Some Hope for Cyrus Wilson After Parole Board Hearing

Early on in Cyrus Wilson’s parole hearing Wednesday morning, Tennessee Board of Parole member Gay Gregson asked Wilson to tell her what happened on Sept. 15, 1992 — the night Christopher Luckett was murdered in Edgehill.

“I was at a basketball court with some friends,” Wilson said. That’s about all he can say.

Seated at a table in the visitors gallery at Riverbend Maximum Security Institution with nearly 100 family members, friends and supporters behind him, Wilson was talking to a television screen through which Gregson was being beamed in from her West Tennessee office. Wilson ultimately had plenty to say to her about why he should be released from prison, as would four other speakers — including his wife, Casey. But he didn't have much to say about that night just a few days after his 18th birthday. That's because, for 27 years, he has maintained that he did not kill Luckett, a thin 19-year-old who was found partially stuck underneath a chain-link fence, dead from multiple gunshot wounds.

At his trial in 1994, Wilson sat on the stand and told the court that the juvenile witnesses who had testified against him — two claiming that they’d watched him pursue Luckett and shoot him with a shotgun — were lying. The prosecution had no physical evidence linking Wilson to the crime — only circumstantial theories and the word of young boys who lived in the neighborhood. But after a trial that lasted just two days, the jury convicted Wilson of first-degree murder and sentenced him to life in prison.

Now, 25 years later, he has finally become eligible for parole as a 44-year-old man. But he cannot acknowledge guilt and express remorse, a hallmark of so many parole hearings. Most importantly, he cannot do that because he has always maintained that he is innocent. The case against him has crumbled, as four witnesses from the original trial have now recanted their testimony, saying that they lied under pressure from police and prosecutors. His legal fight for a new trial continues in court.

The show of support for Wilson at Wednesday’s hearing was one prison and parole board officials said they’ve rarely seen. The gallery started filling up more than an hour before the hearing was scheduled to begin, and a number of supporters were ultimately turned away, told there was no more room for them.

The hearing began with the tone of an absurd dystopian comedy. As Wilson stood in a doorway waiting to be led in, officials battled technical difficulties, struggling to get the video link with Gregson to work properly.

Once that was worked out, Gregson reviewed Wilson’s record on the outside and in prison. She noted that he was briefly sent to a group home as a juvenile because of an auto-theft charge. But there were moments of levity in the overview too. Noting that his file indicated he’d worked at Wendy’s for four years, Gregson asked how was that possible, given that he’d been in prison since he was 18. Wilson hung his head in faux shame as a smile spread across his face. He explained that he’d lied about his age as a young teen so that he could work. Gregson looked amused and moved on.

She read off a long list of the classes Wilson has taken during more than two decades in prison, tripping up on one about hermeneutics. Wilson explained the concept.

Moving on to Wilson’s record during his time in prison, she asked whether he has a job — he works in the laundry — and noted that he has 43 write-ups over 25 years. The most serious of those, though — one for assault, another for contraband, etc. — were from the early years of his incarceration. Gregson said Wilson has not had a disciplinary write-up in the past nine years.

First up to speak on Wilson’s behalf was his wife Casey, who had been seated in the front row directly behind him with her two daughters. Although Wilson is not their biological father, she said he has “stepped in and become their dad.”

“Our girls need their dad,” she said.

Casey Wilson spoke about how she and her husband have made long-term plans for their family when he gets out of prison, how his mother needs her adult son around as she ages, and how Wilson’s 5-year-old nephew visits him most weekends.

Next was Jared Mollenkof, a public defender who got to know Casey when the two worked together at the Metro Public Defender’s office. The two men soon became close friends, Mollenkof said, and Wilson has given him advice about things he’d never imagined they would share with each other.

Rahim Buford met Wilson in prison and was himself paroled in 2015 after serving 26 years for a felony murder conviction when he was 19. He recalled classes he’d taken with Wilson, noting that Wilson “always had something poignant to say.” He sought to add context to the incidents early on in Wilson’s incarceration.

“You have to fight for your life in prison,” he said.

Davie Tucker, the pastor of Beech Creek Missionary Baptist Church, has known Wilson for around 10 years. He taught the aforementioned hermeneutics course, in fact. He assured Gregson that Wilson had a community of people waiting and ready to support him upon his re-entry to society.

Before Wilson had a chance to read a statement he’d written, former Metro Public Defender Dawn Deaner — Wilson’s legal counsel for the hearing — summarized the status of his case in the courts and explained why Wilson had not filled out a required risk-needs assessment form. The document, she said, contains a number of questions about the offense for which a person was sent to prison — questions Wilson could not answer under advice of counsel, due to his pending appeal.

Deaner pleaded with Gregson not to hold Wilson’s innocence claim against him, but rather to evaluate the man he is today and the community of support around him when making her decision about parole.

When it was his time to speak, Wilson — an aspiring writer who has told the Scene that most of the books he reads are about the craft of writing itself — leaned forward in his chair and began reading.

Wilson said that over the course of the 27 years he’s been locked up since his arrest, there were times when he could not imagine surviving prison. He detailed the personal loss and violence he has suffered while incarcerated. Since he’s been inside, his father — who was also incarcerated — has died; his brother was killed; and in one incident, Wilson himself was stabbed numerous times.

He said he’s gone on to serve as an educator and mentor other prisoners and, as his record shows, has worked as a teacher’s aide, helping to organize and instruct classes.

But what Gregson couldn’t see in her files or on her screen, Wilson said, was the way is stepdaughter looks at him when he emerges for a visit, or the way his young nephew demands to sit on his lap for their entire visit.

You can read his handwritten statement here in full. 

As Wilson finished speaking, his wife and daughters cried behind him. Gregson asked for a few minutes to make her conclusions and announce her vote.

Ultimately, she said she does not personally require that a prisoner acknowledge guilt before she will vote to grant them parole. She did say, however, that Wilson would have to submit to a risk assessment. Her vote, she said, was to extend the process for six months and have Wilson undergo a psychological evaluation after which the board would revisit his case.

“You have been locked up a long time,” she said. “I don’t want to vote to deny you.”

Now the case will go to the rest of the parole board, who will review it and cast their votes. If at least three of the other board members agree with Gregson, the board will hear the case again in six months.

It’s another delay, but it's the outcome Wilson and his supporters had hoped for going into the hearing.

As Gregson explained her vote, and then Wilson stood up to leave, one of his daughters began sobbing behind him. Wilson was led back through a door, disappearing into the prison unit again. Prison officials dismissed the crowd, instructing them to leave the premises immediately.