The walk to the visiting room from my dormitory took little time, but it was part of a much longer journey. When I entered the visiting room, there were about 25 incarcerated people waiting to go to the clinic area for their parole hearings. I gave my pass to the prison guard on his post and sat down next to another incarcerated person I’ll call Fred.
This was Fred’s third parole appearance, meaning he had already served his minimum sentence and the parole board declined to release him at two prior interviews. We talked about how the parole board often denied our release based on the one thing we can never change — our conviction — without fair consideration for all we had done to improve ourselves.
Rehabilitative programs, good disciplinary records, letters of support from prison staff and college degrees meant little or nothing to them. I knew the hearing was just a formality.
We talked about our plans if released while we waited to be called. Fred had a job and a family waiting for him. I did, too, and I planned to mentor at-risk young people through a nonprofit I was connected to. The prison guard called my name and I gave him my prison identification card, hung my coat on the coat rack, and took a seat. I struggled to calm my nerves. People went into their hearings and returned looking crushed. They were so deep in thought, they forgot their coats as they left. It was cold outside. I watched as they returned to retrieve their coats.
Finally, it was my turn. It seemed like déjà vu. Two years prior, I appeared at my first parole hearing in the same room. As I sat down, the commissioners asked me to confirm my name and prison identification number. Next, they asked whether I wanted to talk about my manslaughter conviction.
The commissioners explained that I did not have to speak about the facts of my case because I asserted my innocence at trial. I did not have anything to hide so I chose to talk about it. I told the commissioners I had no involvement in the crime. I felt a negative aura from this group of commissioners, so I did not waste my breath by going into depth.
At the end of my hearing, I said I did not have any reason to lie to them. I did not commit the crime, but I did do all I could in prison to make a better life for myself and others.
I told the commissioners I knew they would deny me parole for asserting my innocence, no matter how much I had demonstrated my moral character in the years since the trial. I said I could do something positive in society if released. The hearing lasted less than five minutes. In that time, they decided to saddle me with another two years in prison.
I saw the parole board six times before finally getting released after serving 18 years and nine months in prison, a full eight years beyond my minimum sentence.
My indignation for the unjust parole process in New York State is justified by my accomplishments since I was released on parole 13 years ago. I completed all the goals I had set for myself and shared with parole commissioners at each of my appearances. I graduated from college. I’ve maintained a good job as a paralegal case handler at the Legal Aid Society. I use my free time to mentor young people.
When you’re in prison, the state seeks to deprive you of power, with the goal of depriving you of your personhood. That is why I am especially proud that, in my workplace, I’m building collective power as an active delegate for my union, 1199SEIU. We use our power to advocate for decent working conditions, and for a slate of policy changes so that all New Yorkers can thrive.
Topping the list for me: my union and I support the Fair & Timely Parole and Elder Parole bills. These bills would reform the parole process to reunite families, bring home credible messengers, violence interrupters, and more, and enable the state to reinvest half a billion dollars per year in what works to end cycles of violence: housing, health care for mind and body, healing for crime survivors, and more.
These bills are backed by public defense organizations like my employer and district attorneys alike.
I want my community to be safe from crime and mass incarceration and I’m proud to be working alongside hundreds of thousands of fellow 1199 members to get us there. It’s up to Gov. Hochul and the Legislature to act, and if they do the right thing, working families across the state will have their backs.
Bell is a paralegal and 1199SEIU delegate who lives on Long Island.
