by Damon West
“Mom, these ACTS guys were fantastic. So many of them knew either you or Dad or both,” I told her, giving her the names of many of the men I met.
“Oh, Damon, I know all about the ACTS group. There are hundreds of men and women who are in the ACTS program in our community. It seems like every month there is a retreat going on at one of the churches.”
With obvious emotion in her voice, she said she was genuinely happy I was able to connect with “those wonderful people.”
I told her how much it meant to have those men come into this prison and love us like they did. That it was difficult to put into words to make her understand how much their visit to the prison meant. Realizing the absurdity of my statement, I corrected course. “Well, actually, you do know exactly what it means because you come into this prison almost every weekend and lift my spirits with your love for me.”
I told her those men were special because they came in here and treated us like human beings, like we mattered. The love in the room could be felt everywhere. “I’ve never seen anything like this before in prison. It was, in a word, miraculous.”
“Well, it does my heart well to know you are that much closer to God. Did you tell them what I told you, about getting on God’s back?” she asked.
I answered in the affirmative, and told her I shared the story of Footprints in the Sand. I thought about something else I wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if I should because it would delve into an area of the unknown, where hope can be a dangerous thing. I went for it anyway and told her that, despite having no idea when I was going to get out of this place, or if she and my father would even be alive when I did, I wanted to find these ACTS men and join their community. I wanted to be able to share in the giving of myself to others like they did so freely. “These men are positive peers. If I am going to have a healthy and happy life, I need to surround myself with the right people. These people. I want to be an ACTS brother one day, Mom.”
“Damon, baby, I know you will find your ACTS brothers and sisters when you get out. I know it. You stay on God’s back, baby. I’m proud of you and I love you.”
Had I been allowed to cry in that day room, I would have. You cannot cry in this place. It’s too dangerous. The predators watch for any sign of “weakness.” I paused to let the lump of emotion from my mother’s words pass through my throat. When I felt like I could speak again, I said what was always on my heart. “I love you too, Mom.”
After that phone call, I went to my bunk to record the events of the last four days. The high I had right then was better than any high I ever got from doing drugs or drinking. Closing my eyes, I saw myself one day coming back into this prison as a free man. As an ACTS brother.
CHAPTER 21
Parole Hearing
Prison Diary
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
After working as the Unit Supply clerk for about a year, proving myself to be honest, forthright, and dependable, I was allowed to move on to other positions in the prison. Straightening out Unit Supply was much more difficult than I thought it would be. I quickly discovered that I was in the minority when it came to running that warehouse like a business. Graft was as natural to many as breathing. There were many near fights and lots of heated exchanges. At one point I had to get my supervisor, Ms. Turner, to restrict the other inmates from the warehouse. Still, I stood my ground. My patented line to my co-worker inmates who wanted to steal was, “I can’t stop you from stealing, and I am not going to outright snitch on you, but I am not going to alter the inventory to assist you. When Ms. Turner asks me why the inventory is off, I will tell her she should investigate it by reviewing the security cameras.”
THEY WOULD WALK AWAY, usually calling me a “hoe-ass white boy” or some other racially charged derogatory term. Words don’t bother me. As long as no one puts their hands on me, I’m fine. In prison, I’ve learned you can be both humble and strong.
I eventually began working what is, without a doubt, the best job on the unit: chapel clerk. The Chapel of Hope is like an island unto itself in the prison. It is made to be a serene and comforting environment. It’s also air-conditioned, which is heavenly in the summer months. The chapel is open from 7:30 in the morning until about 8 at night, a perfect place to get away from the chaos and noise so prevalent in prison.
In a past diary entry, I described the chapel as being the “crossroads of prison” because it is the one place every inmate can get to in order to meet up. Gang members and drug dealers are only a few of the bad actors who use the chapel for nefarious purposes. Homosexuals also use the chapel to hook up. Yet these people are a sideshow and distraction to the real purpose of the chapel, which is hope.
Over the years, this chapel has been like a life raft. Mr. Jackson told me I would find more coffee beans in the chapel than anywhere else. He was correct. Through the programs offered here, I have grown both as a man and as a human. I have learned to accept others and I have let go of being judgmental towards sex offenders, something I never thought possible. Life is much more peaceful without finding the flaws in others. Lord knows I have enough of my own to work on anyway. And Lord knows I want forgiveness for my sins as well.
These days, my focus has been on parole. It’s all-consuming.
I once read somewhere that 95 percent of the more than two million men and women incarcerated in America will eventually get out of prison. For someone with a sentence like mine, a life sentence, there are only three ways out: reversing your case in the courts; escaping; or being granted parole. Two of those are highly unlikely. Most will enter the free world on parole, which is a conditional release from an unexpired prison sentence.
Preparing my family and myself for parole has been a never-ending process. Since I walked into this place, I’ve attacked the possibility of parole with a vigor familiar to me only when I was committed to playing football. It has consumed my life. Inquisitive by nature, I have asked every single person in prison—inmate or staff—how to earn parole and get out of here by the front door.
There are multiple schools of thought on making parole. Universally, it is understood that accepting responsibility for your crimes, being genuinely remorseful, following all the rules, getting involved in programs that will better you, and changing your life for the better are all things one should do. Doing all of these things still does not guarantee a favorable parole vote. Conversely, not doing all those things does not necessarily preclude you from parole. I have seen some of the most unremorseful, misbehaving bad actors walk out of here on parole, while model inmates with the same exact crime sit out the years with set-off after set-off. Seriousness of offense and nature of the crime are factors, but sometimes it defies logic who they do and do not set free.
One of the most common tools of parole is the Parole Packet, a compilation of your entire existence in prison, your support in the free world, and your plans and goals upon release. These packets include your own letter to parole, stating why you are a viable candidate for release, letters from family and others in your support group and community, an employment letter, certificates of accomplishments in prison, pictures of your family and the home you will live in, and a few other things. I must have reviewed two hundred of these packets over the past half-decade, borrowing from each the better elements.
My mother and I attacked the Parole Packet like we did the writ of habeas corpus. She even attended a seminar sponsored by the Texas Inmates Family Association (TIFA), where she learned more about the packets. I mailed her the contents and designs, some of which I was able to create on my computer at work. My parents provided me with the addresses of each person I wanted a letter of support from and I wrote them with my request. A few of the letters were from people my parents approached.
From my extensive review of the packets, I noticed none of them contained either a letter from a ranking officer in the prison system or a letter from a chief of police.
&
nbsp; Through a little research, I discovered that anyone but a warden can write a support letter for your parole, although it is highly discouraged. Armed with this knowledge, I approached two different captains who had been around me and seen me grow throughout my incarceration. These men could vouch for my background and character. Only slightly hesitant, I made my pitch. Both thought about it only momentarily before agreeing. Humbled does not even begin to describe the feeling I had from reading their letters. One even said, “In my opinion, to continue his incarceration would be a waste of time and resources, which could be better applied to another offender who is a threat to society.”
I was less certain about a letter from a police chief. My father was friends with the Beaumont police chief, Jimmy Singletary. They went all the way back to playing golf at Lamar University in the ’60s. Would he be willing to take a leap of faith in me and write a letter urging parole to release me?
“Only one way to find out,” my father said, so he asked Jimmy.
It is far easier to let Chief Singletary’s letter to parole tell you how he feels about my potential to positively contribute to society.
“I believe Damon’s trials and tribulations living the life of an addict and consequently, a felony-convicted prison inmate, have transformed his worldview. While incarcerated, Damon has done an excellent job rehabilitating his life and preparing himself for a future. His desire to reenter society with the goal of helping young people avoid drug addiction by sharing his own life experience is admirable.
“I believe our community would benefit from Damon West being granted parole, where he can again contribute to society and be re-joined with his family and other friends who know his true character and can help him maintain sobriety.”
When I set out to create my Parole Packet, I envisioned something different, something great. What I got was beyond what even I could conceive. So many from my community, my support group, from everywhere, pitched in to help my family put this packet together.
Thoughts of my family and freedom were swirling through my head as I sat in the hallway of the administration building waiting for my parole hearing. Everything about my existence was preparation for this day since Judge Snipes read my sentence over six years ago. With my actual time served (more than six years) and my combination of good-time (six years) and work-time credits (three years), I have built the requisite 25 percent (fifteen years) of the sixty calculated years which makes a life sentence. My expectations are managed as well as can be. The likelihood of being granted parole the first time up on a life sentence is extremely low.
Ready to make the biggest sales presentation of my life, I stood up straight when they called my name. Packet in hand, I was ready to sell the Texas Board of Pardons and Parole on the new Damon West, the good Damon West.
Through my years of interrogating everyone I could about parole, I knew to expect that a single representative from the board would be conducting my interview. This representative’s job is to assess your prison experience, obtain information, and make a recommendation to the parole panel that will vote on your case.
In most cases, the inmate’s fate is in the hands of three voters—a parole commissioner and two voting members—from whatever region of the state in which you are housed. The three members guarantee there will not be a tie decision, as there is majority rule. The parole representative who interviews you prepares your file for the “lead voter” on your parole panel. After the lead voter makes a decision, your file is passed onto the next voter until a two-thirds decision is achieved. The votes can range from a “set-off,” which means they want to let you sit in prison longer, to any number of release options, which can have various contingencies attached. Despite the fact that no decision will be made today, I understood this was the most important interview of my life, with my life literally on the line. No pressure there.
When I entered the cramped office, I saw a woman sitting behind a desk with a stack of files next to her. In front of her was an open file and a copy of my Parole Packet. I closed the door behind me and waited for her to give me permission to sit in the chair directly in front of the desk. “Ms. Smith” introduced herself. We did not shake hands.
“Ms. Smith, thank you for seeing me today. I hope I can satisfactorily answer all of your questions.”
“I hope so, too, Mr. West,” she replied.
She told me she had been doing this for many years and never in that time had she seen a file like mine. She noted I possessed both a unique set of circumstances in my case and a unique support system.
We talked about my crime first, the details of my case, and my thoughts about the things I had done. She commented on the fact that I received way too much time for my crime. I had not expected that, although I was comforted to hear she saw the discrepancy in sentencing. It did not diminish the responsibility and guilt I felt for the things I had done, though.
“Ms. Smith, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about the pain, hurt, suffering, and loss I have caused so many. I take full responsibility for my crimes and all the collateral damage that resulted from it. The addict that committed those crimes is not the man you are speaking with today because I’m in recovery,” I told her.
She told me she had seen all the AA sign-in sheets in my packet. She thought my commitment was impressive, but she had seen a lot of people go before her with impressive AA sheets and still fail.
“What’s the eighth step?” she asked.
I smiled at this easy question. “Made a list of all persons I harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”
She asked me if I understood I could never make amends to the victims of my crime, neither directly, nor indirectly. How, she wanted to know, did I intend to make amends for the things I had done?
She was speaking the language of recovery, in which I was well versed. I told her I had already started making those amends. The ninth step tells us to make amends “except when to do so will cause harm.” In those cases, I was making “living amends.” Those were things like service work and volunteer work for others in need, making up for the harm I did to those to whom I couldn’t make an apology.
“I try to live my life for others, not for myself,” I said. “Life has become much simpler this way.”
I told her that when I got out, I planned on going to schools to warn kids about the dangers of drugs and the consequences of bad decisions. Using my life as an example of what not to do was the most humbling and selfless way I could think of to make amends to those I had hurt.
Her body language said she was receiving the words I was saying. Flipping open my Parole Packet on her desk, she said she was well aware of my plans to go into the community and share my story. She noted I had a letter in my packet from the chief of police in Beaumont, the very city in which we were sitting.
“Do you know how many hundreds of letters I’ve read from police chiefs asking us to keep people in prison? I’ve never, in all these years working for parole, seen a letter from a chief asking us to let one of y’all go. Never.”
She asked me to tell the story behind the letter, so I told her about Chief Singletary and my family. That he really believed in me.
“You also have an employment letter for the Provost Umphrey Law Firm. From Walter Umphrey, no less. Heck, I’d like to work for Provost Umphrey. How did you pull that off?” she asked.
After telling her about my relationship with Mr. Umphrey, leaving out the fact that I was still fighting my case, I explained that I had all the prerequisite education and experience to work in a law firm. This gave me the perfect opening to tell her about my past employment in politics and finance. Anything to positively differentiate me from the other inmates she met with. I wanted to stand out in a sea of files.
She admitted she didn’t see many people like me. It was obvious to her that addiction was what had happened to me. In fifteen minutes, she
assessed more accurately what happened to me than a jury did after six days of witnesses and testimony. Although, in fairness to the jury’s verdict, I never faced them and explained myself. How could I have back then? I didn’t even think I needed a program of recovery. This led to my next point.
I dove right in, telling her that the guy who committed those property crimes and hurt his family, along with all those other victims, was living in his addiction. Today, through my program of recovery, I had a “daily reprieve from my addiction contingent upon the maintenance of my spiritual condition.” That quote was straight from the Big Book of AA, but it was sincere.
“As long as I’m not living in self, then I will be fine. This is going to require me being in recovery the rest of my life. I already have a home group picked out in Beaumont. Once out, I’ll need a sponsor to take me through the Steps.”
I told her I understood I was very fortunate. That my family and my support group was unbelievable. As an example, I told her my parents had visited me more than one hundred and fifty times. Friends and other family members, I added, had made more than fifty additional visits.
“There’s no way I’m responsible for the changes I’ve made. God has carried me through this whole experience. I know He will continue to do so as long as I am humble and serve others.”
“You’ve certainly done well in here,” she said, flipping through my packet. “I see you’ve taken a ton of correspondence Bible classes, taken the HVAC trade, cognitive intervention, and every chapel program you could.” She even mentioned that I tutored inmates and taught them how to read and write. This led her to mention the letters from TDCJ staff. “I’ve never seen a letter from a captain. You have two of them. Like I said in the beginning, your situation is unlike any I’ve ever seen. Do you have any questions for me?”
