups of inmates, they believe that discipline backed up by force is not enough to ensure a safe environment. As one officer, “policing” all by himself an entire block of inmates in the U.S. Penitentiary (USP) in Allenwood, Pennsylvania, put it, “Communication is the key to prison management.” BOP methods. The standard regime hinges on a few well-recognized methods of prison administration: unit management, the Correctional Worker First principle, and hands-on management by the warden. Bureau employees strongly believe in the merits of unit management, a correctional concept originally pioneered in the BOP. Unit management enables prison administrators to reconcile the contradictory aims of a relaxed atmosphere and strict control. The idea is quite simple: Inmates live in a living unit—physically separated from other units—which is administered directly by its own unit manager (the “miniwarden”), custodial staff, and case managers. Ideally, the unit staff have their offices within the unit so that they are directly accessible to inmates. Unit staff being readily available helps to foster open communication with inmates; it also allows for a more direct and personal relationship to develop between inmates and staff. 8 Bureau employees are convinced that unit management makes prisons safer and more livable (Smith and Fenton, 1978; Toch, 1992; Houston, 1995). The second administrative principle pronounces that all Bureau employees, regardless of their particular specialty area, are “correctional workers first” (Hambrick, 1992; FBOP, 1995:24). Each employee, no matter what his or her job, is first responsible for the security of the

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institution: “In the Federal Bureau of Prisons, security is everybody’s business” (Hambrick, 1992:11). In his research, Rison (1996:142) found that 88 percent of senior Bureau staff in the field responded positively to the principle that the BOP is “custodial at core.” Every BOP employee—except for those in religious functions—is trained for, and is expected to perform, security-related tasks when necessary. This principle serves both custodial and correctional aims. The custodial staff is reinforced by a substantial contingent of auxiliary forces, ranging from secretaries to the warden, who can and will assist officers in case of emergency. This principle also allows the Bureau to maintain wellstaffed programs, because the lines that separate custodial and noncustodial forces are blurred. If professional personnel functioned separately from custodial officers (as is the case in most prison systems), safety concerns would require the Bureau to augment the custodial force at the expense of treatment personnel. A third administrative principle prescribes that the warden is responsible for everything that happens inside the institution (DiIulio, 1994b). The warden is therefore strongly encouraged to take an active interest in even the tiniest details of the prison’s daily affairs (Henderson and Phillips, 1989). Bureau wisdom suggests that effective wardens manage their institution by wandering around. Each warden is expected to make daily inspections through the institution, talking to staff and inmates, checking into everything. This is the “unwritten law,” says former director Norm Carlson, “every warden will tell you that.” Wardens must adhere to the Management by Walking Around (MBWA) principle in order to personally communicate their standards of sanitation, conduct, performance and professionalism. When they tour, they must actively seek out information, not just passively walk around. . . . If the top staff don’t say anything, you can bet that no one else will. It is critical that the warden sets a positive example in this respect. (Henderson and Phillips, 1989:16)

Wardens must protect and serve the BOP’s cultural anchors and core values. This list includes the importance of sanitation. As Bureau folklore has it, “There is no record anywhere of an inmate complaining that the kitchen, dining room, or visiting rooms were too clean.” Bureau philosophy is larded with references to respect and integrity (Rison, 1996).9 There is no room for rude, vulgar, or degrading behavior. Rule deviation on the part of staff is not tolerated (Fleisher, 1989; Earley,

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1993). Respect also pertains to staff-staff relations, as most clearly witnessed in the aggressive equal employment opportunity programs. Finally, Bureau philosophy emphasizes the warden’s duty to serve society. This translates into a culture of openness: politicians, bureaucrats, judges, lawyers, media representatives, and social scientists are only part of the army of visitors welcomed into federal facilities each year. The BOP Mission in Practice: “Administrative Alliteration”10 We can speak of a mission only when a relationship is observed between ideas and practice. Visiting several Bureau facilities, one is bound to notice the high degree of uniformity in prison administration that has been described before by other researchers (Fleisher, 1989; DiIulio, 1994a; Roberts, 1994a; Rison, 1996). Most Bureau facilities house more than 1,000 inmates—many with long and violent criminal backgrounds—but the atmosphere in the BOP facilities I visited seemed devoid of tension. Inmates and staff were generally polite; staff-inmate interaction seemed courteous and neutral. In large dormitories and in isolated cell blocks, staff (more often than not by themselves) confidently walked and talked among the inmate population. Even in the USP Lewisburg (Pennsylvania), one of the old “big houses” holding the more dangerous categories of inmates, a visitor is unlikely to be approached, shouted at, or threatened. On tours through BOP institutions, everything is consistently explained in terms of Bureau policy or philosophy. The institutions I visited share the reported fanaticism with regard to sanitation. Bureau facilities shine; the kitchens, living units, factories, yards, and classrooms are spotless.11 In line with policy and Bureau tradition, I found the food both varied and appetizing (Fleisher, 1989). All in all, it was as Warden Helman had predicted: “You’ll find that federal prisons are more the same than they are different.” When DiIulio (1994a, 1994b) compared three Bureau penitentiaries—all three facilities housing inmates with the same (high) security classification—he observed that the USPs Lewisburg, Leavenworth, and Lompoc had three quite different leaders in their respective wardens’ chairs, and each maintained its particular institutional traditions. But despite these differences, and despite the many other differences that one could easily enumerate (physical distance from the FBOP central office, architecture and physical plant, nature and extent of prison

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industry operations, accreditation status), the operational uniformities were profound. (DiIulio, 1994b:166)

One would expect profound operational differences resulting from such variables as institutional history and warden personality. Whereas one warden may have a college degree and years of correctional experience in counseling, the next warden may have a high school diploma and a predominantly custodial background. Institutions vary on the dimension of tradition as well. Lewisburg, Leavenworth, and Atlanta are the three old big houses of the BOP; one can almost feel history come to life in these institutions. The new facilities—products of the recent prison binge—seem awkwardly devoid of history. But the way all these prisons are run when measured on the BOP’s principal dimensions of correctional management is basically the same.12 Wardens possess substantial discretionary room and have a range of responsibilities, but they stick to Bureau philosophy. When Warden John Vanyur transferred from Florence, Colorado, to the recently opened lowsecurity facility in Butner, North Carolina, to take over as warden, he found “all systems in place” as he knew he would, because “Bureau policy structures everything we do.” According to Jim Houston, a former BOP employee and now a professor, “The director can be sure that things are done the same way in Lewisburg as they are done in Lompoc.” The BOP wardens “emphasize many of the same functions, act on them in much the same way, and rationalize their administrative modus operandi in much the same terms,” summarizes DiIulio (1994a:294). As a result, the following description of practice may seem repetitive after reading official Bureau policy. All wardens stand “mainline” at least once a day, “smelling problems while smelling food” (DiIulio, 1994a:294). The wardens and staff I talked to confirmed both the practice and its importance (Fleisher, 1989). It provides wardens and staff with the perfect opportunity to get a daily “temperature check” of the institution. In what are usually large areas, staff will assemble near a central point in the hall, clearly visible and easily accessible to all inmates. Inmates are free (or even encouraged) to walk up to the staff members and address them with any kind of comment, problem, or complaint they might have. This way, inmates who work all day can still see staff members who may not be there at night. Most inmates are referred back to their case workers or unit managers; but when the warden feels that a complaint merits his or her personal attention, the name and the problem of the inmate is written down

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in the little notebook that all federal wardens seem to carry around. When they are not talking with inmates, staff members make use of the informal staff gathering to discuss outstanding issues. When inmates start leaving the dining hall, staff members often continue their conversations in the staff dining room. “I bet you there is nothing in policy that says we have to stand mainline. It’s a cultural thing,” says Warden Vanyur. The warden and his colleagues concur that in every BOP facility they have worked in, staff stood mainline: “It’s common practice.” In fact, “you don’t want to call your counterpart in another institution between 11:00 and 12:30.” To many administrators, standing mainline seems to be the fun part of the day. Before wardens get to the dining hall to stand mainline, they have most likely been busy managing their institution by walking around. It is yet another unwritten rule that wardens willingly adhere to; Rison (1996:134) reports that 94 percent of the federal wardens “have internalized the value.” Cruising through inmate dormitories, industry halls, or visiting rooms, wardens talk to everybody they encounter (Fleisher, 1989). A visit to a housing unit involves “checking security procedures and sanitation, stopping to chat with officers, applauding innovations and critiquing problem areas” (Spears, 1994:6). Warden Matthews says he learned the practice from his mentor, Wilkinson: “He got around inside more than anyone I’ve seen. He’d check out and follow up on everything. He’d write down an inmate’s name and investigate the inmate’s problem. I do it, too, just like you’ve seen me do” (DiIulio, 1994a:295; Fleisher, 1989; Earley, 1993). The wardens are not snooping around, or so it seems, but make themselves available to discuss daily affairs, manage little problems, or engage in small talk. After a while, federal wardens typically know most if not all the names of their employees as well as the names of many inmates. “Walking and talking” is second nature to federal wardens. They cannot envision it any other way. J. D. Lamer, warden of USP Lewisburg, had noticed, while guiding a Dutch delegation of wardens through his institution, that Dutch wardens did not seem to spend much time in their prisons: “You see, I started picking up on that when we were in [the segregation unit] and I said, ‘This is Gonzalez and this is Johnson’ and one of them asked, ‘You know all these inmates?’” Lamer prides himself on the fact that he knows every employee and most of the inmates by name. Each Bureau facility is built around unit management (Houston, 1995). Since the concept was officially adopted by the BOP in the early

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1970s, all new facilities have been designed and built to accommodate this correctional concept. Even in the old penitentiaries, with the crowded wings and the much more dangerous population, unit management has been adopted as the favored way of prison organization (Smith and Fenton, 1978). The unit management concept comes with a specific way of working. Incoming inmates first meet with the unit classification team, which explores his background, wishes, and potential problems. The inmate is then “classified,” a job is assigned, and admission to other programs is organized while his case manager takes care of the paperwork.13 Each inmate entering the federal prison system is classified by the same procedure (Levinson, 1994). The degree of operational uniformity is further reflected in the number of Bureau facilities that have been accredited by the American Correctional Association (ACA) and the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations (JCAHO). Because these organizations evaluate different aspects of the correctional program, many institutions are accredited by both the ACA and the JCAHO. The ACA accreditation provides external certification that the federal prisons offer decent living conditions, provide adequate programs and services, and safeguard inmates’ constitutional rights by ensuring compliance with more than 450 living standards developed by the ACA. By the end of fiscal year 1997, sixty-three BOP facilities were accredited by the ACA (Camp and Camp, 1998).14 Another test of correctional consistency is found in the administration of disciplinary action. Again, DiIulio (1994a:301) found conformity, reporting that the “disciplinary process conforms to official agency policy, is valued by employees and is administered in a way that minimizes discretion and results in like infractions receiving like penalties.”15 Pride and Commitment: The Bureau Family In the fall of 1996, I visited a federal prison facility under the guidance of Norm Carlson. I knew that former director Carlson, who retired in 1987, still commanded respect among Bureau personnel. On a 1994 tour through the Chicago Metropolitan Correctional Center (MCC), Warden Ray Holt beamed with pride when I asked him about the picture of him and Carlson hanging on his office wall. The picture had captured the moment when Holt received the Norman A. Carlson award from the hands of the former director. On Warden Helman’s office wall hangs a

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picture of the first four BOP directors sitting together: Sanford Bates, James Bennett, Myrl Alexander, and Norm Carlson—the picture is autographed by all four. “I look up to these guys, you could say they’re sort of idols to me,” explains Helman. Nothing had prepared me, however, for the red-carpet treatment Carlson (and I) received in the Bureau’s medical facility in Rochester (Minnesota). Warden Phill Wise took us through the facility. Everywhere Carlson went, people came up and talked to him. Bureau veterans who recognized Carlson would come up, shake his hand, and inform the former director where they had met before. When Carlson recognized someone (“Are you still here?”), that person shone with pride. Even those who had never worked under Carlson would recognize him and often introduce themselves. The former director was treated with immense respect. When I asked the warden why he conducted the tour (and not his executive assistant, who is usually responsible for tours), Wise—unbelief written all over his face—replied: “I wouldn’t dream of having my exec touring somebody like Norm Carlson. Norm is a legend in the field.” All former BOP directors are organizational legends. Most people who have been with the Bureau for some time know the names of Sanford Bates, James Bennett, Myrl Alexander, Norm Carlson, and Mike Quinlan. Just as is the case of the former directors, the current director, Kathleen Hawk, appointed in 1992, is held in high esteem. The appreciation for the director is extended to headquarters as a whole: “We have tremendous credibility in the field,” one policymaker observed. In the field, I encountered no vocal opposition or signs of incomprehension with regard to central headquarters. To be sure, field administrators do not always agree with the ideas and actions that come from central or regional headquarters: “There will always be a credibility gap, you can’t get around that.” But, Warden Vanyur quickly adds, “I may not always agree, but I will follow.” This admission of conformity should not be read as the complaint of a powerless bureaucrat. Field administrators have a strong desire to conform to policy, because they feel they work for the agency—the Bureau—and not just for their particular facility.16 Most Bureau employees are proud to work for the BOP. Every office is filled with BOP paraphernalia; the average employee will have pictures of Bureau prisons in which she or he was employed earlier, engraved plaques, awards, and the inevitable coffee mugs with BOP symbols and slogans (“The right people doing the right thing”). In USP Lewisburg, visitors are shown

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some original attributes from the Alcatraz prison, which is an important BOP symbol and an endless source of mythical stories within the Bureau. The office of Warden Lamer looks like a trophy room—it is part of the tour. Each facility has for sale caps, shirts, sweaters, jackets, and the like decorated with BOP or institution-specific insignia. Bureau pride is hurt when things go wrong. DiIulio (1994a:284) describes how Bureau retirees reacted to the riots that rocked the BOP in 1987: The drama at Oakdale and Atlanta made national and international headlines. But for the 1,717 dues-paying members of the Federal Prison Retirees Association, the drama was intensely personal. They telephoned one another, gathered together, and remained glued to their radios and television sets for the latest news on the riots. Some retirees squeezed into their old uniforms in a symbolic show of support. A contingent of retirees even rushed to the scene. As one retiree proudly recounted, “I put my teeth in my mouth, my old badge in my pocket, and got there on the first thing smokin.’ ”

Many BOP employees consider themselves part of what they refer to as the “Bureau family” (Wright, 1994). The organization is persistently described—both in interviews and formal policy—in terms of family. What may appear weird to outsiders is perfectly normal to BOP members. For instance, former director Mike Quinlan (1989:13) told Bureau members, “We have always thought of the Bureau as family” (and proceeded to discuss “the reality that our ‘family’ is changing”). Assistant Director Wade Houk explained this phenomenon by referring to the outpouring of sympathy and (financial) assistance in the wake of Hurricane Andrew, which hit the Miami area in 1992 (Samples, 1994). Two Bureau facilities suffered major damage. Of the 408 staff at the two institutions, 138 lost their homes; 185 staff needed immediate financial aid. Bureau staff nationwide donated food, clothing, toys—“trucks full of stuff”—and some $300,000 in funds. Many in the Bureau view this generosity as the culmination of the family concept. A regional administrator asserts that “everybody feels the pain.” Houk said, “I get emotional thinking about it.” This self-described comradeship goes beyond work. A typical story is related by a regional administrator in the Baltimore office: “I moved from Pennsylvania to Texas and I didn’t know anybody there. The BOP members there welcomed us. Told us where to live, where to shop and which schools to choose.” Warden Helman: “After my mother died, it

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was my dad’s BOP friends who kept him going, calling him, taking him fishing. . . . My best friends are from the BOP. My wife’s best friends are from the BOP.” In the Bureau, there is genuine caring that transcends ranks and organizational boundaries. This is illustrated by the leave-sharing phenomenon. When somebody needs extra days for sick leave or family circumstances, colleagues (anonymously) donate a few days of their own. BOP staff often attend Halloween and Christmas parties together. All facilities have periodic events—softball games, golf tournaments, picnics, and the like. Retirees and family members are invited and show up: “They are considered part of the family.” People are “connected” in the Bureau, comments yet another policymaker. Peter Wittenberg, in Bureau headquarters, concedes that “the ‘Bureau family’ term is an over-used one, but frankly it is true.” As Senator Hollings once observed, “Those that know the inner working of the Bureau of Prisons realize that it is much like a large family” (Congressional Record, 1982).

The Dutch Prison System: Variety, Fiefdoms, and Friction On 4 May 1994, the wardens and other ranking field administrators of the Dutch prison system gathered for a plenary meeting of their national association of prison wardens (VDPI).17 The main point on the agenda was the outcome of recent meetings between the VDPI executive committee and senior policymakers in the Prison Section of the Justice Department. The ongoing reorganization of the prison system had dominated these meetings.18 When the VDPI representatives reported a lack of progress in their talks with departmental policymakers, tensions flared among the nearly hundred members present. The wardens then expressed their feelings of distrust and dissatisfaction (if not anger) in a formal declaration of discontent, which made the headlines of the Dutch newspaper NRC Handelsblad (Schoof and Versteegh, 1994). The declaration was brief, but the message was clear. The VDPI members were “seriously worried” about their relation with the director of the Prison Section. The recent “deadlock” in negotiations (mainly) concerning a new policy plan and the future relations with the department had resulted in a “lack of confidence” in their departmental superior. The declaration was addressed to the director-general of the Justice Department under whose broad responsibilities the Prison Section fell.

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The wardens asked him to “undertake a final effort to repair the disturbed relationship, if necessary by means of outside mediation.” The declaration concluded with an ultimatum: “This final effort has to lead to visible results before 1 November 1994.” Relations between the Prison Section and the field institutions were conflict ridden at that time, but the declaration of discontent marked the lowest point to date. This conflict publicly revealed the degree of fragmentation that had marked the Dutch prison system for years, the extent of which we will now explore in more detail.19 Correctional Philosophies In the early 1990s, a dominant, coherent correctional philosophy did not exist in the Prison Section of the Justice Department. When I asked two senior officials what they thought was good or bad prison management, their reaction was evasive yet typical: “It all depends who you talk to.”20 Learning about “good” or “bad” prison management, these officials suggested, would be greatly enhanced by interviewing wardens known for their distinct correctional philosophies. The officials then graphically described the existing variety of correctional philosophies. But it is telling what these policymakers did not talk about. No reference was made to a central policy or some informally shared philosophy on prison management. At that time, the youngest comprehensive policy statement dated back to 1982 (Scheltema, 1982). The two senior officials never mentioned this document or its philosophy, even though it was formally still the current norm for prison practices in the Netherlands. Subsequent interviews with prison wardens revealed the existence of many different but, at the same time, clearly formulated, coherent, and internally consistent philosophies on prison management. The wardens were divided on such issues as the causes of crime, the aims of detention, and the methods by which these aims should be accomplished. Differences in philosophy were easy to tease out. One warden traced them to generational changes and distinguished between the reformoriented “class of 1976” and a group of “new managers.” Another suggested that different role conceptions were at work and spoke of humanistic (“those who leave their ivory tower”) and managerial (“those who stay behind their desk”) wardens. Most (deputy) wardens held a correctional philosophy that roughly adhered either to the sober end or to the more tolerant end of the correctional scale. A small group of wardens seemed to steer some sort of middle course in their correctional

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thinking. Each type of correctional philosophy formulates a different outlook on crime, the goals of detention, and ideal regimes.21 Liberal philosophies. A number of wardens subscribed to progressive ideas about penal management, embracing what are often called humanitarian principles of detention. Their beliefs were firmly rooted in the rehabilitation ideals that dominated penal policy in the 1970s. These wardens had grown somewhat disappointed with the demise of correctional ideals in the 1980s. They felt disturbed by the increasing impact of political and societal law-and-order sentiments on penal policy. They were worried about the future of imprisonment and feared a backlash of cheap, no-frills regimes. Reflecting on recent developments, the warden of De Havenstraat in Amsterdam explained how he tried to “preserve a humane regime” (de Goey, 1994:11). The correctional philosophies of these wardens were based on the assumption that, in most cases, crime is not chosen but stumbled upon. The growing number of drug addicts, psychologically disturbed offenders, and foreign inmates was cited as proof that it is society’s losers who enter prison; the “real” criminals have the means to stay out of prison. In their view, detention should provide these individuals with skills that can help them survive on the street; wardens are morally required to “do something with these people.” 22 Education is the key in preparing the inmate to return to society. All wardens ranked incapacitation as the most important goal of detention. Those with a liberal philosophy emphasized that “incapacitation has to be humane and, where possible, we have to search for the human being behind the inmate.”23 These wardens have come to realize that the resocialization goal is idealistic. Yet, they still believe that prisons should do more than just “lock ’em up and throw away the key.” This correctional philosophy finds expression in a more relaxed regime, where communication between correctional officers and inmates is emphasized rather than strict adherence to rules and the use of disciplinary action. It is recognized that inmates experience personal problems as a result of being locked up. If informal communication channels are not used, tensions in the prison will rise. As one warden explained, “Most people, certainly Dutch people, are too emancipated to function within a military-organizational structure.” This particular warden therefore advocated a “five-minute rule”: In between movements, inmates are allowed five minutes to chat with their friends or to get something from their cell. In this correctional philosophy, “the [prison]

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organization is like a cooperative system . . . both officers and inmates must feel all right.”24 Security is conceptualized in terms of psychological safeguarding: A secure regime is a regime that in itself is not a motivation for inmates to attempt an escape. Strict philosophies. More than a few wardens rejected what they considered the idealistic correctional rhetoric of the 1970s. They had grown disappointed with the reform ideal, or had never believed in its possibilities to begin with. Experience had taught them that most criminals fail to better themselves. They ask why prisons should try to accomplish what parents, schools, and society never could: “How can we re-integrate somebody who has never been integrated?” (Bommels, 1993:27). In these strict philosophies, crime is generally viewed as a career choice rather than an environmentally induced behavioral track. “Criminals are not pitiful,” according to Warden Paul Koehorst, one of the more pronounced representatives of the strict school.25 The increasing number of hard-core criminals is cited as support for their vision: “We are confronted with more and more rock-hard career criminals, often foreigners. Traditional management methods do not work with this group” (Bommels, 1993:25). The exploding number of drug addicts, foreigners, and psychologically disturbed inmates has further nurtured their belief that inmates require strict supervision. In this philosophy, protecting society from convicted criminals is the first and most important goal of detention. Deprivation of liberty should, of course, be accomplished in a humane fashion. But in this vision, humane detention does not automatically entail the provision of educational and recreational programs to every inmate. Rather, it guarantees elementary rights such as personal safety, basic amenities, and respectful treatment from prison employees. The strict philosophy is clear on the subject of rehabilitation programs. Every inmate needs an understanding of how the real world functions. It is up to the prison administration to provide opportunities for inmates to develop themselves, but such opportunities are not offered to all inmates. Only those who are serious about reform may participate in such programs. The prescribed regime is the so-called Bonus-Malus regime. The essence of this regime is that privileges beyond the constitutional rights of inmates have to be earned by good behavior. In this regime, few inmates will suffer from confusion about the definition of “good” or “bad” behavior. Rules dictate the desired behavior. Discipline is the key word: “They have to learn that there are things you can do and things

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you cannot do in society.”26 Few transgressions are tolerated. “Don’t whine and do your time,” Warden Helgers would tell his inmates (Bommels, 1993:25). Whereas in some institutions marijuana was willfully tolerated, drug abuse is a declared enemy of the strict wardens. “We punish firmly, no exceptions made” is a typical description of their approach. Rules provide structure; these wardens strongly believe that inmates prefer structure over chaos.27 Mixed-bag philosophies. Not every warden had an outspoken correctional philosophy that links crime, detention purposes, and inmate management in a coherent and consistent fashion. Some were newcomers with no background in corrections who needed time to develop a personal vision. Others tended to avoid the extremes. Then there were wardens with a correctional philosophy of sorts. These are not real correctional philosophies, for they have little to offer when it comes to the management of an inmate population. Nevertheless, two categories of mixedbag philosophies can be discerned. First, there were wardens who sponsored correctional philosophies that are best qualified as middle of the road. These wardens did not relate the causes of crime to detention purposes nor did they openly adhere to either a liberal or a strict interpretation of detention goals. Their philosophy was to aim for all formal detention goals and do the best they could. Just how these goals were to be accomplished they did not know. These wardens typically looked to the central office for broad correctional philosophies that linked administrative methods to penal goals. In the absence of a central philosophy, these wardens tended to do the next best thing: they cast themselves in the role of “people manager” and busied themselves with motivating people, creating a healthy atmosphere, and preventing incidents from happening. Second, there was a group with a rather outspoken philosophy on prison management; but it was an incomplete philosophy, because the correctional dimension of imprisonment was absent. These wardens placed a premium on efficiency. Some wardens seemed preoccupied with “efficient management of a modern prison” and the “new, business-like character” of prison management (Wennekes, 1995:15). Imprisonment should then be “efficient and humane, with minimal personnel and a maximum of electronic equipment” (Wennekes, 1995:15). One deputy warden confessed that he found the process of inmate management “the least interesting part of [his] work.” These wardens controlled their organization by delegation and information management.

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To these wardens, running a prison was little different from managing other organizations, or so they claimed. In such philosophies of prison management, the managerial dimension is emphasized over the correctional dimension.

Prison Practices Observations. At the time of my research, the correctional complex Over-Amstel in Amsterdam held the largest number of inmates (approximately 660 inmates) in the Dutch prison system. The complex comprised six prison organizations housed in separate high-rise buildings. One day, I visited one of the towers. It was a rather festive occasion: the warden had organized a small reception for a student who had just finished an internship in that prison. When the party was about to start, somebody announced that the beer had disappeared from the kitchen. It was clear that inmates were responsible for this theft. The warden and the officers present found this highly amusing. The employees who had left the beer in the kitchen, which was accessible to various inmates, had been “stupid.” No action was initiated, however, to recover the stolen beer; finding the thieves could wait. The reception received top priority, as one would expect in what the warden later described as a “fun culture.” “Fortunately,” the warden announced in a loud but reassuring voice, “I brought more beer.” In a relaxed atmosphere, the party began (with beer). Nieuw Vosseveld, the second largest prison complex (approximately 650 inmates), is located in the wooded outskirts of a friendly little town named Vught. This complex holds five units, one of which is the only maximum-security institution in the Dutch prison system. On a tour through a unit for light offenders, I witnessed the unit manager handle several disciplinary reports that had been issued that day. Two inmates had been booked for what seemed to me a trivial offense. They had apparently suggested to their fellow inmates that one of the guards on duty was stoned. Bringing the “accused” guard with him to the inmates’ cells, the unit manager demanded an explanation. The inmates defended themselves by saying it had all been a joke, triggered by the bloodshot eyes of the guard (who had a cold). The unit manager was not amused. After explaining to the inmates that they had seriously undermined the credibility of his employee, the unit manager offered them a choice. They could apologize on the spot, in which case they would

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receive one day in the punishment cell, or they could refuse and get three days. When we left the building, the unit manager explained that all rule violations were taken seriously: “We have to teach these inmates discipline. Outside, they can’t go around falsely accusing other people. So they’re not allowed to here, either.” I suspect that none of my respondents or few other knowledgeable observers would be surprised to hear about the events witnessed in the two institutions. The Amsterdam facility had a reputation for sloppy management. In 1990, a correctional officer blew the whistle on the availability of large quantities of drugs in the institution. 28 The officer claimed that several colleagues brought drugs and other contraband into the institution. He was eventually fired, but subsequent events corroborated his observation that security issues were neglected (van Hoore, 1993). In January 1993, three inmates escaped by climbing out the window using bedsheets. Within two weeks, four inmates followed suit (using bedsheets again). In April 1993, an officer was suspended because he owned a coffee shop (selling marijuana). In October 1994, one of the biggest drug dealers ever arrested in the Netherlands blew up a wall in a failed escape attempt. A guard was later convicted for bringing the semtex into the institution. During the trial, inmates and officers in closed testimony allegedly exposed a ring of contraband-trading officers selling anything from vodka to semtex.29 In my interview rounds, several wardens (with very different correctional philosophies) brought up the laissez-faire attitude among personnel that had led to a “big mess” and “chaos” in the institution. One warden simply referred to the institution as “a disaster.” Nieuw Vosseveld, on the other hand, has a tough reputation among inmates and correctional workers throughout the system.30 The regime is distinctly disciplinarian in nature. Rules are strictly enforced and deviation is swiftly punished. Prison personnel keep a distance between themselves and the inmates. Employees of Nieuw Vosseveld are proud to work in the most secure institution of the Dutch prison system. Escapes and violence are rare events in Vught. The regime is based on the firm belief that inmates need to learn how to live a structured life. As one senior official explained, “These guys have never known what normal life is. Here we teach them that normal people get up at seven in the morning and go to work. Here we teach them that you have to work to get something you want. We teach them that rules are to be observed. We teach them to take care of themselves. We teach them all the basic things in life.”

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A five-hour television documentary revealed how much leeway inmates are allowed in some other Dutch prisons. In a display of openness, a filmmaker had received permission to record daily prison life in one institution for national television. The documentary shows groups of inmates smoking heroin in full view of anyone passing by; the guards never seem to interfere (at least not while the cameras were rolling). A team of correctional officers discusses the drug problem and reaches the consensus that it is a hopeless case. Warnings rather than punishments are issued for clear rule violations. In short, this was a documented case of laissez-faire management. In the early 1990s, those wardens who were willing and capable had sufficient freedom to mold their organization and the prison’s regime according to their personal philosophies—all within parameters set both within and outside the organization. This appeared to be especially true in the case of new prisons. In Almere, for instance, the regime was described to me as a unique outcome of policy choices and the efforts of unit managers to design their own organizational structure. It was based on the behavioral-therapeutic approach advocated by the warden (a psychologist). Almere opted to differentiate their regime within the institution, whereas another new and nearby institution elected to offer one regime for all inmates. Almere preferred to have more inmates work fewer hours, whereas other institutions selected fewer inmates to work more hours. A rather idiosyncratic feature of the Almere regime was their punishment philosophy: the officers were allowed to offer “settlements” to inmates who violated (minor) rules. The use of marijuana was considered a light offense in this regime.31 Patterns. In the early 1990s, management practices differed significantly across the Dutch prison system. Part of this variety is easily explained as a logical and intended result of correctional differentiation; inmates are categorized using criteria such as sex, age, status, and behavioral characteristics. However, when speaking about variety, policymakers and wardens did not mean designed variety in correctional practices. They referred to variety in operational activities where uniformity was the norm: differences between prisons that are expected to operate in similar ways, at least according to the Prison Act. Prisons with identical classifications were managed in decidedly different ways. This type of variety was not a new phenomenon; it was regularly observed in the 1980s (Nijborg, 1985; van Son, 1986; Kommer, 1991). The differences can be organized along two dimensions.

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First, comparable prison administrations often differed in their interpretation and implementation of central policy and rules with regard to inmate management. In other words, regimes differed. Second, the organization of many prisons—in terms of organizational structure and managerial styles—was characterized by unique features. The differences between prisons were widely known in correctional circles; prison personnel as well as central officials were quick to point out dissimilarities between comparable institutions. Departmental officials confirmed that there were, as one senior policymaker put it, “considerable” regime differences. “There is great variety and the differences are widely acknowledged,” according to another policymaker. The latter official, with prior experience in the field, differentiated between easy and difficult regimes as viewed through the inmates’ eyes. Field executives were more pronounced in their opinions about their own regimes and those of other prisons. A chief representative of the prison wardens association (VDPI) confirmed that “these differences certainly do exist.” Wardens frequently referred to the different approaches toward contraband: “Take soft drugs—institutions have very different [informal] policies. I’m a hardliner when it comes to drugs.” Other wardens were more permissive, at least with regard to soft drugs: “It is kind of weird to be strict, you know, when everybody else can buy a joint in a coffee shop.” Wardens were generally very careful not to place their regime on one extreme end of a strict-loose dimension, but they easily identified with the distinction and were able to position their regime and those of others toward one end or the other. Both wardens and policymakers, surprisingly, were in virtual agreement about a number of regimes apparently belonging on one end of this crude dimension. In several cases, wardens would propose the “perfect” research design: comparing two (in their eyes) identical institutions with markedly different regimes. The regime in De Havenstraat (Amsterdam), for instance, was frequently identified as a prototype of an easy or relaxed regime. In correctional circles, the warden was widely known to be reform oriented (e.g., de Goey, 1994). De Havenstraat has a reputation to uphold when it comes to initiating creative projects aimed at teaching inmates skills that will increase their job perspective when they get out (Wartna and Aidala, 1995). For instance, a group of inmates trained to work on oil platforms; they were guaranteed to get a job when they returned to society with a diploma. Another group of inmates developed software for a large computer company. The regime was characterized as relaxed

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because the house rules were less vigorously applied than in the strict prisons. Not surprisingly, De Havenstraat was often cast against Nieuw Vosseveld; the disciplinarian and rule-oriented regime in Vught was perceived by most respondents as the perfect mirror image of the Amsterdam remand center. Many other mirror images were suggested as well. For instance, respondents frequently cited the differences between Nieuw Vosseveld and Over-Amstel, which were the two largest correctional complexes in the Dutch prison system, as an example of intrasystem variety. Others referred to the century-old prison domes in Haarlem and Breda (the buildings are almost identical). Despite their similar classifications as remand centers, however, the regimes reportedly differed in significant ways. According to Haarlem’s warden, Van Putten, “the emphasis in Haarlem is on education, in Breda it is labor” (see Schoof, 1994). The best example is probably found in the town of Veenhuizen, where two seemingly identical prisons have had very different regimes. Hans Tulkens, former director of the Dutch prison system (1974–1984), first alerted me to the traditional differences between Norgerhaven and Esserheem. The prisons are both located in the same small town where corrections have provided the main source of income since the late nineteenth century. Both prisons basically spring from the same architectural plan; both prisons even shared a general director for a number of years. Yet, Norgerhaven was run according to a decidedly more liberal correctional philosophy than Esserheem. These differences have a long history. De Vries (1995:283) explains why inmates in Esserheem rioted in the summer of 1983: They rioted because they thought living circumstances were better in Norgerhaven. . . . Esserheem and Norgerhaven were both institutions for long-term prisoners and the regimes were officially the same. . . . In reality, the Esserheem regime had been stricter since 1949 [author provides examples]. Warden Kuiper, who had worked in Norgerhaven before, acknowledged that Esserheem had always placed more emphasis on rule enforcement. “Norgerhaven is vague, Esserheem is clearer,” says former deputy warden Henk Kranendonk. “Esserheem adheres more to official instructions.”

The wardens routinely asserted that “every prison has its own culture.” The representatives of the Dutch prison system’s formal watchdog, the Centrale Raad voor de Strafrechtstoepassing (CRS), agreed.32 Departmental officials told the same tale. The annual plans that all

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prison administrations submitted to the Prison Section were displays of variety. Key performance indicators and so-called climate scales indicated that the separate institutions had shaped their own identities. For instance, a comparison between the climate scales of De Havenstraat and HvB Den Bosch showed that inmates in the former institution held more positive perceptions with regard to personal autonomy and the clarity of rules than their counterparts in the other institution (Herbschleb and Zorge, 1992). Performance indicators revealed other interesting differences. For instance, disciplinary measures were used much more frequently in Vught than in most other institutions. The indicators further corroborated the conventional wisdom that holds that Esserheem has a stricter regime than its sister institution Norgerhaven. An analysis of inmate complaints describes significant differences between similar facilities (van Goudoever-Herbschleb, 1994). Wardens managed their institutions in very different ways. One warden was persistently identified—both by field administrators and policymakers—as “the ruler of the fiefdom.” You did not have to spend much time (voluntarily or not) in his prison to understand why. In casual conversations with both higher- and lower-ranking officials in his organization, it would become clear that the warden was perceived as the ultimate authority within that prison. One middle-level employee, appointed by the warden to show me a certain part of the facility, paused in the empty library and—in a whispering voice—relayed a story in which the warden featured prominently as somebody who peered through little windows to check if officers were performing their jobs according to his expectations. Other respondents, who had worked at one time or another in this institution, confirmed the powerful position of this warden. Several departmental officials freely discussed with me the many differences in management performance of wardens. 33 External studies confirm that in some prisons the management team was less concerned with detailed interference on the work floor than other teams were (Kommer, 1991; Vos, 1993; de Wit, 1995). Some wardens practiced hands-on management. They were involved with the smallest details, spent most of their time in the institution—making frequent appearances on the work floor—and had a strong personal impact on the prison’s regime. Other wardens delegated most of the daily management to the lower ranks. Some wardens reported that they were happy to make it out on the work floor once a month. 34 One deputy warden admitted that he would be happy never to go into the prison again (he

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preferred his desk in the administration building). These differences found their ways into organizational structures. Various types of organizational models existed at the time this research took place (de Bruine et al., 1994). In one institution, the so-called linking-pin structure was considered the “natural model for a prison organization,” whereas another had “long ago discarded that model.”35 Most wardens were content with the discretion they possessed and had no problems with the subsequent diversity in management styles and organizational structures. Some wardens favored an increased degree of uniformity, arguing that the existing variety in practices was perceived by inmates as unfair.36 External committees were more critical. In their investigation of prison health care, the Committee Van Dinter (1995) disapprovingly noted the wide variety of practices and level of quality in the prison system. A Labor Inspection report found big differences in the efforts aimed at establishing proper work conditions, which were related to the “idiosyncratic” approaches of the prisons (Arbeidsinspectie, 1998:26). Departmental policymakers often reacted in a resigned but never in a satisfied manner when discussing the cohesiveness of the Dutch prison system. In the early 1990s, this variety in principles and practices was accompanied by considerable tension between the Prison Section and its field administrations (sometimes the entire field). We turn to this center-field tension in the next section. Center-Field Tensions in the Early 1990s During one interview, the warden began exchanging stories with several members of his management team. The conversation quickly focused on the relationship between central headquarters and their institution. Stories flew around the room, as the men recalled how these “prison boys” (referring to themselves) had defied departmental instructions or had otherwise circumvented explicit directions. One story relayed how they had manipulated their budget in order to obtain one or two guard positions that had been previously denied by the department.37 Another war story featured two Justice Department officials who had come to the institution to discuss some security-related topic. Unfortunately for these officials, they had not announced their visit. Even worse, one of the officials did not carry identification (central regulation requires identification before entering a penal institution). To teach them a lesson, the warden discussed the issue with the ID-carrying official at some length, while the other official sat outside the prison perimeters waiting in his

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car. The warden explained his action: “I’ve got the key to the front door, I decide what goes on in here.” In the early 1990s, an independent attitude dominated in many a warden’s room. Wardens focused on their own prison; allegiance to the prison system as a whole seemed less important. In interviews, wardens frequently displayed a highly critical attitude toward their departmental superiors. Many field executives felt that policymakers “don’t know what they are talking about.” One warden explained his amazement upon entering the field in the mid-1980s: “The department was a mess. My mouth fell open when I saw what was going on.” This warden further observed: Policymakers and field administrators have insufficient insights with regard to each other’s situation. . . . Internal communication channels are clogged. . . . Central officials have little feel for reality and they are afflicted with the control idea. Responsibility and accountability are not clearly demarcated at headquarters. This results in “hiding behavior.” No decisions are made.

This independent attitude had a way of developing into declarations of recalcitrance, especially when the discussion narrowed down to the prison’s regime. The Prison Act specified that regimes were to be set by the Justice Department (Kelk, 1993). In practice, however, wardens determined the regime. Wardens generally rejected central interference with operational activities. One warden flatly stated that he did not have a problem with legal parameters, “but they should not interfere with the way I run this prison.” Few wardens felt compelled to comply with each and every central directive: “[Central] instructions disappear in the trash can,” one senior warden boasted. To be sure, some prisons were run by the book rather than by the warden’s personal preferences. But the general picture that emerged of the field is one of organizational fiefdoms governed by wardens. Wardens often justified their self-ascribed influence by referring to their professional status: “We are the experts. We do it in a responsible way and we meet the imposed goals.” Therefore, according to one warden, policymakers should not bother the field with “all kinds of detailed rules.” Wardens often maintained their independent posture in public. For instance, one warden lectured to a room full of students about the limited knowledge of policymakers, the vague parameters, and the importance of leaving wardens alone. In media interviews and public appearances, wardens rarely failed to emphasize that field autonomy was

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the best guarantee for a decent prison system. Only a few wardens would consider the potential drawbacks of intrasystem variety. As one warden phrased it, “We’re all members of the same company; our product group consists of inmates. What disturbs me, and the inmates, is that they find different circumstances wherever they go.” None of the departmental respondents denied that wardens were influential in the execution of central policies. Many policymakers reportedly found “the distance between the Prison Section and the field too big” and were convinced that the field had become “trapped in its own opinions, rules and procedures” (van IJperen, 1994:40). Justice officials may have had ample reasons, but they saw few possibilities of bridging the gap with the field. A senior official explained the central dilemma: “Wardens are bosses. They have to be. Wardens have to carry out a mission. If we would impose a mission from the center, the wardens are demoted to departmental pawns.” Others showed less appreciation when they observed that “the wardens consider their institution the center of the universe.” One senior official, directly tasked with the central management of a number of field institutions, noted the pervasiveness of an us-versus-them mentality. This official found his job very difficult: It’s a large field, with many institutions. Effective communication is tremendously complicated. Building an organizational structure through which the field could be managed has been a permanent wrestling match. . . . Several sector managers were killed in action. . . . It was too difficult for them. The prison field is hard to govern. . . . The wardens felt that the politicians shouldn’t interfere with the prison field. Some wardens simply ignored the department. Budgets were systematically exceeded; when you held them accountable, they thought it was nonsense.

In the early 1990s, this center-field tension erupted several times into bitter conflicts. A certain degree of tension between central and field authorities is to be expected in any system, but the Dutch prison system witnessed a series of conflicts above and beyond normal frictions. Conflicts often centered on seemingly trivial issues such as salary scales and travel expenses. The most serious conflict, described above, occurred in May 1994, when field administrators united to reject their departmental chief and his policies. These incidents testify to a structural fragility of center-field relations. In this regard, we may use the term structural incidentalism: a string of in itself trivial incidents indicated

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that center-field relations had become vulnerable. Just how vulnerable this relation had become, we will discover in a later chapter.

Cohesion in Contrast The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons qualifies as an institution—an organization “infused with value.” A clearly formulated mission defines the goals of the organization. The Bureau philosophy specifies how these goals should be accomplished. The mission is found throughout the system; it is accepted and appreciated by its members to the extent that few people can imagine an alternative way of doing things. To many, the Bureau philosophy is sound correctional management. The BOP mission is matched by operational uniformity that transcends categorical borders. The Bureau philosophy is as powerful in the minimum-security camps as it is in the maximum-security penitentiaries. “If you see the BOP shield on the front gate, then whether it’s Talladega, Memphis, or Bastrop you know how things run inside,” says a warden quoted in DiIulio (1994b:165). Furthermore, the Bureau is characterized by the virtual absence of a wide gap between policymakers and field administrators. The vast majority of BOP members, both at headquarters and in the field, feel they are part of a great organization that they affectionately and often passionately refer to as the Bureau family. The Dutch prison system provides a contrasting but perhaps more conventional picture (DiIulio, 1987; Lewis, 1997). There is no central mission that defines what goals should be achieved or a dominant correctional philosophy that prescribes management principles and administrative methods. The Dutch prison system is better described as an agglomerate of field institutions (some more institutionalized than others). Dutch wardens govern their prisons with different and often very personal philosophies in mind. This variety in principle is accompanied by marked operational differences across the system. If there exists anything similar to organizational pride, it is found within the separate facilities. Allegiance to the system as a whole is a rarity. The absence of central institutionalization was appreciated by many wardens and accepted by most policymakers as a reality. Only recently has this degree of variety been defined as problematic by policymakers in The Hague: “We need a clear mission and vision that everybody can and will want to work with” (Balans, 1999). In the following chapters, I assess to what extent leadership has contributed to the varying degrees of cohesion found in these two systems.

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In Chapter 4, I consider the role of leadership in the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons; leadership patterns in the Dutch prison system are the subject of Chapter 5.

Notes 1. In theories of social psychology, cohesion is understood as the product of all forces attracting individuals to a group (‘t Hart, 1994). I define cohesion here from an organization theory perspective. 2. Regimes can be classified by using the reform-custody dimension, which refers to the prioritization of the formal detention goals (Cressey, 1965). Reform-oriented regimes are perceived both by prison workers and inmates as “relaxed,” whereas custodially oriented regimes are characterized by a more disciplinarian atmosphere (Cressey, 1958). 3. Esprit de corps does not, of course, apply to prison wardens only; policymakers and staff are important to consider as well—and I will do so. However, I argue that the disposition of prison wardens in their dual capacity of key implementers and field leaders provides an excellent gauging point for the esprit de corps within the system (Boin, 1998). 4. The mission statement reads: “The Federal Bureau of Prisons protects society by confining offenders in the controlled environments of prisons and community-based facilities that are safe, humane, and appropriately secure, and which provide work and other self-improvement opportunities to assist offenders in becoming law-abiding citizens.” 5. The Work Group on the Future of Chaplaincy formulated as part of their mission the following goal: “Chaplains will maintain common priorities and values in their professional delivery of pastoral care. . . . Individual differences will never become an excuse for separateness of focus in ministering to the entire community” (Federal Prisons Journal, 1989:5). 6. U.S. corrections workers know the occupational hazards of their line of work: 21 staff members and 390 inmates were murdered in the U.S. prison system between 1985 and 1990 (Levinson, 1994). In 1997 alone, 4 staff members and 79 inmates suffered a violent death. These figures relate to all federal, state, and local correctional facilities. 7. Being locked away from society is the punishment; circumstances in prison should not add to that punishment. 8. As such, it helps to impress Bureau policy upon the inmate population. According to several BOP employees, “Inmates sometimes know Bureau policy better than staff do.” 9. “Staff-inmate and inmate-inmate relationships are guided by basic principles of mutual respect, courtesy and dignity” is a typical admonition found in the guidelines for new personnel. 10. The term is borrowed from DiIulio (1994a). 11. In fact, few things in Bureau institutions seem more important than sanitation. Keeping the institutions spic-and-span has, as DiIulio (1994a:300) notes, “become part of agency lore.”

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12. To be sure, variance in performance exists between federal facilities— even though the variance is quite limited (Camp, Saylor, and Harer, 1997; Wright et al., 1997; Camp, Saylor, and Wright, 1998). The point here is that prison administrations approach the daily business of governing prisons in very similar ways. 13. The classification process refers to the intake procedures prison administrators use to assess the personal history of the inmate. The inmate is then classified in terms of security, programs, and personal needs. 14. The majority of institutions that lack accreditation status are new institutions that have not yet gone through the accreditation process. In 1996, an additional eleven institutions were actively pursuing ACA accreditation. By the end of 1997, eighty-four BOP facilities had JCAHO accreditation. 15. Former director Carlson was not surprised by DiIulio’s (1994a:174) findings: “They administer that process every day. They know it works well, and that it’s certainly a heck of a lot better than any sort of vague, variable process. . . . I’m just not too surprised.” 16. The BOP routinely measures employee commitment to the Bureau facility they work in and commitment to the BOP as a whole. The latter rates consistently higher than the former (on an aggregated scale). See Camp, Saylor, and Gilman (1995). 17. VDPI is the Dutch acronym for Vereniging van leden van het managementteam van onder (het bereik van) het directoraat-generaal jeugdbescherming en delinkwentenzorg vallende inrichtingen, instellingen en diensten in Nederland. It is commonly known as the association of prison wardens, part of the CMHF union for senior public servants. Membership is restricted to the wardens and members of the management teams governing the various categories of institutions within the Dutch prison system. 18. The substance of the reform operation is discussed in Chapter 5. 19. My empirical research stopped in 1997. Recently, the Dutch prison system has shown signs of increased integration as a result of a change in departmental leadership. More on this appears in Chapter 5. 20. I have elected to cite from interviews (throughout the empirical chapters) generally without revealing the identity of my respondents unless citations were taken from open sources or my respondent explicitly allowed for open citations. 21. The outlines of these correctional philosophies are products of my interpretations of interview data (my own interviews and those published in newspapers and magazines). Within these schools of thinking, individual wardens will most likely differ on their operationalization of these philosophies. 22. Interview with warden. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid. 25. de Volkskrant, 12 December 1996, p. 11. 26. Interview with warden. 27. The idea that inmates actually prefer strict regimes over liberal regimes— expressed as well by many inmates I interviewed—is a piece of practitioner’s wisdom that finds support in the prison literature (DiIulio, 1987; Fleisher, 1989; Fleisher, 1995; Johnson, 1996).

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28. de Volkskrant, 16 June 1990. 29. De Telegraaf, 14 July 1995, pp. 1, 6. 30. The rhyme Vught is tucht (Vught means castigation) is a well-known expression in Dutch correctional circles. 31. At the time of my research, the use of soft drugs was also tolerated in at least one other prison (Norgerhaven in Veenhuizen), as the Nationale Ombudsman (1995) reports. 32. Interviews with CRS members. This commission is made up of fortytwo penal experts. The CRS has two functions. It is a watchdog for the entire penal sector, advising the minister of justice at its own discretion. The CRS also plays a judiciary role in the formal inmate grievance procedures. CRS members routinely visit prisons to investigate inmate complaints or to prepare for policy advice. 33. One senior official recommended that I should talk to the “stupids”— “people who make you think How did they ever get in that chair”—and then voluntarily identified them for me. 34. In one prison, I found the warden to be completely unfamiliar with his personnel. 35. Interviews with wardens. 36. In some prisons, for instance, addicted inmates receive methadone as a substitute for drugs. In other prisons, addicted inmates are forced to go cold turkey. In the summer of 1997, the prison doctors received a letter from the Justice Department in which it was observed that this variety “cannot be explained to inmates or to others” (NRC Handelsblad, 20 August 1997, p. 3). 37. At the time of this particular interview (November 1994), prisons received a budget in which nearly all expenditures were specified. Prison administrations now have much more freedom of allocation.

4 The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons: Leadership and Integration

Of course we do it the same way everywhere! Now, but why is that? I’ll tell you the secret. It’s because the BOP clones its people! You see, we’re all descended from the same Alcatraz guard. —BOP regional administrator1

The high degree of institutionalization found in the U.S. federal prison system is not the result of coincidence or fortuitous circumstances. The federal prison system did not have an extraordinary budget.2 The BOP did not achieve operational uniformity by imposing a restricted or purely custodial regime upon its inmate population. The BOP is, as we will see, one of the most progressive prison systems in the United States. Nor is this degree of organizational unity facilitated by an “easy” inmate population. It is sometimes supposed that the BOP has to deal with a different class of inmates as a result of federal crime definitions; white-collar criminals are thought to dominate federal prisons, whereas state prisons have to deal with the violent inmates. However, inmate statistics do not support this assumption (DiIulio, 1991). There is, in effect, no evidence suggesting that societal, political, or cultural forces have exerted an integrative influence on the federal prison system. Cultural or societal factors cannot explain why the federal prison system has been integrated, whereas many state prison systems have long traditions of fragmentation. Political factors cannot sufficiently explain why the BOP is integrated, whereas most other federal agencies are not (Seidman, 1998). The Federal Bureau of Prisons as an institution is the result of institutional design and leadership. In explaining the uniformity in principle 81

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and practice, Norval Morris (1994:viii) points to “the quality of the staff that has over the years been recruited, the staff training programs that have been developed, and the continuity of leadership the bureau has provided.” The history of the BOP is marked by continuing administrative efforts to accomplish, preserve, and expand an integrated system. First, a BOP mission was developed; the abstract goals of incapacitation and reform were translated into a clear philosophy of correctional management. Second, the BOP has infused its workforce with an understanding of the Bureau’s mission and a way of working that is logically related to achieving that mission. Third, the BOP has maintained a degree of autonomy, which has enabled the organization to develop and preserve its mission. In other words, the observed degree of integration in the federal prison system is the outcome of leadership more than anything else. In this chapter, I examine the relationship between central leadership, field leadership, and the level of cohesion in the U.S. federal prison system. In the next three sections, I trace the history of the BOP to uncover its institutional roots and consider how the executive functions have traditionally been fulfilled within the Bureau. In the subsequent sections, I assess field leadership and then argue that the BOP leadership has been so effective over the decades that it has become an institutionalized feature of the “Bureau way of doing things.”

Leadership and Mission: A Tradition of Adaptive Change Institutional Roots: Modernization Through Integration The Federal Bureau of Prisons was founded in 1930 to accomplish the difficult task of modernizing the federal prison system. The few federal prisons that existed at that time were little more than overcrowded hellholes.3 In 1928, a congressional investigation publicly exposed the shocking circumstances in these federal facilities (Roberts, 1994b). The Bureau of Efficiency produced a fact-finding report that documented the “neglect” of federal prisons that “can not long continue.”4 The report identified the independent position of federal wardens as the principal cause of the poor state of affairs. The prisons were operated by political appointees who paid little attention to the Justice Department’s general agent, who was, formally at least, in charge of the federal institutions

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(Keve, 1994a). This “perplexing problem” required “a plan—a correctional policy—broad, humane, and far-sighted” (Moeller, 1980:16). The report stressed the need to “evolve a coordinated and homogeneous federal correctional scheme.” It ultimately led to the legislation that authorized the Federal Bureau of Prisons (Keve, 1994a). The new organization was specifically directed to modernize the federal prisons by centralizing authority in the Bureau’s central office. The traditional independence of set-in-their-ways wardens, who felt more loyalty to their patrons than to central headquarters, had to be curbed. Modernization would be hard to impose, however. The wardens were reluctant to take orders from the new “armchair penologists” in Washington, D.C., and actively resisted central efforts to impose control over the institutions (Keve, 1994a). The warden of McNeil Island (Washington State) reportedly went fishing whenever central office staff came to inspect his prison. The first BOP director, Sanford Bates, angered by insubordination, impressed upon one warden that “we have the right enjoined upon us by law and the duty to insist that things which are wrong shall be brought to your attention, and that they shall be righted at the earliest opportunity” (Roberts, 1990a:54). The young agency staff was eager to introduce modern prison management into the federal system. Director Bates, a leading reformer of his time, had brought with him a rehabilitation-oriented philosophy.5 In a national radio address in 1929, Bates urged “a rigorous, yet humane, scientific, yet common sense, progressive, yet protective program of penal reform” (Alexander, 1980:3). The first director distinguished between a “defensive and an offensive side to prison administrative work.” On the defensive side, the federal prison administrator “must do what he can do to keep the institutions clean, honestly administered, and free from scandal” (Bates, 1936:215). Offensively, the administrator must “progress constantly towards the realization of the higher ideals of penology.”6 Bates (1936:25) believed that “with the aid of science” the BOP would build “what some day may become a model system” of correctional management. In his thinking, Bates sought to achieve a balance between the goal of incapacitation and the ambition to reform the criminal personality. His position on the new “supermax” Alcatraz facility—laid out in a letter to Attorney General Cummings in 1933—illustrates the Bureau’s early commitment to both public safety and inmate rehabilitation: I would object to putting too much emphasis upon the irreclaimability of the men who are to be sent to this institution. We should, of

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course, welcome an additional institution because of the opportunity for further classification that it gives us, but our prison system is built upon the hope that every man has the germ of reform somewhere in him. . . . While we do have a group of desperate men . . . and while I approve separation into institutions of maximum security for these men I cannot help recording my belief that this small number of men should not . . . blind people to the importance of the Federal prison work as an opportunity for rehabilitation. (Ward, 1994:83)

First Efforts From the beginning, Bureau staff “began the work of reorganizing, strengthening, and designing a complete new approach” to prison administration (Alexander, 1980:2). The Bureau acquired new facilities to ameliorate the overcrowding in the existing ones. Because of the overcrowding, Bates told the nation in his 1929 radio address, “the real work of our federal prisons, personal reconstruction, has had to be deferred” (Alexander, 1980:3). Individualized inmate programs in education, training through meaningful labor, and counseling were viewed as the key to rehabilitation. Therefore, all institutions were instructed to develop a system of individualized treatment. Director Bates personally traveled across the country to observe various individualized treatment programs and hired staff members who had developed programs that Bates thought would be appropriate for the Bureau. Social service units, libraries, education departments, physicians, psychologists, and classification officers were introduced into the federal prisons.7 The Bureau’s preoccupation with modern prison management did not mean that slack discipline and inmate idleness would be tolerated; Bates warned the institutions not to “take on a country club atmosphere” (Roberts, 1990a:54). The new staff members who were sent into the prisons from Washington, D.C., entered a world in which custodial management consisted of little more than counting, frisking, marching, and enforcing strict discipline. Traditionally, responsibility for the daily management of the institution belonged to the deputy warden and his cadre of captains and lieutenants (Alexander, 1980; Moeller, 1980). The newly advocated ways of prison management met with incomprehension and resistance. As one warden told his new classification officer, “Well, those armchair penologists in Washington have thought up some new jobs, and I guess you will be doing one of them, but I haven’t the remotest idea what it will be.”8 The ambitious administrators kept pressing for modern management and more humane treatment of inmates. Change did not come overnight, however. In the Bureau’s first systemwide policies (issued 1 May 1930),

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an innovation was formalized that became known as the Prisoners’ Mail Box (Robbins, 1994). The federal wardens were instructed to place a mailbox in their institution so that inmates could send letters of complaint directly to headquarters. This grievance procedure was a vast improvement upon existing procedures and, as such, was far ahead of its time (decades later state inmates would go to court over the right to correspond directly with judges and lawyers). Federal wardens did not accept this means of central oversight with great enthusiasm. Even though the Bureau of Prisons Act was intended to vest control of the institutions in the newly established organization, “four years after the act wardens were still dictating policies of their institutions” (Robbins, 1994:123). The expansion of the federal prison system provided the central office with an opportunity to accelerate the reform process. In 1932, the Bureau opened a new institution in Lewisburg (Pennsylvania) that, according to Director Bates, was “a new idea in prisons” and “an experiment in penology” (Roberts, 1990a:51, 55). The architecture—with its Italian Renaissance style, its combination of dormitories and cells, and its quarantine area for newcomers—reflected the ambitious ideas that had pervaded the young Bureau staff. The Lewisburg staff was new as well; most were fresh out of the BOP training school. One of the most important innovations was the establishment of a classification committee, the Bureau innovation that had evoked so much resistance in the other prisons. The signs seemed to warrant a sense of optimism. Even the newly selected warden, Henry Hill, seemed to agree with the adoption of new programs and procedures. However, the Lewisburg warden was used to doing things his way. Hill reportedly “ran afoul of the Bureau, and he was pleased to stand his ground in spite of prodding from the Central Office” (Roberts, 1990a:54). The early days of the BOP were thus characterized by efforts to impose a new way of correctional thinking upon a reluctant, traditiondriven, and fairly independent group of field administrators. It was not until the older administrators were eased out of the federal system that new wardens with allegiance to headquarters could take their place (Alexander, 1980; Roberts, 1990a; Keve, 1991). With the opening of new institutions, Director Bates could gradually promote new talent and pursue his reform-oriented philosophy. Even though the Bureau experienced many difficulties in the effort to bring the prisons under central control, the seeds for integration were planted. In this formative period, central policymakers developed a clear idea of how the federal prison system should be governed. A certain

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degree of centralization was found necessary, because Director Bates (1936:204) believed that federal prisons would “not function properly without some supervising agency.”9 Modernization, in other words, required a strong central office: There is strength in uniformity. There is a certain security in feeling that one is part of a larger system. One cannot get the best results from maintaining a single institution. It is only when standards can be compared, when the experience of each man can be made available for the guidance of others, that progress is possible. (Bates, 1936:207)

At the same time, Bates (1936:205) realized that effective prison management required a strong warden: “There can be but one supreme authority in any penal institution, and that is the warden.” The resulting tension between a strong central office and the supreme authority of the warden posed a “delicate problem” for the director. For instance, Bates (1936:205) understood that supervisory control “obviously should guide or restrain institutional management but not so far as to relieve the institution of responsibility for working out its own destiny.” The director found the solution in the combination of clearly formulated rules and extensive twoway communication between the central office and the wardens. In a system of central authority, wardens would be granted an important advisory position in the policymaking process and a strong executive position in the implementation of central directives. Director Bates introduced frequent conferences and field visits to facilitate center-field communications. The director further realized that potential center-field gaps could arise as a result of a particular supervisory mentality. Bates (1936:211–212) therefore admonished that “supervision does not become intermeddling” and warned that policies should be “modern but not fantastic; they should be scientifically devised but not sentimental; they should keep in mind the fundamental objectives in penal work.” This philosophy of governance would shape the administrative relationship between the central office and the field administrations for decades to come. Institutionalization: Toward the “Bureau Way of Doing Things” When James Bennett succeeded Bates as director in 1937, he built on the foundations laid by his predecessor. This was expected, as Bennett had played an instrumental part in the formative years of the Bureau. He

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was the author of the Bureau of Efficiency report that had exposed the shortcomings of the old federal prison system. Then, as assistant director, Bennett had been involved in drafting the legislation that had created the legislative mandate for the Bureau. In his thinking, Bennett was close to Bates. During his long tenure as BOP director (1937–1964), Bennett was the driving force behind the institutionalization process that would lead to a widespread recognition and appreciation of the “Bureau way of doing things.” Bennett (1970:13) viewed criminals as victims of society. Criminals were not only deficient in “religious education, moral training and character building,” they also lacked the necessary skills to get a job. From this basic belief, Bennett (1970:14) derived a mission for the BOP: “The prisons ought to provide education in useful skills and in orderly ways, compulsorily with stern discipline and no possibility of escape.” His general philosophy linked up with the Bureau’s two-track strategy. Starting with the basics, Bennett insisted throughout his tenure on the need to provide inmates with a decent and safe living environment. In addition, Bennett sought to pursue the goal of rehabilitation. During Bennett’s tenure, rehabilitation was strongly emphasized. Because the first years of the Bureau had led to a marked improvement of living circumstances in the federal prison system, Bennett concentrated on what Bates had referred to as the offensive side of prison management. Bennett (1970:11) saw it as his job “to devise and manage a system of corrections that really corrects.” This, as Bennett (1970:84) perceived it, was part of the Bureau’s founding mission: I called for the establishment of the first federal prison bureau in our history. . . . The first business of the new bureau would be to humanize prison life and set an example to reformers in the states. . . . All of this new system ought to be keyed, in the language of the statute, to a plan of rehabilitation. The theme would be “the individualized discipline, care and treatment of prisoners.”

The abstract goals were translated into concrete initiatives. For instance, steps were taken to purge federal prisons of guard brutality against inmates; guards were no longer permitted to carry nightsticks, and wardens could no longer take away good-conduct credits from inmates without approval from central office. Serious infractions committed by inmates were dealt with in formal ways; inmates were brought before court rather than being subjected to internally devised sanctions. Prison life was humanized by improving food rations, abolishing outdated rules, expanding recreational facilities, and improving visiting rooms.

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Throughout his tenure, Bennett would direct both wardens and inspectors to see to it that “good housekeeping prevails”; staff was ordered to be neat and orderly in appearance, and inmates were to be “reasonably well-clothed.” Because “nothing was more important to the morale and well-being” of an institution than the quality of food service, food was to be both appetizing and nutritious (Roberts, 1994c:33). These rules and regulations were captured and further specified in the Manual of Policies and Procedures—which by 1942 was two fists or 800 pages thick.10 But Bennett wanted more than just a decent living environment for inmates. During his tenure, several concrete (and lasting) initiatives were developed that, as Bennett believed, were highly effective in rehabilitating criminals. One initiative was the development of a rational and “scientific” prisoner classification system (Levinson, 1994). In his congressional report, Bennett had emphasized the need for a differentiated system, with specialized institutions for various inmate categories. By selecting the right institution for each inmate, a beginning could be made with the system of individualized discipline, care, and treatment. Bennett consistently supported the initiatives of his staff to install a more rational and objective classification, which would replace the traditional method built around the deputy warden’s discretion. Another concrete initiative to further rehabilitation was found in the efforts to provide inmates with meaningful labor (Bennett, 1970:88–89; Moeller, 1980:20; Keve, 1994b). Labor would serve several purposes. It would keep inmates occupied and it would teach them the necessary skills to survive on the outside. Inmate labor had always been strongly opposed on the grounds that it undercut free labor and private business. As a result, U.S. prisons were filled with idle inmates. In addition to such work assignments as institutional housekeeping, farming, and public service, the Bureau in 1934 established Federal Prison Industries, Inc.—later renamed UNICOR. In this industries program, inmates produced durable goods, for sale to the government only, such as office furniture, draperies, canvas bags, brooms and brushes, military apparel, eyewear, army helmets, and electronic components. With inmates making money and learning skills—and the Bureau earning money as well— the industries program became the key to “safe prison management, rehabilitation, and fiscal stability within the new prison system” (Roberts, 1994b:11). The industries program has remained a pillar of inmate management in the Bureau to this day (Seiter, 1990; Roberts, 1996). Innovative programs and correctional experiments would become a BOP trademark; the Bureau has been widely viewed as a pioneer of

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correctional programs and a model for other prison systems (Carlson, 1971b; Alexander, 1980; Levinson, 1994). Innovative programs were initiated in the face of political and pragmatic constraints, as Bennett believed that certain programs were “morally appropriate, notwithstanding lack of political and financial backing” (Robbins, 1994:137). The director lashed out against “lid-sitters” who were content with the status quo and who failed to identify or remedy problems aggressively. . . . Instead of complacency, Bennett advocated a “ferment, lively experimentation, [and a] lack of ‘doing-things-this-way-because-it’s-alwaysbeen-done-so’” attitude. He urged administrators to “keep abreast of developments in the management field,” to experiment and conduct research, and to undergo critical self-appraisal. (Roberts, 1994c:37)

For instance, the Bureau pioneered the concept of open institutions. These prisons without fences or guard towers have been used for minimum-custody prisoners in the BOP since 1930.11 In the early 1960s, the Bureau started experimenting with residential Pre-Release Guidance Centers, which were intended to help prepare youthful offenders for release (Glaser, 1964; Moeller, 1980; Roberts, 1989; Way, 1992). To further the goal of rehabilitation, the Bureau planned an institution in Butner, North Carolina, for the diagnosis and treatment of emotionally disturbed offenders.12 A Combination of Hands-On and Consultative Management The Bureau’s policy of correctional experimentation and innovation— within the parameters of order and discipline—was accompanied by a centralized and very personalized model of supervision and control. From the outset, “a decision was reached that the administration of the Bureau would require strong, highly centralized control of its activities” (Moeller, 1980:17). The formal system of extensive Bureau regulations was matched by Director Bennett’s obsession with even the tiniest details. Bennett wrote his wardens “round-robin letters” in which he explained policy, debated all sorts of developments, and reminded wardens of procedures (Roberts, 1990b). In these letters, Bennett cautioned his wardens “not to keep pets on the reservation, expressed concern that inmates were permitted to watch too much television, suggested that institutions cease awarding cigarettes as prizes in inmate athletic competitions” (Roberts, 1994c:29).

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Through his letters, Bennett also communicated his philosophy of prison management. In 1937, Bennett wrote a letter to Warden White, expressing his “presumption” that the wardens were “not so encumbered by administrative details that they cannot regularly get out into the institution and become acquainted with the problems, at first hand, of the inmates” (Roberts, 1990b:48). Bennett would frequently reiterate the necessity of “seeing and being seen and at the same time letting those who see you know who you are and what kinds of things you believe in and what sort of policies you will follow” (Roberts, 1990b:54). These “suggestions” were not to be taken lightly. The Bureau’s control model included inspections; teams of five to ten members would travel to the institutions and audit the functional areas (management, personnel, accounting, inmate programs, and the like) during their stay of three to five days (Keve, 1991; Roberts, 1994c). Bennett would personally review inspection reports as well as the reports of financial auditors. The director would also visit the institutions himself. This hands-on style of management should not be confused with a simple military-style command structure. Bennett’s management philosophy included both his staff and field leaders in the decisionmaking process. The introduction of a new classification system in the early 1930s, and the initial resistance encountered in the institutions, had resulted in a deliberate strategy to involve wardens and their staff in the decisionmaking process (Keve, 1991). This early experience laid the foundation for the emergence of “consultative management” (Moeller, 1980:21). Regular meetings were held between the director and his central office staff. Bennett expected his wardens to behave likewise, as he urged them in a 7 March 1939 letter “to meet as frequently as possible with the officers and the employees of the institution, listen to their problems, and discuss ways and means of correcting situations which may make for friction, discord, suspicion and jealousy” (Roberts, 1990b:49). The consultative management concept led to periodic warden conferences, which began in 1938. Bennett viewed these conferences—as he did all forms of supervision—as vehicles of problem solving. These meetings provided the central office with feedback on existing policies and procedures and helped to test the water for future policy initiatives.13 In addition, the conferences were excellent forums for explaining the rationale behind policies. The conferences further served as opportunities to assess the course of the organization and the progress made, to learn about new ideas in the field, and to get an overall feel for

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the functioning of the organization. When the Dutch prison director E.A.M. Lamers visited the federal prison system in the early 1950s, he was impressed with the teamwork that characterized the relationship between Bureau headquarters and staff members in the field.14 During his twenty-seven-year tenure, Director Bennett and his staff formulated the goals of the organization, set the parameters for field discretion, and guarded the big picture through hands-on management and close supervision. Within these parameters, Bennett welcomed and encouraged the input of field administrators. This essentially paternalistic management philosophy was described to the wardens by Bennett himself in 1944: Another reason for this conference is to help everyone remember that we are a united organization and that what affects one part of it has repercussions on the system as a whole. . . . What I am trying to say is that we must all work together. Even though you as individuals disagree with the policies of the Bureau in some respects, you must subordinate your views to the general policies we have adopted. I am glad to talk out those policies and discuss them in detail, but once the policies have been settled, I expect them to be carried out wholeheartedly and unquestioningly. There is no other answer. (Quoted in Moeller, 1980:23)

Adapting the Mission In 1964, Director Bennett retired.15 The Bureau effectively controlled its institutions; the federal prison system had been expanded with new prisons that were characterized by innovative designs. With his small staff, Bennett had brought the federal prisons into the modern age, pioneering new and progressive methods of human care and rehabilitation. The question was whether the Bureau would manage to continue its course. Two potential problems could eventually threaten the Bureau’s mission. First, the correctional mission itself—keyed in the language of rehabilitation—was becoming subject to debate. Second, nearly three decades of personalized leadership made it difficult for any successor to assume command. In the first years following Bennett’s retirement, the Bureau’s course was maintained under the directorship of Bureau veteran Myrl Alexander. Director Alexander’s relatively short tenure (1964–1970) was later characterized as “a headlong rush towards the so-called Medical

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Model of corrections; a correctional model based on the theory that prisoners can be ‘cured’” (DiIulio, 1991:24).16 But Alexander did little more than build upon the existing philosophy and expand the range of projects initiated during Bennett’s tenure (Hershberger, 1979). When Alexander was asked, much later, to talk about the Medical Model, he explained that it was never perceived as such: “I never heard it called the Medical Model until after I retired. We simply called it ‘training/ management classification’” (Corrothers, 1994:177). By the time Alexander retired, the hopeful belief in rehabilitation had seen its best days. Congressional funding for training programs was cut (Clark, 1971). The BOP mission had become vulnerable. Under the new director, Norm Carlson, Alexander’s handpicked successor, the Bureau went through a period of transformation. An important development in this respect was the explicit reformulation of the BOP mission in 1975. The rationale behind this adaptation was partly found in the diminishing societal and political legitimacy—this was the time of Watergate, Vietnam, and Attica—with regard to ambitious (and expensive) government programs (Frank, 1974). The perception had gradually developed, both inside and outside the organization, that the Bureau had become too rehabilitation oriented. The idea of rehabilitation was further undermined by a number of well-publicized research findings that seemed to indicate that rehabilitation programs were ineffective (Martinson, 1974; DiIulio, 1991; Keve, 1991). In addition, Bureau facilities were confronted with increasing rates of violence in the early 1970s (Karacki, 1991). Pressure rose from within the Bureau to upgrade security measures. The mission change was further motivated by future contingencies (Carlson, 1976). The increasing inmate population and the somber forecasts, hardening public attitudes toward criminals, gloomy economic projections, and recent interventions by the courts in the administration of prisons were all factors that required the BOP to concentrate on the basic goals of corrections. If the trends continued, an ambitious interpretation of the BOP mission could very well be held against the Bureau in the foreseeable future. The Bureau assumed partial responsibility for the discrepancy that had developed between public expectations and actual results. The exaggerated expectations, as Carlson (1975:39) explained, was partly due to the “emergence of inaccurate and confusing terminology in corrections.” The increased use of medical and mental health terms was a logical consequence of the many correctional innovations that took place during the 1960s, but these terms “strongly suggest far more expertise

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than we . . . possess for changing offenders” (Carlson, 1975:39, 1976). 17 The Bureau publicly moved away from the rehabilitation ideal: The most perplexing question that faces us today is how do we change offenders? The simple answer is, we don’t know. . . . Until the psychiatrists, the psychologists, the social scientists and the other behavioral disciplines can give us clearer, fuller explanations of what motivates criminal behavior, we can’t change offenders. All we can do is offer offenders encouragement and tools to change themselves. . . . We have tended to overplay “rehabilitation” and dismiss the effects of retribution and deterrence from incarceration. (Carlson, 1975:39)

The “realignment of emphasis between our missions,” as Carlson (1975: 40) phrased it, meant a renewed appreciation of the basic goals: ridding the system of overcrowded, filthy, and overall degrading institutions. This was necessary, as Director Carlson told the Corrections Digest (1974), because at least four federal prisons resembled the “Bastille of pre-Revolutionary France.” By reformulating the rehabilitation goal in terms of “facilitating change,” the Bureau followed the suggestions made by Norval Morris in his 1974 book, The Future of Imprisonment. Morris argued that inmates could not be coerced into change and that, therefore, prison administrators should offer rehabilitative programs only to those who wished to change. “Norval Morris gave respectability to what many of us believed,” explains Carlson. “He came out as a distinguished professor of law and said the same thing that many of us had thought for a number of years: that we in corrections could not coerce or force change” (Corrothers, 1994:178). The mission change was not mere rhetoric aimed at placating critics. In line with the new mission, the Bureau abandoned the experimental search for rehabilitation programs and started concentrating again on basic issues of security, safety, and decency. Experimental institutions such as the Kennedy Youth Center “joined” the Bureau again. Treatment aspects were significantly limited: counseling declined substantially, work and study releases were virtually eliminated, halfway houses were closed, and inmate advisory groups were prohibited (Karacki, 1991). The Bureau adapted its operating philosophy, which—it is still in place today—holds that “as long as appropriate perimeter security is maintained and internal controls over tools, keys, and inmate movement are exercised, a fairly open and relaxed atmosphere can be promoted within the institution” (Karacki, 1991:28). The new operating philosophy was operationalized through the adoption of unit management (Karacki, 1991; Houston, 1995).18

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Building an Enforcement Machine The implementation of the adapted mission in an expanding system required central direction. Carlson restructured the Bureau in ways that reinforced the traditional management philosophy: central supervision and tight control, with a strong reliance on the expertise of Bureau wardens. To cope with its increasing size, the Bureau was divided into five regions each with its own headquarters and regional director. The regional directors and their staff acted as liaisons between the field institutions and the central office. It was a controversial topic within the Bureau, as some feared that the regional offices would act as semiautonomous decisionmaking centers (DiIulio, 1990b). Yet, Carlson felt that this move was absolutely necessary because the Bureau was growing so fast that control administered from one point would become impossible. A related development was the creation of an Executive Staff, consisting of the director, assistant directors, regional directors, and the director of the National Institute of Corrections. The Executive Staff plays a crucial part in strengthening what is commonly referred to in the Bureau as the “policy cycle.” Building on the tradition of field input, the policy cycle has formalized the consultative management style of policymaking in the Bureau. In its periodic meetings, the Executive Staff reviews all policy initiatives and decisions. Although the director remains ultimately responsible, the Executive Staff functions as a communications channel between policymakers and the field. New policy initiatives can be run down the line through the regional directors; feedback on existing policies is channeled back to Washington headquarters. The Executive Staff is the forum in which the outcomes of the periodic audits of the institutions are discussed. The regional directors, in turn, are in the position to report policy decisions back to the field institutions. Formal structure and informal mechanisms of supervision and oversight were carefully balanced under Carlson. Just as Bennett had done, Carlson relied on his very personal management style. Carlson considered it important to organize “multiple channels of information” to keep abreast of what was going on in the field. A reliance on information highways and key indicators would not suffice.19 The formal system of control and supervision, however well organized, would have to be complemented by personal observation.20 Intuition based on direct observation provided Carlson with his own key indicators of field performance and compliance. For instance, Carlson believed that a meas-

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ure of institutional performance is found in the direct interaction with inmates: “The single most important indicator of a well-run institution is eye-to-eye contact with inmates. Do they look you in the eye or do they look away? Will they respond when you say good morning?” If they do, the facility is well run, according to conventional prison wisdom. Carlson also demanded that his wardens “walk and talk all day.” The director led by example, traveling incessantly throughout his tenure (forty to forty-five weeks a year). A typical visit to an institution would start out with breakfast in the inmate dining hall: “It shows that we are not too good for them. We eat the same breakfast they eat. We’re not special.” Then Carlson would walk and talk his way through the institution, examining every nook and cranny of the compound, communicating with both staff and inmates. Through his visits, Carlson conveyed a visible and approachable image of the central office—“see and be seen by staff.” The visits provided the director with direct and unfiltered communication lines with his field personnel. The visits also helped to build rapport. Taking field personnel seriously, Carlson believed, is the key to field compliance with central policy.21 Carlson had very little tolerance for violation of the Bureau’s core values. For instance, Carlson’s fanaticism with cleanliness was well known throughout the Bureau. The “big Norm norm” specified that kitchens, living units, and, in fact, all other areas should be as clean as possible: “If Norm walked into an institution and it was filthy, the warden may not have his job there the next day,” says retired Warden Rison. As another warden put it: He didn’t have to persuade any of us that good sanitation contributes to an orderly, professional operation. . . . But he took it pretty damn far. God forbid if Norm found a cigarette butt on your floor. God forbid if he saw dirty window glass, litter on the floor, or dull, unpolished, messy offices. As we used to say, “With Norm, no ifs, ands, or cigarette butts.” (DiIulio, 1994a:300)

Carlson was absolutely allergic to any type of inmate abuse by staff members. In one of his first warden conferences, Carlson walked into the room and wrote across the chalkboard NO MORE HOUSEBOYS. A long tradition of inmates working in the warden’s house was abolished. Unnecessary violence against inmates would lead to demotion or, more commonly, dismissal from the Bureau: “If staff used appropriate force, I backed them to the hilt,” Carlson explained to Earley (1993:265), “but if they used it inappropriately and simply thumbed inmates, I did the best

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I could to get them fired and prosecuted. I felt the message had to get out loud and clear that this was not the way we’re going to operate.” Bureau workers did get the message. In the USP Lompoc, for instance, Fleisher (1989:174) found that “physical or verbal abuse was not tolerated by the administration, the senior correctional staff, the Federal Bureau of Prisons, or the inmates” (Earley, 1993:303–304; Silberman, 1995). During his long tenure (1970–1987), Carlson strictly enforced the core values of the Bureau through a mix of reorganizations, tough decisionmaking, personal inspections, and frequent appearances in agency meetings, seminars, and award ceremonies. When the director would visit an institution, “staff would be busy for days in advance to make it look right.”22 Bureau historian John Roberts describes Carlson as a strong director: “When Norm wanted something done, it was done.” But it would be a mistake to attribute his strong directorship to a dictatorial management style: “He managed through consensus.” Carlson commanded a “high degree of loyalty and commitment” throughout the Bureau ranks, a degree of respect that eventually “transcended the person to the position of the director.”23 Nevertheless, “some people were intimidated by him.”24 A decade after his departure, Carlson is still recognized within the Bureau: “I talked to Norm the other day and I still stand at attention, I call him ‘Sir,’ and obviously his influence continues to permeate the BOP,” wrote retired Warden Rison in a personal communication. Coping with Explosive Growth: The Strategic Management Cycle The rebalanced mission was not tampered with by Carlson’s successors. Mike Quinlan, who succeeded Carlson as director in 1987, made a “strict and clear commitment to the mission and values that had successfully moved the organization through periods of uncertainty brought by change” (Rison, 1996:103). The director affirmed the Bureau’s commitment to “maintain secure, safe and humane correctional institutions” and recited the importance of a “balanced application of the concepts of punishment.” Director Quinlan’s (1990:5) interest in encouraging “society to take responsibility for its offenders” did lead to a “greatly expanded program of volunteerism,” but it did not significantly affect the Bureau’s mission or its way of operating. The current BOP director, Kathleen Hawk, remains firmly committed to the Bureau’s philosophy. In one of her first public statements, Hawk (1992) pledged to ensure a continuation of Bureau tradition.

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This continuing commitment to provide programs for those inmates who want to take advantage of them is remarkable in view of the Bureau’s spectacular growth since this mission was formulated. In 1970, the Bureau was “rehabilitating” some 20,000 inmates. In 1980, the rebalanced mission applied to 25,000 inmates. When Quinlan was sworn in as director in 1987, the inmate population had risen to 48,000. In 1992, Director Hawk’s pledge to “offer opportunities” applied to some 80,000 inmates. In 1996, the Bureau neared the 100,000 mark. The rising number of young offenders facing long sentences without parole posed an additional challenge to the Bureau’s mission; these inmates have little to gain from the Bureau’s self-help program (Corrothers, 1994; Roberts, 1994b). “With so many new line staff, managers and institutions,” the BOP annual statement records, “the Bureau’s need for a consistent interpretation of policy, management expectations, and evaluation standards has never been greater” (FBOP, 1992:10). In other words, if the BOP were to preserve its mission in times of unprecedented expansion, the Bureau’s two-way policymaking system and the enforcement machine would have to be strengthened. To ensure an uninterrupted implementation of Bureau policy, both Quinlan and Hawk further formalized the traditional way of policymaking and the conventional mechanisms of central oversight. With regard to the policymaking process, the Bureau invested in a combination of information technology and the expansion of central office staff. The process of oversight was improved and depersonalized by introducing a formal system of program reviews. The revised system of policymaking and implementation was still rooted in the traditional system of planning and control that was essentially developed in the founding days of the Bureau. Planning and control mechanisms are integrated into the so-called Strategic Management Cycle (Green, 1989a). This term refers to the elaborate process through which the central office sets policy, evaluates outcomes, and initiates corrective action. The stated purpose of the planning process “is to ensure the organization’s goals and objectives are agreed upon, communicated, and understood throughout the organization.”25 This should not be understood as “running institutions ‘by consensus,’ but it does mean allowing everyone’s voice to be heard” (Quinlan, 1989:14). A brief review of the various stages of the policymaking process, and the offices involved, shows how the Bureau has developed since the days of personalized control exercised by the former directors. All policy initiatives and policy changes are run through a clearance

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process. Proposed policy is reviewed in the Executive Staff, which provides assistant directors and regional directors with an opportunity for critical input before the director approves policy and it is implemented. The Office of National Policy Review (NPR), established in 1990, reviews all policy documents to ensure consistency with other Program Statements. Policies are also balanced against criteria of feasibility and, very important, liability (inmates are known to pursue policy inconsistencies in court). Furthermore, the NPR reviews, rewrites, and tracks policy initiatives through the various stages of the policymaking process. The challenge, NPR officials say, is to package central directives into field language: “We try to look at it from the field perspective. If you are the user, we want to make sure you understand it.” The NPR officials see it as their task to make sure that policy has been cleared, through the regional directors, with the field. The NPR office refuses to “let policy fly” when it is not adequately formulated or if officials suspect that a particular initiative has not been adequately considered in the field. The clearance process contributes to the traditional two-way street character of the Bureau’s policymaking process: Policy can’t be abstract; the field has to work and live with policy. Their offices are often not located in the front office, but in the midst of the compound—they can’t hide from the inmates. . . . Policy has been around and it has been discussed with the field before it becomes policy. . . . We get input from the best people in the world, our people in the field. . . . The Bureau is often described as a paramilitary organization, but I don’t see it.26

The implementation of Bureau policy is monitored in the central office’s Program Review Division (PRD). With the creation of this central division in 1988—program review used to be the responsibility of regional headquarters—the Bureau signaled its intention to maintain operational uniformity in a rapidly expanding organization. The PRD formulates evaluation guidelines for each of the Bureau’s fourteen program areas.27 At regular intervals, each institution is visited by a Program Review Team. For instance, a team of food experts will spend a week in one institution to evaluate its food program. A Program Review Team consists of representatives selected from headquarters, regional offices, and the field. The institutions do not wait for these teams to expose shortcomings in their programs; field staff regularly conduct selfevaluations in all program areas. The wardens actually welcome the review process, claims Assistant Director Kane: “They reach out to head-

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quarters: What can we do to make it work?” But, Kane admits, failure or incompetence is not tolerated. Rison (1996:236) notes that, indeed, “some staff” are bothered by the subjectivity of some program reviews (Fleisher, 1996). The Strategic Management Cycle is supported by various forms of information management and data gathering (Rausch, 1994).28 Since 1988, the Office of Research and Evaluation has regularly conducted so-called social climate surveys, which provide the central office with indicators on an institution’s work environment as well as the quality of life for inmates. An extension of the climate survey is found in the Institution Character Profile (ICP). A team headed by the regional director visits the institution—walking and talking—to conduct a more informal assessment of the prison’s management activities, staff and inmate morale, and community and law enforcement relations (Fleisher, 1996). In line with Bureau tradition, the ICP has two functions. On the one hand, the visiting team reaffirms and explains how policies should be implemented, meanwhile gathering field input on the feasibility of centrally formulated directives. On the other hand, the ICP serves to reinforce the Bureau’s core values. The Bureau has literally outgrown the traditional mechanisms of personal supervision and policy enforcement. It is simply impossible for top-ranking officials to subject eighty-five institutions to periodic and personalized reviews. Policy is no longer explained by circulating round-robin letters, as Bennett was fond of doing, nor is it enforced through a walking-and-talking director such as Carlson. The Bureau did not do away with these mechanisms, however. The weekly Monday Morning Highlights communicates messages from Bureau headquarters, and BOP directors still make frequent visits to Bureau facilities. But the old-fashioned personalized two-way information street has been supplanted by a massive information highway optimistically referred to as the Strategic Management Cycle. When top-ranking Bureau veterans refer to the “policy circle from hell,” they must be reminiscing about the old days when the Bureau was small enough to facilitate personal and often face-to-face communications. The inevitable formalization of the policymaking and supervision process has burdened the Bureau in two ways. First, the modern way of consultative management has made the policymaking process a time-consuming one. “There is some frustration, everywhere, over the time it takes to get a policy implemented,” admits one central staffer. Some policies take up to fourteen months to make it through the clear-

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ance process. Second, policy change may be hard to achieve, because controversial policy issues can get sidetracked. These problems are considered the price to be paid for a valued and effective way of maintaining the “Bureau way of doing things.” The modernized way of governing a prison system thus helps to preserve the mission that can be traced back to the BOP’s early days.

Leadership and Inculcation A system of eighty-five institutions and 30,000 employees requires more than a clear mission and an intricate policy control cycle if the institutional character is to be preserved. Employees must somehow be encouraged to accept the goals of the organization, and they must be enabled to perform in line with the mission of the organization. New recruits must learn the ways of the organization, and senior employees should be constantly reminded. This task of inculcating the organization’s members with the organization’s core values falls within the leadership domain. In the Bureau’s early days, the small staff in Washington, D.C., understood that the federal prisons could be controlled only by controlling the wardens. The required mentality change took time. Political appointees had to be eased out of the system and replaced by a new generation of prison leaders. Newly hired wardens often proved as stubborn as their predecessors (Keve, 1991). The Bureau learned that an entire generation of field staff could not simply be replaced with more capable, progressive, and compliant administrators. Enlightened prison workers were not widely available. Change had to be engineered through a system of what is referred to today as human resource management. Beginning with Bates, all directors have worked to build, improve, and maintain a comprehensive system of inculcation. The most telling indicator of the effectiveness of the inculcation process is the apparent ease with which Bureau membership has more than doubled without losing the sense of family—Bureau veterans now speak of “extended family”—throughout the ranks. The commitment to the Bureau family often lasts for life, as the active membership of the Federal Prison Retirees Association illustrates. Just how effective these mechanisms can be Fleisher (1989) discovered in his participative research as a correctional officer in the USP Lompoc. Within months, Fleisher (1989:112) lost touch with his role as research anthropologist:

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“I had become a ‘Bureau man’,” Fleisher suddenly realized. We will now explore these inculcation mechanisms in more detail. The Training Device The need for training programs was evident from the beginning, because the incumbent wardens and staff were obviously ill prepared for modern prison management.29 The new agency set up a training school for prison guards under the guidance of Jesse Stutsman, a widely recognized practitioner in the corrections field. The classes lasted three to four months. New recruits typically combined classwork with daily assignments in the prison. In addition, staff were required to complete a ten-lesson, self-study program (Moeller, 1980). The training school was short-lived: The combination of Stutsman’s death (1933) and budget cuts forced the Bureau to close the school shortly after it opened (Roberts, 1990a). Training then became the responsibility of the institutions. When the federal prison jobs were brought under the classified Civil Service in 1937, a scheme for training and promotion was developed for all personnel. New staff still had to complete the self-study course. Regional training centers were set up for supervisory personnel (Moeller, 1980). Nothing really changed until the early 1970s, when incoming director Carlson (1971b:1) identified a “critical need to improve staff training.” The institutional training programs focused on day-to-day operations and neglected the relationship between general policy and daily activities. Learning to work with general policy statements required more advanced training programs for field staff and line workers (Carlson, 1971a). It was therefore decided to establish regional residential training centers, which would concentrate on policy questions, leaving operational training to the institutions. In line with the Bureau’s planning philosophy, a task force with a majority of field representatives was formed to guide the design of the new training program (Carlson, 1971a). The first new training center was located at the Federal Reformatory, El Reno, Oklahoma. Its first regular class was held on 15 March 1971. It was not until Carlson took the helm of the BOP that training was used as a central device for the inculcation of core values. It was realized that new recruits would be affected one way or another as they started their jobs in the federal prison system. It was therefore important to use the initial training period to guide the inculcation process: “If change is not deliberately induced, it will happen spontaneously, unpre-

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dictably, and perhaps in an undesirable direction” (Carlson, 1971a:632). In addition to the professional curriculum, all new recruits were taught “correctional theory and philosophy,” were made “familiar with the federal prison service functions and organizations,” and were taken on their “first steps towards acquiring the competence and identity of a correctional professional in the federal prison system” (Carlson, 1971a:633; emphasis added). In the central office, it was felt that initial training would have very little impact if new recruits returned to their institutions only to be told by first-line supervisors “how it was really done.” During a number of conferences at the El Reno Training Center, institutional staff was acquainted with the training given to new employees. When the first class started in 1971, all wardens of the then twenty-seven institutions were invited to see the center in operation. The graduation of the first batch of new recruits was used as an opportunity “to demonstrate to all employees and to others in the criminal justice system the importance the Bureau was placing on this program” (Carlson, 1971a:635). The training was rapidly expanded into a three-tier program that further included refresher training courses (aimed at established employees) as well as supervisory and management development training. In 1974, Carlson proudly told the Corrections Digest that “the Bureau is now sending recruits to a training center where they are given a two-week indoctrination and orientation course.” After experimenting with several regional training centers, the Bureau in 1981 established a major training center at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC) in Glynco, Georgia.30 After going through Institution Familiarization Training (75 percent of the curriculum is designed in Glynco) at the employee’s home institution, each new recruit is sent to the Staff Training Academy in Glynco for three weeks of training within the first forty-five days of employment. In addition to typical correctional classes—ranging from inmate religious issues to firearms shooting—the Bureau curriculum includes such classes as History of the BOP and Mission of the BOP, the latter class “orienting participants to their new work environment by defining the mission and responsibilities of the BOP and describing the cultural anchors and core values shared by BOP employees.”31 In 1996, the BOP ran 3,700 new recruits through the training program. The centralized training is an important instrument to maintain a high degree of integration across the system. In their classes, the instructors—seasoned Bureau administrators—stress the need to adhere

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to policy: “When you follow policy, you won’t have any problems.” The enculturation message permates all courses—even the seemingly technical ones. First, the new recruits are infused with the Bureau way of working: “Our thought is that everybody is taught the philosophy of the organization, how we work with each other . . . how we deal with core values, what our cultural anchors are.” 32 The typical BOP prison management philosophy is woven through the curriculum. The Correctional Worker First idea is clearly impressed on each participant, as all new recruits—regardless of rank or professional expertise—are run through the same program.33 Equality is enforced by the standard uniform that all recruits wear. The Bureau thus tries “to get them to sing from the same page.” The new recruits “need to get a feel for belonging to a bigger organization; they need to realize that they are not just part of their institution.” 34 The instructors constantly impress upon the new recruits that they belong to a big family: “When somebody leaves here, they’ve got to have a good ‘feel’ about what we are all about.”35 The explosive growth of the federal prison system stimulated the development of additional courses for midlevel managers. As more staff was hired and the multiplying supervisory positions were filled with relatively inexperienced personnel, Director Quinlan defined human resource management as a priority (Corrothers, 1994:180). The Bureau already operated a Management and Specialty Training Center in Aurora, Colorado. In the early 1990s, the Leadership Forum was established to identify talented managers and teach them “what the Bureau expects of its leaders” (Helman, 1992:50). High-potential managers are enrolled in a variety of courses and seminars at renowned institutions such as Princeton University and the Brookings Institution (Markiewicz and Vanyur, 1994). These efforts were perceived within the Bureau as timely and effective. Bureau staffers were especially content with the way the relatively inexperienced staff dealt with a string of riots that occurred in October 1995: The successful resolution of these incidents was all the more notable when considering the relative inexperience of many new employees. . . . At FCI Greenville for instance, 48 percent of the employees have less than 2 years of BOP service. . . . The Committee concluded that . . . the ability of Greenville staff (as well as employees at every other involved institution) to effectively respond was due, in large part, to the agency’s strong training programs. (FBOP, 1996:32)

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A Career Agency It is always difficult for prison organizations to recruit and maintain competent personnel. Not many talented people are lured by the prospect of working with rude, violent, and often dangerous criminals in the depressing setting of a prison. Prison work is ill understood, little respected, and underpaid. Even though in the first years of the Bureau—the Depression years—a federal job was very appealing to many, Director Bates realized that more would be needed to build a professional organization. The solution was found in replacing the conventional bureaucratic system of promotion based on seniority with a system that was based on merit. The Bureau became a career agency offering wide-ranging opportunities for all employees who were talented, eager to pursue additional education, and willing to move and take on different assignments. The foundations for a career agency were laid when all positions in the Bureau were classified as civil service jobs in 1937 (Moeller, 1980). Requirements for promotion included completion of the ten-lesson training course and written examinations. According to a Bureau directive, candidates for promotion could also be subjected to an oral examination, in which the “examining board will consider the personality, the character, the general reputation, qualities of leadership, courage, knowledge of the prison service, and the personal characteristics essential in the selection of personnel to be trained for the more important positions in the institution” (Moeller, 1980:19). In 1937, Director Bennett explained in a letter to Warden White that Bureau employees should “advance solely in accordance with their merit, efficiency, and the degree to which they cooperate in carrying out your orders and the Bureau’s policies” (Roberts, 1990b:48). The transformation into a career agency was apparently aided by the felt need for “home-grown” wardens. The Bureau had initially recruited the new wardens through the strictly neutral means of civil service selection and appointment. Several disappointments “made it obvious that the Bureau would have to develop its own wardens and promote from within” (Keve, 1991:97). But internal promotion was soon found to create its own type of problems: Prison management “was not tempered or enriched by ideas or viewpoints from elsewhere in the system. Thus, the policies and philosophy of the top administration were resisted, and a uniform system-wide approach to prison management was defeated” (Keve, 1991:164). The solution was found in linking promotion to a transfer to some other institution.

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Today, the vast majority of staff positions—both in the institutions and in the administrative offices—are filled from within. The subsequent directors all worked to strengthen the Bureau’s career development program (Carlson, 1971b; Moeller, 1980; Corrothers, 1994). In 1990, Director Quinlan reflected on this Bureau tradition: I want to maintain our heavy emphasis on the principle of career service by continuing to stress the Bureau as family and by leaving the agency in the hands of top management who have demonstrated that they are the most highly qualified through their achievement within the Bureau. (Roberts, 1990c:44)

Promotion within the BOP is based on a combination of performance and compliance. In addition to favorable staff reports, strict adherence to Bureau rules, policies, and cultural values is necessary in order to advance. Promotion opportunities are further enhanced by a willingness to accept a position in another institution: “To move up you have to move out” (Fleisher, 1989:36). 36 It is very hard for “homesteaders” (those who prefer to stay and work within one institution) to progress beyond the middle level of the organization. It is through a series of transfers—a warden often has had seven or more former Bureau locations—that one moves up through the Bureau bureaucracy. Future leaders are “groomed through a maturation process based on extensive experience” (Helman, 1992:48). Most career tracks include a stop in either the central office in Washington, D.C., or in one of the six regional headquarters. Furthermore, the Bureau career paths are marked by periodic educational upgrading. To a certain organizational level, individual organizations can decide whom they will hire. Above a certain level (GS-15), the Executive Staff moves people. Preferences can be stated, but the Executive Staff decides: “When you hit 15, you belong to the Bureau.”37 Director Carlson (1996) found the policy of staff transfers “the most important thing that any organization can do in order to combat parochialism and strive for uniformity.” The most successful career path could lead a new recruit from the position of line officer all the way to the director’s office. The careers of the Bureau’s directors are perfect examples. With the exception of founding director Bates, all directors (and most assistant directors) have come from within the agency.38 The last four directors all worked their way up through the agency, starting their careers in the custodial trenches. Director Carlson echoes a century of civil service rhetoric when he explains why this is important:

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In some states the system is entirely without central leadership. . . . In these states, every time you get a new governor you get a new head of the corrections department and it’s usually a man with little or no training for, or understanding of, his job. [To] develop as high a degree of professionalism in the field of corrections as possible . . . the system must be completely removed from the political process and ruled by merit alone. (Corrections Digest, 1974:5)

Not everybody is convinced of the Bureau’s career possibilities. “The Bureau mistakenly brags about the multitude of career tracks,” former employee Jim Houston claims: “Too many people who weren’t very smart advanced upwards, because they were good bureaucrats.” Adds one female lieutenant, “The higher you get, the more advancement depends on who you know, on being in the right place at the right time.” Alvin Bronstein, former director of the National Prison Project of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), is not terribly impressed by Bureau people: “They’re soldiers, not statesmen.” Bronstein relayed a story about a personal assistant of Director Carlson who allegedly quit because “he could not stand it any longer.” The assistant claimed that staff in the central office were encouraged to move to the part of Virginia where the director lived and to cut their hair short (Carlson still has a crewcut). Even though no evidence exists to support this story, it reflects the hesitations that some people have with regard to strong indoctrination programs.39 The Bureau Family The internal promotion and rotation mechanisms have contributed to the high degree of credibility that Bureau leaders enjoy. The Bureau director is considered “one of us.” Wardens command respect because officers know that their bosses have been in the same position. Most policymakers have been in the field as well; many will return to the field. They know that, in the near future, they will have to work with the policies they create. Field administrators, on the other hand, know that policymakers listen to their comments. The gap between the center and the field, so common in many organizations, is virtually eliminated because of this shared background: Eighty to 85 percent of the people here [central office] have been in the field. They have wrestled inmates, been on escape hunts, fed ’em, and got pee thrown on ’em. Most have worked at different levels of security. Wardens have spent time in central office. . . . People writing, evaluating and implementing policy all kind of think the same way. Even the inmates understand our policy [stance].40

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Mutual respect is strengthened by the many informal ties that make the Bureau resemble a small community. Part of this strong social bond is a side effect of staff rotation. As staff members move from one Bureau institution to another, they build a wide network of Bureau connections. Through the weekly Monday Morning Highlights—which lists all transfers and retirements—Bureau employees follow each other’s careers. The rotations make individual employees and their families depend on the social network that the Bureau workforce supplies in the often small community where the federal institution is located. Moving from Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, to Coleman, Florida is made easier by the knowledge that new friendships will be made and old ones renewed. The strong sense of cohesion within the Bureau is also a product of deliberate efforts to inculcate new recruits with a sense of family. During their initial training at Glynco, recruits hear again and again that they now belong to the Bureau family. The correctional functionality of the family concept is clear. In the open environment of Bureau institutions, staff is extremely vulnerable. It is therefore of crucial importance that staff members can depend on each other in case of an emergency: “There are only 300 of us and 1,200 of them. We teach them that if we’re not working together, we’re going to lose this place.”41 The family concept is designed with an eye to applying it across the Bureau; the family concept promotes a sense of unity, a sense of allegiance to the Bureau rather than to the institution or office where somebody happens to work. Moreover, the idea of family instills in all employees—homesteaders and transfers alike—a feeling that they are working for a common cause, thereby mitigating the traditional tension between careeroriented employees and line officials. Since the family concept was introduced into the agency by former director Carlson, it has been adopted as an integral part of the Bureau philosophy, as evidenced by the Bureau’s list of “cultural anchors.”42 The family culture and the director’s role as the respected paterfamilias has endowed the position of BOP director with considerable power. Director Carlson reportedly used this organizational culture of loyalty and commitment to the director to circumvent civil service protection: “If a warden would screw up, Carlson had him removed. He would pick up the phone and the person was gone.” In the Bureau culture of loyalty, the knowledge that the director had lost trust was enough: “They went willingly.”43 The BOP has initiated an extensive National Awards Program to relay the importance of certain core values and to stimulate excellence in performance. The highest performers receive the Directors’ Awards—

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named for the first five directors of the Bureau of Prisons. These rewards emphasize such valued activities as “extraordinary courage,” success in the “implementation of new and innovative procedures,” “excellence in leadership,” and the promotion of the concept of the Bureau family.44 Institutions give out awards of their own, including institutional paraphernalia and choice parking spots.45 The career prospect has made the Bureau an attractive employer for many job seekers.46 It has allowed for selective recruitment. “It used to be that the institution just had to take what it could get,” Carlson told the Corrections Digest in 1974. Even though civil service requirements prohibited educational requirements for employment, Carlson stated his preference for “at least an associate’s degree in criminology, psychology or sociology.” Today, it is fairly normal for a starting line officer to be a college graduate. In 1990, more than one-third of all staff had college backgrounds. The Bureau has opened the career opportunities to minorities through award-winning programs (Heffernan, 1994; Roberts, 1994b). This source of human potential served the Bureau well during the 1990s, when the growth explosion greatly enhanced the promotion opportunities for staff. The expanding size of staff motivated Director Quinlan to prioritize human resource management (Fleisher, 1996). “We have always thought of the Bureau as a family,” Director Quinlan (1989:13) announced in a Bureau publication, but “our family is subject to outside pressures. . . . Organizing a Human Resources Division Bureauwide . . . was one part of our strategy to cope with the reality that our ‘family’ is changing. We are now an extended family.” The Bureau has managed to keep the family together because it was adequately prepared. Decades of inculcation efforts paid off. As one policymaker put it, “The growth has gone so fast, if we hadn’t been so strong culturally, things would have grown apart.”

Leadership and Autonomy: Protecting the Mission The Federal Bureau of Prisons has traditionally enjoyed a considerable degree of autonomy. The documented deficiencies of the first federal prisons nourished congressional acceptance of a relatively independent Bureau within the Justice Department that would bring the disparate and overcrowded institutions under central control. In 1929, Attorney General Mitchell told the New York Times that the newly appointed director, Bates, “would have complete control of the federal prisons and would receive the full confidence of the department” (Alexander, 1980:

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1).47 The enabling legislation provided the new Bureau with a broad mandate.48 The first director could recall only a few instances of “unfair pressure brought to bear upon the supervisory authority” (Bates, 1936:209). In practice, however, independence had to be earned. The young agency fought one of its first battles over its industries program, a crucial element of the evolving correctional philosophy within the agency. In those Depression days, prison labor provoked fierce opposition from labor unions and the business sector (Roberts, 1994b). Within the Bureau, however, industry was deemed absolutely essential, so a compromise had to be found. Assistant Director Bennett masterminded the creation of a government-owned corporation that would employ inmate labor for the production of goods for sale to the government only. Its board of directors included representatives from business and labor to ensure that the corporation’s product lines would not become a source of unfair competition. Federal Prison Industries, Inc., was an extraordinarily successful program: it kept inmates busy without hurting private business—at no cost to the taxpayer. The Bureau also faced intradepartmental battles in those early days. Director Bennett fought “pitched battles” with his longtime colleague J. Edgar Hoover, who always sought to expand the jurisdiction of “his” FBI (DiIulio, 1994b:162; Gentry, 1991). When Bennett was in Germany in the postwar days to assist in the organization of an allied prison system, he received a letter from the BOP acting director, Connor, indicating “that the FBI was going through everything in the Bureau, interviewing people, going through all of the records.” Bennett hurried back: “Jim said he had to get back there, and he left very quickly. I heard from him a week or two later saying that upon returning to Washington he had gone immediately to see the new attorney general, Tom Clark, and that the FBI disappeared from the Bureau the next day” (Roberts and Green, 1991:38). Attorneys general have done little to interfere with the daily management of the Bureau. “For the most part, they were with me,” said Bennett (1974:14) in summarizing his twenty-seven years of experience with his chiefs. “The Bureau is a small, non-political part of the Department of Justice and certainly not the most visible; we have traditionally been low on the department priority list,” Carlson told the Corrections Digest (1974:2). Most attorneys general were lawyers, and, as such, less interested in administrative matters. Former director Bennett (1974:19) described the attorney general, “who was, shall I say, primarily a lawyer, who wasn’t interested in what the hell went on in the administrative end. He didn’t care if we paid the wardens, whether there was

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civil service, or whatnot.” For instance, the Bureau’s first attorney general, William Mitchell, “wasn’t interested much in the Prison Bureau. He told me it gave him a headache to talk about budgets and so on” (Bennett, 1974:19). The longtime director enjoyed his freedom: Well, from my point of view, of course, I like the fellow . . . who’d say, “Jim, you know more about that than I do. You go ahead and do what’s right.” That was, of course, best from my viewpoint because I was then more or less an independent operator. (Bennett, 1974:20)

Throughout its history, the Bureau has been relatively successful in preserving a nonpolitical status, whereas most other federal agencies have become politicized. None of the six directors were political nominees. Founding director Bates, who was appointed by President Hoover, a Republican, was swiftly reappointed by incoming (and Democratic) President Roosevelt. Bates’s choice as a successor, James Bennett, served four presidents and eleven attorneys general. Even though Bennett’s candidate was not appointed as his successor, the new man, Myrl Alexander, had three decades of Bureau experience.49 In 1970, Alexander’s hand-picked successor, Norm Carlson, was appointed as the youngest director of the Bureau. President Jimmy Carter reportedly contemplated replacing Carlson with his Georgia commissioner of corrections, but the president-elect was convinced to reappoint Carlson. Both Quinlan and the current director, Kathleen Hawk, were nominated by their predecessors. Corrections has always been a field notorious for its vulnerability to changing public and political perceptions. The Bureau, however, has always kept to the essence of its mission, even in the face of fierce criticism from either the right or the left side of the political aisle. The rebalancing of the Bureau mission, which occurred during the 1970s, was not the direct result of political interference or mounting social pressure, but was more a prescient move on the part of Bureau leadership in the face of future developments and a “self-study” of the organization (Carlson, 1975:40). Even today, when political and societal attitudes toward crime, criminals, and prisons have hardened, the mission of the Bureau has not been fundamentally altered. The Bureau’s autonomy has not suffered significantly as a result of political interference in the guise of financial control. Once again, founding father Bennett was responsible for this dimension of autonomy (Roberts, 1994c:31). Bennett knew that the legislative route through

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Congress would place the Bureau under constant supervision. In his congressional testimony, he therefore argued for a broad legislative mandate to build new facilities and to implement modern programs. The Bureau was freed from the requirement to obtain congressional approval for every new prison or program. In its history, the Bureau never had enough funds to pursue its entire agenda for correctional innovations and quality maintenance. But more important, the Bureau has always received sufficient funding to implement those programs that were considered crucial to the BOP’s mission, culture, and future. External Strategies The Bureau built and preserved its autonomy through the personal efforts of longtime directors Bennett and Carlson. During his tenure, Bennett devoted much of his time to representing the Bureau in both political and societal circles. Warden conferences were regularly attended by “high ranking representatives of the Judiciary, the office of the Attorney General, Congressional committees which had oversight responsibilities for the Bureau, and the control agencies—the Bureau of the Budget and the US Civil Service Commission” (Moeller, 1980:22). Both directors maintained an impressive political network, which enabled them to bring an issue before Congress and win approval (Bennett, 1974; Roberts, 1994c). The directors further maintained alliances with judges, journalists, prison reform activists, and academic opinion makers; they wrote, lectured, and made public appearances to strengthen a positive image of the Bureau of Prisons (DiIulio, 1994b). Carlson pointed out that building bridges to the various stakeholders is necessary, because unlike other governmental programs, corrections has no constituency (Corrothers, 1994:181). The Bureau has been careful to maintain good relations with other correctional organizations as well. Through the National Institute of Corrections (NIC), for instance, the Bureau has provided training and technical assistance to state and county corrections departments since 1972. The NIC was further used to disseminate research findings among state and local administrators. During most of the Bureau’s history, this aid was provided without reimbursements and without specific appropriations for such services (Moeller, 1980). The Bureau further sought to avoid interference from both Congress and the courts through a strategy of proactive adaptation (Rison, 1996). The relation between the Bureau and the federal courts illustrates the

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workings of this strategy. The federal courts have long maintained a hands-off strategy (Carlson, 1976; DiIulio, 1990c; Robbins, 1994). In the 1970s, however, courts began actively interfering in the administration of state prison systems. The Bureau did not wait for the federal courts to intervene in BOP facilities. The Bureau, according to Director Carlson, had to anticipate the direction in which the courts were moving and to modify its programs and operations accordingly. This enabled the organization to be proactive in many areas, such as inmate discipline, rather than waiting for the courts to tell us what to do and how to do it. Unlike some other correctional organizations, the Bureau was never forced to become defensive and reactive after the courts had intervened. (Roberts, 1990c:39)

In the early 1970s, the Bureau developed its so-called Inmate Grievance System. When Director Carlson attended a meeting of federal judges in St. Louis, he learned that the dockets were swamped with mostly trivial inmate complaints. The judges asked Carlson if the Bureau could not resolve these disputes internally. The Bureau then designed, tested, and implemented a procedure through which inmates could file their complaints.50 The grievance mechanism was a success, Carlson believes, because “it has credibility with the courts as well as with most inmates” (Roberts, 1990c:40).51 The courts have accepted the procedure as a requirement before a case is filed in court. Ever since, Bureau administrators have closely monitored judicial decisions and maintained contacts with the courts in order to anticipate the future course of the courts (Styles, 1991). Judges were invited to visit and comment on any Bureau facility at their leisure (FBOP, 1995). Within the Bureau, the Program Review Division seeks out potential violations of living standards. The General Counsel’s Office reviews all Bureau policy and communicates relevant legal developments to the field. Whereas in 1996 more than half of the state prison systems had one or more consent decrees or court judgments concerning the conditions of confinement pending against them, the Bureau had none. The proactive stance toward the courts reflects the sense of responsiveness that has guided Bureau actions over the years.52 The Bureau describes its responsibility in terms of “public stewardship”; the Bureau’s strong internal controls serve to “justify the resource requirements needed to carry out its mission at a time when public revenues are shrinking” (FBOP, 1992:6). This commitment to responsiveness had

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to be balanced with the Bureau’s adherence to its core values, its philosophy, and its tradition. Adopting a proactive attitude proved to be the solution. Only when changes are known well in advance can prison administrators gradually adapt their administrative philosophy and working methods to the new realities. Proactive management essentially provides the Bureau with time and an opportunity to adopt changes in a way that will not violate the core values of the organization. All these strategies have not made the Bureau impregnable. When Congress passed the Narcotic Addict Rehabilitation Act in 1966, the Bureau was required to provide specialized programs and community aftercare supervision for drug addicts (Farkas, Petersen, and Barr, 1970; Levinson, 1994). The Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984 caused a sharp increase in the number of federal inmates (Rison, 1996). The BOP was rocked several times by a wave of riots, which were precipitated by external events. The 1987 riots in the Bureau’s Oakdale and Atlanta facilities—which housed Cuban boat refugees—followed official announcements that the Cubans would be returned to their home country (Nacci, 1988; DiIulio, 1994b). The 1995 riots were fueled by a congressional decision with regard to mandatory sentences for certain drug offenses (FBOP, 1996). The economic recession of the early 1990s, coupled with budget cuts in the Defense Department (a primary customer of UNICOR), provoked congressional guidelines limiting UNICOR’s freedom; only intensive lobbying saved the Bureau’s inmate industries program from more restrictive legislation (Roberts, 1994a, 1996). The BOP has been able to preserve its autonomy while satisfying congressional and public needs for responsiveness. A policy of openness has been instrumental to this effect. Through the Bureau’s Office of Congressional Affairs, a formal liaison has been created with Congress (Wittenberg, 1994). Recent developments illustrate the necessity of good relations with Congress. Harsher sentencing practices have filled Bureau institutions with young inmates serving long sentences. The dramatic rise in law-and-order sentiments in the United States has motivated members of Congress to review BOP facilities. Certain inmate programs, such as weight rooms and music classes, became the subject of discussion. As Assistant Director Peter Carlson (1996:7) observed, “While we . . . must respect the separation between politics and administration, it seems many elected officials strive to micromanage those experienced in daily institutional [prison] management.”53 The Bureau has become increasingly concerned with public opinion. The federal prison system long enjoyed a relatively high degree of

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public acceptance. The supermax prisons Alcatraz and the USP Marion (Illinois) drew fierce criticism from many sides (Ward, 1994; Ward and Carlson, 1994), but the majority of federal prisons were rarely associated with the dismal circumstances that exist in many state prisons.54 The general public, however, was largely unaware of the “very positive reputation” that the Bureau enjoyed among corrections agencies: “We have simply failed to devote the time and resources we need to get our story across” (Quinlan, 1990:3). Open communication with outsiders has become one of the Bureau’s explicitly formulated cultural anchors. The importance of public openness is witnessed in the Bureau’s practices. Before a site is acquired by the BOP for the establishment of a new institution, the Bureau organizes several hearings and information nights for the local population (Green, 1989b). Most federal prisons have established a community relations board where community representatives and prison officials join to monitor and discuss the relations between the institution and the local community (Jones, 1991). Wardens are directed to play a visible part in their community through participating in charity foundations, lecturing to local organizations, and opening their institutions to interested citizens (DiIulio, 1994a; Rison, 1996). In the late 1980s, the Bureau set up various programs that aimed to bring “the public directly into our prisons through a greatly expanded program of volunteerism” (Quinlan, 1990:5).55 As one warden put it, “We should consider community feedback as an essential element of [a] prison’s governance and activation. I do not believe I ever had a visitor in the institution that didn’t leave with a more positive perception of federal prison management” (Rison, 1996:117).

Field Leadership and the Willingness to Comply The founding legislation of the Federal Bureau of Prisons directed the central office to mold a system of completely independent entities into an integrated system. The new Bureau was given far-reaching powers to take on the “free agent” wardens and assemble a team of committed team players. Today, federal wardens share strikingly similar visions of prison management and employ identical administrative techniques. Even in the face of spectacular growth and political micromanagement in recent years, the high degree of integration was never threatened by recalcitrant wardens or emerging gaps between the center and the field.

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The question may arise whether federal wardens are best qualified as statesmen or as mere soldiers? They are in charge of a large organization, which suggests they are leaders. But they are also moved around the country, they are expected to implement Bureau policy (and not their own), and their behavior is subject to Bureau approval even when they are not working (Roberts, 1990b). Federal wardens are more than soldiering pawns in a large bureaucracy. They possess considerable discretion, which is needed in the administration of more than 1,000 inmates and several hundred staff members: “Policy sets parameters which leave wardens with enough leeway to manage the institution.”56 When policy parameters are too narrowly defined for the specific situation of a particular institution, the warden can request a waiver. The wardens are held responsible (and accountable) for guarding those policy parameters within their institutions; they must motivate their workforce and see to it that the many activities in the fourteen program areas meet the Bureau’s criteria. “The wardens have all of the autonomy necessary to run their institutions if they operate within the established parameters. Step outside—and I can cite many examples—and the warden’s job would quickly come to an end” (Rison, 1997). In short, wardens have a sufficient but sharply defined degree of freedom to run their institutions. The field leaders enjoy standing within the BOP. They are not treated as mere implementers of central policy; they are the supreme authority in the facility. Within their institution, as well, they are considered and treated as absolute authorities (Fleisher, 1989; Earley, 1993; Rison, 1996). The central office further bolsters the warden’s position by recognizing wardens as penal experts whose experience and insights are essential to the Bureau. Wardens are asked to conduct pilots to test new policy initiatives. Furthermore, wardens are invited to join Program Review Teams, which evaluate programs of counterpart institutions. They take part in the policymaking process. In short, federal wardens are treated with respect by their superiors. The level of mutual respect between the central office and federal wardens is reflected in the way controversial issues are ironed out before they can hamper the policymaking process. There are not many controversial topics, but occasionally field administrators do get upset about some new policy initiative.57 For instance, the introduction of evaluation ratings was initially resented by the wardens (Rison, 1996). The wardens “would get in shouting matches” against Hawk.58 Even though some adjustments in terminology were apparently made, the

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central officials stood fast. The wardens surrendered to the inevitable but felt they had been heard. One warden explains: We have a culture of reasoning. You have to be articulate, present your case and hope somebody will listen. It’s more than an academic opportunity to speak your mind. Reaching consensus is a value in itself. We are all on the same side of the table. So we say, let’s get to a resolution. (Rison, 1997)

In addition to “co-opting” wardens with an interesting job and lots of respect, the central office does everything to synchronize individual philosophies with the Bureau’s policies through a refined inculcation program. The transfer policy seasons the upcoming administrators and prevents them from growing up in one institution. One career stop is the position of executive assistant to the warden; in this position, the potential candidate is personally groomed by a warden. Furthermore, before becoming a warden, a stint in the central office or regional headquarters is mandatory. In a policymaking position, leadership talent develops an understanding of the necessity of maintaining a certain degree of uniformity. As wardens are appointed by the central office rather than by the individual institutions, only those with a demonstrated record of commitment and loyalty to the Bureau’s policies and cultural anchors are likely to assume responsibility over a federal prison. The typical federal prison warden has had many years of Bureau experience and has held several positions. For nonconforming individuals, the position is almost impossible to obtain. Because the Bureau does not allow for lateral entry, the new wardens are never complete strangers in the federal prison system. Wardens are continuously monitored. The seemingly endless list of control mechanisms prevents a warden from getting away with idiosyncratic philosophies. “What keeps them on the road is the many checks and balances.”59 Strict conformity to Bureau policy may help them to achieve further promotions to bigger institutions or executive functions. But that is not the only reason why federal wardens conform. Policy guidelines provide “safety” for the manager, something to fall back upon if personal insights fail: “It’s something to back me up, rather than being a cowboy and doing whatever pops into my head.”60 The Bureau philosophy and the detailed policy guidelines reflect decades of correctional experience; the policies, traditions, and unwritten laws capture the continuing efforts to translate abstract penal goals into feasible and safe work practices. Bureau policy “keeps us from

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reinventing the wheel.”61 Field acceptance is nurtured by the correctional experience that the great majority of Bureau policymakers possess. Policymakers have gone through the same training courses, spent time in the field, and, most likely, will return to the field again. “Our policy guys know prisons. They have credibility because they all worked in prisons during their career.” Because policy is created with the active cooperation of the field, it is easily accepted: “They don’t follow policy because the top guy had a brainwave, they buy into it.”62 Wardens are encouraged to experiment, as long as they stay within the narrow policy parameters that are guarded by audit teams. Field creativity leads to further perfection of existing managerial and correctional techniques. But wardens know that “creativity is not going to be rewarded as much as uniformity.” Individual creativity inevitably leads to variety, which, in turn, makes the Bureau vulnerable to inmate suits. Moreover, creativity implies change, something that does not sit well with cherished ideas about sound correctional management. In the BOP, creativity is a system’s product sanctioned and blessed by central headquarters. Individual implementation of creative ideas is not appreciated; creative ideas are welcome, but they have to be run through the front office. The success level of institutions is thus controlled by the national level: “If I was performing too far ahead of another warden, funds would dry up . . . until the other wardens . . . reached equilibrium” (Rison, 1997). The bottom line is that federal wardens are proud to be leading officials in a prestigious agency. Many senior staff are convinced that the federal prison system is the best prison system in the United States if not the world. Those who have come from state prison systems shower superlatives on the Bureau. A typical comment: “Ask everyone in the state prison systems, the BOP is the best. That sounds like a flowery statement, but I happen to think it is true.” In his comparative research, which included state and federal prisons, DiIulio (1990b:7) found less violence, more inmate participation, and a cleaner environment in the federal facilities: “If someone were to write an In Search of Excellence on public organizations, the BOP story would have to be chapter one.” Senior BOP staff are proud of the agency’s prestige in correctional circles. Even after they leave the Bureau at the mandatory retirement age of fifty-five, their BOP credentials enable agency veterans to find employment in state prisons, universities, or correctional consultant firms. In short, there is little room and few incentives for wardens to develop into recalcitrant forces.

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Institutionalizing Leadership: The Self-Perpetuating Machine The Federal Bureau of Prisons is an interesting case, because it suggests that institutions can be designed, implemented, and maintained—even in unfriendly environmental contexts. The Bureau is integrated, because its leaders have consistently preserved the BOP mission, enforced it throughout the organization, and adapted it only to prevent political interference. The BOP is an organizational family, because extensive inculcation programs have been in place to turn employees into “zealots.” The BOP has long had the political room to develop its own course, because Bureau leaders have made the necessary efforts to maintain political legitimacy. But the case reveals something else about leadership. In the BOP, leadership itself has become institutionalized over time. The case history shows that the executive functions were—to a more or lesser degree—continuously addressed by BOP executives throughout the decades. Since the early days, the BOP has seen a mission, an enculturation effort, and a high degree of autonomy. It is interesting to note that the Bureau has developed a tradition with regard to the executive functions and the way in which these functions have been fulfilled. Leadership has become part of “the Bureau way of doing things.” The personalized leadership of the first directors has been gradually instilled in the Bureau organization. In a sense, leadership has become self-perpetuating in the BOP. The mission has been adapted over time, but the way in which this executive function has been fulfilled has remained basically the same since Bates and Bennett developed their paternalistic management philosophy under the banner of consultative management. Policy preparation is the result of a two-way street between the center and the field; policy setting is the province of the director alone. The personal ways of the early directors have gradually shaped the bureaucratic processes of the large administrative machine that the BOP has become. Director Bennett used the warden conferences to gather information and communicated his decisions to the field through his round-robin letters. Today, policy goes through a clearance process—set out in the manual—and eventually results in directives that reach the institutions on CD-ROM. The way inculcation is attempted in the Bureau is also subject to traditional influences. Although training was transformed into an enculturation device only fairly recently, the Glynco training center has almost

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become an institution of its own. But the most important inculcation mechanism—the BOP as a career agency—is yet another time-honored custom in the Bureau. Promotion through the ranks and frequent transfers are unquestioned elements of a BOP career. The decision to hire wardens from outside the Bureau would undoubtedly lead to widespread discontent through the agency. Again, the personal ways of the early leaders have gradually been captured in rules, regulations, standard operating procedures, and the unwritten laws of the organization. Much the same can be said about the way autonomy has been maintained by the BOP. Through a dual strategy of openness and proactive responsiveness, the Bureau has maintained a high level of legitimacy even in times when state prison systems routinely suffer fierce criticism and the detailed interference of “special masters” (DiIulio, 1990c). In today’s Federal Bureau of Prisons, most if not all policymakers and wardens realize the importance of autonomy. What once was Bennett’s way has become the Bureau’s way.

Notes 1. DiIulio (1994a:290). 2. In the early 1990s, it cost, on average, about $49 per day to house an inmate in the federal prison system while the average state prisoner cost $60 per day (Way, 1992:26). See also Chapter 7. 3. The Three Prisons Act of 1891 had made it possible for the federal government to operate its own prisons; before that time, federal inmates had been placed in state prisons. For a detailed history of the BOP, consult Keve (1991). 4. This was a report written by James Bennett, who at that time worked for the U.S. Bureau of Efficiency. Bennett would become the second director of the BOP. 5. Sanford Bates came from Massachusetts, where he was commissioner of corrections (Keve, 1994a). 6. In an interview with the American Journal of Corrections (1970:14), Bates summarized his two-part strategy: “The first part was to get the cruelty and brutality taken out of it; and the second part was to put something effective and valuable in its place. The first half is easier than the second.” 7. Classification officers were responsible for making an assessment of each inmate, based on personality traits, antecedent conditions, and prior records, after which the inmate could be classified into one of the reform programs. 8. The Atlanta warden was A. C. Aderhold; the new officer was Myrl Alexander (Alexander, 1980:5). 9. This belief reflected the conventional administrative wisdom of those days. In 1870, the National Congress on Penitentiary and Reformatory Disci-

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pline had already accepted the “principle that crowns all,” which dictated that “no prison system can be perfect, or even successful . . . without some central authority to sit at the helm, guiding, controlling, unifying, and vitalizing the whole.” Alexander (1980:1) argues that this principle guided the early Bureau administrators (Robbins, 1994:157). The term agency is used as a synonym for organization or department subdivision (Kaufman, 1981). It should be explicitly noted that the Federal Bureau of Prisons is not an agency in the sense of a public organization that operates under the authority delegated by Congress (independent regulatory agencies such as the Environmental Protection Agency) or in the sense of other relatively independent organs such as the CIA or TVA (Gordon, 1986). 10. It was referred to as the “door stop.” 11. Moeller (1980:16) reports that open institutions were the outcome of “sheer necessity rather than penological theory.” The camps were initially intended as a solution to the rapidly increasing prison population; see also Hershberger (1979). 12. The facility, which would not open until 1976, had lost much of its mission due to widespread controversy over what opponents feared would be a “Clockwork Orange institution aimed at mind control techniques” (Ingram, 1978:34). This delay was much to Bennett’s (1974:17) chagrin (Butner was one of his pet projects). 13. Manual Bulletin 96, Mail Regulations, adopted during World War II, was the first policy issuance distributed to field administrators for their suggested revisions in advance of publication. Moeller (1980:23) reports that the “reactions of the field were carefully reviewed, analyzed, and taken into account in the preparation of the final draft.” 14. Lamers (1952a, 1952b) reported on his trip in several issues of the Maandschrift voor het Gevangeniswezen. 15. Bennett was forced to retire when Attorney General Robert Kennedy refused to exempt him from the mandatory retirement age of seventy. Bennett’s bureaucratic rival J. Edgar Hoover did receive the exemption. 16. In the early 1960s, prompted by Attorney General Kennedy, the Bureau joined the optimistic search for special treatment programs (Keve, 1991). Concrete initiatives were employed to expand upon the Bureau’s mission of inmate reform. The halfway house pilot project (initiated under Bennett) was transformed into a community corrections program for adult offenders (Roberts, 1994b). The Kennedy Youth Center, which opened in 1968 in Morgantown (West Virginia), was an experimental institution that pioneered new classification methods as well as unit management (Gerard, 1970; Levinson, 1994). The Bureau became involved in drug treatment programs when the Narcotic Addict Rehabilitation Act—which passed Congress in 1966—required the Bureau to provide specialized programs and community aftercare supervision for narcotic-dependent offenders (Levinson, 1994). 17. Carlson (1975:39) pointed out that “even maintenance activities . . . have been labeled as ‘rehabilitative’ when in fact they are as stated—maintenance functions.” 18. The unit management concept was described in Chapter 3. It was orig-

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inally pioneered in the Kennedy Youth Center as a means of more efficient program delivery to inmate groups and a way of humanizing the detention environment. It was further developed in the Bureau’s model institution, Butner, which was designed and operated in line with the “Morris philosophy” (Levinson and Deppe, 1976; DiIulio, 1990b; Levinson, 1994). The unit management concept encouraged a more positive living environment that allowed for better communication between staff and inmates. Moreover, Bureau workers are convinced that it decreases tension and violence within prisons (Houston, 1995). 19. As Carlson believed, “You see, too many people sit in Washington, D.C., absorbing data. . . . In public administration, it’s the subtleties that make or break you. Information systems are less important.” 20. Many staff members express caution, if not skepticism, with regard to the usefulness of automated information systems (Rison, 1996). 21. Major policy changes were therefore always first tested in the field. The pilots served two purposes. First, pilot projects would demonstrate to the field that a new policy worked. Second, a pilot would help people get used to a new policy. 22. Interview with Diane Pfutzner. 23. Interview with Assistant Director Wade Houk. 24. Ibid. 25. P.S. 1221.64 (20 August 1996), chap. 2, p. 1. 26. Quotations from interview with NPR officials. 27. The program areas are correctional services; correctional programs; psychology; chaplaincy; inmate systems; community corrections; health services; food service; safety; UNICOR (prison industries); education; facilities (maintenance); financial management; and human resource management (personnel, training, and affirmative action). 28. The Key Indicators/Strategic Support System (KI/SSS) is a computerbased information system that provides institutions with easy access to a wealth of facts and figures (Saylor, 1989; Gilman, 1991). In addition, all policy statements are available on CD-ROM. 29. Different investigations had produced substantial evidence of both mismanagement and corruption (Moeller, 1980; Keve, 1991). 30. For an account of a Glynco training experience, see Fleisher (1989). 31. This description is taken from the Class Summary Guide, Staff Training Center, Glynco, Georgia, October 1996, p. 1. 32. Interview with the director of the Staff Training Academy, Mark Landon. 33. Running all employees through one training program has an additional spin-off: The gap that traditionally separates professionals from line officers is bridged by instilling the Correctional Worker First concept. This idea is reinforced in the institutions, where professionals and line officers have to cooperate in unit teams. As is the case with most good ideas within the Bureau, the idea of one training for all dates back to the Bureau’s early days. When the industries program was established, “the risks of isolation of industrial personnel were anticipated. Industries personnel were included in the training scheme” (Moeller, 1980:20).

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34. Interview with Bill Heaney (program coordinator at the Staff Training Academy). 35. Interview with Mark Landon. 36. The policy of transfers was established by Director Bennett during the early years of the Bureau. In 1991, there were 1,598 transfers out of a staff of 21,000. 37. Interview with Mark Landon. 38. “Carlson also made sure that fresh blood would enter the organization,” says Wade Houk. “He would get new assistant directors from the outside, latering them in.” Wade Houk and Thomas Kane are two assistant directors who did not come from within the organization. 39. Carlson (1996) responds to the issue of staff having to sell themselves to the organization in order to get promoted by stating that “this is true to a certain degree in any organization. . . . The notion, however, that Bureau staff had to get crewcuts and buy property near my cabin in Virginia in order to get promoted is simply not true. I’ve heard that comment over the years and frankly view it as a joke. I recall [the personal assistant] rather well. While he was a rather bright young man, he wouldn’t have been promoted even if he did get a short haircut and move to the area where my wife and I had our cabin. One thing I am proud of is the effort the Bureau has made during the past 25 years to bring women and minorities into top management positions. To my knowledge, none of those promotions were made because the individuals had crewcuts or were my neighbors. They were made on the basis of merit and the need to bring diversity into the organization.” 40. Interview with Peter Wittenberg. 41. Interview with Mark Landon. 42. The list of cultural anchors is made up of the following core values: Bureau family; sound correctional management; correctional worker first; integrity; recognition of the dignity of all; career service orientation; community relations; and high standards (FBOP, 1995). 43. Interview with Assistant Director Wade Houk. Houk adds that Carlson never asked from his wardens what he himself would not do: “He led by example. He had integrity and a good work ethic.” 44. In 1993, 169 individuals received awards in 140 award categories (FBOP, 1993:30). 45. The Bureau tracks these “field awards” through a nationwide automated database (the Employee Award System). 46. See Cobos (1990) and Janus, Dickhoff, and Brock (1991) for information on the Bureau’s recruitment efforts. 47. Bates had specified this as a condition for accepting the job. He wrote Attorney General Mitchell, “I should confidently expect the backing of my superiors in withstanding that happily infrequent kind of pressure which comes sometimes from the unreasonable demands of persons whose aim in life is political” (quoted in Keve, 1991:96). 48. In his Bureau of Efficiency report, Bennett had recommended “an independent bureau in the Department of Justice” (Roberts, 1994c:31). 49. Bennett had lobbied for Assistant Director Wilkinson. Alexander, who had already retired, was reportedly persuaded by Robert Kennedy to take the

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job, much to Bennett’s disliking (Bennett, 1974). 50. This, in itself, was not a revolutionary development within the BOP. Since its early beginning, the Bureau had worked with the so-called Prisoners’ Mail Box, which created an avenue for complaints to the Bureau’s central office, to members of Congress, or to judges (Robbins, 1994). The development of the Inmate Grievance System was predated by an improvement—ordered by Director Alexander—of procedural protections for inmates (Gripe, 1990). 51. Chief Justice Burger complimented the Bureau on developing “simple, workable internal procedures to deal with prisoner complaints” (Carlson, 1976: 646). 52. Rison’s (1996:115) “interviews with executive staff and wardens left no doubt that the FBOP approaches new laws with full support and acceptance.” 53. Assistant Director Peter Carlson is not related to Norm Carlson. 54. Alcatraz was closed down in 1963. In addition to the huge expenses necessary to maintain an island prison, the image of Alcatraz as a supermax prison was strangely at odds with the more progressive path that the Bureau followed (Ward, 1994). 55. These efforts did not translate into tangible results, as Director Quinlan once remarked: “I have tried for 3 years as director to have a more aggressive public relations program, but I’ll be darned if I can point to any major successes in that regard. I don’t see any significant change” (Roberts, 1990c:43). 56. Interview with John Vanyur. 57. Controversial issues may pertain to “minor” questions such as the central initiative to require BOP employees to get prior approval for publication of personal views. Controversy can arise when it is felt that Bureau tradition is violated. The introduction of a new Bureau seal angered BOP members; “their” badge of pride had been replaced with a “modern” seal. The seal was soon replaced by a new one, which was accepted (DiIulio, 1994a). 58. Personal communication with Rison (1997). 59. Interview with Mark Landon. 60. Interview with John Vanyur. 61. Interview with Diane Pfutzner. 62. Interview with Norm Carlson. The concept of unit management is a case in point. It was first developed in an experimental setting. The field gradually became enthusiastic. Unit management seemed to facilitate improved communications with inmates, brought line and staff together, and advanced the social climate within these institutions. Today, unit management is a matter of policy. It is accepted because it was originally developed by the field and has proven its worth.

5 The Dutch Prison System: Leadership and Fragmentation

The question is whether we have fitting answers to these questions. Well, we do not. —Senior policymaker1

The Allied victory in 1945 opened a tremendous window of opportunity for correctional reform and institutional redesign of the antiquated prison system in the Netherlands. Broad political consensus pushed the Dutch prison system into a new era as the traditional policy of solitary confinement was replaced with a reform-oriented policy. In the following decades, the Dutch prison system developed from a small, centralized, and fairly simple organization into a much larger, modern, and complex organization. It also developed from a fairly integrated system into a fragmented aggregate of organizations. The conventional explanation of the level of fragmentation witnessed in the 1990s points to environmental forces: periods of spiraling growth resulted in a quadrupling of cell capacity; the inmate population became harder to manage; fiscal crises brought years of budget austerity. In the wake of shifting societal and political moods, the prison system was subjected to criticism ranging from excessive punitiveness to a lack of punitiveness. On first consideration, these environmental forces may seem to explain why the Dutch prison system was quite fragmented in the early 1990s. An institutional analysis, however, reveals that these were necessary but not sufficient conditions for fragmentation to occur. The variety in field missions and prison regimes in the Dutch prison is more than anything the outcome of departmental actions and decisions. 125

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My argument is twofold. First, I show that departmental prison leaders did not apply the integrative techniques—mission, inculcation, autonomy—available to them. Prison leadership between 1945 and the early 1990s did not formulate and implement a central mission, did not consistently attempt to instill core values into prison workers, and did not establish a sufficient degree of autonomy for the prison system. Had leadership provided a solid base for integration, the environmental changes may well have been absorbed. Second, I argue that field leadership has played an important role in the evolution of the Dutch prison system. Wardens gradually developed a sometimes quite antagonistic stance vis-à-vis the Justice Department. Over the years, the Justice Department provided prison wardens with more and more discretionary freedom, which allowed them to influence the implementation of prison policy to a substantial degree. When the wardens developed an inclination to interpret and execute central guidelines in a rather independent manner, central policymakers did little to correct the situation. Departmental leaders more or less created and sustained what would become a powerful force of fragmentation. Finally, I describe how fragmentation has influenced the departmental capacity to govern the Dutch prison system and discuss the relation between central leadership, field leadership, and administrative cohesion in terms of institutional vulnerability.

Leadership and Mission: The Failed Quest Institutional Roots: Wrestling with Imposed Enlightenment After World War II, a spirit of modernization took hold of the Dutch prison system.2 Dutch prisons had experienced little change since solitary confinement had been officially adopted in the latter decades of the nineteenth century as the principal method of punishment.3 But after the war (during which many postwar politicians had gained firsthand experience with solitary confinement), reform of the prison system and its antiquated policies was finally initiated.4 The idea that punishment should be more than revenge pervaded the political discourse about prisons and guided modernization efforts. The underlying aspiration was to prevent future crime. “It was a time for pioneers. Something was finally happening in the prison system.”5 In 1953, a new Prison Act took effect. Solitary confinement, pronounced an inhumane form of punishment, was formally abolished. The

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political acceptance of inmate reform was expressed in the often cited Article 26 of the Prison Act: “While preserving its punitive character, the execution of detention will also be made subservient to a preparation of the inmate’s return to life in society.” With the parliamentary adoption of the 1953 Prison Act, the Dutch prison system was set in a new direction. It was Director Ernest Lamers who headed the revolution, serving from 1948 to 1966.6 His task was to “scratch the rust off the prison system.” 7 A devout Catholic and a former judge, Lamers held both bureaucrats and prison workers in an iron grip. Regimes were designed in the small Prison Section of the Justice Department and imposed on the field institutions.8 The regimes were implemented according to central design. Wardens had “very little influence” under Lamers.9 His visits to the prisons were usually anticipated with anxiety: “Everybody was nervous. He would bring the official timetables of that institution and he would check if inmates were doing what they were supposed to be doing according to the timetable.”10 But in addition to being an authority-wielding figure, Lamers was a creative man.11 Traveling abroad frequently, Lamers imported many ideas from foreign and more progressive prison systems, though not all of these ideas were feasible, as his longtime deputy, Erdman, recalls a discussion he had with Lamers: One day [in the 1950s] he comes back from America: “Now I’ve seen how we should do it! Inmates over there eat together. Four armed guards patrol the cafeteria. They are not allowed to talk and have to finish within 20 minutes.” Erdman: “But Ernest, that will never work! Nobody here [referring to the average Dutch citizen] can afford to eat in a cafeteria; if we let inmates do that, free citizens will start to complain.” (interview with author)

Lamers and his small cabinet of senior policymakers took the prison system on its first steps toward modernization. Social worker entered the prison system, psychologists were hired, and contacts with the academic world were intensified.12 The director did not hesitate to employ young talented men; one new warden was appointed at the age of twenty-seven.13 Inspired by an English example—the “short sharp shock” regime—Lamers decided to open a new institution for young delinquents; they would work outdoors and play sports. Lamers was taken by a young psychologist’s ideas about the “guided group interaction method” and charged the psychologist with designing a new regime for juveniles.14 Furthermore, Lamers initiated a monthly magazine and semiannual warden conferences. The director was also the

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driving force behind the periodic Benelux conferences on prisons that started in 1950.15 The widely shared desire for change was accompanied by little else than a vague understanding of what a modern prison precisely entailed. In the absence of proven methodologies, Director Lamers regularly called attention to the limits of rehabilitation. For instance, Lamers (1955) reminded those who were yearning for change of the “reality that—whether or not it is a result of our lack of knowledge and capabilities—there are incorrigibles, antisociaux, escape-risks and trouble-makers among [convicts].” In his many “theoretical statements” published in the monthly prison magazine Maandschrift voor het Gevangeniswezen, the director searched for a balance between what he considered the separate tasks of the prison system (Lamers, 1963, 1964). Senior policymakers openly doubted whether it would ever be “completely possible” to create an “educational climate” in prison (van der Grient, 1954:67). The early leaders of the prison system actively advocated and endorsed change but, at the same time, preached modesty and patience. In Search of a Mission The message from the central office was never a clear one. The rhetoric of change—rehabilitation, individual treatment, humanization, democratization—suggested broad aspirations (Vegter, 1989). Actual improvements were of a much simpler nature: new beds, curtains, closets, clothes, and locks. With the adoption of modern penal goals, traditional ways of prison management had become outdated.16 But a new comprehensive philosophy, which would connect abstract ambitions with concrete goals and an effective way to manage a prison, was not communicated from departmental headquarters. Instead, field administrators were told to invent their own: There are still many officials who do not exactly know what is expected from them. Who do not understand yet the “how and why” of these newly introduced measures. They are entitled to a clear answer. This answer should not be given [by the department], but must be found by themselves. (Maandschrift voor het Gevangeniswezen, 1949:12)

The postwar switch from a cellular system to a communal system brought confusion to the work floor. Guards who had never talked to inmates before—contact between inmates and guards was strictly forbidden in the cellular system—suddenly had to interact with inmates.

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Moreover, they were expected to communicate with inmates—official rhetoric referred to a “meeting” [ontmoeting] between guard and inmate—in ways that would contribute to the rehabilitation ideal (Franke, 1990a). Custodial tasks became harder as well: inmates were allowed much more freedom in the communal system, something the prewar generation of guards was not used to (Zwezerijnen, 1972; Petersen, 1978). The social workers, who embodied the reform ideal, were equally confused about their tasks (Hoefnagels, 1963). This “crisis of uncertainty” was recognized at the department (van der Grient, 1957:2). After documenting the “heavy tax” placed on correctional workers, a senior policymaker concluded that correctional personnel needed “certainties in uncertainty” (van der Grient, 1954:68, 72). The 1953 Prison Act did not provide such certainties. Article 26 proved to be more a “blank cheque” than a detailed road map (Petersen, 1978:910). Further specification of penal goals and correctional methods had to come from within the prison system (Vegter, 1989). The problem was that nobody knew how to “reform” people. Criminology offered no definite answers (Veringa, 1964). Moreover, the limits of the “treatment” ideal had become a topic of discussion within the department. One important operationalization of the reform ideal was found in the differentiation principle; various inmate categories were separated from each other in order to avoid “criminal infection” (van der Grient, 1949a; Vegter, 1989). A second type of concrete efforts was aimed at the humanization of detention. Inmates were gradually allowed a few privileges; guards were instructed to view inmates as “brothers” and “human beings” who were entitled to “humane treatment” (Franke, 1996:289). The buildings were adapted; communal rooms and yards were constructed, facilities were (slowly) modernized (Petersen, 1978). But these were no more than broad outlines of a correctional philosophy that was far from being operationalized into a concrete way of working. However revolutionary these changes were at the time, there was still no clearly formulated mission with regard to accomplishing the modern aims of the prison system (Scholten, 1964).17 Central Constraints The development of an effective reform-oriented mission was impaired by at least two factors. First, the persistent belief in differentiation as the key to individual reform prevented the formulation of a central mission (Vegter, 1989). Policymakers were more focused on the specification of

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individual regimes for separate institutions than they were on the development of one overall correctional philosophy. With so many different types of prisons, policymakers had to develop a plethora of regimes. In the absence of an effective reform technology, policymakers kept trying to refine differentiation. This resulted in numerous categories of inmates (and as many prison types) and a strong emphasis on the continuous improvement of selection procedures. This quasi-scientific approach to regime development did not apply to the remand centers (making up more than half of the prison system’s capacity). Because the remand centers mostly housed unconvicted suspects, these inmates were exempted from reform efforts. Half of the Dutch prison system was thus expected to modernize without any central guidance whatsoever (Allewijn, 1967; Zwezerijnen, 1972). The search for a correctional mission was further impaired by the mismatch between a centralist structure and the perceived need for field experiments. Policymakers hoped to develop a reform-oriented working method through a process of experimentation at the field level, even though field administrators functioned in a rule-abiding culture that stifled all forms of creativity (Hallema, 1958; Scholten, 1964). The centralized structure of the Dutch prison system did not induce wardens to take initiatives (Boeij, de Groot, and Koeman, 1984; Vegter, 1984). Each and every expenditure, promotion, rule, and exception was passed down from, or had to be authorized by, the department. The menus for inmates were written in The Hague. “On Monday, inmates had pea soup. Regardless of how hot it was outside. Even the amount of peas in the soup was regulated.”18 Inmates hated Friday’s stockfish: “That fish came out of the kitchen and went straight into the garbage cans; inmates refused to eat that.” A warden once replaced the stockfish with a more tasty species, at no additional cost. The department would have none of it: “They said it was good for inmates to eat something they don’t like.”19 The central regulation drift went beyond food menus. If an institution needed something, it had to request it: chairs, sheets, washcloths, anything. “The design of new prisons specified the number of nails to be used.”20 One warden recalls a situation in which a guard had lost two buttons of his uniform: “We didn’t have any buttons in stock, so I asked the department for some spare buttons.” After several rounds of correspondence (“Can you explain how that guard lost his buttons?”), the warden received six buttons for his efforts. Retired prison workers confirm that “the department made the decisions.” 21 Until the late 1960s, “relations were hierarchical; orders were not a matter of discussion”

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(Boeij, de Groot, and Koeman, 1984:63). The department ruled: “That’s just the way it was. That’s the way society was. . . . Everybody was scared of Lamers. . . . Wardens were like slaves. But we didn’t know any better.”22 The traditional inclination to direct from the top down was reinforced by departmental inspections. The inspectors were the “eyes and ears” of the department.23 The general inspections were held once a year and lasted anywhere between a day and a week, depending on the size of the prison. Inspectors checked everything against the formally prescribed regime of that facility. Deviations were reported to headquarters, after which the prison administrations were instructed to adapt their practices. This was not an ideal climate for penal experiments. In the few cases where experimentation did take place, the results were not encouraging. De Corridor, which opened in 1967, was a laboratory for reform in which youthful first offenders were subjected to a treatment-oriented regime. But it never became clear what the regime stood for (Vegter, 1989:57).24 Another experiment was the institution without rules, a form of inmate democracy in De Sprang in The Hague. Somewhere in the late 1960s, “punks coming from solitary confinement were placed in community. There was no personnel and no rules; it was a mess.” Wim Janssens, who was the warden at the time, described it as “the worst period of my life” (Zwezerijnen, 1972). Broadening Ambitions During the 1960s, prison policymakers began to seriously reconsider the reform ideal. The Dutch guard force—especially its veteran officers— had remained strongly partial to the traditional custodial philosophy, which had proved simple and effective (Heijder, 1963; Zwezerijnen, 1972; Blokland, 1974; de Vries, 1995; de Graaff, 1996). Reform had never made it off the correctional drawing board. One senior policymaker observed, “We have not been able to operationalize the term correctional treatment,” and effectively undermined the reform ideal by stating, “We do not know of one single method to better an inmate” (Veringa, 1964:4, 12). Before his departure in 1966, Director Lamers had openly contemplated a policy readjustment. His successor, Pier Allewijn (1969:43), concurred with the underlying assessment: “In practice, no clear and generally accepted modes of meaningful detention have been developed.”

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Instead of limiting the reform ambitions, however, the new director broadened the policy to the remand centers (Allewijn, 1967). A twin strategy of “humanizing” and “normalizing” was introduced. Allewijn (1967:26) pleaded for a new “basic attitude” towards inmates, one that would “allow much unless it should really be prohibited.” What this new policy precisely entailed, other than granting the inmates more and more privileges, was never clarified. Many questions were formulated for open discussion, however. “The question is whether we have fitting answers to these questions. Well, we do not” (van der Grient, 1969:182). In 1969, Allewijn told a warden conference that the normalization of prison life was to be complemented by the democratization of the prison organization. Allewijn’s conceptualization of the democratic prison also applied to the relations between guards and inmates. The director asked for more tolerance toward inmates, something the guard force was not yet ready for: Personnel at every level, molded by a correctional tradition of years, in which relations and rules were always clear, does not accept a Befehl ist Befehl mentality [from the department] anymore but finds it difficult to extend this line of thinking to the inmates, because they would then be equal to [personnel]. (Hutte, 1972:107)

This new vision eventually came to be blamed for the many problems that besieged the Dutch prison system in the early 1970s (Soetenhorst, 1976; van Tuinen, 1977). The unresolved tension between decidedly modern but rather vague reform-oriented rhetoric and daily considerations of safety and security was related to such structural problems as staff-line conflicts, high absentee rates, and increasing staff shortages (Blokland, 1974; van Tuinen, 1977; Griever, 1979). In Groningen, two riots took place that were explained in terms of uncertainty and lack of central guidance. The apparent result of the democratization promise was that inmates had become more demanding. Many guards felt that they were perceived by inmates as the bad guys whereas the social workers were the ones holding the carrots (Zwezerijnen, 1972; van Tuinen, 1977). In this tense context, the Prison Section announced a restructuring of the prison system: facilities were closed (due to perceived overcapacity), classifications of institutions were altered, and personnel were transferred or laid off. As a result of these developments, support for Allewijn’s vision began to falter. The discrepancy between reform ambitions and actual practice became a target of criticism (van der Grient, 1972; Franke, 1995). Deputy

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Minister of Justice Wiersma urged departmental policymakers to develop a more balanced and concrete policy (Balans, 1971). In 1974, the wardens requested a reconsideration of the prescribed regimes, in reaction to the worrying absentee rates. Deputy Minister Glastra van Loon (1974) publicly commented that “policy should target the problems that guards encounter in their daily work.” The deputy minister later explained that prison practices had “little to do with a vision on the tasks of the prison system. . . . Humanization is not a specific goal . . . it does not provide clear guidance for action nor for evaluation of action” (Glastra van Loon, 1976:56, 58). In a damaging assessment, Glastra van Loon (1976:58) described the prison system as a “little old boat floating in turbulent waters, the crew so busy fixing leaks and holes that they have no time to set a course.” When Director Allewijn left for another department in 1975, the secretary-general of the Justice Department ordered prison policymakers to “steer a center course” (Balans, 1975). A Man with a Plan The new director, Hans Tulkens, found such a rebalance of detention goals neither necessary nor desirable. Tulkens (1975:2) explained to his wardens, “We have no choice; we must steer a reform-oriented course.” However, he did try to build a concrete mission that would meet the ambitious aims of the modern prison. This demanded much work, as Tulkens soon discovered. The incoming director found that the distance between the department and the field impaired the central ability to develop a clearly formulated policy on inmate reform. It is worth quoting Tulkens at length here: The central office ruled the field. But they couldn’t translate the abstract aim [of detention] into concrete policy. . . . Everybody was convinced that resocialization was a must. But it remained an abstraction. So everybody made a personal translation to their individual task. The person responsible for labor translated resocialization in terms of labor; but at the same time he had to deal with financial and procedural constraints. The same happened with regimes. They had no clue how to translate resocialization into a regime. So policymakers emphasized custodial aspects, the one dimension of detention they could define. . . . The entire [concept of reform] had not been mapped out yet.25

Tulkens intended to develop a concrete, reform-oriented policy that would require discretion for field administrators: “Individual treatment

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requires differentiation and leaves less room for uniform guidelines.” But the prison system was not ready for decentralization: “The prison system was organized according to rigid administrative structures. Allewijn had initiated changes, but [the bureaucrats] clung to top-down management, with an emphasis on consistency and uniformity.” A correctional philosophy had to be developed that could deal with this tension between individual treatment and uniform policy. Controlled decentralization, based on a unifying and uniform policy, was the envisioned key to success: “Operationalization should be accomplished in cooperation with the field. They know best.” The authoritarian culture was to be replaced with open communication and mutual trust: “Share the principles of correctional work with field administrators, check later if they act in the spirit of those principles.”26 For the first time in the postwar period, Dutch prison policymakers formulated a rather specific correctional philosophy.27 Its evolution can be observed by comparing the official policy plans of 1976 and 1982. The 1976 policy plan, Nota Beleidsvraagstukken Gevangeniswezen (Statement on policy issues of the prison system), showed some initial developments toward an integrated philosophy. The plan reiterated the “duty” to strive for resocialization and predicted future developments such as the formal decentralization of authority to the field (Zeevalking, 1976:33). The development toward a reform-oriented philosophy was enhanced by the introduction of formal inmate grievance procedures (Vagg, 1994).28 The plan called for a “change of mentality which should result in a different way of working” (Zeevalking, 1976:63). To this effect, prisons were reorganized according to the so-called linking-pin structure, which was intended to involve lower-level employees in organizational decisionmaking processes (Likert, 1967).29 But the 1976 plan did not present a coherent and consistent correctional philosophy that explained how this reform-oriented policy should be achieved in the context of a prison environment. The 1982 policy plan, Taak en Toekomst van het Nederlandse Gevangeniswezen (Task and future of the Dutch prison system), did exactly that. After noting existing doubts with regard to the possibilities of reform, the plan asserted that “detention can be used to prepare the inmate for his return to society in a way that he will be accepted within that society and—possibly—will be able to hold his own in a better way than before” (Scheltema, 1982:21).30 The heart of this correctional philosophy consisted of two separate but rather concrete plans.31

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The first plan proposed a standardized prison structure (GIS) in which the tasks of guards would be significantly upgraded.32 Staying true to an administrative philosophy of decentralization, prison administrations were allowed, even encouraged, to decide for themselves how the new organizational structure would materialize in practice. The core idea was to organize guards in teams that would be assigned to inmate groups. The teams would accompany a group of inmates through their daily program; the correctional workers, as they were now officially referred to, would unlock their cells in the morning, take the inmates to their work, to the yard, to the programs, and finally back to their cells. Instead of manning a post part of the day (which resulted in a detached attitude toward inmates), guards would become formally responsible for a group of inmates (which supposedly would stimulate a more personal relationship with inmates). Officers were to become actively involved in the “treatment” of inmates: The guard will play a real role when it comes to labor and other activities; he will cooperate with specialized counselors and refer [inmates] to them; as a team member charged with the care of a small group of inmates, he will emphatically be concerned about their individual and communal interests. (Tulkens, 1983:301)

The second plan offered a complementary operationalization of reform-oriented inmate management by developing so-called regime activities programs (RAP). Daily inmate schedules were divided into three sectors: living, labor, and development (rehabilitation activities). Tulkens wanted to deemphasize labor as a daily activity in order to create room for other activities in the daily schedule of the institution. The RAP plan was intended to stimulate field administrations to create a set of activities for the development sector. Tulkens (1983:301) envisioned a school-based system in which inmates could select activities from an overall program: “The idea was that the institutions would develop as many programs for inmates as was possible.”33 Barbed-Wire Constraints The prison system entered the 1980s with a relatively coherent and internally consistent correctional philosophy that prescribed a way of working that, in theory at least, would further both the custodial and the reform aims of detention. But a philosophy can become a mission only

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if there is a fitting administrative structure to support its accomplishment. Tulkens, the spiritual father of the plan, knew well that the implementation process was littered with pitfalls: “These are drastic plans . . . [but] true acceptance of Article 26 requires an overhaul . . . of the entire structure of the prison system” (Tulkens, 1983:301, 303). Organizational structures were to be redesigned and standard routines revamped. Decentralization of authority was not only certain to meet with resistance, but it also created a new problem, as Tulkens (1983:303) accurately foresaw: Too big of a distance between [the Justice Department in] “The Hague” and “the field” and a diverging vision on the administration of detention will severely hamper the governability [of the field] and cause personal dissatisfaction in “the field.”

Tulkens had to deal with a large group of field administrators who were not ready to make these changes; the age-old tradition of security was ingrained in the thinking of many field administrators.34 Guards had learned primarily how to act against inmates, not how to act with inmates. The biggest challenge, according to Tulkens, was therefore to “accomplish a mentality change.” The process was a slow one, Tulkens later admitted: “Every time when push came to shove, security considerations received priority over treatment concerns.” For instance, the introduction of female guards was a much slower process than envisioned. The new inmate grievance procedures also met with resistance (Tulkens, 1983; Nijborg, 1985). Tulkens also had to deal with factions within his own Prison Section that resisted a complete overhaul. A “division of opinion” existed with regard to the loosening of regimes (Kelk, 1984:903).35 The “business-like, centralist, bureaucratic and management-oriented” faction within the Prison Section rejected outright the reform ideal, which was supported by a “humane” faction (Kelk, 1984:903).36 The former group of policymakers opposed the delegation of authority to the field. In a way, Tulkens had become the prisoner of his own philosophy. The director had espoused a correctional philosophy in which decentralization and organizational autonomy were important administrative pillars. But in order to overcome resistance—both at the central and the field level—Tulkens really needed a centralized form of governance. The irony was that although he was in charge of a very centralized bureaucracy, his philosophy stopped him from steering it accordingly. The director left too much room for opposing forces: “Tulkens wasn’t tough

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enough; other policymakers could easily circumvent him.”37 Tulkens admitted that he had left too much to the field, but he strongly believed that field administrators could not be forced to do things they did not want to do. The unfortunate timing of the new policy plan compounded the situation. The belief in modernization and reform had evaporated, both in society and academic circles (Franke, 1990a). When Tulkens began his directorship, the prison system was closing down institutions. By the time his plans had taken shape, it was clear that new prisons would be needed to deal with the increased demand for cell capacity. A fiscal crisis made it virtually impossible to introduce grand-scale reforms that, in the perceptions of many, benefited inmates rather than prison officials. When a hiring freeze was imposed upon the prison system, Tulkens (1981) had to ask his personnel “to do more with less.” But it was Tulkens’s correctional mission that suffered most; few of the original ideas underlying his plans were implemented accordingly in correctional practice (Kelk, 1984; Kommer, 1991). When Tulkens resigned in 1984, an era of thinking and debating about detention abruptly ended. Efficiency Without Correctional Vision After Tulkens’s departure, central efforts to formulate a correctional mission came to a grinding halt. The 1982 elections had resulted in a center-right cabinet headed by Prime Minister Lubbers. Promises of budgetary cutbacks and a tougher stance on crime foreshadowed a shift in penal policy. With the advent of efficiency as a central value in public governance, there was no room left for sweeping philosophies that were both expensive and idealistic (Hoogerwerf and Bruinsma, 1988; Franke, 1996). An increase in cell capacity became more urgent than reform-oriented experiments. It was clear that in such a political climate, the correctional philosophy presented in the 1982 policy plan would not survive (Tulkens, 1983). A new philosophy would have to take stock of the altered political and societal context. The parameters for a new mission were further narrowed by the fiscal crisis that forced the minds of policymakers on what must have seemed more pressing problems. In December 1982, the wardens were told that the prison budget would be slashed by an average of 14 percent, while capacity had to rise (van Huet, 1983; Kelk, 1984). The prison system would have to do with less personnel. Inmates were to spend more time in their cells on the weekends, while their internal

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freedom of movement would have to be limited in the face of the announced personnel cuts (Franke, 1990a). “The clock is put 30 years back in regime development,” complained Warden van Huet (1983:128). With the appointment of Henk Greven as the new director of the prison system, correctional thinking was replaced by managerialism. When it was announced that each prison organization would have to develop a policy plan—devised in cooperation with a consulting firm— some sort of correctional vision seemed necessary in order to prescribe “the regime, task, and organization” of the prisons (de Bruin, 1985). But an interview with the new director revealed that there was no central correctional vision underlying these policy plans (de Wijs, 1985). The new director viewed the policy plans as an instrument—a “contract”—to clarify the relationship between the department and the field organizations. In all fairness, it should be noted that the budgetary situation forced Greven to make improved financial control his immediate and overriding priority (Smits, 1993). Moreover, the new director had found a “fiction of control” and an obscure financial relation with the field: “There was a centralistic vision, but decisionmaking procedures were very unclear. All kinds of informal relations existed between the field and middle managers in the Prison Section. Institutions went ‘shopping’ in The Hague. Those institutions with the best relations got the most.”38 The improvement of financial management and the clarification of budget allocations required a restructuring of the financial relationship between the department and the field organizations. The so-called deconcentration operation was initiated to make the prison system operate more efficiently. A senior policymaker explains the motivation behind the plan: We gave the institutions their own budget. You see, before that, the government used to think for everybody. When the government thought that your chairs needed replacement, you would find 25 new chairs in front of your gate. If an institution would independently purchase a washing machine, the department would go crazy. Politicians wanted to change that. The Justice Department and the Prison Section were front runners [in this development].39

The deconcentration operation made wardens financially responsible for personnel, the building and materials, inmate labor, and certain aspects of policy implementation (Wartna and Brouwers, 1996).40 As the deconcentration process unexpectedly developed its own dynamics, the scale of reform grew wider and wider (Wartna and Brouwers, 1996). The institutions had to be equipped with organizational units that could

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handle financial and personnel-related issues. A new organizational structure for field institutions was needed to integrate these staff functions. Field personnel were trained in financial management. The process required the widespread use of computers. Departmental policymakers had to develop a planning and control cycle. In an interview, Greven summarized the situation: “We had to develop [the prison system] into a grown-up organization. The vision was clear: Give authority to the institutions and integrate policy implementation with financial management.” This embrace of efficiency made a new correctional policy an imminent requirement. The deputy minister of justice had sanctioned the deconcentration operation on the condition that “uniformity in implementation and equality of treatment” would be ensured.41 The Tulkens philosophy, which left much of the implementation to the field, was a nightmare for accountants and policy evaluators, because the reformoriented objectives did not translate into clearly specified and easily quantifiable goals. The delegation of budget authority therefore required a different kind of policy. “The necessity finally arose,” explains a senior policymaker, to reconsider the Tulkens philosophy (which was never implemented in the first place), because “after a certain point, Taak en Toekomst didn’t suffice any more.”42 Correctional Policy: The Missing Link Central efforts aimed at correctional policymaking had remained absent, however. This was noted in the field. Warden van Huet (1983:127) cautiously wondered whether financial cutbacks had become the new foundations of correctional policy. In the fall of 1984, three wardens bluntly (and publicly) referred to a “lack of departmental vision” (Peters, 1986). In the same article, a guard criticized the department: “We need policy. What do they want to do with the prison system? The plan Taak en Toekomst has been put aside, even though nothing has replaced it” (Peters, 1986:58). One veteran policymaker complained that “those financial kids” at the department “viewed inmates as movable goods, something to be controlled.” A warden observed that “after Tulkens, there was no vision.” A retired policymaker admits that, while the deconcentration operation continued unabated, “nobody at the department thought about regimes anymore.” Correctional policy was based on incidents rather than on correctional philosophy. Officially, the prison system was still

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operating on a watered-down version of Taak en Toekomst.43 But the newly built prisons demonstrated that efficiency had become more important than inmate reform (Grapendaal and Kommer, 1988). The prison designs showed “that policymakers really had no knowledge about daily prison affairs.”44 The new prisons were described by several respondents as dangerous. Policymakers became rather preoccupied with the financial dimension of center-field relations: “In the past years, there has been too much attention for budgeting. . . . As a warden you score when you’re good in budgeting. You score less when you’re good at guarding” (van Westerloo, 1993:29). More than a few of my respondents attributed the observed absence of correctional thinking to Director Greven: “The Prison Section was reactive under Greven. Policy was always a reaction to something that had happened outside; the problem would circle upwards and then a position was [finally] taken.”45 But when Greven was promoted to director-general, little changed. His successor, Ben van der Goorbergh, did not bring with him an explicitly formulated correctional philosophy. The new director, however, did implicitly acknowledge the need for such a vision: The 1980s were turbulent and characterized by policyplan-operations [sic], reorganization, cut backs, large-scale construction projects, and deconcentration. The plan Taak en Toekomst provided the policy parameters for these developments, but . . . a broad and explicit discussion of detention quality threatened to disappear in the background. . . . The quality of detention should be a continuous subject of discussion. (van der Goorbergh, 1989:2)

Van der Goorbergh would never get the opportunity to develop a correctional philosophy. His tragic death in 1991 plunged the prison system into organizational chaos.46 The subsequent void in leadership (it would take quite some time for a successor to be appointed) “forced us into passivity; everybody was running his own joint,” as one senior policymaker describes the situation (cf. Wartna and Brouwers, 1996:58). The leadership void exacerbated the organizational confusion that had resulted from the ongoing deconcentration operation (van IJperen, 1994; Wartna and Brouwers, 1996). The original deconcentration plan had gradually evolved into a full-fledged restructuring of the entire penal field into a semi-independent agency. The combination of two plans—deconcentration and agency formation—created tension at all levels of the prison system. As certain functions would be shifted either

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to the field level or up to the Justice Department, central policymakers feared their jobs were at stake. Field administrators were held accountable for the performance of their institutions, no doubt a discomforting thought for some prison managers.47 Efficiency had effectively become the mission of the prison system. Within less than a decade, the Dutch prison system had disconnected itself from the correctional philosophy presented in the 1982 policy plan. Departmental policymakers continued to pay lip service to Taak en Toekomst. For instance, decentralization of authority to the field appeared in line with the Tulkens philosophy. But there was no underlying detention vision; it was carried out from a managerial perspective. The new emphasis on efficiency was defended as a necessary condition for policy performance: “In badly managed organizations, policy becomes rhetoric.”48 But it was never clear what philosophy other than efficiency had become the official policy of the newly managed organization. In the early 1990s, the Dutch prison system still had no correctional mission.

Leadership and Inculcation A second administrative technique aimed at institution building is the use of inculcation mechanisms. Conventional instruments of inculcation—selection, training, promotions, transfers—may further the development of a widely shared understanding and appreciation of a (new) correctional philosophy, a dominant way of working, and the particular contribution that each member is to make to the correctional enterprise. But prison policymakers never made a systematic effort to instill the importance of correctional reform in field administrators and to provide them with the mental technology to perform their new task. This absence of a central effort to inculcate members is most noticeable and persistent in the case of the correctional workers, who constitute the largest and, arguably, most important group of policy implementers. Wardens were subjected to inculcation processes—especially during the 1970s— but these were relatively isolated and fairly disorganized efforts. Inculcation Aimed at Correctional Workers In 1949, a departmental commission advised that all correctional officers would receive basic training for two or three months. It was deemed necessary to “foster an adequate mentality with regard to their work” and

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to engage personnel in “a little personality building which is urgently needed” (van der Grient, 1949b). Departmental policymakers realized that the “thinking and acting” of the correctional officials were “drenched in security” (van der Grient, 1954:67). The new Central Training Institute (CTI), officially opened in 1955, seemed to underscore departmental intentions. Director Lamers (1956) had a different story for his wardens, however. The CTI would have a limited task. The real training would take place in the field organizations. Even though official rhetoric consistently proclaimed the importance of a mentality change among guards, deliberate efforts to change their thinking remained haphazard. Correctional practice even suggests that lower-level correctional workers were not intended to carry the torch of reform. From the beginning, treatment was considered the domain of independently operating professionals such as counselors and psychologists.49 The persistence of a custodial attitude among the guard force was thus quite logical, as guards were not part of the treatment team (Heijder, 1963). The custodial attitude was further strengthened by the tendency to recruit guards from the special perimeter-control forces, which were organized and trained in military style (Heijder, 1963; de Vries, 1995). After the recruits had gone through an initial on-the-job training, they went to the CTI for one to three weeks, where the new guards received a rather limited form of training. Inmate reform was the subject of group discussions. But such discussions never got beyond the rhetoric of the day, because CTI instructors had no clear conception of what the “treatment” task of guards should entail (Dhondt, 1970). Departmental policymakers demanded that ample attention be paid to “correctional handwork” such as security, frisking, inmate counts, and such.50 In addition, guards were trained in the art of spelling. Heijder (1963) seriously doubted that this sort of training would change the custodial attitude of guards. The real training, after all, took place in the institutions (Heijder, 1963; Zeevalking, 1976:55; Griever, 1979:74; Hoogenboom, 1991; Kommer, 1991:137). The selection criteria for guards did not always result in the hiring of the most desirable recruits: physically, tall and muscular guys were favored; previous experience was not important; a high school diploma was not required; and little attempt was made to determine if a candidate espoused a modern treatment-oriented correctional philosophy (communicate with inmates in order to reform them). The guards were “simple men who didn’t know the difference between a lawyer and a

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prosecutor.”51 The 1976 policy plan denied the necessity for further education, even though 70 percent of the guard force did not possess the equivalent of a high school diploma (Blokland, 1974:63; van der Grient, 1954). In 1985, the list of desired personality variables still included such vaguely worded criteria as “not too much empathy, not too ambitious, social skills, responsible, self-assured, a team player, controlled and flexible” (van Son, 1986:415).52 Each and every promotion was accorded by the department. The decision was guided by the input of field wardens. The dominant criterion of seniority and the weight of the warden’s advice, if anything, nurtured a tendency to rule adherence in the local organizational context. For most field administrators, career tracks did not reach very far. It has always been very hard for lower-level workers to work their way up the correctional ladder past the middle-management level. Only a handful of wardens started out as a guard. The dominance of a custodial mentality among a majority of the field force was both observed and lamented at the department.53 Director Tulkens (1975) observed that the reform goal played only a minor part in the training of guards. The promotion of a treatment-oriented philosophy and the changing role for guards required a more assertive approach (van Hattum, 1977). Tulkens envisioned that through training and selection the old-fashioned key-turning guard could be turned into a communicating and empathizing official who—almost casually— would frame all his actions in terms of security. Therefore, the modern guard would have to be taught how to deal with the problem of conflicting loyalties: “the choice between the interest of the inmate and the interest of the system” (van Tuinen, 1977:292).54 The modern guard would have to learn that security is an integral aspect of the job description, but not necessarily the most important one. The modern guard was, furthermore, to be schooled in the art of relation building. The traditional separation between custodial and treatment functions—the guard and the social worker—would have to be terminated. A significant discrepancy was noted between this new task and the average educational level of guards (Kranendonk, 1978). The CTI had apparently accomplished very little. Central training had been expanded to thirteen weeks. The training course was divided into an introductory course (the A course) and a more advanced course (the B course). Completion of the latter course was made a requirement for promotion. A shortened B course was designed especially for the older guards, so that promotion would still be possible for them. But the new training effort

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was not a success: “All these individuals with no prior schooling were suddenly required to take theoretical courses—sociology, psychology, criminology; they would fall asleep in class.”55 The courses were designed by the CTI without significant input from either the department or the field. The classes offered theoretical explorations, “but it was never explained how that should be accomplished in practice.”56 Participants found the courses too theoretical (Balans, 1979). Central training presented the guard force with a reform-oriented ideology that was never translated into organizational or administrative terms. The role transformation for guards was made a responsibility of the field. Director Tulkens told a conference of associate wardens that it was the task of field administrations to accomplish a mentality change among the guard force (Verhagen, 1981). A deliberate choice was made to allow the institutions to train their own personnel. To this effect, psychological advisers were sent to the institutions for assistance. The CTI changed from a general training institute into a facilitating knowledge center. In the early 1980s, the CTI modified its courses several times to make them more “practice oriented.”57 This development was consistent with the decentralization plans announced in the 1982 policy plan Taak en Toekomst. The plan was decidedly optimistic with regard to the future training and development of new recruits. Selection and training of guards should explicitly emphasize a basic attitude that would enable them “to interact with people” (Scheltema, 1982:48). The desired entrance level for guards was raised to a junior college (or MBO) degree. Promotion would be based on performance criteria rather than on seniority. The plan optimistically noted that the CTI had already accomplished a “considerable expansion” of training programs aimed at the improvement of social skills (Scheltema, 1982:48). But the budget cuts of the 1980s torpedoed the necessary forms of training and the higher salary scale that were supposed to accompany the expanded job description of guards (Kelk, 1984). The ambitious plans of the 1970s gave way to demands of efficiency, which in turn relegated inculcation processes to the domain of field institutions (Wartna and Brouwers, 1996). This development meant that the vast numbers of incoming personnel in the late 1980s were selected and molded by the separate institutions with their individual philosophies and unique ways of working (van Son, 1986). In his field research, Kommer (1991) found that guards held strikingly different opinions on inmate management depending on the institution in which

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they worked (Hoogenboom, 1991). In the 1980s, research indicated that many new recruits were at a loss on the work floor; the counseling system did not work everywhere, the teams were not functioning as they should, and guards reported high stress levels—a situation that translated into high absentee rates (van Son, 1986; Kommer, 1991). In 1994, Deputy Minister of Justice Kosto publicly expressed his concern about the quality of correctional personnel.58 Inculcation Aimed at the Wardens Departmental policymakers were traditionally more inclined to focus on the select group of (deputy) wardens in order to accomplish the desired mentality change among field administrators. In the hierarchically oriented communications with the field, the warden and his immediate staff had become the natural counterparts of prison policymakers. The departmental preoccupation with wardens was reinforced by the Prison Act, which explicitly mandated the daily supervision of the institution to the warden (Article 23). The mentality of the sitting wardens necessitated a radical approach. Decades of custodial supervision had effectively indoctrinated them with a mentality that worked toward order, rules, and inmate discipline (Franke, 1990a). The custodial mentality was carefully preserved by the conventional way of bureaucratic advancement in the prison system. Wardens had traditionally come up through the ranks of the financial administration of the prison (a hierarchy separate from the custodial bureaucracy). They typically started out as assistant clerks in administration, busying themselves with finances and logistics. The chief of administration was eligible to become “third member of the board.” These were still considered “young guns,” even though many were over forty-five. A member of the board could apply for the position of warden in a small (third- or fourth-class) institution. After serving as a deputy warden in a big (first-class) institution, one could retire as warden of a second- or even a first-class institution. The long career path through the prison bureaucracy virtually guaranteed that wardens in the 1960s and early 1970s were governed by rule-bounded behavior and custodial reflexes. The directors Allewijn and Tulkens wished to instill modern ideas of treatment and humane detention into the wardens. Most wardens, however, were incapable of adapting to these new ideas. At the department,

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it was realized that a new generation of wardens was needed: “We very consciously began to recruit outsiders with university training.”59 Director Allewijn officially terminated the custom that prison managers should come up through the ranks of the financial administration. In 1969, special classes were set up for the new recruits (the so-called direction assistants).60 The young Turks were sent to do internships across the system. The shared classes nourished a strong bond between the new generation of wardens. Tulkens further sought to promote a shared vision among both new and veteran wardens through the use of warden conferences. The warden conferences were filled with “substantive discussions” about regimes and thus nurtured a “synchronicity in thinking” established through “intense contact between colleagues.”61 Tulkens tried to persuade wardens to adopt his vision on detention, but the director refused to force his philosophy upon the wardens: “The most important task [for central headquarters] is to generate ideas.” Even though many wardens at the time were not strongly inclined to develop personal rule interpretations (Nijborg, 1985), the young recruits under Tulkens were infused with a sense of independence combined with a feeling that they were responsible for translating treatment concepts into administrative action within their institutions. One warden remembers how “Tulkens stimulated wardens to experiment. . . . Wardens had to judge for themselves: What do I have in my house? What is possible in my house? The wardens got a lot of room back then.”62 Trained in the progressive era of the Dutch prison system, the special classes would become a very dominant school of independent-minded wardens. The warden classes were terminated in the early 1980s, apparently because there were enough recruits to fill the positions of senior administrators. In an additional development, the Prison Section began to recruit managers from outside the Justice system. Their selection was based on business management skills rather than “detention vision.”63 The 1970s school of wardens and their new managerial-oriented colleagues had one thing in common: a distaste for both bureaucracy and centralization, which translated into a strong preference for autonomy. The deconcentration operation inadvertently strengthened the value of independent management that had been instilled—either by Tulkens or by previous management careers—in most of the wardens. More and more budget responsibility was loaded onto their shoulders. Wardens were encouraged to become good managers, which essentially meant that they were supposed to control finances and avoid embarrassing

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production errors. As long as they lived up to performance expectations, the management of the institution was left to up to the wardens.64

Leadership and Autonomy A Blissful Calm Autonomy is best appreciated when it is lost. An administrative system can develop and maintain a widely shared mission only in the absence of political interference and legitimacy problems. The postwar period initially bestowed a relatively high degree of independence upon the Dutch prison system; the Prison Section could operate undisturbed, even in the context of a hierarchically organized Justice Department. This state of independence eventually caved in under critical assessments of detention practices and punishment principles. The first three postwar decades were characterized by what Deputy Minister of Justice Glastra van Loon (1976:66) described as “a blissful calm.” In the immediate aftermath of the war, a mood of urgency made long-resisted reforms possible, even in a precarious financial situation and in the face of traditional objections and opposition to the new correctional developments (Franke, 1990a:278; Petersen, 1978). The prison system was firmly encouraged to modernize correctional practices. It followed a fairly even course between traditional safety concerns and modern reform ambitions. Director Lamers’s paternalistic style of government was considered natural in the context of a society ruled by the political heads of the main ideological pillars (Lijphart, 1968). Moreover, the long-term director had an established reputation as a cautious reformer in political, departmental, and press circles. The period under Director Allewijn marked a tendency toward increased political sensitivity with regard to the prison system. During the 1970s, political and societal consensus strongly supported progressive detention modes and participative management practices. It was a time in which policymakers argued the relevance of security in terms of an inmate’s well-being: “The escaping inmate will feel hunted. . . . He will hide, so that his well-functioning in society becomes impossible” (Zeevalking, 1976:33–34). Political criticism remained rather benevolent if not encouraging, edging the prison system on toward higher performance.65 In departmental circles, however, the many problems in the field—tension in the remand centers, high absentee rates, escapes, the

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Groningen riots, the restructuring of the prison system—were increasingly perceived as problematic. Deputy Minister Wiersma warned prison policymakers that the growing criticism would eventually threaten existing practices (Balans, 1971). In its own monthly prison magazine, Balans, the Prison Section was reprimanded again only a few years later by Deputy Minister Glastra van Loon (1974). The deputy minister complained that his policymakers kept him in the dark about their policy intentions (Pollman, 1975). The subsequent departure of Director Allewijn did not come as a surprise to many. The continuing pursuit of reform-oriented aims under Director Tulkens showed that considerable freedom could be enjoyed as long as the prison system avoided incidents and problems. As one policymaker explained: “What happens in the prison system is politically not interesting. Nothing can be gained from those people” (Muller, 1994:214). Tulkens more or less appeased the critics in the field with his correctional vision and the promise of decentralization. But the degree of relative freedom enjoyed by the prison system was more the result of political disinterest than an outcome of effective boundary spanning, networking, exemplary results, or bureaucratic power play. Vulnerability Exposed In the early 1980s, Minister of Justice Frits Korthals Altes demonstrated that decades of noninterference do not necessarily warrant autonomy. With Taak en Toekomst, the previous cabinet had left behind a correctional policy that explicitly emphasized inmate reform and required more rather than less resources. The new justice minister derailed the policy plan Taak en Toekomst by eliminating certain key features while imposing unprecedented budget cuts on the prison system. Korthals Altes proposed a drastic revision of regimes, arguably the first major restrictions of inmate privileges since prewar days. In what was a most symbolic move, Tulkens resigned. The director felt there was nothing he could do to turn the tide. The new director, Greven, found the prison bureaucracy to be strangely unaware of the altered context. Both policymakers and wardens displayed a remarkable insensitivity to political demands such as double bunking. The Prison Section had been under increasing political pressure to double-bunk inmates since the early 1980s. The mere suggestion of double bunking would provoke a wave of emotional protest (Franke, 1990a). But double bunking was widely considered a cheap

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means to alleviate pressing capacity problems.66 Secretary-General Van Dinter and Director Greven agreed that emotional arguments stressing the inhumanity of double bunking would eventually fail to convince politicians that this was too radical a measure. The emotional discussion would have to be supplanted by “rational arguments” and a “business approach” in order to “sell no to the politicians.”67 A quite effective argument was eventually developed, which held that one inmate per cell is both cheaper and safer than double bunking (Boin, 1996). In the early 1990s, however, the prison system came under increasing pressure to reform. The perceived tolerance of prison regimes had become a topic of periodic parliamentary discussion.68 This image, symbolized by the one-inmate-one-cell principle, was more and more perceived as problematic in the face of persistent cell shortages. The tolerant image appeared outdated when the hardened inmate population was considered. One-third of the inmate population admitted to a drug problem. In 1994, more than 30 percent of the inmate population (approximately 9,000) were officially classified as “mentally damaged,” while nearly 200 inmates were reported to be HIV infected. In addition, over 40 percent of the inmate population consisted of foreigners or second-generation immigrants. More and more inmates entered the prison with longer sentences due to an increase in violent crime (Berghuis, 1994). In the face of these alarming statistics, the feasibility of inmate rehabilitation became a matter of discussion. Both in the public mind and in the parliamentary chambers, an increasingly militant attitude toward crime-related problems predominated (Moerings, 1994). Incidents and Intervention Symbolic displays of malfunctioning invited further public and political scrutiny of the prison system. A series of escapes exposed a hitherto unsuspected degree of vulnerability in prison security.69 The fact that inmates were escaping from newly built maximum-security units enhanced this image of administrative incompetence. To make things worse, inmates continued to escape even after the Justice Department had publicly announced a tightening of security measures in response to a critical report written by the Hoekstra Committee (1992). In the first months of 1993 alone, thirty-five inmates escaped from Dutch prisons. 70 The public image of the prison system lay in tatters. Media portrayed the prisons as an expensive hotel chain, with great service and no vacancies. Whereas escapes had previously been reported somewhere in

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the back pages, each new escape made front-page headlines. The larger newspapers, such as NRC Handelsblad and de Volkskrant, devoted several editorials to the state of the prison system. The opinion pages were flooded with expert opinions. Most media accounts agreed that the escapes signaled administrative incompetence, bad security, and overly lenient prison regimes. With 1993 being a preelection year, the opposition parties were all too willing to put political pressure on the minister of justice and, indirectly, on the prison system itself to remedy this embarrassing situation.71 Legislators proposed a variety of ad hoc solutions to the prison crisis, most of which emphasized stricter discipline for inmates and tightened security within the institutions. Even after public attention eventually subsided, legislators from different political parties reiterated that a more comprehensive reform program would be needed to put a stop to the continuing problems of the prison system. Deputy Minister Kosto responded with a significant redirection of prison policy. The new policy plan, aptly called Werkzame Detentie (effective detention), was officially presented to parliament in February 1994. It was accepted without much debate. Kosto hailed the plan as “revolutionary” and proclaimed a “change of course” for the Dutch prison system.72 This characterization seemed justified. The reform measures symbolized a fundamental reorientation with regard to the formal goals of detention, catering to the prevalent law-and-order attitude: “In the first place, the punitive character of prison should be warranted” (Hirsch Ballin and Kosto, 1994:11). It was further noted that “expensive investments . . . with the current inmate population have not visibly led to a successful return to society” (Hirsch Ballin and Kosto, 1994:14). In the new standard regime, no more than 20 percent of the inmate population would be entitled to participate in reform-oriented activities. Pressured by the escape crisis, the political heads of the Justice Department forced the policymakers in the Prison Section to formulate this new policy plan (Boin and Otten, 1996). The speed with which the plan developed and gained parliamentary acceptance demonstrated how limited the autonomy of the Prison Section really was. But one group of actors refused to go along with the announced policy change: the wardens publicly distanced themselves from their departmental chief and rejected the new policy plan. Whereas their departmental colleagues quietly went along, the wardens effectively worked against the new policy plan. In the process, the wardens demonstrated they had developed a degree of independence that separated the field from the Prison Section.

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Field Leadership: From Emancipation to Recalcitrance Field Emancipation In the long-term absence of effective leadership at the central level, a strong fragmentary force had gradually developed under the guise of field emancipation. The emancipation of field administrators was a logic corollary of the central preoccupation with controlled variety. Wardens were directed to play an active role in the “purposeful development of regimes” (Zeevalking, 1976). To this end, wardens were given substantial discretion. The 1953 Prison Act specifically provided the warden with decisionmaking authority in relation to issues such as disciplinary punishments, institutional order, inmate correspondence, visits, and telephone calls.73 In the following decades, wardens would receive only more regime-related discretion.74 In the 1982 policy plan, it was observed that “even though it has never been expressed with so many words in written rules, gradually more room has been left to the institutions to operationalize . . . regimes” (Scheltema, 1982:79). Considering the formal authority of the wardens, this was somewhat of an understatement. The combination of central inspections and shared interpretations had long kept the extent of variety within acceptable boundaries. Field discretion was limited, as Director Allewijn coolly observed, by an inclination toward order and “the spirit of the all-determining department.” Most wardens had never been overly inclined to use their discretion in ways other than prescribed by custodial tradition (van de Putte, 1996). Whatever spirit of adventure remained was buried under detailed rules and regulations. Despite the discretionary powers and the encouraging rhetoric, the prison system remained uniform and centralistic for quite some time (Soetenhorst, 1976). In the absence of a central mission, some wardens did make an imprint on the prison’s regime and organization (de Vries, 1995). Most wardens, however, did not. Some wardens picked up on the idea of treatment and initiated experiments; others did not understand the idea or were not ready for it. The young and upcoming wardens who entered the prison system in the 1970s were groomed for more autonomy. The combination of ambitious goals and the continuing absence of a compatible and coherent mission created an ideal context for the development of more independence. Wardens were more or less forced to translate abstract instructions and guidelines into a concrete form of inmate management. The absence of central guidance made the interpretation and adaptation

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of central policy a personal matter for the wardens and their personnel. Under Tulkens, wardens were strongly encouraged to take responsibility for regime-related processes within the institution. In his philosophy, the “mutual establishment of a clear direction” depended not so much on unanimity as on “mutual understanding” and the “loyalty to accept leadership” (Tulkens, 1979:3). In this spirit of trust, departmental inspections rapidly lost importance.75 “Tulkens threw the doors wide open. Everything was allowed.”76 In 1985, a veteran warden observed how the position of field leaders had gradually evolved since the early 1970s: Only a few used to open their mouths, most kept quiet. . . . They used to be less inclined to interpret the rules in their own way. Everybody did what they were supposed to do. . . . Most thought that normal, worked with it, tried to . . . meet expectations so that they didn’t drift too far apart with regard to the regimes. That, now, has slowly been changing. . . . Today a clear “voltage difference” exists between wardens. (Nijborg, 1985:235–236)

During the 1980s, the emancipation of wardens continued unabated. The delegation of budget-related authority indirectly provided wardens with more regime-related discretion (Vegter, 1990). The increase in financial responsibilities forced the field leaders to reconsider the structure of their organizations and delegate the daily management of the institutions to the lower levels. In their new capacity as managers, wardens became directly responsible for organizational infrastructure, information technology, and human resources management. In addition, the law-and-order climate generated media attention for wardens. In national papers, magazines, and even television shows, wardens discussed a wide array of topics such as budget cutbacks, war criminals, immigration policy, and maximum-security prisons. The delegation of authority and a growing willingness to use it made wardens very influential in setting the regime in their institutions (Boeij, 1983). As one warden expressed his satisfaction, “In the material sense, we’re virtually autonomous. With regard to regimes, much is tolerated [and] more autonomy is on the way.” The experts agree (Kelk, 1993; Vagg, 1994; de Graaff, 1996). The combination of decisionmaking authority with regard to objects allowed in cells, disciplinary punishment, and furloughs on the one hand, and the power of the purse on the other, has enabled wardens to make a personal imprint on the way penal policy is implemented in the field:

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The judicial structure of penal organizations is characterized by a large quantity of vague norms that leave discretion (freies Ermessen) to the management team. . . . This explains why identical instructions lead to wildly varying detention situations even within prisons that officially have the same classification. . . . The degree to which inmates are “allowed” [to do something] strongly correlates with the personal flexibility, benevolence, and generosity of the prison authorities. That’s how “favorable” and “less favorable” regimes arise. (Kelk, 1993: 43–44; Boeij, 1983)

The development of field leadership was not matched by central mechanisms of oversight and control. Departmental tradition sustained a continuing and rather inconsistent reliance on a top-down management style (Vegter, 1984; Dhondt, 1986; Kelk, 1993; van Boven et al., 1995). The persistence of centralism is best illustrated by the tendency of central policymakers to govern the field by sending out policy directives (circulaires).77 These directives often came as a surprise to the wardens; more important, in many cases the directions contained regulations that could not be implemented “because the practitioner was never consulted” (Nijborg, 1985:237).78 As one veteran warden observed, “The department is a traditional, centralist institution. That doesn’t change overnight.” But the control-oriented attitude was not a very effective control mechanism. Nobody at the department checked what field administrators were doing with their regimes. Departmental inspections were abandoned (Vagg, 1994; Wartna and Brouwers, 1996:8). “Control is nonexistent; I only see an accountant here and he doesn’t even check all expenditures,” confided one warden.79 The deconcentration operation caused a shift from input and process control to output control. Departmental policymakers believed that field administrators could be controlled by comparing preset goals with actual performance. It took policymakers some time, however, to discover that a planning and control cycle can be an effective instrument to control financial outputs, but is less suitable to control detention outputs, the latter being harder to specify and quantify. Policymakers candidly admitted that no indicators existed that could inform them about the actual implementation of detention policy. Meanwhile, central control over regime-related issues had all but disappeared. Wardens knew that they could do pretty much as they pleased, as long as inmates remained quietly inside and budgets were not overrun.80

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Field Recalcitrance A variety in regimes does not necessarily mean that a prison system is fragmented. As long as the common denominator of the various regimes can be traced to a central mission, variety can effectively be controlled. In the early 1990s, however, the common policy denominator was smaller than it had ever been before. Wardens developed their own correctional missions, managed their prisons more or less as they saw fit, and defied central efforts to interfere. Wardens had even become a little recalcitrant. The absence of a central mission, the delegation of authority, and the disappearance of central control mechanisms set the stage for the transformation of field administrators into field executives. The long-term development of a wide gap between central policymakers and field administrators had gradually turned the Dutch prison system into a fragmented one. The persistence of a top-down governance style clashed with the continuing (and intended) emancipation of field administrators. Wardens had gradually developed a perception of themselves as penal professionals; they had learned to view the Prison Section as a facilitating instead of a rule-setting body. With each new step toward increased field authority, wardens gained self-confidence. Wardens saw themselves as policymakers and managers; with every money-saving delegation of authority, they wondered what it was that policymakers were still doing. In time, certain wardens began to develop outright resistance against central interference and the petty directives that they thought violated their position as experts. Central policymakers have done little to adapt or “correct” the changing field attitude. In the early 1980s, wardens first began to openly explore the limits of independence. The centrally imposed budget cuts were perceived by the field as an effort “to get a grip on the institutions.” This was true, as a senior policymaker later admitted: “The institutions had complete freedom when it came to regimes; one warden did it this way, the other warden did it that way.”81 The wardens took a stance. They made their position public in the national media (after which they were summoned to the department). One policymaker remembers that the budget cut “was a difficult operation to implement. The institutions had agreed to form a closed front. In every institution I visited, the management team began to foam. Their answer was no.” Relations between the department and the field gradually deteriorated. In his first months as director, Greven soon discovered that “the

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field had an enormous distrust with regard to The Hague.” Director Greven referred to “little fiefdoms” (de Wijs, 1985:13). Another policymaker observed that center-field relations were “pervaded with suspicion” (Boeij, 1986:18). The wardens—organized in the VDPI—began to act in concert when they perceived a threat to their position as independent experts. Cooperation among wardens may not have always been “fantastic,” but “to the outside, they form one block, certainly in the light of threatening developments.”82 A departmental official confirms that “the wardens, since the early 1980s, have formed an impenetrable group.” As a result, this policymaker says, a “dam” arose “between the department and the wardens.” In the early 1990s, center-field relations were characterized by what a senior warden publicly described as a “culture of fighting.”83 Policymakers disapprovingly referred to an authority vacuum and the persistent occurrence of conflicts. At the department, these tensions were viewed by some as a normal outcome of the emancipation process: “We emancipated the prison system. We created our own opposition, a matured partner.”84 Field recalcitrance was indeed boosted by the delegation of budget authority. The murky financial allocation mechanisms that existed before had always rewarded wardens who maintained a smooth relationship with the department. The delegation of budget authority minimized the incentive for wardens—especially for those wardens who had previously depended on friendly policymakers for their inflated budgets—to maintain cozy relations with departmental colleagues. Those wardens who had benefited most from their personal lobbying efforts later became the chief antagonists in center-field conflicts, as several respondents noted with irony. The fact that wardens would enter into such conflicts illustrated how the relationship between prison headquarters and field administrations had changed. Whereas Directors Allewijn and Tulkens were coaxing the wardens along, subsequent directors had to contain their drive toward more independence. The wardens had become “kings in their own kingdom.”85 Within two decades, they had developed from ruleabiding bureaucrats to rule-setting professionals with an independent mentality and a strong dislike for central interference. This field recalcitrance was, at least partially, the product of central efforts: the department had both encouraged and empowered the wardens to become “bosses.” But the process of emancipation had spun out of control, as policymakers came to realize. In line with the responsibilities bestowed upon them, many field leaders had come to perceive themselves as

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independent experts with a broad mandate. Center-field conflicts marked the size of the wide gap that had developed over the years. In the next section, I demonstrate the self-perpetuating character of fragmentation by analyzing the policy process leading up to the first comprehensive policy statement since 1982.

The Dynamics of Fragmentation: Policy Controversy and Field Recalcitrance The Perceived Need for Integration The history of the 1994 policy plan Werkzame Detentie begins in 1992 with the appointment of Lucas Elting as new director. The prison system was approaching administrative chaos at that time: center-field relations were tense; inmates were prematurely released because of capacity shortages; the inmate population appeared increasingly addicted, violent, and psychotic; no clear correctional policy existed; the administrative relationship between the Prison Section and the Justice Department was the subject of a reform operation; and the prison system had become a topic of political discussion. Elting, a novice in the prison world, visited several field institutions and familiarized himself with prevailing opinions in political circles with regard to the prison system. The political consensus worried him. The new director found suspicion everywhere with regard to the administrative capacities of the prison system. “The prevailing attitude was: It looks like a mess in the prison system.”86 The new director further observed that central oversight had “vanished” and that there was “no clear vision” within the Prison Section.87 Policymakers increasingly agreed that the wardens “forgot their place . . . they have gone too far. Somehow they get away with more than any other civil servant.” The relationship between department and field came to be perceived as “a permanent problem, a point of friction.”88 Departmental consensus further dictated that the existing variety violated the requirement of (some minimal degree of ) uniformity. It was necessary, as the new director saw it, “to search for integration.”89 The field administrators had become too preoccupied with their own institutions. “Wardens were working hard to ‘manage’ their institution so they had money to do ‘nice’ things; they had no clue with regard to the interests of the system as a whole.” 90 The new policy plan was at least partially intended to curb the existing variety in field practices: “The

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variety in regimes used to be legally allowed. ‘Let a thousand flowers bloom’ was the idea. With this new plan, there will be no legal basis for all these different regimes.”91 The need for reform was exacerbated by the series of embarrassing escapes that, as discussed earlier, had prompted politicians to intervene in the prison system. In the spring of 1993, the Prison Section thus came under considerable pressure from departmental superiors. The need for a new policy plan was, in the words of one senior policymaker, “imposed from the top” and “had to go through.” Minister of Justice Ernst Hirsch Ballin personally supervised the policymaking process. 92 To regain political and societal legitimacy, the prison system would have to amend security concerns and emphasize the penal aspect of detention. The new policy plan was viewed at the department as “a masterplan in response to political and societal pressure; it’s our defense against politics.”93 The new director was credited with “political intuition”: Elting saw that the prisons were managed without a plan . . . he saw inmates hanging around, smoking cigarettes. He thought that those guys should work, forty hours a week. . . . The prison system had a bad reputation. . . . Elting realized that sooner or later budgets would suffer if that reputation was not modified.94

Field Opposition The wardens, in the meantime, had grown suspicious of prison headquarters. Recent incidents, played out against a background of strained center-field relations, had been characterized by rising emotions. Wardens had felt the first pinch of central efforts aimed at increasing the efficiency of the planning and control system. In addition, the new director reportedly was highly critical of what he observed during his visits to the field institutions. As rumor had it within correctional circles, the new director was startled by the idleness in which inmates spent their days. The wardens feared that under the leadership of the new director, prison authorities would seek to limit the autonomy of field administrations: We saw a situation develop in which autonomy was preached but the department started to exert more and more influence, threatening the interests of the field. We were rocked to sleep with delegated authority while in reality opposite developments were impending.95

The policymaking process that preceded the new plan aroused the wardens’ suspicion that the new director would take advantage of the

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escape crisis in order to push through reform. It took the new director little time to translate political pressure into standardized regimes; the policy plan Werkzame Detentie was rapidly developed without much consultation with the wardens.96 The wardens felt that they had been bypassed in the policymaking process leading up to the proposed course adaptation: “Werkzame Detentie was purely a departmental product written behind closed curtains.”97 A few wardens had participated in a departmental working group on the new plan, but their fellow wardens viewed this as a token gesture because the principal tenets of the new policy course were beyond discussion. Draft versions of the new plan “were shot down” by the field.98 The wardens later felt that the Prison Section had “done everything to pick a fight with the field.”99 The wardens, with a few notable exceptions, did not really oppose the outline of the new policy plan. The proposed plan, viewed by itself, provided many topics for heated discussion but no immediate causes for tension between the department and the field. A good many wardens actually supported, or grudgingly agreed with, the perceived need for certain policy changes. Most wardens supported measures to reduce inmate idleness and understood that their institution would benefit from one or two maximum-security prisons. Most wardens accepted that they needed to reduce inefficiency in order to cut expenses. All in all, a shift in policy did not appear to be the key issue. As one warden commented at the time, “From a distance, I’d say [the plan] is a logical outcome of changes that were initiated earlier. [But] the implementation remains a very difficult issue.”100 The wardens had grown disenchanted with the policymaking process itself. The sudden centralization of decisionmaking and the top-down imposition of new directives were perceived by field administrators as an outdated, uncalled for, and ultimately arrogant style of governance. Even though the wardens had been made responsible for nearly all aspects of their organizations, they had no input when it came to important policy shifts that they had to implement. “They felt underappreciated,” says a senior policymaker; “these new parameters were poured all over them without consultation.” Departmental officials publicly displayed a sense of impatience with the prison organizations. At one point, a Justice Department spokesperson simply stated that prison administrations would have to “swallow.”101 Director-General Greven referred to an impending “change of culture” (Smits, 1993:18). The threat of regime intervention was compounded by the detailed nature of the policy proposal. The plan specified hours, percentages,

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and activities. If carried out to the letter, very little room would be left for administrative decisions. A senior policymaker in the Prison Section later admitted that headquarters had made a “psychological” error: “The way the plan was communicated was wrong. Wardens had the feeling it was rammed down their throats. Their professionalism was tarnished.”102 The new policy plan came to be seen by many prison administrators as a threat to organizational autonomy: “The underlying idea of the plan was, They’re just mucking around in the institutions, so the question arose: How do we get a grip on that?”103 The new plan was viewed as a Trojan horse by which central authorities intended to expand their control over the administrative processes within the prison walls. The impact of the new policy plan was well recognized by policymakers: With Werkzame Detentie, headquarters entered the domain of the warden for the first time in years. It’s like somebody walking into your front yard unannounced and saying “The path is crooked—and you should get rid of those weeds,” when all you want to hear is how everything is growing so beautifully.104

The wardens had reportedly accepted Director Elting’s promise to incorporate some of their criticism into the final version of Werkzame Detentie. When they read the final text, the wardens felt betrayed.105 An unrelated discussion between the VDPI and the Prison Section on travel expenses and foreign exchange programs further deteriorated relations between Director Elting and his wardens. The VDPI representatives felt insulted when Elting told them that the exchange program “smelled too much like blue skies and deserted beaches.”106 When the VDPI representatives were told that wardens would not get a government car, they reported to their members: “Despite the expectations more or less raised in an informal atmosphere, our employer appeared unwilling to provide us with a leased automobile. . . . From our side it was conveyed that we felt cheated.”107 The VDPI representatives planned for revenge. On 4 May 1994, a few months after parliamentary acceptance of the new policy plan, nearly all prison wardens gathered to discuss their relationship with the Justice Department. Tensions flared among those present. In what appeared to be a spontaneous action, the wardens converted their feelings into a declaration of discontent (see Chapter 3). The “spontaneous” acceptance of the sharply worded declaration was in fact the outcome of a carefully orchestrated event. The VDPI representatives realized that “We had to get all members behind us.”108 The meetings with Director

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Elting were deliberately described in dramatic overtones. When the wardens reacted angrily, VDPI representatives “spontaneously” suggested that a declaration should be drafted in which Director Elting would be “condemned.” When volunteers were asked to step forward, the VDPI representatives “had to calm them down.”109 The VDPI thus effectively used its influence among its members to mobilize the entire field against the department. The disturbed relationship between field executives and policymakers was a dominant factor in the (semiofficial) demise of the proposed reform. The crucial element—the imposition of a standardized regime— was pronounced dead within nine months of parliamentary acceptance. Flexibility was suddenly introduced as a priority in order to enable standardized regimes that would “fit the local situation” (Ministerie van Justitie, 1994:4). Standards were expressed in rather broad terms, resembling the old situation that had allowed prison administrators to shape regimes in accordance to their own preferences. In a prison publication sponsored by the Justice Department and distributed across the field, departmental officials openly acknowledged that “it is impossible to prescribe in detail how the new policy should be implemented” (Kerkvliet, 1995:4). In response to problems encountered in the implementation process, prison administrations were allowed “to experiment with their own versions of the standardized regime.” Policymakers admitted that, as a result, “different programs will exist in the local situation” (Kerkvliet, 1995:4–5). In a letter to the minister of justice, the CRS posed the rhetorical question to what extent the regime was still standardized.110 The wardens had forced the hands of the policymakers by refusing to cooperate. They let the restoration of center-field relations depend on central recognition of field autonomy. The Prison Section eventually bowed to the field; policymakers settled (at least temporarily) for a symbolic acceptance of the new plan by the field. The position of the wardens in the policymaking process was significantly upgraded; the wardens came away convinced that their expertise would weigh more heavily in future policymaking processes. In private interviews, both wardens and policymakers admitted that little of the proposed policy reform would materialize according to plan, certainly not without the cooperation of field executives. The “crash” of 1994 virtually codified the state of fragmentation in the Dutch prison system. Even though their behavior bordered on insubordination—it was certainly perceived that way by senior policymakers in the Prison Section—the wardens were not disciplined in the wake of

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this internal crisis. On the contrary, the wardens became more involved in the policymaking process. Policymakers apparently hoped that by a process of co-optation, wardens could be persuaded to adopt otherwise controversial policy amendments. Subsequent events, however, suggest that wardens remained “kings within their kingdoms.”111 New (deputy) directors have come and gone. The prison wardens, in the meantime, have guarded the autonomy of the field.

Leadership and Fragmentation On first consideration, the degree of fragmentation or underinstitutionalization may seem a logical outcome of powerful exogenous developments (Franke, 1995). For instance, the long-term belief in a differentiated prison system—which reflected the conventional wisdom among correctional experts—worked toward an enhanced degree of correctional variety. The progressive societal mood of the late 1960s (extending well into the 1970s) and the democratization tendencies of the 1970s and 1980s—the changing perceptions of organizational hierarchy—also had an inevitable impact on center-field relations. The rise of efficiency turned the delegation of authority into an article of faith for the modern public manager, even though the explosive growth of the prison system may have required a degree of centralization. The changing Zeitgeist made the prison system increasingly vulnerable to “normal” incidents such as escapes and suicides. From a macroperspective, fragmentation may seem the natural and perhaps desirable state of affairs. This chapter has focused on the role of leadership. It has shown how the incomplete and sometimes inadequate fulfillment of executive functions—mission, inculcation, and autonomy—made it improbable that the prison system could act and react in a unified manner to environmental pressures. Departmental policymakers failed to provide field administrators with a comprehensive and effective way of working. They did not try to imprint key values or a certain vision upon their field administrators. Nor did they present a credible vision to key stakeholders or departmental authorities. Perhaps the most important outcome of this form of underinstitutionalization has been the unguided emancipation of field leadership that cemented an unsurpassed degree of field independence and, eventually, recalcitrance into the prison system. The emancipatory process was the outcome of two unrelated developments: central encouragement

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to develop treatment-oriented policy and the delegation of budgetrelated authority. In the absence of a central mission, effective mechanisms of oversight and an instilled sense of loyalty to the system (rather than to the prison), wardens developed an increasingly powerful position in the Dutch prison system. It was this hidden process of emancipation—recognized by policymakers only in hindsight—that allowed and motivated wardens to build their own institutions rather than contribute to the system at large. By the time this was recognized in the Prison Section, it had become hard to restructure center-field relations without provoking emotional conflicts. Several of these conflicts not only demonstrated the growth of field independence, but actually sustained the level of fragmentation in the Dutch prison system. The interaction between departmental policymakers and field administrators took the form of a vicious circle (Masuch, 1985). Some problem or conflict would emerge, forcing policymakers to undertake corrective action. The standard reaction would be further decentralization, thereby weakening the center and creating new grounds for potential problems and conflict. In order to break the spiral, centralization was required. But the powerful position of the field precluded the only possible option that would allow for a rapid reassertion of central control. The question arises whether the long-term application of integrative techniques would have better prepared the Dutch prison system for the impact of exogenous changes. A correctional mission can provide guidance during environmental turbulence and can make a course adaptation easier to bring about without much confusion. A committed workforce is more likely to accept centrally prescribed change if employees feel part of the system rather than of the individual institution. Moreover, inculcation mechanisms can be used to guide and control emancipation processes in the field. Had the Dutch prison system established a real degree of autonomy, external stakeholders may have showed some patience instead of imposing blueprints of change upon the system. In the next chapter, we explore the consequences of institutional leadership as exemplified in the U.S. Bureau of Prisons and the form of modern governance that has guided the evolution of the Dutch prison system.

Notes 1. Van der Grient (1969:182). 2. The history of the Dutch penal system has been extensively researched. Recommended sources in the Dutch language are Eggink (1958); Hallema

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(1958); Petersen (1978); Franke (1990a, 1996); and de Vries (1995). The main English source is Franke (1995); see also Downes (1988) and Franke (1990b). 3. Before World War II, the Dutch prison system was characterized by a dominant correctional mission and a fairly uniform way of working. The reigning philosophy emphasized strict discipline, silence, isolation, and penance. Despite the fact that extensive research on the psychological effects of solitary confinement had caused most neighboring countries to abandon this form of confinement, the Dutch basically preserved it (Franke, 1990a). 4. The romantic view—found in many analyses and official policy statements—holds that the postwar politicians were so shocked by the circumstances they had experienced in prison during the German occupation that penal reform was very much on their minds. Consult Franke (1990a) for an alternative view. 5. Interview with retired policymaker. 6. In the early 1960s, Lamers’s official title became director-general. To avoid confusion, I refer to the formal leader of the Prison Section in the Justice Department as “director” throughout this chapter. 7. Interview with retired policymaker. 8. The term Prison Section refers to the unit in the Justice Department that was responsible for the prison system until 1995 when it became a semi-independent agency. 9. Interview with retired policymaker. 10. Interview with retired warden. 11. “He was a wild man with all kinds of ideas,” recalls one retired policymaker who knew Lamers personally. 12. An influential source of progressive thinking was the Utrecht School of Criminology (Franke, 1996:289; see also Kelk, 1984). 13. The man in question was Gerard Veringa, who would later become minister of education. 14. De Corridor was Lamers’s pet project. Psychologist Pieck even had a government car, a great privilege in the 1960s. 15. The acronym Benelux refers to the cooperation between the neighboring countries of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg. 16. The traditional way of working was aimed at maintaining order. In the cellular institutions, order was virtually guaranteed, because the inmates did their time in the privacy of their cell. In the few institutions where inmates initially worked together, order was maintained through a combination of tight supervision and the co-optation of inmate leaders (Zwezerijnen, 1972; de Vries, 1995). 17. The differentiation principle in itself was not a mission. The principle said nothing about the actual way of working in these separate categories of detention facilities. 18. Interview with warden. 19. Interview with retired policymaker. 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid. 22. Interview with retired warden. 23. Interview with retired policymaker.

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24. When Director Tulkens first visited De Corridor, he was disappointed with what was supposed to be the most daring experiment in the Dutch prison system. “There were many escapes and complaints. There was very little supervision of inmates. It was an open institution, but the atmosphere was one of a closed institution. Guards were hanging around the building, while the inmates were gone during the day.” 25. Interview with Tulkens. 26. The quotes in this paragraph were taken from interviews with Tulkens. 27. In an explanation of the evolving policy, Tulkens (1978:8) identified three types of problems inmates faced: personality problems, relational problems, and an “insufficient awareness of their own capacities for putting time to good use and for making a living.” Concrete measures would have to remedy these shortcomings. Placing inmates in small groups would offer “good opportunities . . . to overcome lack of self-knowledge, self-confidence, and skill in personal contact” (Tulkens, 1978:10). Regionalization of institutions and prisonleave regulations would allow inmates to maintain contact with their loved ones. The third problem would be remedied by offering “inmates such a variety of activities (educational, cultural, group discussions, handicrafts, etc.) that they had a wider choice, by which cooperation is expected to increase” (Tulkens, 1978:13). 28. The grievance procedure was introduced in 1977. Tulkens (1983:294) considered it the most important development in the Dutch prison system since 1945: “This emancipation, this beginning of acknowledging the independence and responsibility of the inmate . . . provides for an operationalization of . . . Article 26.” The inmate grievance procedures counterbalanced the clearly defined goals of order and security (Kelk, 1984; van Tuinen, 1987). The recognition of inmate rights forced prison personnel to motivate their decisions (especially disciplinarian ones) and consider the impact of those decisions (since inmates could appeal them). 29. The organizational chart was made up of teams. The team leader was also a member of the team that operated on the next organizational level (and thus became the linking pin). 30. The realistic assessment that it would be better to attach a “less ambitious” interpretation to the resocialization goal (Scheltema, 1982:21) evoked sharp protests from a large group of correctional scholars (Moerings, 1984; Vegter 1989:69). For a slightly more positive assessment, consult van Huet (1983) and Kelk (1984). 31. The plans dealt with the uniformity-differentiation dilemma referred to above. Neither plan would materialize as originally planned. Nevertheless, it is important to describe the plans in somewhat more detail, for they constituted the most comprehensive formulation of a reform-oriented correctional philosophy in the history of the Dutch prison system. In theory, the combined plans radically altered the way prisons were managed. 32. The Dutch term was Gestandaardiseerde inrichtingsstructuur (GIS). For a detailed description see Kommer (1991). 33. Interview with Tulkens.

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34. Tulkens recalls how he arrived in Groningen after the 1974 riot and the officers, to his astonishment, gave him a military salute, reporting that “everything was under control.” 35. In his farewell speech, Director Allewijn (1975) had made a distinction between “fire spitters” (proclaiming order and discipline) and “alternavists” (“whining about torture”). 36. Several developments strengthened the rise of the “management bureaucrats” within the prison system: the intensified use of departmental issuances (circulaires); inmate grievance procedures resulting in general rules and policy initiatives; the persistence of centralism; the “obsession” with cell capacity; and the increasing use of management consultants (Kelk, 1984:904). The latter point is illustrated by the telling fact that, after his forced departure, Tulkens’s position was temporarily filled by a management consultant. 37. Interview with warden. 38. Interview with Greven. This observation was confirmed by several other policymakers and wardens. 39. Interview with policymaker. 40. With regard to policy implementation, only the decisionmaking authority on inmate furloughs was delegated to wardens. 41. Letter from Deputy Minister of Justice Kosto to the Committee Deconcentration Prison System, 27 February 1985, nr. 142/385. 42. Interview with retired policymaker. 43. In the differentiation policy plan (1990), Taak en Toekomst is explicitly cited as an important source of inspiration. 44. Interview with policymaker. 45. Ibid. Certainly, some new correctional policies did see the light. In 1990, for instance, a policy plan was presented in which internal differentiation was introduced. Field institutions were allowed to develop separate regimes for different inmate categories. Internal deconcentration to organizational units evoked the question of whether central policymakers could still affect administrative processes within the institutions (Vegter, 1990). 46. Van der Goorbergh committed suicide. It was considered tragic because, as several policymakers reported, it was widely felt that the organizational atmosphere within the department’s Prison Section had contributed to his decision. One retired policymaker characterized the reaction within the policymaking section as one of “collective guilt.” 47. The deconcentration operation provided prison administrations with annual budgets. Through a so-called planning and control cycle, headquarters checked key indicators against performance agreements and thus verified if the institutions allocated their budgets according to the agreed-upon plan. For a discussion of the agency model, see Bouckaert and Pollitt (1993) and Elting and Gerdes (1995). 48. Interview with policymaker. 49. The early counselors did not even work for the Prison Section; they were formally employed by the Directie TBR en Reclassering (Griever, 1979: 101).

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50. The security failures that had made it possible for seven war criminals to escape from Breda in 1952 (Olink, 1995) had remained fresh in the public’s memory, according to a retired policymaker. 51. Interview with retired policymaker. 52. To be sure, the ever existing need to fill large numbers of vacancies is a constant constraint on any selection policy. Nevertheless, the criteria for guard recruitment did not reflect the important relationship between correctional philosophy and the personal characteristics of implementers. 53. For observations, see van der Grient (1954), Heijder (1963), Zwezerijnen (1972), Blokland (1974), Glastra van Loon (1976), and de Vries (1995). 54. Van der Grient (1954) had made this point two decades earlier, but the senior official apparently did not think a central effort was needed—or was possible—to provide correctional workers with the mental tools to deal with this uncertainty. 55. Interview with policymaker. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid. 58. NRC Handelsblad, 7 February 1994, p. 3. 59. Interview with policymaker. 60. The 1976 policy plan reported that, after a slow start, the recruitment of direction assistants had become nonproblematic (Zeevalking, 1976:54). Twenty persons per annum were recruited. 61. Interview with warden. 62. Ibid. 63. Interview with policymaker. Clearly formulated criteria are not available and the selection process of several cases I am familiar with leaves ample room for questions. I know of at least two cases in which the new wardens did not meet any rationally deductible criteria that would qualify them for managing a 100-bed institution. 64. When in place, wardens usually keep their position. Few wardens are, in fact fired. It is not exceptional to find a warden running a prison for ten years or more. 65. Political pressure was behind the introduction of inmate grievance procedures in 1977. This is how Tulkens remembers it: “I was director in a period of time during which everything cooperated. Lots of cooperation from the political side. Parliament was focused on inmates: [They thought] more and more should be possible. . . . The grievance procedures were politically inspired.” 66. Soaring crime rates, longer sentences, and a crackdown on drug traffic had resulted in an excess demand for detention capacity (Haen Marshall, 1994). 67. Interview with policymaker. 68. The Justice Department’s 1985 policy plan Samenleving en Criminaliteit is generally viewed as a marking point in time for the shift in societal tolerance. 69. In October 1992, four inmates escaped from the maximum-security unit in De Grittenborgh in Hoogeveen. Six guards were taken hostage, two of whom were seriously injured. Since its opening in 1990, thirteen inmates had escaped from De Grittenborgh. In January 1993, three inmates escaped from

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that very same prison. While political and media attention focused on this new and violent escape, two inmates managed to flee from the high-rise complex Over-Amstel in Amsterdam. Two weeks later, four of their fellow inmates followed suit. They put their bedsheets to use. Newspapers showed the four bundles of sheets hanging from the windows. Deputy Minister of Justice Kosto cynically remarked that “[the prison administration] has apparently not had the opportunity to learn from what happened in this same prison several weeks ago” (de Volkskrant, 25 January 1993). In February, three escapes took place within forty-eight hours. In April, six inmates fled another maximum-security unit located in the southern part of Holland. 70. The crisis was largely a matter of public perception, as the figures show. In 1984, 118 inmates out of a year’s population of 29,304 escaped. In 1990, the escape rate stood at 75 (of a total of 31,219 inmates); in 1991, the rate was 50 (33,941) and in 1992, 44 (35,491). The escape rate had, in fact, sharply decreased over the preceding years. 71. The ruling Christian Democratic Party (CDA) and the conservative opposition party (VVD) both called for a more restrictive detention regime. A CDA spokesperson observed that a significant part of the inmate population was beyond reform and subsequently considered it a “political reality” that the regime would have to be adapted for these inmates in order to “stimulate good behavior.” The CDA chose to minimize the risk of escapes by further restricting inmate behavior. The VVD claimed that “inmates should be taught what discipline is” (de Volkskrant, 22 February 1993). 72. de Volkskrant, 8 February 1994, p. 1. 73. For detailed information on the organization of the prison system as set forth in prison law, consult Vegter (1989), Kelk (1993), and Moerings (1993). 74. The trend continues with the new Prison Act (1999), which broadens the discretionary room of wardens to the extent that they are truly “key figures” in the organization (Moerings, 1993). 75. In 1978, only one inspector was left, who, by his own account, could not visit each and every institution in one year. 76. Interview with warden. 77. In the 1980s, some 700 of those directives made for an interesting body of “pseudo law” (van de Pol, 1987). 78. The directives symbolized the top-down structure of the prison system. A warden told me how “on Tuesday we [policymakers and wardens] would discuss a ‘concept directive,’ but the ‘official directive’ would be in the next day’s mail. They didn’t listen; they only came to explain the new directive.” 79. Departmental inspections of field institutions were terminated in the early 1980s, although plans reportedly exist to reintroduce the inspections. With regard to the functioning of executive personnel, Walboomers (1993) found that most of the wardens in his sample were not regularly evaluated by the department. Some wardens had never been evaluated. 80. As one policymaker put it, “As long as the wardens stay within the formulated parameters, it would require a war to change the way the department looks at the institutions.” 81. Interview with policymaker.

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82. Interview warden. 83. Het Algemeen Dagblad, 28 November 1992. 84. Interview with policymaker. 85. Interview with external observer. 86. Interview with policymaker. 87. Ibid. 88. Ibid. 89. Interview with Elting. 90. Interview with policymaker. 91. Ibid. 92. Hirsch Ballin had almost been forced to resign in 1993 when a released murder suspect was rearrested for committing twenty acts of violent robbery. The justice minister reportedly took a draft of the new policy plan with him on vacation. 93. Interview with policymaker. 94. Ibid. 95. Interview with warden. 96. By April 1993, in the midst of the crisis, the deputy minister of justice together with his prison director informally discussed the proposed measures with press reporters. 97. Interview with warden. 98. Ibid. 99. Ibid. 100. Ibid. 101. NRC Handelsblad, 30 July 1993, p. 5. 102. Interview with policymaker. 103. Interview with warden. 104. Interview with policymaker. 105. Several policymakers claim with absolute certainty that the promised corrections were in fact incorporated in the final text. 106. VDPI minutes on the meeting with Elting, 29 March 1994. 107. Ibid. 108. Interview with warden. 109. Ibid. 110. CRS letter to the minister of justice, 31 March 1995. 111. In August 1997, center-field relations exploded once again. The wardens protested against a budgetary directive (the prison agency had run short of 25 million guilders) aimed at the field. When the director, Van den Enden, refused to budge, the wardens took their complaints to Director-General Galesloot. In a letter to all wardens, Galesloot noted the “administrative crisis” that had been caused by “a lack of direction, insufficient communication, and insufficient cooperation within the central office and between the central office and the field.” Galesloot also announced that the budgetary “calculation exercises” would be redone. “The wardens will be closely involved” (letter from Galesloot to all wardens, Nr 649254/97/AC, 25 August 1997). In January 1998, Director Van den Enden was released from his position (as several of my respondents had accurately predicted).

6 Leadership, Institutions, and Public Administration

Refounding Public Administration Gary Wamsley (1990a:19) observed not too long ago that “public administration theory has been trapped in an intellectual cul-de-sac created by behavioralism, the micropolitics of the discipline of political science, and the power of Herbert Simon’s writings.” Wamsley and his Blacksburg colleagues called for a “refounding of public administration” and embraced an institutional perspective on questions of public governance (Wamsley et al., 1990). The public institution and its leaders, according to Wamsley (1990b:117), must “balance the most powerful interests impinging upon it” and “seek to represent the unspoken interests of unwitting stakeholders and thus invoke a higher common good.” Wamsley proposed to adopt Selznick’s perspective as a solid theoretical basis for this ambitious aim. In his theory of institutional design, Selznick claims that leadership—the fulfillment of executive tasks—significantly affects the institutional degree of a public organization or large-scale administrative system. The case studies appear to confirm his thesis. In both the Dutch prison system and the U.S. federal prison system, a relationship was found between the degree of institutionalization and long-term leadership practices. Leadership thus seems to matter. From the combined experiences of the two systems, several core challenges for correctional leadership emerge, as well as some concrete lessons for institutional design in the context of prison systems. In the second part of the chapter, I shift the focus of attention to institutional leadership itself. If leadership is crucial to the DNA of an 169

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administrative system, it would be worthwhile to see what we know about conditions and factors that may affect the ways in which executive tasks are fulfilled. I focus in particular on the relationship between leaders and leadership, as it is assumed all too easily that strong leaders make for effective leadership. I conclude the chapter with a brief research agenda, which may help to bring Selznick’s theory of institutional design in line with the genuine desire to improve and refound the structures of public administration.

The Origins of Penal Policy: Leadership Matters Leadership and Fragmentation in the Dutch Prison System Leadership has played a crucial role in the institutional development of the Dutch prison system. In the absence of a shared correctional mission and consistent political support, the Dutch prison system has been repeatedly affected by both intraorganizational and environmental factors. Dutch policymakers once had an excellent opportunity to build an integrated prison system. In the early postwar period, the prison system was small, budgets were increasing, the legitimacy of modern prisons was high, and the inmate population did not pose many problems. In this ambitious period, the efforts of policymakers were marked by a sense of progress and idealism. But policymakers were unable to translate their idea of a modern prison system into a clearly defined way of working. They have demonstrated a long-term and fairly consistent inaptitude with regard to the development of a coherent and acceptable mission. In addition, Dutch prison policymakers were not very successful with regard to either inculcation or autonomy. A brief review of the three executive functions reveals a pattern of rather ineffective leadership. Contested mission. Prison policymakers experienced the most trouble in their efforts to find a balance between the incompatible aims of incapacitation and reform. The postwar prison leadership under Director Lamers (1948–1966) barely managed to keep reform-oriented tendencies in check; subsequent administrations have been less evenhanded. Departmental interpretations of prison policy have swung from progressive (1970s) to restrictive (1990s). An additional problem pertained to the development of a correctional philosophy. Dutch prison leaders have never been able to prescribe to their field administrators a concrete

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way of working. There has been one notable exception: the Tulkens administration presented a coherent and aspiring correctional philosophy. This philosophy rested on a fairly progressive interpretation of penal policy, which eventually made the plans unacceptable to many administrators and politicians. The only true correctional philosophy to emerge in four decades was thus never implemented. The 1980s, in turn, were characterized by an almost complete absence of central efforts aimed at the formulation of a correctional philosophy. As a result, policymaking was more or less left to the prisons. This long-term development had a strong influence on the cohesiveness of the Dutch prison system. There was no coherent operationalization of a balanced set of goals; prison workers remained uncertain as to what departmental policymakers expected from them. Encouraged by the department, prison administrations developed their own missions. Prison administrators became prison policymakers. Because their missions were never supplanted by a central mission, field administrators actually came to view the development of a correctional mission as a field prerogative. When policymakers finally attempted to introduce a central mission through the formulation of Werkzame Detentie, it was met in the field with suspicion and hostility. The wardens had built integrated organizations of their own and did not need the Justice Department to assist them. In 1999, five years after Werkzame Detentie, headquarters initiated yet another attempt to formulate a central mission. Limited inculcation. In the postwar period, departmental policymakers sought to achieve ambitious policy aims in a field populated by mostly uneducated and untrained administrators who had no idea what a modern prison should look like. Central efforts to prepare field administrators for “correctional modernity” were not only incomplete but also misdirected. No effective mechanisms were developed to inform prison administrators and persuade them to follow central policy. The Central Training Institute was never used as an instrument of inculcation. Policymakers counted on the wardens to infuse the guard force with the right values. The 1970s witnessed a more pronounced attempt to instill a group of young warden recruits with some general principles of modern correctional management. The attempt was only partially successful; the Tulkens administration did succeed in impressing upon these future wardens a strong sense of penal expertise, pride, and self-reliance but failed to imprint on the young executives an equally strong feeling of loyalty to the prison system as a whole.

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Prison leadership has never really made a systematic attempt to shape the mental maps of wardens and guards (let alone professionally trained specialists). On the contrary, field administrators were free (and even encouraged) to develop personal and idiosyncratic philosophies of correctional management. New recruits will always experience socialization processes that occur on the job. But if such unguided socialization processes are not balanced by central efforts that relay official policy, there is no telling how these recruits will perceive and perform their job. If some degree of uniformity is judged to be important, the task of inculcation cannot be left entirely to the field. Declining autonomy. The Dutch prison system long enjoyed noninterference from departmental superiors and responsible politicians. This was at least partially due to the respect earned by the Lamers administration. Subsequent administrations, however, apparently came to take this substantial degree of autonomy for granted. Prison policymakers made no explicit effort to create or maintain a degree of autonomy; they were lulled into a false sense of everlasting independence. Policy proposals were rarely if ever assessed in terms of political or societal feasibility. In the early 1980s, self-congratulatory assumptions of “being the best prison system in the world” sharply contrasted with suboptimal performance on such elementary matters as budgets and escapes. As a result, the Dutch prison system became vulnerable to shifts in societal mood, political scrutiny, and high-profile incidents. In the early 1980s, a new government brought an abrupt end to Director Tulkens’s tenure and, shortly thereafter, to the comprehensive mission that had been formulated in the policy plan Taak en Toekomst. Political support for the prison system’s mission had not been secured. In the following years, only with great effort could the prison system avoid a radical departure from the traditional one-inmate-per-cell principle. The subsequent drive toward efficiency and business-oriented management, coupled with the lowered policy ambitions of the 1980s, were a direct result of political interference with the policymaking process. The 1994 policy plan Werkzame Detentie was all but personally written by the justice minister and his deputy. Correctional policymaking was increasingly informed by political and budgetary considerations rather than by correctional thinking. In 1998, in the midst of economic upswing and prosperity, the budget of the prison system was unexpectedly slashed by a stunning 10 percent. Parliamentary silence was deafening, media attention entirely absent.

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Leadership and Integration in the U.S. Federal Prison System The case study of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) revealed an equally powerful relation between leadership and cohesion. In the face of ever changing political and societal contexts, a continuous hardening of the inmate population, and a changing workforce, the Bureau developed a degree of integration that reminds one of an organizational family.1 Even the quadrupling of organizational size did not significantly influence this degree of organizational unity. This is no coincidence. The BOP was to a large extent designed to become an integrated organization. From its earliest days onward, BOP leaders have actively and consistently spent their energy on building and preserving organizational unity. They have accomplished integration through a balanced fulfillment of the executive functions. A central mission. Since its inception in 1930, the BOP has tried to develop a modern prison system that would serve traditional aims of retribution and deterrence but would also contribute to the progressive ideal of rehabilitation. These abstract and seemingly incompatible goals were united in a balanced correctional philosophy in which rehabilitation has kept a prominent place. When the correctional scales were tipped in either direction, the balance was reinstated. The Bureau’s correctional philosophy was gradually translated into a detailed master plan of federal prison management, which became known as “the Bureau way of doing things.” This unwritten law prescribes such principles as Management by Walking Around (see and be seen) and unit management. The Correctional Worker First concept, in turn, is one of the security foundations on which the progressive concept of unit management firmly rests. This mixture of ideas has been accepted as “sound correctional management” by Bureau employees. This correctional mission is linked to a philosophy of governance that has guided center-field relations since the Bureau’s early days. Central control of the policymaking and implementation process is combined with a substantial delegation of authority to the field executives. The mission has been a traditional responsibility of the central office; the ultimate decisions with regard to policymaking and implementation are therefore made in Washington, D.C. However, it has always been realized and accepted that wardens need a fair amount of discretion to accomplish the envisioned goals. Moreover, wardens have been assigned a structural position of expertise in the policymaking process. This

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serves both as a means of co-opting influential key players and as an effective method to increase the quality of policy. The match between correctional and administrative philosophy has significantly contributed to the degree of integration in the federal prison system. Comprehensive inculcation. It was not until the Bureau had reached a more mature stage in organizational life that administrative devices were systematically used to infuse new recruits and BOP veterans with the core values of the Bureau. Since then, an elaborate range of training programs has been developed in which the willingness to conform is as important a goal as the capacity to perform. The most powerful incentive toward conformity, however, is the Bureau’s status of a career agency. Knowing that one may become a warden someday is a powerful motivation for many. When it is said that anybody who is fit to join the BOP can, in principle, become the Bureau’s director, the careers of Alexander, Carlson, Quinlan, and Hawk substantiate this claim. The background of federal wardens, in turn, virtually guarantees that federal prisons are run by experienced administrators who know the Bureau’s core values and correctional philosophy and who are therefore in the position to enforce compliance of lower-level employees. The inculcation program is complemented by a policy of transfers and controlled lateral entry. The transfer policy greases the machinery of the career agency; but, at the same time, this policy can work only because the BOP is a career agency. The regular rotation of administrative talent throughout the system prevents individual organizations from being “hijacked” by idiosyncratic wardens; it prohibits potential deviants from ascending too far up the organizational ladder; it provides leadership talent with the opportunity to see the entire organization from various sides and to learn from different mentors; and it provides sitting leaders with a chance to observe upcoming talent up close. To avoid intellectual inbreeding, upcoming leadership talent is provided with educational opportunities outside the Bureau. Controlled lateral entry, mostly for specialized policymaking positions, is used to ensure the necessary influx of fresh thinking. Proactive autonomy. Today, the Federal Bureau of Prisons is one of the few agencies that is still not politicized; most other federal agencies are run by political appointees. Founded as a relatively independent subdivision of the Justice Department—the BOP was established to supplant a tradition of patronage in the federal prison system—the Bureau has

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traditionally treasured its autonomous position as a birthright. But it was never taken for granted. The Bureau has a tradition of building support in both societal and political arenas. The directors, especially the long-tenured directors Bennett and Carlson, maintained excellent relations with their departmental bosses (the attorneys general) and with many members of Congress on both sides of the aisle. As the public face of their organization, BOP directors used their external contacts to promote the Bureau. With regard to the public in general and the communities that house BOP facilities in particular, a policy of openness has been pursued. Through a variety of mechanisms, the BOP seeks to build support for what it is doing and how it is being done. This policy of openness is extended to the media. A simple but effective strategy to preserve political and societal legitimacy has been the responsive attitude of BOP administrations. No correctional mission can absorb all the rhetoric that inevitably penetrates the arena of crime politics in the wake of some crisis. Responsiveness can easily evolve into opportunism when an organization develops knee-jerk reactions to political swings. The Bureau has therefore adopted a proactive attitude toward impending change, always seeking to avoid imposed change. The BOP’s mission never strayed too far from political, judicial, and societal preferences. When necessary, the mission was rebalanced before external stakeholders could force a reformulation upon the Bureau. This strategy has enabled the Bureau to maintain a relatively high degree of autonomy without sacrificing the BOP mission to outside forces. Prison Leadership and Institution Building: Core Challenges On the basis of this empirical comparison, there appears to be a clear correlation between institutional leadership practices and the administrative cohesiveness of the two prison systems discussed here. If central policymakers and field administrators do not share similar interpretations of penal policy and a comparable appreciation of management methods, the system is likely to experience more center-field friction and critical incidents. Combined, these open up opportunities for political interference with the strategic and day-to-day running of the prison system. It is not surprising, therefore, that the key prison policymakers tend to prefer one central mission to a multitude of organizational missions. The same goes for operational field practices. Achieving integration where fragmentation has become institutionalized is a daunting leadership challenge for prison policymakers.

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The primary challenge is, of course, the formulation of a coherent correctional mission that may count on widespread support both within and outside the prison system. The two cases discussed in this research demonstrate that institutional leadership is a matter of endurance. Street-level discretion, powerful wardens, policy shortcomings, control deficiencies, and environmental forces will always undermine the mission, constrain the inculcation process, and test the system’s autonomy. This leadership challenge is compounded by the need to fulfill the executive functions in an integrated or balanced manner. The executive functions are interdependent. A mission is unlikely to survive when inculcation processes fail; inculcation, in turn, will not be effective in the absence of a mission. Both functions need time to develop; a minimal level of political acceptance (or noninterference) is therefore required. If one function falters, leadership fails. A slight imbalance in the executive functions may have unintended consequences in the long run, as the Dutch case revealed. A second challenge pertains to the co-optation of capable field administrators.2 A prison system needs strong wardens, for the simple reason that prisons are complex organizations that carry out a demanding and dangerous task. The housing, feeding, and policing of involuntary and potentially dangerous “clients” while staying within legal boundaries requires a dependable, coordinated, and tight-knit organization. When treatment-oriented tasks are added to the mission, the need for capable wardens further increases. These field administrators need room to exert leadership within their organizations. The emancipation of field leaders can, however, become an alibi for field recalcitrance, which, in turn, may become an institutionalized feature when left unaddressed. The Dutch case demonstrates how, in the absence of central leadership, field administrations may go it alone and develop some sort of mission that will make their organization work. Within the prisons they run, field leaders may create their own institutions and defend their organizational turf (Wilson, 1989:179; Bardach, 1996). Central guidelines, initiatives, or reform proposals are rejected when they violate accepted and valued ways of operating. Such field institutions, as Coulam (1977:374) observed, “will not swiftly embrace new policies. . . . Any attempt to modify their practices . . . will be met with active opposition to (and subtle dilution of ) the reforms.” A third challenge—in the long run—is to overcome a dependency on individual leaders. In both systems, individual administrators made a significant leadership contribution based on their personality, background,

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and experience. Institution building can benefit from the efforts of gifted individuals who have no problem formulating a mission and impressing members and stakeholders. But leadership is a long-term effort. Successful leaders eventually need to be succeeded by equally qualified persons. Personal leadership must be replaced by institutionalized leadership practices; the importance of the executive functions (rather than the leader) must be impressed upon the organization. The institutionalization of leadership may therefore be the ultimate challenge. When leadership itself is institutionalized, the personality of the formal leader(s) becomes less important.

Lessons for Correctional Leadership Leadership, as we have seen, can cut both ways. The case study of the Federal Bureau of Prisons suggests that a prison system may partially evolve according to a design. The chapter on the Dutch prison experience, on the other hand, documents a variety of unintended consequences that, over time, may be the result of leadership practices. In this section, I consider the most salient lessons emerging from the case studies for correctional leaders who seek to (re)design their prison system. Institutionalizing a Central Mission The establishment and maintenance of a mission requires a balance between policy ideas and administrative structure. In theory, it is quite simple: structure should follow strategy. After a comprehensive but workable philosophy has been formulated, the organizational structure should be made to facilitate an effective implementation of that philosophy. In practice, however, policy ideas are developed in the context of an existing administrative constellation. Institutions are not built from scratch (Goodin, 1996a). A mismatch between new policy ambitions and long-existing structures will either frustrate the new philosophy or induce administrative chaos. In the formulation of a correctional philosophy, policymakers must therefore take account of institutional history and contemporary arrangements. In the decentralized and loosely coordinated Dutch prison system, for instance, numerous comprehensive and less comprehensive philosophies have been embedded at the field level. The mere announcement of a new central philosophy will not make existing field

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missions disappear. The integration of local philosophies into one overriding mission requires time. The mission has to be convincing. A newly formulated philosophy is best confined to the most essential goals and tasks of the prison system. It should clearly relate abstract goals to administrative actions and prohibitions so that field administrators understand what central policymakers expect from them. An effective mission is the outcome of a bottom-up process, allowing policymakers to incorporate critical experiences, best practices, and tacit knowledge into policy and structure. Once a mission has been established, the core features—not details—of the new mission must be imposed upon the field.3 The BOP experience suggests that a carrot-and-stick approach will work best. Federal wardens are fully responsible and accountable for the implementation of the mission in their facility. Violations of core values are swiftly corrected. On-the-spot inspections and audits are used to keep the department abreast of developments in the field. This combination of field freedom and central control may not work in a system that has a tradition of field autonomy. If field administrators refuse to facilitate such mechanisms of control, a new generation of wardens may have to bring the solution. Creating a Talent Base Institution building requires not only the infusion of core values but also the dismantling of deep-seated beliefs that are incompatible with a system’s mission. An often recommended way for preventing or breaking through a culture of “inner-directedness” combines the rotation of senior executives with a heavy reliance on external recruitment. But that, as we have seen, may not always work. In the Dutch prison system, senior policymakers have come and gone (seven directors in twenty years). Wardens are typically recruited from other fields. Protected from administrative inbreeding by the influx of outsiders, the Dutch prison system has nevertheless remained inwardly directed. The BOP experience suggests that the secret of value transfusion lies in years of training reinforced by other methods of inculcation. An effective training program prepares recruits for their new jobs and reminds correctional veterans of the official way to manage a prison. In addition, training periods can be used to instill within trainees the core values of the new correctional mission. If all personnel are subjected to some form of basic training, common ground is established

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between correctional officers and the rest of the system, which benefits integration. Such inculcation mechanisms should be developed and operated at the central level. Training must be founded on a comprehensive personnel policy that relates the importance of training to career perspectives. It would, in fact, demand an understanding and appreciation of inculcation and the mechanisms used to imbue employees with a sense of commitment. A prison system is especially hard pressed to recruit and train effective wardens. In essence, departmental officials look for robust yet cooperative field leaders. Competent leaders who are willing to run a big organization in line with a central mission are in short supply. It may therefore be well worth it to train talented administrators for the position of warden rather than selecting all of them from the outside. As a side effect, internal promotion is likely to exert a refreshing effect on the motivation of lower-level employees. When wardens are selected from the ranks, their leadership qualities have already been monitored and assessed. They have been tried and tested. They have benefited from the guidance of experienced mentors. The quality of the internal candidates would, of course, have to be enhanced by advanced schooling, international exchange programs, and intersystem learning experiences. Moreover, it would demand a different perspective on the selection criteria for incoming recruits. If a substantial number of future leaders are to be drawn from the ranks, selection criteria and career paths must reflect this ambition. Acquiring Support Departmental policymakers need some room to maneuver in order to develop and establish a new correctional mission. More is required than an adjustment of formal organizational arrangements.4 Policymakers must earn respect and trust. Introducing a culture of openness is an obvious starting point. In such a culture, prison performance is continuously monitored and held against clearly formulated criteria, and the results are communicated inside as well as outside the system. The prison system shows what it does, even when performance results are not satisfactory. Especially in times of trouble, transparency is a sign of self-confidence. Active anticipation—changing practices before change is imposed— is the logical twin strategy. This requires that prison leaders work to create an understanding and acceptance of the chosen course among key

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actors in societal, departmental, and political circles. Departmental policymakers are, no doubt, capable of making a concerted effort to inform, convince, and placate (potential) critics. More is needed, however, than a public relations office and a well-developed political radar. Prison leadership entails the capacity to differentiate justified criticism and legitimate demands from political opportunism and moral panic. At times, a certain degree of single-mindedness may be required in order to protect the institution’s mission from ill-advised political interventions. At other times, however, obsolete field traditions will have to yield to public and political demands for reform. Correctional leaders must therefore be prepared to make unpopular decisions. Of course, they should seek to understand, predict, or even influence certain developments that in the near or not so near future may affect the system. There must be a permanent awareness, however, that not all developments can be predicted or influenced. For instance, there is very little that a prison system can do about rising arrest numbers or increasing conviction rates; the resulting demand for extra cell capacity directly impinges on the system itself. Fiscal crises and budget cuts rarely leave a prison system untouched. The observation that some developments are themselves autonomous suggests that administrative systems will have to prepare for change. Because the direction of change cannot always be predicted, prison policymakers should increase the administrative resilience of a prison system rather than rely solely on the promises of autonomy. Nurturing Correctional Leadership Institutionalizing a new mission while dismantling existing ones demands, or so it seems, nothing less than (a group of ) exceptional leaders. The BOP experience holds some interesting lessons for these public administrators (DiIulio, 1987). For instance, administrative leaders should assume a visible role within and outside the system. They should be seen not only in departmental corridors but also on the prison floor. Employees at all levels of the system should know who their leaders are, what they do, and why they do it. Leaders must make themselves periodically available to lower-level administrators, thus conveying a sense of interest and creating an opportunity to explain policy and learn about the challenges of policy implementation. In addition, institutional leaders should feel comfortable in and around more politically oriented arenas. The BOP experience further suggests that prison leaders need time to develop into their role. The revolving-door mechanism, or carousel

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system—the usual way to fill senior slots in many policy departments— may provide these civil servants with broadened insights and generic management qualities, but it leaves prison workers with periodic and unwarranted changes of long-term policy and administrative routines. Frequent staff changes do not benefit policy continuity. For prison leadership to be successful—measured against the fulfillment of the executive functions—senior policymakers should make a commitment to extended tenure. What is needed most, however, is correctional leadership. To set the course of a prison system, one must understand how prisons work. To communicate with prison administrators, senior officials must share an appreciation of the difficulties involved. In explaining policy to the field, they must speak the language of the field. In order to make tough decisions, prison leaders must determine what is right and what is wrong. Substantial gaps between policymakers and administrators are inevitable when there is no common background uniting the two groups. The leadership of a prison system requires individuals with correctional experience and background. Only long-term correctional leadership can build a prison system into an institution.

Institution Building: A Question of Leadership? Alternative Explanations Institution building has thus far been conceptualized in terms of leadership. I have argued that the institutional DNA of a public sector is, to a considerable degree, related to leadership efforts. The question is whether leadership is the most significant variable affecting the level of institutionalization. In the work of Neo-Institutionalists, for instance, much attention is devoted to isomorphism; the institutional structure of a policy sector is explained as a carbon copy of environmental value constellations.5 There is no denying that the shifting characteristics of political, societal, and functional environments have an impact on the institutional structure of a policy sector (Meyer and Rowan, 1977). But the impact of these forces is limited. Environmental structures set limits; institutional leaders build institutions. This point is underscored by a brief check on alternative explanations of institutionalization. One might argue that the high level of institutionalization that marks the Federal Bureau of Prisons can be explained in terms of unique

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environmental pressures. For instance, criminologists point to the extreme punitiveness of the U.S. penal system. No other Western country keeps nearly as many citizens under some form of judicial supervision as the United States does. Whether the size and nature of the U.S. correctional complex is the outcome of politics or a logical result of an extremely high crime rate, as Jock Young (1999) asserts, is an interesting question but quite irrelevant to the question of institutional design. Punitive as the U.S. penal system is, some prison systems have become highly institutionalized, whereas many other comparable state systems have developed a state of fragmentation not unlike the Dutch prison system. The U.S. experience does not reveal a relationship between penal traditions and the level of institutionalization in prison systems. In a similar vein, some may argue that the institutional structure of the Dutch prison system is the outcome of society’s desire for treatment-oriented prisons. This is, no doubt, a popular image among foreign observers (Downes, 1988). But the widespread image of tolerance is a product of “dubious mythologization” and finds no support in the facts (Franke, 1990b). In reality, the Dutch prison system was rather slow—certainly slower than the BOP—in their efforts to modernize facilities and practices (Franke, 1995). The only efforts to develop something resembling a treatment-oriented mission were the result of enthusiastic prison leaders (Allewijn and Tulkens), efforts that met with political and administrative resistance. If there is one environmental factor that has indeed affected the process toward fragmentation, it is the rise of managerialism in the 1980s (Pollitt, 1993). The drive toward increased efficiency facilitated deconcentration but did not make it impossible to preserve or increase the degree of institutionalization. In the period 1950–1990, both the Netherlands and the United States went through multiple, and in many cases similar, changes (Young, 1999). As a result, both prison systems have had to deal with rising and hardening inmate populations, increased punitiveness in the political arena, a decrease in budgets, and a professionalization of policymaking and public administration. None of these environmental shifts can explain differences in institutionalization. Perhaps the particular political and administrative environment in which both prison systems operate can explain these differences. After all, the BOP is part of a federal structure, whereas the Dutch prison system is a national system that is part of a decentralized nation-state. But federalism is often identified as a source of fragmentation (Kaufman,

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1981; Seidman, 1998). Few federal agencies have achieved the level of institutionalization of the BOP; in fact, many are considered the antithesis of the BOP (Kaufman, 1981; Vizzard, 1997). The fragmented nature of many U.S. state prison systems suggests that federalism is not a decisive factor. Correspondingly, there are enough highly institutionalized departmental organizations in the Netherlands—the State Department, the various organizations in the Department of Traffic and Water Affairs, the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Nature are well-known examples—to falsify the idea that institutionalization is determined by such factors. A leadership analysis offers a more convincing explanation. It shows that senior policymakers in the BOP have worked with a mission, infused their personnel with the mission, and convinced stakeholders that the mission was worthy of political support. In the Dutch prison system, departmental policymakers were less effective in their leadership efforts, leaving it to field administrators to create missions at the organizational level. This should not be read as a denial of environmental influences, however. The environment in all its dimensions may have a profound effect on leadership.6 Environmental factors and conditions may explain why U.S. prison directors successfully engaged in leadership activities and why Dutch prison policymakers did not (or only partially) succeed. In the following section, I consider factors and conditions that help to illuminate the origins and functioning of institutional leadership. First, I look at the relationship between leaders and leadership. In addition, I consider specific conditions that may enhance or limit the opportunity space for leadership. Leadership and Leaders The relationship between effective leadership and those persons we identify as leaders is often mystifying. The Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) is one of the best examples of institution building and, more recently, of institutional demise (van Creveld, 1998). After the victorious Sinai campaign in 1956, the IDF emerged as one of the most respected institutions in Israel. It had a clear-cut mission (defend the borders of the young state) and a specific way of operating (decentralized units and a reliance on a fighting spirit). The conscripts were heavily indoctrinated, for the future of the nation was at stake. The IDF enjoyed high levels of popular support.

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Many IDF leaders enjoyed a semidivine status in Israel. Their leadership activities, however, fail to explain why. Prior to the Suez campaign, for instance, Chief of Staff Moshe Dayan “spent his time away from headquarters, overflying the desert in a light aircraft, driving across it in a command car, and occasionally taking time to dig up archaeological finds. . . . Much of the time he was out of radio contact with the General Staff and unable to influence the shape of the campaign” (van Creveld, 1998:148). During the war, several generals disrupted everything that the General Staff had planned. Sharon sent his men into Mitla Pass, “against orders and in the most incompetent way possible,” single-handedly causing the bloodiest and most unnecessary fiasco of the 1956 war (van Creveld, 1998:149). Another commanding officer sent his forces into battle well ahead of time, opening fire on his own forces. Dayan was almost killed when he took an Egyptian car without bothering to repaint it and ran into Eytan’s paratroopers. Leadership and leaders may be two different concepts in a functional approach; they are, nevertheless, often related in empirical accounts of institutions and leadership. The development and maintenance of an institution is a difficult and complicated enterprise, as we have seen. Every once in a while, an empirical study shows how the fulfillment of executive functions can lead to a clear sense of purpose, a zealous workforce, and big reputations. Many of these same studies suggest a close correspondence between the leaders—described in colorful portraits—and leadership. We are thus led to believe that leadership requires the presence of exceptional administrators. Taking their cue from biographical studies of powerful and mostly U.S. public managers, a small band of scholars have asserted that organizational leaders can and do leave their mark on a public organization and are indeed capable of influencing organizational behavior (Lewis, 1980; Wilson, 1989; Doig and Hargrove, 1990; Theakston, 1997). Some go so far as to portray bureaucratic leaders as the “unsung heroes” of public administration (Riccucci, 1995). Not only are individual leaders credited with institutional success, they are also attributed charismatic if not heroic qualities. Once effective leadership has been identified, one is easily tempted to explain it as the property of great leaders. Many empirical studies of public administration, on the other hand, generate a sense of pessimism when it comes to the influence of individual public managers. In his study of federal bureau chiefs, Kaufman (1981:135) neatly expressed an air of despondency when he stated that these executives “make their marks in inches, not miles.” Kaufman’s

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conclusion may have been a trifle too pessimistic, but it remains in general agreement with findings of social-psychological research on organizational leaders (Bryman, 1992). Leaders do matter, but their influence can be felt only after many, often contradictory, conditions have been met. Effective leadership is too often related to a set of rather general skills that make it hard to identify a leader other than by leadership effectiveness. Selznick (1957:62), for one, observed that leaders need creativity and rational capability to combine vision with technical and environmental requirements. Thorough knowledge of administrative and organizational processes would help to relate purpose and structure. An awareness of informal processes is essential for discovering what the dominant values and norms among members are. Leaders are never hurting for a combined dose of attitude and intuition; the charisma of Moshe Dayan was more important than his organizational skills. A personal desire to make a difference must be informed by an ability to “see the political logic in an emerging historical situation and to act on that insight” (Doig and Hargrove, 1990:11). These skills no doubt come in handy, but they hardly explain why leaders fail or succeed. I am under the impression that few, if any, of the official leaders in the Dutch prison system lacked an essential dose of the above qualities. Nor is there concrete evidence that the BOP leaders were endowed with superhuman qualities. One attribute that does seem to make a difference is the combination of different, yet necessary, managerial orientations that vary along a continum between “change” and “preservation” (Hargrove, 1989). The preservation-oriented perspective motivates leaders “to protect and maintain administrative institutions in a manner that promotes or is consistent with constitutional processes, values and beliefs” (Terry, 1995: 24). The change-oriented perspective may cause leaders to “re-create purpose by building new coalitions of interests in terms of expanded missions” (Hargrove, 1989:77). In his study of leadership in the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA), Hargrove (1994) suggests that effective leadership depends on the congruence between historical conditions and available skills. Depending on the institution’s stage of development, leaders will need to employ different skills. For instance, change-oriented leadership plays an important part in the early institutional phases (Lewis, 1980; Doig and Hargrove, 1990). Institution building may benefit from the leadership qualities of one individual who can create an “apolitical shield” that protects or buffers the “institutional leap” (Lewis, 1980:17):

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[The leader] must make and sustain a public image of his actions and his organization that appears to be free of partisanship, greed, selfinterest and personal self-aggrandizement. Such a posture eventually becomes mythic and is essential to beating back questions and competition from those who are publicly understood to be politicians.

Using a limited sample, Doig and Hargrove (1990) found that innovative leaders typically possess two types of skills that facilitate the institutionalization process. First, these entrepreneurial leaders excel at “rhetorical leadership.” This pertains to the use of evocative symbols and of language that creates “myths for the organizations they lead, justifying specific programs in terms of some larger set of principles” (Doig and Hargrove, 1990:15; Pettigrew, 1979; Hargrove, 1994). By creating and enhancing the agency myth, institutional entrepreneurs help to maintain the legitimacy of organizational efforts. A second skill that successful leaders apparently possess relates to the building of coalitions. By maintaining direct relations with core constituents, entrepreneurial leaders attempt to build a coalition of stakeholders, thereby effectively guaranteeing a minimal degree of legitimacy. Once the initial stage of institution building has passed, leaders need skills that enable them to preserve institutional integrity. Selznick (1957) and Terry (1995) argue that this is the least understood but perhaps the most important challenge to institutional leaders. The case histories in this book underscore their argument. One marked difference between BOP leaders and their Dutch counterparts is the observed tendency of the former to adopt a rather conservative stance. Whereas BOP leaders attach much value to prized ways of operating, Dutch prison leaders have a demonstrated inclination to address old problems with new but untried solutions. Federal prison leaders did make decisive moves when environmental shifts precluded other possibilities, and they did so in time; their Dutch colleagues did not recognize impending crises of confidence on several occasions and sometimes failed to act upon political demands. Individual leaders are exceptional when they combine both the necessary skills and the various managerial orientations or administrative interests required to fulfill their executive tasks. It is more likely, however, that this plethora of qualities can be found in a group of leaders: “Administrators are vital as a class but not as individuals. . . . What makes an organization function well is the density of administrative competence” (March, 1984:29; Doig and Hargrove, 1990:3). The executive functions might be (adequately) fulfilled, in theory at least, in the absence of the strong-willed, powerful, and intelligent individual who

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plays such a dominant role in the popular conception of what leadership is all about (Fiedler, 1967). Even though the literature is scarce on this subject, it seems that institutional leadership will be more effective— certainly in the long run—when it is the domain of a team. The strong team structure of the BOP underscores this suggestion. The origins of effective leaders remain mysterious. The case studies in this book (and in many other institutional studies) strongly suggest that individuals may be more important than institutional theorists would like them to be—especially in the initial stages of institutionalization (Kimberley, 1980).7 The young institution depends on its political parents who select its first leaders. As Thompson (1967:300) thoughtfully remarks, “There is no guarantee that the society which assigns such importance to complex organizations will be able to provide them with administrators equal to the task.” The BOP experience teaches us that after the phase of institutional birth, an institution can very well select and train its own leaders. Conditions for Leadership Leadership efforts must remain consistently focused for years (if not decades) before any results can be discerned. These efforts are easily thwarted when political patience is overtaken by popular demand or crisis events. The same conditions that make leadership hard also make it a necessary activity. Next we explore some of the conditions that may limit or enhance the opportunity space for leaders. Both the U.S. and the Dutch cases have demonstrated the importance of the political-cultural context in which a public system must operate, especially in the early years of institutionalization. The “given” autonomy at the time of organizational birth may play a decisive role (Selznick, 1950).8 For instance, the formative years of the BOP—which fell within a crisis period stretching from the Wall Street crash to the war years—provided a fruitful context for leadership. Perhaps more important, there was a good reason to centralize the system: control had to be wrestled from the federal wardens. In quite a similar vein, the postwar years helped Dutch prison administrators begin their task of designing a modern prison system. Politicians supported the cause (many of them had been incarcerated in those very same prisons during the war) and provided the necessary means. Certain leadership activities may be effective in one particular system but may not work in another system due to the political-cultural regime in place (Wildavsky, 1984). Perhaps one or more of the administrative tasks

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prescribed by Selznick, a U.S. sociologist, lose relevance in a different cultural context. For instance, when Dutch prison director Lamers visited the U.S. Bureau of Prisons in the early 1950s, he returned with enthusiastic stories about the teamwork he had witnessed. However, Lamers found it typical of the “American way” of doing things and strongly doubted that it would work in the Dutch prison system. In a similar vein, it has been doubted whether the “transfer mechanism”— which is a cornerstone of the BOP philosophy of administration—could ever be introduced in the Dutch prison system. Many respondents thought it would be impossible in the Dutch context. It is often heard that Dutch culture is not one in which leadership can flourish (Zahn, 1989). The Dutch supposedly live with a deeply rooted sense of resistance against authority and a preference for consensus, as evidenced by the decentralized nature of the administrative state and the well-known Dutch tolerance. We must ask whether Dutch prison leadership has suffered from this putative culture of antiauthority. This is not the place to put these popular notions to rest, as Franke (1990b) has tried to do with regard to the myth of Dutch tolerance. Two observations should make the point. First, there have been plenty of examples of effective leadership in Dutch public administration. The executive tasks have been effectively fulfilled in national policy departments, agencies, bureaus, local police departments, prisons, university departments, public broadcasting organizations, schools, and local governments—but not in the Dutch prison system. Second, even if the notion about Dutch antiauthoritarianism is true, it simply does not preclude effective leadership; it just makes a top-down version of leadership very difficult. There is no reason why Dutch prison leaders could not formulate a mission, imbue employees with enthusiasm, and maintain a balance between political demands and institutional structure. The current efforts on the part of Dutch prison policymakers to formulate a mission, strengthen inculcation mechanisms, and improve transparency underwrite this notion. A more salient constraint is the degree of institutionalization that exists before institutional leaders begin to build their institutions. As Goodin (1996a) has pointed out, it would be a mistake to believe that institutional leadership can start from scratch. Selznick’s theory prescribes an orderly and logically sound process of mission formulation, inculcation, and administrative design. In reality, leadership must deal with existing philosophies, inculcation traditions, organizational structures, and external relations. In both prison systems, the leadership

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experienced difficulties with debunking old missions. New ideas had to compete with rooted conceptions. Freshly inculcated members worked side by side with inflexible oldtimers. The “way of doing things around here” was not easily surrendered to some new, unproven method. Leadership is more than institution building; it usually involves tearing down the foundations of former institutions. A final consideration pertains to the resources available for institution building. Neither prison system was poor. The BOP has never had to work under conditions of budget depletion as found in some of the southern state prison systems in the United States. The Dutch prison system has been rich in comparison to other European prison systems.9 But the relationship between budgets and prison leadership is doubtful, as the Texas prison system shows. Despite low budgets, the Texas prison system was a highly institutionalized one (DiIulio, 1987). More generally, it may well be possible that certain unique configurations between different types of conditions make leadership impossible or, perhaps, inevitable. This question opens a promising road for further research.

Leadership and Public Administration Considerable research challenges thus lie ahead. Public administration theorists have, for a long time, more or less ignored bureaucratic leadership. When Kaufman (1981) stepped into the void with his empirical research on federal bureau chiefs, he concluded that bureaucratic leaders were less powerful than commonly had been assumed. In the 1980s, the absence of leadership was suddenly perceived as a problem. What had long been feared became popular among so-called New Public Management theorists who forwarded leadership as the antidote to bureaucratic deficiencies and inertia. We have since witnessed the rise of public entrepreneurs, administrative heroes, and charismatic leaders. It can be said, therefore, that public administration theorists have rediscovered leadership. However, these biographical studies of legendary and not-to-beignored bureaucrats explain very little about the connection between leadership, organizational processes, and outcomes (Lynn, 1996). They rarely provide a complete and long-term perspective on the process of mission formulation and implementation, the less glamorous areas of human resource management and inculcation, and the systematic efforts

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to increase support among key stakeholders. These are the activities that can make the difference between unchecked fragmentation and legitimate integration. The potential effects of leadership have thus not always been appreciated or understood by public administration and policy theorists. Discussions about public leadership and administrative cohesion are too easily muddled by a set of implicit but common assumptions. Institutions evoke images of undemocratic design, bureaucratic rigidity, and organizational recalcitrance. Fragmentation may therefore be too easily accepted as a desirable alternative. Leadership, in turn, is often understood as an outdated form of authoritarian governance. This academic uneasiness seems to rest, at least partially, on the unfounded assumption that leadership and integration pose a threat, however indirect, to democratic forms of organization (Denhardt, 1984; Selznick, 1992).10 Leadership plays a part in the rise and perseverance of public institutions, but it also helps to explain why institutions decline. Leadership tells us something about the functioning and, ultimately, the performance of public institutions. An institutional concept of leadership deserves more attention in the field of public administration and policy research. If a relation exists between leadership and the long-term institutional health of a public system, such a relation should be subjected to the scrutiny of public administration theorists. The longtime neglect of leadership, periodically relieved by a selective attention for famous bureaucrats, has created a knowledge gap that only few have tried to bridge (DiIulio, 1987; Wilson, 1989; Moore, 1995; Lynn, 1996). Much can be learned from the careful study of effective and less effective periods of institutional leadership. In the future, such research might generate some welcome prescriptive efforts.11 Both the theory and practice of public administration would benefit from an enhanced measure of institutional leadership, as I argue in the final chapter.

Notes 1. Selznick (1992:193) recommends “the family-based form [as] a guide to the proper organizaton of more distant, more impersonal, more task-oriented settings.” 2. Co-optation, as defined by Selznick (1948:34), is “the process of absorbing new elements into the leadership or policy-determining structure of an organization as a means of averting threats to its stability or existence.” Cooptation—in essence a “defensive mechanism”—may be effectively used when

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“there exists a hiatus between consent and control. . . . One means of winning consent is to coopt elements into the leadership or organization.” 3. As Weick (1987:124) explains, “Before you can decentralize, you first have to centralize so that people are socialized to use similar decision premises and assumptions so that when they operate their own units, those decentralized operations are equivalent and coordinated.” 4. As the Dutch and English Prison Sections have experienced, granting the agency status—with its formal establishment of “distance” between the responsible minister and the daily decisionmaking processes within the sector— does not necessarily mean freedom from political interference (Lewis, 1997). 5. In this line of argument, the work of Karl Weick (1995) can be used to explain how policymakers and administrators make sense of the outside world and construct the history of their sector as a result of intentional efforts. 6. Leadership is now treated as a dependent rather than an independent variable. This requires a different research design than the one offered by Selznick (1957) and used in this research. 7. These are the stages of institutional history that are usually studied from a hindsight perspective (but see Selznick, 1949). Much more could be learned when institutions are studied during their adolescent phases. 8. Reich (1962:4) explains why the U.S. Forest Service could exercise effective leadership: “Because Congress has offered no standards or policies of its own, almost any [policy] choice by the Forest Service would be within its delegated authority.” 9. We will return to the matter of costs in the next chapter. 10. Much of the apparent uneasiness about leadership is deeply rooted in concerns about the responsiveness of public bureaucracy. The growing autonomy of public organizations has been a traditional source of concern to academics and laymen alike. Bureaucratic executives became recognized as powerful actors in charge of seemingly independent organizations (Bernstein, 1958). To argue (as Selznick did) that bureaucratic leadership should strive for administrative expertise, esprit de corps, and autonomy—the feared elements of bureaucracy—would increase rather than diminish any concerns about leadership. More on this in the next chapter. 11. In the library of how-to-lead books, usable texts for the institutional leader are still few and far between. There are exceptions (see Schein, 1985; Wilson, 1989). It is interesting to note that Selznick’s theoretical treatise on leadership was once welcomed as a useful how-to-manage book (Seeman, 1958). An even more pressing problem exists when it comes to prescriptive texts on the deinstitutionalization of undesirable features.

7 Designing for Performance

Why Build Institutions? In his book Governing Prisons, John DiIulio (1987) argues that the quality of a prison system is a function of leadership. With less money, fewer guards, and a tougher inmate population, the Texas prison system outperformed Michigan and California prisons on the dimensions of order, amenities, and service. This is no coincidence, as DiIulio demonstrates. Under the guidance of correctional legend George Beto (“Walking George”), the Texas prison system developed a strong mission, a particular way of maintaining control, a dedicated correctional force, and strong ties to politicians and media representatives. DiIulio’s many critics hardly disputed these facts and figures but simply pointed to the undesirable side effects of Texas prison management. Texas prisons used the so-called building tender system to maintain order among inmates. This alternative reading of the traditional but discredited system of co-optation—let inmate leaders control the inmates—was ruled unconstitutional by federal judge William Justice in the early 1980s. The building tenders abused their privileges to exploit weaker inmates in a variety of ways. But Texas prison administrators refused to oblige with the rulings of Judge Justice. It was only after a long period of transition—marked by intense violence, new leadership, and strong political pressure—that they would give up the “Texas way” of running a prison. The analysis of this turbulent period presents us with opposing viewpoints and assessments of a prison institution. Texas prisons were safe, clean, and busy before activist Judge Justice interfered, says 193

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DiIulio (1990d). By undermining and gradually eroding the mission and the Texas way of working, Judge Justice opened the road toward correctional mayhem. A vicious spiral of violence ensued—resulting in fifty-two homicides between 1984 and 1985—after the building tenders had been removed from their positions. Other students of the Texas corrections argue just the opposite (Crouch and Marquart, 1990; EklandOlsen and Martin, 1990). According to them, the Texas prison system had created a world in which society’s norms and rules did not apply. When the federal judge ordered reform, the good ol’ boys refused to give up their way of maintaining order, leaving it to the inmates to defend themselves. The previous chapters established a relation between leadership practices and institutional effects. This final chapter deals with the evaluation of these effects. The idea of institution building is sure to meet with critical scrutiny and passionate opposition. Two lines of criticism are predominant and reinforce each other. First, institutions are considered a threat to liberal democracy. Behind clever facades of legitimacy, institutional leaders indoctrinate the workforce with unquestioned loyalty to questionable core values. In this dark vision, the institution becomes an organizational weapon. Second, institutions are rigid organizations that defend yesterday’s routines against the legitimate demands of today. These charges are usually illustrated with accounts of “scary” institutions such as Hoover’s FBI, the LAPD under Chief Gates, or the horrendous SS. The prison field has its own gallery of infamous institutions.1 By the end of the nineteenth century, the Elmira Reformatory was the most important penal institution in the United States. The warden, Zebulon Brockway, was among the most respected penologists in the world; national and international criminal justice systems were copying the “science of punishment” developed in this institution (Pisciotta, 1994). Behind the walls of the institution, however, inmates were subjected to a brutal regime in which whippings, solitary confinement, and psychological torture were common. Brockway himself would descend to the dungeons of Elmira, where he administered the necessary “benevolent brutality” to ensure “martial order.”2 These criticisms add up to a serious indictment of institutions, institution building, and institutional leadership. According to Gouldner (1959:410), the institutional model “has been infused with a conservative and antiliberal metaphysical pathos.”3 In other words, institutions do the wrong things frightfully right. If institutions are inherently vulnerable to

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rigidity and moral capture, any efforts to build them should be avoided. These claims require serious consideration, as emerging social problems are routinely countered by creating new institutions (Baumgartner and Jones, 1993; Aggarwal, 1998). Unfortunately, empirical and normative issues tend to get blurred in these discussions (Goodin, 1996a). Many students of public administration, as Wamsley (1990a:21) has noted, “do not deny the importance and efficacy of institutions, but they seem to see their characteristics only in negative or pathological terms.” In this chapter, I seek to weigh the often passionate arguments against the institution. I will use three dimensions of institutional performance, which are based on commonly used evaluation standards of public policy and administration (Kaufman, 1950; Hood, 1991). First, I will assess the policy performance— correctional quality—of the two prison systems under study. In addition, I consider both the administrative and public performance of the two systems and conclude the chapter with the formulation of some key conditions for building responsible institutions.

Correctional Performance: In Search of a Bottom Line The story of the Federal Bureau of Prisons is, in essence, a story of institutional design, maintenance, and leadership. By contrast, processes of deinstitutionalization, failed efforts of institutional design, and powerful leadership at the field level have shaped the Dutch prison system. The question here is: Does it really matter for the correctional performance of both systems? The reputation of these prison systems does not bode well for institutional optimists. The Dutch prison system is widely considered by experts and practitioners alike as belonging to the best in the world.4 The U.S. penal system, on the other hand, has a terrible image. Apart from Russia and South Africa, no other nation in the world has as many citizens under some form of judicial supervision as the United States. U.S. prisons are associated with overcrowding, brutal violence, racism, chain gangs, and long sentences (Haas and Alpert, 1995; Toch, 1997). Generalized images can deceive. The U.S. penal system consists of fifty-one correctional systems, not all of which answer to televised stereotypes of inhumane conditions and authoritarian sheriffs. Likewise, the positive reputation of Dutch prisons may have more to do with the

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favorable impression of the Dutch penal system as a whole—with relatively short sentences and a fair degree of tolerance for deviating behavior—than with the actual performance of prison administrations. A clear-cut assessment of administrative performance in the Dutch prison system does not exist; a comprehensive international-comparative evaluation of prison performance remains wanting. One thing we do know is that the detention rate, long a source of Dutch pride, has reached the European average. “The latest news from the Netherlands is sad news,” comments Nils Christie (1993:46).5 Measuring the performance of criminal justice systems is, for an abundance of reasons, a problematic affair (DiIulio et al., 1993). The selection of performance indicators is inherently biased, accurate information is hard to come by and even harder to agree on, and absolute standards do not exist. In this section, both prison systems are evaluated along the lines set forth by Logan (1993), who developed a set of performance criteria for prison systems (see Table 7.1). Logan’s set of criteria enables us to describe a prison system in terms of policy output.6 But an output profile does not easily lend itself to performance assessment. Such a judgment requires a standard against which output measures can be compared. Since absolute standards do not exist, we have to compare a prison’s system against its own performance in time or against the performance of other, comparable prison systems (Thompson, 1967). Assessment by comparison leads into a methodological minefield. For instance, it would be very difficult to compare policy outputs of the BOP with those of the Dutch prison system unless we could control for, among others, cultural, political, and societal differences. The performance dimensions of the BOP are better compared to other state prison systems in the United States; the Dutch prison system may find comparable counterparts in western European systems. We can compare the present performance of both systems against their own pasts, provided that we take the possible effect of intermediating variables into consideration. Correctional Performance in the BOP 7 The first task of any prison system is to keep inmates inside. The BOP performs this task quite well. With a quadrupling number of inmates, the escape rate (per 5,000 inmates) has plummeted from 16.2 in 1982 to 0.2 in 1992, further declining to zero in the fiscal years 1997 and 1998 (FBOP, 1998).

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Table 7.1 Evaluative Standards 1. Security 2. Safety 3. Order 4. Care 5. Activity 6. Justice 7. Conditions 8. Management

“Keep them in” “Keep them safe” “Keep them in line” “Keep them healthy” “Keep them busy” “Do it with fairness” “Without undue suffering” “As efficiently as possible”

Source: Logan (1993:27–31).

Federal prisons are relatively safe places for inmates when compared to state prisons (Silberman, 1995).8 A nationwide census of correctional facilities shows that the 1995 rate (per 1,000) of inmate-oninmate assaults was 12.4 for federal prisons against 28.4 for state prisons (BJS, 1997). The rate of inmate-on-staff assaults was lower as well (14.1 against 14.8). The number of disturbances declined from 5.4 (per 1,000 inmates) in 1990 to 0.1 in 1995 (the figures for state prison systems are quite similar). The federal prison system has seen few riots, the most recent ones in 1987 and 1995. In both cases, external events rather than internal conditions incited the inmates (Useem, Camp, and Camp, 1996). In 1987, Cuban detainees took over the Atlanta and Oakdale facilities after the State Department had announced a repatriation accord with Cuba.9 In October 1995, a string of riots spread through BOP facilities on the heels of new cocaine sentencing policies that greatly increased mandatory minimum sentences. The BOP managed to quell the riots without unnecessary force. In subsequent legislative oversight action, the Bureau was praised for its handling of the crisis. Federal prisons are clean, most facilities are new or modernized, the food is good, and the freedom of movement for inmates is considerable, even in the penitentiaries. Freedom of movement is deliberately maximized to offset the crowded conditions in federal institutions. Since 1984, federal institutions have been forced to operate far above rated capacity, due to the rapid increase in inmates.10 Double bunking has become the standard, except for high-security penitentiaries.11 In 1995, the BOP was the most crowded prison system in the United States (except for Ohio) in terms of square feet of cell space available to each inmate. But federal inmates enjoy the most room when communal areas (including recreational

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and service areas) are taken into account. The BOP has not experienced grave problems in relation to double bunking, according to the General Accounting Office (1995:5). Bureau policy specifies that corporal and retaliatory punishment is strictly forbidden. It appears that federal prisons live up to their own standards (Fleisher, 1989; Gripe, 1990; DiIulio, 1991; Earley, 1993; Silberman, 1995).12 Federal inmates have access to an elaborate administrative remedy procedure (DiIulio, 1994a). They can file complaints with regard to each step of the disciplinary process.13 If inmates wish to do so, they may take their complaints to the BOP’s ombudsman or to federal court. There has never been a court order that forced the BOP to alter its day-to-day operation of the federal prisons (Feeley and Rubin, 1998: 42).14 Where almost every state prison system has had to deal with imposed court reform, the federal courts have upheld conditions even in institutions such as the supermax Marion.15 The great majority of federal prisons is accredited by the American Correctional Association (ACA). The BOP prides itself on the activities offered to inmates. All ablebodied prisoners are required to work according to Bureau policy; 90 percent of federal inmates did so in 1995 (against 63 percent of state inmates). The BOP employs around 20 percent of the inmate population in rather advanced industry projects (UNICOR).16 The Bureau requires all inmates without high school diplomas to take at least 120 days of educational classes; 32 percent of the federal inmate population (against 22 percent of state inmates) reported involvement in some type of education program in 1997 (BJS, 1997:14).17 In addition to vocational and educational programs, the BOP offers a variety of recreational and religious activities. In 1997, 20 percent of the inmates reported participation in drug abuse programs (up from 10 percent in 1991) (BJS, 1997:10).18 Each federal prison has its own health care facilities. In 1998, the medical facilities of ninety institutions had been accredited by the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. In addition, the BOP has six specialized health care institutions. 19 The death rate in federal prisons declined from 2.9 per 1,000 in 1990 to 2.7 in 1995, whereas the death rate in state prisons rose from 2.4 to 3.4 in the same period (BJS, 1997). Health care spending—an average of $3,200 on each inmate (1995)—may become a political problem in the future, however.20 One of the crudest indicators of living conditions in prison is sometimes said to be the inmate suicide rate. The suicide rate among federal inmates for the period 1984–1993 (16.3 per 100,000) was well below

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the national average (20.6) and below big state systems such as Michigan (16.6), Ohio (17.1), Texas (19.7), and California (22.6).21 A longterm perspective reveals a gradual decline in the BOP suicide rate: 35 for 1970–1982; 24 for 1983–1987; less than 16 for 1988–1992; and 10 for 1995. This means that the suicide rate in federal detention is lower than the rate in a comparable population outside. The BOP figure even has a slight upward bias because it includes pretrial detainees who are more prone to suicide (left out of state statistics) and the Cuban boat refugees: representing only 6 percent and 4 percent of the population, these two groups account for 42 percent of the suicides (White and Schimmel, 1995). The available statistics seem to confirm that BOP employees enjoy their jobs. In the period 1989–1992, 70 percent of staff provided favorable ratings on job satisfaction, and 75 percent reported positively on their commitment to the BOP (Camp, Saylor, and Gilman, 1995:10). In 1995, half of all BOP staff reported being committed to their particular institution; 67 percent reported being satisfied with their job and their effectiveness in working with inmates (Wright et al., 1997:535). Job stress was reported to be low (and declining between 1989 and 1995); and staff felt safe (Saylor and Gilman, 1992:10; Wright et al., 1997: 535). The separation rate dropped from 8.6 percent in 1989 to 6.0 percent in 1992 (a decline of 30 percent) (Camp, Saylor, and Gilman, 1995: 10).22 Staff are well trained and have relatively high educational levels (in 1997, nearly 60 percent of the BOP force had attended college for at least some time). The BOP has a diversified workforce, which helps in dealing with the overrepresentation of minorities behind bars (Camp and Steiger, 1995; Camp et al., 1997). In 1997, 32.3 percent of the Bureau workforce consisted of minorities and 26.7 percent of the employees were female, with minorities and females increasingly entering higher ranks. The BOP appears to operate quite efficiently.23 In 1985, the BOP’s $14,806 per capita operating costs were substantially lower than those of California ($21,589), Illinois ($20,946), New York ($19,611), and Michigan ($23,842). In the early 1990s, it cost about $49 per day to house an inmate in the federal prison system, while the average state prisoner cost $60 per day (Way, 1992:26). The Bureau has boasted that it uses an average of 27 percent fewer staff than comparable state institutions (FBOP, 1992:32; [testimony Hawk], House Judiciary Committee, 1995). Independent research supports this claim. In 1997, the BOP served 3.6 inmates per employee (against an average of 3.1). For every custodial staffer, there were eight inmates (4.5 in state prisons). The

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Bureau has also become more efficient: The staff-inmate ratio increased from 2.6 to 3.71 between 1994 and 1997 (BJS, 1997). External stakeholders generally approve of the BOP’s performance. The BOP has traditionally been viewed as a model prison system (Hirschkop and Milleman, 1969; Clark, 1971). In a 1995 congressional oversight hearing on the Bureau of Prisons, the chair, Bill McCollum, declared that “there’s no question that the Bureau of Prisons’ facilities are professionally and humanely operated” (House Judiciary Committee, 1995:1). Ranking minority member Charles Schumer labeled the BOP “a model system” (House Judiciary Committee, 1995:3) The budget appropriations by Congress reflect the continuing level of trust in the performance level of the BOP.24 An important indicator of external trust in the functioning of the federal prison system is found in the leadership tradition of the BOP. With six directors in seven decades, serving eleven presidents, the BOP is one of the very few federal agencies that has remained truly apolitical.25 Correctional Performance in the Dutch Prison System The Dutch prison system has significantly increased the security of its facilities over the years. Whereas the escape rate (per 1,000 cells) stood at 13.6 in 1990 (and was much higher in the 1980s), it was 1.12 in 1997. The absolute number of escapes (only twelve in 1999) constitutes a negligible percentage of the more than 40,000 inmates passing through Dutch prisons annually. The Dutch escape rates are somewhat lower than in England, yet slightly higher than in Scotland and Sweden. Dutch prisons appear to be safe. The number of inmate-on-inmate assaults is unknown, but it is unlikely to be high. In a survey of inmates in one Amsterdam prison (De Havenstraat), 9 percent reported to be threatened by other inmates, and 5 percent reported cases of sexual intimidation (Herbschleb and Zorge, 1992).26 Wardens and policymakers share the impression that the level of violence has increased over the years. The wardens I talked to maintained that sexual misconduct among inmates did not occur, but no research exists to support this claim.27 The inmates of Dutch prisons do occasionally assault staff, as evidenced by the planning and control figures for the period 1994– 1998. Most of the violence apparently occurs in Dutch jails, with a 35 percent increase of reported violence between 1995 and 1997. Assaults on staff are less frequent in the penitentiaries, but they increased significantly between 1996 and 1998 (from 3.3 to 5.2 reported incidents

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per 100 cells). Prison staff increasingly relied on the use of punishment and isolation cells in the period 1994–1998, but the most restrictive instrument, the “safety bed,” is rarely used. The few scattered survey findings on staff perceptions are in agreement that a solid majority of correctional staff judge prisons to be safe. Inmates have nothing to fear from prison staff. Two visits (in 1992 and 1997) of the European Committee for the Prevention of Torture and Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (CPT) found no proof and heard no allegations of torture or systematic ill treatment of inmates. Apart from a few isolated allegations, I have learned of no evidence that would contradict this conclusion. Dutch prisons have not seen a full-fledged riot since the early 1970s and have never witnessed anything resembling the riots that occur with some regularity in U.S., British, French, and Belgian prisons. There have been a few disturbances (newspaper reports identified at least three serious disturbances in the 1990s).28 In 1996, the national prison SWAT team (LBB) was employed on thirty-one occasions (a substantial increase when compared to previous years). In 1992 and 1993, a rash of hostage situations plagued the Dutch prison system. Security rapidly improved after the opening of the supermax in Vught (Boin and Resodihardjo, 2000).29 At first glance, conditions in Dutch prisons seem excellent. There is no crowding (most inmates have their own cell), facilities are modern and appear to be clean,30 sanitation is more than satisfactory (many inmates have a toilet and/or shower in their cell), and inmates receive regular visits. Inmates spend relatively long periods of time in their cell—sometimes, particularly in the more secure regimes, most of the day and all night. But in less restrictive institutions, cell time may vary from sixteen to twenty-one hours a day (Commissie Noordsingel, 1996; Buro Dingemans, 1998:58). On the weekends, many inmates hardly leave their cell.31 Inmates of De Singel took the Justice Department to court in 1994, demanding more personnel so that they could enjoy their legally mandated hours out of their cells. Financial cutbacks invariably lead to cutbacks in inmate programs and recreation. For instance, the most recent cutback will further limit the maximum number of weekly programming hours from eighty-three to seventy-three hours (Justitiekrant, 1999).32 A critical development in this regard has been the introduction, in 1996, of so-called sober (frugal) regimes. In six institutions, a total of 768 cells have been reserved

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for inmates serving short sentences. By limiting the maximum number of operational hours to eight or nine a day, the daily costs per cell were lowered.33 The official evaluators of the sober regime found inmates who were not supposed to be in a sober regime, and they discovered that inmates routinely spent too many hours a day (more than sixteen hours) for extended periods in the sober regime (Buro Dingemans, 1998).34 The majority of inmates participate in work and industry programs (approximately half of the inmates work). It should be noted that much of the work offered to inmates is of a simple and rather tedious nature. In the 1990s, the emphasis has shifted from educational and social program participation to industry participation. According to the official policy plan Werkzame Detentie, 20 percent of the inmates are entitled to educational and training programs (actual figures are not available). The health care available to inmates has been severely criticized in past years (Brouwer, 1998).35 After the Dutch ombudsman had investigated several inmate deaths and had published scathing reports, the Justice Department established a committee of inquiry (Committee Van Dinter, 1995) that published a very critical report.36 Correctional officers and nurses do not agree on their task definitions, which in at least one reported case left an incontinent inmate without any care for days before he died (Nationale Ombudsman, 1995). Most prisons, according to the Van Dinter Committee, do not have adequate medical facilities. Dutch prisons do not have their own doctor(s) but depend on general practitioners who work in the vicinity of the institution. These general practitioners did not function optimally in directing medical services and, as a rule, did not spend enough hours in the prison (Committee Van Dinter, 1995). The committee was most critical about the total absence of central policy to monitor health care quality. A lack of suicide prevention programs and procedures was reported as well (Commissie Noordsingel, 1996). The Dutch prison system does not have a good record when it comes to suicides.37 One commission found that the suicide rate was five times higher than in a comparable population outside the prison (Commissie Noordsingel, 1996). Dutch prison suicide rates are reportedly 20 percent higher than in Sweden and England (IOO, 1998:29).38 Inmates have access to a grievance process that has been rated as excellent when viewed in European perspective (Vagg, 1994). Since the grievance system was introduced in 1977, the volume of complaints has risen significantly (van Goudoever-Herbschleb, 1994). In 1977, 117 complaints were lodged; this number rose to 612 (1980), 1,290 (1985),

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2,323 (1990), and 3,046 (1993). Whereas the initial rise in the number of complaints can be explained as a result of growing awareness (by inmates) and acceptance (by staff ), the explosive rise in the early 1990s may point to a change in inmate perceptions of conditions in Dutch prisons. From 1989 to 1993, the complaint rate (per 100 cells) rose by 38 percent (from 29 to 40). Most of the complaints (71 percent) pertained to due process violations on the part of wardens and their staff. In 1993, 11 percent (more than 300) of the total number of complaints was sustained. In 1998, the number of sustained complaints nearly tripled, to 828 (even though cell capacity had increased by 35 percent). The lack of job satisfaction among Dutch correctional officers continues to be a source of concern (Kommer, 1991). In its 1998 report, the Labor Inspection was highly critical of the working climate in Dutch prisons. The communication between institutional management and correctional officers (COs) caused tension; lack of management direction eroded the functioning of COs; the work is psychologically taxing because the CO role is ill defined (Arbeidsinspectie, 1998). Many employees who have worked in the institution for years do not receive additional training. Vertical promotion opportunities are rarely available (Dienst Justitiële Inrichtingen, 1999:26). In the period 1994–1998, absentee rates hovered around 9 percent (the rate being higher for executive personnel). Annual turnover rates increased from 7.4 percent in 1995 to 9.6 percent in 1998. The Dutch prison system managed a 10 percent cost reduction in the period 1995–1998 (Taphoorn et al., 1998).39 This efficiency gain corresponds nicely with the decrease in staffing ratio between 1993 (0.97) and 1996 (0.88). In 1997, the inmate-staff ratio was 27 percent lower than in 1980 (Verhagen, 1999). In spite of these efficiency gains, the Dutch prison system remains more expensive than the prison systems in Belgium, England, and Nedersaksen (Germany), yet cheaper than in Sweden (IOO, 1998). Designing for Correctional Performance? The output figures of the U.S. and Dutch systems do not speak for themselves. The Dutch seem to operate a successful prison system in terms of safety and security. Inmates have their own cell but spend much time in it. They have limited access to nonindustry programs and decent health care. Whereas policymakers, wardens, and foreign observers trumpet the quality of detention, the rising number of complaints and the relatively

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high suicide rates hint at a different story. Measured on the most basic statistics, the expensive Dutch prison system does not outperform European counterparts such as the German, British, or Belgian systems when it comes to programs and recreational services (IOO, 1998). In their comparison between an old prison in Cardiff (Wales) and a brand-new facility in Holland, the researchers noted with surprise that the Cardiff prison operated with less staff but had more to offer their inmates than the luxurious prison in the Netherlands (IOO, 1998). Detention quality in the Netherlands may not be as high as it is often made out to be.40 The BOP has a better record than popular images of U.S. corrections would have one believe. The federal prison system is among the best in the nation. That may not mean anything to Europeans. But when one considers the number of inmates, the limited resources, and the relatively violent inmate population, the BOP has a convincing track record: low escape rates, a safe climate, a low suicide rate, a high-quality industry, proper health care, and a fair amount of programming. If we ignore the follies of the U.S. sentencing system for a moment, we come to the conclusion that federal prison administrators are simply doing a good job. Whether these performance profiles can be interpreted in support of DiIulio’s (1987) claim that leadership significantly affects detention quality is hard to say. The Dutch certainly prove that high detention quality can be achieved without a central mission, a zealous workforce, or political support. The Dutch have simply bought high quality through high staffing ratios and private cells. 41 Institution building may therefore be especially relevant for systems that have fewer resources but nevertheless seek to maximize their performance. Interestingly, Dutch policymakers seem to arrive at the same conclusion. After the prison system was hit by a 10 percent budget cut in 1998, policymakers and wardens joined hands to formulate a shared mission, to develop career perspectives for all personnel, to explore the possibility of rotating wardens, to introduce audits, and to increase transparency. The Dutch prison system, in short, is attempting to develop its leadership capacity. In the face of decreasing funds, methods of institution building are used to maintain detention quality.

Administrative Performance: Rigidity or Resilience? Over the past decades, policy effectiveness and efficiency have been extraordinarily important in the assessment of public system performance

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(Pollitt, 1993). These are undoubtedly important values: we expect public organizations to accomplish policy aims at reasonable costs. At the same time, we understand that public organizations are not cookie factories. Discretionary room, implementation obstacles, changing environments, and limited resources create challenges for public organizations. How they deal with these challenges also determines our assessment of administrative performance. Critics argue that institutions are rigid by design and therefore less capable of meeting environmental challenges. I show in the following sections that there is no empirical basis for this claim. On the contrary, institutions tend to be more resilient. The Rigidity Argument Institutional leaders stick to core values, proven technology, standard procedures, and traditions that have stood the test of time. The inherently conservative nature of institutions makes it impossible to deal with the “unprecedented complexity” that is characteristic of modern society (Gawthrop, 1984:6). To cope with the resulting uncertainty and ambiguity, organizations should adapt their structure, strategies, and practices (Lawrence and Lorsch, 1967; Thompson, 1967). Flexibility, creativity, and experimentation are needed for dealing with proactive clients and environmental contingencies. This can only be accomplished by decoupling and designing a degree of variety into the system: “Only variety can control variety” (Gawthrop, 1984:81). Institutions, with their emphasis on functional integration, appear rather outdated. The fate of rigid institutions is beautifully described in Hargrove’s (1994) account of the TVA. The TVA began as a new type of federal organization, created to bring progress to the dirt-poor Tennessee Valley (Selznick, 1949). Its original mission was to coordinate the work of federal, state, and local agencies in order to develop natural resources, improve the economy, and engineer flood control in close cooperation with the small farmers in the region (“grassroots democracy”). The initial success of the TVA created the seeds for future failure, as Selznick (1950) foresaw. The ideology of innovative action at the grassroots level became the organizational myth that nurtured internal cohesion and justified TVA autonomy within the federal government. But although the myth was a great resource of action in the early years, it would become an obstacle to learning in later phases of organizational life. Even when conditions had changed dramatically since its heyday, faith in the once functional myth kept the TVA on a course of action that

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had long hence lost widespread support.42 It was only after severe crises that the TVA’s autonomy finally dissolved and its leadership was able to adopt a modern mission. The TVA is not the only institution that fell from grace as a result of long-term rigidity. The crucial victories of the Israeli Defense Forces in the Six Day War and the Yom Kippur War created a sense of invincibility and an overreliance on previously effective strategies that would cause humiliating fiascoes such as the invasion of Lebanon and the suppression of the intifada (van Creveld, 1998). The remarkable feat of the U.S. space agency, NASA, in putting a man on the moon helped to create an organizational culture that allowed the space shuttle Challenger to be launched even though sufficient data were available to suggest otherwise (Jarman and Kouzmin, 1991; Vaughan, 1996).43 According to Hargrove (1994), there are four characteristics that make institutions vulnerable to rigidity. Past successes. Institutions have a built-in reflex to stick with proven methods. An institutional mission is constructed on the trials and errors of institutional pioneers; as a residue of critical experience, the mission naturally commands respect from those who use it in their everyday work. Moreover, the mission serves as a guide for institutional leaders, connecting challenges of the future with successful strategies from the past. Clinging to yesterday’s solutions, however, may prove disastrous in the face of today’s challenges. When external change generates a new set of legitimate expectations and demands, the institution that maintains a cramped hold on its past is likely to set the process of delegitimization in motion.44 The rigid institution eventually finds out the hard way: declining legitimacy inevitably leads to crisis and, quite often, to imposed reform (Oliver, 1992; Suchman, 1995). In short, nothing fails like success (Sitkin, 1992). Inability to change. Even when institutional leaders arrive at the timely and adequate assessment that adaptation of mission or structure is necessary, their capacity to arrange structural reform quickly and effectively is fairly limited (Kaufman, 1971). All organizational change is difficult, but altering the institutional fabric is even harder.45 Leaders cannot reengineer core values and proven technologies without creating institutional upheaval; messing with an institution’s DNA is an invitation to crisis.

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Routinized leadership. The absence of qualified leaders explains why such rigidity-enhancing cultures can persist in an institution. Institutional histories are full of heroic stories about founding leaders. When founding leaders have been replaced by administrative managers who check the institutional machinery and oil its parts periodically, the incubation period of institutional crisis has started. As long as an institution enjoys a cooperative environment, a minimal degree of maintenance is all that is required to maintain this smooth-running relationship. In the absence of leaders, the preoccupation with maintenance creates mental blinders to relevant developments taking place outside (Kaufman, 1971; Turner and Pidgeon, 1997). Institutions can thus inadvertently maintain a steady course toward delegitimization. Absence of oversight. A state of rigidity is prolonged in the absence of external oversight. An institution has typically earned a degree of autonomy by virtue of outstanding performance in the preceding years. Autonomy can easily be interpreted as a mark of success, a perception that is likely to lull oversight agencies to sleep. The TVA leaders appealed to the image of success in their successful efforts to wrestle the authority loose from virtually all oversight agencies (Hargrove, 1994). The subsequent lack of external oversight allowed institutional misperceptions to develop undisturbed into accepted truths. It was only when the extent of TVA misperceptions became known that a clash with external oversight agencies followed. Institutional Resilience Institutions do not resist change for the sake of stability. The natural inclination toward stability does not preclude change, as a short-term perspective may suggest (Peters and Pierre, 1998). On the contrary, the desire for stability fosters the realization that change is necessary to preserve institutional character. Institutions carry out as a matter of routine those changes that are in accord with the institution’s identity (Brunsson and Olsen, 1993). To avoid imposed reform that violates the institution’s identity, an institution is likely to make significant adjustments. Institutions change to remain the same. Recalcitrant institutions such as the U.S. Marine Corps, the Los Angeles Police Department, the General Accounting Office, and the New York Port Authority have gone through periods of substantial change. Most institutions are surprisingly adaptive.

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The case study of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons underscores this point. In a very challenging environment, the BOP has managed to improve security, maintain a high level of detention quality, and preserve the dedication and expertise that has long characterized the Bureau workforce. The Bureau’s policy output in the 1990s is nothing short of remarkable when we consider the circumstances under which this achievement took place. In 1980, the federal prison system housed 25,000 inmates. In 1987, the inmate count stood at 48,000. Ten years later, the inmate population was 112,289. This structural challenge was compounded by the changing nature of the federal inmate population. In the 1990s, federal inmates served longer sentences (the average length of sentence rising from sixty months in 1992 to sixty-eight months in 1998), reported higher levels of drug addiction (approximately 30 percent in 1998), included a substantial number of foreigners (27 percent in 1998), and were more violent (the percentage of maximum-security inmates rose from 7 percent to 11 percent between 1990 and 1995). Even though the inmate population had become harder to handle, the inmate-staff ratio on the floor decreased sharply (as did the level of staff experience). The Dutch had to deal with similar challenges. In the early 1980s, prison capacity hovered around 4,000. In 1997, the prison system had room for 12,553 inmates—a 400 percent increase in cell capacity. Inmates serve longer sentences (the average sentence increased from 133 to 197 days in a ten-year period), and they serve more sentences for violent crimes than they did twenty years ago (Verhagen, 1999). The percentage of drug addicts has risen to 50 percent; administrators claim that the number of disturbed inmates is on the rise as well. Half of today’s inmate population was born abroad. As we have seen, Dutch prisons had less staff available to deal with this increasingly difficult population. The Dutch had a much harder time than the Americans in adapting to these changes. Routine incidents such as escapes and suicides escalated into public scandals and symbolized the need for reform. But necessary adaptations in terms of security and regimes were hard to implement, because wardens protected their turf against departmental interference. Flexible as we would expect the Dutch prison system to be, its administrative capacity to absorb environmental challenges was, in fact, quite limited. Dynamic Conservatism The institution is, indeed, designed to adhere to effective technologies, legislative mandates, and rooted values even when short-term pressures

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suggest better alternatives. By their nature, institutions do not trade proven wisdom for promising uncertainty, even when such hollow promises originate in powerful arenas. This quality of reliability makes institutions beacons in uncharted waters, answering to a need for predictability (Stinchcombe, 1997). This shared understanding of what is important nurtures a degree of social cohesion, which prevents the organization from falling apart as a result of “appreciative gaps.” Institutional members seek to preserve this sense of cohesiveness, because it works for them. This makes an institution extremely well suited to accommodate a considerable degree of loose coupling within the overall administrative system. Nearly every public system consists of subunits, which make modularity, requisite variety, and behavioral discretion inevitable (Orton and Weick, 1990). It is this loose coupling that makes organizational systems flexible. But, as we have seen, loose coupling also has a disintegrating effect on an organization that has to be compensated for with “institutional glue” (Orton and Weick, 1990; Spender and Grinyer, 1995). Institutions impose a degree of cognitive and normative uniformity that binds all units to the overall institution. Flexibility is thus designed into the institution. The institution is therefore just as easily described in terms of “dynamic conservatism” (Schön, 1971). Change comes quite naturally, if a bit slowly. An institutional mission cannot be discarded like an old newspaper without alienating those who have invested time and effort in implementing and preserving it and, in the process, developing a personal loyalty to core values and critical technology. Abrupt change is sure to trigger a crisis, the effects of which may thwart the sought-after reform. An institution can protect its investment in human resources only by gradually introducing necessary change. A gradual adaptation to changing circumstances and altered demands helps to maintain the relationship between an institution and its members. The clear advantage is that the institution itself is “saved” and redirected toward new and legitimate goals. It is not too hard to identify public organizations that suffer from “conservative dynamics.” Multiple perspectives on the problems and policy instruments result in a variety of practices that are usually justified in terms of unique circumstances and the need for flexibility. Some organizations may actually require this degree of idiosyncrasy at the street level (Handler, 1986). Many others can do without (Levine, 1992).46 Imposing some sense of unity on such a loosely connected assembly of fiefdoms by means other than institutional leadership is difficult (or

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very expensive). In other words, there is no empirical or theoretical basis to suggest that institutions are more change resistant than other forms of public organization.

Public Performance: Recalcitrant or Responsible? Institutional Recalcitrance and Moral Ambiguity The most controversial aspect of an institution may be its public performance, the third evaluative standard against which institutions should be measured. Whereas Selznick presented the institution as a vessel of societal aspirations, critics such as Perrow and Wolin emphasize its recalcitrant and morally ambiguous nature. Administrative recalcitrance can be a nuisance to politicians and public managers; students of administrative reform have identified it as a critical factor in the explanation of implementation failures (Gruber, 1987; Olsen, 1991). The underlying structures of routines, incentives, and beliefs within an institution are, as Coulam (1977) argues, usually powerful enough to defeat administrative reforms. This may be especially true when the proposed changes violate institutional identity (Brunsson and Olsen, 1993). But a recalcitrant attitude toward imposed reform—probably a common reflex in most public bureaucracies—is not the primary concern of critics. The idea of institutions evokes (and amplifies) the type of suspicion and fear that greeted the rise of large-scale organizations in the 1950s. The autonomous bureaus of government, with their specialized cadres of career executives and their esprit de corps, appeared as a threat to principles of democratic oversight and control (Bernstein, 1958). The “administrative state” and its uncritical acceptance of scientific management principles was interpreted by Dwight Waldo (1948) as a rejection of democratic theory. When increasing numbers of citizens claimed their right to participate, public bureaucracies were identified as bastions of conservative power. To call for the formulation of a mission, the inculcation of values, and the protection of autonomy is to make things worse. It is not very hard to identify an institution that is afflicted by overconfidence and self-righteousness—in other words, organizational arrogance (Jarman and Kouzmin, 1991). Past successes can nurture a sense of superiority, which, in turn, may convince institutional members that society’s rules do not apply to them. For instance, Ricks (1997) reports that the elite culture of the U.S. Marine Corps leaves little room for interservice

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cooperation or racial tolerance. That the Marines simply “don’t like certain laws” became painfully apparent when they assisted regular police forces in subduing the 1992 Los Angeles riots (Ricks, 1997:292–294). In the worst-case scenario, an institution can become a vehicle for organizational deviance. Shielded from public scrutiny by its being taken for granted and its absence from the political limelight, an institution may apply the familiar techniques of organization building—mission, recruitment, and indoctrination—to form an entity of individuals around morally inappropriate ends and means. Structures of organizational decisionmaking and participation are used as a showcase for outside observers (Meyer and Rowan, 1977). Inside the institution, critics and whistle-blowers are marginalized or banned from the institution. The quest for excellence is replaced by the banality of evil. If this line of criticism is empirically verified and confirmed, existing institutions should be scrutinized if not dismantled, and efforts to build new institutions should be terminated. This familiar line of criticism begins to ask which (or whose) values will be institutionalized (Perrow, 1986; Wildavsky, 1989). These core values originate either within or outside the institution. The problem, according to Charles Perrow (1986), is that morally inappropriate values may spring from both sources and enter the institution’s DNA—inadvertently or not. Institutional members may “discover” questionable values as the institution’s core values. Or institutional leaders may embrace values and practices that are widely accepted in one society but rejected in others—think of slavery, corruption, and discrimination. Whether by internal corruption or external capture, an institution may thus become an instrument of deviance rather than a vehicle of societal inspirations. A well-known example is the story of J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI. Hoover was an extraordinary leader who managed to expand a small investigative bureau in the Justice Department into one of the most powerful criminal justice institutions in the United States (Lewis, 1980). He provided the FBI with a clear mission (concentrating on car theft and bank robberies), a specific way of operating, and high approval ratings in Congress. The FBI also pursued a fiercely anticommunist agenda, directing much less attention to organized crime and the growing drug trade. Hoover could pursue his personal agenda, serve his loyal supporters, and convince his opponents by all available means because he had a zealous workforce and a luxurious degree of autonomy (Gentry, 1991). Even when institutional leaders dutifully look to society for the values with which to infuse their institutions, moral appropriateness cannot be taken for granted. The German SS, the elite unit of the ND Party,

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was “infused with value,” it employed loyal “men who fit,” and it enjoyed public acceptance if not respect (before the war at least). These were precisely the institutional characteristics that made the SS a perfect tool for the murderous Nazi regime (Browder, 1990). The story of the SS is a cynical testimony to the effectiveness of institutional design. Dictators and racist communities create their own institutions, equipped with effective missions and committed members. The potential dark side of institutions is rooted in the inherent tension between principles of democracy and the Machiavellian logic that underlies the idea of executive leadership.47 We need leaders, but to give them power is to violate democratic principles. Wolin and Perrow point out that the institution is run by organizational elites rather than by democratic principles. They are particularly worried by Selznick’s (1957) theory of institutions, in which elites control the process by which institutions commit to certain courses of action and therefore determine the moral character of the institution. For those who have no confidence in leaders, this is a worrisome observation. Pessimists invoke Lenin’s abuse of organizations and Michels’s theory of organizational leaders as a warning against naïve faith in the moral competence of institutional leaders (Wolin, 1960; Perrow, 1986). There is no clear reason, in this perspective, to expect that institutional leaders will put public purpose ahead of organizational survival or personal agendas, nor is it self-evident that institutional leaders will cater to the needs of society as a whole rather than to particularly powerful stakeholders. Perrow (1986) takes this line of argument one step further by arguing that the institutional embeddedness in its environment and the acquired taste for autonomy provide institutional leaders with the capacity to invade their task environment and to control it. Rather than importing values from the outside, institutions will export their (morally inappropriate) values to the outside. Skilled in the arts of bureaucratic politics and the coddling of politicians, institutional leaders will seek to maximize their budgets, turf, and autonomy (Downs, 1967). Institutions not only refuse to recognize political authority, they may actively undermine it. The actions of J. Edgar Hoover and Robert Moses prove that such behavior is not unthinkable. The institution is viewed as a personalized instrument in a single pair of hands. In the eyes of the critics, the tools for institution building would serve well the aspiring tyrant who seeks to manipulate and control his organization. This tyrant would use a mission to conceal less

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desirable practices under the cloak of worthwhile ambitions. Inculcation of “enabling software” becomes a sophisticated reference to the indoctrination of innocent minds. Selecting “men who fit” facilitates the removal of employees who don’t. Autonomy not only protects the institutional core from opportunistic considerations, it also helps to keep critics and watchdogs at bay. The image of the morally ambiguous institution finds support in the criticism of big government and large organizations that permeates the field of public organization theory (Denhardt, 1984). We are warned against the “greedy institution” that completely absorbs the individual into a world where behavioral options are limited (Coser, 1974). The “organization man” finds himself on the receiving end of precarious values and becomes the obedient servant of the institutional master who exerts a surprising degree of control over his thoughts and actions (Whyte, 1956). Goffman’s (1961) total institution is even more comprehensive in its grasp on the individual. This capacity to completely bind members, apparently out of free will, reinforces “a professional dislike of control models, which inevitably smack of social engineering, sociological determinism and Big Brother’s 1984 apotheosis” (Douglas, 1986:82). In Defense of Institutions The pars pro toto reasoning of the critics—using a few extreme cases to describe the population as a whole—is refuted by the case studies. The U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons has stood the test of scrutiny by Congress, the GAO, the judiciary, and the ACLU. Federal prison officials, according to Silberman (1995:115), “have taken the lead in defining the parameters of professional conduct in prison administration.” The Dutch prison system has a public performance record that is less convincing. Recalcitrant, opaque, and inner-directed are adjectives that apply to the Dutch prison system rather than to the U.S. federal prison system. This empirical research hardly allows for an apodictic assessment of institutions. An institution is not inherently dangerous, just as the antithesis of an institution does not necessarily perform better. Critics associate institutions with military-style hierarchies, whereas the political arena would be a more effective metaphor (Wamsley, 1990b). Institutions represent a negotiated order built around core values. These core values are identified through a process of self-discovery. This process is political in nature, involving conflict, periods of internal stress, and disorganization. Institutions consist of multiple elites that

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represent different functional units in which rather idiosyncratic rationalities predominate.48 Institutional leaders do not impose values but facilitate the political processes by which values are clarified and agreed upon. In other words, leadership is primarily concerned with procedural values, not with substantive values. In this political model of institutional life, there is room for intense debate before substantive values are settled upon. The process of deliberation and organizational politics is finalized through critical decisionmaking, which is the province of leadership. This does not mean that leaders can do as they please. After core values have been decided upon, leaders must win consent for the formulated mission. Organizational members who were represented by “losing” elites, or who were not represented at all, will have to be convinced of the appropriateness of the selected course of action. This is not an easy task. Conflict about values is to be expected (Offe, 1996). Institutional leaders typically attempt to establish a form of social integration, a shared belief of organizational essence. This idea of inculcation evokes strong and emotionally charged reactions. This is quite understandable when one reads how Barnard (1938) advocates “indoctrination” as a method for leaders to use to impose their wisdom on employees who apparently desire to be led. 49 Winning consent carries the risk of manipulation. But to call any process of winning consent inappropriate is overestimating the power that leaders have with respect to managing or manipulating the preferences and premises of individual members (Terry, 1995). Institutions, as do most organizations with a human resource department, pay much attention to generating consent on core values. Institutions do constrain the behavior of members by setting standards, formulating rules, and defining what is undesirable behavior. This is not a characteristic peculiar to the institutional form. Most if not all public organizations are forced to constrain their members because of external pressure and oversight (Wilson, 1989). But institutions do something many public organizations fail to do. Institutions use rules in a more facilitative manner, as guidance in the search for solutions on the work floor. Institutional mission and philosophy provide members with a mental guide that helps them to cope with daily dilemmas. Institutional members can therefore handle more discretionary room without the organization perceiving it as a threat to organizational unity. Institutions do not need dumb followers, as is sometimes implied, but, rather, men and women who are willing to shoulder responsibility at all levels (especially on the work floor).

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If organization theory teaches one lesson, it is that individuals in an organization can never be completely controlled.50 Even in totalitarian organizations such as prisons, individuals routinely manage to subvert goals. In a democratic society, leaders of public bureaucracies can only hope to determine the course of events through persuasion rather than brutal force. It would go too far to conclude that street-level bureaucrats can escape any directive from above, but the use of coercion is a clear “invitation to sustained sabotage” (Landau and Stout, 1979:151–152). Institutional leaders cannot impose their values on an institution. External stakeholders cannot do so either. Public agencies are, generally speaking, “not exactly passive actors mechanistically responding to the bidding of their executive and legislative masters” (Bozeman and Straussman, 1990:60; Rourke, 1969). After election day has come and gone, incoming governments routinely find out how hard it is to capture an institution (Heclo, 1977; Aberbach and Rockman, 1988; Seidman, 1998). Public institutions are hard to control and even harder to change, even by friendly and legitimate actors (Wilson, 1989; Hargrove, 1994). Those who warn against the perils of leadership assume that leaders can manipulate their employees; they tell us that institutional leaders have somehow unlocked the secret of human control that allows them to adapt the institution to altered preferences and reformulated missions.51 Such assumptions clash with empirical findings that confirm the common notion that unwanted reform is extremely hard to see through (Kaufman, 1971; Olsen, 1991). This appears to be such a well-known fact of life that even strongly hierarchical institutions such as the Roman Catholic Church introduce reform by ordering experimentation rather than simply enacting its leader’s edicts (Bartunek, 1984). Institutions as Safeguards J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI perfectly illustrates the possibilities of institutional design, the importance of leadership, and the undesirable consequences of strong institutions. What, then, are we to make of the fact that public institutions sometimes serve perverted aims? The answer is: nothing. If an institution is the most effective organizational form when it comes to a synergy between organizational capacities and legitimate demands, it follows that institutions will also work for regimes or leaders with less integrity than we would perhaps like to see. When it comes to substantive values, institutions are value neutral. Without proper meta values, institutions can serve evil purposes.

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As long as institutions are infused with meta or procedural values that reflect a liberal-democratic character, they may serve us well. Even if the institution adopts inappropriate values or wrongly preserves them in the face of shifting values of assessment, these are unlikely to persist in a liberal democracy. Organizational leaders cannot forever hide illegal practices behind facades of institutional legitimacy. Deviant elites who have come to dominate the institution, silencing internal critics and neutralizing whistle-blowers, still have to deal with a plethora of stakeholders and watchdogs (Wamsley, 1990b). It seems equally improbable that such questionable practices may thwart existing institutional patterns without any signals of upheaval, if not crisis. Even if these barriers are overcome, it appears virtually impossible to fool all of the stakeholders all of the time. When countervailing powers fail to keep a runaway institution in check, we should question the state of democratic society rather than the practice of institution building (Appleby, 1952). Those who have less faith in the effective functioning of checks and balances and therefore reject institutions as inherently dangerous should first consider the consequences of underinstitutionalization. The lack of institutionalization—clearly the alternative to institutions as preferred by the critics—is no guarantee for morally sound behavior. In fact, this alternative may be worse. Noninstitutionalized bureaucracies may suffer from the same and other equally disturbing ailments attributed to institutions without enjoying the benefits of institutions. The difficult organizational history of the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF) underscores this point. Always a peripheral element of the Treasury Department, ATF suffered from mission confusion (liquor or firearms?), turf battles with the FBI and the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), conflicts about means (enforcement versus regulation), regional differences (the moonshining Southeast versus gun control problems in the big cities), and a difficult political environment (with the National Rifle Association as opposing deity).52 The botched attempts to turn this agency into a more integrated organization left field agents with many problems and very little guidance.53 Vizzard (1997) shows how these organizational characteristics contributed to the disastrous handling of the Waco siege, in which four ATF agents and over seventy members of the Branch Davidian religious cult died. It may very well be the lack of institutionalization that makes public organizations vulnerable to moral capture. Selznick’s (1957) idealtypical “organization”—the antithesis of the institution—is a reference to the public organization in which a procedural value (efficiency) has

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become an end in itself. Devoid of character, the organization can be used to achieve any goal. It is this spineless organization that Selznick sought to expose. It may be efficient and obedient and always ready to be infused with master values, but these characteristics enable the underinstitutionalized organization to embrace authoritarian leadership and questionable values (Bauman, 1989; Adams and Balfour, 1998). Consider what happened to the Amsterdam police during the German occupation (Meershoek, 1999). When the Germans imposed their authority over the Dutch government, they found an Amsterdam police force in search of direction. In the prewar Depression years, the Amsterdam police had effectively been deinstitutionalized in order to serve “directly and exclusively the wishes of the central authorities” (Meershoek, 1999:20). These efforts were guided by centralization, elaborate control measures, and financial cutbacks. The demoralized force served German authorities in an almost neutral way, following directions with only occasional signs of internal resistance. After the police failed to prevent what has become known as the February strike, commander in chief Versteeg was fired by the German authorities. The new chief, Sybren Tulp, had all the qualities of a real institution builder. Tulp welded a cohesive force out of the searching and fragmented force. He reached out to the street cops and consulted them (unheard of at that time), improved their conditions, and selected young men for leadership positions on the basis of merit rather than seniority. Above all, he gave the Amsterdam police a clear and manageable goal (maintaining order) that appealed to their sense of professionalism. Tulp cleverly defined collaboration with German razzias in terms of maintaining order. The Amsterdam police obediently and effectively assisted German authorities in their efforts to round up the city’s Jews, incarcerate them, and send them to the gas chambers.54 Even though individual policemen fully realized what was happening, they remained committed to the Amsterdam police force.55 The ambivalence toward Sybren Tulp is captured in the observation that “after the war, he must be executed. But with a golden bullet” (Meershoek, 1999:154). The submissive attitude in the war contrasts sharply with the role of the Amsterdam police force in the so-called IRT affair, a scandal that eventually escalated into a deep crisis in the Dutch criminal justice sector. In 1993, Amsterdam withdrew its men from an interregional criminal investigation team (IRT). The IRT—one of several such teams in the Netherlands—had been established in 1989 to fight organized crime. The Amsterdam chief of police, Eric Nordholt, terminated the team after

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he learned of its inappropriate investigative methods (such as the use of civilian informers and the “controlled” import and distribution of drugs). In the subsequent parliamentary investigations, the Amsterdam police emerged as the self-proclaimed champion of “clean policing” (Commissie Van Traa, 1996). This was in line with the mission as it had been developed under the authority of Chief Nordholt (Zwart, 1999). Public institutions, imbued with procedural values that are rooted in a liberal-democratic society, are more likely to protect us against opportunistic courses of action (Dahrendorf, 1985). The fierce resistance of the German Bundesbank against the continuous political pressure to lower the interest rate is an example of legitimate recalcitrance. Suffering from high unemployment, creeping growth, and the incredible debts caused by German reunification, the subsequent ministers of finance, and Kohl himself, repeatedly called upon the Bundesbank to relax their fixation on protecting the deutschemark. In the face of internal and external pressure (France joined in as well), Germany’s monetary authorities kept to their legal and traditional mission and were ultimately upstaged politically by Kohl (‘t Hart, 2000). Institutions may safeguard us against ill-conceived and improper reform. As treasure bearers, institutional leaders may alter core values (and the institutional structure that is built on these values) only when legitimacy for these values declines. Institutional leaders have an “independent responsibility to uphold legally constituted institutions and procedures” (Heclo, 1977:244; Aberbach and Rockman, 1988; Terry, 1995). Institutional leaders may manipulate the institution’s DNA only after agreed-upon thresholds of legitimacy have been surpassed (Offe, 1996). This does not mean that institutions refuse change per se; it merely suggests that institutional leaders do not rush into reform until they are convinced of its legitimate basis.

Designing Safeguards for Institution Building Both optimists and pessimists agree that the quality of public governance is strongly affected by our institutions. But whereas practitioners continue to build new institutions, many theorists of public governance have retained a reserved stance toward institutional design and the leadership needed to bring these institutions to life. As Lynn (1981:x) put it, “We want better management and greater competence in the federal government, but we do not want to rely on strong competent executives

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to help achieve it.” Leadership remains a problematic phenomenon in a democratic society (Mansfield, 1989; Rosenthal, 1990; Miroff, 1993; Skowronek, 1993). We need institutions, but we are afraid to build them because we fear those whom we put in charge. More specifically, we fear they may abuse methods of leadership to institutionalize values that are undesirable. What we really need is a way of controlling those who will remain in control. Not only do we need to build moral competence into the structure of the enterprise, we need to ensure the actual exercise of this competence as well. In other words, we must break our fixation with substantive values and focus on the potential effects of procedural values. Taking our cues from both pessimists and optimists (especially Selznick’s [1992] later work), a set of procedural values is identified here that should protect the institution from unintended consequences that leadership may cause.56 Protecting Institutional Morality The classic debate between Friedrich and Finer revealed two fundamentally different approaches when it comes to ensuring appropriate behavior in institutions. Finer (1941) argued that external laws and regulations were needed to keep public organizations in check. A philosophy of ethics should inform the relation between public institutions and oversight agencies. Friedrich (1940) had less faith in external checks and balances, arguing in favor of personal conscience as a safeguard of bureaucratic morality. I argue that an institutional culture of responsibility can connect external safeguards with individual responsibility. External oversight should be designed into the relationship between the institution and its environment. Institutions typically require and receive a considerable degree of autonomy. This tendency toward noninterference is based on trust, generated by past performance of the institution. Trust may become an excuse for ignorance without explicitly formulated norms and standards. Runaway institutions have been allowed to stray because responsible overseers shied away from their duties. Institutions must be subjected to periodic scrutiny and reassessment. Institutional power must be checked with power rather than with trust alone (Selznick, 1992). There is, of course, much that institutional leaders can and should accomplish within the institution itself. Institutional designers can make the various types of organizational safeguards an integral part of the

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institutional mission by fostering a culture of responsibility. An important aspect of such a culture is legality: all policymaking, implementation, and administrative handlings must stand the test of legal scrutiny (Rohr, 1978; Terry, 1995). Mission, technology, inculcation methods, and autonomy strategies must comply with the letter and intent of the law. If the founding leaders proactively apply legal standards to all their ideas and activities, the institutional framework is embedded in the wider legal framework of democratic society that represents generally accepted norms of what is good and what is bad. An institutional culture of responsibility is also served by the explicit recognition and acceptance of employees’ civic competence (Burke, 1986; Bovens, 1998). An institution must allow room for legitimate self-assertion, which may very well bring into question the appropriateness of institutional practices. A political model of institutional life allows a place for both the “perennial querulant” and the whistle-blower. Institutionalized acceptance of the ability of employees to assess institutional practices against standards of moral appropriateness, and the recognition that these judgments are important, open up channels of communication that provide additional safeguards against what is legal but not necessarily appropriate. Such recognition is evidenced by the existence of formal and informal protection of individuals who dare to stand up and question what others accept as normal and appropriate (LaPorte, 1996). The set of standards that must be honored if the institution is to maintain its moral health includes personal responsibility. Even though institutions are designed to channel the energy and abilities of individuals toward an encompassing mission, there should be room for individual assessments of moral appropriateness. A culture of personal responsibility emphasizes that, in the end, all individuals remain personally responsible for their actions (Hardin, 1996). To facilitate awareness of this responsibility, institutional leadership should organize mechanisms of organizational self-criticism and reflection on the moral character of the institution. This entails a periodic reassessment of core values as well as an effort to benchmark organizational processes against other possible core values. In other words, substantive values are routinely reassessed. But institutions should also offer a sense of individual responsibility for the public cause (Goodsell, 1990). The ideal member of a public institution works in a spirit of optimism, courage, and fairness (Bailey, 1965). Institutional design should not only pertain to the maintenance of an efficient relationship between external demands and organizational

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capacities, but it must seriously address factors that may hurt the institution’s integrity somewhere far down the road. Institutional design that ties institutional practices to external oversight and creates a culture in which individuals are encouraged to exercise their civic competence may help to quell the concerns of critics. These conditions may seem burdensome, but they actually help to maintain the legitimacy of the institution. Furthering Responsiveness Institutions tend to be somewhat conservative if not rigid. An unconditional adherence to institutionalized values, structures, and practices undermines an institution’s legitimacy. To maintain undisturbed relations with environmental stakeholders in the face of political, societal, and functional changes that will inevitably occur, a conscious effort on the part of institutional leaders is required (Oliver, 1992). Institutional leaders must create the capacity to recognize, facilitate, initiate, and implement necessary change. A healthy relationship between an institution and its environment begins with formal and informal mechanisms of accountability that enable political agents to hold institutional leaders responsible for their behavior and correct that behavior when it deviates from prescribed standards. A system of accountability, by itself, does not suffice to keep institutions in check (Bovens, 1998). But it serves as a constant reminder to institutional leaders of the fact that, ultimately, public institutions must answer to politically elected forums. Accountability mechanisms should be accompanied by a culture of stewardship. In a responsive institution, employees understand that public organizations are meant to serve society by making the government machinery “available for use by—but not at the absolute disposal of— any political group arriving in office through legitimate means” (Heclo, 1977:21). This understanding prevents employees from blindly following institutional aims (or political bosses), stimulating individual assessments of the relationship between institutional practices and societal effects. Institutional leadership should not only facilitate individual ruminations about the institution’s place in society, but it must actively promote the general idea of serving society. If institutional leaders cannot or will not explain how routinized practices serve the public interest, it creates questions about the responsiveness of the institution. Responsiveness is served particularly well by transparency (Luban, 1996). Showing the outside world what is done inside is sometimes

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considered troublesome by administrators. But opening up to outside scrutiny allows for a balanced assessment of institutional practices. Elements of the institutional structure and mission will surely provoke discussion in some quarters, but the resulting difficulties are easily compensated for by the high level of public trust generated by an open-door policy. A hint of secrecy, on the other hand, nurtures a sense of distrust and suspicion already inherent in the general conception of closed institutions. An open-door policy should be taken quite literally (but in the case of prisons not too literally), allowing routinized access to politicians, judges, media representatives, and interested citizens. Since external changes cannot always be predicted, and never controlled, institutional leadership should create a minimal degree of institutional flexibility. The institutional form carries few incentives to reconsider accepted ideas and routines; flexibility must therefore be organized. One strategy aims to monitor external developments, assessing the potential consequences for the institutional mission (Thompson, 1967). Another strategy is to encourage continuous discussion of institutional policies and practices (Landau, 1973; Landau and Chisholm, 1995). Both strategies are served by regular audits, tolerating whistleblowers, and inviting critics to the policymaking table—in short, a controlled sphere of deinstitutionalized practice. Only if impending changes are accurately forecasted can change be slowly introduced. Hard structures need a bit of softening up before reform can be brought home to institutional members. Some changes simply cannot be predicted. Institutions therefore need a minimal degree of resilience in case external developments surprise institutional leadership. The awareness that there is always a possibility of surprise and that even institutional structures will not last forever is the cornerstone of institutional resilience.

The Promise of Institution Building We have seen that public managers can build our policymaking and implementing organizations into institutions. It is possible to create a mission, to motivate public servants toward the effectuation of that mission, and to maintain a balance between the institution’s policies and political demands. The question has been raised in this final chapter whether institution building is an idea worth advocating. If policy effectiveness is the sole aim, institution building may not be necessary. The interesting observation that Dutch prisons do not perform

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significantly better than their less expensive European counterparts suggests that quality is not a function of available resources. But the Dutch prison system also teaches us that generous resources go a long way in establishing high-quality prisons. A prison system that can afford the luxury of private cells and nearly one staff member for each inmate will have—should have—little trouble meeting basic correctional aims. Institution building is particularly relevant for public organizations that must perform under trying circumstances and with shrinking resources. Institutions are robust because they can maintain high performance levels in the face of internal and external turbulence. Their most prized asset is the ability to serve moving policy targets with organized tacit knowledge. In the effort to solve complex problems, institutions combine resilience with responsibility. For politicians and public managers who aim to organize the policy process in a consistent, fair, effective, and legitimate way, institution building should be a promising idea. The Federal Bureau of Prisons shows that it is also an idea that has proven its worth. There will always be a natural hesitation to endorse organized efforts to infuse a group or organization with values. We can never be sure that the values we embrace today will not be the same values by which we will be condemned in the future. This observation gives rise to caution but is no reason to reject institution building. The key to resolving this tension lies in the procedural values that institutions must adopt. By institutionalizing the right meta values, we can be more relaxed about the substantive values that find their way into the institutional structure. Future research may help to identify these values and, importantly, teach us how and under which conditions these meta values should be institutionalized. For the theoretical debate on the consequences of institution building and leadership to move forward, it is necessary to leave fixed notions of institutions and leaders behind. Every serious idea is potentially dangerous, and the idea of institution building is no exception. In the possession of civilized minds, serious ideas will benefit us. The great challenge is to match this sense of optimism with effective safeguards.

Notes 1. In popular books and movies, the deviant prison organization is the norm. Hollywood hits such as One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Shawshank Redemption, Sleepers, and Silence of the Lambs reinforce the notion of

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sadist guards and sick wardens. “It is all stereotypes about guards,” says Hawkins (1976:81–91), “because information about the prison guard usually derives from two sources: 1) writings of inmates; 2) works of criminologists (who listen to inmates).” Johnson (1996:200) points out that “the only research that purports to document the inherently negative character of the prison officer focuses not on guards at all, but on college students [who were] implicitly encouraged to play out stereotypical conceptions of guard and inmate roles.” Johnson refers here to the (in)famous Stanford Prison Experiment. 2. Brockway carefully documented his practices: 19,497 blows to 2,578 inmates in a five-year period (Pisciotta, 1994). 3. Gouldner’s criticism was directly aimed at Selznick’s institutional theory. Gouldner failed to note that Selznick (1950) had discussed the tensions between institutional leadership and democratic principles in a chapter that was published in a book edited by Gouldner himself. 4. See, for example, Downes (1988), Muncie and Sparks (1991), and Vagg (1994). 5. The rate remains firmly below the U.S., Russian, and South African averages (Verhagen, 1999). 6. A distinction has to be made between output and outcome. The lowering of recidivism is generally perceived as the most desirable outcome of incarceration. It is probably the least reliable indicator of administrative performance (DiIulio, 1993) because too many variables (individual characteristics, social conditions, economic developments, and the like) affect the propensity of released detainees to return to crime. Recidivism is therefore not used as a performance indicator. For the record only: the recorded recidivism rate of all Dutch inmates between 1995 and 1998 stood at 38 percent; within three years of release, 40.8 percent of federal inmates had either been rearrested or had their parole revoked. 7. Unless noted otherwise, the statistical data is derived from Camp and Camp (1998). 8. In 1991, 60 percent of federal inmates believed that their risk of being assaulted was low (Innes, 1995). Reliable data about sexual misconduct of either staff or inmates is extremely hard to come by. In the early 1980s, federal inmates were found to be “relatively free” from sexual exploits (Nacci and Kane, 1983). In his empirical account of USP Leavenworth, Earley (1993) implies that weak inmates can either voluntarily enter into a relationship with a protective (but abusive) inmate or seek special protection from staff. In his study of a federal prison, however, Silberman (1995) found that rape is “extremely rare.” A recent GAO report (1999) mentions a few cases of (proscecuted) sexual misconduct by staff between 1995 and 1998. 9. The Cubans had arrived with the 1980 Mariel boat lift but had been refused entry into the United States and were detained until Cuba would take them back. 10. In the 1980s, the federal inmate population doubled from 24,162 (less than 1 percent over capacity) to 48,017 (56 percent over capacity). 11. The BOP managed to bring the overcrowding rate down from 135 percent in 1990 to 119 percent in 1997.

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12. This impression was shared by Alvin Bronstein (ACLU’s National Prisons Project) in a 1996 interview. 13. Both Fleisher (1989) and Silberman (1995) report instances in which correctional officers would “go to bat” for an inmate if officials thought they were falsely accused. 14. In 1997, the BOP had no class actions in effect (the state systems had a combined number of 148). 15. For a critical discussion of the supermax phenomenon, consult King (1999). 16. Chief Justice Warren Burger (1985:755) observed that “the Federal Bureau of Prisons, under excellent leadership from James V. Bennett to the [then] present director Norman A. Carlson has performed very well despite protectionist statutory restraints on the production of prison industries and despite archaic public attitudes.” In 1995, the chairman of the House Subcommittee on Crime, Bill McCollum, publicly expressed his “continuing support of the BOP’s efforts to engage its inmates in meaningful labor. I’ve been especially satisfied with the work of the Federal Prison Industries program” (House Judiciary Committee, 1995:2). 17. The GAO found that 50 percent of the federal inmates evaluated the various courses as greatly useful. 18. The substance abuse programs offered by the BOP to all drug addicts were rated “excellent” by expert Douglas Lipton in his 1995 congressional testimony. 19. In a 1994 report, the GAO criticized three of these centers for understaffing and underqualification of staff, which led to less than optimal provision of health care. The reported problems seemed minor and have been corrected, according to the BOP. 20. Costs have spectacularly risen since 1988 and were substantially lower than private providers apparently offer. During the 1995 congressional hearing, Director Hawk explained that much effort went into dental care in order to prevent digestive problems (which would lead to even higher costs in the future). One critical representative suggested that the BOP serve those inmates soup rather than repairing their teeth. 21. For a discussion of BOP programs, see White and Schimmel (1995). 22. In 1997, the turnover rate stood at 6.6 percent, well below the 14.9 percent average in state prisons (Camp and Camp, 1998:150). 23. It is notoriously hard to get to the bottom of how efficiently a prison system operates (McDonald, 1989). The complexity of the debate is illustrated by recent discussions on health care and construction costs. Whereas the Office of the Inspector General (1996) found that Bureau initiatives had kept per capita costs from rising significantly, a private health care provider claimed that costs could be lowered by as much as $1,000 per capita annually (House Judiciary Committee, 1995). Health care costs rose 27 percent per inmate between 1990 and 1994, which is less than the rise in the consumer price index. 24. The image sometimes works against the Bureau. When Congress debated the terrible situation of the Washington, D.C., prison system, it was quickly suggested that the BOP would take over. Bureau staffers were not keen

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on adopting the hard-core inner-city thugs, but the first D.C. inmates have already been adopted into the federal system. 25. The average tenure of prison directors in the United States is 3.6 years (Camp and Camp, 1998:128). 26. In the period 1995–1999, the Justice Department conducted nineteen surveys among inmates, but the findings are not publicly available. 27. Sexual relations and sexual misconduct appear to be taboo in the Dutch prison system. According to administrators and policymakers, there is no sex in prisons—consensual or forced. This would indeed make the Dutch prison system a remarkable one in both international and historical comparison. Franke (1990a) is more candid in his descriptions of nineteenth-century prisons in the Netherlands. A report of the Labor Inspection (Arbeidsinspectie Regio Noord, 1998:24) mentions sexual intimidation among personnel and toward inmates. 28. These happened in Zwolle, Amsterdam (Bijlmer), and Zoetermeer. 29. The supermax in Vught and the Demersluis unit in Amsterdam have drawn severe criticism, not only from worried academics but also from the CPT. 30. The Committee Van Dinter (1995:20) reports that medical units complain about the hygiene in cellblocks. 31. This was conveyed to me by three wardens and one policymaker on separate occasions (in 1999). 32. These are the hours during which staff schedules activities. Inmates typically spend fewer hours outside their cells. 33. In 1998, a cell in a sober regime cost 227,88 Dutch guilders per day compared to 255,20 for a cell in a regular regime (Dienst Justitiële Inrichtingen, 1998:69). This amounts to a 12 percent cost reduction. 34. The majority of correctional officers in this regime (59 percent) felt that they had insufficient means to build a meaningful relationship with their inmates. Moreover, the sober regime had more crisis situations than standard regimes. Finally, the researchers concluded that headquarters had insufficient information to effectively manage these particular institutions. 35. Inmate perceptions about health care are not available. Complaint procedures do not allow for complaints about health care (Committee Van Dinter, 1995). 36. The CPT (1997) criticized the FOBA, a unit of the Amsterdam correctional complex in which inmates with psychiatric disorders are housed, for inadequate care. 37. Bernasco, Kerkhof, and van de Linden (1988) found that the suicide rate in Dutch prisons was ten times higher than in comparable outside populations. This figure is disputed by Verhagen (1996). 38. My own calculations indicate that the Dutch figures are similar to those in Norway and substantially lower than in the Scottish prison system. 39. If daily cost-price is indexed at 100 for 1994, it stood at 91 in 1996. 40. “Our idea of quality is based on loose impressions rather than hard statistics,” admits DJI director Jägers (interview, 1999). Why, then, do international observers praise Dutch detention quality? Franke (1990b) provides us with a few credible reasons. First, inmates, on average, do less time in Holland. Second, foreign observers get their information from policymakers and wardens,

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who have little incentive to talk about the downside of their system. Finally, Franke suggests that foreigners select the Dutch system to criticize their own. 41. The price is even higher when we consider the number of inmates released because of cell shortages. If we followed the calculation method proposed by DiIulio and Piehl (1995), the additional costs would be staggering. 42. A phenomenon witnessed in highly institutionalized corporations as well; see Slatter (1984) and Metze (1991). 43. For a discussion on the relation between cultural rigidity within an organization and the occurrence of disasters, see Turner and Pidgeon (1997). 44. Extreme rigidity may cause vicious circles of declining trust and increasing reliance on “successful” coping methods (Masuch, 1985; Seibel, 1998). 45. Argyris and Schön (1978) suggest that organizations, in general, do not learn easily (Morgan, 1986). Confronted with common patterns of information gathering, adds Dery (1986:14), “one is tempted to conclude that organizations are systematically stupid.” Institutions, with their standard operating procedures and cherished missions, are even harder to change. As Scott (1969:13) put it, “Members of the subculture are often remarkably untroubled by the gaps in their knowledge and understanding. The explanation is that they are unaware of them. They don’t know how much they don’t know because it never occurs to them that they might know more than they now know” (quoted in Vertzberger, 1990:194–195). 46. For public bureaucracies that must seek a minimal degree of consistency and evenhandedness in the way they deal with citizens, the idea of a shared and sustained mission must be attractive. 47. For a lucid treatment of the inherent tension between leadership and democracy, see Mansfield (1989). 48. See Walker (1986) for a case study on the plurality of elites and the establishment of so-called counterelites in the GAO. 49. Perrow (1986:58) calls this the “ancient justification for leadership (and especially totalitarianism)” in what is a very critical analysis of Barnard’s work. 50. If organization theory were exclusively oriented toward developing means of full control, as Wolin (1969) asserts, all empirical findings point toward failure of that mission. 51. For a theoretical statement to this effect, consult Moe (1985). See Wolf (1999) for an empirical analysis of institutional reform that shows that institutions are not tools in the hands of the master. 52. Vizzard remarks that the story of the ATF offers the antithesis of Kaufman’s forest rangers. 53. The disappearance of the traditional hierarchy in a large organization may put tremendous pressure on the informal culture on the work floor. Wittek (1999) shows how forced self-organizing and increased mutual dependence leads to dysfunctional group performance. “Removing constraints merely allows different constraints to take effect. . . . Local pressures are often more stifling than central ones” (Kaufman, 1971:72–73; see also Lipsky, 1980). 54. In the period 1942–1943, 55,000 out of 80,000 Amsterdam Jews were arrested and deported.

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55. The core question is, of course, why individuals stay with a group that acts in morally repulsive ways (Kelman and Hamilton, 1989). Terry (1995) observes that if a regime is fundamentally unjust and even immoral, it will be difficult for the public administrators to be good human beings and good citizens at the same time. For those who try to live up to their personal responsibility for their actions (Hardin, 1996), loyalty may be the only option open when “exit” and “voice” are too dangerous to seriously consider (Hirschman, 1970). The few Amsterdam officers who did refuse to cooperate were fired. 56. These safeguards, according to Selznick (1992:351), should be informed by a public philosophy—“a theory of the enterprise and its place in the community.” Two principles are accepted here as axiomatic. First, public institutions serve the community. Second, no claims of purpose or efficiency can justify practices that reduce human beings to “means only.”

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Index

Abuse, 95–96 Accountability mechanisms, 221 Accreditation, of U.S. Federal prisons, 60, 79(n14) Administration, limits of, 6–8 Administrative principles, of BOP, 55–57 Alcatraz prison: as BOP symbol, 62; closing of, 123(n54); criticism of, 114; public safety and inmate rehabilitation, 83–84 Alexander, Myrl, 61, 91–94 Allewijn, Pier: expanding policy to remand centers, 131–132; field discretion, 151; political and societal awareness of prison system, 146 Almere prison, 70 American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), 106 American Correctional Association (ACA), 60 Attorneys general, 109–110, 175 Authority: centralization of BOP authority, 85–86; Dutch resistance to, 188; wardens as heads of fiefdoms, 73–77 Autonomy: in BOP, 108–111, 114–117, 174–175; as buffer for environmental constraints, 38–40;

concerns over BOP autonomy, 191(n10); context for leadership, 187; declining autonomy in Dutch system, 157–158, 172; in Dutch system, 73–77, 136–137, 147–148, 150–152; early lack of, in Dutch system, 129–131; field recalcitrance of Dutch wardens, 155; moral ambiguity and, 213 Balans magazine, 148 Ball, Robert, 36 Barnard, Chester, 29 Barnard-Simon theory, 47(n13) Bates, Sanford, 119(n5), 123(n47); BOP autonomy, 109; Bureau respect for, 61; federal prison reform, 83–85; political statues, 110; recruiting and keeping employees, 104 Bennett, James, 119(n4); attorneys general and, 175; BOP autonomy, 110–111; Bureau respect for, 61; forced retirement, 120(n15); institutionalization of BOP, 86–87; management philosophy, 89–91; on prison discipline, 54; recruiting and keeping employees, 104; Warren Burger’s evaluation of, 225(n16)

255

256

Index

Beto, George, 193 Bonus-Malus regime, 66–67 BOP. See U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons Bottom-up process of administration, 27–28 Branch Davidians, 216 Breda (Netherlands), 72 Brockway, Zebulon, 194 Bronstein, Alvin, 106 Brownlow Committee, 37 Budget constraints: cutting guard training, 144; double bunking, 148–149, 198; increasing wardens’ autonomy, 152; as obstacle to Dutch reform, 137–140 Building tender system, 193 Bundesbank, 218 Bureau as family, 62–63, 106–108 Bureau of Budget (BOB), 37 Bureau of Efficiency, 87 “Bureau’s way of doing things,” 53, 86–87 Burger, Warren, 123(n51), 225(n16) Butner (North Carolina), 58, 89, 121(n18) Carlson, Norman A.: attorneys general and, 109–110, 175; BOP family culture, 107–108; Bureau respect for, 60–61, 122(n43); Burger’s evaluation of, 225(n16); characteristics of effective wardens, 56; federal court interference, 112; management style, 96; political status, 110; reformation of BOP mission, 92, 94–95; staff training programs, 101–102; staff transfers, 105–106 Carlson, Peter, 114 Case study method, of research, 17 Center-field tensions, 74–77 Centrale Raad voor de Strafrechtstoepassing (CRS), 72–73, 80(n33) Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 11

Central Training Institute (CTI), 142–144 Challenger (space shuttle), 206 Chicago Metropolitan Correctional Center, 60 Clark, Tom, 109 Classification process, 163(n17); described, 79(n13); differentiation principle, 163(n17); as indicator of cohesion, 51; as key to rehabilitation, 79(n13); as obstacle to formation of Dutch mission, 129–131 Cohesion, administrative: BOP leadership, 53, 173–175; defined, 78(n1); as measure of institutionalization, 50 Committee for the Prevention of Torture and Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, 201 Committee Van Dinter, 74 Communal system, 128–129 Communication, 55. See also Grievance procedures Comparative method, of research, 17 Competence: as autonomy strategy, 39–40; as organizational mission criterion, 26 Complaints. See Grievance procedures Comprehensive Crime Control Act, 113 Conformability, of institutional members, 30–32 Congress, U.S., 113–114 Congruence method, 17 Consultative management, 89–91, 94, 99–100 Co-optation, 39, 190(n2), 193 Correctional policy, 139–141 Correctional Worker First concept, 122(n33), 173 Crisis management, 42–43 CRS. See Centrale Raad voor de Strafrechtstoepassing Cuban refugees, 113, 197

Index

Dayan, Moshe, 184–185 Death rate: BOP prisons, 198–199; Dutch prisons, 202 Decentralization of authority, 136–137, 141–144, 191(n3) Deconcentration operation, 138–141, 153, 165(n47) De Corridor (Netherlands), 131, 164(n24) De Havenstraat (Amsterdam), 71–73 Democracy, institutions as threat to, 194 De Singel (Netherlands), 201 De Sprang (The Hague), 131 Differentiation principle. See Classification process DiIulio, John, 193 Disciplinary action: different management styles, 73; in Dutch prisons, 68–70; uniformity of BOP practice, 60 Discretion, 13, 19(n7) Double bunking, 148–149, 198 Drug Enforcement Agency, 216 Drug use and abuse: BOP drug treatment programs, 113, 120(n16), 225(n18); Dutch drug treatment programs, 80(n37); in Dutch prisons, 67, 69–71, 80(n32), 149; IRT affair, 218 Dutch prison system, 14, 125–162; autonomy, 147–150; characterization of, 14, 49; conflict between wardens and Justice Department, 74–77; context for leadership, 187; correctional performance, 200–204; correctional philosophies, 64–68; diversity of management styles, 70–74; field emancipation, 151–153; field recalcitrance, 154–156; fragmentation, 125–126, 161–162, 170–172; inculcation, 141–147; institutional beginnings of, 126–128; institutional characteristics of, 181–183; institutional resilience, 208; lack

257

of organizational structure, 77–78; practices, 68–74; prewar philosophy, 163(n3); public performance as institution, 213–214; recidivism rate, 224(n6); research methodology, 17; searching for a mission, 128–141; sexual relations in, 226(n27); transfer of BOP philosophy to Dutch prisons, 188; treatment versus punishment, 182; turnover in administration, 178; wardens’ lack of confidence in policymakers, 63–64; Werkzame Detentie, 150, 156–161, 171 Dynamic conservatism, 35–37, 208–210 Education and training: BOP employees, 101–104; Correctional Worker First concept, 122(n33), 173; Dutch wardens, 145–147; education level of BOP employees, 199; as part of inculcation, 141–145; recruiting and training capable wardens, 178–179 Efficiency, as philosophical goal, 67–68, 141 Elmira Reformatory, 194 El Reno Training Center, 102 Elting, Lucas, 156–157, 159–160 Emancipation, field, 151–154 Embodiment of purpose, 29 Emotionally disturbed inmates, 89, 149 Employees: civic competence of, 220; violent death of, 194. See also Guards; Wardens Employees, BOP, 49; BOP administrative principles, 55–57; Bureau as family, 60–63, 106–108; communication with prisoners, 55; daily interaction with inmates, 58–59; inculcation of, 100–103; job satisfaction, 199; recruiting and keeping, 104–106; violent death of, 78(n6)

258

Index

Employees, Dutch: job satisfaction, 203; violence by and against, 201 Enforcement machine, 94–95 Environmental constraints: creating a buffer through autonomy, 38–40; fragmentation of Dutch system, 125–126; impact on BOP institutionalization, 181–183; precluding effective institutional design, 6, 10–11; Selznick on, 24–25 Escapes: from BOP prisons, 196; from Dutch prisons, 69, 149–150, 155(n50), 166(n69), 167(n70) Esprit de corps: as dimension of cohesion, 50–51; of policymakers and staff, 78(n3) Esserheem (Netherlands), 72–73 Evaluation ratings, 116 External oversight, 219 FBI. See Federal Bureau of Investigations Feasibility, as organization mission criterion, 27 Federal Bureau of Investigations (FBI): consequences of strong institutions, 215–216; criticism of, 11; as effective institutional design, 9; impinging on BOP territory, 109; as instrument of deviance, 211; public image, 40 Federal courts, 112–113 Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC), 102. See also Glynco, Georgia Federal Prison Industries, Inc. See UNICOR Field discretion, 151 Field emancipation, 151–153 Field recalcitrance, 154–156 Florence (Colorado), 58 Food service: BOP, 88; Dutch prisons, 130 Forest Ranger, The (Kaufman), 21–22 Forest service. See U.S. Forest Service

Fragmentation: of Dutch system, 64, 161–162; field opposition to Werkzame Detentie, 157–161; field recalcitrance of Dutch wardens, 154–156; forces of fragmentation of U.S. Forest Service, 21–22; leadership and fragmentation in the Dutch system, 170–172; overcoming fragmentation through strong leadership, 43–44. See also Institutionalization Freedom of movement, 197–198 Functions of the Executive, The (Barnard), 29 Funding: BOP inmate costs, 119(n2); Dutch, federal, and state systems, 189 Future of Imprisonment, The (Morris), 93 General Accounting Office (GAO): as effective institutional design, 1, 9; institutional resilience, 207; mission adaptation, 37 German occupation, 211–212, 217 Glynco, Georgia, 102, 107, 119. See also Federal Law Enforcement Training Center Governing Prisons (DiIulio), 193 Greven, Henk: field recalcitrance and, 154–155; fiscal constraints for reform, 138; frustration with bureaucracy, 148; perceived lack of vision, 140; Werkzame Detentie, 158 Grievance procedures, 164(n28); in BOP prisons, 198; in Dutch prisons, 166(n65), 202–203; Inmate Grievance System, 112; Prisoners’ Mail Box, 85; wardens’ involvement in, 58–59 Groningen riots, 165(n34) Guards, BOP: federal prison reform measures, 87; movie stereotypes of, 223(n1); training programs, 101–102

Index

Guards, Dutch: communal system, 128–129; inculcation through training, 141–145; under laissezfaire management, 70; under reform-oriented policy, 135 Haarlem (Netherlands), 72 Hands-on management, 73, 89–91, 95 Hawk, Kathleen, 61; evaluation ratings system, 116; rebalanced mission, 97 Health care: accreditation of prisons, 60; cost of, 225(n23); in Dutch prisons, 202; lack of support for, 225(n20); U.K.’s National Health Service, 2–3 High security prisons, 57–58 Hill, Henry, 85 Hirsch Ballin, Ernst, 157, 168(n92) Historic accident, 44–45 HIV infection, 149 Hoekstra Committee, 149 Holt, Ray, 60 Hoover, J. Edgar, 109, 120(n15), 211, 215–216 Houk, Wade, 62 Houston, Jim, 58, 106 Hurricane Andrew, 62 HvB Den Bosch (Netherlands), 73 Identity: autonomy and, 38; as condition for institutional mission, 27–28; differences under different management styles, 73 Inculcation, 214; BOP, 100–103, 116, 119, 174; consequences of control, 33; Dutch prison system, 141–147, 171–172; need for capable wardens, 178–179; U.S. Forest Service, 30–32 Indoctrination, 214 Industries programs, 88–89, 109 Inmate Grievance System, 112, 123(n50) Inmate programs: creative job skills, 71–72; cutbacks in Dutch

259

programs, 201–202; under Dutch reform policy, 135; industries programs, 88–89, 109 Inmates: liberal versus strict regimes, 79(n28) Inmates, BOP: abuse of, 95–96, 224(n8); benefits of federal prison reform, 84–85; Bennett’s rehabilitation philosophy, 87–89; death rate among, 198–199; industries program, 109; Inmate Grievance System, 112; inmatewarden contact, 95; opportunities for improving themselves, 53–54; standards of behavior, 56–57 Inmates, Dutch: basic rights of, 66–67; under a communal system, 128–129; drug use and lax behavior, 69–70; early modernization regime, 127–128; inmates’ needs as policy factor, 147–148; overcrowding and underfunding, 137–139; under reform-oriented policy, 135; Tulkens’ policy, 164(n27) Inspections, Dutch prisons, 131, 167(n79) Institution, defined, 4–5 Institutionalization: assessing the level of, 50–52; BOP’s high level of, 81–82; Bureau’s way of doing things, 53, 86–87; defined, 4–5, 23–25; impact of leadership on, 169–170; institution building and leadership, 188–189; of leadership, 177; leadership and fragmentation in the Dutch system, 170–172; leadership as controlling factor, 181–183. See also Fragmentation Institution Character Profile (ICP), 99 Integrative techniques, 9, 82–86. See also Autonomy; Inculcation; Mission Integrity, 34–43 Internal Revenue Service (IRS), 11 Irresponsibility, 35–37

260

Index

IRT affair, 217–218 Israeli Defense Forces (IDF), 183–184, 206 Janssens, Wim, 131 Jews, 2, 217, 227(n54) Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations (JCAHO), 60 Justice, William, 193–194 Justice Department (Netherlands), 126; conflict with wardens, 74–77; enforcing policy reform, 150; field opposition to Werkzame Detentie, 159–160 Kaufman, Herbert, 21–22, 184–185 Kennedy, Robert, 120(nn15, 16) Kennedy Youth Center, 93, 120(n16) Koehorst, Paul, 66 Korthals Altes, Frits, 148 Labor, inmate, 54–55, 88, 202, 225(n16). See also Industries programs; Inmate programs Laissez-faire management, 69–70 Lamer, J. D., 59, 62 Lamers, Ernest, 163(n11); balancing incapacitation and reform in prison policy, 170–171; inculcation through training, 142; modernization and management style, 127–128; policy readjustment, 131; transfer of BOP philosophy to Dutch prisons, 188; visit to BOP, 91 Lateral entry, 174 Leadership, institutional, 191(n6); and autonomy in BOP, 108–111; centralization of prison authority, 82–84; central versus field, 176; characteristics of leaders, 183–187; and cohesion in BOP, 173–175; conditions for, 187–189; consequences of control, 32–34; defining system quality, 193;

Dutch system versus BOP, 15; field emancipation, 151–153; fragmentation and, 161–162; and institutional design, 22–25; institutional integrity, 34–43; institutional leadership practices and cohesion, 175; need for central mission, 177–178; optimistic perspective of institution building, 8–9; policymakers’ establishment of central mission, 179–180; principles of, 43–46; public administration and, 169–170, 189–190; recruiting exceptional leaders, 180–181; rigidity argument for administrative performance, 205–207; Selznick’s definition of, 24; theory of institution building, 16. See also Wardens, BOP; Wardens, Dutch Leadership and Administration (Selznick), 22 Leadership Forum, 103 Lewisburg (Pennsylvania), 57, 59, 61–62, 85 Liberal philosophies, of prison management, 65–66 Lompoc (California), 96, 101 Los Angeles Police Department: criticism of, 11; as effective institutional design, 9; institutional resilience, 207; public image, 40 Mainline, standing, 58–59 Management, public, 10 Management by Walking Around (MBWA), 56, 58–59, 173 Management styles: Bennett’s management philosophy, 89–91; Carlson’s management style, 96; consultative management, 89–91, 94, 99–100; crisis management, 42–43; disciplinary action, 73; Dutch prison system, 70–74; hands-on management, 73, 89–91, 95; hands-on versus consultative management, 89–91; laissez-faire

Index

management, 70; Lamers’s management style, 127–128; liberal philosophies of, 65–66; Management by Walking Around, 56, 58–59, 173; public, 10; strategic management style, 96–100; unit management, 59–60, 123(n62), 173 Managerialism, 182 Manual of Policies and Procedures (BOP), 88 Marijuana, 67, 70 Marion (Illinois), 114, 198 McCollum, Bill, 200, 225(n16) McNeil Island (Washington), 83 Medical Model of corrections, 91–92 Mentally impaired inmates, 89, 149 Mission, BOP, 53, 78(n4); adaptation under Alexander, 91–95; central mission, 173–174; four correctional aims, 53–54; mission in practice, 57–60; stability of, 110–111 Mission, Dutch prisons: abandoning the search for, 137–139; Dutch prewar philosophy, 163(n3); early Dutch system, 128–129; humanizing and normalizing strategy, 131–133; lack of vision, 139–140; obstacles to development of Dutch mission, 129–131; Tulkens’s reform-oriented policy, 133–135 Mission, institutional, 46(n8); bureaucratic structure and, 30; defined, 5; defining institutional identity, 25–28; of Dutch and U.S. prison systems, 49; FBI, 211; Israel Defense Forces, 183–184; need for central mission, 177–178; policymakers’ establishment of central mission, 179–180 Modernization, of U.S. federal prisons, 82–86 Moral ambiguity, 210–213 Moral capture, 11 Morality, protecting, 219–221

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Morris, Norval, 93 Movie industry, 48(n18), 223(n1) Narcotic Addict Rehabilitation Act, 113, 120(n16) NASA, 206 National Health Service (Britain), 2–3 National Institute of Corrections (NIC), 111–112 National Policy Review Office, 98 Nazis, 2, 217, 227(n54) Neoinstitutionalists, 24 New York Port Authority, 207 Nieuw Vosseveld (Netherlands), 68–69, 72, 80(n31), 201 Nordholt, Eric, 217–218 Norgerhaven (Netherlands), 72–73 Open institutions concept, 89, 120(n11) Operating costs, of BOP, 199–200 Optimistic perspective, of institution building, 8–9, 12–13 Organizational character, 25–26 Organizations: defined, 4–5, 18(n4); institutional characteristics of, 22–25; versus institution building, 13–15, 222–223; mission and values, 25–28; moral capture of, 216–217; social structure of, 29; techno-rational instruments of design, 29–30 Organized crime, 217–218 Over-Amstel (Netherlands), 68, 72, 166(n69) Overcrowding: BOP prisons, 197–198; double bunking, 148–149, 198; Dutch system, 137–138 Performance, administrative, 204–210 Performance, correctional: assessment criteria, 195–196; BOP performance, 195–200; doing wrong things right, 192–195; Dutch prison system, 200–203; Dutch system versus BOP, 203–204; evaluative standards, 197(table)

262

Index

PERT system, 40 Pessimistic perspective, of institution building, 6–12 Philosophy, correctional: BOP, 53–54, 173; as cohesive dimension, 50–51; Dutch reform policy, 135–136; Dutch system, 64–68; lack of, in Dutch system, 170–171 Polaris missile, 27, 32, 39 Policy cycle, 94 Policy ideas, 49; Dutch correctional philosophies, 64–68; Dutch postwar period, 134–135; Dutch wardens’ lack of confidence in, 63–64; early BOP policy formation, 85–86; pessimistic perspective, 6–8; Taak en Toekomst, 134, 139–141, 144, 148, 172; U.S. Forest Service, 8–9; Werkzame Detentie, 156–161, 171 Popper, Karl, 2–3 POSDCORB handbook, 29, 47(n14) Power: abuse of, 13; consequences of control, 32–34. See also Authority; Autonomy Practices, 50; as cohesive dimension, 50–51; Dutch prison system, 68–74 Pre-Release Guidance Centers, 89 Preservation, 35–37, 185 Pride: of BOP staff, 60–63; Dutch employees’ pride in Nieuw Vosseveld prison, 69 Prison Act (Netherlands), 126–127; authority of Justice Department, 75; certainties in uncertainty, 129; wardens’ authority, 151; warden’s responsibilities, 145 Prisoners’ Mail Box, 85 Program Review Division, 98 Promotions and transfers, 143; BOP policy, 104, 174; Dutch guards, 144 Public administration, 169–170, 189–190 Public image: Dutch prisons, 149–150; publicity principle, 39;

of various penal systems, 195–196 Publicity principle, 39 Public performance, 210–218 Public Prosecution Office (OM), 1 Punishment: Dutch system, 126–127; incarceration and prison circumstances, 78(n7) Quinlan, Mike, 61; BOP family culture, 62, 107–108; staff training, 103; strategic management style, 96–97 Rational choice, 9 Recalcitrance, 176; assessing public performance, 210–213; Dutch field recalcitrance, 154–156; legitimate, 218; moral capture, 11 Recidivism, 224(n6) Reforms: Dutch system, 126–128; institutional safeguards against, 218; reform-oriented regimes, 78(n2), 133–135, 150 Regime activities programs, 135 Rehabilitation: Bennett’s rehabilitation philosophy, 87–89; limits of, 128; Medical Model of corrections, 91–92; recidivism rate, 224(n6). See also Inmate programs Reliability, 40–42, 209 Religious organizations, 46(n4) Research and Evaluation Office, 99 Research methodology, 15–18 Resilience, institutional, 207–208 Responsibility, personal, 220 Responsiveness, 35–37, 221–222 Rigidity, organizational, 10, 205–207 Riots, 113; BOP prisons, 197; Dutch prisons, 132; Dutch prisons compared to other systems, 201; Esserheem prison, 72–73; Groningen riots, 165(n34); impact on BOP pride, 62; staff response to BOP riots, 103–104 Role of institution, 25–28 Round-robin letters, 89

Index

Safeguards, for institution building, 218–223 Sanitation practices, 57, 78(n11), 95 Schumer, Charles, 200 Security and safety: as BOP mission, 53–54, 93–94; in BOP prisons, 197–199; in Dutch prisons, 69, 200–201; inmates’ well-being, 147 Selznick, Philip: characteristics of leaders, 185; classic institutional approach, 15–16; on institutional integrity, 35–37; moral capture of organizations, 217; organizations as institutions, 22; public administration, 169–170; on reliability, 41; TVA failure, 205 Sexual relations, 226(n27) Sober regimes, 201–202, 226(n33) Social Security Administration (SSA), 36–37 Social structure, of organization, 29 SPO. See U.S. Navy Special Projects Office Staats, Elmer, 1 Stability, 10, 12, 19(n7), 42 State prison system, U.S., 15; budget constraints, 189; fragmentation of, 183; safety and security of federal versus state prisons, 197–199 Strategic management style, 96–100 Strict correctional philosophies, 66–67 Structural incidentalism, 76–77 Stutsman, Jesse, 101 Substance abuse, 55 Suicide rate: BOP prisons, 198–199; Dutch prisons, 202 Supplemental Security Income (SSI) Program, 36–37 Taak en Toekomst, 134, 139–141, 144, 148, 172 Technical philosophy, 26–27 Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA), 185, 205–206 Texas prison system, 193–194 Theory, of institution building, 16,

263

21–46. See also Selznick, Philip Three Prisons Act, 119(n2) Top-down process, of administration, 27–28, 130–131, 153–154 Transparency, 221–222 Tulkens, Hans: correctional philosophy, 171; on De Corridor, 164(n24); diversity of management styles, 72; grievance procedures, 164(n28), 166(n65); guard training, 143–144; inculcation of wardens, 171; inmate policy, 164(n27); political and societal awareness of prison system, 146; reform-oriented policy, 133–137; resignation of, 148; wardens’ autonomy, 152 Tulp, Sybren, 2, 217 UNICOR, 54, 88, 109, 198 Uniformity, 19(n7), 156–157 Unit management, 59–60, 123(n62), 173 Unity, administrative, 21–22 U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF), 216 U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP): abuse of inmates, 224(n8); administrative principles, 55–57; autonomy of leadership, 108–111; Bureau as family, 62–63, 100–101, 106–108; Bureau’s way of doing things, 53, 86–87; as career agency, 104–106; characterization of, 14–15, 49; cohesive structure of, 77–78; connections to other institutions, 111–114; correctional performance, 195–200, 203–204; development of exceptional leaders, 180–181; field leadership, 3, 114–117; founding and integration of, 82–86; hands-on versus consultative management, 89–91; institutional resilience, 208; leadership and integration in, 173–175; level of institutionalization, 81–82,

264

Index

181–183; mission of, 57–60, 78(n4), 178; philosophy of, 53–54; pride and commitment of employees, 60–63; public performance as institution, 213–214; research methodology, 17; safety and security of federal versus state prisons, 197–199; standard regime, 54–55; strategic management style, 96–100; uniformity in principle and practice, 52–53 U.S. Forest Service: as effective institutional design, 8–9; forces of fragmentation, 21–22; inculcation, 30–32; source of effective leadership, 191(n8); technorational instruments of organizational design, 29–30 U.S. Marine Corps, 48(n19); criticism of, 11; as effective institutional design, 9; frugality, 47(n17); institutional recalcitrance, 210–211; institutional resilience, 207; institutional vulnerability, 48(n20); mission adaptation, 37; publicity principle, 39 U.S. Navy Special Projects Office (SPO), 27, 39, 47(n17) Values: consequences of strong institutions, 215–216; inculcation of BOP values, 101–102; integration into the organization, 25–28; as leadership principle, 44; moral ambiguity and, 211–212; moral capture, 11; value of institution by members, 5 van der Goorbergh, Ben, 140, 165(n46) van Traa Commission, 1 Vanyur, John, 58–59, 61 VDPI (Dutch association of prison wardens), 79(n18); diversity of prison management styles, 71; field opposition to Werkzame

Detentie, 159–161; tensions between wardens and policymakers, 63–64 Veenhuizen (Netherlands), 72 Violence, 92; abuse of inmates, 95–96; in Dutch prisons, 200–201; against Elmira inmates, 194; Texas prisons, 194 Vught (Netherlands). See Nieuw Vosseveld Wardens, BOP: administrative principles, 56–57; Bureau cohesion, 53; centralization of prison authority, 82–84; differences among, 57–58; handson versus consultative management, 89–91; inmate contact, 95; Prisoners’ Mail Box, 85; recruiting and grooming of, 116–117; role and characteristics of, 115–116 Wardens, Dutch: complaints about lack of mission, 139; different management styles, 73–74; field emancipation, 151; field opposition to Werkzame Detentie, 157–161; field recalcitrance, 154–156; inculcation, 145–147; Justice Department and, 126; lack of power, 127; liberal management philosophies, 65–66; limited inculcation of, 171; longevity, 166(n64); need for capable wardens, 178–179; prison management philosophies, 64–65; rejection of reform policy plan, 150; scorn for Justice Department authority, 74–77; wardens’ lack of confidence in policymakers, 63–64. See also VDPI Wartime, 2–3 Werkzame Detentie (effective detention), 150, 156–161, 171 Wise, Phil, 61 Youthful offenders, 8

About the Book

Through case studies of two prison systems—the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons and the Dutch prison system—Arjen Boin identifies the challenges and opportunities that confront public managers who want to reorient correctional policy and make prisons more effective. Crafting Public Institutions contrasts the two prison systems to show how focused leadership—or its absence—can make a major difference in the character and performance of public organizations. The ability of leaders to shape an organization’s mission and motivate public servants in accordance with policy goals, Boin concludes, lies at the heart of making institutions work. Arjen Boin is associate professor of public administration at Leiden University.

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