Gov. Jared Polis has pardoned 29 people convicted of crimes. The governor’s office delivered the number, the names and the familiar language of mercy.
What Coloradans did not get was the case-level explanation behind each decision.
That does not make the pardons wrong. It makes the explanation necessary.
I believe in second chances. A justice system without mercy is just a machine with badges. Pardons can correct an injustice, recognize genuine rehabilitation or release someone from consequences that long ago stopped serving any useful purpose.
But a pardon is not a participation trophy for completing a sentence. It is an extraordinary use of executive power. One person reaches past the original prosecution, the court and the conviction to say the state will now extend its mercy. That may be right. It may even be overdue. But “trust me” is not a standard, and a press release is not a receipt.
Maybe all 29 people earned these pardons. Maybe they rebuilt their lives, made amends and spent years proving that the worst thing they ever did is not the truest thing about them. Good. Tell us.
The available public account does not give Coloradans enough to judge that. What were the offenses? How old were the cases? What evidence of rehabilitation did each applicant provide? Were victims or their families heard? What did prosecutors and sentencing judges say? Who reviewed the petitions? What standards separated these 29 from everyone else asking for the same grace?
Those are not tough-on-crime tantrums. They are basic questions about the use of concentrated government power.
The people receiving pardons should not be turned into campaign props for either side. We do not know enough to declare them saints, villains or anything in between. A name on a list tells us almost nothing about the life behind it. It also tells us almost nothing about the judgment exercised by the governor.
That is the problem.
Secrecy is corrosive even when the underlying decision is sound. It forces victims to wonder whether their voices mattered. It asks judges and prosecutors to trust that their work was weighed fairly. It invites the public to fill empty space with suspicion, because politics has trained us that when the curtains close, somebody is usually moving the furniture.
Polis owns the power. He also owns the burden of explaining how he used it.
If an old conviction no longer reflects the person, show us the years of lawful living. If the punishment was unjust, explain the injustice. If victims supported mercy, say so with appropriate respect for their privacy. If reviewers disagreed, tell us who made the final call and why.
Mercy does not become less noble when it is documented. It becomes more credible.
Colorado does not need a confetti cannon for 29 pardons. It does not need a pitchfork mob either. It needs the case-level facts that allow ordinary people to tell the difference between justice, rehabilitation and a governor’s-office ritual conducted behind frosted glass.
No confetti. No pitchforks. Show us the receipts.
Source: Greeley Tribune
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