This story was produced in partnership with KOSU.
Family and friends piled into a borrowed 15-passenger van to pick up Wayne Thompson from prison on Monday morning.
They waved homemade signs and chanted “freedom, freedom” on the rainy drive to Clara Waters Community Corrections Center in Oklahoma City. One of his sisters carried a photograph of their mother, who died in 2009.
Thompson soon emerged, carrying his belongings in a stack of cardboard boxes — one held a Siamese kitten he had found on the prison grounds. Thompson fed “Lil Bit” tuna fish for weeks before she trusted him enough to pick her up. Eventually, she’d come running after when he called out her name.
Thompson, 58, has been incarcerated since 1983, when he was arrested for murder at age 15. He was originally sentenced to death for the murder of his brother-in-law, Charles Keene, who family members said was a violent abuser. Thompson’s sentence was later overturned in a landmark U.S. Supreme Court ruling, which held that executing someone under the age of 16 is unconstitutional.
“Let’s get out of here,” Thompson said, smiling after taking one last look around the parking lot.
Thompson was finally free decades after his sentence was modified to life with the possibility of parole. He had unsuccessfully tried to win release since the 1990s, but the state only approved his parole last year. Thompson was repeatedly rejected because parole officials weighed the violent nature of his crime over his efforts to change. Family members said Thompson had been a victim of abuse and could barely read when he was first locked up.
Thompson went on to earn his GED and take college courses, eventually becoming a manager at a prison furniture factory. His brother Tony Mann, who was convicted of murder alongside Thompson, is still serving life without parole. Mann has applied for a reduced sentence and his case is awaiting further review at the Pardon and Parole Board.
With Thompson’s kitten stowed away in a new pet carrier, the group drove to Francis Tuttle Technology Center, where Thompson had spent the last few months learning construction skills as part of a program for people involved in the criminal justice system. He showed family members a room where he learned to hang sheetrock.
The program is typically geared toward younger people with nonviolent charges, said instructor Devin Weaver. When the program does accept people like Thompson, they are usually motivated to work hard, he said.
“He has a lot more to lose than these other guys,” Weaver said. “When they come in, they are perfect. Because there’s so much to lose if they mess up.”
Cheyenne Moore, who will also be released on parole in a few months, participated in the Francis Tuttle program with Thompson. Moore, 53, was also sentenced to life in prison for a murder he committed in 1988 at age 15. He was charged as an adult, and prosecutors said at the time they considered seeking the death penalty, but the option was taken off the table after the Supreme Court ruled on Thompson’s case.
Moore said he looks up to Thompson, and he’s glad he is getting a second chance at freedom.
“I’ve been following him,” he said. “He’s been showing me the way. He’s always been like a big brother to me.”
On the way to lunch, Thompson took video calls from extended family members and friends who weren’t able to make it to the prison for his release. He was learning how to use his new iPhone.
The van’s next stop was Golden Corral, where Thompson piled a plate with pulled pork, popcorn shrimp, macaroni and cheese, baked beans and corn. Family members bowed their heads and said a prayer before the meal, thankful for Thompson’s release.
Thompson said he was feeling nervous.
“I feel like I’ve gotten a lot of weight riding on me,” he said. ”Because if I screw up, I’m gonna screw up, not just me, I’m going to screw up a lot of other people behind me.”
Thompson has never had a driver’s license, though his dad, a long-haul truck driver, taught him to drive a big rig. Thompson got his learner’s permit just before his release, which he held up proudly for his family and friends to see. Some supporters bought him a 1999 GMC Suburban. He’s now thinking about getting his commercial driver’s license to see the country behind the wheel of a semi.
With no 401K or pension, he needs to find a job he can do until he is a very old man, he said.
Thompson said he feels the need to succeed on behalf of other people serving life sentences for serious crimes they committed as minors.
“It only takes one of us to mess it up for everybody,” he said.
