BEATING ONE LIFE SENTENCE

Terrence Stevens was already serving a life sentence-imposed on his body by
muscular dystrophy-when a judge gave him another one for cocaine possession
eight years ago.

Stevens was given 15 years to life by State Supreme Court Justice John V.

Rogowski in Buffalo, who later said he wanted to give him a lighter sentence.

He couldn't because the ironbound Rockefeller drug laws turned judges into
prisoners of stupidity, not allowing them any discretion in sentencing.

Yesterday Stevens, 34, gulped in the air of freedom sitting in a
state-issued wheelchair that looked as though it had been made at the turn
of the century. He is a big, cheerful man who is graced with a loving
family, and he said he felt "overwhelmed" by the unexpected clemency given
him by Gov.

George Pataki.

His brother, Kelsey, 29, a legal assistant at a big midtown law firm,
cooked piles of crisp bacon and stirred a pot of grits for a homecoming
breakfast. His mother, Regina, wandered around the room, smiling and
hugging anyone within reach.

Terrence Stevens took it all in with a big smile-his sister, Audrey, said,
"You look as though someone's shining a light on you"-and talked about a
life in jail that was a mix of humiliation and loss of freedom.

"I was the only prisoner in the state jail system with muscular dystrophy,"
he said. "Guards had to come into my cell every two hours each night to
roll me over. They had to put me on the toilet and then bathe me and dress
me." Even getting food from his plate to his mouth required all the muscle
he had left in his two arms.

As the days dragged into months and years, Stevens gave up hope of ever
emerging alive from his cell in the Green Haven Correctional Facility in
Stormville, N.Y., an hour away from the city. Then Jerome Marks walked into
his life.

"What kind of threat to society did he pose?" Marks asked yesterday,
sitting alongside Stevens. "The most he should have been sentenced to was
probation given the condition he's in." Marks first visited Stevens last
spring and then quarterbacked the young man's release from jail.

"I spent a lot of time putting people into jail," says Marks, who is 85 and
sat on the State Supreme Court bench in Manhattan for more than two decades.

"And now I spend a lot of time trying to get some of them out." Stevens is
the third person Marks has helped. The first was Angela Thompson. Then
there was Jan Warren. Now, Stevens said he harbors no ill feelings toward
the Buffalo judge who sentenced him or the prosecutor.

I looked around the living room. On a wall was a plaque the family had
given Stevens' grandmother, Annie Sutton, when she was 76. "To the world's
greatest mother and grandmother," it read.

On the mantle were two huge basketball trophies given to Stevens' sister
Shemika, 18, a freshman attending St. John's University on a basketball
scholarship. There was a bottle of champagne on the kitchen table and the
phone rang constantly. Well-wishers crowded into the room in a scene that
looked like the final one in "It's a Wonderful Life." I asked Stevens what
the old neighborhood looked like after an eight-year absence. "It looks a
lot smaller," he said. Someone reminded him he'd have to get in touch with
his parole officer before a day passed, and he nodded saying he would have
to report to parole for the next five years.

He seemed stunned by the change in scenery, and he talked about the time he
was locked in a cell for 40 days, 23 hours each day, for saying he couldn't
pull down his pants.

That decision was reversed but only after the 40 days were up. A policy
statement on strip searches later cited Stevens as the one inmate who could
not comply physically.

But Stevens said he wanted to think about tomorrow, not yesterday. He wants
to write a book about his experiences in jail. He wants to learn to use a
computer. He wants to rid himself of the archaic chair he's in and get an
electric one. He wants to start a business.

He wants, in short, to become part of life. "I just want to get on with my
life, to bridge the gap between myself and the community," he says.

He got rid of one life sentence but he still has the one that no act of
clemency can cure.