Twenty-First Century Barbarism
The US is the only country in the world that sentences minors to life without parole. The consequences are devastating.
by
Marlene Martin
Adolfo Davis, who was sentenced to life without parole at fourteen years old. Alyssa Schukar / New York Times
It is a wet, dreary day in Chicago when a group of thirty-five people gather at Precious Blood Church on the southwest side of Chicago to make the long drive to
Menard Correctional Center. The prison is at the southern end of the state, a six- or seven-hour drive from Chicago, depending on traffic.
Julie Anderson has made the trip, on her own, with a friend or with her husband, five times a month ā the maximum number of visits a prisoner is allowed ā every month for the past twenty years. Her son Eric was fifteen when he was convicted of a double homicide and given a mandatory sentence of life in prison without the possibility of parole.
āI never knew my life was going to be like this,ā Julie tells me. āWhat I once thought of the criminal justice system has completely changed. I used to believe in it ā I donāt anymore.ā
People have their bags, suitcases, and blankets, and theyāre beginning to congregate in front of a large bus, donated by Northwestern University School of Lawās
Bluhm Legal Clinic. This is the fourth annual trip, coordinated to help family members visit their loved ones, many of whom were sentenced to life without parole when they were juveniles.
For some, this bus trip will be the only time this year they will be able to go to Menard, since many donāt drive and wouldnāt be able to afford a hotel stay. Ray Joiner, whose son is incarcerated at Menard says, āThey put these prisons so far away for a reason. It makes it so difficult for family to visit. That makes it hard on these guys, not getting to see your family. Itās like they want to break you. And thatās exactly what they do ā they break you.ā
A minister says a prayer before we leave. As he steps off the bus, someone says, āThis is the party bus.ā People chuckle as the bus pulls away.
Of the 3,400 prisoners housed at Menard, seventeen will get visits over the two days weāre there.
Julie will be seeing her sonās cellmate, Michael, because her own son is presently at Cook County Jail, awaiting a resentencing hearing. āHeās a wonderful person,ā she says of Michael, āand I feel bad because he doesnāt get visits very often. Heās been such a good influence on Eric. Theyāve become very close. And heās so smart. He helps a lot of people in there.ā
Julie sends as much as she can to both Michael and Eric, so they can share items they buy from the commissary. Julieās mission is to bring her son home. Since she canāt do that right now, sheāll instead bring as much home to him as she can. Thatās why she makes this long trip five times a month ā she is Ericās lifeline.
Like the other juvenile offenders at Menard who were given mandatory life without parole sentences, Eric has had a stroke of luck. Because of the Supreme Courtās 2012 ruling in
Miller v. Alabama, it is no longer constitutional to sentence people who were juveniles at the time of their alleged crime to mandatory life without parole sentences. In 2014, Illinois became one of several states to determine that the Supreme Court ruling should be applied retroactively.
Each of the eighty prisoners still incarcerated in Illinois who were given a mandatory life without parole sentence as juvenile offenders will get a resentencing hearing. Each one will come before a judge, who will decide if the sentence was correct or if it should be reduced.
In theory, a judge could listen to a prisonerās appeal and determine that he or she has already served enough time and vacate the sentence. Thatās what Julie and the other family members are holding out hope for.
Unfortunately, the
Miller decision didnāt do away juvenile life sentences. Going forward, judges can still impose this barbaric punishment, even for a juvenile. But now they will be required to take āmitigating circumstancesā into account: defendantsā age at the time of the crime, their life circumstances, and that juveniles have less impulse control and are more vulnerable to peer pressure because their brains are still developing.
The US still has more than two thousand juvenile offenders serving life-without-parole sentences ā a punishment no other country in the world imposes on minors.
Resentencing has begun in Illinois, and that has Julie very much on edge ā especially considering how the first case went: that of Adolfo Davis.
Back in 1990, when Adolfo was fourteen years old, he agreed to be the lookout for his fellow gang members in a crime that resulted in the death of two people. He was arrested and put on trial as an accomplice, but the courts treated him as responsible, as if he had pulled the trigger. When he was convicted, he was given a sentence of life without the possibility of parole ā even though he didnāt actually kill anyone.
Earlier this year, Adolfo, now thirty-eight years old, came before Judge Angela Petrone for his resentencing. The hearing lasted eleven hours. One of the moms of an Illinois prisoner described what a grueling day it was:
[Petrone] let the prosecutors talk for four hours, and they just kept saying the same thing over and over again, and dramatically pointing at Adolfo. She only gave us a two-minute bathroom break, and then you had to be back in the courtroom. Some people couldnāt even get downstairs to the bathroom in time.
Petrone re-imposed the original sentence, stating in her opinion: āThis sentence is necessary to deter others. It is necessary to protect the public from harm. The defendantās acts showed an aggression and callous disregard for human life far beyond his tender age of fourteen.ā
Julie was in the courtroom to support Adolfo. She was stunned by Petroneās ruling. āShe didnāt even give any credence to the new findings on brain science that were presented at his hearing,ā Julie said. āThe judge said it was only speculative. But the
Miller ruling specifically talked about the brain science. Itās not speculative! She had her mind made up as soon as she came in there.ā
Julie described watching Adolfo ā who has already spent almost two-thirds of his life locked up in prison ā when he heard he had been re-sentenced to life without parole. āIt was awful,ā Julie said. āHe just broke down. His shoulders were heaving as he sobbed. I was so angry. I just went home, and I thought: Really? Really?ā
Julie said Adolfo wasnāt even in the room when the judge entered and began to read out her seven-page decision. His lawyer had to interrupt to stop her so he could be found. āShe wasnāt even aware that he wasnāt here,ā Julie said. āShe wasnāt even going to look at him. Sheās throwing away his life, and she isnāt even going to look at him. He wasnāt even a person to her.ā
On the bus, someone puts on a movie, a few folks chat quietly with each other, and others stare out the window at the endless miles of flat, open land on each side of the highway.
Julie tells me I wonāt be able to take pictures of Menard. āNo, they donāt let you. They donāt even allow photos of the prisoners.ā She pulls up a picture of Eric on her phone. Beaming out is a young, slim, handsome boy of fifteen. āThis is Eric when he was fifteen,ā she says proudly, ābut thatās it. I donāt have anything current.ā Even though Eric is now thirty-five, there is nothing to depict him over the years or to chronicle his visits with his family. āItās just cruel ā another form of humiliation.ā Julie says of the policy.
Gladys Weatherspoon is talkative and friendly. She is traveling with her mother Maxime to visit her brother, Fred Weatherspoon, who has served twenty-two years in prison. He was also charged with accountability. āIāve been on three of these trips, and I just hope we donāt have to make it again,ā she says, referring to her hopes that Fredās sentence will be vacated at his hearing.
Gladys has two kids of her own, who are grown and out of the house. She talks about some difficulties in her own life. āI live with my mom now,ā she says. āI havenāt worked in three years.ā She talks about hopeful job prospects and of maybe being a nursing assistant.
I overhear her ask Ray if he believes in God and then if he believes in hell. Ray says he does, and Gladys is incredulous. āLike all that fire and heat and stuff?ā she asks.
Throughout the bus ride, people share similar stories of the awful conditions inside prison, starting with the petty and cruel restrictions. Julie recounts one incident:
Remember when the woman visited, and they told her she couldnāt leave with the candy bar she bought? She didnāt see the signs, and she had bought the candy bar from the commissary, so she thought she could bring it out with her. They were so mean. They were just screaming at her: āNo! YOU CANNOT BRING THAT OUT!ā
So the girl just sat there and opened up the wrapper, and she just shoved the candy bar all into her mouth, and just munched on it right in front of them. She just stared at them as she munched on it. They were so mad. She got banned from visiting for that.
Another family member talks about the routine shakedowns inside the prison. While their cells are searched, the men are brought into a main area, their hands are shackled, and theyāre made to squat down and put their foreheads on the wall. They arenāt allowed to move, and they might have to stay there for hours. Some defecate on themselves, and others fall over or pass out.
When I ask why theyāre made to do this, Julie answers: āBecause itās prison. Because thatās what they do.ā Others nod in agreement.
We pull into the convent where we will be staying before 5 PM, and the nuns ā all of them white and most of them elderly ā are waiting for us and start to fuss over us immediately: āHow was the drive? You must be hungry? Come in and have something to eat.ā
Everyone will have a room of their own, with a dresser and internet; every three people will share a bathroom. The nuns show us to our rooms down the expansive corridors, where our names are handwritten on each door. The nuns refuse to take any money for our two-day stay, and they insist on feeding us several meals while we are there.
Emmanuel Andre is the tall, elegant man who co-organizes this annual event with Julie. Outwardly, they are a study in contrasts: Julie is short, white, and gregarious; Emmanuel is tall, black, and reserved. But both care a great deal about these families and the prisoners, and they convey respect when talking with each of them.
A certain amount of dignity is stripped away from family members when a loved one is in prison. How do you tell your friends that you are taking a three-day trip to downstate Illinois to visit your son, who is locked up in prison and may die there? Emmanuel wants to give back family members their rightful dignity.
Emmanuel is a practicing attorney who knows the inside of the criminal justice system and helps break down the legal jargon for people. Each night, he pulls people together in a circle to share what is on their mind. We each take a turn responding to the questions he poses: āWhat are you most looking forward to on this visit?ā āWhat is it that you feel you need most right now?ā
Mary Hicks, who will be visiting her son Keon, says how happy she is to be seeing him. Unlike the family members of others in the circle, Keon is not eligible for resentencing. āMy son missed it by a year.ā She expresses her gratitude to everyone. āIt just feels so good to be with you all,ā she says, smiling broadly.
Many people give thanks and recognition to God, and one mom says, āI know God is going to see us through this.ā
When Gloria Jackson speaks of visiting her son Demetrius, she breaks down. Between sobs, she talks about how isolating it was before she met the other family members in the room. āIt was just so hard,ā she says. āI just cried so much. I felt so alone, and I didnāt think I could do it. You all helped me.ā
Sitting next to her, Gloriaās daughter is also crying as she tells us how happy she is to be seeing her brother. Demetrius, like Eric, will be getting a resentencing hearing. He was also found guilty of accountability.
The Guerra family ā a mom, brother, and sister ā are in the circle for the first time. Maria, the mother, talks about how frustrated she is with the criminal justice system. āThey twist everything you say,ā she says. āYou say one thing, and they twist it around like it was something else.ā Anita, the sister, says, āMy brother didnāt do anything wrong. He shouldnāt be in there.ā Daniel, the brother, remains silent, fidgeting nervously with his hands.
The next day, we go in two shifts to Menard. People are dressed up like they are going to church. Gloria has on a white denim pantsuit. Vera has her hair done up nice and is wearing a striking purple shirt.
Approaching Menard is like approaching a fortress. Itās a huge facility, perched on top of a hill. We are processed and assigned seats in the small visiting room, which looks like a workplace lunchroom ā there are twenty or thirty small tables with chairs that are bolted to the floor. Signs listing various rules are hung around the room (e.g., prisoners arenāt allowed to get up from the tables once they sit down).
This will be my first time visiting Jamie Jackson. I came to know him from working alongside his mother Marva in the
Campaign to End the Death Penaltyās Chicago chapter. Even though Jamie didnāt get the death penalty, his ālife until death in prisonā sentence is essentially the same thing. Marva and other moms wanted a place to fight for their sons too.
Julie is excited I will be able to visit with Jamie. Marva is getting older, and itās difficult for her to make the trip. āIāve called her a few times, begging her to come, but I just canāt convince her,ā Julie says. āI just love Marva. She is the sweetest thing. Sheās always praying for me.ā
Jamie is late in arriving, so I sit and watch as others greet their loved ones, hug, laugh, begin chattering. We call out to each other, and some introduce me. I comment more than once, āHe looks just like you!ā Even though we canāt go to each others tables, there is a sense of camaraderie about the visit.
Ray, who lives in the Englewood neighborhood, is the only dad making the visit. Heās here to see his son Robert, who is serving a forty-year sentence and is also not eligible for resentencing. In the group circle later that night, Ray identifies the atmosphere in the room that day. āIt was a good visit,ā he says. āIt had a good energy in the room. Iāve been on other visits, this was a good one.ā
Finally, Jamie comes out. We exchange a hug. His smile is warm, and heās upbeat.
He tells me the guys were calling him pops for a while because he had a long beard until just a few days ago. āThen I just cut it all off,ā he says. His head is bald, too. āI shave it,ā he says. āDoes it look good?ā He tilts his head back to show me. He has an easy laugh, oftentimes from the belly.
He wants to know how the ride down was, what itās like at the nunās place. I tell him about how I took a walk around the grounds surrounding the convent and got lost. āI walked toward a barn I saw,ā I say, āand a whole family was eating at a picnic table out back. I walked towards them, and they all turned to look at me, surprised to see me there, while I apologetically asked them if they could point me in the direction of where the nuns live.ā Jamie says, āGood thing you werenāt black.ā He leans back in his chair laughing, and so do I.
There arenāt many black people around this area. The majority are confined inside Menard. This area has a reputation of being Klan country.
Jamie tells me of his work at Menard. He works in the kitchen six days a week, six hours a day. He and a crew of guys clean the food trays, wash and stack them again. Itās very physical labor, for which he gets paid $19 a month.
He talks about how he once had a job stocking items for the commissary: āI really liked that, and I was good at it. I had to figure out how much to order of something, and I always changed it up. Like I always had a different pair of sneakers, not the same ones. I would figure out what was selling and what wasnāt and always changed it up a bit.ā
Jamie was convicted of robbing and killing a store clerk in 1991, when he was seventeen. His punishment was life without the possibility of parole. But his sentence doesnāt quite fit under the
Miller decision, as the judge who imposed it wasnāt required to do so under mandatory sentencing. āBut he may as well have,ā says Jamie. āHe really didnāt take anything into account, like the fact that I had no prior record.ā
Jamie and his lawyer believe that the
Miller decision will have ramifications that will eventually help Jamie, too. Presently, he has a petition before the court for a new trial, and he is also pursuing resentencing in light of
Miller.
Jamie went to prison when he was eighteen. He just turned forty-two last month.
At the circle that night, people share how happy they were to see their loved ones.
āIt just felt so good to give him a hug,ā LaToya Jackson said of visiting with her brother Demetrius. Vera Wages enthused over her visited with her brother Michael, and Esther Clark was beaming about her visit with her son Javell.
I was embarrassed when it was my turn, and I cried. I felt overwhelmed by the injustice of it all ā to look around and see them visiting, chatting, all dressed up, and seemingly so happy in such an impossible, sad situation that has pushed their relatives so far away, maybe for the rest of their lives. I choke out: āI hope we can get more people like me to visit, to be involved, to help make this invisible injustice visible.ā
Sarah Silins, who used to help organize these events, drove down on her own with her ten-year-old son. She has brought him before, and he likes the whole experience. āThis is good for him,ā she says, āitās good for him meet these family members and prisoners.ā
Sarah notes how family members have been deprived of seeing their loved ones in social situations. āThey never get to see them interact with other people,ā she says. Itās something that you can see that Sarah treasures, as she watches her young sonās interactions with family members and prisoners.
These parents, these brothers and sisters ā theyāve never gotten to see their family members hang out with their peers, or interact with a coach or a teacher or a workmate. So the very brief moments in the visiting room ā when we call out to each other across our tables, āOh you look just like your mom!!ā āHello, itās nice to meet you.ā āHow are you doing?ā ā for just a very few precious moments, itās almost kind of normal.
