Israel Martinez: December 6, 1958 to April 30, 2026

The first time I met Israel Martinez, I realized he was a man of substance, a person wizened by experience and reflection. I was keen to assist him any way I could. Then, over time, as our assigned roles mellowed, I was proud to call him friend, and pleased that he reciprocated the honor.

That was two years ago, as a volunteer assisting inmates prepare for their parole hearing. Israel was a lifer at MCI Norfolk. Sixty-six years old, more than forty of them in prison. The man had done some terrible things, and our society would be quick to restrict his bio to his rap sheet: convicted of second-degree murder in 1978; three previous paroles ending in dirty urine or assault. But there was so much more to this man.

Israel was born in Puerto Rico, the very much youngest son of a family whose common trait was drugs. Mother, father, sisters, brothers: all addicts. Israel dropped out of school in fifth grade, started sniffing glue at thirteen, took up heroine at fifteen. After his father died, Israel’s mother sent her uncontrollable boy to live with an older step-brother in Lawrence, MA. By seventeen, Israel was on his own. Working in a sneaker factory, living in his own apartment, getting high. At nineteen he was part of a trio that robbed an elderly man who, due to the break-in, suffered a heart attack and died. Israel was convicted of Second Degree Murder: life with possibility of parole.

I have no compass by which to gauge Israel’s youth. The hunger, the filth, the older brothers’ beatings according to arbitrary highs and lows. His traumas were especially difficult to absorb because Israel recounted them in a voice of quiet remorse rather than anger. Often, Israel paused and countered, “I know that is no excuse for what I’ve done.” He’s right, of course. But what did he ever know but violence and neglect?

During Israel’s first long stint in prison, he kept his head down and made sufficient progress to achieve parole. He held steady work, but violated parole with drugs. A second parole. More steady work. Another dirty urine. A third parole. This one longer. A job. A live-in girlfriend. Some modicum of stability, only to respond to his girlfriend’s infidelity in violence. Back to prison with a 20-year assault sentence.

By the time I met Israel, all of that was ancient history. For more than two decades, he’d been clean and sober. He became an active Catholic, led the Spanish-speaking NA/AA group, and had an admirable work record. He succeeded in programs around restorative justice, domestic violence, and rehabilitation. More important than any of those accomplishments, he’d become a man of peaceful countenance. He’d wrestled with his youthful hardships, and transcended them with grace.

I met Israel shortly after he’d been turned down for parole. I watched the videotape of his hearing. It was short, the questions simple, as if the Board had already decided this lone man sitting at the table, responding in checkered English, with zero supporters on his side, was a poor candidate to return to the community.

At our first meeting, Israel was clear, “I will try for parole one more time, but if the Parole Board wants me to die in prison, so be it.” I took his position as a challenge for success. We worked hard, put together a solid parole plan, and practiced the kind of questions he’d likely face. We got Israel accepted into a transitional house for native Spanish speakers. We had letters of support. Ten other volunteers attended the hearing, demonstrating community support. Israel did a good job, but the board’s questions hit harder. No one dwelt on the 1978 robbery (although that was the governing offense for parole). Rather the focus was on assaulting his girlfriend, more than twenty years ago, a crime for which he’d already served full sentence. Board members positively noted his age, his programming, his remorse, his unlikeliness to recidivate. Israel emerged from the hearing optimistic.

By happenstance, I was at MCI-Norfolk the day Israel’s decision came down. Rejected once again. He was bereft, but quickly rebounded. Although the board’s recommendations were simply more of the same work he’d been doing, Israel seemed to forget his earlier announcement, and set about preparing for his next hearing, eighteen months out, with renewed gusto. He even enrolled in a correspondence course on domestic violence not offered behind the walls. We were determined to succeed, and that determination gave Israel purpose.

On April 30 I received a call from the prison superintendent. Israel had suffered a heart attack, had been taken to the hospital, and died. Very little information offered; I knew better than to ask for more.

Turns out Israel had listed me as his emergency contact. Me: a guy he’d known barely two years; a virtual stranger assigned to his case who visited once a month. What business did I have being his primary contact? So I made the decisions as to his possessions, his remains, and fielded calls from the prison and Chief Medical Office questioning me about Israel’s family, or lack thereof. Each conversation left me queasy. How many years had Israel toiled in prison without any visitor’s at all, until I arrived? I cannot imagine being so alone in this world. To have no one. No one. Inconceivable.

I like to think that Israel died in a spirit of hope. That he was striving and working towards release. That all the meditation he’d done put him in a place of peace. I will never know for sure, but that’s the frame I choose.

In life, Israel Martinez knew very few people, and even fewer who treated him with love and respect. Let’s do better by this man death. Israel Martinez. Say his name.