A Sentence That Never Should Have Been
By Molly Gill
I will never forget DeJarion Echols’s story, because it was one of the first that I wrote up for FAMM back in my early days at the organization, almost 15 years ago. So, it’s with a joyful heart that I learn of his release — finally — from federal prison after a 20-year mandatory minimum sentence for selling crack cocaine to earn money to pay for college.
My heart is also heavy, though, because DeJarion neither deserved nor should have served that sentence. DeJarion didn’t get clemency. He didn’t benefit from a retroactive reform. He did all his time, the full 85 percent you do in the federal prison system if you earn all your time off for good behavior. Two daughters grew up without him physically present, but he maintained his bonds with them. All that time, all those years.
Over the last 15 years, I’ve told DeJarion’s story countless times to the college classes I would sometimes go lecture about mandatory sentencing laws. I’d play a game called “You be the judge.” I’d tell DeJarion’s story, but not reveal his sentence. I’d then tell the students that they lived — just for this exercise — in a world with no mandatory minimums or sentencing guidelines. Any sentence was a possibility, from probation up to life without parole.
No one ever gave DeJarion 20 years in prison for his offense. Most of the time, the student-judges gave him probation, or a few years in prison. One particularly draconian student gave him 15 years in prison. But never 20.
I enjoyed telling DeJarion’s story to college kids because it was like holding up a mirror to them, and to myself. His story reveals much about our privilege, life experience, entitlement, empathy, and perceptions of race, class, and criminality. DeJarion was a 23-year-old Black man and father of two from Waco, Texas, when he was sentenced. Generally speaking, that’s a long way from the top-tier universities in Washington, D.C., that I found myself visiting.
There was always at least one person in each college class who could understand why someone would sell drugs to make money to attend school. That student understood that not all of us have parents who attended college and could help us navigate the maze and pitfalls of financial aid. That not all of us have parents who were able to save up for our educations. That not all of us come from affluent places where going to college is the norm, not an exception. That not all of us went to a string of high-performing schools that equipped us to earn academic scholarships.
And there was always at least one person in each college class who understood that at least some part of DeJarion’s sentence happened because DeJarion is Black, not white. That, historically and generally speaking, too many Black students have had less access to a quality education and educational opportunity than other racial groups. That this lack of opportunity can grow like compound interest as it hits generation after generation. That DeJarion’s arrest, charging, prosecution, plea bargaining process, and sentencing might have gone very differently had DeJarion been white, well-off, with well-connected parents from a mostly white community.
And, of course, DeJarion was convicted for an offense involving crack cocaine, not powder cocaine, under the most racist law in federal sentencing. When DeJarion was sentenced, it took 100 times more powder cocaine than crack cocaine to get the same 10-year sentence he received for his drug charge. And like 80 percent of all people sentenced for crack cocaine offenses under this sentencing disparity, DeJarion is Black.
If that disparity hadn’t existed, DeJarion’s sentence would have been five years shorter. Five more years at home with his daughters.
There were, of course, students in these college classes who couldn’t relate to or empathize with DeJarion’s situation. Many of them were, after all, sitting in those desks racking up tens of thousands of dollars each year in school loans to pay for their own educations. They took the hard road of paying their own way the right way, they reasoned. Why should DeJarion get a light sentence for an illegal shortcut? But even those who could not understand why DeJarion committed his offense agreed that his sentence was far too long.
DeJarion’s story can make us squirm, in the best way possible. Stories like DeJarion’s create the kind of dislodging discomfort that makes us look deeply at ourselves and our society. DeJarion’s case makes us question where we came from, what we have and how we got it, and what could have happened to us if we had been from a different class, neighborhood, school district — or race.
I’m thrilled that DeJarion is home at last, and relieved that his family is reunited. But my joy is bittersweet, because I am reminded that although we’ve achieved a lot in the past 15 years, our criminal justice system is still deeply unjust — and more so to communities of color. Sentencing reform happens slowly, piece by piece, but it is more urgent than ever. We can’t lose heart or hope.
If you want to help FAMM end the crack-powder sentencing disparity that contributed to DeJarion’s 20-year mandatory sentence, take action here and tell your members of Congress to pass the EQUAL Act.
Molly Gill is FAMM’s Vice President of Policy.
