[Times photo: Douglas Clifford]
Chris Alexander, 11, of Zephyrhills peers through a steel door after being locked in a sheriff's transportation van for a trip to the Land O'Lakes Detention Center.

By JAMIE MALERNEE

A white van parks on the side street next to an aging housing project. Two corrections officers lumber out.

A group of neighborhood boys sees them and scatters. Life has already taught them to distrust the police.

Terrence Cole watches, not surprised at the boys' reaction. He wanted to frighten them a bit; that was the point of the setup.

For weeks, Cole had lectured the boys on the dangers of drugs and crime, rampant in their Pasco County neighborhoods. Now, they were about to jump in the van and tour a jail -- where Cole told them the fast life could lead them, if they're not careful.

"Where are you going?" Cole calls out to the boys. "What are you running from? You haven't done anything."

If Cole has his way, the boys will continue to lead clean lives.

It has been four years since Cole, 32, was released from prison and started turning around his own life. A former drug dealer, he now holds a steady job as head of the meat department at a Publix store in Spring Hill. He has a wife, a baby and a home in Zephyrhills. He attends church every Sunday.

Cole also mentors children.

"Like you, I had so much talent, so much ability. But I fell in with the wrong people," he tells them. "I don't want to see you go that way. Prison is for losers. Ten years from now, I don't want to pull up on your corner and see you standing there with wine in your hand, smoking and wasting time."

When Cole speaks, his voice is strong. He says he is determined to help children make the right choices. But it is clear he has another agenda. His road to redemption has not been easy, and it is not yet over. In return for the time he spends with children, he admits he is looking for something for himself: forgiveness.

When Cole pried himself away from his former life, he left behind a son and a daughter -- children he brought into the world when he was a child himself. They live in Detroit with their mothers. He wants to be a part of their lives, but distance and the years he spent in prison make that difficult.

So Cole is trying to be a father figure to youngsters in his community.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him, but the respect he sees in their eyes means a lot.

"I need them," Cole says, "as much as they need me."

A plan for the easy life goes awry

Terrence Cole grew up in the ghettos of Detroit. His father came into his life just long enough to cause pain when he disappeared again.

In Cole's neighborhood, that was the norm. Fathers left. Babies had babies. Siblings shared toothbrushes because money was tight.

Cole had it better than most. His home was clean, and so was his mother. She could be tough, but she never touched drugs or alcohol. She told her kids that one day, if they applied themselves, they would have a better life.

"Whatever you do, you will be held responsible," Carolyn Cole lectured. "You have to have principles."

But her voice was one against thousands, a single mother on welfare raising three children. Poverty was a cloud that settled over everything and blinded Cole's eyes to any dream but that of money.

By 16, he already had a son and carried a semiautomatic tucked in his waistband. At 18, a month away from high school graduation, there was another baby, by a different mother, on the way. He dropped out because he thought a diploma and a job flipping burgers, lifting boxes or selling cars wouldn't be enough to feed them all.

"What would a job do?" he asked himself. "They're going to pay me $200 a week when I can make that in five minutes on the street."

Cole had a plan. He would sell dope for three years -- get him some steady crackheads who would supply him with enough money to get him some fancy cars, big homes, lovely ladies. Then he would get out -- retire in style, still in his 20s.

"I was smart, soooo smart," Cole recalls now, shaking his head.

It was the beginning of a downward spiral for Cole. Fueled by a deadly combination of ignorance, greed and desperation, he went from small-time hoodlum to big-time bad guy. He didn't just sell drugs; he robbed people and shot at a man.

Cole says the only thing that saved his life was prison.

The crime that landed him behind bars was relatively minor, compared to the other acts he had been committing. At the time, he thought it was a joke.

One night, he and some friends got high and decided to have pizza delivered, then to steal whatever cash the delivery person had. But police easily traced the robbery to his house, and the next person who arrived at the door was carrying a badge.

The judge gave Cole, then 19, eight to 15 years for armed robbery. The day Cole said goodbye to the outside world, his second child -- a girl -- was 26 days old.

Journey to Florida pays off

On Aug. 8, 1997, Cole was released from the Jackson Parole Camp. But Cole, now 28, was not going to any home he knew.

As he walked out the gate, no one waited for him. Not the woman whom he had loved before getting locked up, who was raising their daughter. Not his son, who was now 12.

Cole boarded a Greyhound bus with other parolees and headed to Florida.

Eight and a half years in prison had taught him one thing: He would never let anyone take away his freedom again. To ensure that, he knew he had to change, which meant he had to change his surroundings.

Cole decided to move to Orlando, where his mother was living. He left behind his children, rationalizing that he had never been much of a father to them anyway.

Moving, he decided, was a matter of survival. He was also ashamed of himself.

"I really didn't want to see anyone -- especially my children -- at that point," he admitted. "I didn't have anything to give them."

Within a matter of weeks after moving in with his mother, Cole got a job at an Orlando Publix. He begged the manager to give him a chance. He was willing to cut meat, sweep floors, stock shelves, do whatever dirty work no one else wanted to do.

Then he met a woman named Mariama, who had recently started working at the store in the produce department. She had a beautiful smile. He told her his dreams, and she told him she believed in him. On their first official date, they went to her family church in Dade City, and he met her relatives.

Less than two months later, they married.

"I knew she was the one," Cole recalled. "It sounds strange, but she reminded me of my mother. She was honest and stable. She respected me and could love me when I had nothing."

Cole moved up the ladder at work, becoming head meat cutter. He and Mariama got their own place. Then came more good news: Mariama was pregnant. They moved to Dade City to be closer to her family, and, at Cole's insistence, she quit work to raise their new family.

In two short years, Cole's life had changed. He had a wife, a newborn daughter, and received another promotion at work. Despite being a high school dropout with a high school equivalency certificate earned in prison, he was making nearly $50,000 a year.

"It was great. I was becoming successful," Cole said.

'I want help'

But the more success Cole experienced, the more guilt he felt.

Back in Detroit were his firstborn son and daughter, living in the same doomed neighborhood that he grew up in. He paid child support to their mothers, and the kids visited him in the summer. But being a long-distance father wasn't fair to them, he knew.

Cole began to lose sleep. He cried when no one was around. He asked God for an answer.

One day in mid 2000, while driving to work south of Brooksville, he got his answer.

He saw a group of young men trudging along the side of the road. Then there was a sign: Eckerd Youth Challenge Program for troubled teens.

If he couldn't help his own children, Cole thought to himself, he could try to help others.

Cole called Eckerd, offered his services, and officials invited him in to talk.

When he walked in one hot day last fall, the room full of teenagers grew noticeably quiet.

Counselors would later attribute part of Cole's effect to his appearance. Tall, handsome and smartly dressed, he looked the part of a role model, yet his background gave him credibility as a man who knew the reality of the streets.

The rest of Cole's talent became apparent as he spoke to a cafeteria full of 30 boys. They had been sent to the Eckerd program as a chance to reform. One more mistake would mean jail.

Cole thought hard about what advice he could give them, ready to share his story, pain and frustration.

Today, I'm having a problem. I'm getting tired of seeing little children locked up. What does it take for us to realize our life is going south?

I'm a felon; I'm going to be a felon for the rest of my life. You don't have that strike yet. You don't have that mark.

Deep down, I know most of you don't want to be here. But you have made a choice, so on that level, you must want to be here. Why? An insane man would incarcerate himself. An insane man would put himself in the line of fire, would put his family in danger. You have the ability to stop the madness.

But I know you're still messin' up in here. Some of you still don't want to change, think it's a joke. I know. You say, "I'm going to do what I got to do to get out of here and then I'll do what I want to do.' But the trick is on you. You'll be coming back here or to jail.

Prison is not a joke. This should be a wake-up call to you. But many of you are not listening. I'm asking you today. Make a choice. When you don't make a decision for yourself, someone else has to step in and make it for you.

At the end of the sermonlike speech, several boys stood up to thank Cole and hug him. One cried.

"Listening to what you said, about us wanting to be here, hurt me because I'm here because of stupid actions," said the teen. "When I first came here, I just wanted to do my time. And now, I want help."

Despair creeps in

After speaking at Eckerd, Cole was more determined than ever to make a difference in children's lives, and in his own.

He was making good money at Publix, but his job wasn't as fulfilling as his work with children. He wondered if that might be his calling.

Cole remembered back when he was in prison. He had been required to attend group counseling sessions to deal with issues of violence and drug abuse. Pretty soon, he was leading the groups. He had a knack, his cellmate had told him, for public speaking and helping other people solve their problems.

Using those abilities with troubled teens made Cole feel like the man he had always wanted to be. So he began volunteering for more speaking engagements, at Eckerd and elsewhere. He imagined the day when he could afford to go back to school and get a college degree in psychology.

"I can do so much more," he told himself and his wife.

For now, however, he would have to squeeze his efforts in between his 55 hours a week at Publix and commuting an hour each way to and from the store. And raising a family. And being a husband.

At times, it could be difficult. As the new year approached, all of the volunteer time frayed on his wife's nerves.

"What are you doing this for, Terrence?" she would ask him. "You're not bringing in any more money doing this."

The couple had moved into an old house in Zephyrhills with plans to fix it up. But there was no time for that with Cole gone more and more on speaking engagements, and there was little extra money after family expenses, credit card bills and the child support Cole was paying. The house remained in poor condition, with no air conditioning.

After a while, Terrence began to have his own doubts.

How helpful, he wondered, is one speech to a child who has spent a lifetime in a troubled home?

The married couple soon began fighting more. Cole, whose few memories of his father were of him drinking, began to feel the pull of the bottle.

"I was very tempted. Very," he said. "That's how my father dealt with his problems."

But Cole would resist the temptation. He knew he had to do something to stop the slide. He was too close to making it. If only, he thought, he could make Mariama believe in him again, as she had when they first met.

Cole decided to take his wife to one of his speeches. Mariama sat quietly as her husband began lecturing to a group of high school students. She watched as he revealed details and memories about his past that she never knew. She realized for the first time that Cole really was reaching these kids -- and that they, in turn, were reaching him.

"I saw the impact he had on some of the kids. It was amazing to me," she said. "It was shocking. I was so proud of him."

Her praise was the boost Cole needed. With his wife's full support, he vowed to work even harder.

Challenges and changes

It was springtime earlier this year, and a group of boys ages 9 to 17 filled the tiny portable classroom.

Some sat up straight and smiled. Others slouched and sulked. Several talked among friends and interrupted Cole as he tried to make them listen.

This was the Boys to Manhood Club, a group Cole organized by rounding up kids from his neighborhood in Zephyrhills, as well as teenagers from the Trilacoochee Housing Project in northeast Pasco.

The purpose of Cole's club is to guide the young men into adulthood.

This, he decided, was how he could make a real difference -- by forming long-term relationships with children growing up in neighborhoods where male role models are often absent.

"They say it takes a man to raise a man," Cole said. "I want to be here for them."

Parents immediately praised Cole's efforts. The area had needed a youth group for years, they said, but no one had stepped up in quite this way.

"I've lived here pretty much my entire life, and I've never seen anything like Terrence's program," said Pasco resident Christopher Mathis, whose son is a member of Boys to Manhood.

"Many of these kids, they don't have a father to teach them to discipline themselves or how to have self-confidence. But I've been to three meetings now, and I've watched how these boys have already changed.

"They smile and listen and look him in the eye. Even my son, who's already a good kid, has changed. He sees what I've been teaching him all along, but from someone else. It's reinforcement and a village-type of environment. I'm not the only one looking out for him."

Getting the group started was not easy.

The meetings lasted three hours, once a week on Mondays. At first, Cole was spending half the time trying to rein in the boys. Some of the kids, he had been warned, were terrors toward their teachers, parents and classmates.

To reward good behavior, Cole decided that anyone who listened would get a handshake and a nod of respect.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that," Cole said time and time again.

Weeks passed, and most everyone began to follow the rules:

No pants sagging below the waist. Shirts had to be tucked in, neatly. Cole was to be called "sir." No hitting, fighting or shows of disrespect. If someone broke the rules, he had to spend time in the "hot seat" at the end of the meeting, and members of the group would critique his conduct.

In exchange for their efforts, members of the Boys to Manhood Club were rewarded with fishing trips, outings to baseball games and more.

Cole also decided to bring in speakers, successful members of the local business community, who could help the boys envision careers that involve using their minds, instead of throwing a ball. (All but three of the boys informed Cole that they planned to be sports superstars when they grow up.)

Cole was surprised by the challenges he discovered in the diverse group. Some of the boys were honor roll students with parents who were concerned and involved in their lives. But many were on the other end of the spectrum. One boy could barely read. Some were frequently late to school because they didn't have the money to buy alarm clocks. Others were simply unmotivated.

Cole flourished with the challenge.

"I operate best when stress is high. My life has always been a struggle," he said.

One day in July, Cole surprised everyone with a tour of the county jail in Land O'Lakes. Officers loaded the boys into a white corrections van. On the way, many of them made light of the situation.

"This ain't nothin'," said one boy who had smuggled headphones into the holding cage, from which buzzed the faint jams of hip-hop.

"Isn't your uncle here?" joked another.

Cole watched quietly. When kids are intimidated, he said later, they try to act cool.

Some got Cole's message, nonetheless. One boy stared at a pod full of men locked away under the greenish glare of lights. He shuddered.

"I thought I was hard, man," he murmured to himself. "This stuff is scary."

At the jail and back at the meetings, Cole tried to break through to the group. If they went to the jail again, he said, it should be to drop off a resume to be a corrections officer. He told them that if he could turn his life around, so could they.

"I'm going through the same things they're going through. I'm still working daily on just being disciplined, on my attitude," Cole said. "I'd be cheating myself if I didn't do more . . . and so would you."

'They really are listening'

Of all the boys in the Boys to Manhood Club, there was one in particular to whom Cole was drawn.

His name was Bobby Black, and he reminded Cole a lot of himself.

Bobby was 13 and full of intelligence and energy -- energy that often was channeled in the wrong direction, Cole said. He wasn't a bad kid, but he was always speaking out of turn, letting others egg him into a fight.

Bobby was loud until Cole asked him an important question -- about his grades, his attitude, what his parents would think of his behavior. Then he was silent, unable to look Cole in the eye. He mumbled and shuffled.

One day, when Bobby started a fight on the way home from a field trip, Cole did what he had warned he would do. He told Bobby he was no longer welcome in the club.

Bobby was stunned.

Days later, he showed up on Cole's doorstep. He had been thinking, he said. He wanted back in the group. He said he would behave.

Already, since he had started attending group meetings, Bobby's grades had improved dramatically. He wasn't failing a single subject.

"Isn't that what you told me was most important?" he asked Cole. "I've been listening."

Cole told Bobby he would think about it. But he knew he would let Bobby back in. He didn't want to lose this child.

Still, he had to send a message. The boys had to take responsibility for themselves and each other. He could tell them what was right and what was wrong, but in the end they would have to make that choice on their own.

During the next meeting, Cole asked the other boys what they thought an adequate punishment would be in exchange for letting Bobby back into the group. Everyone settled on making him run about a mile around a track.

On the day Bobby ran his mile, three other teens in the group joined him for moral support. They jogged together in a jumbled line. Cole looked on, a broad smile across his face. He had recently lectured them about teamwork.

"I guess they really are listening," he said.

The struggle goes on

Slowly, Cole has watched his work pay off.

Many of the boys' grades continue to improve at school. One child got up the courage to ask his father to spend more time with him. A third confided to Cole that he had once been abused. Every day, Cole says, that child comes a little further out of his shell.

On tough days at work, Cole remembers the kids and the way they look at him with respect now. He savors the quiet confessions, the jibes and the wordless thanks.

"It helps," he says simply.

Cole started the group thinking that he could help the kids, and now he sees just how much they are helping him, as well. They validate the changes he made in his life. Some of the guilt he carries lessens when he sees his work making a difference.

Of course, not everything is perfect. On the first day of school, Bobby got sent to the principal's office for mouthing off.

Helping Bobby, Cole says, will take time. "It's not a quick fix."

Cole says the same can be said for his own life, and his relationship with his children, who remain in Detroit with their mothers.

Cole had hoped his son would visit him in August, but the teen got a job working with computers and couldn't leave.

Cole says he finally realizes the truth in what his mother told him long ago, and what he now tells his Boys to Manhood group: You have to be responsible for your actions and willing to live with the consequences.

Cole's pain over his absent children is his consequence. It is his mistake not easily undone.

In a way, he says, the lingering pain makes him all the more determined to keep his life on the right path.

"I'm not going to give up," he says. "I can still hope. My son said he wants to go to college in Florida. And I still think I can make a difference in my daughter's life. I won't feel complete until I have my children with me."

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