January 12th, 1978. I had only one more day, then freedom, even
though I would be in the halfway house.
After 6 and ½ years, even that is something to look forward to. I had gone to the parole board on 5 occasions
during this stretch and even had been given parole which was later
rescinded. October, 1977 was the last
time I had gone before them, only to yet again, be denied. My maximum release
date was September, 1978 and surely after all the years that had gone before me
I could wait another 8 months.
Something inside me refused to
accept my latest denial. I filed an
appeal to the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City, the very people who had
denied me in the first place. My chances
of getting the parole board to change their mind were slim to none. But I would add a twist to my appeal. I wrote as many correspondents as I could and
asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf. The list was substantial, a few hundred in
fact. Most all of them, I had
established correspondence with during the time I had been in prison after
becoming a Christian. I asked them to
basically write and encourage the ‘board’ to reconsider my case.
Two months passed with no word from
Kansas City. Prayers were going up to
God continuously from everyone. In the
early part of December, Mr. John Conte (My caseworker) called me into his
office. The parole board had called and
said, “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point. Over three hundred letters had poured into
their office supporting my parole. On
December 19th, my counselor came to my cell. “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for
10 years and I have never seen one of these.”
I could only imagine what he held in his hands as he referred to the
letter resting there. The parole board
had CHANGED their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13th
to the halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released
on Friday the 13th. Jokingly,
I suggested that I’d probably get run over by a truck. I’m not superstitious nor do I believe in
superstition. Besides, any misfortune
wasn’t going to wait til the 13th, it came that night on the 12th.
Mr. Conte again called me into his
office. “We have a problem.” The
Associate Warden, Ed Arborgast, was advising the warden not to allow me to go
to the halfway house. Mr. Arborgast had
been a guard in Marion, Il. In 1965-67, the years that I was incarcerated
there. I didn’t remember him, but
apparently I had made on impression on him.
“No,” I said, “we don’t have a
problem, I have a problem. You’re going home tonight. I am staying here. Dejectedly
I called Mary and told her the disappointing news. She asked me how I felt and I told her I
wanted to tear the place up. I had felt
this powerlessness before and in the past I had torn the place up. I tried to pray, but it seemed like the old hopelessness had
invaded me heart. Mr. Conte had said my past record had shown that I hadn’t
ever made it upon my release and why would this be different. He used the example of a race horse who
always lost. Would I bet on a loser. I told him I wasn’t a horse, I was a man and
men change. Mr. Conte said I would have
to interview the Halfway House Administrator in the morning and he would make
his own recommendation to the warden.
Mr. Robert Thompson was the Administrator. Son of a Baptist minister, he would at least
understand the belief in redemption.
What would I say that would make a difference? Even I had to admit the record wasn’t lying. I hadn’t ever stayed out very long after
previous releases, but then I had never been released trusting in God for my
future either. When Paul was brought before
the Roman tribunal as a Roman Citizen, God gave him the words to say. And that had always been my trust in past
occasions as a new Christian when speaking before the judge or parole board,
God would give me the words to say. I’ve
always believed that it’s not so much what you say, but what the Holy Spirit
did with what you said. At the
conclusion of the interview, Mr. Thompson gave no indication what his
recommendation was going to be.
Aimlessly, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards to while a way
the time. If it got to 4 o’clock, that
pretty much sealed the deal against me.
As 2 o’clock arrived the female guard, (from Springfield, Mo., Mary’s
hometown, and who even recollected perhaps knowing Mary’s sister Jeanne.) came
over to the table and looking me straight in the face, slowly said “so what are
you waiting for? Go get your stuff. You’re
being released.” I didn’t have many
personal belongings: a box of books, letters and pictures and $22 on my
account. They took me out to a local
haberdashery, where in the dead of winter, the salesman went back to the back
of the store and bought out an ill-fitting summer suit with a stain on it. They could have released me in a gunny sack and
I would have been satisfied!
Having one’s fingerprints taken is
a part of the convicts life. That is a part of the way we live. Having God’s fingerprint on our life is
another thing altogether different.
Parole boards don’t change their minds, three hundred correspondents
writing letters on one’s behalf rarely happen. God’s fingerprints were all over
this!
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