đď¸ The Scott I Knew: Before IncarcerationÂ
Born in Queens, New York, in an upper middle-class family. The baby of the family with an older brother and sister. Scott came into the world with curiosity in his bones and a ten-speed bike gifted by his fatherâan engineer for General Motorsâwhen he was just ten years old. That bike wasnât just a toy. It was freedom. It was motion. It was the first taste of independence that would later define his journey westward.
After his parents divorced, Scott left home young. He didnât wait for life to hand him a mapâhe made his own. By the time I met him in 1985, he was 25 years old, already carrying the grit and grace of someone whoâd weathered more than most. I didnât know every detail of his past, but I knew the man standing in front of me. And that man was loyal, sharp-witted, and full of quiet conviction.
He had a way of listening that made you feel heard. A way of fixing thingsânot just machines, but moments. He wasnât flashy. He was steady. And he carried a kind of emotional intelligence that couldnât be taught. You could see it in how he handled conflict, how he protected dignity, how he showed up even when it was hard.
This page isnât about timelines. Itâs about truth. The truth of who Scott was before the system tried to flatten him into a statistic. He was a son, a seeker, a man who chose motion over stagnation. And when I met him, I saw the kind of strength that doesnât shoutâit endures.
đż The First Door: How I Met ScottÂ
I was 18 when I met Scottâyoung, chaotic, and under the influence of a mix that blurred the edges of everything. We met at his house through a mutual friend, and even through the haze, I felt something different about him. He didnât push. He didnât perform. He just was. And that presence stuck with me.
A day and a half later, I showed up at his doorstep in trouble. I wonât say what the trouble was, because thatâs not the point. The point is that Scott didnât turn me away. He listened. He helped. He showed me concern and compassion that I hadnât expectedâand certainly hadnât earned. That moment marked the beginning of something real. Not just a relationship, but a recognition. He saw me. And I saw him.
đ Early Days with Scott: A Bond Beyond ChaosÂ
From the moment Scott helped me through that first storm, I knew he was different. I couldnât explain it, couldnât name itâbut I felt it. He wasnât like the other men Iâd known. There was a steadiness in him, a quiet kind of compassion that didnât ask questions or make demands. I was drawn to it. Whether it was romantic or just friendship didnât matterâI just wanted to be near him.
I started visiting often. We struck up a friendship rooted in honesty and shared space. We partied together, but it was never reckless. Scott didnât do heavy drugs, and even as a drug addict, I had my morals. If you didnât do it, I didnât bring it around you. So I kept it simpleâpot and alcohol, which was his lane too. That boundary wasnât spokenâit was honored. And in that space, I found something rare: a connection that didnât ask me to be anyone but myself.
đ What He Didnât KnowâAnd Why It MatteredÂ
When I met Scott, I was deep in addiction. The kind of mix that blurred reality and numbed pain. But he didnât know that. On that day, he saw a young woman in trouble and offered helpânot because he understood the full story, but because he didnât need to. His compassion didnât come with conditions.
I never told him the depth of it until years later, after prison, when we reconnected. By then, I had lived through storms he couldnât have imagined. And when I finally shared the truth, he didnât recoil. He didnât judge. He listened. Just like he did the first time, like he always did. Thatâs the kind of grace that stays with you. Thatâs the Scott I knew. The Scott I still know. The Scott he still is.
đ Oceano DriftÂ
There was a dayâblurred by tequila and laughterâwhen Scott and I found ourselves parked on the beach in Oceano, California. We were deep in one of our classic, drunken debates. About what? God only knows. The kind of heated discussion that only makes sense when youâre three sheets to the wind and convinced youâre solving the mysteries of the universe.
What we didnât realize was that the Pacific had other plans. The tide had crept in, quiet and bold, and Scottâs truck had become unexpectedly amphibious. We were so wrapped up in our conversation that we didnât notice the surf licking at the tiresâuntil someone knocked on the window, wide-eyed and urgent, trying to tell us we were about to float away.
Iâd forgotten that day until Scott reminded me years later. At first, it was a blank. But the more I sat with it, the more the memory surfacedâsalt air, slurred laughter, and the strange comfort of being adrift with someone who made even chaos feel safe.
That was Scott. Steady in the storm. Present in the absurd. The kind of man who could turn a near-disaster into a story worth keeping.
đ˘ Jade Cove: Where the Tide Met the TruthÂ
We went to Jade Cove, California, on a day when the tide was low and the storm had just passed. Scott knew the timing matteredâhe was after jade. The kind of white stones that, if you licked them and they turned green, meant youâd found treasure. We were tipsy, but not drunk. Focused. Determined. Lost in the hunt.
What we didnât notice was the ocean creeping in behind us. The second part of the beachâthe one only accessible at low tideâwas vanishing. Scott saw it first. Our way out had been swallowed by the surf. We were stuck.
I asked, âWhat are we going to do now?â He pointed to the top of the cliff. I followed his finger, wide-eyed. Then he said, âDonât be scared. I will help you. We can do this.â
I was a tomboy back thenâstrong, athletic, always climbing. He wanted me to go first, and heâd follow in case I fell. âIâll catch you,â he said. âOr die trying.â
Halfway up, I got stuck. A smooth rock blocked my path, and the ledge was just out of reach. Scott climbed around me like a monkey, found the ledge, and reached out his hand.
When I took it, our eyes locked. Just for a moment. And in that moment, I saw something I couldnât name. He saw it too. We didnât understand it then, but it stayed with usâthrough years of silence, through distance, through prison walls.
Later, when we reconnected, we finally named it: soulmates. âNot just cosmic truthâbut romantic truth, forged through time, distance, and devotion.â We were boundânot by circumstance, but by something older, deeper, and unshakable.
đŹ Moments That MatteredÂ
Not every love story is written in candlelight. Ours was written in cookouts, rock ânâ roll, and the quiet kindness of a man who never asked for anything in return.
Iâd come over to Scottâs place, sometimes too drunk to drive home, and heâd let me stay without question. Always a gentleman. No expectations. Just safety. Weâd sit in his living room, music pouring through the speakers, the kind that made you feel like the world could wait.
He still reminisces on the phone about those days. About the meals I cookedâmeals that made his kitchen a disaster zone and his taste buds sing. He laughs about the beef soufflĂŠ I made once, saying, âYou made my kitchen a disaster area, but that soufflĂŠ was superb. And I didnât mind being the one to clean up the mess.â
There was the time I fed his Oscar fish, and one of them nipped my finger trying to snatch the shrimp. I remember that one all too well. And the time he injured his thumb and couldnât writeâhe came to me for help with book receipts for a job near my home. I didnât hesitate. I was happy to help.
These werenât grand gestures. They were the quiet kind. The kind that build trust. The kind that say, I see you. I choose you. And now, even from behind bars, that love continues. Not because itâs easy. But because itâs real.
đŻď¸ Candlelight and CourageÂ
In the middle of my second trimester, Amandaâs father left meâfor his ex, who had just given birth to his son. The heartbreak hit hard, and my pregnancy suffered. I went into early labor and spent weeks in and out of the hospital.
When Amanda was finally born by cesarean, I was alone. Her father had taken my other carâpermission Iâd apparently given under Demerolâand disappeared. My 1982 Buick Regal LTD was still parked in the hospital parking lot where Iâd left it weeks earlier, but I wasnât allowed to drive. I had no way home from San Luis Obispo to Grover Beach.
Thatâs when I thought of Scott.
I didnât have his number memorized, so I looked it up in the phone book and prayed heâd be home. He was. I told him what had happened, and asked if heâd come. I also mentioned the hospitalâs candlelight dinner for new parentsâand asked if heâd share it with me.
Scott didnât hesitate. He took the city bus and came right away.
He didnât come for the meal. He came for me. And in that moment, when I needed someone to stand beside me in the absence of everyone else, Scott showed up. Not with fanfare. With quiet loyalty. With love.
đ The Doorway and the LightÂ
When Scott walked into my hospital room, I was changing Amandaâs diaper. He stood in the doorway, smilingâhis face slightly flushed, like an expectant father seeing his child for the first time. Maybe it was just the joy of seeing me after so long. Maybe it was something deeper.
He watched quietly as I bundled Amanda in her receiving blanket and lifted her into my arms. I motioned for him to come in. And when I placed my baby in his arms, his face lit upâbright as a Christmas tree.
It wasnât just a smile. It was a moment of recognition. Of connection. Of something unspoken that had waited patiently to be felt.
đ The Moment He KnewÂ
Years later, when Scott and I reconnected, he told me something that stopped me in my tracks.
He said that the moment he walked into my hospital room and I placed Amanda in his armsâwhen he looked into her crinkled little faceâsomething happened inside him. Something he couldnât explain at the time. But he thought about it often. Over the years. Through silence. Through separation.
And the only word he could find for that feeling was love.
Not obligation. Not curiosity. Not even romance. Just love. Pure and unshakable.
đ The Yard, the Lemonade, and the Love That StayedÂ
After our candlelit hospital meal, Scott helped me pack up everything the hospital sent homeâdiapers, wipes, bottles, formula. He took Amandaâs car seat down to my Buick Regal and drove it around to the front. Then he carried our things, walking beside me as the nurse wheeled me and Amanda out.
But instead of taking us to Grandmaâs in Grover Beach, Scott drove us to his house on Rockview in San Luis Obispo. He took care of both Amanda and me until I was strong enough to drive again. And even then, he insisted on driving us to Grandmaâs himself.
When we pulled into the driveway, he noticed the yardâovergrown, neglected. âWho does your yard work?â he asked. I told him Grandma only had a junk electric mower. He didnât say another word.
The next morning, he showed up in his little Chevy LUV, loaded with lawn care tools. No questions. No hesitation. Just work. Grandma made lemonade and kept it flowing. By the end of the day, her yard looked like it had been touched by a professionalâwhich it had. Landscaping was Scottâs trade.
When Grandma asked, âHow much do I owe you?â Scott simply said, âMaâam, you donât owe me anything.â
He came back twice a month after that. Never asked for a penny. Grandma adored him. One day she asked me, âAlthea, why donât you leave those good-for-nothing boys alone and go with Scott?â
I smiled and said, âScott is a great friend, Grandma. Thatâs all we are right now.â
đŞ The Kite, the Wind, and the Angel in the YardÂ
Scott usually took just a few hours to maintain Grandmaâs yard, but one bright Saturday morning, he showed up early with a different mission in mind. The Pacific wind was steady, the sun was high, and after finishing the yard, he came inside, hugged Grandma like always, and turned to me with a gentle ask:
âCan I take Andrew to buy a kite and go flying at the beach?â
Andrew was three. I trusted Scott. So I said yes.
That day, Scott gave Andrew more than a kite. He gave him a memory that would outlast time. A few days ago, I found a Christmas card dated December 11th, 2020âaddressed to Andrew from Scott. It read:
âFor Andrew, I send this to you, just in case you donât believe in Guardian Angels. They really do exist. God assigns one to you when you are born. Just let it be known. From Scotty.â
Then he added:
âIf you donât remember me, you and I went out to get your first kite. Went kite flying November 1989. When you lived with Grandma.â
He got the year wrongâit was actually November 1988. By November 1989, Grandma had passed away. But the heart of it? That was true. Scott remembered. He cherished it. And he wanted Andrew to know that love, like wind, lifts usâeven when we forget where it came from.
đ§ď¸ The Rain, the Road, and the ReturnÂ
Thereâs more to Scott Dackerman than meets the eye.
After Grandma Nora passed and my family endured homelessness, I returned to San Luis Obispo and stayed at the shelter. They gave me a black 10-speed bike to help me find work. For two days, I rode from place to place, filling out applications, hearing âWe already filled the jobâ more times than I could count.
One afternoon, as storm clouds gathered, something told me to stop and check the phone book for Scott. I did. And there he wasânow living on the Pike in Grover Beach. I dropped a dime into the payphone and called. A man answered and said Scott would be home around five. That was all I needed.
I took the long wayâdown old Highway 227, winding through Arroyo Grande. Somewhere along the way, the sky opened like a zipper and the rain poured down. By the time I reached Scottâs door, I was drenched, standing beside my bike like a ghost from the past.
He opened the door, eyes wide, and shrieked, âMy God! Youâre soaked. Get in here!â
He ushered me to the bathroom, handed me a towel, a tee shirt, and a pair of his shorts. Then he took my clothes and washed them. I told him everythingâPorterville, the shelter, turning my kids over to CPS. And he didnât flinch.
He gave me a place to stay until I was back on my feet. I got my kids back. I got my husband back. And I never forgot the man who opened his door in the rain and said, without hesitation, âGet in here.â
đ The Man They Wonât Let GoÂ
This is the man they wonât let out of prison. This is the man they say is unfit for society. I say they are wrong.
Scott Dackerman is still the man who held my newborn daughter like she was sacred. The man who mowed Grandmaâs yard without asking for a dime. The man who remembered my sonâs first kite decades later. The man who opened his door in the pouring rain and said, âGet in here.â
He made one mistake. And theyâve condemned him for life. He was not convicted of murder. He was not sentenced to life without parole. Yet they treat him as if he were. Theyâve labeled him with an unauthorized sentenceâattempted murder in the first degreeâeven though the jury never found premeditation or deliberation.
Scott has done the work. He completed rehabilitation programs. He stayed out of trouble. He earned the removal of his violent codeâa designation that only changes when the system agrees you are no longer a threat.
And still, the parole board says not enough. But what is enough? How do you appease those who hold the keys to your freedom when they refuse to see the man youâve become?
If you believe Scott Dackerman deserves another chanceâ If you believe redemption should mean somethingâ If you believe that love, growth, and transformation are realâ
Then stand with me. When Iâm ready, Iâll launch a petition. And Iâll ask you to sign it.
Because Scott is not a danger. He is a man who showed up when others vanished. And itâs time the system saw him the way I do.