A Grip of Time

When Prison Is Your Life

Lauren Kessler

• Publisher: Red Lightning Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781684350780
• eBook ISBN: 9781684350797
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

"The book provides insight into life inside a maximum-security prison while illuminating the benefits of the craft of writing. . . . compassionate." — Publishers Weekly
A Grip of Time (prison slang for a very long sentence behind bars) takes readers into a world most know little about—a maximum-security prison—and into the minds and hearts of the men who live there. These men, who are serving out life sentences for aggravated murder, join a fledgling Lifers' Writing Group started by award-winning author Lauren Kessler. Over the course of three years, meeting twice a month, the men reveal more and more about themselves, their pasts, and the alternating drama and tedium of their incarcerated lives. As they struggle with the weight of their guilt and wonder if they should hope for a future outside prison walls, Kessler struggles with the fiercely competing ideas of rehabilitation and punishment, forgiveness and blame that are at the heart of the American penal system. Gripping, intense, and heartfelt, A Grip of Time: When Prison Is Your Life shows what a lifetime with no hope of release looks like up-close.
"Takes us on a compelling, intensely personal journey into the rarely glimpsed end point of our justice system . . . What dignity, meaning, and success these lifers achieve despite the system's design." —Edward Humes, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Burned: A Story of Murder and the Crime That Wasn't
"A keenly observed and deeply felt narrative . . . so original and so compelling . . . it wouldn't let me go." —Alex Kotlowitz, national bestselling author of An American Summer

Nineteen

MONTHS AGO, WHEN MICHAEL INVITED ME TO BE PRESENT AT his rehabilitation hearing—known more chillingly as a “murder review” hearing—he warned me. “It’s going to be brutal.” Then he added, “You don’t have to come.” Then he said, “You might not want to come.”

His warnings didn’t scare me. I knew Michael. I knew what he had done, the brutality of what he had done, and I thought I understood better than most the workings of the system that was punishing him for what he’d done. I told myself that I could handle it, whatever “it” turned out to be. Of course I wanted to come. I was honored—if that’s the right word—that Michael would ask me. I thought it said something about his trust in me. And it certainly said something about Michael’s willingness to expose himself, to make his darkest self knowable to me, to allow me to witness him at this most singularly vulnerable moment.

Although I was not as innocent as I once had been about the crimes the men had committed, I had not asked them for, nor purposely sought out, the exact details of the crimes. I knew the specifics of Lee’s crime only because he had written about it with unnerving precision and had shared that writing with me. Sterling had also written a (far less detailed) description of the night he and a friend carjacked a young couple and shot them. James had written a lot about his shame and his regrets but almost nothing about what had happened the night he murdered a young woman who was his friend. One of the first things Eric had written about was his addiction and the car accident he caused, but he provided few details. Jimmie had told me, when we first met, that if I knew what he had done, I wouldn’t let him in group. I honored his wishes by not trying to discover the who/what/when/where/how of his crimes. Neither Don nor Wil had ever referenced their crimes in any writing, although the thick file Don had given me, which included his former lawyer’s letter, provided the facts.

I felt that this was their backstory to share or not. What they all wrote about were the consequences of their acts. They lived the consequences. My focus was on their lives now, how they lived them, how they became who they were today. This hearing was about whether Michael was capable of rehabilitation, so I believed its focus would be the last three decades of his life. I thought whatever happened at the hearing would provide insight into how—or if—he had come to terms with what he did, how he thought about that man who had killed his wife, that man who, presumably, he no longer was. Michael told me there would be a lot of testimony and questioning about the night of the murder. He didn’t have to make it so easy for me to find out the details. It was, I thought, an act of bravery. Would I ever, could I ever, invite someone to learn about my darkest self?

Attending the hearing of the parole board was also a way for me to observe the system that ruled these guys, that determined whether they would ever walk out the front door. I had already read about the hearings structure in both the impenetrable Department of Corrections documents and the rehab worksheets written for inmates with dumbed-down statements like “rehabilitation takes a lot of time and work on your part.” I had heard about the hearings secondhand through the tangled experiences of the guys. Jimmie had been denied. Wil had apparently been denied. He once told me, in passing, that the board told him never to come back. We’re never letting you out, they said. Don had been found rehabilitatable on one count but not the other, which I won’t try to explain because it is inexplicable. Eric, on the other hand, had been successful and was slated for parole. Now I would have the chance to observe firsthand. And I would see Michael in a setting other than the activities floor room we sat in twice a month.

At this point, Michael had already served twenty-eight years of what had originally been a life without parole sentence that, after a complicated appeal in 1993, had been changed to life with the possibility of parole after thirty years. This hearing was a step in the “possibility” direction. A three-person subgroup of the parole board would hear evidence to determine whether they believed Michael was “capable of rehabilitation within a reasonable period of time.” (If deemed capable, then he could be scheduled for a parole hearing.) He had already gone through one rehab hearing at the end of 2012, the result of which was that the board unanimously found it was “not reasonable to expect that the inmate would be granted a change in terms of confinement before four years.” In prison lingo, the board had given him a four-year flop, which meant they didn’t want to see him again, and he couldn’t try again, for four years. It was now four and a half years later. Would he be deemed “rehabilitatable” at this hearing?

What that meant exactly was—is—unclear. When we talked about rehabilitation in the writers’ group, some of the guys had definite ideas. For James it was all about working hard, working overtime, and showing a healthy bank account. For Don it was about amassing educational credits, getting degrees. For Jimmie it was about joining every therapeutic, prosocial group there was, about embracing religion. A few months ago, I had used “rehabilitation” as a prompt, and even those who were conducting their prison lives as if there were some rehab checklist struggled figuring out what it meant.

“Are you dangerous? Am I dangerous? I wonder what determines that,” wrote Don.

James wondered, “Will I ever get out of prison? It’s a tricky question,” one that will be decided by “people tasked with getting to know me in my entirety in the span of 2–3 hours.”

Sterling, ever articulate, was “weary of naysayers who believe behavior is fixed.” For him rehabilitation was about transformation and growth. But how to measure that?

Jimmie saw the other side of that and wrote with the bitterness and cynicism of experience. Those in authority use the promise of rehabilitation to “control and manipulate,” he wrote in his perfect cursive script. Those seeking parole, he wrote, take courses or go through therapy not for “the benefits of transformation” but to present “certificates of achievement.”

For Michael, who back when he wrote on the prompt was already planning for the hearing, rehabilitation was a “state of mind.” He acknowledged its “undefined standards.”

Everyone nodded—Sterling slapped his palm against the table in agreement—when Kaz read his piece aloud: “To most of us here in prison rehabilitation is a seldom defined set of requirements with unknown parameters.”

That might even be an understatement. Within the world of US corrections—the vast prison system itself, the philosophies and theories of incarceration, the research, the politics—there has long been deep ambivalence about both the concept and the realities of rehabilitation. Retributive justice, exacting a price from those who offend (the “eye for an eye” approach) was replaced in this country long ago with the philosophies of deterrence (the example of incarceration will head off future criminal behavior) and incapacitation (the separation of offenders from society will protect society). The notion that offenders could transform into law-abiding citizens—the essence of rehabilitation—underlay that nineteenth-century prison experiment in Philadelphia, that place of solitude and isolation designed to inspire regret, self-reformation, personal transformation. The solitary confinement of all prisoners, the lack of contact and communication with all others, were Draconian measures, cruel and (as we now know) psychologically damaging measures, but the intent was rehabilitation. The belief was that rehabilitation was possible.

Later, much later, therapeutic and educational programs were introduced in prisons, again with the belief that rehabilitation was possible. But it was a rocky road. Rehabilitation efforts cost money. Conservatives argued that these programs “pampered” prisoners. Liberals argued that they equaled mind control. Others were upset that publicly funded counseling, therapy, and education programs in prisons meant that inmates had more opportunities for self-improvement than law-abiding folks. Then the debate came to an abrupt halt in 1974 with the publication of—and extraordinary publicity around—a study by sociologist Robert Martinson. Entitled “What Works?,” the study examined the effectiveness of prison rehabilitation programs around the country. The answer to “what works,” according to Martinson, was nothing. Rehabilitation efforts did not work. Rehabilitation programs had minimal or no effect on whether prisoners, once released, would commit new crimes.

Martinson, a previously obscure professor, became a temporary media darling. He was featured in People magazine and interviewed on 60 Minutes. His study, widely quoted, touted as proof positive of the forever-damned mind-set, ushered in what various historians of incarceration have dubbed the “nothing works period.” The very next year, 1975, the conservative social scientist James Q. Wilson’s book Thinking about Crime posited that criminals—he called them “wicked people”—were fundamentally different than the rest of us, that criminality was so deeply rooted in their makeup that nothing could be done except to “set them apart from innocent people.”

The mood was clearly shifting, more like stampeding, away from rehabilitation. The result was the removal of many educational and rehabilitation services—and even exercise equipment—from prisons. Although Martinson published an article five years later qualifying his 1974 findings, recanting his generalizations and confessing to serious methodological flaws in the original work, this subsequent research got scant attention. The belief that there was no way to make bad people better fit too well into the “get tough on crime” political agenda of the 1980s and 1990s.

Yet, America was, and is, the land of second chances. Of second acts. A country of people who left one life behind to craft a new, better one. How does this square with “nothing works”? With the belief that transformation is not possible? The contradictions seem irresolvable. And so the debate over rehabilitation continues to play out in the political arena as it plays out every day behind the concrete walls that separate us from those who have harmed us. It is hardly surprising that prisoners like the guys in my writing group don’t have a clear indication of what being rehabilitated means or that the corrections and parole systems don’t have transparent guidelines. How do you define something you may not believe is possible? How do you measure it? But definition and measurement were what the hearing, Michael’s hearing, was supposed to be all about.

I have to make advance arrangements to attend the hearing, which, the DOC information states, is open to anyone. That they may be, but in fact, almost the only people who attend these hearings are either advocates for the prisoner (his lawyer, family loyalists, character witnesses) or advocates for the victim’s side (the prosecutor, victim’s family and friends). I will be attending as an observer only. Still, I want to make sure that my attendance doesn’t somehow jeopardize my volunteer status. In training, we heard about volunteers who stepped over the line by becoming overly involved in the lives of prisoners and, as a consequence, had their ID cards rescinded. Given how long it took me to secure the card and how it eases my comings and goings, I don’t want to make a mistake here. I check all the information given to me in training, and I read over my notes. I check with Steven, who also checks the rules and checks with his supervisor. As long as I am attending as an observer and not giving testimony, there’s no problem.

The hearing begins at eight thirty. At quarter past eight, I am standing at the counter in the waiting room presenting my ID badge to the officer on duty and wondering if all these people—I count close to twenty—are here for Michael’s hearing. It’s not visiting hours, and there are no activities scheduled for this early time slot, so they must be. It’s easy to pick out who the two attorneys might be. They’re the guys in suits hefting thick file folders. I figure the particularly well-put-together man is from the Washington County DA’s office, the people who prosecuted the original case, and is here to argue against the idea that Michael could be rehabilitatable and have a chance to get paroled. The other guy, short, squat, a little rumpled, looks a lot like Joe Pesci in his Goodfellas days. (Later he tells me people have stopped him on the street to ask for his autograph.) This has got to be Michael’s attorney. We eye each other. He is very curious about me. And I am very curious about him. It turns out that he is new to the case. He wasn’t the attorney Michael had for the 2012 hearing or, decades earlier, for his trial. He gets a modest stipend from the parole board to represent Michael. The stipend pays for ten billable hours, which, he tells me, includes the two hours back and forth from his Portland office. I tell him about the writers’ group. Will I testify for Michael? he asks. There is hope tinged with a bit of desperation in his voice. I can’t do that, I tell him.

In the midst of our conversation, I study (without, I hope, seeming to) the more than a dozen people gathered around the other attorney. They must be relatives of Michael’s wife, his murder victim. It’s been almost three decades since the night of that crime. They haven’t forgotten. Who could? I suspect that they are here for one reason: to argue against any possibility for Michael’s release. Most of them are older and look like hard-worn, working-class folks. There’s one younger woman, pale, fleshy, who looks a lot like Michael.

We’re processed through the TSA-style metal screener, led down the long hall and through two metal gates to a locked door, then up a narrow stairway into just the kind of room—bleak, institutional—you’d expect to find inside a prison. In front of the room, behind a long table, sits the three-person panel: two men and a woman. They’re staring at their laptops. In front of the long table are two chairs. Michael’s attorney takes one and begins opening folders and studying documents. The rest of the room is arranged in two sections of aged folding chairs set up in rows at ninety-degree angles to each other. One section, now filled, is designated for the victim’s side. The other, nearly empty, is for Michael’s side. This is where I sit because there is no place set aside for observers. The only other inhabitants of this section are an older woman who tells me she is from the Oregon chapter of CURE (Citizens United for Rehabilitation of Errants) and a guy named Andy who will be offering testimony—the only one on the docket—in support of Michael.

Near the back of the room, in the corner, is a cage the size of a phone booth. At the back of the cage, set into the wall, is a door that apparently leads to an adjoining room. The door opens. Michael fills the small doorway, steps into the cage, and stands there until an officer unlocks the front section. He is ashen. His eyes are glassy. He’s a big, lumbering man who looks bigger in the oversized prison T-shirt that balloons around his bulky middle and a pair of ill-fitting, saggy prison jeans. His head is freshly shaved and is glistening with sweat. His wrists are shackled together. He walks slowly, with a slight limp, the result of the hip replacement surgery he had last year. His broad shoulders slump forward. He looks at me and nods almost imperceptibly, then, with some difficulty, settles himself on the chair next to his attorney. He is a big man in a small chair. It makes him look intimidating. His back is facing me. I am perhaps ten feet away. I can see his shoulders move up and down. He is taking deep breaths. When he is sworn in, he has to bring his left hand up with his right because they are shackled together.

Michael’s attorney delivers a brief opening statement, recounting the history of the case and referencing the severity of the crime. “He murdered [his wife] in a horrible way,” he says. “We are not arguing the facts.” But the “preponderance of evidence” shows that Michael is capable of rehabilitation. The lawyer’s delivery is interesting, a combination of straight-ahead, just-the-facts-ma’am professional and conversational, as if he is having a personal exchange with the panel. He is formal and informal. You can tell he’s done this before. Many times. In fact, as I discover during the one break in the proceedings, he is scheduled for an afternoon hearing today as well.

As I listen I am suddenly, acutely—unnervingly—aware that I am observing the lawyer, studying Michael, tracking the people in the victims’ section as if I were watching a play or a TV drama. But I’m not. This is Michael’s life. This is Michael’s future. Despite the sheen of sweat on Michael’s bald head, the room is chilly. My hands are icy.

The lawyer concludes by saying that when the 2012 panel gave Michael a four-year flop, they deemed him “stoic and unemotional.” “But he feels deeply. He feels pain.” The lawyer looks over a...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Author’s Note
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Eleven
• Twelve
• Thirteen
• Fourteen
• Fifteen
• Sixteen
• Seventeen
• Eighteen
• Nineteen
• Twenty
• Twenty-One
• Twenty-Two
• Twenty-Three
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments
• Sources
• About the Author