🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
Winter on the prison farm is pretty quiet. Feeding the animals is the number one job as we use all the hay we baled during the summer. The cycle continues as it has for centuries, and January, 2022 started another turn of the wheel for me. This time, though, the turning has a little more pressure than usual. January, 2022 marks 27 months remaining before I meet the parole board in April, 2024. If I gain five of seven possible votes, I can go home in October of 2024. As of now, I am in my 26th consecutive year of incarceration. I know the time has changed me and know I am a totally different man.
The question that dominates my mind is: “Will the parole board, too, see I am ready?” When I look at the reality of my plea, I clearly see I have a lot of things stacked against me. The biggest factor I have in my way is that I am labeled a “violent offender”. The first thing the parole members will see is that I have a First-Degree Murder charge with a 10 out of 10 on the level of violence scale. My parole is discretionary depending entirely upon the whim of the members. The distinction between a violent and non-violent offender plays a major role influencing their motions. I’m stuck squarely within the differentiation between the prisoner society is mad at and those it is afraid of.
Regardless of who I am as a man, the label “murderer” will always align me as one of the men society fears. That manufactured fear is the first thing the parole board will confront me with when the time comes. In Arkansas, the publicized recidivism rate is 56%, though it is actually much higher. On average 10,000 prisoners are released annually with 11,000 prison commitments the following year. The definition of recidivism here doesn’t count the technical parole violations even though being out after curfew can result in coming back to prison. That simple technicality can then lead to a denial of parole by the board, which extends the original 90-day technical violation into another year or more in prison. With the recidivism rate so high, it’s only natural the parole board will ask: “What if he re-offends?”
To answer that question the board will look to my institutional file. In there, they will see a collection of early disciplinary reports culminating in an additional felony charge. I earned another violent felony in 1998 for an institutional stabbing at the Gladiator School. The board will look at that and see a “propensity towards violence.” They won’t see the real story and any attempt on my part to explain will only sound like a justification or excuse. The last thing I want to convey to the parole board is an abdication of responsibility for my actions. After all, in their eyes, if I wasn’t doing wrong, I wouldn’t have to fight.
I wrote a statement at the time arguing that I was forced into a corner and prison culture demanded action. The public defender assigned to represent me said it was the most accurate description of prison life she ever read. A gang member took my tattoo gun from me while I was doing a tattoo – the ultimate weakness. That act commanded a firm response. The results of my inaction would lead to bodily attacks I refused to endure. The parole board won’t see a scared 22-year old young man fighting to survive in an incongruous culture. They won’t see that I only stayed in the hole five days before the prison sent me right back to general population. All the parole board will see is that I was convicted of a second felony in prison earning myself another 20-months to run concurrent with my 40 years.
In fact, to test this theory, I applied for Executive Clemency in May, 2021. I submitted an 80-page packet including all the certificates I earned and listing my other accomplishments. Most importantly, I included letters supporting my release. I provided letters from a retired Warden, a retired Chief of Security Major, a retired Judge, and three members of the Alternatives to Violence Project I helped facilitate. I laid all my cards on the table, face up with nothing to hide.
In June, 2021, after screening my application, without so much as an interview, the parole board determined my application was Without Merit. The reasons for their action after “due deliberation” confirmed my apprehension. My application was denied for the following reasons:
1) Sentence not considered excessive
2) Nearness of parole eligibility date; and
3) Other: Officials object. Picked up new felony charges while incarcerated.
I didn’t argue that my sentence was excessive. My sentence was fair for the crime. I argued the ends of justice had been met. The nearness of my parole date would seem to me an advantage for early release rather than a reason for denial, but what do I know? I am just the man who did the time, not an appointed official. None of the accomplishments I presented could outweigh those “new felony charges”. No matter how many former prison officials who saw me every day for years believed I was a changed man in 2021, all the parole board saw was the man in 1998.
The rules governing my discretionary parole include a clause that allows the parole board to simply review my institutional file in 2024 and render their decision based on that glance at my failures rather than my achievements. I envision a repeat of my clemency application. Experience has taught me that none of my accomplishments or any evidence to the contrary can outweigh the violent offender label I must always wear. The one question I’m certain the parole board won’t ask is: “What if he succeeds?”
I dread I won’t even have an opportunity to speak for myself when the time comes. I can not control any of it and certainly can not change the past. All I can do is prepare myself for whatever awaits. In some ways, I am absolutely powerless to control the outcome, but in other ways I have complete control. I have control of my own behavior in this moment.
As these thoughts swirl through my consciousness, I do my best to not turn cynical and bitter. My time will come when it is time. One of the things that helps keep me grounded is my horse, Bow. I often find myself sitting on his back looking out over a stretch of woods and absorbing the scene in front of us. Being able to ride Bow into the countryside is liberating. When I’m mounted high on his back surrounded by the majority of nature, things fall into perspective. The land was here long before the prison was and will be here long after the prison is gone. I’m only a tiny portion of this world; a minuscule drop in a massive current flowing as the Arkansas River passes on undeterred by the parole board or any decision I make. Bow lets out a sigh as we watch the river. I can’t help but wonder if he shares the same peace I feel. Before Bow and I became a team, he bucked like a rodeo bronc, but is a much calmer horse now. Could it be that he senses the peace I feel? Could it be that he influences my peace? The bond we share is far greater than my petty worries. All I have is right now. The past is over and the future is just a dream. When I focus on this moment only the things I worry about seem trivial. I turn Bow back to the barn, and we walk on. I marvel quietly at the way our bodies move together unconsciously now. He turns his head back toward me, and we make eye contact for a moment. He knows I’m tense and a little worried but seems content to just rest in the moment.
There is an old Bedouin saying: “Heaven is the wind that blows between a horse’s ears.”
In this moment I feel that truth as tangible reality. We both turn our faces into that wind and walk on at ease knowing that worrisome fears dissolve with each step forward.