One recent morning, one morning inside the San Quentin Prison in Los Angeles County. Atti. Nathan Hochman and a dozen other prosecutors squeezed into a high-ceiling conference hall surrounded by killers, rapists and other serious criminals.

Name the crime, one of which might have done so.

"It's not every day in a room of 100 people, most of whom committed murder, extremely violent crimes and were found guilty of crimes."

The men wore casual blue uniforms and their long-term sentences had little chance to go out, such as Marlon Arturo Melendez, a Los Angeles native who is now murdering.

Melendez sat in a "sharing circle" close enough to Hochman that their knees might touch, without any bars between them. They have been chatting for decades since Melendez was first imprisoned 20 years ago, and Melendez said he found Hochman “funny.”

This kind of interaction between prisoners and guests is not uncommon inside San Quentin. For decades, the Gulf Prison has been incarcerated differently, focusing on accountability and rehabilitation systems.

Like the other men in the room, Melendez is responsible for the harm he causes and is a better person every day. When he introduced himself, he named the victim - admitting that what he did cannot be revoked, but also admitting that he didn't have to be the one who pulled the trigger.

Whether it was Melendez or these people who once walked freely, the place where they were the most notorious lockdown in California is now a place that provides them with change and provides the most elusive emotions for prisoners - hope.

Building this culture is the theory and practice that Governor Gavin Newsom hopes to establish standards across the state.

He calls it the California model, but as I wrote before, this is a common practice in other countries (even in a few places in the United States). This is based on the simple truth about imprisonment: most people who go to prison come out again. Public safety requires them to behave differently when they do so.

"We're either going to keep them here or we're going to pay if they come back and hurt someone," said Brooke Jenkins, the district attorney of San Francisco.

Jenkins is the organizer of this unusual day, giving district attorneys from all over the state within San Quentin to better understand how the California model works and why even district attorneys who commit crimes should support changing our prisons.

As California’s new attacks on measures promised by recently adopted Proposition 36 (which is expected to increase the state prison population) is also punished by re-engineering the controversial plan for prison culture, including remake cultures of prisoners and guards, for return to felony crimes.

Despite a tough year requiring the state to cut spending, Newsom kept a price of more than $200 million in its previous budget to revamp San Quentin so that its outdated facilities could not only support people in locked cells.

Some buildings that have already occurred are expected to be completed next year, which have been underway. This will make San Quentin the most obvious example in the California model. But how inmates and guards interact and available rehabilitation opportunities in prisons across the state have changed.

It’s an overdue and profound shift, and in the long run, it’s possible not only to improve public safety and save money, but it also potentially fundamentally reshape what incarcerated people mean nationwide.

Jenkins' efforts to help more prosecutors understand and value this perversion may be crucial to the public's support for it, especially for DAs who have ingredients that are good for those systems that lock in the (usually cruel) crimes of men. Even those Californians, like many in San Francisco and Los Angeles, are just bored with California’s gentle views on criminals.

"It has nothing to do with moderate or progress, but I think all of our moderates have to admit that reforms still need to be done," Jenkins told me. After successfully recalling her progressive predecessor, Chesa Boudin, she took office and turned right on San Francisco policy.

Still, she needs a second chance. For her, prison reform is more important than the California model, but a broader perspective includes the perspectives of incarcerated people and their insights into what is needed to make rehabilitation work.

“It really puts you in the obligation to make sure that the culture of the (district attorney) office is fair,” she said.

For Hochman, another former federal prosecutor and defense attorney last year, he was expelled from the progressive George Gascón year after year, it makes sense to recover. He likes to use Fyodor Dostoevsky's quotes to illustrate: "The level of civilization in a society is revealed by entering prison."

“In my perfect world, the education system, the family system, the community will do all this at the front end to keep these people from committing crimes in the first place,” he said. But if it fails, it depends on the criminal justice system to help people fix it.

Despite being considered a tough DA (who prefers "fair crime"), he is so committed to his recovery goals that he is determined to push the new men's central prison in Los Angeles County - an expensive (billion) and unpopular idea that he says is overdue but crucial to public safety.

“Los Angeles County has absolutely failed because we have insufficient jails and jails,” he said.

He quickly added that recovery is not for everyone. Some people are not ready yet. Some don't care. The prisoners of San Quentin agree with him. They often have a very voice about who has been transferred to prison, knowing that its success depends on the people incarcerated who want to change - a rogue prisoner in San Quentin could ruin it for everyone.

"It must be an option. You have to know it yourself," Oscar Acosta told me. Now 32, he is a "CDC baby," referring to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation - who has been in jail since he was 18.

When the California model works, as the District Attorney sees, it’s clear what its value is. People who were once just dangerous can choose to live different lives and have different values. Even if they are still imprisoned.

“I am a new guy today after being considered the worst,” Melendez told me. “I hope (the district attorney) can see the real change of the people sitting with them and convince the recovery of punishment is more effective and that it is better for all through the justice of restoration.”

Melendez and other incarcerated people in San Quentin yearn for us to see them as the worst behavior. They cheer up, and even prosecutors like Jenkins and Hochman throw them in prison, sometimes even the Trinity sentence, see that the past doesn’t always determine the future, and investing in change is an investment in safer communities.