The Real Cost of Prisons Weblog

With no realistic hope for freedom, Hayes is one of many long-timers in Alabama's women's prison whose conviction was tied to a boyfriend's, husband's or brother's violent actions or to killing a man who abused them.

Now the state is being urged to take another look at their sentences by groups that say releasing these women could be the safest way to reduce prison crowding and stay within the guidelines of a federal court settlement.

While prosecutors say accomplices must be held accountable in violent crimes, advocates for the female prisoners say that, without some kind of compromise, taxpayers will need to pour millions of dollars into a new women's prison.

The state's prison population has crept up to 26,632 inmates in space meant for 12,000 despite special hearings the state Board of Pardons and Paroles conducted to consider early release for non-violent offenders.

The Southern Center for Human Rights, which monitors conditions at Tutwiler as part of the court settlement, has identified 250 women serving long sentences for violent crimes who it believes could be safely released.

While he said he has not studied this group, Corrections Commissioner Donal Campbell said Alabama needs alternatives to prison unless the state is willing to spend a lot more money on prison beds.

"We need sentencing reform," he said. "We need more alternative programs."

Convicts serving time for violent crimes have lower recidivism rates than property and drug offenders, said Cynthia Dillard, assistant executive director of the Alabama Board of Pardons and Parole. "Especially the homicides, especially females. They usually kill or hurt their significant other. When that person is out of the way, their perceived problem is out of the way."

Nationwide, people in prison for homicide re-offend at lower rates than any other group of prisoners. The federal Bureau of Justice Statistics in a 1994 study found that just more than 1 percent of murderers killed again, as opposed to 41 percent of drug offenders who picked up a new drug charge after being released.

Parole possibilities:

Hayes has a round face, glasses and a girlish giggle.

She was born in Germany, where her father, Eddie Hayes, was stationed following three tours in the Vietnam War. After suffering seizures as an infant, she had some trouble learning, but her disability also made her compliant and gentle, her mother said. "She knew she was slower than the other kids," said Evelyn Hayes. "And she always looked out for the underdog."

Her former school bus driver in Houston County relied on her to care for the smallest children on the route. "If one was having trouble, I'd sit them by her," said Chad Chadwick. "She was very kind and calm, respectful. ... I called her my `bus mom.'"

He testified on her behalf at her trial. "If I could do anything to help that child, I would," he said.

But it was also because of her disability that her parents believe Hayes followed her boyfriend's orders without question.

After the shooting, she faced the death penalty, which McGriff ultimately received. When prosecutors offered Hayes a deal to plead guilty for a 30-year sentence, she refused. "To take that plea, it was like saying that's what I intended to do, and I didn't," she said.

Houston County Sheriff's Lt. Don Valenza, who investigated the case, said Hayes is equally culpable in the drive-by. "The driver is a participant. Both of them can't shoot," Valenza said. "It's her responsibility not to drive him where he wants her to take him."

Advocates for women prisoners say they do not believe these inmates should get off scot-free. But they point out that prison officials must figure out a way to keep Tutwiler's population down to 700, with another 250 at an annex beside the prison, or else it will violate the court settlement.

Paroles, including the special early release of nonviolent offenders that began in April 2003, have resulted in 733 women leaving the prison system. Yet there are 1,150 female convicts, more than when Tutwiler was at its highest level of crowding. The state is housing some of those women in a private prison.

Campbell intends to ask the Legislature for a $580 million budget next year. He got $270 million for this year. The bulk of the difference would go to build two new prisons, one for women.

Already, the state has paid $3 million to the private prison in Louisiana to house the overflow, currently 252 women.

Investigators and lawyers with the Southern Center for Human Rights, which represents prisoners, are combing through the files of women serving long sentences, trying to identify inmates who can be safely released. About 250 have excellent institutional records and fit profiles similar to Hayes', said Lisa Kung, an attorney at the Southern Center.

"People accepted pleas for 20-year sentences after being told that if they did well inside, they had a real chance at parole after eight years," Kung said. "Women who have maintained nearly perfect institutional records and taken every class and program offered have kept their side of the bargain. The state has not."

Advocates for the women, including the Alabama Coalition Against Domestic Violence, are trying to raise attention to this group of convicts, with the hope of crafting legislation to reduce the long sentences.

Nancie Seal, 38, of Cordova is one of the women who will be in prison for a long time to come if changes aren't made. She's already served three years on an attempted murder charge because she was in the passenger seat when her brother led police on a wild chase from Walker County to Jefferson County in December 2001.

No one was hurt, but Wade drove like a maniac and shots were fired from the car as Cordova police chased them for more than 60 miles.

Seal, her brother and two people in the back seat had been drinking. "I begged my brother, `Please stop, please stop,'" she said.

The engine in their 1975 Maverick exploded. He ran and was caught later. She was arrested at the scene.

Seal, who has an eighth-grade education, pleaded guilty on the advice of her court-appointed attorney. She was sentenced to 15 years in prison. Her brother, a felon with a lengthy record, got probation, but he soon violated it and is now in prison.

Killing their abusers:

The domestic violence coalition is researching ways to shorten the sentences of women convicted of killing men who abused them, and it could be about a year away from crafting legislation, said Executive Director Carol Gundlach. But that wouldn't help women already locked up, so the coalition is in talks with the Parole Board.

One Alabama woman locked up in Louisiana is Mashell Mann, 36, who is serving 40 years for murdering her husband, Randy Mann.

She went to Moody police several times, reporting that he'd abused her and their two children, according to police reports. But her husband also told authorities that her father had abused their children. She spent time in domestic violence shelters.

The night she shot him as he slept, she said, he'd raped her, beat her with a gun and threatened to kill their children. Mashell Mann said he told her "the only way I'd leave again is being in a pine box."

After he died, her parents got custody of the children. According to medical and police records, he, not her father, had abused them. But the judge wouldn't allow law officers to testify about the abuse. It was the first murder trial for her attorney.

Mann said she felt guilty for a long time about killing her husband and knows what she did was wrong, but, she said, "I couldn't take no more."
Cycle of violence:

Most incarcerated women have been abused at some point, often by their male co-defendants. The federal Bureau of Justice Statistics reported that six in 10 women in U.S. prisons had experienced abuse before being incarcerated.

Angelicia Willis was just one of these. At 16, she went to live with Willie B. Smith. She'd had a baby, and things were tense with her mother. But their relationship deteriorated to the point that he'd put a gun to her head.

One night in October 1991, Smith told her to stop Sharma Johnson at an ATM and ask for a ride. Smith pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. He forced Johnson, the 22-year-old sister of a police officer, into the trunk of her car and drove to a cemetery. Willis left, and Smith killed Johnson.

Smith threatened to kill her baby and blow up her mother's house if she talked, Willis said in an interview from Tutwiler, where she lives in the minimum-security annex. After they were charged with capital murder, Willis agreed to testify against Smith in exchange for a 25-year sentence.

"Her testimony went a long way in getting the electric chair for him, and she was the only one who could testify as to how the victim begged for her life," said Doug Davis, the prosecutor in the case, who is now chief deputy district attorney in Jefferson County.

Both Davis and Birmingham Police Officer Scott Johnson, the victim's brother, said that Willis was guilty because her action - approaching the victim - instigated the crime.

"I feel very strongly that my sister would still be alive today if Angelicia Willis would not have been with Willie Smith that night," said Johnson, an 18-year police veteran.

His sister would not have stopped for a black man, but Willis was not threatening, Johnson said.

"I never meant to place her in any kind of danger," Willis said. "If they knew the relationship I had, they would understand why I went over there."

Davis said that although Willis did as Smith said because he was abusive, her sentence is justified. "I can't say she won't get with another Willie Smith and be influenced by him," Davis said.

Father's beard:

An endless string of years creeps by for Ebra Hayes in the honor dorm, where the best-behaved prisoners live. She also works a prison job entering state data into computers. Eddie and Evelyn Hayes visit their incarcerated daughter as often as allowed, every other week.

The Hayeses attend meetings all over the state, hoping for a miracle. They don't have the money to pay an attorney for an appeal. In the eight years his daughter has been locked up, Eddie Hayes has let two strands of his beard grow into dreadlocks. He says he won't shave until she gets out, that the white locks represent the two of them, twisted together forever.

Valenza, the investigator in the case, said he does not have an opinion about the sentence. "Just to be perfectly outright, that's no concern of mine what happened," he said.

But Hayes' attorney was dismayed by the outcome of her trial.

"My belief is that Ebra didn't know what the guy's intent was or that he had a gun," said Gary Hudgins. "This is one I really regret because she doesn't deserve to be in prison for the rest of her life."

E-mail: ccrowder@bhamnews.com

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The Birmingham News