Dispatches on prisons, sentencing, civil rights, race and activism.

Kuntrell Jackson. Courtesy: Arkansas Department of Correction.
“A throwaway person.” That’s how Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg characterized the societal status of a 14-year-old who is sentenced to life without parole, as oral arguments in Jackson v. Hobbs wound down on Tuesday. She was responding to the claim by Little Rock Assistant Attorney General Kent Holt, representing the Arkansas Department of Corrections, that condemning a teenager to die in prison for murder “reinforces the sanctity of human life.”
“You say the sanctity of human life,” Ginsburg pushed back, “but you’re dealing with a 14-year-old being sentenced to life in prison, so he will die in prison without any hope.” In other words, aren’t kids’ lives still worth something even when they’ve committed a grievous wrong?
This was the fundamental question before the Court as it heard arguments in Jackson v. Hobbs and Miller v. Alabama, which were argued back-to-back. Civil rights attorney Bryan Stevenson believes they are; representing defendants in both cases, he stressed that teenagers are works in progress, and cannot possibly be judged in the same way as adults. Not only does science back this up—teenagers’ brains are still developing, particularly the parts that affect judgement and impulse—the Court itself has concluded the same thing in such cases as Roper v. Simmons, which struck down the death penalty for children under eighteen on Eighth Amendment grounds. “What this Court has said is that children are uniquely more than their worst act,” Stevenson argued.
Holt disagreed with Ginsberg that sentencing a teenager to life without parole necessarily robs them of “hope,” offering that the prisoner in question “has made efforts to obtain his GED” and “has taken anger management classes,” while saying nothing about how such things might meaningfully serve him when he has no chance of release—or even review by a parole board.
The prisoner in question is no longer a child. Sentenced in 2003, the now 26-year-old Kuntrell Jackson was convicted of felony murder and aggravated robbery for a 1999 crime that occurred when he was just 14. Now living in a maximum security prison in Tucker, Arkansas, Jackson did not pull the trigger that led to the victim’s death. Nor was there evidence that he planned for—or even anticipated—that a murder would occur. Rather, Jackson, his fourteen year-old cousin, and a 15-year-old friend, Derrick Shields, decided while hanging out in the Chickasaw Courts housing projects in the town of Blytheville, Arkansas, that they would rob a video store. Shields was carrying a sawed-off shotgun and killed store clerk Laurie Troup when she refused to give him the money in the cash register.
Jackson was tried as an adult and given life without parole, the same sentence given to Shields. Even if he did not plan for a murder to occur, the state concluded, the fact that Jackson knew Shields had a gun made him guilty of “reckless indifference” to human life. In Arkansas, as in several states, life without parole is a mandatory sentence for such felony murder cases. This meant that Jackson’s age, lack of maturity or potential for rehabilitation could not be considered, even if the judge had wanted to.
As with capital cases where defendants are sentenced to death for an indirect role in a murder, some Americans might be surprised to learn that such a young teenager, indirectly involved in a homicide, could face so permanent a sentence. Indeed, the United States is virtually unique in the world in sentencing such children to die in prison, a fact that has much to do with states’ mandatory sentencing statutes and laws passed in the 1980s and ’90s allowing children to be tried as adults—a trend that was largely rooted in racist (and since discredited) rhetoric about juvenile “superpredators.” It is no coincidence that 70 percent of the prisoners serving life without parole sentences today for crimes committed at 13 or 14 are youth of color.
Mandatory sentencing was a constant theme throughout Tuesday’s oral arguments. The fact that the vast majority of teenagers sentenced to life without parole are sentenced under such statutes seemed to trouble Justice Kennedy, who asked: “Just as the death penalty is unique for anyone and therefore requires mitigating elements, isn’t life without parole special enough for an adolescent that you have to let him at least make any mitigating arguments he wants?”
And Justice Breyer, suggesting that a person who “aided” a homicide is less culpable than a person who actually committed it, asked, “What is the argument for not allowing a judge or a jury, at least to think about that question, before…imposing mandatory life without parole?”
One outcome in Miller and Jackson, which will be decided by early summer, could be that the Supreme Court will strike down all mandatory sentences of life without parole on juveniles—which would have a major impact on sentencing practices across the country. Another possibility is that the justices will strike down life without parole for children 14 and younger, given in part their rarity (only seventy-nine such prisoners exist)
But as Stevenson argued, the Court’s own legal logic should inform a broader ruling, striking down life without parole sentences for all offenders under the age of 18, regardless of their crime. In Roper, after all, the Court ruled that “it would be misguided to equate the failings of a minor with those of an adult,” even in murder cases, partly because “the signature qualities of youth are transient; as individuals mature, the impetuousness and recklessness that may dominate in younger years can subside.” And in Graham v. Florida, the precursor to Jackson and Miller, the Court used the similar logic to rule that juveniles’ comparative lack of judgement should preclude them from being sentenced to die in prison for non-homicide crimes.
But as Stevenson repeatedly reminded the Court, “these deficits in judgment are not crime-specific. The person who intends to kill doesn’t actually have any better judgment, any more character, any more maturity, any more impulse control than the person who doesn’t.”
For the attorneys representing the states, the best defense for tossing kids in prison and throwing away the key comes back to the crime. Unlike in Jackson, the defendant in Miller did commit a (grisly) homicide, beating a man with a bat and setting fire to his trailer. “Society’s primary goal here…is expressing the retributive judgment about the wrongfulness of murder,” argued John Neiman, representing Alabama. (And anyway, remarked Justice Scalia glibly, “I thought that modern penology has abandoned that rehabilitation thing.”)
So which is more important? The nature of the crime? Or the nature of juveniles? The Court’s decision will hinge on this question. As attorney David L. Hudson wrote in a legal analysis: "Ultimately, this case may come down to which ‘difference’ is more important—death or children."
For more on Miller and Jackson, see “Why Life Without Parole Is Wrong For Juveniles,” by Randy Hertz.
Martina Correia. (AP Photo/Paul Abell)
When Martina Correia was first diagnosed with breast cancer, her son, DeJaun, was 6 years old. The doctors gave her only six months to live. But more than ten years later, she was still alive. Death was not an option for her. She was on a mission, not just to raise her son but to save her brother’s life, even as her own life hung in the balance.
It was not just the shocking facts of Troy Davis’s case—the total lack of physical evidence, the recanted witness statements—but his sister’s strength and story that inspired a global movement against the death penalty. People all over the world cried out against the execution of Troy Davis. Not once, not twice, not three times. But four times.
“De’Jaun remembers the first execution date vividly,” Martina said earlier this year, as the state of Georgia again readied itself to kill her brother. “It was July 17, 2007. He was 13 years old. We went to go see Troy, and Troy wasn’t really worrying about himself. He was mostly worried about his family—about us. I was looking at my mother. She was praying, praying, praying.”
Troy gave DeJaun parting advice. “Just do good in school, do what’s right, pick the right friends, watch over the family, and just respect the family. Respect your mom, your grandmother, and your aunties. Do what you love and have a good profession.”
Miraculously, Troy would live to see another day. And his sister would be by his side every time they tried to kill him again. In a letter to the Campaign to End the Death Penalty in 2009, Troy wrote: “As I look at my sister Martina, I am marveled by the love she has for me—and of course, I worry about her and her health. But as she tells me, she is the eldest, and she will not back down from this fight to save my life and prove to the world that I am innocent of this terrible crime.”
Martina never paused, never put herself first. It was always about the fight. When I wrote to a dozen activists, lawyers and former prisoners this past February asking for a short contribution to an anti-death penalty article for The Nation, she was the first to respond, even though she had been very sick. “I am not yet 70% of myself,” she wrote, as explicit an acknowledgment of her health struggles than she would generally allow. Yet she urged me to call her cell rather than e-mail in the future; it was a better way to reach her.
As a board member of the CEDP, Martina would join our lengthy Sunday night conference calls—no matter where she was or what was going on. She spoke to us from the car, on her way back from the hospital—she was always there. So it was easy to convince ourselves she always would be.
Even when things looked grim for her brother, Martina shared in the joy of other family members who welcomed their loved ones home. When one of our fellow board members saw her husband released from a Texas prison after ten years after being wrongfully convicted, she wrote jubilantly: “PRAISE GOD, WE ARE WINNING THIS FIGHT AGAINST INJUSTICE!”
In person, Martina stood tall, a veteran of Desert Storm, where she had worked as a nurse. It was painful this September to see her looking so frail as she watched the state of Georgia prepare to kill Troy once and for all. Too weak to walk, she nevertheless rose from her wheelchair in a show of strength and solidarity. “I’m here to tell you that I’m going to stand here for my brother today,” she said as reporters looked on. And she did.
Soon after that, her brother was gone. After so many last-minute reprieves, it was a reality that was too hard to accept.
Just as it is difficult to accept that Martina is gone.
“I never thought this day would come,” DeJaun tweeted earlier this week, as he heard from the doctors that she didn’t have much time. Along with Martina, he had spoken to the CEDP over the phone at our annual convention last month, and told us his Twitter address. It was his feed that told me she would be gone soon.
As the news spread last night, another tireless activist, my friend Marlene Martin, former executive director of the CEDP, sent out an e-mail describing one of her last conversations with Martina.
“She told me someone in France had e-mailed her to say they were sorry that despite all of their efforts and protests for Troy, they had failed. Martina said, ‘I want people to know that we didn’t fail. As long as we keep hammering away at this thing, as long as we refuse to give up, we haven’t failed. We’ll be doing what Troy would have wanted us to do. Our efforts made an impact and we’ll continue to make an impact.’ That is always how she was. She refused to be defeated. She always looked to the positive, she always looked to ways we could mobilize to win.”
Laura Moye spoke with Martina at a CEDP event in Harlem a couple years back. She fought hard alongside her and was at the hospital when she died. In a moving post about her friend—“ a modern-day prophet for human rights”—on the Amnesty International website, she wrote:
Martina fought her deteriorating body every step of the way to hold onto life and to be in this world for her family and for the human family. Her body finally gave out, living eleven years longer than doctors predicted she would. It is unimaginable what stress and hardship she and her family faced having a loved one on death row who was almost executed three times, then finally killed by the state she called home and in the country she served as a military and civilian nurse. Martina’s mother, though in perfect health, died shortly after Troy Davis’ final appeal was denied and a few months before his execution.
The families of murder victims and the families of death row prisoners endure enormous pain. The death penalty is horrifically destructive, creating a downward spiral of violence that drags so many people down in its wake. We must end it so that an authentic justice that brings us accountability, healing and a better future can take root and blossom.
This post was guest-written by Nation associate editor Liliana Segura.
Prisoners in California are taking part in an “indefinite” hunger strike that could prove fatal if something isn’t done soon. Many participants “are experiencing irregular heartbeats and palpitations, some are suffering from diagnosed cardiac arrhythmia,” according to the Bay Area group Prisoner Hunger Strike Solidarity (PHSS), which is in touch with the inmates’ lawyers and family.
The hunger strike was started two weeks ago by inmates in Pelican Bay State Prison’s Secure Housing Unit (SHU) “in order to draw attention to, and to peacefully protest, twenty-five years of torture via [California Department of Correction and Rehabilitation]'s arbitrary, illegal, and progressively more punitive policies and practices,” according to their official statement, dated July 1, 2011. Prisoners in the SHU are confined in cement cells with metal doors for more than twenty-two hours a day, with no real access to natural light or human contact. Many spend years locked up in these conditions.
This fact—and the prisoners’ list of “demands”—should concern anyone who believes in basic human rights for prisoners. Aside from an end to indefinite solitary confinement, the list included such meager requests as “adequate food” and a call for staff to stop using “food as a tool to punish.” They want “meaningful access” to “adequate natural sunlight” and “quality health care and treatment.” They also ask for a “weekly phone call” and “one photo a year.”
As James Ridgeway and Jean Casella write today at Solitary Watch, these requests are largely “based on the recommendations of the bipartisan US Commission on Safety and Abuse in Prisons, which in 2006 called for substantial reforms to the practice of solitary confinement. Segregation from the general prison population, the commission said, should be ‘a last resort,’ and even in segregation units, isolation should be mitigated and terms should be limited.” Yet “some of the prisoners have been in the SHU long enough to remember the hunger strike that took place exactly 10 years ago, when 600 Pelican Bay prisoners stopped eating for 10 days…. A decade later, inmates say, virtually nothing has changed.”
Thousands of California prisoners are reportedly striking in solidarity across the state. The CDCR has been stoic in its response, saying it will not negotiate. Meanwhile, the original hunger strikers’ health is deteriorating. “Clearly the prisoners are in dire need of adequate food and hydration,” reports PHSS. “The only way to prevent people from dying right now is for the CDCR to negotiate.” As one activist told the San Francisco Chronicle, the prisoners feel the CDCR “will not make any meaningful or long-term change until they start dying, and they’re willing to take it there.”
Tell the CDCR: enough is enough. Negotiate with these prisoners. And end the inhumane practice of indefinite solitary confinement.


