WASHINGTON — A federal judge in Maryland Tuesday barred U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement from re-detaining Kilmar Abrego Garcia, saying the Trump administration lacks plans to remove him from the United States.

“Respondents have done nothing to show that Abrego Garcia’s continued detention in ICE custody is consistent with due process,” District of Maryland Judge Paula Xinis wrote in her order. 

Tuesday’s order solidifies a temporary decision from Xinis last year that blocked immigration officials from re-detaining him. 

Abrego Garcia is a Salvadoran immigrant and longtime Maryland resident whose wrongful deportation to a brutal megaprison last year cast a national spotlight on the Trump administration’s aggressive immigration crackdown. 

His case has remained a focal point for the Trump administration, which brought Abrego Garcia back to the U.S. to face criminal charges lodged against him stemming from a traffic stop in Tennessee. 

Those charges were made while Abrego Garcia remained imprisoned in El Salvador, and after the Supreme Court found his deportation unlawful and said the Trump administration should facilitate his return. 

Abrego Garcia has pleaded not guilty to those charges of human smuggling and that case continues.

Since Abrego Garcia was brought back to the U.S., the Trump administration has tried to deport him to a third country, because he has deportation protections from his home country of El Salvador. An immigration judge in 2019 found he would likely face violence if returned there. 

Costa Rica has offered to accept Abrego Garcia as a refugee and he has agreed to be removed there, but the Trump administration has tried to deport him to three African countries: Liberia, Eswatini and Uganda.

“Indeed, since Abrego Garcia secured his release from criminal custody in August 2025, Respondents have made one empty threat after another to remove him to countries in Africa with no real chance of success,” Xinis wrote. 

Xinis added that because the Trump administration has not secured any travel documents for a third country of removal for Abrego Garcia, his detention would be unlawful. The Supreme Court deemed that immigrants cannot be held longer than six months in detention if the federal government is not actively making efforts to remove them. 

“From this, the Court easily concludes that there is no ‘good reason to believe’ removal is likely in the reasonably foreseeable future,” she wrote.

Abrego Garcia remains in Maryland with his wife, a U.S. citizen, and their three children. 

In the Wisconsin prison system, incarcerated mothers still lack a program that would allow physical custody of their children, a year after a court ruling affirmed that a state law requires the Department of Corrections to take steps to bring together incarcerated moms and babies. The ACLU is suing to try to force the issue.

Wisconsin statute 301.049 calls for a “mother-young child care program” allowing women to retain the physical custody of their children during participation in the program. It says a woman entering the program must either be pregnant or have a child less than a year old. 

Alyssa Puphal and Natasha Curtin-Weber are plaintiffs in the case against the Wisconsin Department of Corrections (DOC), and are represented by the American Civil Liberties Union of Wisconsin and Quarles & Brady LLP. 

While a judge sided with the plaintiffs last year, they are attempting to re-open the case, saying the DOC has not implemented the program required by law. 

“At this moment, each and every woman in DOC’s physical custody with a baby under one year old sleeps apart from her child every single night,” the Feb. 4 filing stated. 

Nine states have prison nursery programs, and a few others are considering or developing a program, Stateline reported in January. 

According to Wisconsin Public Radio, DOC communications director Beth Hardtke wrote in an email that because the Legislature turned down a budget request from Gov. Tony Evers to expand earned release to allow mothers to spend more time with their children outside of prison, the department is now being required to expand the mother-child program to include incarcerated mothers despite a lack of additional funding and of statutory changes that would allow more incarcerated women to take part.

DOC had previously argued that it was meeting the requirements of the 1991 statute by facilitating contact between babies and mothers on probation, extended supervision and parole. But a year ago, in February 2025, Dane County Circuit Court Judge Stephen Elkhe disagreed, ordering DOC to provide a mother-child program inside Wisconsin prisons.

“Reforming the criminal justice system to make our communities safer is a key priority of (Gov. Tony Evers’) administration and that includes corrections reforms such as a mother-young child program for incarcerated women,” Hardtke wrote, according to WPR. 

The ACLU motion called for remedial sanctions to get the agency to comply with the court order, including a daily fine for each day the contempt of court continues. The organization asked that the money from the fines be set aside to support the mother-child program, and claimed that a growing fine would ensure resources for the program. 

“With each month that passes, Defendants’ failure to act violates state law and violates the Writ,” the motion stated. 

When the lawsuit was filed in June 2024, Puphal had already given birth while incarcerated, while Curtin-Weber was pregnant. As of the filing of the lawsuit, their requests to participate in the mother-young program were refused or had not been responded to, according to a complaint published online by the ACLU. 

Puphal and Curtin-Weber were released on extended supervision last year, according to online DOC records. 

The state law enacted in 1991 states that the department shall provide the program for females who are prisoners or on probation, extended supervision or parole and who would participate as an alternative to revocation. 

When a person is released from prison to supervision, they must follow certain rules. If their supervision is revoked, the person will either be returned to court for sentencing or transported to a correctional institution. 

The department contended that it was in line with the law and that the word “or” in the statute indicated the agency could either provide the program for incarcerated mothers or for mothers on supervision.

DOC argued that it had a mother-child program for women on probation, extended supervision or parole who are pregnant or have a child under the age of one, and that it didn’t have to offer the program to incarcerated mothers. Wisconsin’s state budget includes $198,000 for a mother-young child program. 

Ehlke sided with the plaintiffs. He said they had established a clear right to be included in the class of people the department must consider for the mother-child program. 

The ACLU motion on Feb. 4 stated that the court had ordered the department to establish the program “forthwith,” or without delay, and  moved to reopen the case, arguing there has been “no meaningful progress” since that order despite three meetings between department representatives and counsel for the plaintiffs. 

“To avoid another year of excuses — or worse, another 35 years — Plaintiffs ask the Court to reopen this case for the purposes of enforcing the Court’s Writ,” the motion stated. 

The plaintiffs’ filing includes a letter and a list of questions sent to the Department of Corrections in December. It states that the Ostara Initiative offered to create a mother-young child care program for DOC at no cost to the agency in April 2024 and has continued to approach the agency. It described the Ostara Initiative as “a credible non-profit that DOC has already partnered with for other services.” 

The Examiner reached out to the Department of Corrections for a response to the plaintiffs’ filing, and also asked if the claims about Ostara were correct and if the department is planning to partner with Ostara on the program. Hardtke wrote that it is the department’s practice not to comment on ongoing litigation. 

A telephone scheduling conference in the case is scheduled for March 2. 

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Kathy Briggs is assisted by case manager Kim Immel, left, and nursery program manager Kim Perkins as she puts on a front-loading baby carrier with her daughter Melody inside at the Women’s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Vandalia, Mo. Prison nursery programs allow babies to live behind walls with their mothers — a rare and controversial approach. (Photo by Amanda Watford/Stateline)

VANDALIA, Mo. — Kathy Briggs slipped her arms through the thick straps of a brand-new baby carrier, tugging it over her beige shirt as two other women stood beside her, tightening buckles and adjusting the padded waistband.

The carrier was still stiff from its packaging, and Briggs shifted her feet as one of the women gently lifted then-6-month-old Melody into the front pouch.

Melody’s gray-blue eyes tracked the women’s hands, and her wispy blond hair — gathered into a tiny pink bow — bobbed slightly with the movement. She blinked up at the adults.

“Put your foot in there,” one of the women said, guiding Melody’s leg through the opening.

“She’s just a little chunk,” the other woman said.

Briggs’ eyes widened, and she squealed, half laughing, as Melody settled against her chest. Across the room, a few women looked up from boxes of newly arrived donations — tiny onesies and hip carriers still wrapped in plastic.

Someone let out a soft “aww.” Briggs, 29, bounced on her heels, testing the weight, her palms hovering protectively near Melody’s back.

For a moment, the room felt like any early childhood nursery: adult chatter and baby babbles, women comparing baby gear and swapping soothing techniques.

Yet the jangling of keys and the watchful eyes of uniformed officers were a reminder that this colorful corner of the world existed not in a day care, but inside a women’s prison in rural Missouri.

Programs like this one allow babies inside prisons — a rare and controversial approach that forces states to confront how punishment, public safety and early childhood development collide. As more women enter state prisons while pregnant, lawmakers and corrections officials are expanding prison nursery programs, betting that keeping mothers and infants together can reduce trauma and recidivism — even as critics question whether any prison can ever be an appropriate place for a child.

Missouri’s program, which opened last February at the Women’s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center, is the ninth nursery program currently operating inside of a prison in the country. The program was adopted into state law in 2022.

Each year, thousands of pregnant offenders are admitted to local jails and state prisons — most for nonviolent crimes. In 2023, the latest year with data available, about 2% of women who were admitted to state prisons were pregnant, according to the federal Bureau of Justice Statistics.

The number of incarcerated women has climbed sharply over the past several decades, making them one of the fastest-growing segments of the prison population. Some experts say the trend has forced states to confront a basic reality: Most correctional facilities were never designed to accommodate new mothers.

“Routine aspects of prison operations just really don’t consider the distinct needs of women, and particularly not of pregnant women,” said Alycia Welch, the associate director of the Prison and Jail Innovation Lab at the University of Texas at Austin. Welch researches carceral conditions and oversight with a focus on women’s experiences.

Federal reports and research have found that pregnant inmates face systemic barriers to timely care — from guards controlling access to medical treatment to logistical delays and medical fees. Shackling during pregnancy and childbirth persists despite restrictions in at least 42 states.

Prison nursery programs benefit relatively few women, and some criminal justice advocates say they reinforce the notion that incarceration — rather than community-based drug treatment or diversion — should remain the default response for pregnant women in the criminal legal system.

Some research suggests that prison nurseries can strengthen early bonding, improve maternal mental health and support the transition from incarceration back into the community after new mothers have time to parent their infants in a structured, supportive environment.

“This community just lifts us up,” Briggs said.

Inside Missouri’s nursery program

The room Kaley McDowell shares with her infant daughter, Kimber, is arranged for two mothers and two babies — twin beds on each wall, a pair of cribs nearby and space left open for feeding, rocking and play.

McDowell’s rocking chair sits in the corner, draped with a warm, butter yellow blanket. She settled into the rocker with Kimber in her arms just as a soft, classical melody drifted from one of the crib-soother toys. Kimber curled tightly against her chest; her cheek pressed into her mother’s shirt.

“She thinks she’s gonna eat now,” McDowell joked, shifting her baby upright on her thighs as the two rocked slowly back and forth. She then set Kimber down so the child could try standing.

Kimber steadied herself, then reached down toward her tiny toes as if surprised to find them there.

McDowell, 34, is a girl mom through and through. All four of her daughters — ages 13, 9, 2 and now-7-month-old Kimber — have “K” names, a small bit of continuity she’s proud of.

Inside the nursery unit, she’s the experienced mom, the one other women seek out for advice.

McDowell isn’t set for release until August, which means Kimber will leave the nursery around 15 months old. In the meantime, McDowell is taking classes to get her GED diploma and hopes to earn her license as a certified nurse assistant.

Missouri’s prison nursery program allows eligible women to live with their newborns for up to 18 months. Women must have no more than 18 months remaining on their sentence at the time of delivery, and those who have committed violent sexual offenses or crimes against children cannot participate.

Prison officials also review disciplinary history, physical and mental health, and engagement in programming before approving someone for one of the unit’s seven bedrooms, which collectively can house up to 14 babies at a time.

About two dozen infants are expected to cycle through the nursery each year, and staff anticipate that number will climb — a sign of growing demand for the program.

“I have watched moms transform their lives,” said Kim Perkins, the nursery’s program manager.

Across the day, the nursery fills with the kinds of small, steady interactions that shape early childhood: Mothers reading baby books, caregivers rocking fussy infants, babies sprawled across play mats surrounded by stuffed animals. Correctional officers and nursery staff also often help, whether by holding a wiggly baby or fetching supplies.

“They like to come and steal the babies when they can,” McDowell said. “They’re like our in-house grandmas.”

The unit’s officers also are trained to expect round-the-clock movement, and the team includes male officers, so infants grow accustomed to hearing different voices.

“It’s going to be a good thing for these women,” said Lisa Unger, one of the unit’s correctional officers. While she was initially apprehensive about the program, she said she has watched women genuinely change over time with the support they receive.

When mothers cook group meals — something that happens at least once a week — the unit feels briefly like a crowded family kitchen, with women passing plates, joking and handing off infants so someone else can finish stirring a pot.

Movement across the unit is tightly restricted, though. Babies are not allowed upstairs to the sleeping and living quarters of caregivers — incarcerated women trained for the role — and mothers go there only to “shop” in the storage room stocked with donated clothing. When the weather is nice and staffing allows, the mothers can take their babies outside to the play area. The babies do not enter other parts of the prison.

Turning point

For much of her life, Kathy Briggs did not imagine a future that included her. She was first incarcerated at 15, and has now been in and out of incarceration three times.

Addiction shaped nearly every corner of her adulthood — where she slept and whom she trusted. Some nights were spent in drug houses, others on the street. She lost two pregnancies.

At her lowest point, Briggs tattooed “DNR” — which stands for “do not resuscitate” — above her left eye.

When Briggs learned she was expecting again — this time while in county jail awaiting adjudication — she doubted her ability to stay sober, to find housing, to understand motherhood at all. When she learned she was carrying twins, her panic deepened and she considered placing them up for adoption.

Who would take them? Who would trust her with them?

The turning point came with a sentence delivered calmly from the bench. Facing drug possession and firearm-related charges, Briggs expected another familiar outcome and that she’d be released shortly. Instead, the judge told her she would go to prison — and have her babies there.

Briggs protested — babies did not belong in prison. But the judge insisted. More importantly, he told her he believed in her. It was the first time, she said, anyone in a position of authority had made her feel like she could overcome her past.

She arrived at the prison nursery unit seven months pregnant. When her daughters were born, she nicknamed them “Little Lyric” and “Mighty Melody,” inspired by the music that always made her feel free.

The infants’ play space is awash in color: Rugs patterned with swirling motifs and florals; shelves crammed with books, dolls and stacking toys; rocking chairs with tufted pillows. A baby swing clicks rhythmically in one corner. Near a window overlooking an outdoor play area, a potted plant soaks up the morning sun.

Inside the nursery, Briggs’ daughters, whom she calls her “best friends,” thrive. Their father also is incarcerated, and the nursery staff are working to make sure he can receive regular updates and photos of the girls.

“Some of us didn’t grow up with good families or a lot of love,” Briggs said. “Here, they’re teaching us how to grow with our babies, and that is such a beautiful thing.”

Some of the program’s caregivers say the strength of the unit comes from the fact that no one is raising a baby in isolation — and that some caregivers bring their own lived experience as mothers to guide the others.

One morning, caregiver Tara Carroll sat on the floor, sorting a pile of donated baby clothes while several women gathered around her — some seated at a nearby table, others standing and talking among themselves.

She organized the outfits by size, slipping the clothes onto tiny colorful hangers. As she logged each item, a few of the women began matching tops and bottoms, holding them up for one another to weigh in.

“This one will fit her, and it’s got cute little pants and a snowflake,” Carroll told one mother.

“That’s cuuuuuute,” another mom chimed in.

Carroll, 34, has been incarcerated for several years on property-related charges, and she remembers what it was like before the nursery existed.

In 2022, she delivered her now-3-year-old daughter, Dillon Rayee, at a nearby hospital and spent 48 hours with her before her husband took their newborn home.

“It was heart-wrenching, and I promised my daughter that I would do everything that I could to come home to her,” Carroll said. She hopes to use her experience in the prison to become a doula.

Until the nursery opened, her birth experience was the norm: a day or two with a newborn, then the baby went into foster care or with family and the mother returned to her cell. For Carroll, helping the women in the unit now — guiding them through feedings, showing them how to swaddle, offering advice during long nights — feels like a way of honoring her promise to her daughter.

Policies across the states

Across the country, fewer than a dozen states operate nursery programs that allow incarcerated mothers to live with their newborns.

New York operates the nation’s oldest prison nursery, which opened in the early 1900s at the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. The program allows up to 25 incarcerated mothers to live with their infants — typically until age 1 — under a system governed by state law and administered by a nonprofit provider, Hour Children.

Newer programs — in Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, Nebraska, South Dakota, Ohio, Washington state and West Virginia — vary widely in size, eligibility and funding. Many rely heavily on nonprofit partners or donations to cover essentials such as diapers, cribs and parenting classes.

Nebraska’s program, which launched in 1994, allows mothers to participate if their parole eligibility date or release date falls within 18 months of their child’s birth.

Rosita Vizcarra, 29, said the program has been a “blessing,” giving her the chance to bond with her now-9-month-old son, Liam, while also learning how to be a better parent to her two older daughters.

“He’s crawling and starting to stand,” Vizcarra wrote in a message to Stateline through the facility’s messaging platform. “He’s such a happy baby.”

Miranda Messenger, 37, told Stateline in a message that the program has given her what she and her now 4-month-old son, Kyle, need to succeed and stay connected to her support system while separated from her three older children.

“It’s gonna help Miranda tenfold,” said Shannon Fune, Kyle’s father, who has been able to visit the pair a few times. “I was a little bit jealous or disappointed that I wasn’t gonna be there.”

A 2018 study of Nebraska’s program found participation was associated with a 28% reduction in recidivism within three years of the initial offense and a 39% reduction in returns to prison custody within 20 years over the 20-year period of the study. The author, Joseph R. Carlson, a former professor at the University of Nebraska, also estimated that the program saved the state more than $6 million between 1994 and 2012.

A handful of states — Kansas, North Dakota, Virginia and Wisconsin — are considering or expanding nursery programs. Idaho and Wyoming explored nursery plans in recent years, but abandoned them due to space, budget and staffing issues, according to state corrections officials.

Many other states offer other programs they say benefit incarcerated mothers, such as doula programs during pregnancy or during labor and delivery, extended visitation for young children or mother-child facilities based in communities rather than a prison.

Although interest in programs for pregnant and postpartum women in the criminal legal system has grown, experts across the country say there is still not enough research to know how well these programs work — and even basic data on the number and experiences or outcomes of incarcerated pregnant people remains limited.

“It’s, for me, really unfortunate that we are doing this without evidence to inform the policies we’re putting in place,” said Rebecca Shlafer, a child psychologist and associate professor of pediatrics at the University of Minnesota. Shlafer also evaluated the implementation of Minnesota’s 2021 Healthy Start Act, which allows pregnant and postpartum women to participate in community-based alternatives.

‘A real patchwork’

It’s hard to know exactly how many pregnant people enter jails and prisons each year. The federal government does not require correctional systems to track pregnancy data, and reporting varies widely by state.

By the end of 2023, 305 pregnant women were housed in state prisons, according to the latest federal data, which was released by the Bureau of Justice Statistics in April. At least 75 women lived in prison nurseries or residential programs with their infants in 2023.

A 2019 study of incarcerated pregnant women — drawing from both state and federal facilities — estimated roughly 58,000 admissions to prisons and jails between 2016 and 2017. The study, conducted by the Advocacy and Research on Reproductive Wellness of Incarcerated People group and published in the peer-reviewed American Journal of Public Health, is considered the first national investigation into pregnancy frequency and outcomes in prisons.

There are no federal standards for prison nursery programs, and each state sets its own rules — who qualifies, how long mothers can stay, what staffing and safety protocols look like and what reentry support is offered.

Studies of long-running programs in Nebraska and New York found that mothers who participated were less likely to return to prison than similar women who weren’t admitted. But those results, some experts say, may be shaped by the programs’ strict eligibility rules: Nurseries typically accept people with lower-level offenses and short sentences.

A study published in April in the peer-reviewed Women & Criminal Justice journal found that the existence of prison nursery programs caused stress and anxiety for those who weren’t eligible after giving birth, leaving them feeling like unfit mothers, and diverted resources from other ways to help incarcerated moms maintain bonds with their babies.

“We can think outside the prison walls for how to keep moms and babies together in ways that still maintain safety and accountability,” said Dr. Carolyn Sufrin, a medical anthropologist and an obstetrician-gynecologist at Johns Hopkins University. Sufrin also leads the Advocacy and Research on Reproductive Wellness of Incarcerated People group.

Critics of prison nurseries argue that the correctional environment is fundamentally ill-suited to meet the health, developmental and emotional needs of pregnant or postpartum women and their infants.

Prisons are usually not staffed with maternal health experts or pediatricians, and medical care is often inconsistent. The environment itself limits babies’ movement and ability to form relationships with other family members. The children can’t go outdoors every day.

Financial stability also is a major concern. Some of the existing prison nursery programs nationwide primarily depend on donations or nonprofit support instead of consistent state funding. Critics argue that this makes nurseries a fragile, resource-heavy solution that helps only a small number of women while reinforcing the broader system of incarceration rather than providing a reliable, scalable alternative.

“It’s a real patchwork out there, and every state is different, but again, just not ideal to have women and babies in these settings,” said Erin McClain, a research associate and the assistant director of the University of North Carolina Collaborative for Maternal and Infant Health, a research center focusing on high-risk pregnancies and infants.

A path forward

Briggs is set to leave Missouri’s Women’s Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center for a halfway house, again with her babies, later this month. She has thought extensively about what she’ll one day tell her daughters about their first few months of life — and about how far she has come from the days when her “DNR” tattoo reflected a very different outlook.

“I want to live life, and I want to show them that they can live a good life,” Briggs said. “I want to be the light that makes them feel warm.”

Inside the program, she learned how to care for her daughters and, just as critically, how to care for herself, she said. For someone who had grown up without much love or guidance, the nursery became a place where both were taught, deliberately and daily.

She hopes to return someday to help others navigate the early months of parenthood behind bars.

“More mothers in this situation deserve an opportunity to learn to be a better mother.”

Stateline reporter Amanda Watford can be reached at ahernandez@stateline.org.

Reading Time: 5 minutes

Derek Williams, 51, has been spending a lot of time thinking about certain numbers.

He committed 12 armed robberies in and around Milwaukee 30 years ago. In 1997, the North Side native was sentenced to 15 years in prison for each robbery – a total of 180 years.

In 2023, a Milwaukee County judge cut that sentence in half after Williams stopped an attack of a correctional officer who was being stabbed with a sharpened pen. The reduction in his sentence made Williams eligible for parole. 

But Williams, who was transferred to Sturtevant Transitional Facility from Oakhill Correctional Institution in September, has learned that parole eligibility is not the same as being released. Now, he worries about another number – how many days he will have to wait to go home to his family. 

“I’m seeing a parole process that really has no clear path on what a person’s supposed to do,” Williams said. “They create an ideal, and at every turn it’s another road going left or right.”

Frustrations with the parole process

In Wisconsin, only people who committed their crimes before Dec. 31, 1999, can become eligible for parole. 

Those sentenced for crimes committed on or after Jan. 1, 2000, fall under 1997 Wisconsin Act 283, more commonly known as the Truth-in-Sentencing law. These people must serve the entirety of their prison sentence. 

Those sentenced before Truth-in-Sentencing took effect become eligible for parole after serving one-quarter of their prison sentence or after reaching their mandatory release date, whichever comes first.

Before Williams’ sentence was reduced, he would have been eligible for parole in 2042.  

Since his sentence reduction in 2023, Williams has gone before the Wisconsin Parole Commission twice – in May 2024 and June 2025. 

Both times, the commission said he wasn’t ready for release.

State regulation requires the Parole Commission to consider several factors when deciding whether to grant release: acceptable conduct in prison; completion of required programming; reduction of risk to the public; sufficient time served so release does not depreciate the seriousness of the crime; and an approved release plan.

For both of his parole hearings, the Parole Commission said Williams’ conduct and participation in programming were adequate. 

Yet both times the commission deferred Williams’ parole to be reconsidered at some later date. The commission cited an “unreasonable risk to the public” and said Williams had “not served sufficient time for punishment.”

Williams said he doesn’t understand how the commission arrived at these conclusions, especially after the Milwaukee County District Attorney’s Office and the judge who modified his sentence reduction said he had already served enough time. 

“In terms of the armed robberies themselves, we were most acutely concerned with the level of violence,” said Paul Dedinsky, an assistant district attorney for Milwaukee County, during the sentence modification hearing. “I found them to all be extremely serious and necessitating an enormous amount of incarceration, but we believe that end has been met.”

Milwaukee County Circuit Judge Jack Davila agreed. 

Williams’ frustration with the parole process is not surprising, said Laura Yurs, a Remington legal fellow at the University of Wisconsin Law School. 

“Because parole release is discretionary, it is impossible to predict and tends not to operate as a standardized set of steps,” Yurs said. “For example, what is deemed ‘sufficient time for punishment’ can vary widely from person to person – even when the crime of conviction is the same.” 

Parole trends

In recent years, fewer people in Wisconsin are being granted parole, according to Department of Corrections data.

An average of 37 people were granted parole in 2023 and 2024, compared with an average of 144 a year from 2017 to 2022, the data show.  

From Jan. 1 to Aug. 31 of 2025, there have been 234 parole hearings for people convicted in Milwaukee County. Out of these, 19 people were granted parole, 201 were deferred and 14 were denied. 

As of Aug. 31, 43 people had been granted parole in Wisconsin in 2025, out of 551 hearings. 

Williams hopes to add his name to the list of people granted parole, but that is still in question. 

‘Not an entitlement’

A spokesperson for the Wisconsin Parole Commission said in an email to NNS that a parole is “not an entitlement.” He said all five parole requirements must be met, including reducing the risk someone poses to the public and that a person has served enough time. 

He said risk reduction is determined using several factors, including sustained good conduct, completion of required programming, transition through lower security levels and the approval of their release plan. 

“This requirement is met when the risk to the public upon release is considered not unreasonable,” the spokesperson said.

For time served, the commission spokesperson said the requirement is met “when the amount of time served is sufficient to not diminish the seriousness of the original offense.”

Red tape?

Williams, whose next parole hearing is scheduled for January, disputes the commission’s assessment. Nevertheless, he is trying to follow its guidance leading up to his next hearing.  

Williams said this is easier said than done, given the lack of clarity about parole. 

Williams said he is also worried about being deferred again because of a lack of coordination within the Department of Corrections. 

After his most recent parole hearing in June, commissioners endorsed a transfer for Williams to a less restrictive facility – called a Wisconsin Correctional Center System facility – where he would be able to participate in work release. 

Programming and activities at these facilities place an emphasis on life after release and only house people requiring minimum security.

About a month after his June parole hearing, the Program Review Committee at Oakhill could not reach a consensus on whether to transfer Williams, according to paperwork he received from Oakhill staff.  

After learning of the split decision, Rikki Williams, Derek’s wife, raised their concerns to Jason Benzel, director of the Department of Corrections’ Bureau of Offender Classification and Movement.

In an email, Benzel told Rikki to “be patient and allow the process to occur.” 

She then contacted Jared Hoy, secretary of the Department of Corrections.

“I understand your frustration, I really do,” Hoy wrote in an email to Rikki. “If we cut corners for Derek and rush the process, or if I intervene and put my thumb on the scale, that would not be fair to the many, many others who go through a similar process.”

These explanations ring hollow for Rikki.

“Everyone tells us to ‘trust the process,’ ” Rikki said. “What process?” 

Recent progress for Williams

Wayne Olson, the warden at Oakhill, and another Department of Corrections administrator reviewed the Program Review Committee’s split decision on Williams’ transfer. They approved a transfer but not to a Wisconsin Correctional Center System facility. 

Instead, on Sept. 16, Williams arrived at Sturtevant Transitional Facility, which houses people requiring minimum or medium security. 

Olson and the DOC administrator chose Sturtevant because it can provide a more “gradual transition” from Oakhill, according to the paperwork.

Off-site employment is available at Sturtevant, the paperwork stated, “at the discretion of the warden,” and requires a “period of monitoring on-site.”

As Williams waits in limbo, he often returns to a particular irony. 

“I made a life-or-death decision in a heartbeat,” he said. “But it’s taken years for anyone to decide what to do with my life.”

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Jonathan Aguilar is a visual journalist at Milwaukee Neighborhood News Service who is supported through a partnership between CatchLight Local and Report for America.

His 180-year prison sentence was cut after saving a guard’s life. Years later, he’s still waiting to go home. is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.