First female warden at the 'Q' a 'consummate pro'

Woodford is the first woman to head California's oldest prison -- home to the nation's largest death row. She'll also be the first to tell you that's no big deal; 11 of California's 33 prisons are run by women, part of a two-decade trend across the country that has seen hundreds of women storm the male bastion of prison management.

"They got in there. They did the job. They got accepted and -- it's hard to say this -- there are many, many ways in which they are better," says Arthur Leonardo, a retired warden and executive director of North American Association of Wardens and Superintendents.

Two decades ago, the first wave of women officers hired at San Quentin found themselves working in a man's world -- in a man's uniform. No one had thought to order the regulation khaki pants and shirts for the new wave of women officers hired in the late '70s.

Woodford was hired in 1978, fresh out of college and looking to pick up a year's experience and then move on.

But something unexpected happened.

"I really fell in love with San Quentin, I have to admit that," Woodford says. "You just realized that there was something new that you could deal with every day."

As was the practice back then, Woodford was thrust into the hurly-burly of prison life after only a few weeks training. It was a difficult transition, but "I can't say that I was intimidated," she says now.

"You can walk into the prison and you can be in awe of it and it can be a shock to see some of these inmates, particularly back then, lots of Level 4 (maximum security) inmates and huge yards -- that can set you back for a moment. But then if you just watch and you look around, you see teachers inside the prison, you see nurses walking through the prison. You realize as you start to talk to inmates that they're people, and, while some of them are challenging people, it's really about communicating with individuals."

Woodford has been attacked once, a relatively minor punch on the arm.

"The advantage that we have walking in here is you know you're walking around 6,000 felons. You know that going in," she says. "You can be out in the community and not know who's around you. You're on your toes more in here, but that's a good thing."

One year turned into two, then 20, as Woodford worked her way up -- correctional officer, legal affairs coordinator, program administrator, chief deputy warden. In 1999, she was named acting warden; last year Gov. Gray Davis made the appointment permanent, a decision that is expected to be confirmed by the Legislature this spring.

Along the way, say staff, she picked up an encylopedic knowledge of what goes on inside San Quentin.

Prison spokesman Lt. Vernell Crittendon has seen Woodford talk in detail about the prison hobby shop, which prisoners are interested in it, what the waiting lists are like "and then she can turn around and start talking about infrastructure, plumbing, sewers."

Being warden of San Quentin means overseeing 6,000 male prisoners, 1,500 employees and an annual operating budget of $120 million.

It means 12,000 hot meals a day and phone calls late at night when someone's been hurt or the heating's acting up.

"I never thought I'd know as much as I know about physical plant issues," Woodford says.

"She answers the phone well at 3 a.m.," says Crittendon.

Woodford's staff-friendly reputation -- "You couldn't write about a finer person" the guard at the gate calls out -- has made it easier to recruit people to San Quentin, despite the stunningly high real estate prices in surrounding Marin County.

"There are a lot of people in our system who want to work for Warden Woodford," says Stephen Green, assistant secretary of the California Youth and Adult Correctional Agency.

Bob Martinez, spokesman for the Department of Corrections, calls Woodford "the consummate professional ... very much a hands-on warden, constantly looking for better ways to keep in touch with needs, concerns of the staff."

Woodford's policy on inmates: "Keep everybody, really, really busy."

Hanging on her wall is a framed photograph of the prison baseball team, decked out in donated uniforms from the San Francisco Giants.

She throws out the first pitch each year. "I'm getting farther and farther away from the plate," the 47-year-old mother of five says with a grin. "They make it look like I do OK."

Woodford's not without her detractors.

Death row inmates and their families were bitterly disappointed when she closed a communal visiting room after a fight broke out, saying it was unsafe.

She's also taken a strong line with issues surrounding executions, echoing previous wardens' contentions that outside spiritual advisers should leave before an execution and that witnesses should be allowed only a limited view of the execution to avoid revealing the identity of officers.

"I have to address issues by what I think is the right thing to do and I have to address the issues keeping in mind that I have a mission for public safety and the safety of my staff and the safety of inmates," Woodford says. "It would have been very easy to make other decisions, because I know some of my decisions weren't popular."

"Do I wish it could be different? Yes. It's just reality is what you deal with."

Woodford's not the first woman to head a death row, but "I would think that she's in a group that you can count on one hand," says Bruce Wolford, a professor in Eastern Kentucky University's department of corrections and juvenile justice studies who has researched the role of women in prison management.

Woodford has presided over two executions. "I don't give my opinion on the death penalty," she says quietly.

But she does give her opinion on death row: Something needs to be done.

Initially designed to hold 68 inmates, California's death row now covers three buildings that as of Feb. 1 held 580 men.

"It's not just providing another cell for them. It's being able to provide the other things that they're required to have by law, which is adequate exercise yards, adequate law library time, adequate visiting -- all of those other things that we just don't have room for here at San Quentin," Woodford says.

"I think people realize that it's going to have to be addressed and it's either going to require that the condemned be moved somewhere else, or that money be put into San Quentin to make it meet constitutional standards."

There has been talk over the years of moving death row or even closing San Quentin, built in 1848 to handle Gold Rush outlaws. State investigators are due to turn in a feasibility study this summer.

San Quentin is old, poorly designed and expensive to maintain. On the other hand, millions have been spent in renovations and the hundreds of death row lawyers living nearby don't want to start having to drive hundreds of miles to see their clients.

Davis has final say on the fate of San Quentin, and on whether death row should be moved to another prison.

"I personally think that San Quentin has a lot of value and can for many years," says Woodford. "I think moving the condemned would be a good idea."

Hanging on the wall outside Woodford's office, photographs of former wardens present a line-up of serious-looking men -- Woodford's smiling color shot is an exception.

Woodford looks at the wall sometimes. She's struck by how few served longer than three or four years.

"This is a tough job," she says. "You just don't quit at the end of 8 hours. It really is a 24-hour-a-day job."<