When there is any kind of chase or police pursuit on television, Brown and his staff seem to know the offender. Any kind of gang-related shooting? Chances are Brown recognizes those involved. "A lot of times, I see familiar faces in the obituaries," he said.

Keeping watch

Andy Camp, on parole for aggravated robbery, was just in given a urinalysis. He tested negative, but by the time he's driving away, agent Felicia LaGarte has already looked for him in the parking lot, then reached him on the phone.

Make an appointment to get an ankle bracelet, she tells him. "And who were you here with? Who's car were you in?"

She listens.

"Who else?" she asks. "I thought I saw three people in the car."

Agents are asking, inquiring, checking all the time, because most parolees aren't supposed to hang out with other cons.

They also know all the tricks, as when offenders who recently have used drugs come in at 6:30 p.m., just before closing time, thinking the staff won't take time to do a urinalysis. Some bring their children, hoping that will persuade agents not to send them to jail if the test comes back dirty.

"It's not the size of the caseload but the work associated with it," said Brent Butcher, AP&P director.

For parole officers, the work with new clients begins on Tuesdays. That is release day at the Utah State Prison. Anywhere from 50 to 100 men and women who, according to the state Board of Pardons and Parole, have initially satisfied their debts to society, get another shot at freedom.

Their first stop outside the barbed wire prison fence is the nearest AP&P office. The first 60 to 90 days are critical in getting former inmates assimilated into society.

Lacking jobs and structure, old friends with bad habits and former stomping grounds become a temptation.

"It's kind of like Johnny going to the amusement park for the first time," Butcher said.

Back to 'the box'

On a recent Tuesday, the center on Fremont Street in Salt Lake City expected 14 offenders to meet their parole officers.

One is a 33-year-old man convicted of receiving stolen property and of meth possession. He sits across the counter from parole agent Worley. He doesn't want his name used, because he doesn't want his old friends to know he's out. He vowed not to associate with them anymore.

Worley walked the man through his parole agreement while patiently listening to his unsolicited life story. He qualified for the state's new substance-abuse treatment program funded by the Drug Offender Reform Act, or DORA.

"I think I'll be real good on it," he said. "I think I got a lot to look forward to."

Most inmates are optimistic on their first day out. But trouble is never far away.