''I'am written this letter to see if thair is anyway that you can help Me,'' the grade-school scrawl said. ''The judge gave me a 3-10 for burgury, but thair was no burgury. . . . When I went in frount of the parole board they gave me five more years . . .''
I get dozens of letters from convicts and their families. This one was perpetrated on a single sheet of lined notebook paper, with a pencil as dull as a prison menu. Others are carefully typed, with eloquent arguments and documentation thicker than cell walls.
They all say the Ohio Adult Parole Authority denies paroles, ignores its own rules and hands out harsh ''flops'' - extra years, far beyond the minimum sentence, even for model prisoners.
Some letters are hopeless: ''I have served approximately 11 years on a 107-195-year sentence . . .''
Some gripe about mystery meat in ''dreaded breaded beef'' or hot cereal in the summer.
Some are scary: ''Mentally impaired inmates are taken advantage of sexually and financially by other inmates. They often are the center of cruel jokes (by both inmates and staff) and are often physically assaulted by inmates.''
Some are heartbreaking, like this description of prison life from a young inmate's mother: ''His education will not be from books. He'll learn to watch his back every minute - fear will teach him. He may be subject to attack - he will see rapes, and sexual activity . . . His parents will wait in lines and be searched before they see him. They will learn to know Ohio by the prisons they visit as their son is transferred from one to another . . .''
Many fear retaliation if they complain. They describe the parole board as ''cruel,'' ''cold,'' '' ''arbitrary'' and ''all powerful.''
An inmate's sister wrote: ''She has obtained her GED, she has taken numerous college courses and has taught many classes. We feel so strongly that Patty has been rehabilitated and has served her just time.''
The Parole Board disagreed. Patty did the five-year minimum - then was flopped two more years.
Several inmates sent charts showing they were the lowest possible risk to society: no prior convictions, good behavior, no drug or alcohol problems. Yet they were flopped hard, with no explanation.
I guess it shows that Debbie Hill is not untypical.
In 1993, Mrs. Hill of Maineville shot and killed a former boyfriend who stalked and threatened her and her family. She plea bargained to 2-10 years for carrying a concealed weapon.
According to her chart, released under the DRC's new open-records policy, she scored straight zeros in risk. The parole board erred and rated her a 2 at her last hearing in 1996, but said the mistake ''had very little influence on the board's decision.'' In other words: We ignored our mistake, you should too.
Yellow ribbons decorated Mrs. Hill's neighborhood, where Warren, Butler, Clermont and Hamilton counties meet; hundreds of letters urged the parole board to set her free. But they ignored all that too. After doing the minimum two years as a model prisoner, she was flopped four more to year 2000.
Meanwhile, a few miles from those yellow ribbons, a grandmother was killed by Jessie James Cowans, who was paroled despite his high-risk rating.
Prisoners have lots of time to wonder about that. Some suspect corruption. The Ohio State Highway Patrol is investigating allegations by an informant that paroles have been sold. Lt. John Born of Columbus said ''nothing substantial'' has been found yet, but the investigation has expanded to several prisons.
There's another jailhouse theory: Job security.
Under ''Truth in Sentencing'' passed in 1996, parole board members are being replaced by mandatory sentences. But 33,000 inmates given ''indefinite sentences'' before July 1, 1996, remain in the parole system. And many of them believe model prisoners are kept behind bars because they are easy to manage, while dangerous inmates are paroled because they are certain to be repeat customers.
''That's hogwash,'' said Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections (DRC) Director Reginald Wilkinson. ''Parole board members will have jobs well into the next century no matter what they do. I don't remotely believe in that kind of conspiracy.''
''I agree with him,'' said Paula Eyre of CURE-Ohio, a 2,000-member group representing prisoners and their families. ''But you have to wonder. If it's not deliberate, it's just plain irresponsible.''
Sen. Jeff Johnson, D-Cleveland, has proposed six-year term limits for parole board members and parole rules that mirror the 1996 sentencing mandates. HIs bill is backed by CURE, public defenders and prosecutors. ''They can flop you five years, and the only explanation is the nature of the crime,'' said his aide, Makiedah Messam. ''You can be a model prisoner and it all comes down to if the parole board had a bad day.''
Mr. Wilkinson replied that the DRC has already adopted ''truth in parole,'' to give prisoners presumptive release dates. ''I don't necessarily disagree that some superflops need to be reviewed. We're going to look at that,'' he said. ''But I don't think it's broken.''
From what I've seen, it's not only broken, it's leaking hazardous criminals and mugging taxpayers: Each one-year flop costs $15,000. ''Most judges we talk to are appalled that people are doing so much time beyond the minimum. It costs a lot of money to keep people in prison who don't belong there,'' Ms. Eyre said.
''This is not a popular issue,'' said the senator's aide, ''but prisoners are citizens too.''
There's a novel concept.
Dangerous criminals need to be locked up as long as possible. But among 46,000 men and women behind bars, there are good people who made bad mistakes, drew a lousy lawyer or got jacked by a flawed system. They can be illiterate ''burgrurs'' or former teachers, but low-risk, well-behaved prisoners deserve a fair chance to test drive freedom.
The sign says ''Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections.'' A parole board that can't handle that can't be replaced fast enough.
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer: call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
BRONSON ARCHIVE
