26 Died Waiting: Families Call for Reform of Illinois’ Medical Release Program

It was Monday morning, Jan. 22, 2024, when Jamie Rhodes rushed to Hillsboro Health Hospital with her daughter to check on her father, who had been admitted with breathing complications.

Upon her arrival, she was met with a haunting sight.

Her father, James ‘Butch’ Handy, was restrained on a hospital bed–tightly cuffed at both wrists and his ankle. She recalled the cuffs digging into his skin, causing him to bleed. 

Handy, who was incarcerated in 2023 for driving on a revoked license, could no longer lift his head or breathe properly on his own. His health had declined over nearly a decade after he was diagnosed with Stage four cirrhosis in 2015. 

It was then that doctors delivered the news that Handy would not make it through the day. They asked Rhodes to sign a do-not-resuscitate form–a decision she was not prepared to make. But she did it. She said she was also informed that he would be moved from the hospital to the Graham Correctional Center’s medical unit for state financial reasons.

Handy would become one of the 97 people who died in prison in 2024 in Illinois. And one of 26 who died after being denied medical release from IDOC–a program created in 2022 Illinois state law to allow terminally ill people to die at home. 

Rhodes called her sister, Elizabeth Hartley, and her mother, Carol Hartley, to meet her at the prison. Once they were all there, they gathered around him–the man who had been the center of their lives–to support him, like they had always tried to.

Suddenly, it was clear that there would be no more Halloween celebrations where Handy decorated the backyard festively with skeletons, lanterns and pumpkins; or playdates with one of his nine grandchildren who loved to put his hair in bows.  Two weeks earlier, Handy had asked Carol—his partner of 46 years—to marry him; the family’s hope of celebrating that union would die with him. 

After spending hours at the hospital, they left reassured by doctors that he had a chance of making it through the night and they could return to see him the next day. But in the parking lot, they got a call from medical staff: he had passed away. 

Handy’s death was the end of his suffering, as he had spent much of his time in pain, his family recalled. But for them, it was the beginning of the pursuit of justice. In 2023, his family had applied for Handy’s medical release three times through the Illinois Joe Coleman Medical Release Act. The Prisoner Review Board denied each application for medical release without offering reasons. 

Handy’s family has since demanded answers, sending letters to the board, Gov. J.B. Pritzker and prison medical officials. Their search has been met with silence, forcing them to confront a painful truth: Handy died in prison at 77—but under state law, he should not have had to. 

A look at Illinois’ medical release policy 

For decades, Illinois was one of only two states, alongside Iowa, that lacked a medical or compassionate release program for incarcerated individuals. That changed in 2022 with the passage of the Joe Coleman Medical Release Act. 

The Act allows terminally ill or medically incapacitated individuals to apply for release from prison to reunite with their loved ones toward the end of their lives. Its namesake, Joe Coleman, was an 81-year-old man who died alone behind bars from cancer, separated from his children who wished to be with him in his final days. He had been serving a life sentence at Menard Correctional Center for a gas station robbery.

Under the law, medical incapacity is defined as a diagnosable condition, including dementia or severe permanent disability, that prevents an individual from completing daily activities without assistance. Terminal illness is classified as an irreversible condition likely to result in death within 18 months.

On paper, the medical release process should allow individuals like Handy—who was diagnosed with both medical incapacitation and terminal illness, to receive relief. But in practice, the process is far more complex than simply proving a medical condition, and many who appear to have conditions that would qualify are either denied release or deemed ineligible, a review of public documents obtained by Injustice Watch shows. 

In 2023, Injustice Watch revealed that the vast majority of applicants seeking medical release in 2022 and 2023 were denied.

The trend persists today.

Between 2022 and 2024, 717 people applied for release, yet only 99 were granted freedom, an analysis by the Chicago Reporter found. Even among those approved, three died in custody a year later. Meanwhile, 618 applicants–like Handy–were denied or deemed ineligible. 26 of them, including Handy, died behind bars, hoping for the chance to reunite with their loved ones—one that never came.

Molly Crane, an Equal Justice Works Fellow at Families Against Mandatory Minimums, said she is sure of one thing as a lawyer, advocate and researcher.

“Prison has made people sicker,” Crane said.

She’s not wrong, according to a U.S. Department of Justice report: Incarcerated people are more likely to have chronic conditions such as cancer, heart and kidney-related problems and high blood pressure than the general public. 

On average, Illinois spends $76,000 to incarcerate a single person. For those with medical illnesses, Crane said costs can be nine times that. The goal is to reconnect them with their family in exchange for serving the last of their sentences, thus cutting costs for taxpayers.

Looking ahead, a report from FAMM found that by 2030, prisons will house over 400,000 prisoners who will be 55 and older, making up nearly one-third of the population.

To address this growing concern, Illinois House Bill 2367, also known as ‘Credit for Change,’ has been proposed. Championed by Illinois Policy Consultant Katrina Baugh, this initiative aims to allow incarcerated individuals to reduce their sentences by demonstrating good behavior and participating in rehabilitative programs or volunteer activities.

Baugh believes this initiative is essential to addressing the healthcare needs of incarcerated individuals before they require medical release as a last resort.

“The more people can understand the failure that is our prison system,” Baugh said, “the more we get people asking our lawmakers why we keep funding the expensive project of warehousing human beings when so many Illinoisians don’t have the money they need for medical treatments or to send their kids to college.”

Baugh also emphasized the responsibility of lawmakers to address the needs of incarcerated individuals with compassion. 

“When people are medically incapacitated or terminally ill, set them free,” Baugh said.

A problematic process 

Applicants–or their representatives–must submit a request via email to the Prisoner Review Board, the entity responsible for overseeing medical release, parole and clemency hearings. After filing, they receive a confirmation letter, a case number and a hearing date. The process then requires them to register up to four witnesses, including legal counsel. Hearings are held via video conference and are only public upon request by the petitioner. Crime victims receive 30 days’ notice and may attend to provide testimony.

Each case is reviewed by a rotating three-person panel from within the Prison Review Board, a 15-member board appointed by the governor. The full board makes its decision by voting within 90 days of receiving a completed application. A simple majority vote decides whether the application will be approved or not. 

Of 209 board denials, there were only 16 where a member of the panel disagreed, according to medical release application data. In previous reporting, republican members of the board denied applications for release at a disproportionate rate to Democrat members of the board, Injustice Watch found.

In a statement to the Chicago Reporter, the board wrote that “the Joe Coleman Act does not provide that one factor is more determinative than another. Rather, board members consider the full packet of information they have for each applicant.”

However, the application records show no clear pattern in how decisions are made. In response to questions for this story, the board listed multiple factors it weighs, including the likelihood of recovery, financial cost to the state, impact on medical care within the prison system, potential danger to others, stakeholder opposition and whether the individual’s condition was considered at sentencing—but provides no transparency on which factor carries the most weight.

Even if the release is granted, individuals remain under supervision for five years, and are subject to parole requirements, medical evaluations and compliance checks.

Senate bill 19, which was signed by Gov. Pritzker on June 20, required all medical release hearings be public unless petitioners request otherwise. The bill also requires the Prisoner Review Board to make publicly available decision letters outlining reasons for their denials, including statutory factors considered.

But for families like Handy, transparency comes too late. He died without ever knowing why he was denied, leaving his loved ones to sift through the fragments of a system that failed him.

“Board members thoroughly review files they are responsible for and make decisions consistent with the requirements of the Joe Coleman Act. Each case is unique, but the outcomes are determined by the member’s evaluation of record before them and the statutory requirements,” in a statement to the Chicago Reporter.

Later, a request to schedule an interview with board members to further discuss the findings of this investigation was denied. 

Handy’s upbringing and early life

Handy, known to many as Butch—one of the only nicknames that stuck—grew up in Virden, a small town in rural Illinois. Carol said he was spoiled as the youngest of seven children.

At 18 years old, he left his small town to fight in the Vietnam War. His family said he didn’t talk much about the harrowing things he witnessed there, but they knew it stayed with him. One of the only pieces of information they have about his time there is that he was introduced to drugs for the first time.

When he came back, he was never the same.

He was honorably discharged from the military after a significant leg injury, and later worked for many years in construction until another injury forced him to shift careers. He began landscaping, an opportunity that allowed him to work with plants, one of his lifelong loves. His backyard in Riverton, Ill., overflowed with greenery and his prized jade tree. 

He’d also been interested in cars and motorcycles in his post-Vietnam years. But life was not kind. In 1982, a motorcycle crash shattered his leg, forcing doctors to place rods and plates inside. Years later, a fall from a ladder broke the same leg, sending him into a spiral of surgeries—over 30 in total—until his leg was finally amputated in 2006. His prosthetic leg even bore the metal plate from his Harley, which he called Piglet or Star Wars.

But inside, he continued to fight a quiet war—one that his family tried desperately to rescue him from.

46 years of love, acceptance and forgiveness

Carol, 71, and Handy met at the Illinois State Fair in 1976. She had been attracted to “bad boys” in her past, and Handy gave off that vibe. 

At the time they met, she was married, but it was clear to her ex-husband and her that the marriage was over. It wasn’t until three years later, once her divorce was finalized, that she ran into him again. From that moment on, they’d stuck together. Elizabeth was one year old when they made things official, and nearly three years later, Rhodes was born. 

To those closest to him, Handy was a man who brought joy to simple moments. He loved family gatherings—cookouts, wiener roasts and parties. He loved his six children and did his best to teach them to live better than he did. 

But drug addiction complicated his family life and relationships.

He would disappear for days at a time and sometimes flood the house with strangers. Carol didn’t use drugs, especially not as a licensed nurse, but she stayed through the turmoil and knew he wasn’t perfect. She did her best to silence the noise around her—the friends who said she could do better—to love the man he was and who he tried to be.

“I always say, ‘Good people make bad choices and bad mistakes, but it doesn’t mean they’re a bad person.’”

Rhodes, 42, said when he was sober, “You couldn’t ask for a better person.”

But a DUI in the early 80s marked the beginning of a long cycle—getting caught driving on a revoked license. Repeated offenses stretched on for years, eventually leading to a one-year prison sentence in 2014 for that offense the previous year in Sangamon County.

Before going to prison for that sentence in 2014, Handy spoke with his doctor about a groundbreaking hepatitis C treatment: A series of shots that could render the disease inactive. But during his incarceration, his family said he did not receive this treatment. Handy later sued the Illinois Department of Corrections for failing to administer that care. 

When Carol visited him during his incarceration in October 2015, he was unrecognizable. His body was bloated with six liters of fluid, and his skin was yellowed. When he was finally discharged the following month, it was too late for the new treatments. His condition progressed to stage 4 cirrhosis. About a year later, in 2016, it was liver cancer.

In 2020, he was again arrested for driving on a revoked license in Logan County. Officers caught him traveling 65 miles per hour in a 45 mph zone. Authorities also confiscated a ‘rock-like substance’ from his vehicle, later confirmed as cocaine. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to three years at Graham Correctional Center. He started the sentence in 2023. 

The beginning of the end

Although his family acknowledged Handy’s wrongdoing, they never thought he’d be convicted for that many years—especially not as a sick man.

In the years leading up to his 2023 incarceration, the family took a trip to M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Texas, one of the country’s leading cancer treatment centers, where they wanted him to do chemo and surgery. Instead, he came back to Illinois to start chemo.

“The day he was sentenced,” Rhodes said, “I walked out to that state’s attorney and I said, ‘“You just signed his death sentence.’”

He was taken to prison on Jan. 24, 2023, and over nearly a year of incarceration, his family applied for medical release three times. Their first attempt was in May 2023. Their second attempt was in November 2023. Their last attempt was on Jan. 8, 2024, two weeks before he died.

Each time, they wrote letters of support together, with Elizabeth, 47, taking the reins on submitting the applications. 

“My dad is far from perfect,” Elizabeth wrote in the first letter. “He has been there for me when I needed him and as his health declines over the next year, I want to be there for him.”

They had a plan for Handy’s hoped-for release: Carol, with her nursing experience, would take care of him–taking him to his medical appointments. His children, including his son and other daughters, would help out. His medical care would be financially covered through his VA benefits and pension.

But each application was denied, with no specific reason being given. 

The Logan County State’s Attorney at the time wrote a letter asking the board to deny release, writing that “the defendant will likely return to previous habits and offend again.”

“If there was ever a victimless crime. . . he didn’t hurt anybody,” Elizabeth said, though Carol acknowledged that he could have.

Each applicant can also request a public hearing. To the family’s knowledge, there were no details from the hearing communicated to them. They only received an emailed response after the hearing.

“I just wanted to bring him home and take care of him,” Carol said.

Two families, the same fate

Joy Martin, 67, said she felt the same about her brother, Matthew Hrecko, who died alone in custody after his application for medical release was denied in 2023.

Handy and Hrecko met the same fate—isolated, restrained, their limbs bound to the rails of the prison hospital bed.

Years after Hrecko’s passing in 2023, Martin remains trapped in a cycle of grief and unanswered questions, haunted by the absence of closure in her brother’s death.

A sister’s burden: grief without closure

Before the innocence of childhood faded, Hrecko had been her buddy. But soon after, he veered onto a darker path, consumed by drugs that spread rapidly throughout their community. Martin said he was always called ‘stupid,’ treated worse than their other siblings and physically abused. Their parents had favorites, and her father favored her. But Hrecko was unclaimed, and that alienation was apparent, Martin recalled.

In 2004, everything changed. Hrecko visited his parents’ home, speaking to his mother and unaware of his father’s presence. Then, something unknown to this day was said—making him furious. He stepped outside, pacing, attempting to cool down. But instead, he retrieved a knife from his car.

Inside, his father sat in his recliner, back turned. Hrecko approached from behind with the knife.

He was later convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to 30 years in prison, first at Lawrenceville prison in Sumner, Ill. Later, he moved to Big Muddy River Correctional in Ina, Ill.

Martin was left to grapple with a storm of emotions. The man—her father—who had tormented them was gone—but her brother, once her childhood companion, was responsible for it.

She wasn’t surprised. Yet she carried anger toward him for years, mostly because her children had lost their grandfather. 

She couldn’t recall the exact year, but it took 15 to 18 years to muster up the courage to visit Hrecko, although he communicated with her through letters over the years. During the pandemic, they started virtual visits and resumed in-person visits in 2022.

Before his illness progressed, Hrecko told Martin he was taking medication to raise his ammonia levels to combat liver failure. Eventually, his condition became terminal.

His cellmate, who told him about the medical release application, helped him fill it out, reaching out to Martin and his other sister for letters of support. Martin believed he could no longer advocate for himself, his illness having stripped him of clarity. 

In her letter of support, she detailed the trauma Hrecko experienced as a child. 

In the other letter, her sister wrote, “I have often wondered how badly our grandfather must have treated our father while he was growing up, to make him so unloving toward his own children—except one.”

A facility doctor also signed off on the application, stating that Hrecko met the requirements for release.

Then, the unexpected happened. He called her from the hospital, saying his bags were packed. That he was ready to be picked up.

She froze. No one had informed her of his release status, despite her role as his contact person. She had no idea he was expecting to be freed.

He sounded excited, like an adolescent. Yet, his release was ultimately denied by the board with no explanation given to Martin or guidance on whom to contact for more information. 

The process had been murky from the beginning. She was unsure if his audio processing issues or his medicine’s side effects, which sometimes caused confusion, had led him to misunderstand his situation altogether.

Still, someone let him make that phone call, she said. She believes someone allowed him to believe he was going home.

And Martin was the one who had to tell him the truth: that she was not coming. He wasn’t upset with her about it, but that moment still haunts her.

“I consider that one of the traumas of my life,” she said.

She questioned whether his first-degree murder charge had sealed his fate. But data showed others had been granted release despite similar offenses.

She visited him three times in prison before he died. He was unconscious all three times. 

His prison counselor told Martin that when he was verbal, Hrecko asked to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in Shawnee National Forest in Southern Illinois. 

He died in custody alone on Nov. 19, 2023. Martin wrote a letter to the governor following his death, but has not received a response. 

She plans to spread his ashes in the forest later this year.

Love, Loss, and a Call for Justice

As for Handy’s family, they have found meaning in collecting and protecting the items he loved. 

At the end of their hallway at their home in Springfield, Ill., a small wooden table with Handy’s belongings sits. His black leather wallet, glasses, photos of some of their fondest memories with him and his prosthetic leg are a few of the items on display as a visual tribute to him.

In the middle sits a wooden box with an eagle on it—his ashes inside.

In the months after Handy’s passing, Carol wrote a letter to help grieve. 

“He’s not in prison, not hurting, not sad or mad or tormenting himself with thoughts that nobody cared. I cared. We all cared,” she wrote. “I’m very sad because even though I’ve been alone more than once over the years, I always knew that I would be hearing from him soon and that he would be home. This is the first time in 70 years I feel alone. I’ll be fine because I have a loving family. Rest in peace, Butch. Watch out for all of us. Keep us safe, happy and healthy.”

Although Carol doesn’t typically believe in psychics, she visited a lady in Staunton, Ill., who advised her to collect pennies in her path, as it is a reminder of him.

After Handy’s death, Elizabeth sent a letter to the board on the family’s behalf.

“You absolutely failed at your duty as a member of this committee,” she wrote. “I am painfully aware that this letter will not bring my dad back, but I am hopeful that people making decisions about who to release will read it and make better decisions in the future in hopes that someone else’s dad won’t have to die alone in prison.”

Rhodes said she will relive this trauma over again if it helps make the process better.

“If his death were to do any good, it would be to help somebody else in the same situation,” Rhodes  said. “Because it’s not just the [incarcerated person] that suffers—it’s the family.”