Cell Out

Why the state should commute more prison sentences.

by William DiMascio

With the political pressure of a re-election campaign behind him and four more years in office assured, Gov. Rendell took the somewhat dicey step of commuting the prison sentence of a man who had spent two-thirds of his life behind bars.

It was a bold move in a state that arguably has the least compassionate sentencing structure in the nation. But timing is everything, as they say, and if the political stars finally aligned themselves for the governor, they were long overdue for some 4,000 life-sentenced prisoners.

Clemency for lifers has been virtually nonexistent in Pennsylvania ever since the statewide referendum of 1997, when the law was changed to require a unanimous — rather than majority — vote of the five-member Pardons Board before a commutation request could even be considered by the governor. This change put the power to deny clemency in the hands of any one of the board members, and with two politically sensitive elected officials — the attorney general and the lieutenant governor — as members, the odds are stacked heavily against any lifer's appeal making it to the governor's desk. (The current lieutenant governor, Catherine Baker Knoll, has been an exception in her willingness to support meritorious appeals.)

Michael H. Anderson was one of only three prisoners to beat those odds. Ricki Pinkins was the first and his sentence was commuted to life on parole by outgoing interim Gov. Mark Schweiker in 2003. The third, George Gregory Orlowski, is still awaiting action.

The paucity of clemency is especially draconian because hundreds of men and women were sentenced to life without parole as juveniles; unwitting accomplices present during a homicide; and persons suffering from battered women's syndrome, post-traumatic stress disorder or a variety of mental and emotional impairments. In short, people who might deserve some form of sanctioning but who, in most other states, would be eligible for parole at some point.

Anderson, 54, has been in prison since 1971, when he was 18. He was convicted of first-degree murder in the slaying of a SEPTA bus rider whom Anderson and a group of friends were attempting to rob. In the midst of a scuffle, Anderson was knocked to the ground and one of his friends, Raynard Gregory, took a knife from Anderson's pocket and stabbed the rider twice.

Gregory was tried after Anderson and received a sentence of seven to 20 years. He was paroled after serving seven years but convicted again later for a series of new violent crimes. Gregory currently is serving a 60- to 120-year sentence.

This kind of ironic twist — in which the killer gets a lighter sentence than an accomplice — is not uncommon. When taken together with the increasing number of wrongful convictions being brought to light by virtue of DNA evidence, it should be clear that our criminal justice system is seriously flawed. Some form of safety valve, such as the commutation process, needs to be functional to protect the innocent and the less culpable.

Anderson operates a sewing machine making underwear for Correctional Industries at SCI Graterford. He also serves as treasurer for the prison branch chapter of the NAACP.

"He's quiet and well-liked," said Superintendent Dave DiGuglielmo, "and he has a good work ethic, or he wouldn't have been able to keep his job at Correctional Industries."

Anderson, who applied unsuccessfully for commutation four other times, was married in the prison visiting room in 2002. He will have to spend a year in a community corrections center before being let out on parole. Ultimately, Anderson said, he would like to move to Virginia to live with his wife.

News of the commutation spread rapidly through the dank corridors of the maximum-security prison. Lifers, emotionally starved for any hope of ever being released, greeted Anderson's good fortune as a sign that the clemency drought might be ending. On hearing the news, one prisoner said: "There was a burst of euphoria."

The concept of clemency was not developed to reward prisoners or make their lives easier. Nor was it designed to advance the careers of politicians. It is an act of mercy and it should be used to enhance our humanity.

William DiMascio is the executive director of the Pennsylvania Prison Society.