Ending 2022 on a hopeful note

We need more stories like the release of Henry Towns

(Henry Towns and his older sister, Lillian Young, outside Limestone Prison at his release.)

I was gratified to finally publish a multi-media piece about Henry Towns, a man I’ve known since 2017. Henry’s story represents a rare positive outcome in the many people I’ve followed condemned to die in prison under Alabama’s ruthless habitual felony offender act (HFOA). He was among several hundred people, mostly older Black men, trapped in a life without parole sentence for robberies or burglaries committed decades ago, but Henry was released from prison on May 3. Being there to witness him walking out of prison after 37 years was a high point of 2022 for me.

I’m writing my last substack of the year to honor this beautiful new chapter for Henry, and hopefully manifest more hopeful stories and good outcomes for 2023. Lord knows if you follow what’s going on in Alabama’s criminal punishment system, this year has been loaded with misery, and few bright spots can be found. Record deaths inside the Alabama Department of Corrections (ADOC) combined with the fewest paroles on record made for a grim reality.

(Henry Towns and his mother, Lucy Towns, at home in October, 2022.)

I’m happy to know Henry spent his first Christmas in 37 years with his mother Lucy, who is now 91 and in frail health. It’s obscene that he was incarcerated for so long and emblematic of Alabama’s aging prison population which includes thousands of men and women routinely denied any chance at freedom. I am grateful that he made out alive, but also keenly aware that his freedom wasn’t easily facilitated by the system. It happened because the right system actors fell into place against almost insurmountable odds. Henry’s story is bittersweet—yes, a well-earned and long overdue second chance, but there are so many others like him still trapped in prison and leaders simply do not care.

Tonight I’ll raise a glass and say thank you to God and the two parole board members who voted to release Henry. Leigh Gwathney, the board chairperson, the board’s hatchet lady, voted to keep him locked up. Folks used to call people like her a “hanging judge.” She votes no on almost everyone, no matter how well suited they are for parole, if their conviction was violent she keeps them trapped in that worst moment. I attended Henry’s parole hearing in April and felt my stomach tighten when she told Henry’s sister and nephew that she’d be “cheering him on,” despite her vote to keep him in prison. The contradiction in actions and words was astonishing. She also expressed a stern warning that he’d be sent back to prison if he violated any terms of his parole, like her proverbial finger rested on a trigger that she was more than eager to pull.

Alas, Henry is out and doing well and that’s what matters the most. I’m grateful to know him and his family. Getting to know people like Henry has changed the way I view our punishment system and my own relationship to it. No one benefitted from his 37 years of incarceration except for prison profiteers and the state government agencies that rely on prison labor. Maybe some lawmakers will see the reporting on his release and realize that Henry and his family deserved better. Maybe they’ll realize that the moral, ethical and humane thing to do is to create more pathways out of prison, not keep people locked up inside that endless hellscape. I’ll try to manifest that on this last day of 2022 and keep Henry’s first moments of freedom close. It’s a miracle every time someone makes it out of prison in Alabama. Here’s hoping for more miracles.

(Hugging Henry outside Limestone Prison at his release. We wrote letters for years, but this was our first in-person meeting! What a miracle.)