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ALLENTOWN, Pa. (AP) — She calls her spot in the Lehigh County Jail the "big cement momma." That could also describe 78-year-old Joanne Heinrich herself — hard like a drill sergeant, yet comforting like a doting grandmother as she doles out stern warnings and hugs to the men in her charge. A recovering alcoholic with nearly 30 years of sobriety under her belt, she runs the prison's program for inmates with addiction issues. Prisoners who committed nonviolent crimes can serve their time at the "big cement momma," spending up to 14 hours a day working on sobriety plans. Heinrich demands respect and honesty from these drug addicts and alcoholics, and they say her place is one of the few where they feel safe. "I don't give up, even though to some of them I'm the enemy because I'm standing in the way of what they love," she said. Though crime and addiction have always gone hand in hand, Lehigh County's jail — like correctional facilities nationwide — is seeing an influx of inmates addicted to heroin and prescription painkillers. Of the 5,592 people who entered the jail in 2015, 22 percent needed medically supervised detoxification. Of those, 436 were addicted to heroin or other opiates — about 63 percent more than in the jail's 2010 population, the prison's 2015 report shows. In her 18 years as the jail's drug and alcohol treatment specialist, Heinrich has watched street drug trends come and go. Heroin and pills have been a problem for decades, but she thinks the public and media are just catching on now to the growing heroin epidemic because so many young people are dying from overdoses. Her 51-year-old daughter, Yvonne, was one of them, having overdosed on heroin in 2008. Her name is stenciled on the wall of the treatment pod, along with dozens of others. Some are former inmates who relapsed and died. Others are inmates' friends or family members. Heinrich said the list is a reminder that sobriety is fragile. "I wish it would scare them more," she said. 'I forgot who I am' A few weeks ago, several inmates dressed in dark blue uniforms pulled plastic chairs to the center of the pod, preparing for a session. Others perched on metal tables, forming a loose semicircle around an easel draped with white paper. One by one, they took turns in the center. Most read from prepared notes, others launched into off-the-cuff speeches about failing to stay clean. "I started lying to myself. I forgot who I am," James Boland, 36, told the group. Ryan Thomas, 30, talked about overdosing on heroin last year, a near-death experience that didn't stop him from sticking a needle into his veins again. "Every time I got out of jail, I would pick and choose which part of recovery I wanted," he said, lamenting the advice he ignored. As each inmate spoke, the others murmured or shouted words of encouragement. Heinrich was mostly silent, speaking up now and then to bring the discussion back on track or call out a member for not participating. "Respect, gentlemen. Respect," she growled, when chatter erupted. On the wall, posters tout inspirational messages: Trust. Love. Believe. After the group session, some of the men hunched over their journals, making notes. Some retreated to rooms they share with up to three cellmates. While other inmates in the jail, which houses an average of 1,050 prisoners daily, spend up to 18 hours a day locked in an 11-by-6-foot cell, those in the treatment pod mingle in a brightly lit common area decorated with artwork. They eat their meals in the pod and sleep in rooms with curtains instead of bars. After morning meditation, they listen to guest speakers and share stories of recovery. Cursing, poor hygiene and low pants are forbidden. Negative body language, such as rolling one's eyes while a speaker is talking, gets an inmate booted from the program. "It's different from any other jail I've been in," said Kevin Milton, a 41-year-old Allentown man awaiting sentencing on a parole violation for drug-related crimes. "It's like a family atmosphere." ___ "I don't give up, even though to some of them I'm the enemy because I'm standing in the way of what they love." — Joanne Heinrich ___ It's a small family. The unit, which is officially called the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation and Education program, has 72 beds, for men only. When a Morning Call reporter and photographer visited last month, 65 beds were full. Lehigh County sustains the treatment pod without grants or outside funds. Except for the salaries of two part-time employees, one of whom is Heinrich, no county money is spent on the program, said Edward Sweeney, corrections director. There is no tracking of those who went through the program, no measurements of its effectiveness. Prison officials believe that for those open to changing their lives, the program provides a key. At the other end of the Lehigh Valley, Northampton County last year eliminated a prison treatment program that served 500 inmates during its more than six years of existence, saying it was too expensive and not effective. County judges now operate a drug court, which has 18 participants enrolled. Male and female inmates at both jails have access to programs including Narcotics Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous, which are run by volunteer or religious organizations. Layne Turner, Lehigh County's drug and alcohol administrator, said the heroin problem in the jail mirrors what's going on outside. "The number of individuals seeking treatment is at an all-time high in Lehigh County," he said. More than 100 people in Lehigh and Northampton counties died from accidental overdoses of heroin or other opioids in 2014 and 2015, the counties reported. Nationwide, fatal opioid overdoses increased by 200 percent between 2000 and 2015. The epidemic has shattered communities and shaken families, many of whom sought answers in a series of forums held recently throughout the Lehigh Valley. According to the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University, an estimated 85 percent of the roughly 2.2 million men and women in U.S. prisons and jails are addicted to drugs or alcohol, yet just 11 percent receive substance abuse treatment behind bars. In Pennsylvania's state prison system, approximately 6,500 inmates with drug and alcohol problems spend part of their sentences in programs similar to Lehigh County's. The state Department of Corrections has 43 programs in the system's 27 prisons, including programs specifically for Hispanic inmates. There is no list of how many county jails in Pennsylvania offer programs like Lehigh County's. There is no licensed drug treatment in the jail, or the Community Corrections Center in west Bethlehem, where inmates who have been granted work release serve their sentences. Turner said there is a strong focus on preparing inmates for release from prison. Taking advantage of federal recommendations handed down in 2014, drug-addicted prisoners who do not have insurance get help applying for medical assistance before release so they have access to doctors and medication. Community Corrections Center Warden Laura Kuykendall said that's important, because people who have been incarcerated sometimes find the transition to freedom difficult. "In the past, you would send people out without their medication or without doctor's appointments set up, and pretty soon they would relapse," she said. It's also critical to their continuing treatment. Unlike state prisons, county jails hold people who are serving short sentences — 75 days on average in Lehigh County, according to Cynthia Egizio, assistant corrections director. For many addicts, that's not enough time to get clean. For several years, Lehigh County has had a program in which certain inmates are paroled to drug treatment clinics, Turner said. Intervention is important, he said, because the most likely time to relapse is in the first 30 days after getting out of jail. From July 31 to Dec. 31, of the 97 people diverted to treatment outside the prison walls, only two were sent back to jail for not complying with the rules of the program, Turner said. There is no mandate that requires county jails to offer addiction treatment. Sweeney said officials have long believed that rehabilitation programs such as Heinrich's treatment pod are an integral part of the justice system. "Warehousing is not an effective long-term solution to managing nonviolent offenders," he said. "We owe it to the community to make every effort to make these people better before we release them back into the community." A lifelong battle Ryan Thomas of Quakertown has been in and out of jails since 2009, mostly for stealing to support his heroin habit. Currently locked up in the Lehigh County Jail for violating parole on a 2014 Upper Saucon Township burglary sentence, Thomas swears that when he gets out this time, things will be different. "I didn't take my recovery seriously before," he said. He got hooked on pills at age 19, then switched to heroin, he said. He stole so much jewelry and electronics from family members that he was banned from their homes. "It got to the point where I wasn't invited over for holidays anymore," he said. Thomas credits Heinrich's coaching — her calls her "Miss Joanne" — with his recent change of attitude. "When I get out this time I'm going straight to a (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting," Thomas said. That's a key piece of advice Heinrich gives. On any given day, there are 27 Alcoholics Anonymous meetings going on in the Allentown area, she noted, as well as dozens of Narcotics Anonymous meetings and programs at clinics and hospitals. Heinrich tells addicts to keep company with others who are fighting addiction. Building a support network like the one in the "big cement momma" is important. "Stick with winners," she tells the men. "It takes commitment." ___ "We owe it to the community to make every effort to make these people better before we release them back into the community." — Edward Sweeney, Lehigh County corrections director ___ Heinrich said she's glad when she hears an inmate say he's ready to change, or when one asks about how she stays sober. She warns the men against getting cocky. Staying clean is a lifelong battle, she said, and there are no shortcuts. Scientists believe that addiction has a genetic component, as drug and alcohol problems tend to run in families. Heinrich said her parents were alcoholics. Her daughter, Yvonne, had moved to California when she became addicted to heroin. After she found out, Heinrich said she tried to get her help, but also waited for the phone to ring with bad news. "When I heard it was heroin, I knew I had lost my daughter. With heroin, it's a love affair. They will tell you that there's nothing else like it," she said. Heinrich sometimes touches on her own story when counseling inmates, but for the most part, the men run the show. "It's up to them," she said. "They hold each other accountable." ___ Online: http://bit.ly/1Xcwhli ___ Information from: The Morning Call, http://www.mcall.com

In 'big cement momma,' inmates find path to sobriety