Jay Martinez doesn’t tell his story to shock people.

He tells it because it’s true—and because for years, no one asked him why before deciding who he was.

Jay grew up in El Paso, Texas, on the American side of the border. He was the oldest sibling in a house where fear arrived every Friday night with the sound of breaking glass and his father’s drinking. When the violence started, Jay did what kids in unstable homes often do: he adapted.

He hid his brothers and sisters in closets. He stood between his father and his mother. He learned early that love sometimes looked like endurance.

By thirteen, Jay wasn’t in school anymore. He was cleaning, cooking, parenting, and stealing groceries so the lights wouldn’t get shut off. When local gang members noticed the police constantly being called to his house, they offered him protection.

Family, they said.
Loyalty.
Safety.

Jay accepted.

What followed wasn’t a dramatic fall—it was a gradual hardening. Theft became routine. Guns became familiar. Violence became currency. He carried weapons before he understood them. He shot at houses. He enforced territory.

Then came the moment that split his life in two.

Subscribe now

During a drive-by, Jay was told to fire—but two little girls stepped into view. He refused. That refusal earned him a beating, scars carved into his body, and a permanent reminder of the choice he made that night.

The violence didn’t stop. It spread.

His mother was nearly killed when rivals fired into their home with a shotgun meant for Jay. That was the moment she begged him to go with her to a Christian pastor—something she’d once mocked.

At fourteen, Jay accepted Christ.

But redemption didn’t come clean or straight.

He went back to the streets. Became a father too young. Drifted deeper into organized crime. Ran drugs across state lines. Manufactured meth. Built connections that eventually tied him to cartel operations. Power followed. Money followed. Sleep disappeared.

Jay didn’t want the life anymore—but he didn’t know how to leave it.

When federal agents finally arrested him, Jay felt something unexpected: peace. He was tired of running

.

Facing a 25-year federal sentence, Jay made a decision that cost him protection and comfort. He refused to cooperate falsely. He refused to lie. He told the truth about his life—violence, racism, abuse, addiction, and childhood trauma he had never spoken aloud.

In prison, Jay changed slowly and deliberately. He read Scripture. Worked out. Spoke to youth groups inside the system. Mediated conflicts not with force, but with humility. Men who once feared him now trusted him.

After twelve years, Jay walked free.

Today, he lives in Tennessee. He’s married. A licensed tattoo artist. A preacher on street corners and in schools. He carries boxes of clothes and food in his car because he never knows when God will tell him to pull over.

Jay doesn’t claim perfection. He claims obedience.

“I’ll fail you,” he says. “But Jesus won’t.”

His story isn’t about gangs or cartels or prison.

It’s about what happens when a man stops running—and finally tells the truth.

Share

I am a retired detective and criminal justice / government educator based in Tennessee. I am a commentary write for Tennessee Lookout and a weekly columnist with Knox TN Today. My work examines public policy, public safety systems and civic responsibility. My reporting and commentary have also appeared in Governing, The Arizona Capitol Times, South Florida Sun Sentinel, Police1, among other state and regional outlets.

Subscribe now

Alan Roberts remembers looking at people who injected drugs and thinking they did not deserve to live.

Years later, he became one of them.

Today, Roberts is a licensed counselor, operates recovery housing, helps people rebuild their lives after addiction and incarceration, and recently received a pardon from Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee

His story is Season 2, Episode 13 of The Redemption Project.

The journey between those two realities was anything but straight.

Roberts was raised in a stable home by parents who neither drank nor used drugs. His first experiences with alcohol came as a teenager, in a culture where drinking was often treated as normal teenage behavior. Marijuana followed. Cocaine followed that.

Even after experimenting with drugs, Roberts built what appeared to be a successful life. He married, started a family, attended college and worked at Oak Ridge National Laboratory.

Then came a hernia surgery.

The prescription pain medication that followed became the turning point.

What began with hydrocodone eventually led to pain clinics, OxyContin, forged prescriptions and intravenous drug use. Addiction consumed everything around it.

Over the years, Roberts was arrested more than 50 times.

He cycled through jail, halfway houses, failed recovery attempts and periods where he would briefly rebuild his life before losing everything again.

“I’d get everything back in about 90 days to six months,” he said. “The job. The money. The trust. The vehicle. Then somewhere down the road I’d have a needle in my arm again.”

Give a gift subscription

The pattern repeated itself for years.

The breakthrough did not come when life became easier.

It came when life became unbearable.

Roberts recalls reaching a point where he no longer wanted to live the way he had been living. Looking back, he believes that moment was also his return to God.

“I wasn’t going to live like this anymore,” he said.

In 2011, Roberts entered Hope of East Tennessee and began building something he had never successfully built before: a recovery community.

Not just meetings.

Not just treatment.

People.

People who believed in him when he no longer believed in himself.

One of those people was Marvin Hatcher, a recovery mentor who trusted Roberts with responsibility long before many others would have.

For Roberts, that trust mattered.

Someone believed there was still something worth saving.

Recovery was not instant. Outstanding warrants eventually landed him back in jail while he was getting clean. Facing the possibility of prison, he made a decision that would change everything.

Whether he received Drug Court, prison or another consequence, he was going to stay clean.

No matter what.

This time was different.

That commitment became more than sobriety.

It became purpose.

Roberts completed Drug Court, earned a bachelor’s degree from Tennessee Tech, later earned a master’s degree in social work and became a licensed alcohol and drug counselor.

Subscribe now

Today, he helps lead New Purpose and Foundation House, organizations dedicated to helping men and women find recovery, housing and stability.

The same man who once believed there was no way out now spends his days helping others find one.

He estimates that over the years he has worked with hundreds, if not thousands, of people seeking recovery.

Not all of them make it.

But Roberts has changed the way he defines success.

For many people in recovery, success is measured only by perfect outcomes. Roberts sees it differently.

Even if someone eventually relapses, the months spent reconnecting with family, holding a job, being present as a parent or contributing to society still matter.

Those moments count.

Those victories are real.

Earlier this year, Roberts’ story reached another milestone when he received a gubernatorial pardon.

For many people, that would have been the ending.

For Roberts, it feels more like another beginning.

The pardon recognized a life transformed.

The work continues because there are still people sitting in jail cells, treatment centers and halfway houses who believe their story is already over.

Roberts knows something they do not.

“We do recover.”

Leave a comment

That sentence is simple, but it carries the weight of everything he survived.

It is not a slogan. It is testimony.

Alan Roberts’ story is not clean, easy or polished. Redemption rarely is. It is messy. It includes consequences. It includes accountability. It includes people who get tired, fall short, try again and keep reaching for something better.

But his life also shows why no person should be reduced to the worst chapter of his story.

The man arrested more than 50 times now helps others find recovery.

The man who once judged people trapped in addiction became someone who sits beside them, walks with them and reminds them there is still a way forward.

That is redemption.

And that is why this story matters.

For more from The Redemption Project, including civic explainers, redemption stories, faith-centered conversations, good news features, interviews and my award-winning podcast, start here:

https://brandonburley.start.page

I am a retired detective and criminal justice / government educator based in Tennessee. I am a commentary write for Tennessee Lookout and a weekly columnist with Knox TN Today. My work examines public policy, public safety systems and civic responsibility. My reporting and commentary have also appeared in Governing, The Arizona Capitol Times, South Florida Sun Sentinel, Police1, among other state and regional outlets.

Subscribe now

Read more

When she talks about addiction, she doesn’t call it a “mistake.” She calls it what it was—a choice. A bad one. One she willingly made. And one she’s now willing to face honestly.

Her story doesn’t begin with drugs.

It begins with pain.

“I’ve been through a lot of mental and emotional abuse,” she told me. “And physi…

Read more

Redemption Story of the Week: Steve Smith

Steve walked out of prison in August 2025 with nothing but the clothes on his back and a box of books.

No family waiting.
No friends.
No safety net.

Before prison, Steve knew the life he was living wasn’t right. A divorce sent him spiraling. Drugs followed. Then selling meth and heroin. Then prison.

Behind bars, something changed.

Steve found God. And instead of wasting the time, he used it—working to become someone different than the man who went in.

When he was released, he came straight to Men of Valor Knoxville.

Now, Steve is starting over from zero—but with purpose. He’s grateful for the structure, the accountability, and the opportunity to rebuild a life he never thought he’d have.

Redemption doesn’t always come with applause.
Sometimes it comes quietly—when a man decides he’s done living the old way.

Subscribe now

I am a retired detective and criminal justice / government educator based in Tennessee. I am a commentary write for Tennessee Lookout and a weekly columnist with Knox TN Today. My work examines public policy, public safety systems and civic responsibility. My reporting and commentary have also appeared in Governing, The Arizona Capitol Times, South Florida Sun Sentinel, Police1, among other state and regional outlets.

Subscribe now

Before coming to Men of Valor, Dewey had already been convicted of robbery. After serving his time and being out of prison for just over a year, he was charged with aggravated child neglect. When that case crossed my desk years ago, I knew from the way Dewey responded that it wasn’t going to sit right with me. Some cases don’t. This was one of them.

That matters. Redemption does not erase accountability.

While incarcerated, Dewey applied to multiple halfway houses. Every door closed — except one. Men of Valor was the only program willing to take him. Not because they minimized what he’d done, but because they believed that change still had to be possible if accountability meant anything at all.

While still in jail, Dewey completed the Men of Valor F.O.C.U.S. class — a 12-week program centered on discipline, responsibility, and confronting the truth about oneself. He didn’t pretend he could fix his life on his own. In fact, he was clear about the opposite.

“I know I can’t do this by myself,” Dewey said.

Since entering the Men of Valor program, Dewey has been working and rebuilding structure in his life. One of the biggest lessons he’s had to learn is slowing down — not rushing decisions, not reacting emotionally, not defaulting to old patterns when pressure hits.

What surprised him most wasn’t the rules or the workload.

It was the love.

Dewey admits that growing up, he wasn’t used to the kind of consistent, accountable care he’s experienced at Men of Valor. Love with boundaries was unfamiliar territory. It forced him to confront how much of his past behavior was shaped by what he never learned growing up — especially his relationship with his father.

That realization hasn’t excused his choices. But it has made him take ownership of changing them.

Today, Dewey says he is following Jesus — not as a slogan, but as a daily discipline. He knows trust is rebuilt slowly. He knows redemption isn’t owed. And he understands that some people will never be comfortable with his story.

He’s learning to live with that too.

Redemption isn’t pretending the past didn’t happen.
It’s choosing to live differently anyway — every single day.

I am a retired detective and criminal justice / government educator based in Tennessee. I am a commentary write for Tennessee Lookout and a weekly columnist with Knox TN Today. My work examines public policy, public safety systems and civic responsibility. My reporting and commentary have also appeared in Governing, The Arizona Capitol Times, South Florida Sun Sentinel, Police1, among other state and regional outlets.

Subscribe now

Some redemption stories are hard to tell.

This is one of them.

Dewey Burton had previously been convicted of robbery.

After being out of prison for just over a year, he was charged with aggravated child neglect.

There’s no excuse for that.

And Dewey doesn’t offer one.

While incarcerated, he completed the Men of Valor …

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

And, you can also find more of my stories as a recurring contributor for Knox TN Today, where I write about policy, redemption, reentry, and the people quietly doing the work behind the scenes in East Tennessee.

KnoxTnToday

Subscribe now

Read more

Read more

As a kid, Tim had a speech impediment. He got bullied. Teachers doubted he’d ever learn like other kids.

But his parents kept speaking faith over him. And Tim kept showing up—awkward, quiet, but determined.

Fast forward: He became a Heisman Trophy winner. An …

Read more

Dustin was convicted of second-degree murder. He shot and killed a man. He pled guilty and received a 15-year sentence. There’s no minimizing that, and Dustin doesn’t try to. He owns it.

Before prison, Dustin worked as a paramedic — a job built around saving lives. Losing that identity, and then facing the reality of taking a life, forced him into a level of humility he had never known before.

Prison stripped everything familiar away. Titles, confidence, control — gone. What remained was the hard work of reckoning with his actions and deciding whether his life would end there or be rebuilt from the ground up.

Through Men of Valor Knoxville, Dustin began that rebuilding process. The work wasn’t dramatic. It was humbling. He learned discipline, accountability, and how to show up consistently — even when the work felt small or unseen.

Today, Dustin speaks openly about how humbling his current work has been compared to who he once was. Not with bitterness — but with gratitude. He understands now that growth often comes through being brought low.

Dustin is nearing graduation from Men of Valor. He’s focused on the next chapter of his life — not pretending the past didn’t happen, but refusing to let it define the rest of his story.

Redemption doesn’t erase consequences.
But it does make transformation possible.

I am a retired detective and criminal justice / government educator based in Tennessee. I am a commentary write for Tennessee Lookout and a weekly columnist with Knox TN Today. My work examines public policy, public safety systems and civic responsibility. My reporting and commentary have also appeared in Governing, The Arizona Capitol Times, South Florida Sun Sentinel, Police1, among other state and regional outlets.

Subscribe now

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

In it, I walk through something we don’t talk about nearly enough in Knoxville: what actually helps people rebuild their lives after prison — and what’s already working quietly, right here in our city.

Read more

Jesse Crosson was arrested just after his 18th birthday.

He was sentenced to 32 years in prison for a robbery and a non-fatal shooting. At an age when most people are thi…

Read more