The Three Lives of Jeffrey Deskovic
We sat on a bench facing what passes for a quadrangle on this miniature campus. Me, the pampered law student with a wife, a dog, a moderately priced home in the suburbs. Him, quiet but direct, reserved but optimistic. His beard was gone, and he sat in a suit that fit him rather well, which I presumed he had purchased for the day's events.
It was the part of the day when the chill turned to cold, but I felt guilty about the idea of putting on a jacket: would it look like I was eager to leave? Jeff asked how old the people playing soccer on the quad were. I knew a few of them and pointed them out, identifying their ages, most between 23-29 years old. Jeff looked covetous. "I miss that," he told me as we watched my classmates on the grass. "That's the life I wish I had. I don't have a life. That's the most difficult thing." He pauses for a moment as the goalie at the far end of the field makes an easy stop and passes the ball off to Brett, a friend of mine. "I'm looking to live my twenties. If I do, at some point I may start to feel my age."
His twenties were some of the 16 years Jeffrey Deskovic lost in Elmira Correctional Facility serving a life sentence for an unspeakable crime that he did not commit.