California Board of Parole

Charles Andrew Williams

Last September, San Diego’s most notorious school shooter had his first parole hearing. On March 5, 2001, 15-year-old Charles Andrew “Andy” Williams, used a stolen .22-caliber revolver to kill two of his fellow students and wound 13 others at Santana High School in Santee. He reloaded the gun twice during the attack. 

The horrors of Columbine were still fresh in the public memory. When the horror struck close to home, it sparked outrage, and a desire for justice that bordered on vengeance. Williams was not a legal adult. He was an adolescent, a period of life notorious for acts that lack the restraint and reason we expect from adults. But perhaps because his act was an atrocity, Williams was deemed adult enough to be tried as one.  He pled guilty to first-degree murder twice and received two consecutive 25-years-to-life sentences.

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Four years later, the United States Supreme Court ruled in Roper vs Simmons that capital punishment constituted the sort of “cruel and unusual” punishment forbidden by the Eighth Amendment. Part of their considerations involved matters of brain development: the American Psychological Association had filed an amicus brief that read in part, “in late adolescence, important aspects of brain maturation remain incomplete, particularly those involving the brain’s executive functions.” And in 2016, California passed a law reflecting similar research that forbade district attorneys from charging underage school shooters with first-degree murder. Further, people who had been under 26 when they committed their crime were declared eligible for “youth parole consideration” after serving 25 years. That was why Williams got his hearing.

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Representing Williams at his parole hearing was Laura Sheppard, among the state’s most renowned attorneys when it comes to lifers seeking parole. At 44, Sheppard is working on her PhD in forensic psychology at Alliant University and is, after 15 years as a parole lawyer, still taking new cases. In court, she dresses in the requisite skirt and blazer. But she wears a black leather jacket when she meets with me to discuss her work and the inspiration she takes from her clients’ endurance and maturity in what are often hellish circumstances.

As their hearings approach, Sheppard helps the men (and sometimes women) she represents manage their fears, modify their expectations, and conduct their successful rehabilitation. It’s taken a toll, she says. “But I still believe the best about people, especially those who shouldn’t be defined by the worst mistake of their lives.” That includes Rene “The Boxer” Enriquez, an ex-Mexican Mafia kingpin and prison gang member who’d been behind bars since 1993 for two second-degree murders, multiple assaults, and drug trafficking in lockup — until Sheppard, together with Enriquez’s cooperation with the FBI, secured his parole. 

Laura Sheppard

Matthew Suarez

Sheppard was born and raised in Berkeley, where her parents modeled a life of service: her father pursued a vaccine for AIDS while her mother taught middle school. Jesus and Star Trek also made a difference. Star Trek? Yes. “The Vulcan motto,” she notes, “is infinite diversity and infinite combination. Which we should embrace. When you meet somebody who’s literally an alien” — say, men doing life in the overcrowded underworld of Donovan State Prison — “you should welcome them with open arms.”

When Sheppard was six, her parents participated in a program aimed at lifers in San Quentin who had few to no visitors. They supported Terry Farley, whose crime was second-degree murder — he had killed a Vietnamese gas station attendant during a robbery and gotten 7-to-life. (Sheppard says that at the time, this meant “until you are rehabilitated.” In those latter ‘70s, the average time served for a “life sentence” was 12 years.) After she graduated law school in 2009, Farley became Sheppard’s first client. He had already been denied parole 16 times. With Sheppard by his side, the Board of Parole made it 17. But she was undeterred. By the time she and Farley tried again in 2014, she had already worked with a dozen other lifers. This time, they won. Since then, she has helped 170 of her 500 clients earn parole — meaning they get out, not that they get off the hook. Successful rehabilitation, the kind the Board of Parole looks for, must meet the core demands of those close to the victim: abject remorse and continued consequences.

Sheppard and Williams began their association began in 2009 when Jo Pastore, Williams’s defense attorney during his original trial, asked her to get involved. The two interviewed Williams at Sacramento State Prison, and concluded that he “demonstrated rehabilitation.” Pastore tells me that Sheppard, whom she still mentors, is a “born defense attorney, driven” not by ego but by her “dedication to inmates who’ve fully turned their lives around.” She adds that Sheppard possesses the defense attorney’s Triple Crown: “crazy smart, compassionate, and self-motivated.”

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The two parole commissioners began the hearing with long position statements. Then they asked Sheppard to speak. She described how justice and forgiveness comprise a two-sided coin. Williams could stay locked up forever, but that would do no one any good. The goal, she said, was redemption — for both “the community and the person himself.” The community? As part of her case, she cited an array of “causative factors” that contributed to Williams’ terrible decision. He had been bullied much of his life, especially at Santana. He had little contact with his mother after his parents’ divorce when he was three. He was a serious drug user from ages 12 to 15. Worst of all, he’d been sexually abused by a 40-year-old man, a man who said that if he didn’t shoot the teacher who had shamed him in front of a class, he, the man, in Williams’ words, “would kill me.” That was on Friday, March 2nd. On Monday, he came to school with the gun, intending to shoot the teacher and then himself. Something worse happened.

Sheppard reminded the board that Williams had written “personalized apologies to everyone.” She noted that he now held two associates’ degrees, was trained as a journeyman mason, and was now a state-licensed drug and alcohol counselor. In this last capacity, he was a skilled mentor, looked up to by both staff and inmates, who had aided many men who would earn parole before he ever could. In addition, he had practiced sobriety for years, completed “victim impact and victim awareness” programs and group sessions on “denial management,” and detailed a relapse prevention plan that addressed his “dangerousness.” Since becoming an adult, he had learned self-control, Sheppard said. 

At one point, Williams read from a letter of apology. “I am so very sorry for the inexcusable and senseless murder of Randy. You had an amazing family unit, and I had no right to break into your lives and steal such a promising young man away from you. My callous actions took your boy from you and with the deepest remorse, I am sorry.”

Sheppard had the last word. “No amount of time can pay for the harm he caused. But we as a State have laws that allow for redemption and restoration instead of eye-for-an-eye punishment. We as a State believe that especially for those who commit crimes as children, rehabilitation is possible and offenders should be returned to their community” — though not necessarily the scene of the crime. To minimize concern in the community he had damage, he planned to consider job offers in Northern California, far from Santee.

Sheppard also faulted Santana High’s behavior both before and after the shooting. Andy’s complaints about bullying went unheeded, and even after Santana lost a lawsuit that stipulated the creation of an anti-bullying program, no such program exists. The community isn’t doing its part, Sheppard said. The community seemed to feel otherwise. People packed the hearing, said Sheppard, “spewing hatred and anger at him. It was like he kept being punched over and over in the heart.” Williams sobbed throughout.

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Only one pool reporter is allowed to attend a hearing, and no video is made. But a transcript is made available. Reading the transcript is a bit like watching a movie with the sound off, but the emotions still radiate from the silence of the page. There’s an adversarial nature to “parole consideration,” perhaps unintended, that seems to prioritize victims’ testimony — at once wrenching, vindictive, and stingily honest. It’s hard to imagine that it would not sway the commissioners. Reading the transcript, it seems that the inmate is at the mercy of a hearing that does it best to be merciless.

Deputy district attorney John Cross described Williams bragging of “pulling a Columbine,” arguing that “he wanted to be remembered.” He named each the 13 victims, and cited the locations of their bullet wounds. The list included the two dead boys: Bryan, shot in the back, and Randy, shot in the back of the head. He pointed out Williams’ consumption of drugs and alcohol from age 12 to 15, and for a time in prison. He argued that Williams was rule-breaker: during a visit with his wife (a recent prison marriage), he was demonstrably sexual with her. He said that Williams’ boundaries were porous and that his sorrow felt scripted. 

Pre-hearing, three student survivors garnered 1600 signatures opposing his release. Of the 21 who testified against him, one showed up despite having cancer. Others who were physically and psychologically wounded itemized their trauma: hypervigilance in crowds, panic over fireworks, expensive therapy and medications, nightmares. One insisted that no one is releasing her from her bondage. Another said that since Williams got 50-to-life — that is, two 25-to-life consecutive sentences — parole would mean he did no time for one of the deceased. Melissa McNulty, a mother, said that she could still hear the “sound of bullets hitting lockers.” She bemoaned having to lie to her child about whether she’ll be safe in an American school. She ended by predicting that if Williams was let out, “23 years of healing will be undone in an instant.”

One of the two teens killed was Bryan Zuckor, 14. The other was Randy Gordon, 17. Gordon’s mother, Mari Gordon-Rayborn, testified via Zoom from her car. Prior to her testimony, a local reporter tracked her down; she’s lived in her Nissan for 12 years and panhandles the streets of El Cajon. Her spine is severely curved; she is permanently disabled and unable to work. She suffers from PTSD and depression. She’s been assaulted and raped. She is hungry and lonely. She said of Williams, “I do not believe he fully comprehends the devastation his actions have caused the families of the victims, the students at Santana High School, and the community. He doesn’t seem to understand the premeditation of [his] violent act.” Her daughter Alyssa said that “Andy buried my mom the day he buried Randy.”

Close of day, Commissioner Kevin Chappell announced the board’s decision. He acknowledged Williams’ “diminished culpability of youth,” his deficient mental development,  and his childhood’s “abusive and neglectful environment.” However, he said, addressing Williams: “we find that you have not adequately addressed your risk factors or internalized programs related to criminal thinking, your history of negative peer association, and your understanding of the causative factors that led to your actions in the crime. We find your programming” — an odd reference to his rehab in prison — “has no impact on your current risk level or is a neutral factor.” 

The commissioners stated that Williams still doesn’t understand the reason for the berserk nature of his frenzy, especially since he reloaded the gun twice when he could have stopped and demonstrated the workings of conscience — one element of self-control the releasable must demonstrate in order to obtain their second chance. Parole denied. To be revisited in three years.

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San Diego public defender Caley Anderson was a student at Santana in 2001. Williams shot at him and missed. In 2009, he graduated with Sheppard from the University of San Diego’s school of law.  During the recession, they partnered for a couple years in an effort to build their resumes. She went into “post-conviction work,” he says, while he preferred representing defendants “pre-conviction.” He calls Sheppard “a true believer. Not every lawyer you’re going to get [gives] anywhere near the effort you get with her.” Both agree on the principle of restorative justice, which he defines as “what we as a society need to do with the person to prevent harm in the future, to make victims whole to the extent we can, and to make the society a better place.” He continues: “With Mr. Williams, I don’t see that we achieve much by keeping him in prison indefinitely.” 

In support of Williams’s parole, Anderson noted that after meeting him and reviewing his progress, he saw substantive change, and thought him worthy of release. After digesting the transcript, I found myself wondering whether such acts of violence can ever be forgiven. It seems impossible, especially when the oppositions insists that pain buries grace. But Anderson disagrees, saying, “Victims want what they call justice and I call vengeance.” The cruelty of his act must be met with the cruelty of prison in order for their agony to be assuaged and their wounds to heal. 

Anderson has told Williams, now 39, that he’s forgiven him for shooting at him. Further, he says that Williams’s “egregious sentences” denies him his own closure and healing. “It bothers me that he’s sitting in a cage every day, having to sleep behind bars every night, partially in my name.” 

Sheppard believed Williams would pass. When he didn’t, she drove away in a rage, screaming and crying at the unfairness, the waste. Her tears, she says, were “not just for Andy. It was what those kids went through, what the community went through that was so painful and harrowing. I sat there and listened to 21 people speak, right? And I sat beside Andy as he listened. I watched the snot and the tears just roll. I remember there was one victim who said another student committed suicide. When that statement was made — I wish I could show you the kind of physical reaction he had, shocked and utterly heartbroken. I have a very slight bit of objectivity, because I didn’t go through what they went through, and I’m not experiencing the guilt Andy has. But I’m still a human, and I have a ton of empathy. So, I’m watching these people hurt, and it doesn’t for one second make me think Andy belongs in prison — because being in prison doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make it better.”

Sheppard says that on the one hand, a parole hearing means victims being “re-traumatized every frickin time they hear about the [Williams] case.” On the other, it provides a theater of operations for her, the state, the prison system, and psychologists, all of whom are convinced that parole is “possible and desirable” — for both criminals and victims. She says there’s no other way forgiveness for such murderous mayhem can exist. She goes on: “When we just keep telling [the story of the murder] over and over again, all we’re doing is hurting them.” By “them,” she means victims and perpetrator. However repugnant it may be to some to see them so aligned, the fact is that they are all mired in an after-crime morass of suffering, stuck in the muck of what cannot be undone.