DON'T LOOK FOR PAROLE IN TEXAS

AUSTIN, TEXAS -- Some short Stories About Texas Today:

Twenty years ago, a 27-year-old man named Robert Hudspeth committed murder
in the course of a burglary in Austin. He came from a good family, had
attended St. Ed's and UT-Austin and worked as a car salesman, but he just
went progressively more off the track. He drew life on a capital murder charge.

Hudspeth was sent away and did his 20. He was a trustee at the Wynne Unit
for nine years and did maintenance work at a state airplane hangar. Every
morning at 5 a.m., he walked to work, and every afternoon at 2:30 p.m., they
came to pick him up again.

He had one bad mark on his record: A few years ago, he found a half-empty
whiskey bottle in a state plane and tried to smuggle it back into Wynne for
his friends. They caught him, and he lost trustee status for 15 months. He
got it back and stayed clean.

Last year, Hudspeth got himself certified as a Texas commercial driver so
he'd have a way to make a living when he got out. The address on the license
was ``Wynne Unit.'' He was a guy whom people liked, and they helped him plan
for his release. He came up for parole hearing two months ago and went
before two commissioners. The warden thought he'd get it; everybody thought
he'd get it.

``I don't know why they pay those people,'' Hudspeth later told David
Tinsley, who has the hangar next to the state one; ``they didn't ask me any
questions or talk to me at all. They just stamped it 'DENIED.'''

Asked if he knew why, Hudspeth said: ``Yeah, it's a Willie Horton thing. The
governor is running for re-election, so no one is getting out. They're
afraid of making him look bad.''

Lawyers who handle parole cases confirm Hudspeth's judgment: The parole
system has been pretty much shut down. After the manic building spree of a
few years ago, the state finally has enough beds, so they can afford to keep
everyone in. Although ``murderer'' is a scary concept to the public,
criminal justice experts say guys like Hudspeth are classic low-risk
releases -- they almost never come back.

Hudspeth was depressed after he was denied parole with no explanation. A few
weeks later, he stole a Suburban from Tinsley's hangar and drove to Austin,
and then on July 2 he drove to Llano. He ate a peanut-butter sandwich and
some instant rice with ketchup. He wrote a note that said, ``I don't want to
die in prison.'' And then he hanged himself.

End of story.

The overall parole approval rate, according to the latest figures from the
Texas Department of Criminal Justice, is 22 percent for both violent and
nonviolent offenders, which means it's actually much lower for violent
offenders. This is the lowest approval rate in state history. Before 1992,
the approval rate was about 60 to 70 percent and was simply a way of
managing the prison population.

The decline is both because of the state prison building spree and because
of the hideous results of the erroneous release of Kenneth McDuff. There are
18 members of the parole board, each paid $75,000.

Gary Cohen, an Austin lawyer who specializes in parole hearings and
reocations, said: ``It's a complicated question, but yes, I do think
politics drives parole. The board members are political appointees, and it's
clear politics drives that. Victor Rodriguez has been a wonderful chairman
- -- he's very progressive. He's pushing (the Texas Department of Corrections)
to get more programs so parole can be hinged to completing programs, so
there's a push there in terms of making the system fairer. But I do not
think they ever intend to get back to the 40 to 50 percent range, which many
experts consider reasonable.''

Parole board members are responsible for voting on parole releases, parole
revocations and amending conditions of supervision. They process almost
100,000 files a year. Divide that by 18, and see what you get.

Lawyers who work in this area believe that most board members do care and
are conscientious but are just overwhelmed. There are seven board offices
around the state. Each one receives between 6,000 and 7,000 files a week,
and they have to be cleared by the end of the week to make room for another
batch.

The results are stories like this:

Charles Marshall, early 30s, is convicted of statutory rape for having sex
with a 16-year-old girl. She did not want to press charges, but her parents
did. Marshall drew 10 years.

After a few months in prison, he was found to have inoperable cancer. A
lawyer applies for an emergency medical furlough or special-needs parole.
Marshall had a malignant melanoma, one of the most virulent forms of cancer,
that metastasized into his spine, neck, jaw, stomach and intestine. He had
to use a wheelchair and could not even get up to go to the bathroom. He was
utterly helpless.

Parole denied. He died in the prison hospice unit on March 2, 1997.

Another case of parole revocation: A guy goes to prison in the late '80s on
a theft case -- no drug, alcohol, assault or weapons of any kind on his
record. He gets out, spends six years on parole and gets hooked up with a
con man -- they're going to buy some buildings from an old campus in Waco
and fix them up. Investors are talked into putting up the money, then the
partner absconds with the funds.

The case is at the Waco district attorney's office for a year with no
charges filed against the original perp, who proceeds to make full
restitution to the investors in the neighborhood of $30,000. The guy, 38,
has a heart attack -- he comes from a family with a history of males dying
young of heart attacks. He also has custody of children from a previous
marriage.

A triple bypass fails -- more surgery. Dr. Michael DeBakey does an
experimental laser procedure on him. He's put on a waiting list for a heart
transplant. His cardiologist comes to the revocation hearing and says he's a
dead man if he goes back in. DeBakey writes a letter for him.

He's clearly not a danger to society. He can't work. He can't drive. They
voted to revoke him.

State Rep. Jim McReynolds of Lufkin intervenes. One consideration: The guy
has private-paid health insurance that has already put $200,000 into his
medical bills. If they put him back in stir, the state has to eat the bills.
The parole board votes to reconsider.

However, just remember: It took the combined efforts of lawyer, doctors and
state rep.

Checked-by: Melodi Cornett