Ex-inmate Survived Prison through Continuing Education
Bill McClellan Sunday, July 22, 2012
Twenty years ago, George Spann belonged to the College and Carter Six Deuce Crips. As the name suggests, they sold dope — mostly crack cocaine — at the intersection of College and Carter avenues on the city's North Side.
Unlike most of the gang members, Spann was not a dead-end kid. He came from a good family. Two good families, really.
He spent most of his time with his maternal grandparents. They lived in Normandy. They were stable, working-class people. They had taken him in when he was a baby and his mom went to prison. She was a sad case, in and out of prison her entire adult life.
In addition to his mom's folks, he had his dad's family. His dad lived in St. Louis with his second wife and their seven kids. George spent quite a bit of time with them. He called his stepmother "Mom." She was a teacher. All the kids were expected to go to college. George was included in those expectations.
But something went wrong. When he was 17, he was charged with carrying a concealed weapon. He was kicked out of school. He had been living for a while with one foot on the right side of the line and the other on the wrong side, and now he stepped over to the wrong side completely.
On a Saturday night in August 1994, he and a friend were driving around. They stopped at a gas station on East Grand Avenue. Spann saw a man talking on the pay phone. He pulled a gun, approached the man and announced a robbery.
The man was an off-duty cop, Edward Smoote. He was 22, just two years older than Spann. Smoote pulled out his badge and his 9mm pistol. The two men shot each other. Smoote was hit in the stomach and right shoulder, Spann in the chest, right thigh and left leg.
Both survived.
Spann pleaded guilty to first-degree assault, attempted first-degree robbery and armed criminal action. He was sentenced to 30 years in prison.
Spann got to prison and recognized that he had no one but himself to blame. He had not sold drugs because he needed the money. He had not gone wrong because he had no role models. He had done this to himself.
He decided to become the person he should have been.
He had committed his crime eight days before truth-in-sentencing went into effect. Eight days later and he would have had to serve 85 percent of his sentence. But he fell under the old rules. He would be eligible for parole after serving a third of his sentence.
He had his first parole hearing in 2002. Smoote was there. He didn't say anything, at least in Spann's presence, but the fact that he made the trip to the prison spoke volumes.
Spann received a five-year setback. That means he would not have another hearing for five years.
Smoote was at that hearing, too. Again, he said nothing, at least in Spann's presence. Spann received a two-year setback.
His next hearing was in 2009. His heart sank when he saw that Smoote was there again. This time, Smoote asked to speak.
"I thought he was going to ream me, but he started talking about how everybody makes mistakes, and he hoped I'd learned from mine," Spann said.
Spann thought the hearing officers were as stunned as he was. One asked Smoote if he would object to Spann getting parole. Not at all, said Smoote. So Spann was given a release date of Aug. 19, 2011.
He walked out of prison one day short of 17 years after the shooting.
He had a support system in place. Volunteers from C.O.P.E. — Community Offender Partnership Enterprise — had interviewed him in prison. They helped find him a job in the kitchen at Duff's, a restaurant in the Central West End. He moved in with his dad and his stepmother. All of their children went to college. Several have followed their mother into education.
When the family gathered for Thanksgiving dinner, Spann broke down and cried.
"I will not hurt you again," he promised.
So far, he has not. So far, he has been the person he should have been. In the year since his release, he has taken seven classes at St. Louis Community College at Forest Park. He has earned A's in all of them. He recently found a full-time job at Whole Foods.
Sadly, his mother and his maternal grandparents died while he was in prison, so they did not live to see this turnaround.
I asked Spann if he had spoken with Smoote. Spann said he is not allowed to contact his victim.
"Actually, I wouldn't know him if I were to see him. At parole hearings, you're not supposed to look at anybody but the hearing officers."
Smoote is now a lieutenant. He declined to comment for this story.