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I get on a bus, I thought everyone was going to look at me and go, "Oh! He's a convict," "Oh, he's in prison." And it's not like that. People don't know you. They don't know your history or who you are or where you're from.I have an itinerary I follow every day. I'm not supposed to stray from it, and I don't. We're not allowed to go in stores. We're not supposed to go in Dunkin Donuts and get a coffee or nothing like that. You go straight to work and come back. There are things I can't do. I can't even strike up a conversation with a woman that I see that I'm attracted to. I can, but I don't want to, because I'm still in prison. Last night, there's a woman sitting there with her computer—everybody brings computers into Panera Bread. I don't have a cell phone so I couldn't give my number, and I don't have an address yet.Where do you live?Oh, I live at the Pre-Release Center.Oh, that's good. That's a good way to start up a conversation.When I get out, my main thing is to set up some medical appointments. Dental—my teeth are terrible. My mouth hurts so bad. It's been uncomfortable like this for 15 years. It's like a lion with a thorn stuck in its paw.
I'm going to be looking for a job at Boston University. I was told to go on the BU website and check on what jobs I might like to do. They said I might have to start low. Everybody's telling me, you're coming out of prison with a degree, you have qualifications. Some jobs people don't want but maybe you can take it. Get your foot in the door.You don't save money when you're doing a death sentence
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I wonder how I'll be accepted outside. When they find out where I'm from, and my past. I have that blemish on me. Once a prisoner, that's there forever. No matter what you do, no matter how good you do. It's just always there.I don't know if my lifetime parole is going to be a battle with the parole officer. I've heard horror stories. Some people had parole officers that were all over them all the time. So I'm going out there after all these years and I really don't know what to expect. My mother said—we were actually arguing about it out here—"Look at Greg, he's getting out, he doesn't even smile like he's excited about it." And I said, "What do you want me to do? I'm going home. OK, I'm happy about it."But I'm not just coming home and everything's hunky dory. Your 17-year-old son ain't coming home—I'm 51.Your 17-year-old son ain't coming home—I'm 51.
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I'm leaving a lot of good guys behind. I remember when I left Norfolk, it was weird. I was in that prison for about 29 years. I knew a lot of lifers, I mostly hung around with lifers. There were guys up there who were just as deserving, if not more so, than me, for a second chance in life. Guys with three, four, and five decades in prison. It's sad, because they were out in lower security getting furloughs, before Willie Horton. And they're not going anywhere. Here I am, I had this opportunity, this blessing. This court ruling that opened the door for me. I feel guilty. I walked out that door, and these guys that were so sad to see me go—I can't even send Christmas cards to those people. As a parolee, we're not allowed to associate with convicted felons or ex-felons.Even though I'm out, if they find out that I die outside, they'll put me on the list as a lifer that died.
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