35 years in prison, then 150 days of freedom: Philly's first juvenile lifer back in jail

Graying and gaunt in his safety-orange jumpsuit, Victor Scott looks twice the age of other inmates in the visiting room at the Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility, Philadelphia's largest jail.

He stands out for another reason, too. Scott, 53, has the unwelcome distinction of being the first juvenile lifer in Pennsylvania charged with a new crime, possession of a gun.

He is one of 111 so far resentenced and released from prison on parole in Pennsylvania, thanks to a U.S. Supreme Court decision in 2016 that the court's 2012 ban on mandatory life-without-parole sentences applies retroactively.

At a preliminary hearing Friday, the gun charge against Scott was dismissed for lack of evidence, but prosecutors said they intended to refile it immediately. If convicted, Scott fully expects he'll never get another chance at freedom.

Releasing Pennsylvania's 521 juvenile lifers, said Leo Dunn, chief of the Pennsylvania Board of Probation and Parole, has been a "social experiment" in this life-means-life state.

So far, the board has approved about 80 percent of lifers who've sought parole. There has only been one parole violation so far; that person was placed in drug treatment.

"Not bad, considering 111 are on the street," Dunn said. "We're having very positive reentry so far."

By comparison, the one-year recidivism rate for all people leaving state prison in Pennsylvania is about 35 percent.

Philadelphia is home to more than 300 juvenile lifers, the largest such population anywhere; all of them are facing lifelong parole upon release.

Many have said they feel a monumental responsibility to demonstrate that it's safe to release lifers – there are more than 5,400 of them in Pennsylvania, second only to Florida. They have even created support groups to help one another along, to ensure that no one gives critics reason to doubt they can succeed.

Scott shares that mindset, he said in an interview at CFCF.

He had spent 35 years in prison for the 1981 murder of Michael Rhoads, 29, in West Philadelphia as part of a gang war.

He'd been free just over five months — such a short time that he was still counting it in days, about 150 of them.

"Every day, I'd wake up early, sometimes 4 a.m., 4:30. I didn't want to miss anything. It felt like a dream. I'd try to remind myself, this is real. I'm really home."

Now, he said, being locked up again feels like a nightmare.

The case began on April 6, when Scott's parole agent received a confidential tip. That morning, a group of parole agents arrived at his house and called him on the phone. Scott took five to 10 minutes to answer the door. Prosecutors believe he used that time to hide the .45-caliber semiautomatic handgun the agents would later find, tucked behind paint cans and a toolbox, on a staircase leading up to the attic.

At the preliminary hearing, Assistant District Attorney Chesley Lightsey also moved to enter into evidence Scott's murder conviction.

"I've heard no testimony that the house was cleared" by parole agents before Scott arrived, Judge Marissa Brumbach said before dismissing the case. She said that testimony was necessary to conclude that the gun had not been there before he arrived.

In an interview, Scott said he had not been aware that the gun was stashed in the Southwest Philly home, a family property where he is renting a room. He said that other family members have access to the house, and that before he moved in it was a hangout for his nephew and his nephew's friends.

"Everything was perfect," he said. "Why would I have a gun? That'd be like throwing rocks at the penitentiary."

He had different plans, he said. He was in a relationship with a woman he'd dated since he was 16. He suffered disabling back pain but was hoping to enroll in an experimental treatment. He was close to landing a $14-an-hour job at Horizon House, as a peer counselor, he said. His major preoccupation the morning he was arrested was how to attach his resume to an email, a technology he still found perplexing. To his relief, it finally went through.

Scott said he does not want to be the one to give authorities pause.

"We know how important this is, not just for us but for all the guys that are still in there," he said. "Everyone is watching for us to mess up."

Dunn said that these cases are not all that different from handling parole in cases of third-degree murder, which carries a 20- to 40-year sentence in Pennsylvania. Like other parolees, lifers' home plans are carefully reviewed before their release, along with their prison records.

However, the nine-member parole board developed new practices for the juvenile lifers: running parole prep sessions for them in prison, and requiring approval from at least five board members before allowing release.

Dunn said he was waiting for Scott's case to be decided to draw any conclusions, and would continue to review each case on its individual merits.

"It shouldn't be political. The focus should always remain on public safety."