Barred for Life

Carbone gets more and more enthused, more and more energetic as the presentation unfolds. He practically morphs into the tap-dancing, "give-'em-the-old-razzle-dazzle" attorney for female murderers played by Richard Gere in the movie Chicago.

It's an impressive show, but, in his portrayal of the parole process as a game to navigate, it's also a tad unnerving. Moreover, the advice he offers these prospective clients — how to talk the talk, how to smooth over the rough edges, how to "present" well — is exactly the sort of pitch calculated to infuriate victims' rights advocates.

"We're not against defense attorneys," argues Crime Victims United's Harriet Salarno. "But we want the scales of justice to be balanced. They have the right to fight, but not to lie."

Should lifers ever be eligible for parole? "We have to come to a realization to concentrate on what you feel are nonviolent offenders that can be rehabilitated. Concentrate on them. Leave the lifers alone." In other words: no.

Of course, in the same way Carbone's spiel is guaranteed to rub victims' advocates the wrong way, so Salarno's statement is, to the attorney, like a red flag waved before a bull. He can't abide the notion that his clients have had the keys thrown away on them.

American criminal justice institutions have always trodden a fine line between, on the one hand, revenge or the usage of punishment as a catharsis for devastated victims, and, on the other hand, the ideal, pioneered by the Quakers more than two centuries ago, of redemption or rehabilitation. And what greater canvas on which to paint this eternal conflict than the fate of a murderer? What easier candidate for revenge? What harder, less sympathetic, candidate for rehabilitation?

Yet Carbone can produce statistics to show that released murderers have a far lower recidivism rate than do practically all other categories of criminals. That's because while some murderers, like Charles Manson (currently ensconced in Corcoran Prison), are true serial killers, psychopaths, or sexual predators who need to spend the rest of their lives behind bars on first-degree murder convictions, most murderers who end up eligible for parole are those who killed for economic reasons, or while caught in the grip of a destructive emotional passion, or in response to domestic violence. Often, they've never been arrested prior to killing their victims. Thus, in many ways, despite the appalling nature of their crimes, many researchers believe they are, paradoxically, strong candidates for rehabilitation.

A 15-year study by researchers with the Correctional Service of Canada, carried out between 1975 and 1990, followed 658 paroled murderers. More than three-quarters of them were not reincarcerated while on parole. Thirteen percent were sent back to prison for technical parole violations, and only 9 percent for committing new offenses. Out of the 658, five, or fewer than 1 percent, were convicted of new murders. Obviously, that's five too many — and many public safety advocates make a powerful case that it's better to be safe than sorry when dealing with this group of violent convicts — but it hardly suggests most paroled murderers are simply waiting for an excuse to shed more blood.

If rehabilitation as a philosophy is to work, it has to at least be given the chance to stand on its own for the most morally tough cases. After all, not much is at stake when you argue over whether a car thief is rehabilitated, but an awful lot's at stake with a killer. These days, Carbone doesn't tightrope-walk very often. He does, though, frequently hang upside down from trees in a park near his home. Early mornings, he heads there, puts on big blue boots with grappling hooks attached, swings himself over a branch, and hangs. It's good for the soul and for the body. "It's the same training the Shaolin monks do," he says, as if that explains everything.

To represent lifers seeking parole, well, you've got to have the same kind of self-confidence, the same belief in self-infallibility that you have hanging upside down from a tree. In these parole hearings, you've got to be absolutely sure you're right, that your client really is ready for release. Get it wrong, and you're not just talking about egg on your face, you're talking about a man or woman with a taste for human blood preying on the community because of your misguided actions.

Carbone has no doubts. On the flip side of the parole board's reliance on "instinct," he says he only represents people he knows, in his gut, are ready to come home, people he would be comfortable with babysitting his two young nieces. "The ones that are ready to leave," he asserts, "have an aura about them that is different. They've lost a lot of anger. It's almost like they become more human in some ways." And for those people, he argues, continued incarceration is only about vengeance, it's no longer about public safety.

"It's very tangible," Carbone says of his work. "Giving someone their freedom back is a massive thing. If I can give somebody their life back, it seems like a tremendous gift. Nothing on the planet makes me happier than that."