A second chance

I’m not sure if this column is about me or Jessie Askew, but it’s about second chances. We both got one last week. His matters more.

In 1997, Jessie was 24 and did a dumb thing. He robbed Morrison’s Cafeteria with a co-defendant, Mr. Jackson. I was newly elected and eager to prove I was tough. The case went to trial. Jackson pleaded and got 10 years. Jessie rolled the dice with a jury.

It cost him everything.

I pushed for life without parole—LWOP. It was new then. And for Jessie, it was too much.

Back in the mid-’90s, parole was a revolving door. A “life” sentence could mean seven years. I never intended Jessie to die in prison. My plan was simple: let him serve about 12 years—just more than Jackson—and then support his release. That’s how things worked. Or so I thought.

Then Georgia changed. More prison beds. Tougher parole board. No flexibility.

I called my friend Bob Keller, then on the Parole Board. “Can’t touch it,” he said. “It’s life without parole.”

That had never mattered before. Now it did.

So began a 17-year effort to fix a sentence that was legal at the time—but wrong. There were obstacles. An appellate lawyer lied about my intentions and was disbarred. Judges were courteous but unmoved. The sentence stood.

Legal doesn’t always mean just. It should. 

Jessie’s punishment was disproportionate. And as the prosecutor, I own that. My job was justice, not excess. For most defendants, justice isn’t about crushing them—it’s about correcting them. I got that wrong here.

So I kept at it.

In the end, two excellent defense lawyers carried it across the line, along with our district attorney, Eric Edwards, who understood that justice sometimes looks backward. He deferred to me. That meant something to me. As Judge Adams noted, you don’t often see two district attorneys working together to undo a sentence.

Jessie is home now. Second chance in hand. A courtroom full of family and friends—more than I’ve ever seen—waiting on him. I think he’ll be just fine.

As for me, that chapter is closed. I carried this through my cancer treatment, worried I might not live to see it finished. I also worried that Jessie’s chance would die with me.

What people don’t know is this: while many others were praying for me, Jessie Askew was too. Not out of obligation—out of genuine concern. His emails always started with me, not him.

So yes, I got a second chance too. It took too long. But it’s hard to dwell on that when you see the joy of a man finally getting his second chance.

Because in the end, this story belongs to Jessie.

Kelly Burke was born in Knoxville where he spent his younger years, followed by high school years in Atlanta where he graduated from Georgia Tech, and Mercer Law School. He has been in private practice, a magistrate judge, and an elected district attorney. He writes about the law, politics, music, and Ireland. He and his wife enjoy gardening, playing with their Lagotto Ramanolo named George Harrison, and spending time with their grandchildren. To see this column or Kelly’s archives, visit www.kellyrburke.com. You can email Kelly at dakellyburke@gmail.com.