Aslight layer of dust covers the conference table, a beautiful curved oak piece with a black laminate top inset. Alisha Murphy uses her sleeve to gently brush off the dust that has settled from various sanding projects. The action conveys her pride in the piece she toiled on.

The table will be shipped to the Attorney General's Office in Boise in the next day or two. If Murphy detects any irony in crafting furniture for an agency that aids in the prosecution of crimes such as the one that landed her in the Pocatello Women's Correctional Center, she does not show it.

Murphy, 39, was convicted in 2001 of the first-degree murder of her husband, James. Murphy's appeal has been ongoing, but she does not dwell on her legal circumstances, save to say she can prove her innocence if given a chance.

She has worked in the prison's shop offand-on since 2003, learning the skills of fine woodworking.

She shows off a dark oak cabinet that she and another inmate recently completed.

"That took about 40 hours," she says.

Forty hours seems an insufficient amount of time to build something so solid and immaculate from fine wood.

The woodworking shop at the prison is part of the Idaho penal system's Correctional Industries program. Inmate labor is employed in numerous trades, including metal fabrication, printing, signage and furniture making. The women's prison confines its trade to woodworking.

The program's central tenet is to train inmates to meet their rehabilitation goals and to provide them with marketable skills in preparation for their release from prison.

It also serves as a means to earn money, help the days pass and perhaps gain a measure of self-worth.

It is one of the most-sought jobs in the facility, paying from 35 cents per hour to $1.75. The list is long for women who want to work here. Applicants are vetted by case managers, who look at the woman's behavior and medical problems, among other things, before signing off.

In the end, shop supervisor Mike Theiring gets the final say as to who can participate.

"It's not for everybody," he says. "It's noisy. It's dusty. But if they like it - and most of them do - they're compelled to show up and behave."

Theiring has been part of the program since its inception in 1993. He was primarily responsible for the shop's setup and equipment purchases.

Theiring worked for 16 years at In The Woods, a local business that handcrafts home and office furniture. He has not regretted his move to the prison.

"I enjoy the interaction with these women, seeing their appreciation for what we do," he says. "We're really here to make a difference in these ladies' lives."

Theiring employs a different work method than in the men's prison, in which wood workers turn out piece after piece in assembly line fashion. At the women's prison, the inmates learn the complete array of skills required to build a piece, including measuring, cutting, staining, gluing, sanding and finishing.

"It provides more satisfaction and a more rounded experience," Theiring says.

It also provides the women with a more marketable skill upon their release.

"Looking for a job as an ex-con's got to be tough," Theiring says.

But the program is not limited only to those who can see their freedom on the horizon. Murphy's sentence is life, although she believes she will some day be free.

"It's been very beneficial to me," Murphy says. "It's a privilege to work out here."

Murphy's pride in the shop is evident as she conducts a short tour. She points out the raw materials that the inmates fashion into the handsome furniture. She points out several finished products: an oak cabinet, a mahogany book case, a maple credenza. All of the pieces are immaculate and graceful.

"These don't just come in kits," she says. "It's taken me a few years to learn the skills."

The skills are passed down from inmate to inmate. Murphy now patiently teaches other women what she has learned.

"In the last six months, I've trained four women," she says.

Murphy points out the equipment, including sanders, table saws, routers, planers and other tools of the trade.

"Inmates are not allowed to train other inmates on tools," she says, noting that is the province of Theiring.

There is a camaraderie here, the women taking a collective pride in what they do. Murphy shows off the spray booth, where pieces are lacquered, sanded and coated again.

Despite her life sentence, Murphy is upbeat, even sunny. It's clear the work has provided her with an anchor in prison.

"The morale out here is pretty good," Murphy says. "It's all about the work."

Dauna Miller, 33, is doing finishing work on the oak bookcases that are bound for the North Bingham County District Library in Shelley. The bookcases are a special order. The two-sided shelves converge slightly at the top, presenting difficult angles for the carpenters to get right.

"It's been loads of fun," Miller says.

She describes in detail all the steps necessary to make the pieces join correctly.

After the big bookshelves were nearly done, the library decided they needed to be a foot taller.

The shop obliged by building a new shelf that will sit atop the big bookshelf.

Miller has worked in the shop for about one year. She is in the fourth year of a fiveyear fixed, 20-year indeterminate sentence for lewd and lascivious conduct with a minor.

A certified nursing assistant, Miller will not be able to return to the job upon her release because of her felony conviction. She says she would not return to the work even were it available upon her release. She has found a new vocation.

"I've found that I really enjoy woodworking," she says. "Prison gave that to me."

"It's not exactly the way I planned it," she adds.

Miller currently makes 85 cents per hour. The real payoff is how her labors make her feel.

"I love this. I can step back and say, I built this," she says. "Even if I never see the things I made again, I know somebody's getting good use out of them."

The work has instilled a greater selfesteem in Miller, something she says she sorely needed.

"One of my goals is to get more confident … and become a lead," she says.

A lead is involved in quality control, decisions about which inmates are involved in projects, and general review of the progress on work orders.

Miller notes that the final approval on a piece comes from Theiring. Like all jail personnel, he is addressed by a courtesy title. He is Mr. Theiring, never Mike. Despite the formal address, it is clear the women and Theiring have an easy rapport. If there is an issue, the women do not hesitate to ask Theiring's advice and they strive to make sure the work meets his standards.

"We're really sticklers about making sure everything passes inspection," Miller says.

Joyce Green, 44, has been working in the shop for about two years. She walks with a noticeable limp, due to a gamy hip and a fused ankle as a result of a car accident. Green was sentenced to prison in November 2004 after her latest driving under the influence conviction. She pleaded guilty, never dreaming the severity of the sentence she would receive.

"They filed the bitch on me," Green says.

The "bitch" is what inmates call Idaho's persistent violator statute. It allows prosecutors to tack on an additional penalty for a third felony conviction. The penalty can range from five years to life. Green's sentencing judge gave her a seven-year fixed, 33-year indeterminate sentence.

Prior to her imprisonment, Green was in the construction industry, doing concrete work. Ironically, she participated in building two prisons herself, one in Ontario and the men's correctional center in Idaho. Green likes the work and seems well suited to it, but will not pursue a career in it upon her release. She has pride in the final product, but the main benefit is the freedom, the pay - she makes 85 cents per hour - and the opportunity to get away from the main prison population. "This is more of a day care center," she says of the prison. She is disdainful of the attitudes of many of the inmates who choose not to work, or have poor work habits. She makes it clear she doesn't suffer slackers gladly. "It's like, 'I don't feel like coming to work. I won't work,'" she says, shaking her head. "If you're not afraid of work, why don't you work?" she says. "It's the only thing that makes time go by faster." Green says the work gives her peace of mind.

"It the closest thing we have to getting out in the real world," she said.

Green's attitude toward work also is reflected in her personal responsibility for her crimes. She makes no concessions for herself and has little empathy for others who won't face up to their crimes.

"I only know about four people here who admit what they did," she says.

She acknowledges her work prior to incarceration has resulted in a different ethic than many inmates have.

She laughs as she recounts a former guard who admired her skills.

"When do you get out?" the woman asked. "I need somebody to finish my basement."

The women have produced $250,000 worth of goods in a year, an amount that still impresses Theiring.

"We're not allowed to advertise," he says. "I'm often amazed at the volume and quality we produce from (previously) unskilled women."

There is a showroom in Boise, and some of the products are sold to retailers. In Pocatello, Laser Xpress, 360 Yellowstone Ave., also sells pieces made by inmates.

Mostly, the market comes from word-ofmouth from satisfied customers and from the promotions of Ralph Mortenson, the shop's sales representative.

Mortenson attends industry shows, armed with glossy fliers that show off the various products made by inmates throughout the state. A large portion of the products go to governmental agencies, institutions and schools.

Theiring explains that all orders go through Boise first, where they are processed. The order sheets are then sent to the prison, where construction begins.

Most of the orders are stock items, such as pedestal and wing desks, credenzas, hutches and vertical files in maple, oak and mahogany. Special orders are approved by Theiring.

Not only are the products not advertised conventionally, but the work force is subject to constant flux, with women having to attend required classes, transferring to other facilities, moving on to work crews outside the prison walls, or completing their sentences.

"We lost a couple of very talented inmate workers in the last few weeks," he says.

However, the loss of a worker can be a satisfying experience, as the woman who was released may embark on a career learned in Theiring's shop.

"I've had several who've stuck with the craft," he says. "The potential is great for success with the skills they learn out here."

Theiring has never had a woman come into the program who had any practical experience in furniture making, but the shop has turned out a number of highly skilled workers.

Some of his protégés have risen to lead positions in outside shops, some after only a few months on the job.

"It's kind of fun to hear stuff like that," he says. "This is creative; it's constructive. It's self-worthy."

Sitting at his desk before the work-order board that shows the various projects pending for the women, he recounts how one woman asked to look through the catalogs he keeps on his desk.

She pored through the catalogs, transfixed by the various woodworking implements.

"I always looked at makeup catalogs," the woman said. "I never thought I'd be looking at tool catalogs."

BY JOHN BULGER

jbulger@journalnet.com