Deciding on parole is a difficult job

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I could do it. How would I react to spending long hours with offenders, studying the crimes associated with their miscreance, reviewing the consequences of their villainy? Likely it would be corrosive, I thought, no matter how tough-minded I am. That gave me pause. So, before I went through the selection process for appointment to the Parole Board of Canada, I asked to observe a few hearings.

I was invited to check into the Collin’s Bay Institution, knowing I was getting out the same day, which helped. The two board members I met were polite and professional, directing me to a seat in a corner, where I could see and hear everything. The first offender was brought in, under guard.

Somewhat dishevelled and visibly agitated, he obviously wanted to say something. As the members readied themselves, and the hearing officer recited procedural instructions, the prisoner suddenly stood up. Facing his interlocutors — separated by only the width of a beat-up table — he offered them an invitation, in a thick, East European accent, using a phrase starting with the fourth consonant in the alphabet and complemented emphatically with the word Off! His outburst brought the hearing to an abrupt conclusion. I thought, “I can do this.”

I was wrong. It would take months before I truly appreciated just how demanding a parole board job is.

First, I had to divest myself of some sentiments I’d wager most citizens share. A law-abiding person encountering prison subculture is certain of one thing: every prisoner they meet is a convicted offender. So, on the face of it, determining whether someone has earned the right to parole seems simple. They’re the bad guys. You’re not. It’s their case to make if they want out. In truth, it’s nowhere near that artless.

Most offenders will, by law, be released after serving twothirds of their prescribed sentence.

That’s called Statutory Release. To be paroled earlier you must apply to the board. After you do, two board members review your criminal history, institutional behaviour, victim concerns, reports from psychologists, psychiatrists, and a battery of others who supervise correctional programming, including institutional parole and security officers. Files are often voluminous, amounting to thousands of pages. Members must read quickly and well and come prepared to effectively question the offender for, at a hearing’s end, they alone decide if parole is merited. Ensuring public safety is their cardinal duty.

Parole board members do not retry offenders. Instead, they fess out whether the inmate presents any risk of reoffending. Can she or he be returned safely into the community and, if so, when and with what restrictions?

The latter must be reasonable and necessary, intended to protect the public without being so onerous as to make reintegration impossible. Undertaking this kind of risk assessment is exacting. Bottom line: if you get it wrong someone could be hurt, or worse. If that happens you, as the decision-maker, will be held accountable, publicly. Needless to say most inmates do their best to convince you they deserve to be paroled. Some lie, some tell the truth, most do both. Eventually, offenders realize time spent inside is lost forever. Only by changing their attitudes, associates, and behaviour can they hope for a chance to return to society, rather than serving their full sentences. They learn jail time deadens the soul, how prison is a place for the cast aside, the limbo at hell’s border. No one wants to remain in if there’s a chance to get out.

Making the call about who was ready to leave, or not, was never routine. Even as I became more experienced, better able to weigh the information put before me, and rendered many liberty decisions, doing so could be quite enervating.

Of course I had help. Correctional Service of Canada staff, charged with securing, shepherding, (and I do not think I exaggerate this next point), with saving (many) of the broken people populating our country’s prisons, stand on the front lines of society’s punitive and rehabilitative efforts, an often-underappreciated service.

And board staff members were some of the hardest-working people I’ve encountered in over a quarter century of public service.

Finally, there were fellow members, whose dedication to duty and black humour helped all cope with the real-life horrors lurking in the files. Yet, in the end, when you are a decision maker, it’s your call. Nothing removes that burden.

I did my best. I pray I made the right choices. Only time will tell. And, like every other board member who came before me, and every one who’ll follow, I live with that.

Nothing easy about it, nothing at all.