Tuesdays with Errol
by James Clarke
7AM every Tuesday, as I’m making breakfast, the phone rings.
“You have a collect call from Errol Klein, an incarcerated individual at the Ironwood State Prison.”
It’s a bittersweet moment. I love talking to my closest friend and catching up every week—something I rarely even do with friends who are outside prison walls. But there’s always a pang in my chest when the call ends. After our 15 minutes are up, I hang up and go on with my day—stepping out into the world, breathing fresh air, moving freely—while I picture Errol putting down the phone and remaining confined to the same four walls he’s stared at for the last nine years.
It’s a strange feeling, because the Errol I know—the one I grew up with—shouldn’t be in there.
What he did was horrible, without question. And I can’t pretend to understand the pain of the victim’s family. To lose someone in such a preventable way is devastating. That loss will never be undone. If I were in any one of those family members’ shoes, I can imagine I would want to inflict the maximum amount of pain and punishment onto Errol.
But the truth is, Errol had a serious alcohol problem. We all knew it. And like so many situations involving addiction, it was brushed off. That was just part of the exuberant, larger-than-life package that came with Errol. He already had two DUIs. The warning signs were there. He was a danger to himself, and to society, and it was soon manifested by Errol taking the life of Martin Raza.
Speaking for myself, I often feel like I failed him. I wonder if I could have been a better friend—more present in his life, someone who pushed back harder when he was being reckless, someone he could lean on when things were falling apart.
But as much as I sometimes feel like I let him down, it’s impossible to ignore how much the system continues to fail him too.
Our criminal justice system is designed primarily to punish—not to rehabilitate people struggling with addiction, mental health issues, or destructive patterns. Once someone crosses the line, the focus becomes retribution rather than repair. Lock em’ up and forget about them. They had their chance to change, now let them rot. Out of sight– out of mind. How is it legal to treat humans this way?
Rehabilitation should mean helping people rebuild their lives. That requires connection—with friends, family, and community. Yet our prison system often makes those very connections unnecessarily difficult to obtain or maintain.
Even becoming a visitor requires navigating a maze of bureaucratic BS. For example, Errol must physically mail a personalized visitor form to someone he hopes to see. That person fills it out, mails it back, and then waits weeks—sometimes months—to hear whether they’re approved or denied. They could be denied for the smallest things–forgetting to check a box, or if the form is a copy of a visitor form and not sent directly from Errol himself. If they’re denied, or if their approval expires after a few years—as mine did—they must start the entire process over again.
Why isn’t any of this online?
Why must someone wait months just to see the people who give them hope?
If we genuinely want people to heal and grow, we must create environments where that growth is possible. Yet time and time again, the system seems designed to make that harder, not easier.
Last summer, I went to Sacramento to attend a hearing for Assembly Bill 622.
California Assembly Bill 622 aims to amend state law so that incarcerated people serving life sentences can earn “good time” credits through rehabilitation, education, and positive contributions. Those credits could reduce the amount of time before they’re eligible for parole.
In simple terms, it allows people who demonstrate real change—evaluated through a rigorous parole board review—the chance to earn their way back into society sooner.
It’s common sense. If someone shows true rehabilitation, if they’ve done the work to grow and change, then their sentence should reflect that transformation.
At the hearing, the divide was striking. Hundreds of people showed up in support of the bill. Those opposing it numbered only a handful. It was clear where the public stood.
Yet when the bill moved up the political ladder, a few powerful voices overrode the will of the many and it was vetoed.
When the voices of hundreds of citizens are drowned out by the decisions of a small group at the top, it’s hard not to feel that the system is broken.
Despite everything, Errol remains one of the most generous and thoughtful people I know. Even from inside prison, he’s trying to share his gifts with the people around him—mentoring others, helping them reflect, encouraging them to grow.
That’s the part of the story people rarely see. The humanity that still exists behind prison walls in contrast with a system that’s working against them.
Errol is a gift to the world. And it gives me hope knowing that even in the hardest circumstances, he’s still doing everything he can to give something back.
