Brad Yule

And he stopped at the doorway and with his big vandal's grin says, hey, I love you, son.

And I stood there dumb looking like...

I didn't know what to say, because I'd been thinking I loved him for a while.

I didn't know how to tell him that, didn't know if he wanted to hear that from me.

And I'm finally a moment like, I love you too, Pop.

And then he was gone.

So I found myself in November of last year, back in Angola State Penitentiary, sitting in a room with him for his first parole hearing in 50 years.

The terrifying part about a parole hearing was it was a unanimous vote to be released.

If one person didn't like you out of the three-person panel, you were staying in prison for the remainder of your life.

The first two votes came pretty quickly.

One lady looked like a kindergarten teacher.

She was cool with anything anybody said, nodded the whole time.

She was thrilled to be there.

And as soon as she could vote, she's like, oh, I think you should have parole.

OK, cool.

The second guy had a longer speech, but pretty quickly

voted for parole.

The third person that was the final vote had looked mad during the entire hearing.

Frown, brow furrowed, arms crossed.

It was like we had interrupted his kid's birthday party and made him come to a parole hearing and it wasn't cool with him.