Murderer goes from death row to counseling ex-cons

Tucked in the back of James Allen's Bible is the photo of a young man.

Allen studies the photo each morning, knowing he can't make up for what happened to the man, Tony Sylvester, that summer night so long ago.

"You can never pay for taking a life," he says softly.

Still, Allen believes in redemption -- to a degree. He's still seeking it more than three decades after he shot and killed Sylvester during a robbery.

"I believe I've been forgiven," the former death row inmate says. "I've been given another chance to do something with my life."

What he's doing with his life since his 2008 parole is working as a mentor coordinator for the Las Vegas Urban League, helping other ex-cons make it on the outside. He does speaking engagements around the valley and performs with the Rong 2 Right Band. He's writing a book and raising a young grandson.

It makes for full, "blessed" days, Allen says. But he continues to dedicate a moment at the start of each to his long-ago victim.

"No one has the right to take anyone's life," he says. "I battle with that every day."

In July 1980, Allen was a 19-year-old gang member from West Las Vegas. He grew up in Sherman Gardens, a notorious public housing complex known for being home to the Playboy Bloods, a street gang officials say used violence, including murder, to defend its turf.

"I was on a collision course," Allen says.

Sylvester was a 22-year-old electronics technician, the eldest of four siblings. He was planning to propose to his girlfriend.

The two men met for an instant late on July 8 when Sylvester walked out of his bedroom to investigate a noise. He surprised Allen, who was burglarizing the downtown Las Vegas home with another man, looking for a way to get a cocaine fix.

"Tony was in bed" when James Allen broke in, Tony's mother, Hama Sylvester, later wrote to the Nevada Board of Parole Commissioners. "Without his glasses, he couldn't even see James Allen, let alone identify him or defend himself."

Allen shot Tony Sylvester in the face, then fled through a broken window, leaving a strip of his own flesh behind on the jagged glass. His accomplice left through a door; he was never charged in the crime and has since died.

Sylvester died alone. A roommate, returning from work early the next morning, found his body.

"James Allen took away his future," Hama Sylvester told the Review-Journal in 2006. "He never got married. He never had children. James Allen took away his life."

Police eventually linked the shooting to Allen, whose blood type matched that of the flesh he left behind. Allen confessed to the crime on videotape. The confession was later thrown out of court on a technicality.

Two people testified that Allen bragged to them of the killing.

Now 52, Allen says he doesn't recognize the person he was at the time of the killing. He speaks of his younger self with disgust, in the third person: "That kid was an idiot."

A SECOND CHANCE

In 1981, Allen was convicted of first-degree murder.

Hama Sylvester screamed when a judge announced the sentence: death. Friends had to pull her out of the packed courtroom.

Allen spent 3½ years on death row.

"I was with the worst of the worst," he says.

The death sentence was overturned by the Nevada Supreme Court on appeal, and Allen entered a plea bargain that led to a sentence of life in prison without the possibility of parole.

He settled into prison life, earned his GED and enrolled in business courses. He worked various prison jobs, including refurbishing antique cars for the Imperial Palace Hotel. He started an inmate band and helped organize a "scared straight" style prison program for visiting, troubled youth.

At one point, Allen's 15-year-old son, who barely knew his father, also landed in prison. The teen, who had a juvenile criminal record, was sentenced as an adult for bringing the butt of a gun to school. The two shared a cell for a while.

"I watched him get his GED," Allen says of his son, who has since returned to prison.

Over the years, Allen reformed and became a different person, he says.

"I grew up."

But a life sentence isn't always a life sentence in Nevada. In 2003, Allen's sentence was commuted by the Board of Pardons to allow the possibility of parole. Before board members made the decision, Allen serenaded them with a song he wrote about how sorry he was "for all the wrong I have done."

The Nevada Legislature in 1995 passed a law that prevents criminals sentenced to life without parole from ever becoming eligible for parole.

Because Allen's crime was committed before the law was enacted, it wasn't covered by it.

He began appearing before the state parole board to plead for a second chance at freedom, saying he wasn't the same man who took Tony Sylvester's life. He repeatedly expressed remorse. He won his freedom in 2008.

AN APOLOGY

Hama Sylvester, meanwhile, accepted the possibility that Allen had reformed during his incarceration, but that didn't change what he did to her son.

She continued to vehemently oppose his release. In her mind, Allen should have suffered the same fate her son did: death.

"If they let a murderer go free, what does that say?" she said in 2006.

Allen has the luxury of a future, she said, while her son did not. Her feelings never wavered, even after hearing Allen apologize during a parole board hearing.

That day, Allen turned to face her and told her how sorry he was.

"I said her son would be living if it weren't for me," Allen remembers. "I asked for her forgiveness. She blinked twice and I saw the tears stirring. I got a sense she understood. She got quiet and serene."

Hama Sylvester listened to him talk about his remorse for killing her son. She heard him apologize for the crime. Then she looked around the room and saw Allen's family members.

"He's alive," she said in 2006. "He can still be with his family. My son is dead."

Hama Sylvester's pain is still raw more than 30 years after her son's murder. Now 80 years old, she declined to comment for this story, saying she wanted nothing to do with James Allen.

He understands he can't change her mind.

"After looking into her face, I knew there were no words to say to her that would ease her pain," he says. "To see the person who did that out on the streets again. ..."

NO WAY TO PAY FOR A LIFE

Allen stands before an early morning class at the Urban League, telling a shortened version of his life story to two dozen people who also spent time behind bars.

He works with the agency's Re-Entry of Ex-Offenders program, which provides intensive case management, job skills training and other services.

He acknowledges that legal technicalities and crafty lawyers are to thank for his freedom after 28 years in prison.

"It's a blessing for me to be here today," he tells the class. "I didn't think this day would ever come. There is a God, because He shined on me."

He talks about the importance of getting an education, on following through and staying out of trouble.

"Just like you want this free air, you got to want success," he says. "Hopefully, you're like me. You don't want to do this no more."

He places his wrists together behind his back as if handcuffed.

"There ain't nothing out there that's going to put James Allen in that position again."

After class, he talks about how he believes in redemption. But he can never fully pay for what he did.

Hama Sylvester "lost a son," he says. "I feel that pain. If I made a million dollars today, I would give it to the family. But you can't pay for a life."

He appreciates his second chance, but understands that many people might think he should still be locked up.

"We live in a society where it's hard to forgive. I'm not a victim. I was the perpetrator. I did wrong and a person lost their life. I'll forever be remorseful, and I live with it every day."

Now he's focused on making something worthwhile out of the life he has left. His work is rewarding. He relishes time with his 2-year-old grandson. Allen wasn't around for his own son and daughter, both of whom were babies when he was locked up.

"I say, 'Wow, that's what they do at 2,' " he says. "I see all the things I missed as a father."

Contact reporter Lynnette Curtis at
lcurtis@reviewjournal.com.