State Slams Door on Hopes for Parole

Release from prison has become a lost hope for almost 20,000 California inmates whose sentences have become de facto life terms because of the approach adopted by Gov. Gray Davis and the state parole board.

The crackdown affects inmates convicted of serious felonies and serving indeterminate sentences that carry a possible maximum of life. It does not apply to murderers serving life terms without the chance of parole for unusually heinous crimes, or those awaiting execution.

Inmates whose terms are not fixed in length had been able to win freedom by obeying prison rules and being deemed safe to return to society. But the Board of Prison Terms in recent years has granted many fewer parole dates, and since taking office, Davis has blocked the release of every inmate judged deserving by the board.

Critics say the blanket refusal to grant parole is an unfair and politically calculated over-reaction to high-profile cases of ex-convicts committing new crimes.

“What we have is a system that has turned an absolutely blind eye to trying to fairly evaluate cases,” said Dennis Kottmeier, a former district attorney of San Bernardino County. “They’re just saying, well, anybody in for a life term, your parole will be in a pine box.”

James Nielsen, chairman of the state board, said the crackdown reflects a justifiable bias toward public safety. Victim rights advocates agree.

“These guys in there can snow you--I’ve seen it,” said Maggie Elvey, director of education and research for Crime Victims United. “Lucky for us, the board and the governor can see through it.”

The withholding of parole picked up momentum during the tenure of Republican Gov. Pete Wilson, as inmate David Murr learned the hard way. Told years earlier that he could leave prison in March 1994, when his day finally came he ate a quick breakfast, picked up his Bible and bid his cellmates goodbye.

But Murr--convicted of murder after an accomplice stabbed a man during a drug-related robbery--never made it out of the California Men’s Colony. Wilson--locked in a reelection fight--stepped in at the last hour and ordered the parole board to reconsider Murr’s release. Murr, a model inmate, remains behind bars 5 1/2 years later.

When Murr entered prison in 1977, there existed a small but real hope that he would not die there--providing he kept his nose clean, showed remorse and persuaded the parole board that he no longer was a threat. Parole was civilized society’s way, rooted in Judeo-Christian tenets, of recognizing the human capacity for redemption.

But that was before a furloughed killer named Willie Horton committed a rape that changed the face of American politics during the 1988 presidential campaign--and before an ex-convict killed 12-year-old Polly Klaas in Northern California, catapulting crime to a new height on the public agenda.

Since then, the issue of parole has become a highly political one, with California and other states giving governors the power to block parole for inmates serving life terms. Parole boards, although continuing to meet, have become mostly powerless appendages.

Haunted by the ghost of Horton, few governors, have been willing to give lifers the chance to commit a new crime--and spoil some future election.

Even prisoners who boast immaculate disciplinary records and have been judged safe to return to society by the parole board are being routinely rejected. Some remain locked up despite their victims’ pleas that they be freed.

“There’s no question that the majority of these guys are not suitable for release--and may never be,” said Gary Diamond, a lawyer who has represented Murr and hundreds of other prisoners eligible for parole. “But there is a proportion--maybe it’s 5%, maybe 10%--who deserve to be out, who I would invite over for a barbecue tomorrow. They have done everything the system has asked of them. But they don’t have a chance, and that’s because of politics.”

Officially, paroles are parceled out by the nine-member Board of Prison Terms appointed by the governor. Each year the board holds more than 2,000 hearings for these indeterminate lifers, a class that includes murderers, kidnappers and arsonists. A much smaller number of inmates convicted of more heinous killings are ineligible for parole or await execution.

Dwindling Chances

The board must gauge which of those who come before it no longer pose an “unreasonable risk of danger” to the rest of us. In 1980, parole commissioners set free more than one in 10 of the prisoners they reviewed. Later, under law-and-order Gov. George Deukmejian, they released about 5% of the inmates evaluated.

That figure has tumbled steadily during the 1990s, since the governor was given greater authority over parole by voter initiative. Today, on average, half of 1%--1 in 200 inmates--are cleared by the board to go home.

Like Murr, however, most never make it.

Thirteen parole grants by the board have been sent to Davis for review this year, and he has blocked all of them. The governor revoked eight outright and sent five back to the board for a new look. In each of the cases the board has reexamined, the parole was reversed.

In April, Davis told The Times: “If you take someone else’s life, forget it,” adding that extenuating circumstances--an abusive husband shot by a battered wife, for example--would not affect his view. His statement suggests that even those whose sentences grant them the possibility of parole will never be freed--a blanket policy that inmate attorneys plan to challenge in court.

The practice of parole dates at least to 18th century England, when the king was the parole board and those lucky enough to be pardoned typically wound up doing hard labor in a colony. In this country, parole boards gained popularity in the late 1800s.

Criminologists say that parole serves as a release valve for increasingly crowded prisons--and as a powerful sanction against misbehavior. Conversely, by representing the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, parole encourages inmates to rehabilitate themselves in preparation for release.

More philosophically, the concept of parole reflects society’s deeply rooted values of forgiveness and redemption. The public’s willingness to show mercy, however, depends largely on the times, with horrific crimes like the Klaas murder hardening attitudes toward parole.

Aside from raising questions of justice, the debate over parole has economic consequences. Taxpayers spend about $21,243 a year to house each of California’s 162,005 inmates. But that figure excludes the billions spent on constructing prisons. And as the state’s prison population ages and health care issues multiply, the per-inmate price goes up.

Critics Voice Concerns

An influential state senator--Democrat Richard Polanco of Los Angeles--held a hearing in April on whether parole decisions are made fairly. Among those faulting the board’s performance were former U.S. Sen. Alan Cranston and former California Supreme Court Justice Cruz Reynoso.

Polanco also sponsored a bill, SB 128, that would require more specific findings for a parole denial. The bill, on hold for now, has been opposed by victim rights advocates, who argue that it would interfere with the board’s discretion.

Scrutiny of the system has come from the courts this year as well. Typically, judges have been reluctant to meddle with the board’s authority without evidence of arbitrary or capricious behavior.

But in March, a Los Angeles Superior Court judge concluded that the board had abused its discretion in denying parole to Robert Rosenkrantz, who killed a man who attacked him and exposed him as a homosexual the day after his high school graduation in Calabasas.

During his 13 years in prison, Rosenkrantz has maintained a clean record, earned a college degree and become certified in data processing. Topping a long list of people urging his release are Los Angeles Dist. Atty. Gil Garcetti, the trial judge and the detective who investigated the crime.

“All of the evidence presented at the [parole] hearing indicated that the defendant is not a danger to society,” Judge Kathryne Ann Stoltz wrote in ordering the board to grant Rosenkrantz a release date--an extremely rare court action that the state has appealed.

“The Board of Prison Terms has broad discretion in making parole decisions. However, this discretion is not absolute.”

On Sept. 9, the board set a parole date for Rosenkrantz in January 2001. Members noted, however, that they were doing so only under court order and do not consider him suitable for release.

A Mother’s Nightmare

She still sleeps with the windows locked, but Marcia Huff no longer distrusts everyone she meets. Ever so slowly, the fear is fading.

The crime took place in 1982, and it was about the most terrible crime a new mother could imagine. Two young women and two young men kidnapped her baby boy, demanding $100,000 for his return. Nine hours later, after a high-speed chase, 3-month-old Brandon was back home, unharmed.

Two of the perpetrators were underage girls; they served about five years in the California Youth Authority and were released. The third, the mastermind, hanged himself in County Jail while awaiting trial.

The fourth is Bruce Young, who sits in Folsom State Prison and has been locked up for nearly half his life--17 years.

The crime occurred in Woodland, a small farming town near Sacramento where the Young family ran a furniture store. Bruce, the youngest of four children, was a drug-addicted high school dropout in debt to his dealer. When the dealer proposed the kidnapping as a way for him to pay off his cocaine and heroin bills, Young agreed.

Midway through the crime, Young fled to a friend’s home. When he saw television reports of the high-speed chase, he called his pastor and turned himself in. Young pleaded guilty to kidnapping for ransom. His sentence: seven years to life.

A Change of Heart

Early on, whenever Young came up for parole, Huff wrote letters urging that he be kept in prison. Gradually, however, her feelings changed. Her son--now a high school senior--had grown into a healthy, happy young man. And her fears had begun to subside.

“At some point, you have to learn to let things go, to move on, or the anger takes control of your life,” Huff, a speech therapist for the Woodland school district, said.

In 1997, she drove to Soledad State Prison for Young’s 10th parole hearing. Huff wasn’t sure she would speak, but she viewed the trip as “a final chapter in my healing.”

As the hearing unfolded, she learned that Young had earned a college degree in prison and mastered two trades. She heard him speak of his remorse and his desire to do something--anything--to re-pay her for his terrible act. And she learned that both the district attorney who prosecuted him and the judge who sentenced him support his release.

“As I sat there, I said to myself, ‘Enough. This man has been punished long enough,’ ” Huff recalled. “And so I spoke from the heart and I told the board that I no longer opposed his release, and that if he came back to Woodland that was fine with me.”

When the board returned with its decision just five minutes later--parole denied--Huff said she was “absolutely stunned beyond belief. What it said to me was that my opinion didn’t count, and that this decision--made in less than five minutes--was predetermined.”

Young’s latest parole hearing was in July. Once again, he talked of his remorse and presented the board with more than two dozen letters of support, including two from employers offering him jobs. His attorney noted that the prison psychiatrist considers his “prognosis for successful community living . . . not just good, but very good.”

A transcript shows that board members focused on the gravity of the crime and on an infraction Young received in 1997 after another inmate cut in front of him in the food line, then took a swing at him. Young said he was careful to merely block the punches but received a citation nonetheless.

The commissioners recessed, then returned with their unanimous conclusion--that Young would pose “an unreasonable risk of danger to others” if released.

Board members would not comment on the case. In an interview, Young said he is not sure what more he can do to prove that he has turned his life around.

“I’m trying to do the right thing, so I can have the chance to show I’ll do good out there,” he said. “But it’s hard not to lose hope.”

A Task Filled With Gravity

Jim Nielsen figures that he has the most depressing job in state government. As chairman of the parole board, he spends most of his days in a small, stuffy room, listening to convicts discuss their violent, usually troubled pasts.

“Most of them got bad starts in life,” he said. “Your heart very often weeps for the child that person who is before you once was. Yet you must hold them accountable for their behavior, and you do.”

The gravity of the parole commissioners’ task is unique as well. On their shoulders rests the weighty burden of balancing the rights of the incarcerated with the goal of keeping society safe.

How does one make the right call?

“It’s a very scholarly and reasoned gut decision,” said Nielsen, a law-and-order Republican who served three terms in the state Senate before his appointment to the board by Wilson in 1992.

A lot of it is instinct, he added, often guided by the “ambience” of the hearing: “Do you feel malevolence? Do you feel remorse?” Over time, commissioners learn “how to look into the human heart and the human mind.”

The Elements of the System

The parole board labors in the shadows of the criminal justice system, behind the walls of far-flung prisons. Hearings are closed, except by special request. The inmate and his or her attorney sit on one side of a table, a panel of three commissioners on the other. Victims rarely show up. Prosecutors often come to oppose a prisoner’s release.

Commissioners earn $92,172 a year, except the chairman, who makes $95,520. But Davis has yet to fill some vacancies, so these days the work is shared by five commissioners. Stretched thin, the board has been forced to postpone scores of hearings, causing frustration for inmates whose lives tend to focus on their next shot at freedom.

Before 1978, all California prisoners served indeterminate sentences and had to visit the parole board to win a ticket home. That approach was based on the idea that an open-ended term served as an alluring incentive for rehabilitation. But critics said the system produced inequities, with conservatives complaining that some inmates were released too early and liberals arguing that race and other factors kept some locked up too long.

In response, the Legislature ushered in the era of “determinate” sentencing. Today, most inmates serve a fixed sentence and are automatically released, whether they are rehabilitated or not.

In evaluating the 2,000 or so prisoners who come before them each year, parole board members rely on formal guidelines detailing which elements to weigh. They look for aggravating factors--multiple victims, say, or a trivial motive--and mitigating factors, such as no juvenile record and signs of remorse.

Reports from prison psychiatrists are reviewed, as is the inmate’s conduct in prison. A commitment to improving oneself--by pursuing a college degree and mastering a trade--is essential. And participation in self-help therapy--such as Alcoholics Anonymous or anger-management groups--is always required by today’s board before an inmate is judged ready to get out.

The law says the parole board “shall set a release date” unless it concludes that the gravity of the offense requires more time behind bars. Inmates and their attorneys say that language creates a presumption of parole. But Nielsen disagrees, saying that there is no guaranteed right to parole--even for model prisoners. The courts generally have taken his side.

If your sentence carries a maximum term of life, Neilsen said, “you can die in prison.”

Critics say that the board’s evaluation rests too heavily on the crime and should focus more on whether an inmate poses a threat today. Steve Caswell, 43, has served 23 years for a kidnap and robbery. Granted a parole date in 1986, he has maintained a spotless record and--after waiting 13 years--was due to be released in December.

But in March, a new group of commissioners reviewed Caswell’s case and canceled his release. They offered just one explanation--that their predecessors had not given sufficient weight to the seriousness of his crime.

“Can a simple change of mind be used to justify taking someone’s date? I don’t think so,” said Caswell’s attorney, Michael Satris, who has filed an appeal.

When Polanco focused his spotlight on the board in April, lawyers and others complained about its makeup, which they say creates a homogenous view of inmates seeking parole. Except for Nielsen, the commissioners are ex-police officers. Two are Latino, the rest white. All are male. Davis appointed two, both from the LAPD.

“How about a psychologist? Or a social worker? How about a woman?” Polanco asked. He and another senator, John Vasconcellos (D-Santa Clara), say they will not vote to confirm another nominee until the board is more diverse.

A Question of Justice or of Politics?

Political analysts say standing tough on parole is a no-brainer for governors. The reason: Willie Horton.

Horton is the Massachusetts murderer who raped a woman while on a weekend furlough granted by then-Gov. Michael Dukakis. Horton’s image--and the soft-on-crime message he embodied--was used by former President George Bush to hammer Dukakis during their 1988 presidential race.

Successful candidates learned that lesson well, and their consultants will never let them forget it.

“The lesson of Willie Horton was that when it comes to violent criminal offenders, you can’t be tough enough,” said Susan Estrich, a USC political scientist who was Dukakis’ campaign manager. “There is no effective lobby crying out for more prisoners on the street, so in political terms . . . what’s to lose?”

Given that context, Davis’ April statement--”If you take someone else’s life, forget it”--makes political sense. But his communications director, Phil Trounstine, insists that politics plays no role.

“He is not driven by politics,” Trounstine said. “He is driven by his own sense of justice and right and wrong.”

Governors did not always have such broad authority over who gets paroled. That power was created thanks to Deukmejian, whose anger over his inability to block the parole of a rapist and murderer spawned a 1988 ballot initiative, Proposition 89, giving governors the right to intervene. The measure passed with 55% of the vote.

Davis refused to release documents explaining his decisions in the 10 parole grants that he has rejected so far. His spokesman, Michael Bustamante, would say only that the governor’s actions stem from his sympathy for crime victims, for whom he helped obtain compensation while he was state controller.

As for the Board of Prison Terms, Nielsen denies that politics plays a role in his work: “When commissioners make their decision, they’re not thinking about what the governor’s going to say.”

Groups that fight for victim rights could not be happier with Davis--and the increasingly slim prospects for parole in California.

“In my day growing up, when you murdered somebody you just understood that you gave up your life,” said Elvey of Crime Victims United. “I don’t want murderers out on the street living next to anybody. Those guys just need to learn to live in there.”

Critics, however, say that Davis’ declaration that no murderers will get out undermines the very mission of the parole board--to consider each case on its merits.

Dennis Kottmeier spent 26 years as a prosecutor in San Bernardino County, including half of that time as the district attorney. Back then, he figured everybody in the criminal justice system was “fair and had the pursuit of justice in mind. But boy oh boy,” he said, “have I had a turnaround in that feeling.”

The cause of that turnabout is Kottmeier’s experience before the Board of Prison Terms. He is convinced that somewhere along the way, justice took a back seat to politics.

“People read about these terrible, terrible crimes and they figure, ‘Nobody should get out--I don’t care what you did, I don’t care if it’s bad checks, nobody should get out.’ And that kind of hysteria has colored the political process,” Kottmeier said.

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Times librarian Robin Mayper contributed to this report.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

The Parole Board

The nine-member Board of Prison Terms is appointed by the governor and confirmed by the state Senate. The board evaluates inmates sentenced to life with the possibility of parole, deciding which are suitable for release. That pool includes 19,420 prisoners serving indeterminate sentences.

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MEMBERS

David A. Hepburn

Appointed by Davis in August 1999; confirmation pending. Joined Los Angeles Police Department 1972, rising to rank of lieutenant. Past president of L.A. Police Protective League.

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James W. Nielsen,

chairman

Appointed to board by former Gov. Pete Wilson in 1992. Served three terms in state Senate, belonged to two crime victim groups, championed Victims Bill of Rights.

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Manuel E. Ortega

Appointed by Wilson, 1997. Police officer for 29 years; was chief of police in Bell and Placentia. Past member, Commission on Peace Officer Standards and Training.

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Leonard Munoz

Appointed May 1999 by Davis; confirmation pending. Thirty years in Los Angeles Police Department, served on board of directors of Los Angeles Police Protective League.

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Thomas J. Giaquinto

Appointed by Wilson, 1993. Joined San Diego Police Department 1969, rose to lieutenant before retiring.

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FEW WIN PAROLE

Parole for eligible inmates evaluated by the Board of Prison Terms has become all but extinct in California. A 1988 voter initiative gave the governor the power to block the parole of murderers. In cases involving other crimes, the governor can ask the board to reconsider a grant of parole. In those cases, the board usually reverses its earlier finding.

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Source: Board of Prison Terms