
Second chance school: LCSC's prison education program helps inmates in Orofino
Feb. 16—OROFINO — Lance Barnes is almost halfway through a 10-year prison sentence at the Idaho Correctional Institution in Orofino. He's also in his third semester as a student at Lewis-Clark State College.
"I certainly didn't think I would be coming to prison to educate myself," Barnes said.
Barnes, who's now 42 and a student with a 4.0 GPA, is one of roughly 150 student inmates at facilities in Orofino, Pocatello and Boise receiving a college education through LCSC.
The program started as a pilot with the United States Department of Education about three years ago, said Cynthia Pemberton, the president of LCSC. In the U.S., prisoners were allowed to receive federal Pell Grants for their education, until it was banned in 1994. The Second Chance Pell Grant reintroduced the possibility in 2015.
The college first applied as an experimental Pell Grant site for prison education in 2022, and became the first in the state to be approved by the Department of Education in October.
Getting approved was no small feat, Pemberton said. Prison education programs need to be set up entirely separate from the rest of the institution's programming.
Everything — from how information technology was delivered, to courses both in-person and online, to applications for admissions, to the ability to apply for financial aid — had to be in place just to be able to apply as a prison education program, she said.
"We made history for this institution," Pemberton said.
Students in the program say the classes are helping them gain confidence, and prove to themselves and their families that they can rise to a challenge.
Barnes is taking three classes this spring: math, English and business marketing.
"A lot of us have been talking to our families for a long time about change, but not really showing them," Barnes said. "So, this is proof."
Multiple meta-analyses have shown that inmates who participated in correctional education programs had lower odds of reoffending than those who did not.
"There's a lot of people who have been here five times, and I'm convinced aren't going to come back again because of this experience," said 28-year-old Dakota Turner.
Turner, another student, is eight years into his 13-year sentence. He's taking classes in accounting, business leadership, English and business marketing.
Turner said he made some bad decisions when he was younger. This time around, he wants to make the most of the chance he's given.
"Second chances are hard to come by. I feel like this was my second chance at an education," he said. "I know how much it hurt me going through high school and forfeiting that opportunity. So, I really wanted to make the most of it now."
Students say classes also provide structure, and give them something positive to talk about when they call their families back home.
"We have very limited visits," Turner said. "So, they don't really see the change in person. Being able to hear that over the phone, it gives them hope for the future."
Both Turner and Barnes said one of their biggest goals is to be able to return with the skills to contribute to their families and communities.
Daily headlines, straight to your inboxRead it online first and stay up-to-date, delivered daily at 7 AM
Barnes will be coming home to a daughter and stepchildren, he said.
Turner said he hopes to reconnect to his family. He wants to be a mentor to people who've gone through similar experiences as him, he said.
"I want to be a part of my family again, and I want to have kids," Turner said. "I want to be able to show them the way in this life, having lived on both sides of the fence."
LCSC's prison education program graduated three students in Orofino last year. An additional five students in Orofino, and two in Boise, are expected to graduate this spring.
Two more students who were released from prison are now taking in-person classes on campus, said Dovie Willey, the college's adult and corrections education director.
"They were very successful in that transition process. They have jobs, and they're back completing their education," she said.
For students who complete their degrees before finishing their sentences, graduation ceremonies are held with faculty administration at the correctional facilities.
Those ceremonies are done the same way they would be for any other students, Pemberton said, with full regalia, speeches and music. Families are invited to come watch and celebrate students' accomplishments.
"I still remember the conversations with the families," said Andy Hanson, senior vice president at LCSC. "There was kind of a new hope. They were so proud."
Barnes said he and his older brother took a similar path, and are both incarcerated. He said prison education has helped him find new ways to deal with challenges.
"I didn't really know how to ask for help. And I didn't trust people," Barnes said. "To be at a place where I feel like there's people that I can trust, and my opinions are valued, my thoughts are valued — gaining that sense of community has made me think about others more than just thinking about myself."
Kent Shriver, deputy warden of operations, said within the facility, educational opportunities improve behavior among inmates — even those who aren't leaving anytime soon.
He's noticed incarcerated people at his facility are able to find community and connection in their classes and study groups. They're happier, and more hopeful, he said.
"If I'm having a bad day, I just come to the school because everybody's excited," he said. "Everybody loves what they're doing. They're all, 'Hey, how you doing?' They want to shake your hand."
The program also has the potential to keep going as long as there's enough instructors, Pemberton said. The program's principal funding comes from federal financial aid, alongside some charitable donations.
"We built a business model that would demonstrate how many students we needed, what that revenue generation would be, and what the cost associated with delivering the program would be," Pemberton said. "(We) had to make sure the program could pay for itself. And it does."
Students in the program are required to meet the same requirements and take the same placement tests as regular students, Pemberton said.
While some instructors were initially uncertain about teaching prison education classes, Wiley said many now relish the opportunity.
"Everybody's a little nervous about going into a facility because they think of what they've seen on TV," she said. "Once they've started their classes, they are just so impressed."
Sun may be contacted at rsun@lmtribune.com or on Twitter at @Rachel_M_Sun. This report is made in partnership with Northwest Public Broadcasting, the Lewiston Tribune and the Moscow-Pullman Daily News.
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
24 minutes ago
- Yahoo
Politicians don't want to admit the truth about the Northern Ireland riots
The scenes of violence that have gripped Northern Ireland this week have evoked unwelcome memories of the province's turbulent recent history. But the working-class communities there have found a very different 'grievance' from the one that wreaked devastation on their towns and cities during the Troubles. In the past, the 'enemy' was defined by Northern Ireland's complex divisions over civil rights, religion and the prospect of a united Ireland. In the last few nights, the target has been the local immigrant population. Police have come under attack from violent mobs throwing firebombs, bottles and rocks after demonstrations against Roma residents escalated. Cultural tensions were already high, with locals voicing their objections to the influx of Roma into their communities, even before it was reported that a teenage girl from Ballymena had allegedly suffered a sexual assault at the hands of two teenage Roma boys. The list of complaints is a familiar one: they claim few of the new arrivals speak English and require the support of translators in order to be able to access local services. There are concerns that the Roma people are more likely to be on benefits compared to other ethnic groups. Local women have complained about harassment from groups of Roma men (and women) as they walk to and from their homes. And to complicate matters, no one seems quite sure whether the new arrivals have crossed the border from the Republic of Ireland or are in the UK legally, having arrived in the UK before EU Freedom of Movement was scrapped on December 31, 2020. Similar tensions over the Roma emerged in areas of Britain during the UK's EU membership, when local, usually poorer, areas of some large cities attracted large numbers of those originating in parts of eastern Europe where the Roma have historically suffered persecution and discrimination. In Glasgow, the Govanhill area in the city's south side gained a reputation as the centre of a new Roma community without much civil upset. But unlike Glasgow, Northern Ireland has a recent history of civil unrest, not to mention a folk memory of burning resentment against the establishment, that has proved all too easily exploited by racist elements. Roma families, many with young children, have been forced to flee the mobs who have targeted, and on some occasions, destroyed their homes. Uncomplimentary comparisons have already been made with last year's summer riots that followed the murder of three young girls at a local dance class in Southport. It is tempting now, as it was then, to conclude that this is nothing more than attempts by the 'far-Right' to foment civil disturbance for their own ends. It is more complicated than that. Do local communities have any right to object to the imposition of alien, or at least unfamiliar, cultures upon them? Is it always irrational and xenophobic to resent someone because of their apparent refusal to learn the language of the country in which they have chosen to live? Is it similarly unreasonable to object to the amount of local authority resources devoted towards easing that problem? And while it is both dangerous and unjust to make blanket assumptions about any nationality's attitudes to women and sex, it is undeniable that certain cultures have, by western standards, an outdated view of women's roles in society. Until relatively recently, it was decreed by our political masters that we should never cast aspersions on such attitudes and cultures, but such restrictions are no longer taken seriously, not after the grooming gangs scandal, or Kemi Badenoch's warning that not all cultures are equally valid. An entire community cannot and should not be held accountable for the alleged sexual assault on a teenage girl. But to dismiss local anger as racism, to order people to accept whatever changes are imposed on their communities by their political betters without demur, is simply storing up greater trouble for the future. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.


Elle
2 hours ago
- Elle
The Case of the Poisoned Cheesecake
When a starry-eyed Olga Tsvyk immigrated to the United States from Ukraine in January 2014, she was 33 years old and ready for something different. She had a university degree, a job in Kyiv at a travel agency, and a tight-knit family she was reluctant to leave behind, but she wanted to try living in America. However, the reality of Tsvyk's life in the U.S. didn't exactly live up to her fantasy. She got a job as a babysitter in a bland town in upstate New York. The exurban milieu left her wanting, and she hated the cold, despite (or perhaps because of) growing up in Ukraine. Soon, a Russian-speaking friend she met on Facebook named Marina encouraged her to move to New York City. There was a lot more action, she said, a touch of glamour, and also a large community of Russian speakers, which was appealing to Tsvyk, who was struggling to master English. Before long, Tsvyk had rented a room in Marina's uncle's house in Forest Hills, Queens. She got a job doing eyelash extensions, a skill she had picked up back home. According to prosecutors, in March 2016, a 40-something recent Russian immigrant named Viktoria Nasyrova walked into her salon. Nasyrova told Tsvyk that she was a masseuse and that she lived with her boyfriend in Brooklyn. She was open and friendly, and they talked easily and amiably when she came in for appointments every few weeks. They shared cultural references, enjoyed tastes of home, like beef rib dumplings and sour cherry jam, and had both endured the same journey to the U.S.—wrestling with legal issues and piles of paperwork. They also looked remarkably like each other: Both women had long brown hair, full lips, manicured eyebrows, and a polished appearance, like an Instagram filter come to life. Nasyrova was curious about Tsvyk's immigration status, telling her that her own green card would be arriving any day. By the summer of 2016, Tsvyk had her own good news: She was about to receive her formal work authorization. Nasyrova was thrilled for her—for both of them—that they'd earned the right to stay and make a life in their new home. Courtesy of Olga Tsvyk Olga Tsvyk But, as prosecutors would later argue, Nasyrova wasn't who she said she was. Not only would she not be receiving a green card, she had been on the run in Russia for at least a year, and her U.S. visa was set to expire. By the summer of 2016, she was running out of road. She had one last scheme—and it involved an unsuspecting Tsvyk, the woman who so closely resembled her. According to prosecutors, Nasyrova decided to kill her doppelgänger and steal her life—or at least her immigration status. Her weapon of choice: a slice of cheesecake. On August 27, 2016, Tsvyk's landlord, Alik, called her to say that he had found a friend of hers sitting in the front yard of their building. (This reporting is based on a number of interviews conducted on the record and on background, as well as court reports and other filings.) The friend told him that her phone battery was dead. When Alik handed over his phone, Tsvyk recognized the voice immediately. It was Nasyrova. She told Tsvyk she had an eyelash emergency. Tsvyk rolled her eyes. She didn't do work out of her apartment, and Nasyrova had been at the salon just three days before. Plus, Tsvyk found Nasyrova increasingly pushy; she would drop by the salon to nag her to go partying with her and her boyfriend, almost like she wanted something from her. But Nasyrova pleaded with Tsvyk. She was heading to Mexico—how could she go on vacation with noticeable gaps in her lashes? Tsvyk remembers having a bad feeling in her gut, but wanting to help Nasyrova. She told her she could see her the next day. 'The last slice, Nasyrova insisted—pushing the package toward Tsvyk—was for her. She absolutely had to try it.' Nasyrova was more than two hours late, but when she arrived, she seemed eager to make amends, bringing cheesecake from what she described as a famous Brooklyn bakery. There were three pieces in a square plastic box meant to hold four. Nasyrova explained that the cheesecake was so good, she had eaten a slice on her way over. She asked Tsvyk to make her tea, and while she was preparing it, she ate two more pieces. The last slice, Nasyrova insisted—pushing the package toward Tsvyk—was for her. She absolutely had to try it. Within minutes of tasting the cheesecake, Tsvyk knew something was terribly wrong. She stumbled toward her bedroom and vomited. Nasyrova seemed unfazed, telling Tsvyk that she would clean it up as she went to fetch paper towels. It was the last thing Tsvyk remembers before she blacked out. The following afternoon, Alik found Tsvyk passed out on her bed dressed in racy lingerie. Alik's daughter Svetlana called the police and Marina, who rushed over to find the paramedics taking her friend's vitals. Her normally olive-toned skin was so pale that Marina thought she was dead. When she knelt by her bedside, she couldn't get Tsvyk to open her eyes. There were sounds coming out of her mouth, but no words. After she was loaded into an ambulance and taken to a hospital, Marina was praying for her friend when Nasyrova called. An unsuspecting Marina filled her in on the unfolding disaster. 'Oh my God,' Nasyrova said, sounding shocked. 'I cannot believe it!' When Tsvyk regained consciousness in the hospital, she told Marina about Nasyrova and the cheesecake. She didn't understand why she was found wearing lingerie; she had been wearing sweatpants when Nasyrova arrived. Had Nasyrova changed her clothes? Marina tried to call her, only to find she'd been blocked or Nasyrova's number was disconnected. When Tsvyk's sister, Iryna, heard about what happened, she hopped on a flight from Ukraine. She arrived on September 1, and found Tsvyk so lethargic—'like a vegetable,' Iryna testified—that she could barely move. Tsvyk needed assistance to get to the bathroom and to eat. She couldn't sleep. Courtesy of CBS News Police recovered this plastic container that had held the cheesecake at Tsvyk's apartment. While nursing her sister back to health, Iryna discovered a scatter of small white pills around her bed. She couldn't find Tsvyk's Ukrainian passport, U.S. paperwork, or her purse. As she searched, she realized Tsvyk was also missing a red bag, some clothes, a gold ring, and perfume, plus $3,000 in cash. She opened Tsvyk's wallet: There was just $17 left. It was an enormous loss for Tsvyk, who already felt like she had to hold her breath every month until she made the rent. She had barely recovered, and now she had to get out of bed and drag herself back to work. She was shaky and afraid; she didn't understand why Nasyrova had targeted her. Tsvyk knew something sinister had happened, and she reported what she could remember to the police. They recovered the plastic container that had held the cheesecake. When the tests came back from the lab, it was found to have traces of a sedative called phenazepam. While illegal in the U.S., phenazepam is prevalent and available with a prescription in Russia—and in high doses it can cause nausea, memory loss, loss of consciousness, and even death. Two days after she returned home from the hospital, Tsvyk's phone buzzed. It was Nasyrova, just calling to see what was up, like it was no big deal. 'Olga, I haven't been able to reach you, what happened?' Nasyrova said. Tsvyk figured she was testing her, pretending to care about her while trying to find out what she knew. Tsvyk was furious and bluntly accused Nasyrova of poisoning her and stealing from her, and trying to make it look like a suicide by dressing her up in fancy lingerie and scattering the pills by her bed as if she was some jilted lover. 'Fine,' said Nasyrova, suddenly turning cold. 'Then go to the police.' Tsvyk had already gone to the police, of course. She kept waiting nervously every day for Nasyrova to be arrested. About six months passed before the case took a turn, when a New York City private investigator named Herman Weisberg got a call from a client. She was a wealthy older woman, who often asked Weisberg to do jobs for other women she knew. Maybe the women were having trouble finalizing a divorce or getting shared custody—his client would pay the bill, like a fairy godmother. 'We called her 'the mitzvah lady,' ' Weisberg says. This time, the mitzvah lady introduced Weisberg to Nadezda Ford, a Russian woman who lived in Brooklyn. Ford said she was looking for a dangerous woman who had lived next door to her mother back in Russia. 'It was easy for her to steal. It was easy for her to kill.' A tearful Ford explained that her mother, Alla Alekseenko, had first disappeared and had later been found dead, her body charred beyond recognition. Her apartment had been stripped of cash and valuables, including gold, handbags, perfume, her passport, and even her toothbrush, according to Ford. Weisberg soon discovered that Russian authorities had identified Nasyrova as a person of interest in the Alekseenko investigation, but she had left Russia sometime in 2014 or 2015. Interpol even put out a 'Red Notice,' a worldwide alert, seeking her apprehension, in the summer of 2015. Nasyrova had a motive to assume Tsvyk's identity, prosecutors later argued, because her visa status was set to expire and she needed a plan to avoid capture by Russian authorities. Weisberg got to work, first scanning Nasyrova's social media. She might have been laying low in Brooklyn, but on Facebook, she was selling a life of luxury, wearing fur coats and swanning around casinos in Atlantic City. She was also highly active on Russian dating sites. Weisberg found an address where she appeared to be living in Sheepshead Bay, and put her under surveillance, getting his team to stake out her house at night and in the early morning. He called Homeland Security and Interpol, without much success, so Weisberg tapped some contacts at his local police precinct. They met early one March 2017 morning in front of Nasyrova's home. When the officers knocked on her door, Nasyrova appeared. 'It was very early in the morning, and she didn't look as confused or irate as I would be if somebody dragged me out at 6:30 in the morning and put me in handcuffs,' Weisberg says. In fact, to Weisberg, she seemed defiant, even cocky, walking to the squad car in jeans and a green parka with a strut in her step, like she was making her way down a catwalk. When Tsvyk later identified her in a police lineup, she remembers that Nasyrova was smiling. Gregory P. Mango / Polaris Nasyrova under arrest in Brooklyn on March 19, 2017. During the jury trial, prosecutors argued to the jury that Nasyrova had a pattern of predation and brought up another allegation of how Nasyrova cultivated closeness with an unsuspecting victim and then attacked, mostly for financial gain. In June 2016, prosecutors said, a New York dry cleaner named Ruben had met a woman named Anna on a Russian dating site. She was nice, he said, and extremely attentive. She invited him over to her apartment, telling him that she wanted to make him dinner. Ruben brought Anna flowers, wine, and chocolates; she prepared fish and salad for them to eat. Ruben had only a few bites before he passed out. He awoke three days later, with no memory of what happened to him, in NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital in Queens—the same hospital Tsvyk would be admitted to three months later. He was missing his watch, and he soon discovered fraudulent credit card activity. Ruben would later testify that 'Anna' was in fact Nasyrova. On April 19, 2023, on the eve of National Look-Alike Day, the jury handed down a verdict. Queens District Attorney Melinda Katz called Nasyrova a ruthless and calculating con artist who tried to 'murder her way to personal profit and gain.' In a victim impact statement read aloud to the court, a trembling Tsvyk recounted her ongoing fear that Nasyrova 'would come back and finish what she started.' 'It was [an] easy thing [for her] to gain the trust of another person, and then take everything from that person,' Tsvyk said. 'It was easy for her to steal. It was easy for her to kill.' Tamara Beckwith/NY Post/MEGA Viktoria Nasyrova photographed at New York City's Rikers Island Correctional Facility in April 2017 while she was awaiting trial. Nasyrova was convicted of attempted murder, attempted assault, assault, unlawful imprisonment, and petit larceny. She was sentenced to 21 years, followed by five years of post-release supervision. After her sentence was read, Nasyrova showed her displeasure by yelling 'Fuck you' at the judge. When Tsvyk and I meet almost two years later, on a perfect sunny day in December in West Palm Beach, Florida, she's wearing bright pink lipstick and an oat-colored cashmere T-shirt and sipping on a cappuccino in the shade of a palm tree. She was polite, if a bit wary, when I reached out to her. Since her ordeal, Tsvyk has created an entirely new life for herself, running her own day spa, Tsvyk and I chat for over an hour. She tells me it had taken her a long time to start feeling like herself again. In the years following Nasyrova's attack, Tsvyk navigated her way through the fog of being a victim, of testifying at a criminal trial, of having her face and personal details on TV—'the pictures of me in court were so bad,' she says. When Nasyrova was arrested in 2017, Tsvyk checked herself into a silent meditation retreat. She slept in an austere room and ate only vegetarian food; eye contact wasn't permitted. On day three, Tsvyk saw a woman who looked like Nasyrova, and it all came rushing back. But she pushed through, and by day five, she had regained her calm. 'The universe sent me that woman to get over what happened,' Tsvyk says. She has worked hard to control her thoughts and force Nasyrova out of her head. 'At first, I wanted her to die,' Tsvyk says, nonchalantly. 'Now I feel nothing bad for her at all.' Courtesy of Olga Tsvyk Olga Tsvyk That generosity might be made easier, at least in part, because of Nasyrova's spectacular decline. She's presently incarcerated at the Bedford Hills Correctional Center in Westchester County, New York, where she is reportedly making and selling 3D art to her fellow inmates—and refusing to take court-ordered anger management classes. She had also filed an appeal, arguing that the trial court should not have allowed prosecutors to mention Alekseenko's murder or Ruben's poisoning because she hadn't been charged or convicted of either of those crimes, and that they prejudiced her chances with the jury. The New York Appellate Division disagreed and denied Nasyrova's appeal last fall. She's also been subject to another, perhaps more cosmic form of justice. While awaiting trial, she was injured during her detention at New York City's notorious Rikers Island jail complex, and sued, winning almost $160,000. She entrusted that small fortune to a friend—giving her power of attorney, asking her to handle payments to her lawyer and make disbursements to her family back in Russia. But after paying some of Nasyrova's legal fees, the friend disappeared with around $55,000, according to documents related to the case. The Queens district attorney's office declined to comment on whether they intend to pursue prosecution. This story appears in the Summer 2025 issue of ELLE. More True Crime Sarah Treleaven is a writer and producer and the host of USG Audio's The Followers: Madness of Two podcast. She lives in Nova Scotia, Canada.
Yahoo
4 hours ago
- Yahoo
Laurence Fox could face trial in 2027 over upskirting photo of TV star
Laurence Fox could face trial in 2027 over allegations he shared a compromising photo of TV star Narinder Kaur on social media. The actor-turned-activist is alleged to have shared a compromising image in a tweet posted in April 2024 of Kaur, 52, who appears regularly on Good Morning Britain and has previously appeared on GB News. Ms Kaur, who has waived her right to anonymity, sat in the public gallery at Woolwich Crown Court on Thursday as Fox, of Peldon in Essex, appeared charged with two counts under the Sexual Offences Act 2003. The 47-year-old defendant is accused of sharing a photograph of a person's genitals 'intending that the person or another person would see the genitals, and for the purpose of obtaining sexual gratification, and being reckless as to whether that person would be caused alarm, distress or humiliation' in the first count. The second count alleges he shared a photograph which showed, or appeared to show, 'another person in an intimate state, with the intention of causing that person alarm, distress or humiliation'. The court hearing on Thursday was listed for plea and trial preparation but Fox, who was wearing a white shirt and grey blazer with jeans, was not asked to enter any pleas. A provisional trial with a time estimate of four days was set for December 6 2027 at the same court, with Fox granted bail to appear for a further case management hearing on November 14 this year. Sarah Forshaw KC, defending, asked the court if it would be possible to look at whether other venues may be able to accommodate an earlier trial as 'December 2027 is a long way ahead'. The police previously said Fox had been 'charged with an offence contrary to section 66A of the Sexual Offences Act 2003' which 'relates to an image that was posted on a social media platform in April 2024'. Section 66A of the Sexual Offences Act relates to 'cyber flashing'. The charge, introduced in 2023, makes it an offence to intentionally share a sexual image of someone without consent, with the aim of causing alarm, distress, humiliation or for sexual gratification. Upskirting, taking pictures of people under their clothes without their permission, became a specific criminal offence in 2019. Offenders can face up to two years in jail and be placed on the sex offenders' register. Fox was fired from GB News in October 2023 after an on-air rant about journalist Ava Evans. He previously starred as James Hathaway in ITV's drama series Lewis.