Road to Triumph

I read a devotion the other morning that began with a story about French General Ferdinand Foch at the First Battle of the Marne during World War I. the Germans had attacked in overwhelming numbers and the French lines were disintegrating. Foch sent the following communiqué to headquarters.

            “My center is giving away, my right is retreating. Situation excellent. I am attacking.”

            The author of the devotion wrote that “sometimes in life’s battles we can feel as if we are losing on every front.” He then noted that trials can be God’s road to triumph. I thought about those words this week as I tried to steel myself for another year in here. I spend every morning before sunrise in prayer and Bible reading. And, I think this experience has made me a better man, a better Christian, a wiser, more merciful believer. But faith and hope are tested repeatedly and I’ve come to accept that having faith, believing when everything tells you otherwise, is the key.

            For the past six months a group of supporters have been lobbying to get my sentence reduced – modified in a way that would allow me to leave prison and get to work paying off my restitution and doing what I’ve been called to do. That sounds funny from in here, saying you have a calling, but one of the many things I’ve learned during my time in here is that I can teach and motivate men in very difficult circumstances.

            Many people wrote letters to the Governor on my behalf. My cousin, who – along with her husband – has cared for me and supported me in more ways than I can count since those very dark days at the jail, sent me copies of those letters. “Read them when you’re feeling down so you see what people think of you,” she told me when she mailed them. I haven’t read any yet. I haven’t been in a position where I “needed” to read them and, quite candidly, the fact that someone would take the time and effort to write on my behalf is very humbling and touching. So, I start each day reminding myself I can’t do anything that would discourage and disappoint the people who have backed me, and prayed for me, and hung in there with me when logic and common sense should have told them otherwise.

            Hope is a mysterious thing. It’s a feeling that what is wanted will happen. It’s expectation. Combined with faith – an unquestioning trust and confidence – hope is what keeps us going when everything tells us all is lost. As I’ve written before, I love how Stephen King’s protagonist Andy Dufresne in “The Shawshank Redemption” explains hope:

            “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best thing. And hope never dies.”

            Michael Morton spent twenty-five years in a Texas prison for the murder of his wife. The evidence, the prosecutor said, was overwhelming. Morton described his nights in the prison, the screams, the smells, the despair. At one point in his time behind bars, his son (who was required to visit once each quarter) wrote and said “I don’t want to visit anymore.” What could Morton do? Within two years, the son wrote again. This time to ask that he be allowed to be adopted by his aunt and uncle and change his last name. Morton just said, “Those days were the worst.”

            Twenty years after he entered Texas DOC the parole board (yes Virginia, Texas still has parole) offered to release Morton. “Admit you killed your wife and you will make parole.” Morton couldn’t do it. No matter how much he hated prison, how much he missed freedom and fresh air and privacy and the thousand other things we take for granted each day, he couldn’t say he killed his wife.

            Morton had a lawyer who for nine years had tried without success to get his case reopened. “I told him to take the parole board’s offer,” the lawyer said. “And when he told me he couldn’t, when he told me he knew all he had left was his honor, I promised then and there I’d never give up trying to get him free.” Honor matters. Even when you face the worst you do so with dignity and honor. And you hope. You never give up hope.

            I wish I could say that the whole time I’ve been in here I was honorable, but I can’t. When I first got locked up, I was a mess. I’d spent so much time living with what I was doing, so much time anxious, depressed, and hating myself that my arrest should have been a relief. It wasn’t. I lost everything I loved and held dear and it didn’t depart quietly. I was full of fear and self-pity. I said things. I wrote things. I thought things that I deeply regret. I was weak, and cowardly, and dishonest. It’s hard to imagine being worse than you are at your lowest, yet I was. Jail was not character building. Jail was destroying what little was left.

            So Michael Morton stayed in prison and he hoped, and he prayed, and he believed. One evening, years earlier, when the prison was awash in the cacophony of piercing screams and shouts, Morton put his headphones on and turned his small radio dial to nothing but static. He wanted the white noise to block out every sound around him.

            He lay there with his eyes closed and the sounds of the prison drowned out amid the constant crack and whir of static until he heard it, the clear beautiful sound of a classical music piece on a station that never came in on his radio. And the music soothed him; he felt peace and security; the bitterness and the loss left him. Even though he was behind bars, Michael Morton was free.  And I knew what he meant.  I understood.  I’d been there and had the same epiphany, that moment I knew it would all be alright.

            Freedom. On the eve of his twenty-fifth year behind bars a Texas court ordered DNA testing on evidence – a blood soaked bandana – found at the scene. The test showed Michael Morton’s wife’s blood and the blood of an itinerant construction worker already doing a life sentence for the rape and murder of a woman that occurred less than a year after the death of Morton’s wife. A review of the evidence used to convict Morton showed that the prosecutors withheld evidence that would have exonerated Morton. The prosecutors needed a conviction, so why not the husband?

            And just like that, the doors of the prison swung open. Morton was exonerated with apology – and money – from the state. But the twenty-five years? The bitterness over the loss? How do you go on? “I never gave up hope,” he said. Hope is a good thing. Andy Dufresne sure knew what he was talking about.

            On a sweltering July day in 1863, Joshua Chamberlain looked over all that remained of his bloodied Maine regiment. Only one of six men remained standing. They were out of ammunition. All day they had fought, barely holding their line against a succession of enemy attacks. They could not stop another onslaught. Nothing stood between his line and his army’s rear. His battered regiment was the right flank of the union line. There was no reason to go on. No hope of success. But hope is a funny thing. Sometimes it just takes a step forward. Chamberlain ordered his men to fix bayonets; and they followed; on the order they charged down the hill into the advancing army; and the tide turned and the men from Maine prevailed; and the union was saved.

            I don’t know what the Governor will do. In less than a week his term ends. The new Governor will take his oath of office on Saturday ending the McDonnell administration. And Governor McDonnell? He faces his own legal problems. The Washington Post recently reported that the Governor’s private attorneys met with Justice Department prosecutors to delay his indictment on influence peddling and improper receipt of gifts until after his term expires. And I’ve wandered the past few weeks if in his time alone the Governor ever said to himself “I wish I’d handled things differently.” Or “I’m a good man who made a mess of things. I just need a fresh start.” I wonder if he has had his epiphany yet, his revelation that there are consequences to our actions and we have to face those consequences – “man up” – and then move forward with integrity and honor.

            I don’t know if I’m getting out early. I do know I have hope and hope is a good thing, maybe the best thing. Hope a lot of times is all we have left when we lose everything else. But, hope never dies. As long as you hope, you are on the road to triumph. It doesn’t matter if you’re in prison, or poverty, or just in pain. Hope keeps you going.

Major Changes

They brought in a new chief of security this week, a new big hat, a new Major.  DOC has a weird facility operations system.  A warden sets policy for the compound with day to day help from an assistant warden.  Third in charge is the Operations Director who runs everything on the compound non-security related.  But, security trumps everything.  And, security is always in the control of a major, a big hat. 

I’ve been here at this level 2 facility almost four years and this will be my third major in charge of security.  The first one was easy-going.  He wanted things to run smoothly.  His officers were mostly older.  Both he and his staff had been in the system a long time.  Many of them had been at the higher level facilities where stabbings and other random, mindless acts of violence were daily occurrences.  They – and he – knew what it was like to lock a prison down for nine, twelve, or eighteen months.

So, they gave some latitude to things.  After all, this was a level 2.  Guys spend years getting their level down to come to a compound like this.  A two hundred series charge now and then was nothing – it didn’t cost you your job or good time.

That first major retired and number 2 came in.  He was from a receiving unit, a facility where level 5’s (capital murder, rape and more) mingled with petty larceny or DUI level 1’s.  Those prisons, as I learned on my own, are cesspools; they are powder kegs which erupt almost daily in fights, robberies and worse.  

Security’s goal there is simple:  lock ‘em in until they’re classified and ship ‘em out.  The officers did their jobs; you acted out, you went to the hole.  They were detached.  They walked the floor when required; most times they stayed by the booth.

That attitude took hold here under Major # 2.  Soon there were almost weekly memos about bed areas (what was permissible to have).  Charges were regularly written.  And, even two hundred series charges (“minor” infractions) cost men good time and employment.

Was the prison more secure?  No.  There were just as many fights, just as many drugs, just as many gang members.  In fact, things deteriorated.  Is that the Major’s fault?  Probably not.  See, the prison population was changing as well.

When I first arrived here, most guys locked up were older and they had time yet to do.  Then, Governor McDonnell announced his re-entry program and turned this into an exit point for this region’s soon to be released inmates.  What you get now is a mix of very young, very dumb guys who have little time to do (and came from short jail bids), or very old, long serving inmates who have been everywhere in the system.  They come with health problems, few prospects for successful reintegration into fast-paced society (many have never used a cell phone or ATM), and years of scars built by the violence and degradation of surviving higher level prisons.  They young guys think they’re in camp.  They act out.  The old guys have seen the worst.  They smell b/s a mile away.  Both don’t care about any state announced program.

There are a little more than 1,000 inmates here and maybe a core group of 100 of us run the school programs, maintenance shop and factory.  The rest are short-timers who don’t give a damn about another re-entry program that was just like the last.

The prison has changed; the inmates are worse; the problems more noticeable.  Into that comes Major # 3.  What’s he like?  He’s young, not even 40.  That in and of itself is different.  And, he carries himself like a military officer: pressed uniform, perfect posture.  He was a captain at a higher level, cut his teeth on the violence and degradation at level 4.  And, he’s checking things out.

No one, especially in prison, likes change.  But, some change is good, especially if it cuts down on knucklehead behavior in here.  So, I’m going to take a wait and see approach.  Now, if they’d only come and clean house on the re-entry program…

 

A passing thought:  Why do Americans think the 2^nd Amendment is so sacrosanct yet the 4^th Amendment can be circumvented in the name of security?  I’m not sure what I think of the NSA leaker, but I know this – the founding fathers were deeply concerned about Government’s ability to search without justifiable warrant.

No less than Ben Franklin remarked that people who are willing to give up their liberty for security will soon have neither.

I can tell you from living in here, under daily surveillance, that freedom and privacy matter.

A Happy Ending

I had a peculiar week.  Twice I was to the point of such deep frustration that I snapped on guys.  Throughout the week, as events in here swirled around me, I passed the time finishing Jonathan Franzen’s amazing new novel “Freedom”.  Franzen writes some of the most complex story lines I’ve ever seen and he captures the struggles – with absurdity – of middle class American families post 9/11.  The picture he paints isn’t always pretty, but for me at least, he speaks with a powerful voice knowing exactly what I’m feeling.  I quite literally rose and fell with “Freedom’s” protagonist, Walter.  More on that later.

I have a new bunkmate.  Once E was tossed from the building, his bottom bunk became a hot property.  “IG”, a young, personable gang banger who does quite well in school, took the bottom bunk below me.  He’s a nice kid:  barely 21 and two and a half years into a four year sentence for distribution; he’s polite and respectful – usually.  Here’s the problem:  he’s young.  Everyday he’ll say “Heh Larry, have you seen my book?  Have you seen my lock?  Have you seen my bowl?”  He’s a friggin disorganized mess. Crap is piled everywhere!  He has no sense of structure, no sense of organization.  I finally said “Look IG, I’ll help you get everything organized, but then it’s on you.”

We found out Opie is fine.  The “MD” here (I won’t call him a doctor) had blood drawn from Opie – “routine” when he went down to medical with severe intestinal cramps and fever.  Three days later, Opie is called back to medical and told “you have either leukemia or AIDS, not sure which.  Go back to your building.”  Nice.

Extensive blood testing at a real hospital and an oncologist tells him “you have a slight infection in your blood.  Take this antibiotic and you’ll be fine.  Oh and by the way, the prison doctor is a quack.”

IG Part II.  It’s now Tuesday afternoon.   I’ve been tutoring all morning, got out for a quick three mile run, shower, lunch and IT academic aide from 1:00 to 4:00.  It’s now 5:00 and I’m trying to get a few minutes to do my afternoon Bible reading.  IG – I discover – has had his TV enhanced by a budding engineer in here so that he can play his CD player through his TV speakers.  You always have to have earbuds in for TV or CD, that’s a DOC rule.  But, with no officer on the floor, rules aren’t that important.

So there are seven of the young guys hanging around his bunk while Lil Wayne, or Lil Kim or Lil somebody is rapping away.  And it’s loud, friggin loud.  I lean over and say “Heh IG, can you please turn it down?”  He wasn’t being disrespectful.  It was so loud, he couldn’t hear me.  How’d I handle it?  I jumped up and yelled “IG turn that shit down!”  I was beet red in the face (and obviously not paying too much attention to my Bible reading) and saw eight young black guys’ eyes grow wider.

There’s a scene in “Freedom” where Walter has had enough.  He’s giving a speech and lets loose with the truth and the audience breaks his jaw and pummels him, but his self-respect is restored.  I stood there waiting for my “Walter” beat down.  Instead, IG turned the tunes down and said “Sorry man.  I never meant to disrespect you.”

And then there was Friday.  I was up at the school when the principal, Ms. C saw me.  She busts her butt for these guys.  She and her husband have dedicated their lives to inmate education.  Every day she has to fight the powers that be in this dump who don’t want the inmates to get anything, those narrow minded administrators and officers who fail to grasp the theological and ethical demands to treat even inmates with respect and dignity.

“Larry, I hear from Dr. Y two guys didn’t turn in their research papers.  I’ve had it.  Between guys cussing professors and not going to class, and not doing the work, I’m going to throw guys out.  I can’t keep fighting everyday if they don’t care.”  She told me they had until Monday night to turn their papers in or they’d be failed in the class and be tossed out of school.  For the second time in 72 hours I was pissed.  I found the two guys and went off.

“I’m bustin my ass for you clowns and I find out I care more than you do!” 

“But Larry, it doesn’t matter.  They won’t let us out early.  They won’t really help us.  This is all bullshit!”

“How do you know?”  Now I’m really fired up.  “If I thought stickin a flag in my butt and walkin on my hands would get me out a day early or get the three people I’m heartbroken over to just say ‘I love you’, I’d do it.  Every f---in day I do everything I can to believe this will end.  Every day I do everything I can to give you dipshits a chance and you just say screw it cause you’re too lazy or stupid to care.”

For the second time in a week I waited for my “Walter” moment.  But again, it didn’t come.  Instead, these two chuckleheads apologized for letting me down and went to work on their papers.

Big S talked to me later that day.  “You can’t save all these guys.  You’ll drive yourself crazy.  Do what you can and move on.”

I tried to tell him I can’t do that.  For better or worse, these guys are the hand I was dealt and I won’t give up on any of them without knowing in my heart I tried.  I’ve convinced myself my reason for being here is just that.

Which brings me back to “Freedom”.  Walter is heartbroken.  He’s imprisoned in his own private cabin suffering from his life’s failure.  In perhaps the most powerful scene in the book his daughter says “Dad, if you didn’t still love her you wouldn’t be in such pain.”  Walter says “Honey, not all stories have happy endings.”

I won’t give the book away, but I’ve always believed without a happy ending, the story’s never complete.  Believing in a happy ending keeps me going.

Commonwealth Attorney Blues

The Washington Post reported on December 30th that the Virginia Supreme Court will soon be ruling on a defendant’s right to use an antiquated writ (writ of Coram Nobis) to reopen their conviction.



The issue has arisen out of Justice Stevens’ majority opinion in Padilla v. Kentucky (“God bless JP Stevens!”) holding that a criminal defendant’s attorney fails to provide effective assistance of counsel when failing to disclose deportation risks to foreign defendants offered plea bargains.


The writ in question is used by inmates to reopen their cases. I’ve filed some for guys. It’s almost impossible to get a criminal case in Virginia reopened. Under Virginia Supreme Court Rule 1.1 a judgment (including a conviction) is final and not subject to review unless timely appealed or challenged within 21 days of entry.


Commonwealth attorneys around the state are whining about defendants trying to get conviction “do overs”. I have a response to those self-righteous political hacks: FU ! (Sorry, that was prison Larry talking).


Mistakes happen daily in court. Prosecutors and police lie, witnesses make false identifications, defense attorneys screw up.


“Freedom is a gift from God.” – George W. Bush.


No person should ever be denied access to the courts when their freedom is at risk. Whether the conviction was entered 21 days or 21 years ago shouldn’t matter. Freedom is more important than a date certain.

This and That This Past Week

Little things happen in here that when placed against the backdrop of “outside living” show how screwy prison life really is.



Prison is all about rules. There is a tension between the COs and the inmates over interpretation and enforcement of “the rules”. Inmates skirt them as best we can; officers look the other way (sometimes) or bust guys over the head.


The other day “Rock” – a vocational aide, was busted, sent to the hole and fired, all within about ten minutes time. His crime? He was caught listening to music CDs on his work computer. Rock was heading up the boulevard to work when he was pulled down by “13”. 13 is the number for the officer on boulevard duty. Every building, every location has a number to direct officers over the radio. Every inmate knows every code number as well.


This day, “13” was a real a—hole of an officer. As he patted down Rock, he discovered the CDs. Inmates are not allowed personal items not related to their jobs outside the building. 13 tells Rock to take the CDs back to his building; Rock tells 13 to go have relations with his mother. 13 calls the investigator. He goes to Rock’s desk in the classroom, sees the CDs and proceeds to haul Rock to the hole.


Here’s the thing. Every vocational aide has music loaded at work (things are different for academic aides). Rock forgot who he was dealing with. Most COs don’t sweat little stuff. 13 that day was one of the COs here who likes to throw their weight around. In a battle between officers and inmates, inmates almost always lose.


Officers and inmates hate paper pushers. There are some guys here who are notorious for “dropping paper” on everything. As I tell guys I work with, you have to pick your battles. Every day in here you face a set of illogical rules and regulations specifically in place to keep you contained and, in many ways, break your identity.


DOC lost a major censorship case a few months ago. As a result, inmates can now receive books and magazines paid for by friends and family. It used to be that every purchase had to go through property with about six different forms. I found ways back then to beat the system. My biggest way to “work around” DOC rules? I treat the officers with respect. I’m polite. Same with Big S and most of the guys I know.


Now, I get called to property (no paperwork filed) and the female officer says “Honey, looks like someone’s suprisin’ you with books.” But, not so for “breast pump” (called that because he has man boobs and insists on walking around in tank tops).


“Breast pump” is notorious for “dropping paper”. Anytime things don’t go his way, he sends in a grievance. He’s so bad about it, and considers himself “above the inmates” that one day Big S asked him “What’s your state number?” When BP gave it, Big S looked at him and said “So, you have a number just like everyone else.” The ironic thing about BP is, he’s in here for getting his eight year old stepdaughter to perform oral sex on him. He’s been persecuted (so he thinks); the rest of the guys in here are just scum.


COs hate paperwork. They have to respond and most COs, like most inmates, can’t write a simple sentence to save their lives. BP is a pain in their backsides. He files paper – they make his life miserable.


Breast Pump’s mom sent him books. Property won’t give them to him until he files “the proper forms”. As the officer told him “No request form, no books”. He’s pissed. He asked me what he should do. I told him, tongue in cheek, “file a grievance”.


The great fight in here last week proved once again that most inmates, for all their talk about hating snitches, will run their mouths to cover their own butts in a blink of an eye. Both guys were at fault. An argument turned into punches and BAM “Man” connects with a multiple combination to G’s face leaving it a bloody mess.


Fighting is usually a 200 series charge. Small penalty (10 days in the hole plus loss of visits). But, an assault is a 100 series (raised security level, removed from compound, loss of good time, possible street charges). You get in a fight you take the 200. That’s the rule – not for G. He wasn’t even to the hole before he told the investigator he was “minding his own buness” when he was jumped by Man. Result? G’s back in the barbershop working and Man is heading to a level 3 facility. Loyalty is in short supply, whether it be prison, marriage or just friendship. You find someone who will stick it out, “for better or worse”, and you hold on to them dearly.


G is a rat. Period. I knew the day I was arrested, it’s better to accept the blame yourself than spread it around. Every day you have to watch yourself in here for guys who will curry favor with the COs by talking. The system creates that mentality and it’s one of the worst things about prison.


Then there’s shopping. I had to order a new pair of running shoes. I kept the old pair over a year. “On the street”, I’d buy two new pair of $100 Asics every four months. In here, a $50 pair of Nike's does the trick. Making $54 a month, having 5% withheld (under a new state law requiring every inmate withhold that amount for court fines and restitution); 10% to savings and tithing 10% to a church, doesn’t leave me much. I’ve decided to get real boots, a pair of Levis, a denim shirt and a winter coat to replace the threadbare things DOC provides. Total cost: just under $300.


Back before my arrest I’d spend $300 in a day. I’d give my wife $1000 to go shopping with her friends; $200 for groceries at an upscale grocery; $100 to my son “for the weekend”. It will take over a year to get my clothes.


Money means something different in here. Now it’s to supplement a bland, poor diet and to get a few comforts of “outside living”. Things I used to take for granted – like a pair of Levis or Timberland boots – now matter. It’s an interesting way to learn the value of things.


I saw on the news this morning that a college kid was arrested at the Richmond airport for protesting TSA’s new aggressive pat down policy. He stripped down to nothing but running shorts. On his chest and back he wrote the words to the Fourth Amendment which says we are free from unreasonable searches. I found his protest encouraging, but misplaced.


After every visit I am subject to a strip search to make sure I’m not carrying any contraband. Every day going in and out of school, I’m subjected to pat downs. Leaving chow there is a random pat down.


Twice a year the investigators come in and shake us down and strip search everyone. You are subject to random drug screens with an officer standing directly beside you watching you urinate. Random locker checks happen each week.


It’s amazing what you learn to live with, including the loss of basic privacy and simple dignity. As I said before, I applaud the young man’s courage for challenging the TSA pat down. Yet, I expect this young man has a cell phone, a Facebook page, an email account. He probably uses credit cards. All these things allow someone to track you, invade your personal space.


In here I never have privacy. I use the bathroom in front of 95 other guys; same with the showers.


Privacy and freedom are wonderful concepts. I’ve realized how precious they are having lived in this environment. I’ve also come to realize folks “outside” don’t realize how little privacy and freedom they actually have.


Every week in here reinforces little pieces of the prison puzzle. Every week teaches me something I hadn’t given much thought to before my arrest. Every week offers a little more of this and that.

Born Free

It seems as though every time I turn on the TV, I see Kid Rock singing his new big hit “Born Free”. He sings it at awards shows, football games, you name it. How ironic. The United States of America, our country, where people still recite the Pledge of Allegiance, sing the National Anthem and believe in ideas like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, has more people in prison than any nation on the face of the earth. More inmates than in China – still a Communist country, more inmates than in North Korea, Cuba, Iran, any despot regime on the face of the earth.



Virginia has almost forty thousand inmates in its prisons, the eighth largest inmate prison population “in the land of the free”. That number does not include the thousands of others held in local and regional jails. It does not include the 50,000 individuals under supervised probation or on parole. Nor does it include the 300,000 plus Virginians who, because of felony convictions, have been denied their civil rights. They cannot vote, they are subject to warrantless searches, to just name a few.


Three million incarcerated persons in the United States. Still, Kid Rock sings.


This week the Governor’s budget director announced preliminary budget numbers that call for a six percent across the board decrease in funds. According to news reports, DOC will be especially hard hit with projections of up to eight prisons being closed. Throughout the compound winds of freedom begin to blow:


“They got to bring back 65%. . . .”


“They can’t keep all these guys locked up for their full sentences . . . .”


Anyone with a minimal level of common sense would realize Virginia cannot continue to sentence and house inmates as they have since 1995 when parole was abolished. You cannot spend over $1 billion each year and employ over 13,000 – both items the state’s largest in dollars and workforce number – on corrections and expect to have quality schools and healthcare as well as adequately maintained roads.


Corrections is an oxymoron. The money spent does not get the Commonwealth inmates who are “corrected”. Instead, $1 billion gets you almost 40,000 housed, angry, frustrated people who will, with very few exceptions, all see “the streets”.


No one disputes that there must be consequences to criminal wrongdoing. But, sentences must be proportionate to the crime committed and those incarcerated must be given an opportunity for early release through hard work and participation in programs to correct their behavior. Emphasis should be placed on restoring inmates to society as responsible, contributing citizens, not punitively housing them for lengthy periods of time only to be let out bearing the stigma of felon.


This nation professes that “all are equal before the law”. Go through the criminal process and see if you still believe it. America professes to believe everyone deserves a second chance. We love stories about underdogs and comebacks. All inmates ask is for that chance, that opportunity.


Thanksgiving evening and CNN is doing a show on “Heroes”. Called to the stage is a middle-aged black woman. On her own she began opening a number of half-way houses in the Los Angeles area for released female inmates. These homes provide a safe, stable place to live for women just out of the penitentiary, women who have no home, no family, no opportunity. She gives these women a chance to succeed, a chance to overcome. She gives these women hope.


Freedom is defined as a political right, the quality of living a life with liberty. Shouldn’t that right apply to everyone, even inmates?