Derrick Bryant was upset. His girlfriend refused to let him visit their 18-month-old son. So he beat her and threatened to kill them both. When her uncle, Jesse Goodloe, heard about it, he beat Derrick with a table leg. Then one night Derrick, 17, got drunk, grabbed a gun and went hunting. He found Mr. Goodloe at the Downbeat Cocktail Lounge on Gilbert Avenue and killed him, wounding another man sitting at the bar.
That was 1978. Beating, plus beating, multiplied by aggravated murder and attempted murder, equaled 7-25 years.
Now, 20 years later, Derrick is Mr. Bryant. He's 38. He has a bachelor's degree in business administration. He's trained as a dental technician, horticulturist and auto mechanic. But he's ''making license plates'': inmate #151-315 at London Correctional Institution.
The Rev. Michael Harris of St. Paul A.M.E. Church sent the Ohio Adult Parole Authority a petition from about 300 people. He quoted the last words prisoners see as they enter London Prison: ''He that enters into these doors does not leave hope behind.''
''A 17-year-old young man, under the influence of alcohol, reacts differently toward the stresses of life than a mature, rehabilitated man,'' he wrote. ''If rehabilitation has a higher priority than revenge and punishment . . . Derrick should be given another chance . . . On the other hand, if punishment is the criteria, who determines when the 'punishment' is equal to the crime? Should we not then 'leave hope behind'?''
But punishment doesn't fit the crime until a dozen members of the Ohio Parole Authority say so. They are well paid and appointed for life. And cases like this one make me glad I'm not one of them.
In 1993, when Derrick came up for parole after doing 15 years, I might have turned him loose. The parole board ''flopped'' him another five years.
And last month, I definitely would have given his $46-per-day room to someone who really needs it. But he was flopped again, five more years, to 2003.
It makes you wonder: If they flop this guy to the 25-year max, what do they do to troublemakers?
The answer is not comforting. As we know from too many headlines, sometimes they turn loose the real hard cases, who quickly remind us what prisons are for.
It's not easy playing god of freedom. Thousands of cases flash past the parole board like traffic on I-75. In seven years, paroles have been cut in half. And crime is down too, because repeat offenders are on ice.
''The parole board is caught in a Catch 22,'' said Frank Cullen of the University of Cincinnati Criminal Justice faculty. ''Every decision can be a bad one. They're in a position where they are almost damned if they do, and damned if they don't.''
But not all the mistakes make headlines. We hear about the paroled killer who strangles a grandmother. But we don't hear about inmates who should have been paroled. Their families hope, wait, pray - and get ''flopped'' into despair again.
The usual reason: ''nature of the crime.''
''The people on the parole board . . . are not concerned with the person I've become today,'' a woman in Marysville Prison wrote. ''The nature of my crime will never change, but I have.''
''What the inmates are saying is exactly right,'' said Mr. Cullen. If he were ''king of paroles,'' he'd put less weight on such ''static predictors'' that never change, and more on ''dynamic predictors'' such as anti-social attitude. ''An inmate's behavior at age 28 is a better predictor of recidivism than the crime he committed at age 17.''
Ohio Senate Bill 182 would rehabilitate the parole system (editorial, Page B2). ''What I hear from prisoners' families is frustration of not knowing why they are denied,'' said sponsor Sen. Jeff Johnson, D-Cleveland. ''When they go in for a hearing, they have no clue what's in their folder. It could be empty, and the parole board still says 'five more years.' ''
Mr. Cullen said, ''I've always thought the critical question is how you want them to come back into the community.''
There's no way to be sure about that. In the prison mail I get, some stories are sadder than country music. And some alibis are worse than crimes. They don't call them ''cons'' for nothing.
But now and then a Derrick Bryant raises doubts.
If the death penalty is our ultimate stick, parole is the carrot. And neither one is being used the way it was intended.
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
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