"You're not talking about justice. What you talk about is revenge.

It never ends…”

 Manuel Varga, Better Call Saul

"She killed two people on that day. He lived for 3 minutes after the stabbing.

I relapsed upon hearing of her parole hearing. I can't stand to look in the mirror because I look like him."

Daughter of victim at parole hearing

More North Americans are imprisoned per capita than anywhere else on earth. And yet so many of those tens of millions of folks deprived of their freedom and families over the past decades are not violent threats and are often just guilty of behaviors which violate puritanical strictures—mostly drug laws. Some are petty thieves and bar fighters who could be dealt with strongly but without life shattering, family- and community-destroying incarceration. A substantial number have skipped meetings with censorious parole officers or have been caught in the presence of alcohol, marijuana, or former prisoners—behaviors that would not decimate their freedom, job, or housing prospects in the absence of prior arrest. Tens of thousands are falsely prosecuted. A disproportionate number are from minority groups, and virtually all are low-income.

 Easy outrage.

 And, indeed, there is sustained movement to remove the chains, to disrupt the school to prison pipeline, and to reform parole, our focus here. Inspired by the Massachusetts volunteer organization, Parole Watch, I've begun attending public hearings for prisoners whose lives will improve by joining the over four million Americans on parole or probation. [Four million. See opening paragraph above.]

 It is a well worn comfort cushion for people of privilege that their youthful transgressions are not recorded with indelible ink. But the transgressions here are second degree murder and the people not privileged. And yet, in their two hour hearing, a second chance is in play.

 We will look at two hearings which reveal the complexity of parole for very serious crimes committed a very long time ago: details and impressions—not a full scale analysis in any case.

 And, in any case, easy outrage is harder to come by.

 * * * *

The suburban hearing room, with the charm of an airplane hanger, is a deceptively bland setting for dramatic accusations, denials, and remorse—and above all, endless hurt. We surrender licenses, phones, shoes, and belts to pass through airport-grade metal detectors and are taken upstairs by guards who speak in code via walki-talkies. We are asked whether we're with or against the applicant, shown to separate but adjacent sections, and monitored throughout. Passions quietly emerge. People comfort one another. Small talk and quiet crying. Typically five of the seven Governor-appointed Board members take their place on a panel facing the room, some join remotely. The hearings and the videotape are public. The details of the crime are provided by the Parole Board from police reports.

 "Sandra"

In 2001, the victim was found lying face down in the park where he and Sandra slept. They had been in a relationship she described as dysfunctional for 4 months. Sandra was at the scene when emergency personnel arrived. She recalled being awakened in the park by her sister and daughter. She began screaming, realizing that she had blood all over her hand, but claimed she was unaware that he was dead. He had blunt trauma to the head, resulting in multiple complex fractures. Injuries included an abrasion on his nose and hematomas on his eyelids. The back right side of the head bore three incised wounds. Cause of death was determined to be sharp force plus blunt force head trauma and the result of more than one blow inflicted at the same time. His blood alcohol level was three times the legal driving limit. Sandra never claimed self defense at or after her trial.

 Speaking against parole is the local Assistant District Attorney:

 "On the night in question she had the presence of mind to give cops two stories. She's had 20 convictions back to 1982. Her jail house phone call said I'm glad I didn't get free. I would have gone and got fucked up.' She is still abusive even when not drunk."

Also speaking against parole are the victim's three daughters:

 "We suffer from various mental illnesses due to this. He was a beautiful generous soul, not a homeless bum at the local paper pictured him. She couldn't reach his head unless he was lying down, defenseless. How did the weapon disappear? She didn't choose to get clean. She was forced to. She wasn't a kid when she did this. We have a petition with 190 signatures to keep her in jail. The only thing that will make me happy is when I die and am reunited with my father. She killed two people on that day. He lived for 3 minutes after the stabbing. I relapsed upon hearing of her parole hearing. I can't stand to look in the mirror because I look like him!"

 Not surprisingly, the victimization begins with the prisoner herself.

Two armed guards escort 58 year old "Sandra" to her chair, two volunteer law students by her side. She has the wrist and leg chains all applicants must wear. She was one of six kids, abandoned by her abusive alcoholic father at age seven. She dropped out of school as soon as she could and had many run ins with the law. She was heavily involved with drugs and alcohol. She's had 5 children, one by rape who died at birth, one with Down Syndrome, and in 1999 lost custody of the others; lost her housing and wandered the streets, a black out drunk. In the last four years her mother died, and her son and daughter, both 31, died of overdoses. Her other daughter is in a group home. She was diagnosed with Crones disease and with Covid twice. Her last hospital visit lasted 3 weeks

Despite her childhood, addiction and crime, and despite 115 Disciplinary Reports in her first years inside, she has done a lot of work on herself:

Sandra has completed all the programs that the prison offers, attends AA and has a spiritual advisory weekly meeting. She has gotten her GED and degrees from BU and Babson external programs. Her completed programs include: Restorative Justice, Victims of Violence, and Self Esteem. She is training to be a drug and alcohol councilor. She is allowed to work with dangerous tools in the prison. Her plan is to be paroled to minimum security then a half way house and then become a drug councilor. She is invited to stay with her sister and work for her brother in law. She has been sober for 20 years. "I'm responsible for his death. I got a 15 year to life sentence but I have been in 22 years. I have healed." There is no record of violence in the past 21 year, and she is on no medications. "I have good support" which includes the Aftercare Program in Framingham, and Sisters of St. Joseph which provides a friendship network in and out of jail.

This was not Sandra's first appearance, and there was clear sympathy, as a panel member acknowledged her tragic losses and troubled early history. "I believe you were an alcoholic before your first drink. I think it is a mental illness."

Q: Did your siblings care that you dropped out of school in 9th grade?

A: No

Q: Did your mother ever seek court help with you?

A: No. She had her hands full with the other kids and her jobs.

Q: You had no guidance for the first 37 years of your life.

A: I guess so.

Q: Did you try to kill yourself in prison?

A: I horded Tylenol, but that was a while ago. Nothing since.

But sympathy aside, all applicants must take full and complete responsibility for their actions without hesitation or mitigation. This is challenging for Sandra who repeatedly stated that she was blacked out at the time and has no memory of the deed. These questions reflect frustration with her on the general issue of responsibility.

Q: His family thinks you were abusive to him and you never accepted that.

A: Our relationship was one long drunk. We were bad to each other.

Q: Why do you think this panel rejected you at your hearing four years ago?

A: Not taking responsibility for the black eye [she had apparently given him]. And insolence. My attitude.

Q: When you worked with the Innocence Project [which took and then dropped her case for lack of evidence] you didn't believe you killed him. What do you say to them now?

A: It was a complete blackout, but I take full responsibility.

Q: Give examples of other extreme blackouts.

A: I would just wake up on the street.

Q: Why was this time so violent?

A: I have no idea.

Q: A neighbor said he heard someone say, Oh my God, what have I done?

A: He had a hearing aid. Maybe his hearing was faulty.

Q: Now do you have any doubt that it was you?

A: No.

Q: Was the parole hearing the first time his family heard you accept responsibility?

A: Yes

Q: Do you agree with witnesses who say they heard a couple arguing?

A: I don't remember.

Q: Do you believe you did it?

A: Yes

Applicants pull no punches when describing their former selves, often calling themselves "monsters" and saying they simply don't recognize the person who did what they did. Parole all but explicitly requires that they be reborn; no longer capable of violence, no longer self deluded. Sandra has taken advantage of a wide array of self help and self awareness programs over the decades, a fact that was noted by the board:

Q: How long did it take for the prison programs to have an impact on you?

A: About ten years.

Q: You have 25 new program certificates, which is impressive.

A: Yes. I am sober. I am healed.

But prisoners must also, in effect be saints, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year. And even with her edges sanded, Sandra does not present as docile. Prison discipline is not a clear cut issue since it is a tightly controlled environment with virtually no room to vent, but the frustrations and lack of respect must be difficult to bear. Infractions may seem trivial, but they raise the question of how the prisoner would react to challenges (disrespect etc.) in an unstructured environment. On the other hand, perhaps the infractions are just trivial and no reason for concern. It's a small, small world. Consider the following cross examination. If she defends herself, she's not taking responsibility. If she doesn't defend herself, she's admitting that the infractions are serious.

Q, Since the last hearing, you've had four new Disciplinary Reports, one for gambling, two for flaunting health restrictions, and one for being belligerent.

A: The gambling was just four of us playing cards, in full view of the guards and camera, as we always did. Someone just dropped a dime. Everyone did it.

Q: Does that make it right?

A: No, it doesn't.

Q: In 2021 when you came back from the hospital you publically hugged a water cooler and said, Look at me, I'm hugging a water jug!

A: I was kidding around. My crohn's neutralized my illness. The officer didn't know I wasn't contagious.

Q: In 2021 you came back from the hospital wearing a blue mask, but the prison had changed to white Covid masks.

A: I got the mask in the hospital and went through two levels of security at the prison and no one mentioned it. I didn't know.

Q: Also in 2021 you became publically belligerent to a guard.

A: I told the guard I had to go to the bathroom. He just wouldn't let me. I had to just stand there in front of everybody, and I pissed myself and called him a piece of shit.

Q: It's the aggregation of all four reports that concern me. At your age, with all the programs, you still have no skills to refrain. If you can't resolve conflict without being abusive, that's not my idea of rehabilitation. You are not taking responsibility, even today.

And there is the occasional innocent sounding question whose purpose is unclear but whose blandness may mask a troubling abuse of power:

Q: How are you?

An interesting question to ask of someone begging for their freedom. Folksy? Sadistic? Imagine the desperate scramble in her head as she struggled to respond. Consider the  temptation to lighten the mood with, "Oh, I'm fine, how are you?"—and how easily that could backfire: "Do you think this is this all a joke?" Luckily for Sandra, she paused and  mumbled something bland. As she successfully navigated this landmine, I was reminded of how critical it is to have good people on the board.

THE BOARD

The board's primary charge is public safety, a concern which probably diminishes with each passing year and certainly with each passing decade. The scope and impact of their responsibility is multi-generational, yet their exposure to each applicant is necessarily brief and artificial. Still, they must evaluate variations on the theme of whether the prisoner has become a new person who merits a second chance: is a prison résumé with multiple self help and anger management programs deep and real—or paper thin? How does behavior in a controlled setting translate to the outside world? And absent a threat to public safety, does parole do justice to the deceased, their grieving others, and our sense of proportion? What, in short, is the justification and value of further incarceration?

Keeping a non-threatening, truly transformed person in jail decades after the fact may violate common sense and decency (and it is increasingly recognized how much we are not the same at 60 as we were at 20), but for the board, it is a safe bet. The specter of  Willie Horton, who famously killed while on parole, however rare, forever lurks.

THE VICTIM'S FAMILY

People who have suffered powerful losses need closure. But closure cuts both ways. Typically, the family relives the brutality of the act and warns the board not to be taken in by the applicant's manipulative nature. For them, the possibility of release reopens the wound ("I relapsed upon hearing of her parole hearing!"); heightens their sense of injustice ("He destroyed our family, why should he be reunited with his?"); and erases the victim ("I'm sad that anyone thinks that his anger was more important than my family. I want my family to stay in the picture.")

On the other hand, and after some time, even family members who believe that the applicant remains unrepentant may acknowledge that he has been in a miserable locked environment for decades, will never have a good life even if released, and must answer to his own demons and deity. Of course deeply felt remorse cannot match red hot grief, but holding onto rage keeps the wound open, keeps him alive in their minds, and prevents them from getting on with their lives. They can't be blamed for their rage, but they are not helped by it, either.

I wonder how I'd feel.

And I'm sure I don't know.

THE APPLICANTS

Applicants must convince the board that they accept full and unique responsibility for their actions even when they claim to have no literal memory of them and even if others were involved. They must have been fundamentally altered by dozens of courses taken and responsibilities assumed inside the prison. They must shed their childhood demons; be credible, and display an endless level of respect for guards who may not have earned it. They cannot show the slightest irritation with the panel, though such irritation occasionally percolated up before being immediately swallowed. They must make abject and sincere apologies to the people they have hurt, and every such apology I witnessed was clearly genuine. They must have a step down plan that provides ongoing guidance and support. And they must wait an undefined amount of time to learn of the board's decision. Months, at least.

It is an appearance years in the making, endless preparation for which may mute authenticity. And the panel is a tough audience: real or perceived inconsistencies are pounced on. Good behavior is duly noted but feels less weighty. The panel probes for stress points that may burst with the triggers of an unsupervised world—a wrong look, a scorned approach at a bar, a lost job. And in the wrong hands, the probes can have a Catch-22 quality. Take, for example, the applicant who said that the person he killed had threatened to sexually abuse his children.

Q: Do you think it was wrong to take the law into your own hands?

A: Yes I see that now.

Q: How would you deal with that situation if it happened today?

A: I would call the police.

Q: What if they did nothing?

A: [pause] I would keep calling

Q: You said earlier that you have trouble with authority figures. Why would you trust them now?

For which, of course, there could be no response. No escape. Yet another reminder of how vital it is to have good people on a board with that much power and discretion. 

Consider briefly a second applicant, whose story overlaps and diverges.

 "Jimmy"

As a 12 year old, Jimmy stabbed his mother with a key chain knife. As a 13 year old, he stabbed a neighborhood woman with a jackknife. In 1962, he received a life sentence for beating a woman to death. Eleven years later, the sentence was commuted to 22 years to life, and he was released on parole. Less than one year later, he strangled a woman for mocking him.

A representative of the DA's office speaks against parole, stating that Jimmy has still not provided a true account of the [second] murder. "He maintains that he was just restraining her, but he strangled her until her eyes popped out. We want him to be in sex programs as a condition of parole, not after it. When he was in jail for the first murder, Jimmy wrote, 'with each passing month I appreciate the appalling nature of murder.' But he wrote that in 1972 and used his second chance to strangle a woman just because she laughed at him."

Not surprisingly, the victimization begins with the prisoner himself. "My first memory of my father is when my mother put me in a pen and him saying, 'You're going to make him a sissy.' I was always scared of disappointing him, but I felt that my mother prevented me from becoming a person."

Two armed guards escort Jimmy to his chair facing the Board. He has an attorney by his side, as in prior hearings. He is bent from an array of physical ailments, as well as the chains, which prevent him from fully raising his right hand when he is sworn in. He has been diagnosed with COPD, is very hard of hearing, has kidney problems, and referenced a possible amputation of one leg. He has been locked up for most of his life. When his hearing aid failed, a guard procured one for him. This is his 6th parole hearing and his 80th birthday.

As with Sandra, Jimmy has done a lot of work on himself. He now acknowledges his addiction and is active in AA, where he is mentored by a man universally respected by board. He has been involved in 16 programs, 13 since his last parole hearing. He has not had a single disciplinary report in the last quarter of  a century, is a trustee at the prison and has worked with women in that capacity with no problem. He has been sober for 49 years. He has computer office training and has held more than one position of trust. He is in the lowest risk in the prison ratings. His sister, as well as a retired and an active clergy, speak in support. A former Deacon at Garner prison states that Jimmy was trusted by male and female inmates as well as by male and female guards. "He knows the New Testament: he knows who Jesus Christ is. I'm 80, and if he was my neighbor I'd welcome him." A Bishop with 36 years in the True Life Church of God adds, "I've known Jimmy for 26 years. He has deep regret. His is not jail house religion. We made him a member of our church. We are part of his support system. When he was last refused parole, he said he could serve God in or out of jail. He is a changed man." His plan includes a step down program involving AA, the church, and an evaluation by New England Forensics as an out patient.

The board appears quite sympathetic. His prison history is exemplary and his support team beyond reproach. But he committed the cardinal sin—he murdered while on parole. Moreover, it was another brutal killing of a woman, his historic pattern. The DA doesn't fail to remind the board of this. The specter of Willie Horton, always. Given his current persona, the board makes a head scratching, almost rushed attempt to make sense of his violent youth:

Q: Why did you stab your mother?

A: She wouldn't let me have a bike.

Q: Have you learned anything about the first woman you killed?

A: She was polite, nice.

Q: Have you learned anything about the second one?

A: She was nice, we got along fine.

Q: Was it sexually motivated?

A: In the first murder I went back to see if I left anything, saw her blouse open and got aroused. I put her on the bed but never finished. The case was not considered sexual.

Q: Four acts of violence against four women. Why not challenge male figures? Were you afraid of men?

A: No, I'd been in a couple of fights.

And with that out of the way, some softballs:

Q: Why have your programs been so important to you?

A: They showed me that all my crimes were connected.

Q: How are you different today?

A: I had distorted thinking, thought I was a victim of everything. I leaned that nothing I did was related to how my father treated me. They visited me every month for 40 years. I understand now that's how that generation showed love—by not saying 'I love you.'

Q: You have a very high hurdle, of course, but you've done very well. I wish you good luck. Your kind of transformation yields a low risk of recidivism. A commitment to religion is key.

A: I don't like the word rehabilitation because it means I'm still the same person. I can't forget what I did, but I can forget what led me to do it.

* * * *

Prisoners seeking parole compel a range of reactions: their abusive childhoods are wrenching: their crimes are frightening; their prison journeys are inspiring; and their pleas to be released—to rejoin—are challenging.

Many are old, stooped, and seemingly broken. And as they apologize for their distant crimes, we wonder how long we should hold onto punitive restraint. Beyond the issue of public safety, what does our sense of justice require? And should (and does) our answer depends on whether we knew the deceased?

Finding no easy wisdom or outrage, I leave specific cases and turn to the board itself. Given the stakes and the power involved, it is clear that the process of choosing board members (historically closed door political appointees; currently closed door political appointees), their background (historically law enforcement oriented), the openness of their work, and public education about all aspects of parole need serious scrutiny. Citizen groups like Parole Watch are spearheading this effort on a variety of fronts, including encouraging people (like me) to simply attend meetings and to take notes. Parole hearings open an untypically public window into a closed institution. It is imperative that the hearings be as full of witnesses as the building will allow.

As we confront prisoners, victims, and families, we experience jolting aftershocks from a world of unwanted, uncared for children—the hurt done to and by them. And this experience may illuminate something in ourselves: not always pretty or divinely forgiving, but something that moves us beyond punishment and towards redemption