In his last moments before freedom, after 11 years and one month in state prison, James P. Johnson walked through downtown Worcester in handcuffs and chains.

He was a spectacle, and people stared. Here was this well-built man, dressed in a well-worn sweatshirt and jeans, bearing a striking resemblance to boxer Marvin Hagler. And yet a mess of chains contained him, preventing him from offering anything more than a limp handshake at waist level. The symbolism was clear: This is a criminal. A problem for society. A violent man convicted of manslaughter, chained for your protection.

But Mr. Johnson, 40, said he didn't mind. Let people look. This is the last time they'd see him this way.

"Call me Joe Citizen," he said a few minutes later, after the chains were removed. "I'm done."

He was being taken to a regional re-entry center, whose staff expected a different kind of man. Mr. Johnson has a long criminal history — the last strike was shooting a man to death in Worcester in 1994 — and he had been known to refuse rehabilitation programs. They thought he would be like some other ex-cons they've seen, the ones who say, "Where's the nearest liquor store?"

But on that sunny day Feb. 25, a different Mr. Johnson walked in.

He was smiling, friendly, receptive to help. He had severed ties with all of his old friends, he said. He was eager to work, and declared that no job was beneath him. It was going to snow soon after his release, and he liked that. It would keep him indoors, slow him down. Joe Citizen. Joe Citizen.

After Mr. Johnson had been at the re-entry center half an hour, Michael Bird, a parole officer there, said he thought the ex-con was sincere. Scared, even. There's a window of opportunity here, he said, and Mr. Johnson needs to take it. He had let go of his anger, but he needed to brace himself for the frustration.

Life after prison can be one hurdle after another, prisoner advocates say, and there may not be enough resources outside the big house to help everyone who needs it.

Prisoners have problems that complicate a successful re-entry. They are largely uneducated, have poor work histories and suffer from mental or physical health problems. Forty-seven percent of inmates do not have a high school diploma or GED when they begin their sentences, and one in five has an open mental health case. The majority have a history of substance abuse, according to recent reports.

Life on the outside is a shock. In interviews, former inmates describe stumbling over the smallest details of lawful life, from getting proper identification to figuring out how to navigate public transportation. In prison, they may have been given medication for physical or mental problems, but on the outside they must learn how to get those medications themselves.

And they must overcome a stigma that will follow them everywhere.

"It's not like, as ex-cons we're looking for sympathy. We're looking for the ways and means to do this ourselves," said Al, 42, who spent 11 years in prison and asked that his last name not be used. "You're definitely at the starting line, there's no question about that."

Critics have accused the Department of Correction of not doing enough to rehabilitate inmates while inside, but post-release problems are often beyond the department's control. Former inmates have trouble finding housing and jobs, fail to avoid situations that lead them back into trouble, and often cannot find enough help to stay on a straight path.

And yet, keeping these people out of jail is clearly in the state's best interest. For every 1 percent of recidivism eliminated, the state would save $1 million, according to Lt. Gov. Kerry Healey. That money, officials have said, could be used on programs to reduce recidivism even further.

Regional re-entry centers such as the one where Mr. Johnson was taken have been the Department of Correction's latest attempt to ease the problem.

The centers, jointly run by the Department of Correction and the Parole Board, serve as a clearinghouse for post-release programs. Since November, every released inmate has been taken directly to one of eight re-entry centers across the state and offered connections to resources such as housing and counseling. Each person is issued a Mass Health card — also a new offering — connected with a local medical facility.

The center also serves a public safety function by gathering information about the released inmate and providing it to police departments.

Inmates cannot be forced to take advantage of the programs, but are encouraged to. So far, most have. From the start of the program to the end of 2004, out of 175 inmates released from prison, 116 agreed to return to the center for services. By February at the Worcester re-entry center, 22 out of 36 had.

But center staff acknowledged that, while they can offer direction, there is not always enough actual help available.

"We don't consider this the panacea, the problem-solver of prison re-entry," said Parole Board Chairman Maureen E. Walsh. "It's not rocket science. It's a rational and reasonable approach to addressing some of their basic needs."

The largest risk for an inmate is in the first 72 hours after release, she said, so while there may be no silver bullet, it is valuable to at least have the center available. Released inmates can drop in any time for guidance or just to use the phone.

One 47-year-old woman who recently served a year in prison said many inmates desperately need help after release. Sure, she said, some will refuse it, but many inmates want to turn their lives around and cannot figure out how.

She said she met repeat offenders in prison, and "a lot of it was due to hopelessness. ... They wanted to change, but didn't know how to go about it. When they tried, they hit roadblocks, so they go back to what they know best. It's comfortable."

The woman is one of a lucky few. She is a resident of Dismas House of Central Massachusetts, a transitional housing center for former inmates in Worcester. It provides a blessing, its residents said, by offering a buffer to the outside world while they acclimate.

But they're blessed for another reason as well: Getting inside is a miracle. The organization receives 1,000 applications a year, while on average 35 beds at Dismas House will open in a year's time.

"It's easier to get into an Ivy League college than Dismas House, which is a shame," said Colleen A. Hilferty, co-executive director.

Even regular housing is hard to find, according to Mr. Bird, the parole officer in the re-entry center. Inmates often do not have stable families to come home to, and they may find trouble if they go to live with old friends. With only the $75 every inmate is given at release and any small wages from prison jobs, former inmates typically cannot pay for an apartment or even a motel room.

If they can find transitional housing, they'll take it. Many end up homeless and desperate.

Mr. Bird said that with help, such challenges can be overcome. The re-entry center in Worcester has found housing for all former inmates who needed it, although it hasn't always been easy.

"Let's not give up on it," Mr. Bird said. "Let's not throw our hands up and say, 'There's no housing.'"

But steady housing comes with its own dangers. Some former inmates have families or friends willing to take them in, but that means they'll be moving back to their old neighborhoods — and often surrounding themselves with the people and bad influences that led to their incarceration.

That's something Jose M. Henriquez, 26, expects to struggle with constantly. He was released from Concord State Prison last week, after serving about five years for cocaine distribution, and is now living with a cousin.

He has a strong family support system, he said, and knows he's lucky. However, by moving back to where he grew up in Worcester, he's attracted ample temptation. People have been inviting him to countless parties, he said, or to run around and hang out the way he once did.

He'll have to be strong, he said. He can't go. If he slips up, he's just inviting another prison sentence.

"My intentions that I have implanted in my mind, I always tell myself, 'Jose, go out, do the right thing, man, because if you don't, who knows. You might not even make it home no more,'" he said.

It is also extremely difficult for former inmates to find steady, well-paying jobs, because employers often are hesitant to hire anybody with a criminal history. More companies do background checks and drug checks on job applicants, and they frequently dismiss someone with a criminal background regardless of the crime, according to Donald H. Anderson, director of the Workforce Central career center.

The center in Worcester is one of 32 one-stop career centers in the state to provide job seekers with everything from training to resume writing to interview skills workshops. The center takes clients referred from the regional re-entry center.

Finding a job for a former inmate is a struggle but not impossible, Mr. Anderson said. He advises people with criminal backgrounds to be upfront with employers, and to display that they not only have the skills for the job but are emotionally ready as well.

Still, he said, they have to be prepared for failure, and must consider job-seeking a full-time job.

Studies show that former inmates will hit many dead ends. Having a prison record cuts a black man's chances of getting a call back from an employer by two thirds, and cuts a white man's chances by half, according to a study published in the American Journal of Sociology in 2003.

Former inmates who owe child support face added pressure to find a job and a way to afford housing. If on parole, they are expected to find work in a certain amount of time, which adds to the scramble.

"They're fried. It's very hard to find something more than a low-wage job," Mr. Anderson said. "It's a real challenge not to go back, either underground or to the illegal economy."

The state has stepped up efforts to make hiring ex-convicts more palatable by promoting financial incentives, according to Mr. Anderson. There has long been federal insurance available for such hires, as well as state tax breaks, but they had been previously underpromoted.

But there has been a renewed effort by state agencies to hype the incentives, Mr. Anderson said, and for good reason: He has seen a study showing that employers are more willing to hire a former inmate if there is no financial risk.

Then there is what often becomes the final hurdle, a lingering addiction. Ms. Hilferty of Dismas House said many success stories come tumbling down because of drugs and alcohol. She's seen former inmates go through rehabilitation programs, find a good job and a move into steady housing, and then somehow come back to the addiction that led them into prison.

But all the programs on the outside, and all the guidance and hand-holding, mean little if an inmate is not fully devoted to changing. Even former inmates acknowledge that. That's why Mr. Johnson made a good impression when he walked into the re-entry center last month.

His story is one of change, he said. When he was sentenced to prison in 1995, he was angry and propped up by false pride, blaming everyone but himself. In 2000, he went to a parole hearing with bitterness and attitude, and was promptly shot down. Not ready, they said.

The easy fallback was a standard inmate formula — taking classes, acting better, building a resume for the board's approval. In 2001, though, he was rejected again. He hadn't really changed, they said.

And he hadn't. He knew that. But the experience made him reflect upon himself, upon all the people he had hurt and disappointed, and that's when he came to a lesson he followed the rest of his time there: "I thought, 'If I want people to accept me, I need to give them something to accept me for,'" he said.

So, he got his GED. He worked odd jobs in prison and took vocational training in carpentry, electric work and welding. Through countless visits, he reconnected with his younger sister, whom he had never really gotten to know because he spent too much of his youth running around town. With all this, he said, he began to respect himself.

After he told his story at the re-entry center and posed for a mug shot that would be given to Worcester police, Mr. Johnson sat quietly and flipped through his legal files. He needed a minute to just sit, to soak it in, he said. He took a deep breath.

"I still can't believe it, though," he said, mostly to himself. "It's finally over."

Then he looked up, and sniffled. His eyes reddened, and he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

A little while later, Mr. Johnson was preparing for the typical final act of these sessions: a walk to the bank with Mr. Bird, the parole officer, to cash a check for wages earned in prison.

Mr. Johnson had $458.28and would have had more, he said, but some was taken for child support. He is a father of six.

As he and Mr. Johnson were preparing to leave, Mr. Bird told of a woman who had come to the center after being released from prison the day before. While he was walking her to the bank, she told him that she felt as though everyone was staring at her, that everyone knew she had just left prison.

No, he said, they were just two people walking.