>The new plates are more reflective.

which seems to roughly coincide with the cops switching from using radar to laser for speed enforcement and the requirement of 2 plates instead of 1. Whether that's all related, I don't know.

I don't recall them replacing plates. New registrations got new plates. Old registrations kept old plates. That's why there's still some around on older vehicles.

They were on my daily driver in 2002, I believe that was the year they phased them out.

Right— the police are probably like “wow, a plate that comes back to the same vehicle it’s supposed to be on, not expired, valid insurance.”

Hartford Courant Connecticut INSIDE THE LICENSE PLATE FACTORY By STEPHANIE REITZ; Courant Staff Writer Hartford Courant • May 17, 2001 at 12:00 am

CHESHIRE -- — They have forfeited their freedom, these silent men stamping license plates deep inside the Cheshire Correctional Institution.

Connecticut drivers seldom contemplate their labor. The plates simply arrive in the mail one day, and for most of us, that's enough.

But in a formidable brick building in the midst of the Cheshire prison campus, the age-old prison stereotype is alive in the roar of metal-cutting machines, the smell of paint and the prisoners at their work stations.

The state's switch to new reflective plates has prompted a whirl of activity in the marker factory, the most prestigious job to which these maximum-security inmates can aspire while behind bars.

Their hourly pay: About 30 cents for novices, up to the rare and coveted 90-cent maximum.

"Oh, yeah, this is top of the line," said 34-year-old Tarus Kenney, a convicted drug dealer who has worked his way up to running the paint machine for new vanity plates.

Starting last September, the license plate factory has pumped out 22,000 to 24,000 new and replacement tags each week.

The hectic pace is expected to continue through fall 2002, when the statewide switch is complete and the manufacturing schedule returns to its normal pace.

"Some of these guys, especially those with high recidivism, have never worked anywhere else," said Richard Alhage, industry manager for Correctional Enterprises of Connecticut.

Under the auspices of Correctional Enterprises, the state's inmates make products ranging from license plates to name badges, mailing services and data processing services. The financially self-supporting agency can sell only to nonprofit organizations, municipalities and other state agencies.

Inside the Cheshire prison's high brick walls, the oldest prisoner is an 83-year-old Fairfield man convicted in 1993 of axing his wife to death. The youngest inmates are barely 18.

The license plate factory workers fall in the midst of this age range, screened to weed out those with ongoing gang ties, a history of aggression or other behavioral problems. They also must have a high school degree or equivalency certificate.

In the end, only 45 to 50 of the facility's about 1,400 prisoners get the nod to work in the factory, which has occupied the same brick building for more than 50 years.

"Usually, a lot of the guys out here are doing longtime bids," said Alhage, his eyes scanning the huge room filled with thumping machines and tan-uniformed inmates.

"We try to make it replicate a workplace in the outside world," he said, motioning to the time clock where inmates check in and out daily.

"They know they're still in a prison, of course, but we make it a business setting within the prison."

Each morning at 8:15, the inmates line up at the time clock. Photos of gym shoes available for purchase from the prison commissary are stuck on the wall nearby, both as information and incentive.

The prisoners settle at the machines where, except during their lunch break, they will work until at least 2:45 p.m. If demand is high, they might continue through 5 p.m. on overtime shifts.

The plate-making process starts in a corner where pure aluminum, cut 12 inches wide, slides off huge rolls into a machine. Inside, they receive a reflective sheeting: the royal blue border and gradient bluish-white background that's now recognizable statewide.

A press neatly slices the aluminum into individual plates, which roll out with a metallic clack to be stacked by inmates.

In the middle of the vast room, prisoners insert combinations of letters and numbers into a giant machine that stamps the plates with a reverberating thud. The most experienced workers get the rhythm down quickly, their hands barely pausing between plates.

Piled onto a pallet, the plates are then moved to a machine nearby where inmates pour paint into the appropriate openings -- blue for most plates, red for combination plates -- and the raised characters are slathered by a paint-covered roller.

After 30 minutes in an oven at 280 degrees, the dried plates are ready to be lined up on a belt that runs under a scanner, which checks whether the combinations match those on the Department of Motor Vehicles' order forms.

Then, they are boxed up with the appropriate paperwork, ready for a mailing company to pick up and send to motorists throughout the state.

Kenney, the convicted drug dealer working on the vanity plates, is among those who thrive amid the discipline.

His job is particularly prestigious because drivers are guaranteed to receive their vanity plates in five days, so slackers are quickly weeded out from vanity-plate duty.

"I didn't live this way in the street. I was running the streets, selling the drugs, hustling. You know, working the wrong way," Kenney recalled.

Prisoners picked to work in the license plate factory know that if they fight, they're out.

"We've all had to learn to work together," said 43-year-old John True, a former Southington resident serving time for drug sales.

Although the supervisors refer to them as "workers" in the factory setting, it's never forgotten that these workers are convicted killers, rapists, drug dealers and other offenders.

The guards allow only a few informal touches -- "Let Love Prevail" scribbled in black on a message board, or a picture of a motorcycle cut out of a magazine and taped to a character-stamping machine.

Nor do the inmates try to convince themselves or others that their work in the factory is repentance for their crimes. Despite the relatively high pay, it's still a job -- and it's still prison.

Paywall 🚨