In late July 2025, I received a new memo on my electronic tablet from Daniel F. Martuscello III, the commissioner of New York’s corrections department. Since he’d started the job two years prior, he’d been taking a new, transparent approach with us prisoners: keeping us informed via our tablets.
Along with several other guys at Shawangunk, where I’m serving time, I had been hoping for an update about three major prison reform bills before the New York Legislature. Instead, we got news that the department was partnering with motivational speaker Andre Norman and his Second Chance University.
To be clear: I saw Norman and his team do their thing when they held a short seminar in Shawangunk last June. Only a small portion of the population was able to attend, but his message of accountability, growth and rehabilitation was good.
I also admired and respected the accomplishments he’d made as a formerly incarcerated person, and I felt the same way about his willingness to come back behind the wall to speak to guys like me. But since he couldn’t sign bills into laws, his speech was just another distraction.
In New York prisons, hope is nonexistent because so many of us are loaded up with long sentences. Mine is 62-and-a-half-years-to-life, the kind of sentence we call “death by incarceration.”
The average age of death for New York prisons is 57 years old. I’m 51. With my deteriorating health, I know I won’t live long enough to see my first parole board in 2056. I won’t be eligible for parole until I’m 82. When the only way out of here is in a body bag, hope is hard to come by — as is the motivation to change for the better.
Over my past three decades in prison, I’ve come to realize the changes I need to make to become a better person. I’ve adopted an entirely different set of beliefs, morals and values than the ones I had when I was arrested at 20. It took me time to get right, to fully break with the person I was, and to take accountability for my actions.
A few years ago, after so much transformational work, I confided in some of my old associates that I was going to apply for clemency. I forced a laugh to hide how much it hurt when one of them replied, “N***as like us don’t get shit like that!”
I was offended, but wanted to prove that by doing things right for years and years, I’d earn my freedom and get home the right way. If I was around them now, I would have never mentioned that I had filed for clemency.
For a while, the prospect that Gov. Kathy Hochul might recognize my transformation gave me hope of an early release. But, last year her promise to announce clemency decisions on a quarterly basis was stalled, likely due to the illegal statewide prison guard strike that started on Feb. 19 and ended 22 days later. I thought there’d be legislative pathways to an earlier release but that turned out to be another bogus wish.
Last year, New York had three prison reform bills under consideration:
- The Earned Time Act would increase the amount of “good time” and “merit time” that people could earn for early release.
- The Second Look Act would give judges the ability to reconsider unduly harsh sentences.
- The Marvin Mayfield Act would have eliminated mandatory minimum sentences.
None of them were even brought to a vote. After the legislative session ended in June 2025, morale sank lower than ever. We’d turn our TVs to news about reform bills enacted in states like California and New Jersey and shake our heads.
I’m not going to drag any program that works to create a safer environment for us prisoners and staff. But New York prisons are full of men who will never live to see their parole boards — myself included. Without any possible avenue to earn an earlier release, there’s simply no incentive to pick a motivational program over politicking in the yard. Some of us need an extra push to truly change the way we think. Using an organization named “Second Chance University” in a state like New York that doesn’t offer a second chance just doesn’t add up.
I know reform legislation is out of the commissioner’s hands. He’s done productive things for the prison population that I’ve never seen from any other in the 30 years I’ve been imprisoned. When he visits, he creates a sense of hope for people like me, who want to implement programs and classes that keep guys from idle yard and cell time. He seems to support all of the positive events here at Shawangunk. And the administration here has tried their best to be accommodating in the wake of the guard strike. Some of us are appreciative of that.
But if the New York state legislature truly cared about returning incarcerated individuals back into society fully rehabilitated and ready to be productive citizens, they could do so with a stroke of a pen. Instead, they’ve let New York prisons fall deeper into despair. The situation is so desperate that slick rhetoric from politicians can no longer camouflage it.
LaMarr W. Knox is a father, grandfather and crochet artist born in New York and raised in Southern California. He is serving a 62-and-a-half year sentence at Shawagunk Correctional Facility in Ulster, New York.