By Jared Chausow
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Jones has a couple of palsLarry White, who is 73, and Angel Ramos, 48who were recently released from their own decades-long prison terms and who are getting the same kind of charge out of digging the little things these days. For a Saturday-morning adventure, the three friends have recently been taking the train a couple of stops from where they're staying in West Harlem down to 125th Street to walk the aisles of the big Fairway supermarket there. "We get one shopping cart," said Jones. "We call it 'three brains, one cart.' We buy a couple things, but mostly we just look. It's amazing what they've got in the stores now. I don't remember that they had these kinds of places before."
Another trip took them to Williamsburg, where they wandered into a bagel shop. "I didn't know they had all these kinds of bagels now," said Jones. "And flavored cream cheeses? I had a cinnamon raisin bagel with scallion cream cheese." He looked earnestly at a visitor. "It was the greatest thing I ever tasted."
Sometimes the trio, weather permitting, is content to just perch on the benches behind the hulking five-story stone building known as Fortune Academy on West 140th Street and Riverside Drive where they're currently living. "We sit there. We look around us. Every now and again, we say, 'Hey, we're not in jail anymore,' " said Jones.
Society doesn't spend much time worrying about what happens to people after they're sentenced, especially for heinous crimes. It spends even less thinking about what happens with them whentime servedthey're due to get out. Under the prior governor, George Pataki, the unwritten policy was simply to keep violent offenders locked up, regardless of the rules. Parole commissioners aren't supposed to substitute their own judgment for that of the sentencing judge, but that's effectively what happened. During Pataki's era, paroles for those sentenced on what are known as A-1 felonies fell from 27 percent of those applying to just 3 percent.
For Jones, convicted of murder in 1982, this meant serving an extra five years on his sentence of 20-to-life. Ramos was just 18 when he killed someone in a heated argument. Sentenced to 15 years to life, he was rejected seven times for parole and ended up doing 30 years. "They taught me despair inside," he said.
White served 31 years after being sentenced to 25-to-life for robbery and murder. He is now a graying senior citizen with a beard, a gentle demeanor, and a knit cap atop his head. "I was turned down four times at the board," said White. "Nobody ever told me why. I started figuring I would die in prison. Then one of the correction officers said, 'Hey, you got nothing to lose.' So I put in another application. I didn't believe I had a chance."
Two out of three ex-cons eventually wind up back in prison, studies show. But the recidivism rate slips to around 3 percent for those convicted of murder, and even lower for prisoners over 50 years old. Two eventsa lawsuit challenging the parole commission, and a new governor in Albanyare slowly pushing the number of parole approvals back up, including for long-term prisoners well past their minimum sentences.
When they got out this spring, both White and Jones had family they wanted to live with, but the rules wouldn't allow it. Jones wanted to stay with his sister, but that was nixed because her son is also on parole. That could be a bad influence. On the other hand, the state was perfectly happy to release him to a city shelter teeming with ex-cons and parolees.
It was the same for White. "I didn't have much to come home to," he said. "My wife had died. So had my mother." His niece, a police officer, offered to take him in. But that was also a no-go. "They said I couldn't be where there are guns in the house," explained White.
Parole officials told him that the shelter was his only option. "I knew I couldn't do that," said White. "In prison, you hear about the shelters, how you have to tie your shoes with the laces wrapped around your hands while you sleep. I pictured the place as a free-for-all. At my age I can't take that."
White called everyone he could think of, including JoAnne Page, the executive director of the Fortune Society, a nonprofit prisoner-advocacy group. The organization was founded 40 years ago by theater producer David Rothenberg after he mounted a production of the play Fortune and Men's Eyes, a grim prison portrait. "I met JoAnne when I was in Sing Sing and she came through there," said White. "She said, 'Well, you can come to the castle.' "