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LEXINGTON - Every day Bernice McPhatter gets up early, says her prayers and heads to work a few miles away at an assisted living center.

As a personal care assistant, she often shares her thoughts about God and the Bible with residents.

When it's time to leave, she gets into a state-issued white car and heads back to North Piedmont Correctional Center for Women on Raleigh Road in Lexington. A guard pats her down before McPhatter can eat dinner or head to her dorm, a cinder-block room with bunk beds lined up military style. The nearly 140 inmates share lockers tucked between the beds.

McPhatter, 52, is serving more than six years for embezzling nearly $270,000 when she was Hoke County manager.

She is one of about 2,800 women in North Carolina prisons today. Although women make up only about 7 percent of the state's nearly 40,000 inmates, the number is increasing much more rapidly than the number of men in prison.

Officials say that small but growing number makes it difficult to provide services to women - both in prison, and after they're released.

Video: Go inside the Lexington prison

Still mothers

Prison remains a man's world. Men make up more than 90 percent of the inmates incarcerated in North Carolina, and classes intended to rehabilitate prisoners reflect that.

A class for sex offenders, for example, deals with the predatory aspect of the crime, which is not why most women commit sex offenses, said Brenda Jarra, a program director with the state Division of Prisons and the former superintendent at North Piedmont.

"Women fall in love, and they get into these inappropriate relationships," she said.

When Jarra ran North Piedmont, she retooled the sex offender program to deal with why women commit sex offenses. She also brought in outside agencies to help female inmates work through issues of domestic violence and sexual abuse, areas not covered under the state program.

"It's basically talking about perpetrators," she said. "It does not deal with the victimization."

Jarra said officials have already adjusted some programs and are looking to update others to deal with the different needs of male and female inmates.

For example, a drug-treatment program now offers a version for women that addresses the different reasons why they become addicted, Jarra said.

Both Jarra and Benita Witherspoon , who took over as superintendent of North Piedmont in June 2007 , have worked with male and female inmates.

They said that like men, women often struggle with drug or alcohol addictions. Unlike men, women also deal with issues of self-esteem, domestic violence and abuse.

One of the biggest differences between male and female prisoners is the importance of relationships, especially with their children, Witherspoon said.

Prison programs to address this include parenting classes and a program called Motheread , where an inmate records a story on tape and sends it to her child.

More than 70 percent of women in prison have children, according to the 2006 report "Hard Hit" by the Institute on Women and Criminal Justice. And more than half of mothers in prison have no visits with their children while they are behind bars.

Staying connected to their children is important to female inmates, Witherspoon said.

"Although they're here," she said, "they're still mothers."

Once again, small numbers hurt female inmates. The state built prisons in nearly every county for men. But of the 78 prisons, only eight serve women. Not all inmates can be housed close to their children, Jarra said.

"You have to go where there's a bed," she said. "If we had more facilities we could send the women closer to where they are. But we don't have that luxury."

Those who do end up near home can usually arrange frequent visits.

Tereasa Gibson, 36, of Trinity, sees her two sons often at North Piedmont.

She covers the inside of her locker with photos, many of them of her two sons. Her parents have brought the boys, now 13 and 17 , to see her regularly since Gibson was sentenced to at least six years and five months in prison for manslaughter. A jury convicted her in the 2001 stabbing death of her live-in boyfriend, the father of her youngest son.

Heather Yountz, 35, of Lexington, went months last year without seeing her girls, now 10 and 12 . She is serving nearly seven years in prison, sentenced as a habitual felon for drug, theft and financial crimes dating to 1993.

Family issues made it difficult for her to see the girls, although they wrote and sometimes spoke by phone. Eventually, Yountz found a social worker to bring them for visits . More recently, a volunteer who teaches sign language at the prison brought the girls to see their mother.

"They were just trying to catch me up on all they could in that two hours," Yountz said. "It was just a very, very good visit."

Both women have taken parenting classes offered by the prison. But it is difficult maintaining a relationship when you don't have daily contact.

Gibson described a close relationship with her sons but worries about how her imprisonment has affected them.

Her oldest son graduates from high school this spring. Gibson hopes she'll be on weekend passes by then and will be allowed to attend.

"He's already said if I missed his graduation he'd be very mad at me," Gibson said. He struggled the most with her imprisonment, refusing to speak for weeks after she was sentenced, she said.

Her youngest son didn't blame her for his father's death, Gibson said. She told police her boyfriend had been abusive that night, and in the past, although she never reported it.

Gibson expects to be released in September. She worries about getting a job and starting over. But what nags at her the most?

"I am scared when I get out my youngest one may be like, 'You haven't been here for six years. What makes you think you can tell me what to do?'" Gibson said. "It's the question I do dread."

Starting over

For many female inmates, North Piedmont becomes the final stop before freedom.

The minimum-security prison houses low-level offenders and those who have only a few years remaining on their sentences. The prison offers a variety of jobs for which inmates can earn from 40 cents to $1 a day. Yountz and Gibson have both worked in the kitchen.

A lucky few, such as McPhatter, get assigned work release outside the prison. But the prison has only one contract with an outside company.

Inmates consider the work-release jobs plum assignments, Yountz said, because they have the option to keep the jobs when released from prison if the company agrees.

Once upon a time there were more contracts, options such as fast-food restaurants and small businesses. Witherspoon said officials are pursuing more contracts, but many companies reject the idea.

Yountz, who worked as a furniture finisher, would like to get a job when she gets out of prison but knows her criminal history will make it difficult.

"They think once you mess up, you can never fix yourself," said Yountz, who likely will remain in prison until 2012 .

Men have more opportunities on the outside.

"There are lots of organizations or programs for men upon release from prison," Jarra said.

Nonprofits tend to produce programs based on the volume of participants and that means more opportunities for men, Jarra said.

Another stumbling block for women: Many nonprofit organizations don't want to get involved with women who have children, Jarra said.

So only a handful of programs focus on helping women re-enter society after prison, she said.

McPhatter would like to change that disparity.

Women at North Piedmont can take a basic skills class through Davidson County Community College that deals with topics such as self-esteem, finances and more.

Students cut out letters and pictures from magazines to create a "dream board" detailing what they want to achieve when they leave prison. Dreams can be anything: graduating high school, getting a job.

McPhatter dreams of forming a foundation that will help women just released from prison. Many don't have families or good support systems waiting for them, she said

When she gets out, likely in March next year, McPhatter will return to a supportive husband, grown children and loving grandchildren.

She spent her time in prison reflecting on what brought her here. "I knew that I had to change. That it had to begin in me," McPhatter said.

She took every self-help class she could, enrolled in Bible classes to get a certificate in theological studies, and started counseling other inmates.

McPhatter said she wants to share her story to help others.

"I'm certain the remainder of my life," she said, "will be giving back to people."

Contact Jennifer Fernandez at 373-7064 or jennifer.fernandez@news-record.com