TIME DONE, BUT STILL A LIFE TERM

Florida is the worst state when it comes to deciding when a debt to society
is paid off.

Judges hand down sentences in courtrooms but don't tell the whole story.
Even after people convicted of serious crimes do their time, pay their
fines and complete their community service, they remain ostracized by a
post-Civil War constitutional provision that denies felons reinstatement of
civil rights.

Florida is one of only eight states that does not automatically restore
rights to felons once they have completed their sentences. Florida is the
only state that enshrines this denial in its constitution. Florida has the
largest population of ex-felons, estimated at somewhere between 600,000 and
700,000.

Florida also has the largest backlog of ex-felons' appeals for restoration
of rights; about 30,000 cases are stalled within the Office of Executive
Clemency. Only a half-dozen processors work in the office, and the governor
and Cabinet must approve all appeals for clemency. The wait has grown from
months to years -- or to never -- as the political climate in Tallahassee
has shifted. In 1986, under Gov. Bob Graham, 15,000 ex-felons regained
their rights; in 2000, the most recent year for which statistics are
available, only 927 did.

The state decided to ostracize ex-felons in 1868, when lawmakers rewrote
the constitution as part of the Confederacy's Reconstruction and
readmission into the Union. The motivation was largely to discriminate
against blacks, and African-Americans today are affected at
disproportionately high numbers: More than 200,000 of the state's ex-felons
are black.

The implications of Florida's 134-year-old provision will touch Tuesday's
elections. Thousands of potential voters are disenfranchised. Besides the
loss of voting rights, ex-felons also lose the right to hold professional
licenses. The denial of basic civil rights impedes rehabilitation and
assimilation into the community. In 42 other states, felons can serve their
time, make restitution and start their lives over. In Florida, the penalty
lasts a lifetime.

Consider the case of Chris DiFranco, 47, who lives in North Miami.

In 1995, a couple of weeks before the statute of limitations expired, he
pleaded guilty to a marijuana trafficking charge from the late 1980s. He
was one of the smallest cogs in a huge South Florida smuggling machine that
authorities shut down with indictments against dozens of defendants who had
moved around 200,000 tons of pot.

Mr. DiFranco cooperated with investigators and got a token sentence: He
paid a $50 fine and was put on probation for five years. He never has been
in trouble for anything else and never has spent a day behind bars. He paid
the 50 bucks and served out his five-year probation term without incident.
In 2000, he appealed to the state for restoration of his civil rights. He
works as a general contractor and needed to get his license back to stay in
business. His wife, Robin, took up the cause.

"I filled out the applications and then wrote dozens of letters and made
dozens of phone calls," Ms. DiFranco says. "The appeal goes to Tallahassee,
then comes back to a regional office. I think the low point was when I was
told that our appeal was No. 72 in a desk drawer in Miami."

She pursued the matter relentlessly, sending daily e-mails, making phone
calls and getting on a first-name basis with aides of state Cabinet
officials who ultimately would vote yes or no on clemency. Last February,
the DiFrancos got a letter saying the state was willing to hear their
appeal. They went to Tallahassee in June and testified for 10 minutes
before Gov. Bush and the Cabinet, sitting as the clemency review board --
which approved the appeal.

"There is no effort to review people on a case-by-case basis," Chris
DiFranco says. "My application was in the same pile with those from
rapists, killers and violent criminals."

And there is also the unfairness that dates back to Reconstruction.

"We're white, middle-income Americans," Robin DiFranco says. "We had access
to computers and e-mail. We could afford to make all the long- distance
calls. We were able to go to Tallahassee. A lot of other people just can't
do it and give up."

In 42 other states, Chris DiFranco would have regained his civil rights
automatically. In seven other states, he could have regained them quicker
and easier. In Florida, repaying a debt to society can go on forever.