More than eight years in prison have done little to change assisted-suicide advocate Jack Kevorkian's place in US culture. His many supporters and detractors have not gone anywhere, and his last name is still a virtual synonym for death.
Thin and wearing his trademark blue cardigan with a striped shirt and tie, Kevorkian walked out of prison Friday, saying little but smiling broadly.
He plans to do some writing and make some speeches, not always on the subject that made him a household name. Kevorkian has promised never to help in another assisted suicide, the crime (in every state but one) that landed him behind bars.
The retired pathologist known as "Dr Death"' said his release felt "wonderful — one of the high points in life" as he paused near a van that was waiting to drive him to the home of friends in suburban Detroit.
Outside a gift shop across from the 10-hectare prison grounds, about a dozen people held signs expressing support, including "Jack, we're glad you're out of the box" and "Dr K is on his way!"
"We don't think it's fair that they made it a criminal penalty for what he was doing," said Pam Hawley of Fort White, Florida, who was visiting family in Coldwater and came to the prison to show her support. "He's a compassionate, caring man and we need to change our laws."
The attention focused on a man who claimed participation in at least 130 assisted suicides brought a rebuke from the Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit.
"For 10 years, Jack Kevorkian's actions resembled those of a pathological serial killer. It will be truly regrettable if he's now treated as a celebrity parolee instead of the convicted murderer he is," archdiocese spokesman Ned McGrath said in a statement.
As the 79-year-old Kevorkian got ready for the ride home, 60 Minutes correspondent Mike Wallace, 89, got out of the van and embraced him, asking, "What do you say, young man?" Kevorkian appeared in a 60 Minutes segment on Sunday.
Inmates at the Lakeland Correctional Facility, about 160km southwest of Detroit, had been waiting for a glimpse of Kevorkian, while reporters greeted him on the outside with questions.
Attorney Mayer Morganroth said his client had planned a news conference on Tuesday.
"He thanks everybody for coming. He thanks the thousands who have supported him, have written to him," Morganroth said. "He just wants a little privacy for the next few days."
Throughout the 1990s, Kevorkian challenged authorities to make his actions legal — or try to stop him. He burned state orders against him and showed up at court in costume.
"You think I'm going to obey the law? You're crazy," he said in 1998 shortly before he was accused — and then convicted — of murder after injecting lethal drugs into Thomas Youk, 52, a suburban Detroit man suffering from Lou Gehrig's disease.
Kevorkian videotaped that death and sent the footage to 60 Minutes, which aired it. He challenged prosecutors to charge him.
He was convicted and given a 10-year to 25-year sentence for second-degree murder. He earned time off his sentence for good behavior.
A copy of his parole notice showed that he must pay a US$600 supervision fee and a crime-victim assessment of US$60.
Kevorkian is expected to move to Bloomfield Hills, just outside Detroit, where he will live with friends and resume the artistic and musical hobbies he missed while in prison. His lawyer and friends have said he plans to live on a small pension and Social Security while doing some writing and making some speeches.
Kevorkian, who will be on parole until June 1, 2009, cannot help anyone else die and is forbidden to provide care for anyone older than 62 or who is disabled.
He has promised to comply, but Ruth Holmes, who has worked as his legal assistant and handled his correspondence while he was in prison, said his views on assisted suicide have not changed.
"This should be a matter that is handled as a fundamental human right that is between the patient, the doctor, his family and his God," Holmes said of Kevorkian's beliefs.
"He's on a short leash for the next two years," said Geoffrey Fieger, Kevorkian's former attorney. "They can pretty much control his behavior. After that, it will be another story."
Fieger said once he's off parole, Kevorkian should continue assisting people who want to commit suicide.
Fieger said Kevorkian's fame will only continue to spread.
"When the people who ... sentenced him to prison are dead, they'll be forgotten the next minute. Jack Kevorkian will be remembered for hundreds of years," Fieger said. "History will consider him a hero."
Assisted suicide opponents have stymied most efforts to pass laws allowing the practice, leaving Oregon the only state to allow physician-assisted suicide for terminally ill patients.
An AP-Ipsos poll conducted last month, however, found that 53 percent of the 1,000 adults surveyed nationwide thought Kevorkian should not have been jailed, while 40 percent supported his imprisonment.
Sixty-eight percent said there are circumstances when a patient should be allowed to die.
Kevorkian can speak about assisted suicide, but cannot put out anything that shows how to make a device like the machine he devised to give lethal drugs, according to his parole order.
Kevorkian suffers from a variety of ailments including diabetes, hepatitis C, high blood pressure and hardening of the arteries in his brain. He will see his internist and a dentist, as well as some specialists, Morganroth said.
Kevorkian did not have much to take with him from prison, in part because many of his possessions were missing. Morganroth said a manuscript and other belongings were stolen last month. He suspected someone took Kevorkian's clothes and medicine to sell on eBay.
Holmes, a close friend of Kevorkian's, said he will want to enjoy some of the things he could not freely get in prison such as a sandwich of plain sliced turkey on thin lavash bread.
"He's looking forward to some grapes and apricots," she said.
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