In a quiet corner of Maine, a quiet revolution is underway—one that’s upending long-held assumptions about prison labor, rehabilitation, and the boundaries of opportunity behind bars. While most incarcerated people across the United States earn pennies per hour for scrubbing floors or washing dishes, dozens of inmates in Maine are logging into laptops and working remote jobs for outside companies, sometimes earning salaries that would make even some free-world workers envious.
Take Preston Thorpe, for instance. At 32, he’s serving time at the Mountain View Correctional Center in Charleston, Maine. But instead of pushing a mop or prepping cafeteria trays, Thorpe spends his days writing code as a senior software engineer—a position that’s netting him more than $100,000 a year. According to NPR, he’s even managed to buy a modest house, all from the confines of his prison cell. “Fortunately, tech is one of the few areas where they’re not concerned with your college degree. They’re really only concerned with your ability to write code,” Thorpe told Maine Public Radio, reflecting on his unlikely journey from troubled teen to tech professional.
Thorpe’s path wasn’t always so promising. A self-described computer geek, he built his first computer at 13 and seemed destined for a career in technology. But a rebellious streak led him down a darker road; by high school, he was using and selling drugs, which eventually landed him in prison at age 20 after being kicked out by his parents. “You know, I was worried and pretty hopeless that I had messed my life up so bad that it was no longer possible to have, like, a normal life, a normal career,” Thorpe admitted. Now, as he looks ahead to his expected release in 2026, he says, “Now, I feel like my life has a purpose.”
Thorpe’s story is not unique in Maine, where a growing number of incarcerated people are being given access to laptops and the internet—not just for education, but for real, paid employment. According to Maine Corrections Commissioner Randall Liberty, this shift is an outgrowth of the state’s embrace of online education. As of September 2025, around 800 prisoners are using laptops, mostly for schoolwork, but more than 40 have landed full- or part-time remote jobs with outside companies. The range of work is broad, from research and grant writing to, as in Thorpe’s case, software development. Salaries vary, but several workers are making upwards of $60,000 a year.
The contrast with the rest of the country is stark. According to an ACLU report cited by NPR, the average minimum pay for prison labor in the United States is a paltry $0.13 an hour. That’s barely enough for a cup of coffee—let alone a fresh start. But in Maine, the promise of meaningful, lucrative work is changing lives and, perhaps, the very nature of incarceration itself.
Of course, the program isn’t without its safeguards. Internet access for prisoners is tightly controlled and monitored. “We have technicians that are watching where they’re going and what they’re doing, and we’ve had very few problems,” Commissioner Liberty explained. The state also garnishes wages for child support, victim restitution, and other fees. For those who earn above a certain amount, 10% of their income goes toward room and board. Still, prisoners have the opportunity to save money or send earnings home—a rare chance for financial stability, both during and after incarceration.
For Thorpe, getting a laptop was nothing short of a lifeline. About two years ago, he landed his first remote job, and things took off from there. The experience, he says, has been transformative—not just financially, but emotionally. After years of feeling like he’d let his family down, he now takes pride in the fact that his parents are proud of him. “What he’s most proud of is that after everything he’s put his parents through, they are proud of him,” reported Susan Sharon for NPR News.
Maine’s approach is drawing attention far beyond its borders. Mara Sanchez, program director at the Alliance for Higher Education in Prison, told NPR, “What I can tell you is that Maine is really a leader in this area. Their implementation, willingness to try remote work for incarcerated students has really kind of set the bar for other states and been very inspiring to other states.” Sanchez notes that more than half a dozen other states have taken steps to allow prisoners to do remote work, inspired by Maine’s success.
The benefits, advocates say, go beyond individual success stories. Commissioner Liberty is optimistic that the program can be expanded both within Maine and to prisons in other states. “If it provides meaningful employment for them, it’s really important that we allow that access, and it also allows for a smooth transition back into the community,” Liberty said. The hope is that by giving inmates a taste of meaningful, well-paid work, they’ll be better equipped to reintegrate into society upon release—reducing recidivism and benefiting communities as a whole.
Still, the program raises questions. Should prisoners be allowed to earn so much more than their peers in other states—or even than some free citizens? Is it fair to garnish their wages, and if so, by how much? And what about the potential security risks of giving inmates access to the internet, even in a controlled environment? For now, Maine officials insist that the benefits outweigh the risks, and say that monitoring protocols have kept problems to a minimum.
The ripple effects are already being felt. As more states experiment with similar models, the conversation around prison labor is shifting—from one of exploitation and stagnation to one of opportunity and hope. Thorpe’s journey, from a cell in Charleston, Maine, to a thriving tech career and homeownership, is just one example of what’s possible when barriers are broken and second chances are given real substance.
As the sun rises over Maine’s correctional facilities, it’s clear that the future of prison work—and rehabilitation—is being rewritten, one laptop at a time.
