I Hope You Learned Your Lesson

The Parole Board Hunger Games

I am asked one question more than any other: When is your son coming home?

I can’t answer that.

I don’t have a date, nor a season, and I would never tempt fate by taking a guess. Someday—that’s all I can say.

A former Navy Seal named Dustin Turner was recently granted parole after 30 years in a Virginia prison.

Most people don’t have any idea what this means, but for those of us following sentencing laws, parole guidelines, and the purpose of justice in the United States—it was huge. Now 50-years-old, Dustin has been incarcerated since 1995 for the murder of a woman that his Seal training buddy committed.

This month, he has finally been given a chance to go home to his mom. But it is only that—a chance—and not a guarantee. He has more rounds of the Hunger Games to complete before he will be released home.

The decision for parole was made during a public hearing between the Virginia parole board and Dustin, who was cast on a screen via Zoom. His was the second decision of the day and for those tuning in, we got to hear the parole board pardon a 76-year-old black man who had also been incarcerated 31 years. As the man thanked the board and wished Almighty God to bless them for their mercy, a female member of the board repeated three times, loudly:

“I hope you learned your lesson.”

Like he was a toddler in time-out.

It’s not that I don’t understand that our citizens in prison have behaved in ways that harmed others and their communities, it’s just that I see them to be a few evolutionary spirals above dirt. The truth: that man learned harder lessons before breakfast than that condescending board member has in all three decades of his sentence. He could teach her a thing or two if only she could be bothered to get down from that big, sweaty horse she rode in on and look him in the face at eye level.

Lord willing, my son is also in the final stretch of his prison ride and I, too, will get to hear someone say something condescending to him this year. At that time, they will grant him permission to move his seat closer to the door—but he will not be permitted to leave.

A parole notice is only the beginning of another long journey.

In our case, my son is already on a deferment, which is purgatory. He is not paroled and he is not denied—he is in between. He could be denied at any minute and making it to those gates is a run across a field with shots being fired at you from all sides.

As I type, my son is working every day to complete a 90-day course mandated by the state parole board. Each week, I get an update—“four more classes down” or “hoping to get my certificate in late February.” Recently during a visit, he reminded me how tentative this whole thing really is:

“We lost two more classmates this week.” He said, shaking his head.

About half of the men who began the class with him in October have been disqualified. Nevermind they had waited over a year to get a seat in the class, they have now been remanded to the back of the line with no credit for any of the work that they did. Oh—and another year has been tacked to their sentence.

Sure, some of them “earned” their dismissal.

Like the guy who stood up and said, “Fuck this” after being told that his morning coffee would not be allowed in class. That man walked out on his own volition but one single ‘misconduct’ can erase someone’s seat immediately.

My son came close to being excused following a ticket in December for having a bedsheet hung around his bunk to keep his pacing cellmate from waking him (his cellmate paces night and day). During count time, an officer pulled the sheet down and ticketed him for causing an impairment of surveillance. He just wanted to sleep.

This is why every day is another run across the culling field and every day, I am out here listening to the Hunger Games on the radio from my District.

The next time someone says, “ALL we dO is LeT pEoPLe Out of PrISon!” please point them to my inbox. I would love to have a chat about how difficult it is to get a non-violent, first-time offender out of prison. We're already two years past his estimated release date.

I asked my son to tell me in his own words what it has been like to stay on the path toward parole. He messaged me: Become invisible.

“Stay out the way.

The hardest part is watching what comes out of your mouth. You have to learn to keep to yourself. Whatever is going on in the unit—let it be. People talking about so and so will be talking about so and so 50 years from now in here. It’s irrelevant.

go directly to and from callouts
do not talk back
do not be intimidating
do not skate on lop
finish your class
finish your homework

stay away from certain people
don’t owe money
don’t gamble
don’t use drugs or drink

find the littlest thing to stay positive—‘chow good this morning’

be grateful.”

He also told me about the things that keep inspiring him to make it to a life beyond his bunk:

“Getting married,

becoming a dad

seeing the world
getting a job

driving
eating good food, real food

fresh meat and eggs

watching my own shows
going to the city, going to the woods
camping, fishing

being home on the holidays
a fresh cup of brewed coffee
toilet paper and real soap

There is an infinite amount of things to do that haven’t been done yet—thank God I’m not doing ‘all day’ like some of these guys. I want to do all of the things that I failed to do or haven’t done well yet.

thank God for second chances.”

And while I dream alongside him, the hard truth is that I’m certain he has little idea what he will step back into out here. My son has been mummified, preserved in time. He has no clue how to live in the world as a sober adult. Prison has completely erased any real responsibility or accountability in his life. He has forgotten what it is like to get up on his own or what a 40-hour work week feels like in his body. Prison has reduced him to being property, a mere object moved around by outside forces. We put people in a cage and then irrationally expect that they will be fully self-starting and independent on the other side of toddler-life in there.

He hasn’t driven in five years.

He hasn’t even opened a door for himself in that time either.

This week, he called to tell me that he is preparing to put himself into segregation. “I'll have my books, I'll have paper, and I can call you twice a week.” He said.

This was news I didn’t need during a difficult, busy week. I started crying in the middle of a grocery store on the phone.

“Why?” I asked him.

“My cellie is a junkie. I can't risk my chance at parole. I'm doing this so I can come home.”

I was angry, and the people in the produce section heard all about it. I cried some more and then, I exhaled loudly. I had to let it go. He has to do what he knows is best for him, and I have to admit that I've no idea what it’s like to live in prison with wolves and arrows flying and the Capitol always surveilling.

Parole is French, meaning ‘word, speech, or vow.’

In medieval and early modern warfare, a captured soldier was released ‘on parole’ when he promised to return home and disengage in fighting. In military terms, parole was granted when someone gave their “word of honor.” This act placed the onus on the person who needed to change his ways. It did not result in more state supervision.

Today, parole is far more complicated and, of course, monetized.

In spite of public scorn, parole is the practical and legal product of incarceration. When a person is sentenced to anything less than Life Without Parole (or Death), they are expected to begin day one in prison working toward being let back out.

That isn’t leniency, this is the purpose of our justice system.

When we say things like, “I hope they rot in prison” and “That’s where he belongs,” we choose to ignore the fact that most people who are incarcerated will eventually leave prison—95% of all prisoners are slated to be released.¹

We should expect their return.

We should prepare for it.

We absolutely do not.

My son is supposed to come live in my home when he is released, and I have no idea if I should make up a bed for him this spring or stop hoping that he'll be home this year. Why? Because: Red Tape and leadership failure and wasted tax money, that's why.

In our state, there are ten individuals who hold the power to let someone out of prison. Only ten. All ten have been appointed by the Director of the Department of Corrections to oversee every parole action in every calendar year. The Director is appointed by the Governor.

In 2023 (the latest year data is available), those ten people were charged with handling over 15,700 parole decisions. They chose to parole 6,132 of them. That is a release rate of about 39% for those men and women who petitioned for parole—people who have served their debt to society because since 1998, our state has not had so-called ‘good time’ credits. No one is considered for parole here until they've completed the sentence a judge ordered them to serve.

No one here is being let out ‘early.’

While parole happens as a result of a complicated matrix of supposed considerations, it mostly comes down to human opinion. It comes down to split-second impressions and money and space constraints and oversight considerations. They look at covering their own asses (i.e., “risk mitigation”) and good luck if it is an election year. A parole hearing can be swayed by a response to a single question, the way a man looks on the day of his interview (after no sleep the night before), if he has a shiner from getting attacked in the yard for being close to his out-date. Add to the mix one’s skin color, family support, age, and mental health status and well, we’re throwing darts.

Judgements of men are superficial—parole decisions are based on feelings. If the board isn't emotionally ready that day, my son might not be coming home.

“I hope your learned your lesson.”

What lesson? I might ask.

For a person who has spent decades of their one precious life in a cage, completed years of programming, reflected deeply on the harm they've caused—and especially for a person who has aged out of high-risk behavior (like that 76-year-old man in Virginia), our system infantilizes grown adults and remains in the business of making our communities weaker.

Here, let me fix it for you lady: “What is different about you today that makes you safer to return to the community?”

Because frankly, people change. Here's a hot take: Don't be in the corrections or parole business if you feel otherwise. And should any of us doubt that humans can change, we should start a comment thread below wherein we all type out the worst thing we've ever done and let everyone else judge how far we’ve come.

I'll let you go first:

1. Statistics from the Bureau of Prisons.