On a November day in 2021, Tony Lewis Sr. walked to a phone bank inside the federal correctional institution in Cumberland, Maryland, and placed a call to his son. Over the prior three decades, these conversations had become the highlight of his daily routine, an essential 15-minute escape from the austerity of prison. But on this day, his son’s voice was uncharacteristically somber.Thirty-two years earlier, Lewis Sr.—inmate No.
Sharing the bad news over the phone, Lewis Jr. could hear the air leaving his father’s body. For a moment, neither spoke. But eventually, they resolved not to give up—pressing on with a legal effort that would test the limits of forgiveness during a time of criminal-justice reform while revealing the enduring power of a son’s love.“Dad,” Lewis Jr. replied, “if you are all right, I’m all right.”
Without that support, Lewis Sr. says, he experienced a childhood of routine deprivation. Once the monthly welfare check ran out, the apartment fell dark and the radiators went cold. The rats in the kitchen were so noisy it was difficult to sleep, and he arrived at school with holes in his shoes. Sometimes, when there was no money for groceries, he would exchange an IOU note at the corner store for a can of beans or a few pieces of frozen chicken. For a family of six children, it wasn’t enough.
Father and son went on toy-buying sprees at the FAO Schwarz in New York. They traveled to Tampa to watch the Washington NFL team lose to the Oakland Raiders in the Super Bowl. No birthday gift was too expensive, no request was denied. Lewis Sr. built his son a child-size basketball court, bought him a personal computer, and got him a German-shepherd puppy named Rambo. “At that age,” the younger Lewis says of his father, “I feel like he’s Superman.
That privilege wasn’t simply material. Lewis Jr. had two parents who were present, loving, and determined to see him succeed. His mother used flashcards to improve his vocabulary. Lewis Sr. encouraged him to read the newspaper at home. Both expected their son to make the most of the opportunities they’d never had.
“Spreading addiction in your community is bad enough,” says John P. Dominguez, a federal prosecutor involved in the Edmond–Lewis Sr. case. “But the legacy of the Rayful Edmond drug organization was one of more serious consequences because it left in its wake violence, death, and destruction.”of a cocaine overdose not far from his College Park campus. This brought a flood of media attention to the issue of drugs and ramped up pressure on federal lawmakers to take action.
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