July 9, 2018
One man on the bus I hadn't seen in over twenty years, at Sumter C. I, when we were both artists turning out paintings in a place that allowed prisoners privileges long-forgotten in the harsh present-day environment. Like myself, the years had not been kind to my friend, hair thinner and grayer, deep wrinkles stooped, sad eyes that emitted a lack of hope so prevalent among longterm lifers.
We both brightened and smiled when we recognized each other, but after a two-minute synopsis, it was obvious he was barely hanging on. Most of his family was gone, passed away, a common situation when lifers outlive their families and the ones left weren't able to help him, barely making it themselves. Parole? A "Buck Rogers Date," parole-eligible prisoners call it, a release date 40, 50 or far more years into the future, well beyond any mortal person's life expectancy, a slow death penalty, we call it.
I met more old acquaintances on my ride to Daytona Beach (never saw a beach), just another prison, another address. Only one out of a dozen men had a reasonable parole date, 2020 A.D., but there was no guarantee that date would be affirmed. My own parole date of July 4, 2017, had been arbitrarily "suspended" for seven years...see you in a few years...for no reason at all. The hostile, politically-motivated parole commissioners have an aversion to releasing old-timers on parole, releasing only 27-30 out of 4,900 eligible in a typical year, despite the prison system releasing tens of thousands of other prisoners back on the street every year, then admitting tens of thousands of "new commitments" to take their places. In a couple hundred years, all of us will be free.
One old timer told me that in 2011, when the new governor, Rick Scott, took office in Tallahassee, the Florida Channel broadcast a meeting between Scott and the three then-commissioners, in which he told them, "If you parole someone who gets out and commits a violent crime, I will fire you." Message received: Don't parole anyone and don't risk your $91,000 a year job.
For nearly forty years, virtually my entire imprisonment serving this "natural life with 25 years minimum," I've been involved in programs to help other prisoners, first as a student, then as an instructor. One of the most important programs, I felt, were parole planning workshops, helping parole-eligible men prepare parole release plans, garner letters of support from family and friends, and figure out the maze of rules that prisoners are required to comply with. For years during the 1980's, certain Florida legislators lobbied to abolish the parole commission, long-known as one of the most corrupt state agencies. Money bought paroles. The rich got out, the poor stayed in, some forever. They finally abolished it, they thought, but thirty years later the parole commission, made over with a new name, the Florida Commission on Offender Review" (FCOR), is bigger and stronger than ever.
The "Objective Parole Guidelines Act of 1978" was passed into law to limit the unbridled discretion" of the parole commission. Anyone with a murder conviction prior to 1994, when they passed a new law, remained under the authority of the parole commission, supposedly eligible for parole. After 1994, the "mandatory life without parole" sentence went into effect, since technically there would be no commission to grant paroles. As long as one parole-eligible lifer remained alive, the commissioners had jobs.
The Florida Supreme Court, in a recent case (Atwell) stated that although those lifers under the old system were still parole-eligible, the parole commissioners, in effect, treated them like they were serving a "mandatory life without parole" sentence, condemning them to death in prison. Neither the trial judge nor the jury sentenced the old timers to death, but the parole commissioners did. Grim prospects.
When I got to Tomoka, which I'd left in 2010, the reunions
continued daily. Men who'd been in my art classes asked if I'd teach new
classes. Others asked about my creative writing classes, and the oldest of the
old asked for help with their parole release plans. Prison has changed greatly
over the decades, much harsher and less responsive to actually preparing
prisoners for success in free society, and most of the state-sponsored
"rehabilitation" programs are "paper programs," generating
millions of dollars for budgets, but having little lasting effects for those
required to complete them before their releases.
From 2012-2014, at Okaloosa C. I., a repressive prison near Alabama, in the Florida Panhandle, surprisingly, the administration allowed me to teach my own classes, in exchange for teaching their re-entry programs. Sixty-eight parole-eligible old-timers signed up for four parole planning workshops, and worked hard to learn to help themselves and others.
One old man, nicknamed "Red Devil," presumably for his behavior as a young man, had been in prison over fifty years, since he was eighteen. He was also blind, and an inmate helper led him around and had to feed him. And that old man had a parole release date far into the upper reaches of the twenty-first century! How on earth could they consider him a threat to society? That was only one example of many. The classes went very well. Everyone did the best they could, considering the levels of functional illiteracy and institutionalization.
When my "good adjustment transfer" was approved and I left Okaloosa behind, I was sorry for my fellow prisoners, but I had to think of my own release efforts, fighting the political tampering of corrupt elected officials with a personal vendetta against me. I heard months later that after I left Okaloosa, the entire re-entry program had been shut down, for lack of qualified instructors. A shame.
At Tomoka I submitted a proposal to officials to start a parole planning workshop for the old-timers, who are usually left out of program offerings, with the prison emphasis on short-timers getting out soon. Surprisingly, it was approved, perhaps because it didn't cost the state anything.
About twenty old men showed up for the first class in April, the youngest: late forties, thirty-plus years in, came to prison at fifteen years old, the others ranging from their fifties to seventies. All were attentive and interested, but most didn't have a clue how to extricate themselves from the tar pit they struggled to survive in.
From 2012-2014, at Okaloosa C. I., a repressive prison near Alabama, in the Florida Panhandle, surprisingly, the administration allowed me to teach my own classes, in exchange for teaching their re-entry programs. Sixty-eight parole-eligible old-timers signed up for four parole planning workshops, and worked hard to learn to help themselves and others.
One old man, nicknamed "Red Devil," presumably for his behavior as a young man, had been in prison over fifty years, since he was eighteen. He was also blind, and an inmate helper led him around and had to feed him. And that old man had a parole release date far into the upper reaches of the twenty-first century! How on earth could they consider him a threat to society? That was only one example of many. The classes went very well. Everyone did the best they could, considering the levels of functional illiteracy and institutionalization.
When my "good adjustment transfer" was approved and I left Okaloosa behind, I was sorry for my fellow prisoners, but I had to think of my own release efforts, fighting the political tampering of corrupt elected officials with a personal vendetta against me. I heard months later that after I left Okaloosa, the entire re-entry program had been shut down, for lack of qualified instructors. A shame.
At Tomoka I submitted a proposal to officials to start a parole planning workshop for the old-timers, who are usually left out of program offerings, with the prison emphasis on short-timers getting out soon. Surprisingly, it was approved, perhaps because it didn't cost the state anything.
About twenty old men showed up for the first class in April, the youngest: late forties, thirty-plus years in, came to prison at fifteen years old, the others ranging from their fifties to seventies. All were attentive and interested, but most didn't have a clue how to extricate themselves from the tar pit they struggled to survive in.
One man, George Christie, a diminutive man of indeterminate
old age, sat in the front desk in the middle row, hard of hearing, not wanting
to miss anything. He told me he had Crohn's Disease, wore a colostomy bag, and
spent a lot of time in medical, might miss an occasional class, but was serious
about learning how to complete a parole release plan. He was serious about the
class, the first ray of hope he'd had in years.
Classes went well. The men were motivated to learn, even the ones with Buck Rogers dates. This might be the only instructions they would get before upcoming hearings, and each one wanted to improve their chances.
One week, George's desk chair was empty, and again the following week. Old-timers are set in their ways, and the seats they'd first picked were the ones they stayed in week after week. George's seat remained empty. Then we received word that George was in the prison infirmary, having taken a turn for the worse. He was very sick, but asked that we send him any paperwork and instructions we passed out in the classes, so he could keep up. We could do that.
George got sent to the Lake Butler prison hospital, then back to the infirmary. Another message--more paperwork, please. Then last week a fellow prisoner came to class and told me, “You can take George's name off the callout. He won't be back."
"What happened?" I asked. "Did he transfer?" We lose people to transfers all the time.
"He died."
Perhaps that should not have shocked me, but it did. It affected me. Even though I'd only known George for a few weeks, we had established a connection. I told the other class members about George's abrupt passing, no one saying anything, lost in their own thoughts of mortality. Old- timers have a high mortality rate. When class convened, I couldn't help but stand next to George's desk and visualize the little man who, like me, had spent most of his life in prison.
I tried to use George's death as a teaching point, telling the others, "My goal is to survive this life sentence. I want to take as many of you out of here as I can." Several men nodded in agreement. A few of them, with Buck Rogers dates and little hope for release, sat silent, refusing to give up despite the odds, waiting for me to continue on with the class.
George's chair remains empty.
Charlie Norman
Classes went well. The men were motivated to learn, even the ones with Buck Rogers dates. This might be the only instructions they would get before upcoming hearings, and each one wanted to improve their chances.
One week, George's desk chair was empty, and again the following week. Old-timers are set in their ways, and the seats they'd first picked were the ones they stayed in week after week. George's seat remained empty. Then we received word that George was in the prison infirmary, having taken a turn for the worse. He was very sick, but asked that we send him any paperwork and instructions we passed out in the classes, so he could keep up. We could do that.
George got sent to the Lake Butler prison hospital, then back to the infirmary. Another message--more paperwork, please. Then last week a fellow prisoner came to class and told me, “You can take George's name off the callout. He won't be back."
"What happened?" I asked. "Did he transfer?" We lose people to transfers all the time.
"He died."
Perhaps that should not have shocked me, but it did. It affected me. Even though I'd only known George for a few weeks, we had established a connection. I told the other class members about George's abrupt passing, no one saying anything, lost in their own thoughts of mortality. Old- timers have a high mortality rate. When class convened, I couldn't help but stand next to George's desk and visualize the little man who, like me, had spent most of his life in prison.
I tried to use George's death as a teaching point, telling the others, "My goal is to survive this life sentence. I want to take as many of you out of here as I can." Several men nodded in agreement. A few of them, with Buck Rogers dates and little hope for release, sat silent, refusing to give up despite the odds, waiting for me to continue on with the class.
George's chair remains empty.
Charlie Norman
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