Our Brother, Inmate A787284

To understand why Compassionate Release Family Advocacy came to life, you have to know the story of our brother, inmate A787284 — Joseph Perry.

Joe was a father, husband, son, and brother. He was also a long‑time marijuana user at a time when it was not legal. For years, Joe worked installing countertops and was extremely gifted in his trade. One day, while at a client’s home, he had an accident with his equipment. A saw blade broke and lodged into his eye. When the company drug‑tested him, he failed and was fired. He was left with no insurance, no income, and a new addiction to prescription pain medication that soon ran out. Feeling desperate and hopeless, he turned to what so many turn to in that place — drugs.

For years, Joe used and sold drugs to ease his pain, both physical and financial. Eventually, the lifestyle caught up with him, and he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. The diagnosis didn’t slow him down. He continued to use and deal drugs because it was an easy way to make money he couldn’t earn in a 9–5 job.

He knew the risks but was willing to gamble his freedom for heroin. He lost. Joe was sentenced to 7–9 years in the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction for two counts of Aggravated Trafficking in Drugs.

During his incarceration, Joe’s health began to decline. His abdominal pain became intolerable, and he developed new pain in multiple areas not associated with cirrhosis. He was given a mild pain reliever and sent back to his cell. For many months, this continued until he was finally sent for a scan. The cirrhosis was now Stage 4 cancer. He waited three months for his first chemotherapy treatment, which his body rejected almost immediately. He was then sent to The James at Ohio State/Wexner Center. Scans showed the cancer had spread to his lung, shoulder, and ribs. He was in extremely poor health.

On June 11, 2025, my brother Creighton wrote a letter to the sentencing judge explaining how dire our situation was. The prison agreed that Joe needed to be released and faxed the required paperwork stating his diagnosis and prognosis to the court. We contacted a public defender, Mr. Benintendi, who filed a motion for judicial release on June 17, 2025. As time passed, we called the public defender’s office for updates. They were just as confused as we were about why the process was taking so long.

On July 5, 2025, Creighton and I were able to visit Joe at the Wexner Center. The staff and guards were extremely empathetic and helped us have a wonderful visit with him. There was laughter, hugs, and a peaceful time together. The doctor came in and explained, in full detail, what we were facing. We told him we had been trying to get Joe granted a compassionate release for about a month and were hoping for good news. The doctor told us Joe had about a month left to live. We knew time was not on our side. I sat down and wrote a letter begging the judge to consider our request for compassionate release. It was delivered in person on July 7, 2025.

That same day, Joe was sent back to the medical center as a hospice inmate to receive palliative care. He called to tell us he was back and that there was nothing more they could do for him. We held onto hope and prayer that a miracle would bring him home. Still, there was no progress on the compassionate or judicial release.

On July 8, 2025, we received a call from the center telling us the family needed to come visit Joe — that he was quickly approaching the end of his life. We were told not to wait beyond the next day, July 9, because they didn’t think he would live that long. We were confused. We had just spoken with him the day before. The doctor had said he had about a month. Now we were being told he might not make it through the next day. We were thankful they opened visitation to more than the usual policy allowed after Creighton pushed for seven visitors (four from 11–4 and three from 4–8). I was in the second group, visiting from 4–8.

When my oldest brother, my father, and I arrived, we were met with staff who were not as empathetic. We explained that we had a special arrangement for extra visitors and asked them to call our contact at the center. Our contact came out and confirmed we were allowed to visit. We went through security and were led back to Joe’s room. His two daughters were there and understandably upset. Joe’s breathing had changed (the death rattle), he was incoherent, there was a large knot on his brow, his nose was clearly broken, and he was extremely agitated. My nieces told me they had to ask for oral sponges and buy water from a vending machine to swab Joe’s mouth for comfort. They also had to clean dried blood off his face when they arrived at 11 a.m. When they asked why Joe had blood on his face and a knot on his brow, they were told staff didn’t know because it “didn’t happen at the center.” With emotions running high, I couldn’t fully process that information at the time. Later, it became extremely important.

During our visit, guards and medical staff were laughing and talking very loudly in the hallways. Because it was a prison medical facility, doors had to remain open, so we couldn’t block out the noise. The guard sitting in the room with us was on her phone watching videos, laughing at them, and laughing at conversations happening in the hall. Anyone with even a little experience with hospice or end‑of‑life care knows how important a quiet environment is — both for the person who is dying and for the family saying goodbye. We experienced no peace and no sense of dignity. I wasn’t even allowed to put chapstick on Joe’s lips to help with how dry his mouth was.

Around 7:20 p.m., the guard started “reminding” us that our visit ended at 8. I told her we knew and would be out on time. She repeated it around 7:40. I said, “Yes, we know.” She said it again at 7:55, as we were already standing and saying our final goodbyes, knowing it was the last time I would see my brother alive.

We left, and Joe was alone.

Around 6:30 a.m. on July 10, 2025, my niece called to say the medical center had just called her. Joe had passed at 9:26 p.m. the night before. No call that night — only the next morning. At first, I felt relief that he was no longer suffering. That relief quickly faded as I replayed how everything had unfolded.

Here is what we know:

On Saturday, July 5, Joe was talking, eating, and walking. A doctor at The James at Ohio State told us he had about a month to live.
On the morning of July 7, Joe called us after arriving back at the medical center.
On July 8, we were told he was actively dying and not to wait to see him.
On July 9, we saw him with dried blood on his face and were told it didn’t happen at the medical center.

That means either he lay in that bed from Monday morning to Wednesday morning with dried blood on his face that no one cleaned, or something happened at the center and we weren’t told the truth. Joe never mentioned falling when we spoke to him on Monday.

Neither possibility sits well with us. I have peace that he is no longer suffering, but I live with the devastating thought of the senseless suffering Joe and our family went through — suffering that could have been eased if he had been allowed to come home to a loving, peaceful environment for his final days.

To add to the pain, I went to the Clerk of Courts and requested Joe’s court dockets. The judge granted Joe a hearing for judicial release the day after he died. His hearing was set for August, as if he had time to wait that long. No one truly listened when we tried to explain how urgent his situation was and how quickly his health was declining. We can’t bring Joe back, and we can’t change how it feels like our family was punished along with him. We live with the daily reminder that we couldn’t get him home, that he died without someone he loved by his side, and that we don’t know what really happened in the days leading up to his passing. For this, the advocacy was born. The thought of another family going through what we went through burns in us. Compassionate Release Family Advocacy exists to help bridge the gap between families and the judicial system and to give families the tools and support we never knew existed.