On June 20, 1972, Joe Reppucci was murdered. His killers were Joseph Yandle and Edward Fielding, who robbed Reppucci's Medford liquor store at gunpoint. On that day it was Fielding who pointed the gun while Yandle readied the getaway car. In earlier robberies, the roles had been reversed.
Both men were caught, prosecuted, convicted of first-degree murder, and sentenced to life without parole. But in Massachusetts in the 1970s and 1980s, nobody went to prison for life, jury verdicts notwithstanding. The state's official penal policy was that everyone — even first-degree murderers — eventually made parole. As part of that policy, criminals were routinely allowed to leave their cells for unsupervised weekend furloughs. Over the years, Yandle was set free at least 20 times.
But in 1988, in the wake of the Willie Horton atrocity, furloughs for first-degree murderers were abolished. (Horton, a brutal killer, spent one of his furloughs raping a Maryland woman and beating her fiancé.) For the first time, Yandle began to fear that he might actually have to serve the sentence meted out for his crime: a life without liberty.
And so he embarked upon a public relations campaign to win clemency. He submitted to the state's parole board a sheaf of documents detailing his heroism in Vietnam and the medals he had earned during two tours of duty. He explained that the war had left him with a heroin addiction, and that it was only to support that addiction that he turned to robbery. He got himself elected president of the Massachusetts chapter of Vietnam Veterans of America — and on the cover of the organization's magazine.
It was all a fraud. Yandle had never been in Vietnam. His drug habit dated from his mid-teens. The military documents were forgeries. But no one thought to challenge his story, and a lot of well-meaning people were eager to spread it. The Boston Globe mounted a publicity campaign in Yandle's behalf, producing stories, columns, and editorials promoting his plea for a commutation. Twice, "60 Minutes" aired a segment on Yandle's case. Veterans groups launched telephone and letter campaigns urging that he be set free.
To his credit, Yandle did more than lie about his past. He became a model prisoner, overcame his drug abuse, earned two college degrees. He expressed regret for his crime and counseled fellow inmates. To all appearances, he had rehabilitated himself, and his supporters argued that no good purpose would be served by keeping him locked up. "I do not believe I deserve to die in prison," he said.
Amid the clamor for Yandle's release, few thought about the ongoing suffering of the Reppucci family. Like many who lose a loved one to murder, Joe Reppucci's wife and sons never fully recovered from that shattering day in 1972. For 23 years they ached for the husband and father Yandle and his accomplice had so casually destroyed. The only thing that gave them comfort was the promise, made solemnly in a court of law, that Joe's killers would stay behind bars forever. It never occurred to them that a sentence of life without parole could be tossed out merely because a convict cleaned himself up and generated a wave of sympathetic PR.
But in May 1995, Governor William Weld recommended that Yandle's sentence be commuted. In June the Governor's Council voted 5-1 to let him go. On Oct. 11, he was released.
And last week, when his web of lies finally came to light, he was rearrested.
Now Massachusetts is again debating Yandle's fate. Should his commutation be revoked? Can a commutation be revoked? Does Yandle's elaborate deceit, as Acting Governor Cellucci says, undermine the claim that he was ever truly rehabilitated in the first place? Or was his Vietnam deception, though inexcusable, unrelated to the remorse and self-improvement that were the basis for setting him free?
All of these questions are beside the point. Now as before, there is only one question that matters: Was Yandle justly sentenced? For if he was, there is nothing to debate.
The jury that rendered the severest verdict possible under state law was not concerned with the Yandle's military career, with his drugs, with his lies, or with his personality. It was concerned with his crime. The man was an accomplice to murder, the worst of all offenses. For murder, no forgiveness is ever possible — not in this world — for only victims have the right to forgive, and murder wipes out its victims.
Life without parole is a terrible punishment. It is meant to be. For stealing a man's life, how could the law exact a penalty that wasn't terrible? The price for Joe Reppucci's life was decided fairly and imposed after due process of law. No one had the right in 1995 to cheapen that price — not Weld, not the Governor's Council, not "60 Minutes," not The Boston Globe, not the Vietnam Veterans of America.
It matters not that Yandle may no longer pose a threat to society. It matters not that he wants to counsel at-risk kids. It matters not whether he did or didn't earn two Purple Hearts. It matters not that he now expresses shame for his crimes. It matters only that he was guilty as charged.
When Yandle has paid off his debt to society, then it will be time to free him. But that debt is still owing, for Joe Reppucci is still dead. Let his killers remain locked up until they are, too.
(Jeff Jacoby is a columnist for The Boston Globe).
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