Off death row, and on the ballot

Patterson, 39, knows it's a tough sell. But as a man who received a governor's pardon, he thinks he has a duty to what he says are hundreds, if not thousands, of "innocent" people still locked up in Illinois prisons.

So Patterson bundles up against the cold and trudges through the snow on the city's South Side to meet and greet prospective voters in its Sixth Legislative District, which is mostly poor. He usually does not return home until 10 at night.

"I could just sit back and wait on my lawsuit and enjoy life," he said, referring to a $30 million lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment filed against police and prosecutors in the case. But "if I run for state representative, I can change the very laws that put me on death row."

The message Patterson carries to voters reflects his experience: He talks of judicial reform, of jobs for people exiting prison, and of creating programs in the community to keep people from going to prison in the first place. But he also talks of hiring minorities for construction projects and fighting gentrification on the South Side.

"I'm not one-dimensional," he said. "I'm not trying to be the poster boy for the death penalty."

So far, he said, the reaction has been mostly positive.

"A lot of people are getting motivated and inspired," he said. "Normally, they wouldn't vote. But now they feel like their vote will make a difference."

Still, there have been some glitches. On Jan. 23, while campaigning outside a soup kitchen, Patterson got into an argument with a pastor and was arrested on misdemeanor assault charges. Police also charged him with impersonating a public official because, they said, he claimed he was already a state legislator while being arrested. The case is pending.

Patterson said that he never made such a claim and that it was the pastor, not him, who behaved in a threatening way.

Patterson, who spent 13 years on death row (17 total in prison) after being convicted in a double slaying in 1986, said the idea to run was his and there is no big political network or machine backing his candidacy for the Democratic primary next month. He said he has received encouragement from the lawyers and legal groups that saw him through to his pardon in January 2003 by former Illinois governor George Ryan.

They have promised support, he said, but "haven't cut the checks yet. It's dangerous to back me because I'm too radical. I'm not trying to be like the regular status quo. I'm trying to be like a revolutionary."

Patterson said his Democratic opponent, first-term Representative Patricia Bailey, had persuaded a woman living at a shelter in the district to challenge the signatures he had collected in order to be listed on the ballot. The woman's attorney dropped the challenge after more than 300 signatures -- the amount required to be a candidate -- were verified, and Patterson's name was officially added to the ballot Jan. 23.

Bailey did not return calls seeking comment.

"Right now, I'm testing the waters," Patterson said. He visits churches and soup kitchens, restaurants, gas stations, and shopping malls. Patterson's case became a symbol of the flaws in Illinois' capital punishment system before Ryan put a moratorium on the death penalty in 2000.

Patterson, an altar boy while growing up, gave in to the lure of gangs and rose to leadership ranks. He shot a man, severely beat another, and stabbed a third while in jail over the 1986 killing of a South Side couple. He was found guilty the same year in that case and condemned to die despite no physical evidence or eyewitness tying him to the crime. Patterson maintained over the years that he had been beaten by detectives into confessing.

Ryan believed him innocent, and just before leaving office, he pardoned Patterson in a sweeping move that also set free three other death row inmates in Illinois and commuted all death sentences to life terms.

After so many years on death row, Patterson said, he wanted to make a difference after getting out of prison. In December, he threw his hat in the political ring.

Political specialists, including Dick Simpson at the University of Illinois at Chicago, say it may be hard for Patterson to earn citizens' trust despite a very public clearing of his name. "It's going to be difficult to convince the voters that he was actually innocent of the crime," he said.

Patterson knows the odds are long but said: "My whole life has been a long shot. Asking for a pardon was a long shot."