Gina Barton , Corrections reporter for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, did an investigative report comparing Ramiah's Whiteside's lengthy time in prison with the short sentence of his Truth-in -Sentencing Roommate. Both committed generally the same crime. She exposes what is happening to many prisoners sentenced before 2000. Although judges gave lengthy sentences before truth -in -sentencing, they fully expected them to be release after serving one fourth the sentence if they behaved well, which was the law at the time. And here Ramiah still sits after 20 years!
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At left, Ramiah
Whiteside stands on the grounds of the Fox Lake Correctional Institution. After
19 years, he still doesn't know when he'll get out. At right, Shane Urness
speaks about drunken driving to a high school in Cornell, Wis. Urness, whose
offense was similar to Whiteside's, served five years in prison and was
released five years ago.
By Gina Barton of the Journal Sentinel
Nov. 29, 2014
When Ramiah Whiteside saw the flashing
red and blue lights in his rearview mirror, he drove faster.
He was behind the wheel of a stolen
Cadillac. He was on probation. At 19, he already had a lengthy arrest record
and had served prison time for selling marijuana.
Careening out of control, the car
plowed through a Milwaukee County bus stop shelter, killing a teenage girl and
two men waiting there. Then it crashed into a building and exploded in flames.
Police pulled Whiteside from the vehicle, but his 15-year-old cousin was
trapped inside and burned to death.
That was almost 20 years ago.
At a 1995 hearing, Milwaukee County
Circuit Judge David Hansher sentenced Whiteside to 47 years — the maximum — and
said he would order more time if he could. For years afterward, Hansher told
Whiteside's story to other young defendants, using it as a cautionary tale of
what can happen when a joy ride goes bad.
Nine years later, Shane Urness sped
down a curving road in western Wisconsin's Buffalo County. Headed home from an
alcohol-fueled party with his best friend at 3 a.m., Urness tried to go around
a slower vehicle in a no-passing zone and smashed head-on into an oncoming car.
His friend, just 22, was killed. So were two men in the other car. Two others
were seriously injured.
At 20, Urness had never been in jail,
never been in trouble. He sobbed as Buffalo County Circuit Judge Dane Morey —
calling it the most difficult sentencing of his career — handed down a prison
term of five years, far less than the maximum of 87 1/2.
Whiteside and Urness shared a prison
cell for more than six months. Theirs is a story of redemption, both behind
bars and on the outside. It is also a story that reveals how Wisconsin's truth-in-sentencing law doesn't necessarily mean more prison time for a similar crime — but in
the state with the highest rate of African-American incarceration in the
country, being black just might.
Urness, who is white, was sentenced in
2005 under truth in sentencing, which took effect in 1999. As a result, he had
to serve every day ordered by the judge. As he left the courtroom for prison,
he knew the exact date he would be set free.
Whiteside, who is black, was sentenced
under the old parole system. Prisoners like him become eligible for parole
after serving 25% of their sentences. In most cases, they must be paroled after
serving two-thirds of their time.
That means Whiteside could have been
set free after about 12 years, and will likely have to be released after about
31. He has served nearly 20 so far. His is a sentence of uncertainty, of never
knowing when he will get out of prison and no specific standards he can meet on
his own to make it happen.
Whiteside is among some 2,700 people
incarcerated in Wisconsin whose sentences allow for parole, but who
remain in custody. All of them were sentenced before
truth in sentencing took effect.
Like Whiteside, 45% are black,
compared with 6.5% of the state's population and 43% of all male inmates. Like
Whiteside, more than half committed their crimes in their teens or 20s. The
cost of keeping them locked up is about $100 million a year, paid by state
taxpayers.
Parole grants have decreased
dramatically in recent years — from 1,146 in 2005 to 152 in 2013.
Inmate mentor
Urness was a recent arrival to New
Lisbon Correctional Center when he met Whiteside nine years ago. Urness had no
idea what to expect from prison or how to survive there. What's more, he had
broken both arms, both legs and his neck in the crash. His muscles were still
weak, and he walked with a limp.
Whiteside, by then, had spent some of
his time behind bars studying to be a personal trainer. In the prison gym, he
devised exercise programs to help inmates deal with conditions such as diabetes
and obesity. Urness started working out with him. Once they got to talking and
realized they were coping with the same guilt and loss, had the same need to
atone for starkly similar crimes, they slowly forged a friendship.
"He was a lot of help,"
Urness said. "He was somebody to talk to, whether it was about family or
because of the issues I was going through. ...Over time, I realized he was
somebody I could trust. The more I got to know him, the more I realized he
actually was somebody trying to better himself."
Whiteside pushed Urness to participate
in the Hope Program, in which two or three inmates spent time with small groups
of troubled kids, aiming to lower their odds of future incarceration by
listening to their problems and sharing life experiences.
"In my heart, I know Whiteside is
a good person," Urness said. "I know he would be a contributing
factor to society, getting a job, working with troubled teens or even troubled
adults. Whatever he chooses to do, Whiteside would put it 100% forward."
Today, Urness has been home for five
years. He's married with a child. Working. He's got five years left on
supervision. His sentence calls for him to do at least three speeches a year
about the dangers of drinking and driving, but he does more, sometimes 15,
sometimes 20 — largely inspired by his participation in the Hope Program, which
has since been discontinued.
He will always, he says, do more. He
has a deep need to help other young people avoid the pain he caused.
"I hope it helps somebody,"
Urness said of his presentations. "It's the best way I know how to say I'm
sorry to everybody I hurt, to better myself and better the people around
me."
Urness isn't the only one who believes
Whiteside has a similar capacity for good.
Hansher, the judge who sentenced
Whiteside to nearly 50 years behind bars and wished he could have ordered more,
now sees him as proof that people can change.
"We exchanged letters, and I was
just impressed," Hansher told the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. "If
rehabilitation is the goal of prison, he's been rehabilitated, and we're
warehousing him at the moment."
But Hansher's letters in support of
Whiteside's release on parole were of no help. In fact, they had the opposite
effect.
When Whiteside's girlfriend sent a
copy of one of the letters to the parole board, Commissioner William Francis
promptly filed a complaint with prison officials, accusing Whiteside of
forgery. He was sent to solitary confinement for three days while the allegations were investigated.
Whiteside said his June parole hearing
with Francis was perhaps the worst moment of his two-decade incarceration.
"Even with the support letters I
had, it made absolutely no difference," Whiteside said in a phone
interview after his release from solitary. "He asked me what happened at
sentencing. He went back and said since Judge Hansher made those comments on
the record way back then — and whether these letters were legitimate or not —
he was going to go by what was said at sentencing."
A recording of the meeting obtained by
the Journal Sentinel confirmed Whiteside's statements.
Francis could not be reached.
Department of Corrections spokeswoman
Joy Staab, who also is responsible for the parole board's media relations, said
the temporary change in Whiteside's prison housing was "a non-punitive
status" and that Whiteside was released from segregation "once the
documents were authenticated."
Like the parole commissioners before
him, Francis gave Whiteside no indication of when he might be released on
parole and no road map of what he could do to help his chances. Francis simply
decided Whiteside's request for release would be considered again in a year.
Parole Commissioner Steven Landreman
has said commissioners rarely decide to release someone on the spot, and they
never set a specific future date for release.
His statements came during a Feb. 19
meeting between officials from the parole board and the Corrections Department
and a group of faith leaders and activists known as WISDOM, an audio recording
of which was obtained by the Journal Sentinel.
"I can't just come into a hearing
and tell an inmate, 'Well, you've got two more years to do. We'll let you out
in two years.' That's not how it works," Landreman said at the meeting.
"There's a lot of factors in considering how much time an individual needs
to do based on all of the factors with that inmate and his situation."
Another roadblock Whiteside faces is
that he must complete a substance abuse treatment program before he can be
released. But an internal program review committee at each prison decides which
inmates to enroll in counseling.
The number of inmates who need
treatment far outweighs the number of spots available, and truth-in-sentencing
inmates almost always get priority. As a result, parole-eligible inmates such
as Whiteside are constantly shifted to the back of the line.
"I don't know how many different
ways they can say, 'Not now, but we're not going to tell you when,'"
Whiteside said. "You think you're making some inroads, doing better,
getting closer, and then they basically pull the rug out from under you."
Urness, during his five years in
custody, saw Whiteside and other inmates sentenced under the old law return
from their parole hearings with the same sense of hopelessness.
"I'd see grown guys coming back
bawling," he said. "It's a huge mind game. Truth in sentencing sucks,
because you didn't have a chance to get out early, but you knew when the day
came, you're done. You're out the door. With these guys under parole, they
don't know."
Not discouraged
Whiteside, now 39 and already
nicknamed "Old School," said he refuses to remain discouraged for
long. He, too, has a deep need to help other young men avoid the pain he
caused. If he can't do it back home in Milwaukee, he'll do what he can for guys
like Urness who join him behind bars.
"I have a legacy, or a ripple
effect, from what I did, and I can't change that," Whiteside said.
"It makes me want to do everything I can to say, 'I'm not the person who
is selfish anymore.' I don't have that chip on my shoulder or that attitude.
That guy grew up. This guy realizes my choices impact people I don't even
know."
Whiteside, who had some behavior
problems in prison early on, credits the 22 months he spent in the Cognitive
Group Intervention Program with helping him change his thinking. The program's
goal is to teach inmates how to make better choices and to empathize with their
victims.
After finishing his session, Whiteside
helped start a program in which participating inmates could continue to support
each other.
In 2007, Whiteside became eligible for
parole.
A year later, an evaluator from
Manitoba House, a community-based residential treatment facility, offered him a
bed, saying he was "unlikely to reoffend if monitored and treated in an
intensive fashion."
"The offense of which Mr.
Whiteside was convicted is directly linked to his addiction," the report
says. "This serious misconduct certainly demands punishment, but also
calls for a disposition that recognizes Mr. Whiteside's positive growth and
redirection since the offense occurred."
Research shows the likelihood of
committing a violent crime decreases dramatically after people reach their
mid-20s. More than 99% of the men awaiting parole in Wisconsin are 30 or older.
Whiteside was 33 when the Manitoba
House evaluation was done. By then, in addition to completing the cognitive
intervention program, he had earned a high school equivalency degree and 30
college credits as well as completing programs in anger management and domestic
violence prevention, among others.
"It would seem that Mr. Whiteside
has finally reached an age and maturity level at which he is able to accept the
mandate of sobriety (and) make positive changes," the report says.
That was six years ago.
Last month, Whiteside was transferred
to the Prairie du Chien Correctional Institution, where he's told there is
finally a space in a drug and alcohol counseling program for him.
Urness was released from prison five
years ago, at the age of 26.
Some of his victims' loved ones think
his sentence was punishment enough, Urness says. But some, he knows, will never
believe that.
"In my situation, there are
probably people who still wish I was in there from now until eternity," he
said.
As for Whiteside, the same dynamic is
at play. His aunt, whose 15-year-old son died trapped in the fiery car, has
found a way to move forward with the help of anti-depressants and her church,
she said in a letter to the parole board.
She has seen the changes in Whiteside
and believes he deserves a chance to live out in the world again.
"Ramiah loved my son, Payton
Ashford, like his own brother," she wrote. "Ramiah is very loving,
caring, respectful, and thoughtful. I know he never meant for any of this to
happen or turn out this way. I know he has suffered a great deal also."
But for Paula Kirk, whose uncle,
Roger, was struck by the stolen Cadillac and killed while waiting for a bus
that would bring him home from work, it's not that simple.
"He should not be able to enjoy
his life and move on, because he took so many innocent people," Kirk, 52,
said of Whiteside. "I had to take my path through my church and I forgave
him because God said I should, but I don't want him roaming the streets."
Perhaps Whiteside could help people on
the outside, she mused, mentoring young black men from her neighborhood to keep
them out of jail. But she doubts he or anyone in his situation could overcome
the virtually insurmountable obstacles to achieving that goal.
"Even if you served all your time
and got out, you want to get a job now and live your life decent, but people
don't let you. This society we have is constantly judging people. If you won't
let the person go straight because you're still judging them about their prison
record, they go back and do what they did before. They have no reason to do
good," she said.
"If he wants to do good, he
should do it in prison."
David Liners, director of WISDOM,
believes it's society's obligation to give prisoners who have been truly
rehabilitated the opportunity to prove themselves back home.
"At what point is a sentence
doing more harm than good?" he asked. "It's the American ideal:
You've paid your debt to society, now you can start over. But it seems in many
cases, we've lost sight of that fact."
