Ernest Odom is the rare source eager to show me his criminal record. We sat together drinking coffee as he pointed out, cordially, details from the thick file pulled from his briefcase.

Battery, disorderly conduct, damage to property, restraining orders, all misdemeanors. He's done jail time and faced civil judgments, too, including several evictions.

The point wasn't to belabor his past -- a past to which he humbly owns up. It was to toss around a very good question that's been driving the 43-year-old Minneapolis man nuts. How good do you have to be -- and for how long -- before you are free to get on with your considerably cleaned-up life?

Odom's problem is that most of his offenses occurred in Wisconsin, a state that rarely expunges misdemeanor convictions by adults. He's never had a felony. Yet, he's still being denied jobs nearly a decade later in Minnesota. This frustrates Odom and his many supporters -- from criminal justice experts to homeless advocates to educators -- who believe in him and in second chances. In letters on his behalf, they speak of a man who is "trustworthy," "adaptable," a "role model." As a football and soccer coach, they call him "passionate" and "safety-minded."

Almost good enough. Hired in 2006 as a volunteer football coach for Bloomington-Jefferson High School, he was "nothing but a positive influence on our players," said one member of the coaching staff. When Odom applied for a custodial position in the district, a background check disqualified him from the custodial job. That's when he got the boot as a coach, too.

"I personally had a difficult time reaching this decision," said Bruce Pappas, executive director of Human Resources for Bloomington Public Schools. So difficult that Pappas wrote a pleading letter to then-Wisconsin Gov. Jim Doyle to give Odom a break.

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Earnest Odom

"Mr. Odom presents himself as a respectful man who has experienced some difficulty in the past, but has learned from that experience," Pappas wrote.

In a call to Pappas this week, he confirmed that he'd gone to bat for Odom, "But I told him, 'I can't put you in front of kids until this is taken care of.'"

The Wisconsin Pardon Advisory Board denied Odom's waiver request in 2008. Odom can re-apply, but he's not optimistic. "It's crazy," he said.

A spokesman for newly elected Gov. Scott Walker said Wisconsin's pardoning process, "is currently under review," with recommendations likely within the month.

Odom's story doesn't surprise Pamela Alexander, who served as a Hennepin County District judge for 25 years and is now president of the Council on Crime and Justice. A recent study of low-level offenders uncovered "very dire consequences" for many mostly young, mostly black men trying to start over, Alexander said, even if they were never convicted. "A livable-wage job is the best indicator that you will not re-offend," said Alexander, adding that the council is working diligently with employers, "teaching them how to interpret arrest records."

Odom grew up in Jackson, Miss., with working parents. "My mother taught us not to lie, not to steal, to respect your elders." In high school, he was president of his economics club and active in drama club. Then, at 16, he got his girlfriend pregnant. He graduated (voted Most Likely to Succeed) and moved to Milwaukee to enroll in a technical college. But the pressures of young fatherhood were too much, so he quit school to work, sending money to help raise his daughter, now a 28-year-old University of Mississippi graduate and teacher.

Life spiralled down. By 1994, when his son, Markell, was born, Odom and Markell's mother were drinking, they both admit. "The relationship wasn't good for either of us," he said. "The domestic violence was bad, but it wasn't me. I was a guy struggling, trying to make a family work." He served nine months in jail, paid for anger management classes, took a fatherhood course and stopped drinking.

Released in 2001, he found some jobs and lost some. "With this background," potential employers told him, "we can't do anything for you."

"It was understandable, but it was hurting, you know? Am I ashamed of my past? Of course I am. Am I going to let my past stop me? Of course I'm not."

He moved to Minnesota in 2004, ending up homeless at St. Stephen's Shelter in Minneapolis for three months. It was a turning point. Within six weeks, he'd secured two jobs, an apartment and gained full custody of Markell, now 16. He also made peace with Markell's mom. "Ernest has changed," she wrote in a letter on his behalf. "He has turned into the man he should be."

He's working many jobs to get back on track, including as a junior varsity head coach at Patrick Henry High School in Minneapolis, as a shelter advocate at St. Stephen's, and as an assistant building engineer at a high-rise condominium in Richfield. (He also worked in the pressroom of this newspaper for four years).

He lives with Markell, his fiancée, and her three children. "She's been very supportive," he said.

He could stop fighting. But he hates the idea that one day out of the blue, he might again be refused a job for the rest of his work life. "I haven't had a chance to explain myself to a system that still throws a rock in my face," Odom said.

"I feel that my name should be righted, for people to believe in me now."

Gail Rosenblum • 612-673-7350 • gail.rosenblum@startribune.com