The recent release of Abdel Basset Ali al-Megrahi, the only person convicted of blowing up Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988, sparked outrage. Around the same time, the Philadelphia Eagles, a US football team, offered a second chance to former star Michael Vick, who was convicted of running a dog-fighting operation in which unsuccessful fighters were tortured and killed. And William Calley, who commanded the platoon that massacred hundreds of Vietnamese civilians at the village of My Lai in 1968, has now broken his media silence and apologized for his actions.
When should we forgive or show mercy to wrongdoers?
Many societies treat crimes involving cruelty to animals far too lightly, but Vick’s penalty — 23 months in prison — was substantial. In addition to imprisonment, he missed two years of his playing career and millions of dollars in earnings. If Vick were never to play football again, he would suffer punishment well beyond that imposed by the court.
Vick has expressed remorse. Perhaps more importantly, he has turned words into deeds, volunteering at an animal shelter and working with the Humane Society to oppose dog fighting. It is hard to see what good would come from not allowing him to complete his rehabilitation and return to doing what he does best.
Megrahi was convicted of murdering 270 people and was sentenced to life imprisonment. He had served only seven years when Kenny MacAskill, the Scottish Justice Minister, released him on compassionate grounds, based on a medical report that Megrahi has terminal cancer and only three months to live. The question of remorse has not arisen, because Megrahi has never admitted guilt and did not drop an appeal against his conviction until just before his release.
Doubts have been raised about whether Megrahi is really near death. Only the prison doctor, it seems, was prepared to say that he did not have more than three months to live, while four specialists refused to say how long he might have. There has also been speculation that Megrahi’s release was related to negotiations over oil contracts between Britain and Libya. Finally, some question whether Megrahi really was the perpetrator of the crime, and this may have played a role in MacAskill’s decision. If so, that would have been better left to the courts to resolve.
But let us leave such questions aside for the moment. Assuming that Megrahi was guilty and that he was released because he has only a short time to live, does a prisoner’s terminal illness justify compassionate release?
The answer might depend on the nature of the crime, the length of the sentence, and the proportion of it that remains to be served. For a pickpocket who has served half of a two-year sentence, it would be excessively harsh to insist on the sentence being served in full if that meant that he would die in prison, rather than with his family. But to release a man who served only seven years of a life sentence for mass murder is a very different matter. As the victims’ relatives point out, in planning his crime, Megrahi showed no compassion. Why, they ask, should we show compassion to him?
MacAskill, in a statement to the Scottish parliament defending his decision, refrained from quoting from the best-known speech on mercy in the English language — that of Portia in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice — but Portia’s words would have fitted the core of his statement. Portia acknowledges that Shylock is under no obligation to show mercy to Antonio, who is in breach of his agreement to him.
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