By Jesse Crosson
We rolled down a bumpy and winding road, just 45 minutes south of Charlottesville. My heart was racing. My breath was shallow. The last time I had been down this road, I had shackles on my wrists and ankles.
As we rounded a final curve, the tree cover pulled back to reveal a low-slung concrete fortress surrounded by layers of fences and topped with shining razor wire. The guard towers cast looming shadows across the industrial building as a semi-truck lumbered toward the rear gate. We parked near the sally port at the back of the compound, and as I got out of the van, a guard near the fence yelled, “Hey, Crosson, what the fuck are you doing here?”
I was back at Buckingham Correctional Center, where I spent 13 of 19 years in the Virginia Department of Corrections for crimes I committed just after my 18th birthday. It is a place of mixed memories and emotions. I grew and matured there, became my best self. I also witnessed violence and a casual disregard for humanity by both prisoners and staff.
On August 16, 2021, with an hour-and-a-half of notice, I was released from prison after my petition for clemency was granted by then-governor Ralph Northam. Now, less than eleven months after walking out—following nearly two decades of incarceration—I was back to pick up my friend Grahm Masters. He is one of the thousands who became eligible for early release through the expanded Earned Sentence Credit program that went into effect July 1.
I first met Grahm during the 2008 soccer finals at Buckingham. The best soccer, softball, and basketball players championed the two sides of the prison in a competition for nothing more than bragging rights, but it felt absolutely epic. Grahm noticed one of my bad prison tattoos and asked if I had ever skateboarded. From there, we talked and laughed, despite being on opposing teams. Soon after, we saw each other in passing, or through the fence that separated the two sides. Later, we worked on the same maintenance crew, and I got to know him much better. Eventually, I was moved to the honor pod on his side of the yard. The day I received my diploma from Ohio University was the same day he graduated from an electrical apprenticeship. We attended the ceremony together, with both of our families present for one of the best days I spent behind bars.
Grahm’s devotion to his daughter always struck me. She was born after he was arrested, so their relationship had only ever existed within the context of prison. He would write her letters, draw her pictures, give her homework assignments, and find every way possible to be a presence in her life. They are both talented artists and bonded over sharing their work—until the prison mail policy was changed and he could only get black-and-white copies of the hand-drawn pictures she sent. She stopped sending him her latest pieces shortly after.
Now, I was returning with his family to pick him up. It would be his first time seeing his daughter outside of a prison visitation room.
Grahm had been sentenced to more than 20 years for nonviolent property crimes. In 2020, the General Assembly passed the bipartisan House Bill 5148, which allowed for expanded access to Earned Sentence Credits (often called “good time”) for nonviolent charges. Proponents of the bill, myself included, saw the powerful incentive it represented when it passed during the special session in 2020. At the time, the Virginia Department of Corrections asked for implementation to be delayed by two years to allow time to shore up reentry programs and calculate new release dates. But those release dates had to be recalculated again, with only days of notice, after Gov. Glenn Youngkin’s Budget Amendment 19 stripped eligibility from about 8,000 people. Nearly 1,000 of them had been told they would be released between July and September. The day before Father’s Day, they and their families learned they were no longer eligible.
Grahm was made eligible for early release thanks to his diligence. In addition to completing the electrical apprenticeship, he enrolled in college classes and stayed infraction free, all of which allowed him to earn the highest level of good time.
HB 5148 required prisoners to work, pursue education, and avoid behavioral infractions to earn more good time. It originally applied to all nonviolent charges. Over the last two years, there were many attempts to repeal and limit its scope; every one of them failed in session. But with an amendment, Youngkin used the budget to legislate, and both the House and Senate allowed him to do it.
The law was a promise to people that if they did the work, got an education, stayed out of trouble, and walked the right path, they would be eligible for expanded good time. This wasn’t an abstract thing. It was the difference between weeks, months, or years. It meant attending or missing graduations, weddings, and funerals. For the state, it represented money saved by shortening the period of costly incarceration, and money gained by returning citizens’ employment and spending.
It’s not as if the amendment permanently stopped the release of those who are no longer eligible. They are still getting out, just not when they were told they would be. When they do get out, they’ll likely be even more skeptical and mistrustful of a system that promised them one thing and then quickly reneged.
As I stood in the parking lot with Grahm’s family, he made his way out the gate holding his belongings—16 years of his life in one cardboard box. I had been where he was less than a year before and knew the challenges that laid ahead. He and I both had tremendous support— family, housing, and job opportunities. Even with those benefits, far more than most people have, the shock and emotional adjustment of leaving long-term incarceration has been more difficult than I imagined.
Grahm’s daughter ran to him when the gate opened. His mother gasped. I felt tears on my face. After minutes of hugging, I gave Grahm a Honey Bun as a joke—they’re extremely popular in prison—and said I wanted him to feel at home out here. That levity in the midst of tears helped lighten the mood as we drove away, heading to his first breakfast as a newly free man. When the waitress at the tiny café asked for his order, Grahm froze. I remember feeling paralyzed in the face of choice, too. Looking at menus or trying to pick out a product in the store was overwhelming. He’ll face many such moments, many unexpected shocks and challenges as he reacclimates to the world.
That afternoon we took him to a lake, and he swam for the first time in his daughter’s life. In the water, he and I talked and absorbed the surreal moment.
“Are we really here?” he kept asking. “Is this real?” He looked like a lost child. I remember that feeling, when I was the one struggling to believe I actually made it to the other side of the fence. I am grateful for the opportunity to be here for him. Far too many people will get out of prison to meet family and friends who don’t know what that experience is like. We need to show up for them, too.