MISTAKES OF A LIFETIME: INMATES, STATE PAYING PRICE

One of the victims of Terry McLester's crime spree was a shopping mall,
quiet and closed for the night.

He broke windows, rummaged through a handful of shops and made a big mess.
Dothan police found him, hand bloodied from a punch through jewelry store
glass.

McLester's life in 1979 was a bigger mess. A hot-headed 22-year-old in the
middle of a divorce, the self-described "country bumpkin" got drunk and
high every chance he had. He was drunk in a prison work-release program two
years later when he threatened a convenience store cashier, was convicted
of robbery, then sent to prison for the rest of his life.

McLester is serving life without a chance for parole under Alabama's
Habitual Felony Offender Law. The law mandates sentencing enhancements that
are among the longest and harshest in the country, according to an analysis
by the Alabama Sentencing Commission. The commission cites the law as a key
reason for the costly explosion in Alabama's prison population.

Now 47, McLester has spent more than half of his life behind bars since his
rage through the mall. He is a mentor and counselor to other prisoners and
is one of Holman prison's unpaid assistants to the chaplain and
psychologist. He has a college degree and job offers from prison programs
in California and Missouri.

Had he stabbed the cashier or stolen diamonds from the vandalized jewelry
store, his sentence could not have been longer.

"I am not attempting to portray myself as an angel. That I certainly am
not!" McLester wrote from Holman. "But I am an old man who has been
incarcerated almost 25 years for nonviolent crimes."

Since 1980, the Habitual Felony Offender Law has required that judges
sentence repeat offenders to life without parole on a fourth felony, if
it's a serious (Class A) crime, regardless of whether the crime caused
death or injury. A 2000 amendment gave a life option, so new offenders may
someday be eligible for parole. But it was not retroactive, so it won't
help hundreds of the permanently incarcerated, like McLester.

The man who prosecuted McLester believes he should be free. There's nothing
he can do.

"As far as Terry, Terry's been up there since 1981 - I'd have no problem
seeing Terry get out," said Tom Sorrells, retired Houston County district
attorney.

Sentencing experts say about 900 Alabama prisoners are serving life or life
without parole for crimes involving no serious bodily injury, sexual
violation or death. There are new attempts in the Legislature this year to
amend the law, to give relief both to these graying felons sentenced in
youth and to broke, bulging prisons.

In the past, when the Legislature tried to free offenders such as McLester,
the bills were vetoed by governors. Such bills can earn a politician the
dreaded label of "soft on crime."

And district attorneys love the law. It gives them control, something
they're fast losing with the overloaded system's growing reliance on quick
paroles.

State Rep. Dick Brewbaker, R-Montgomery, is leading one effort for change.
His bill would allow habitual offenders who never used a gun or seriously
injured anyone to be considered for parole after 20 years in prison.

"You can't argue rationally that this is a soft-on-crime bill when you look
at what we're doing now with parole, regardless of whether they're violent
or not," Brewbaker said.

A broader bill sponsored by Rep. Demetrius Newton, D-Birmingham, could
reduce sentences for about 900 prisoners. Sentencing analysts have told
Brewbaker his bill could affect about 80. He doesn't believe all of them
would get the parole board's green light. But it would free up precious
maximum-security space. "If this keeps 50 murderers in jail, that's a good
thing," Brewbaker said.

Are the district attorneys on board? "Absolutely not," said Randy Hillman,
executive director of the District Attorney's Association.

For one thing, comparisons of habitual nonviolent offenders to people
locked up less time for murder are unreasonable, he said. Murder is often a
one-time crime of passion, while habitual offenders without long sentences
are chronic menaces.

When someone is sent away for a long time, it is often because the criminal
had seven, eight, sometimes 15 chances to stop selling drugs or stealing.
"Unless and until they give us something better, we've got to keep what
we've got," Hillman said. "They're trying to take away whatever leverage we
have."

'A waste of money':

In 25 years of habitual offender crackdowns, Alabama's spending on prisons
has ballooned 278 percent. Alabama keeps 21,000 more people locked up now
than in 1979, when prisons held 5,700 inmates. State prisons are packed to
nearly double capacity. Gov. Bob Riley doubled the size of the parole board
to speed paroles this year to avert further crisis.

If get-tough laws have put a dent in crime, it's hard to tell.

In 1978, before the enhancement law took effect, 146,154 violent and
property crimes were reported to police in Alabama, according to Carol
Roberts, assistant uniform crime report division director for the state.
After a decade of the law, the number rose to 184,185 crimes. By 2002, it
swelled to 191,953, easily outpacing population growth.

So many factors influence crime rate changes, it's impossible to know the
impact of one law without an intensive study, said Donald Bogie, director
of the Center for Demographic Research at Auburn University Montgomery.

Demographers have found that a large cohort of youth in a population can
cause a spike, as occurred in America's early 1990s crime wave. That's why
many criminologists say it's a waste of tax money, in most cases, to keep
older people in prison. (Sex offenders are a different story, which is why
some states tailor habitual offender laws to keep them locked up.)

"Once you get past 35 or so, people behave themselves reasonably well,"
Bogie said.

That includes older people with a criminal past, he said, but to a lesser
extent because prison is a training camp for crime.

UAB criminologist John Sloan has published two studies on the effects of
these laws. He said the results show the laws are no deterrent to violence
and likely increase murder rates.

Sloan compared crime rates in more than 100 cities, some in states with
three-strikes or habitual offender laws, some without.

"In some instances, we found that cities and states with three-strikes
laws, their murder rates actually increased compared to cities and states
that do not have three-strikes laws. And they had no significant effect on
other serious forms of crimes," said Sloan, professor of justice sciences
at the University of Alabama at Birmingham.

Washington, another state that has been trying to stem prison growth,
reserves its three-strikes law for violent criminals.

"The dilemma with three-strikes laws and mandatory sentences is that they
don't in fact look at criteria that assesses the actual risk that someone
represents," said Washington's Secretary of Corrections, Joseph Lehman.
"You're asking taxpayers to pay for the confinement of someone, when that
risk actually may be diminished."

His department focuses public resources on violent criminals and sex
offenders, and puts most everyone else into drug treatment. "Incapacitating
drug offenders for months or years and doing nothing about their addiction
isn't going to help, and it's a waste of money," he said.

Lehman, a 35-year corrections veteran, has overseen prison systems in Maine
and Pennsylvania.

Drug crimes:

Drug offenders are not immune to Alabama's repeat offender law.

Because the state has a low threshold for serious felony charges in drug
cases, someone caught with more than 2 pounds of marijuana or a handful of
oxycodone is a trafficker. That's a Class A felony, which counts toward a
life sentence.

Take Michael Peek's case.

At 48, he's serving life without parole. A drug task force in southeast
Alabama caught him and some friends with 4.75 pounds of marijuana in 1998.

"Until he (the judge) said life without parole, I didn't think I could get
it. I told my wife I thought I'd get 25 years, but life without parole? I
didn't kill nobody," Peek said.

Peek's father was a small-time dope seller in Macon County, and Peek grew
up hunting, fishing and smoking pot. His criminal record reflects that,
with three drug convictions from 1977 to 1990, including a federal case for
conspiracy with intent to possess marijuana.

There is no violence on his record, and he lives in the honor dorm at St.
Clair prison because he hasn't made trouble.

Peek is bald and stocky and angry. He considers this a death sentence.
Violence in his world has been perpetrated by others. But they have not
paid as dearly as Peek has.

His father was murdered nine years ago. One of the killers is eligible for
parole in April. The other person convicted in the crime, Peek's own son,
is already out of prison.

"You're probably not going to find any other state with some of the laws on
the books that will get you life and life without (parole) than you'll find
in Alabama," said Alabama Prison Commissioner Donal Campbell. He spent most
of his career in Tennessee, which reserves enhanced sentences for repeat
violent felons or serious drug criminals.

Federal and state court pressure has forced Campbell to rent out-of-state
prison beds and spend $12 million in 2003 in overtime pay for prison officers.

'Just plain batty':

Campbell supports enhanced sentences for repeat offenders, and harsh
punishment for violent criminals. But he said there are nonviolent
prisoners who don't belong there.

Every district attorney interviewed for this story brought up the bicycle
thief myth. "This mess about people getting life without parole for
stealing a bicycle or cars, that's a lie," said Etowah County DA Jim Hedgspeth.

Hillman, of the DA's Association, said there are protections against abuses
because the law limits life-without-parole sentences to repeat offenders
who go on to get another serious Class A felony. What he calls "The Big
Nasties."

Under Alabama's sentencing codes, murdering or raping a stranger is no more
"nasty" than breaking into a house or keeping a few pounds of marijuana in
your basement. They're all Class A's.

That's one reason a chorus of conservative voices has been speaking against
versions of habitual offender laws for years.

John DiIulio Jr., a University of Pennsylvania professor and former
director of faith-based programs in the Bush White House, criticizes
mandatory minimums for drug crimes. He railed against New York and
Massachusetts in a 1999 article published in the National Review, a
conservative journal.

"In Massachusetts and several other states, about half of probationers are
under supervision for a violent crime, while half of those in prison for
drug law violations have no official record of violence. >From a crime
control perspective, forcing drug-only offenders behind bars while violent
offenders beat feet to the streets is just plain batty," he wrote.

Besides, he continued, "when one drug-only offender is incarcerated,
another one assumes his sales and effectively takes his place."

Running out of time:

Like a lot of prisoners, Terry McLester has turned to God to cope.

"I am a prime example of the biblical passage of the prodigal son," he
writes. "If only I had listened to my parents as a young, dumb teenager, I
would never have come to prison."

S.A. and Annette McLester, who live on a Dothan farm, never turned their
back on him. They tried to pay for the damage he did at the mall. They've
spent $100,000 on appeals. They gathered 1,200 signatures on a petition and
won their state representative to their fight.

Twice, then-Rep. Nathan Mathis sponsored bills that would have freed
nonviolent lifers like McLester. His bills passed both houses, but were
vetoed by Govs. Guy Hunt and Jim Folsom.

"Every day I feel like I failed in my job that I couldn't get him out of
prison," Mathis said.

S.A. McLester is 74, retired from the Dothan Electric Department; Annette
is 69.

Their youngest son Scott just died from lymphoma, and their daughter, Pat,
has been diagnosed with the disease.

Twice a month, they drive 150 miles each way to see Terry in a crowded,
locked room, sitting on stools, eating from a vending machine.

"You become accustomed to it. It breaks your heart," S.A. McLester said.
"Really what breaks your heart is the fact that there's not justice there."

After 25 years, the McLesters still have hope.

"I just pray that God will allow me to share the few years they have on
this planet with them," Terry McLester said.