🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
How will the end of my sentence feel? That question did not enter my mind until about my twelfth year. It is April 2024, and I am in the middle of answering that question right now. I waited 28 years for my parole hearing that lasted less than ten minutes. I expected so much more than what actually happened that it was a little anti-climatic. The week of my hearing found me tense all the time and struggling to stick to my routine hanging on to a sense of balance as I waited. I prepared a written statement and rewrote it five times, changing one or two words each time. I gathered and sorted all my certificates, ranking them in order of importance and separating them from my support letters, also ranked by what I believed to be most influential. I even had my best uniform starched and pressed so I would walk into my hearing “icy white” and “pressed down” to the creases along the front of my legs.
In retrospect, I focused on the very few things I could control to combat the fact that I had so little control of the hearing. It is hard to describe the feeling of being aware that EVERYTHING in my future depends on the votes of five members of the parole board. My entire future is determined by an interview with a single person. Will I make parole? I will not know for another eleven days after my hearing. Will I start work at the cattle company? Depends on the vote. Will I find my niche as a farrier? Depends on the vote. Will I be able to take care of my elderly mother? Depends on the vote. Will I find a woman and build my ranch? Depends on the vote. Will I … (fill in the blank?) Depends on the vote.
Nervous, high-strung, unsettled, apprehensive, impatient, scared, uneasy, and filled with misgiving are just a few adjectives I can use to label the feelings that hold me hostage as I wait for my hearing. The best way to describe what I felt is through my experience with Penny Two-Stockings, or horse 16-3 as the prison knows her. Penny came to me scared and fearful of people, much like I walked into the hearing wary of the man in the chair with my future in his hands. The first time I tried to put a halter on her, she spun and kicked, barely missing me as her hooves connected with the stall wall like a shotgun blast. I was certainly wound that tight in the little interview room (although I probably would not kick anyone). After months of work and patience, I finally had Penny under saddle, but she bucked like a pro. Every time I climbed into the saddle, I had no idea of how long she would remain calm. At any given moment, she was liable to buck at the slightest spook or bolt on her own whim. Riding Penny was a moment-by-moment affair with no idea what the next moment would bring. I just had to trust in my ability to stay in the saddle and hope I could lead Penny to a sense of balance long enough to make it through the day. The moment Penny and I saw the barbed wire fence before we crashed through it, I thought to myself, “This is gonna hurt.” The moment I walked into my parole hearing, I felt the ground rushing up to meet me all over again.
I was dressed and ready for my 9:00 am parole hearing at 6:30 am.. I rehearsed my prepared statement two more times just to have it fresh on my mind and had my folder of certificates ready to carry with me when I was called. Several men approached me as we all waited for morning work call and shook my hand or gave me a fist-bump for luck. The brief encounters all ended with the same phrase: “After that long, you’ll make it.” I just smiled and said, “You’d think that,” even though I could not allow myself to be hopeful. I sat in front of the television for a minute, then got up. I moved around for a minute, then sat down. I looked at pages of a book and called myself reading until they finally called me. I gathered my folder and shut off my emotions.
By the time I made it to the visitation center, my mother and sister were already waiting for me. We planned for this day, and it was good to see them all dressed up. I checked in with the officer in charge and went to sit with my family, as we waited our turn. We talked a little about visiting the house we would rent when I got out, about a solid supporter who gave me one of his four trucks as my own, and a little about what to expect in the hearing. About the truck, my sister told me they had lunch with my friend, and he told them I “just have to pick the one” I want. That’s $25,000 I do not have to worry about for a good used truck. As far as the hearing went, I told my family the truth. “They already know what they’re going to do,” I said. “Everything will work out how it’s supposed to.” The officer in charge called my name, and we went to meet my fate.
I walked into the hearing room first, as it should be. The man behind the desk was wearing a Carhart jacket and a white straw hat with sweat stains along the brow band. He looked like he just showed up from the stockyard to handle some business before going back to load up his cattle. I told him my name and number as my mother and sister took their seats. He told us his name and asked me to introduce my family. He asked me where they traveled from and commented, “That’s quite a trip,” when they told him they came from the very top northwest corner of Arkansas. Cummins is so far southeast, I can sometimes pick up Louisianna radio stations in a tractor. Inwardly, I hoped he recognized their devotion making an overnight trip to be ready first thing for my hearing.
He spent a couple of moments reviewing my file then said, “You’ve been down 27 years with 289 days jail credit. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.” Where was this going?
“Is this your first time in front of the Board?”
“Yes, sir.” Deep breath. Wait for his lead.
“You were real young when you started your sentence. Looks like you had a little trouble first, but that leveled off, and, you stopped getting in trouble. That shows maturity. It means you figured it out. I’ve interviewed a lot of people and some guys never figure it out.”
“Thank you, sir.” I felt like a horse entering a new herd, sniffing around the paddock waiting to see signs of danger, and wondering if the horse in front of me would accept me.
“I believe in second chances, “ he said. “How old are you now? 48? You’ve still got a lot of life left. But if I see you back in front of me again, you won’t get out until 2036. Just think how old you’ll be then.”
After that exchange, we did the tell-me-what-happened dance. I told him about that night, took responsibility for my actions, and expressed how I changed. I did not read my prepared statement but vocalized some of the same points I wrote. I told him I would be working for a local cattle outfit and shoeing horses for a living. I have a network of people who will help me succeed.
“That’s all you have to do,” he told me. “Just go to work and go home. Do what your mom and sister do, and you’ll do alight.” He repeated that he believes in second chances for the fourth time, which was encouraging. Then asked my family if they wanted to say something.
When my mother made her statement, the mood got a little heavier. She talked about how she was proud of me, how I managed to help er even from behind bars, and how I had been locked up longer than my whole life free. It was tough to maintain my composure, but I pressed my emotions down. There would be time for that later. After my mother’s statement, he started the dismissal “thank you” to signal the hearing was over, but something my mother said triggered an opening.
“You mentioned it once and Mom just mentioned community service, too,” I started. “I’m enrolled in the SEARK college, and they just won a grant, and want me to come back and teach reentry classes. I’m pretty articulate when I’m not so nervous.“ That brought a few chuckles from the other people in the room but a couple of encouraging comments from the cowboy holding holding my future beneath a keystroke on the laptop in front of him.
“You’ve had a lot of time to see all kinds of stories that could help some guys,” he told me.
“Yes, sir. I have a plan together.”
“Well, you’ve been here long enough,” he finished as we thanked him and filed out laughing.
I refused to let myself get excited until I saw the results on paper. That gave me eleven days to fluctuate between, “I’m pretty sure I made the Board,” and, “You never know with these folks.” The biggest part of me wants to allow myself to finally be happy, to open myself up to the hope of a future that is as happy as I can make it; but, the stoic convict in me refuses to trust a man’s words no matter how good they are. There are so many questions in my mind. Will I be bale to feel joy when I am free? Will that convict always be there to keep me from trusting in life? Will I let him rob me of the happiness I want, or will I leave him at the prison gates?
I walked around apprehensive all the time as if I waited for Penny Two-Stockings to throw me out of the saddle. I spent eleven days reminding myself to breathe deeply. I even woke up once in the wee hours of the morning breathing hard because I dreamed I was drowning an could not breathe. I do not remember the dream, I just remember waking up with a start as if I was holding my breath. I am sure I WAS holding my breath. I cannot remember ever doing time like this and definitely cannot imagine ever doing it again.
To top it off, I was not working, either. My friend, whom I followed to the Farm Maintenance shop, retired shortly before my parole hearing. That left me without a supervisor and stuck in the barracks. I did not have the distraction of regular work, which means I needed a different plan. That, of course, came from making a routine. It was not a major change, but just enough to keep things moving along. I woke up at 5:30 am (instead of 4:30 am), worked on my college homework or letters until lunch, took a midday shower before the workers came in clamoring for a spot in line, took a grandpa nap, and finished the day reading or watching TV. Pretty boring, but it was steady. There’s a certain comfort in a regular routine. When the outside world is in chaos, I can rely on the routine to carry me through. I learned that trick while on an 18-month lockdown in Administrative Segregation. I did not foresee that a lesson learned in a single-man cell would help me as I embrace freedom: but, I will use every tool in my belt to get and stay free.
There was a silver lining to my friend’s retirement, though. First, he promised me a truck, which is frigging huge. I did not ask for it, either, which is important to me. I taught myself to do without rather than ask for something from someone else. Asking for anything in prison always has strings attached so I avoid it altogether. If I cannot get something on my own, I do not need it. Pretty simple. The difference is that my friend only wants to see me succeed. He is 71 years old and looks at me as a son. He does not tie any strings to the truck, but, out respect, he and his wife will have a handyman for life. I tied my own string to it, I guess. Another positive is that he already has two horses, which means I will fall right into the horse world upon release. It also means I will have a stable to go to when I need to decompress. Horses are now and will remain an important part of my continued freedom. I fully believe that “Freedom is the wind between a horse’s ears.” My friend is a strong ally with the network that ensures I will succeed as long as I handle my business. Meeting him on the Beef Herd and the strong friendship that developed over the years was supposed to happen. I also fully believe that everything happens for a reason if we are aware enough to look for the connection.
The days waiting for my parole results were the strangest in all my 28 years prior. No matter what, there are still only 24 hours in every day. The only difference is my perception. I know fully well that the parole chairman forgot all about me as soon as he left the hearings. I was just another interview – add a note to the computer file, click a button, next, please. The system pushes on, and the chair-persons go home to a comfortable night’s sleep. Not so much for me, but my perspective is entirely different. A life-changing decision for me is just another day on the job for them. They do not wrestle with questions like, “Will society view me as a murderer or see a man working to build a solid future,” or, “How ill I react when I encountered the new technology that pervades society,” or even, “What is the first meal I want to enjoy as a free man?” The chair-persons do not and cannot share my perspective even though I was less than six feet across from the man who interviewed me. To put it in a wider perspective, there are three million people in Arkansas who share the same 24 hours and do not even know I exist. The weight I carry awaiting my parole results is a weight I choose to carry. In a way, I am grateful for the tension. No only does it mean my prison sentence is ending, but it also means prison has not destroyed my capacity to feel.
I made another interesting discovery as well. As I waited down to the last day before my parole results were posted, I found my frustration rising. Of course, the waiting was nerve-wracking, but this went deeper. My tolerance for the misogyny, misplaced anger, and outright idiocy grew smaller and smaller. To pass the time, I would sit in front of the boob tube watching whatever brainless entertainment was on. Invariably, some fool would sit on the bench bounding around every time a woman came on the TV screen. “That ho’s hot,” or, “G-D, that bitch is so fine,” always dropped out of their mouth. The bouncing around and blatant lust angered me. I just got up and left to avoid the lunacy accepted as normal activity. Then, and old man with an 8-8 number from the late 1980’s or early 1990’s, offered to sell me some envelopes from his indigent package. Out of respect for an old con, I offered to buy some in exchange for food. He does not get money in, so I called myself doing the right thing to help him. He gave me a list of things he wanted, but when I put the items in my shopping card, they cost more than the envelopes. The old man tried to take me fast. Instead of getting mad that he tried to hustle me, I took his list back to him, told him I appreciated the offer; but, I am not over-paying for indigent. He beat me getting mad and made smart comments as he walked away. Whatever, man, don’t be greedy. Finally, the idiocy would fill another ten pages, but the main point is the addicts. They are everywhere. I’ll leave it at that.
Another discovery was far more personal. I love women and always will. A small fantasy has popped up about having a woman beside me when I check the kiosk for my results. That is, of course, highly improbably. The moment when I log in to the machine to receive my fate will be a solitary one. Sure, I will call home to let my family know, write letters and finish this story, but I will not be holding anyone’s hand as she shares the moment, also hoping for my release. The fantasy itself is just a fantasy. The deeper personal desire is to have a woman there to share the journey. Failure is not an option. I wrestle with the idea of a female beside me, though. I have a lot of work to do quickly; will I even have time for a relationship? What is the modern woman even like? It has been along time since I talked to a woman outside of the prison setting. Am I out of touch? Will I fall in love with the first cowgirl who shows me affection? Will women only see the image of an ex-con rather than the man I am? Is my image of a woman even realistic? There are so many questions running through my mind, and I still do not even know what my results are. Tomorrow, then.
And just like that, I am officially going home!
I woke up about 2:00 am on April 15, 2024 to make my way to the kiosk after breakfast. After logging into the kiosk, I digitally signed for my results, and let my finger hover over the button to open my fate. I was actually nervous to tap the screen! After about 30 seconds and a deep breath, I touched the button and read what I waited 28 years to hear. “Transfer to ACC Supervision,” means I am approved for the next phase of my sentence, which his the Arkansas Division of Community Correction (ACC); parole, for short. The Parole Board imposed the following two post-release conditions:
– Employment Plan; and,
– No contact with victim and victim’s family.
Those are some really no-brained conditions. I have to have a job or I cannot eat. There is no way I would ever make contact with the victim or the victim’s family. That thought never entered my mind and I would not dare. The overt threat of failure is standard operating procedure for the correction system. Without fail, every privilege comes with consequences. The dehumanization will always be e factor. My parole officer will tell me that if I do not… (fill in the blank)…, I will be sent back to prison. She (or he) will outline what I am expected to do, tell me when I am required to report, what parole fees I am required to pay, and punctuate it all with a not-so-gentle reminder that prison will hide over my shoulder until 2036 when I finally complete the 40-year sentence. The parole officer does not yet know that failure is not an option for me. I cannot and will not come back to prison as a prisoner. It is all pretty simple to me because my mind is made up. I refuse to be pigeon-holed into that image of a second-class citizen destined to be a ward or the state for the rest of my life. But just like everything else in prison, I have to prove my worth and earn my respect on parole.
The only question now is, “How does that make you feel?”
The rush of the very first moment I touched the button to read my results took a full day to adjust to. I found myself logging back in throughout the day just to make sure the results were still there. My mind is still wrapping itself around the fact that I am going home. Simply knowing I will soon be able to cook my own meals, drive my own vehicle, choose my own clothes, pick my favorite toothpaste and even pay my own bills is enough to get my heart pounding. I look forward to the responsibility of being free. That part of it does not scare me at all. The prospect of finally being able to express my independent maturity is exhilarating. I am ready to be the man I have worked years to build. I am more than ready to face the world fully and grasp the joy I deprived myself of so many years ago. How does that make me feel? I feel excited, anxious to get started, confident of my future, wary of people in general, scared of potential traps, and absolutely prepared to stay free no matter what. I am like a young horse who grew up in a stall and is finally allowed into the pasture. I will kick up my heels, run along the edge of the fence, keep a watchful eye on my herd mates, and establish my place in the social hierarchy. I know I will get kicked, may suffer a bite or two, and will get crowded off the hay bale as I settle in. but, I also know I will find buddies in the herd who look to me for leadership count on me to look out for potential danger, and maybe even one who lets me scratch her withers. Looking at the rest of humanity as a horse herd is just one way for me to stay grounded when I am adapting to freedom. I noticed one shift in mindset already. In celebration of making parole, I splurged on commissary. I bought all the makings of a big spread and fixed my little party meal just so. It was one of my favorite meals with chili, sausage, and beans to make a burrito topped with shredded cheese and ranch dressing. When I ate my first burrito, it was nasty. I had eaten this same meal using the same ingredients for years and years. This time, it lost all its flavor. It is like I could finally taste all the preservatives of the processed food when my mind knew I will not be eating this mess much longer. It amazes me just how quickly the smallest things can change. I look forward to the day I step out of that front door in free world clothes for the first time in 28 years.
Freedom is a moral responsibility, and I am so eager to begin building my life as a free man.