When Joseph Sledge was released from prison at age 70 in 2015, he had spent 36 years locked away for a double murder he didn’t commit. He’d spent decades fantasizing about his release, how it would feel to walk through nature and gaze at the stars.
But when freedom finally arrived, it was far from the happy ending he’d envisioned.
Sledge felt disoriented in a world that had moved on without him. His family, meanwhile, was unprepared for the toll that his incarceration had taken on him.
To avoid burdening his loved ones, Sledge distanced himself from family. “He didn’t feel like a man, didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere,” said Chris Mumma, his lawyer and the executive director of the North Carolina Center on Actual Innocence in Durham.
When he received a $4 million financial settlement from Bladen County, old acquaintances resurfaced, asking for money. The attention made him feel valued, Mumma continued, but after nearly four decades behind bars, he wasn’t equipped to manage the complexities of sudden wealth. She eventually stepped in as his trustee.
After undergoing back surgery for health issues developed in prison, Sledge became addicted to painkillers. In 2020, five years after his release, he died by suicide.
His death marked a turning point for Mumma.
“Watching those heartbreaking struggles they go through, and then losing them to suicide, we just — we can’t, we can’t do it anymore,” said Mumma. “We’ve got to have some other, better options for them.”
That conviction led Mumma and her friend Mandy Locke, a former investigative reporter for The News & Observer, to launch the Joseph Sledge Houses of Healing — transitional housing for exonerees. Two homes, set near the quiet town of Saxapahaw, are nearly finished and set to open later this summer. Funded in part by a bequest from Sledge, the homes are meant to be sanctuaries, offering space and time to reacclimate.
“The thing that made Joe unhappy was everything coming at him,” Mumma said. “Joseph’s life was very simple. He didn’t need millions of dollars. He needed health care, stability, and enough money to take care of himself.”
A cold welcome home
Exonerees’ releases are often abrupt and unplanned. They are told they are free to go, but after years of isolation from society, they are not sure where to go.
Exonerees face overwhelming hurdles: securing housing, finding stable employment, and rebuilding relationships. Mumma recalls one exoneree who suffered a panic attack in a Target store, overwhelmed by the bright lights, crowded aisles, and the sheer abundance of choices. Another exoneree couldn’t sleep without the lights on, his body conditioned to harsh cell lighting.
Experts have likened the psychological toll of a wrongful conviction to the trauma experienced by war veterans, torture survivors, and refugees. While most inmates leave prison with varying levels of trauma, Mumma said exonerees wrestle with the question: “Why me?” While incarcerated, they lose years with loved ones and miss priceless milestones — births, anniversaries, weddings, and funerals.
When exonerees are released, families often expect them to slip seamlessly into the lives they left behind. Many expect homecoming to be a cure-all, said Jamie Lau, supervising attorney at the Duke University Wrongful Convictions Clinic.
“So the exoneree is going through all this trauma while their family is leaning on them to help solve their problems,” said Lau.“It’s this incredibly unrealistic expectation that some people have, that this person is going to come home and somehow piece together the brokenness.”
Jennifer Thompson, founder of Healing Justice, a national nonprofit that seeks to holistically address the harm caused by wrongful convictions, said she’s witnessed frustration on both sides. Families feel unprepared. Exonerees feel misunderstood.
“Naturally, they think, ‘I am free. Everything is going to be amazing,’” Thompson said. “‘My family’s gonna be happy to see me. There are going to be wonderful dinners, great Christmases.’”
“They’ve been dreaming for decades about this moment,” she continued. “And it’s never what they think it’s going to be. Because everyone is broken.”
‘I believe in serendipity’
Mandy Locke first met Mumma in a courtroom in 2007. Locke was reporting; Mumma was litigating.
“Chris is all business in settings like that. She is nothing to be messed with,” said Locke. But when Locke left journalism and moved to a farm near Saxapahaw, they became close friends.
Mumma has led the North Carolina Center on Actual Innocence since 2001. She worked for free for the first 17 years until she eventually raised enough to hire attorneys and investigators. Since then, she has helped overturn 12 convictions and free six more people.
When Mumma first floated the idea of building tiny homes to Locke, it was just a thought. Mumma had heard about The Sunny Center in Ireland, a peaceful retreat for exonerees, and wondered: Could something like that work here in North Carolina?
Then Locke’s neighbor mentioned she was selling a piece of land — a plot connected to Locke’s own farm.
“I believe in serendipity,” said Mumma. “[Locke’s] farm was shaped like Utah. It was just missing that top corner.”
Locke bought the corner. Then Locke and Mumma got to work.
As project manager, Locke now oversees daily upkeep, from coordinating with construction workers to picking design touches. Soon, she’ll live next door to the residents.
“When they don’t understand how to use the coffee maker or the broiler or oven, or they can’t get to the grocery store or figure out their smartphone, I’m going to be the closest on hand,” said Locke.
“We are surrounded by sweet creatures and stars and sunrises and sunsets,” said Locke. “I spent my career reporting on the systemic problems that lead to these wrongful convictions. And so in this next phase in my life, I get to lean into that. I get to be more present.”
Mumma hopes that being surrounded by nature and away from the chaos of city life will help exonerees acclimate.
“It would be a lot easier for me to have these homes in Durham,” said Mumma. “But there, they’re going to have all this hustle and bustle of life around them. They’re going to have people who are looking for handouts. They’re going to have people who are trying to give them drugs. So this is a protected space.”
The farm is home to seven goats, three donkeys, seven ducks, eleven chickens, and two dogs.
“We want them to get involved with the animals, because that’s part of the reason for being out here,” Mumma said. “Nature helps heal.”
The very thing that makes the setting special — its peaceful country location — means it is also further from job opportunities and doctor’s offices. Some advocates say that after years of forced isolation, exonerees won’t want to live in a remote area.
But Mumma says she is exploring acquiring a car for the residents. Locke will be next door if any issues come up, she added. And doctors will visit the homes as often as possible. “We’ve had several doctors volunteer their services…,” she said. “We hope to hire a social worker in the area to help.”
Saxahapaw neighbors have already rallied behind the project, Mumma said: one family donated boxes of gardening supplies; a nearby church created a registry to purchase items for the homes; Lowe’s offered a 25% discount.
“I have this vision of this sunny day where we’ve got several exonerees living in the home, and we have families come out, and a community event where people are bringing barbecue and pies,” Mumma said.
Mumma and Locke know the tiny homes won’t work for all exonerees. But for some, they hope, these homes will offer a necessary reprieve.
‘There will be rules’
Today, two small homes stand in the woods behind Locke’s farmhouse. The neighborhood is serene — small churches on street corners, rolling green hills, and homes scattered far apart.
Each morning, Locke tends to her animals before walking down a woodsy path to the tiny homes. Sometimes, Mumma joins her, and the two swap design ideas while tromping through the mud.
“What if we did a bench here that slides into a bed?” “Do you like the blue paint?” “How did these fingerprints get on the wall?”
Together, they’ve designed an 800-square-foot home for visitors. An upstairs loft has room for one bed. Downstairs, there’s a large meeting room and kitchen. Locke and Mumma plan to invite therapists, job trainers, and social workers to visit in rotation, so exonerees can build relationships without needing to travel.
Many exonerees crave peace, Mumma said, but fear being alone. The visitor house is designed to make it easy for friends and family to stop by. Mumma said she’s open to exonerees living with partners, too, if she can meet and screen them beforehand.
“There will be rules,” said Mumma. “And this won’t be a party house.”
Next door, the exonerees’ house is a single-level, ADA-accessible home with big windows and a bright blue door.
Locke and Mumma envision a kitchen table that folds out to seat more, a bed overlooking the woods, a porch that faces away from the visitors’ house for privacy.
“We tried to make art out of the woods,” said Locke.
They want everything to be expandable — pull-out couches, multipurpose furniture — to accommodate more exonerees if needed. Some exonerees may be open to roommates, and others won’t. Some exonerees may need more than six months to reacclimate before they move back into society; others may just need a few weeks.
“It will depend on who they are and their situation. Every exoneree is completely different,” said Mumma. She said two exonerees can live comfortably in one home, and if the demand is high enough, they can also house another in the visitors’ home.
On the porch of the second home, just beyond the trees, you can spot the little red roof of Locke’s own house — a quiet reminder that someone is near.
“They’ll have their own privacy, but they’ll also have someone nearby in case they need anything,” she said. “We want them to have independence, which they completely deserve, but also some comfort.”
A rocking chair and a garden
When exonerees are released from prison, they often struggle to find their footing. As a result, Mumma has welcomed four exonerees into her Durham home after their release. Some even call her “Mama.”
Mumma hopes the new homes will provide a better option and a support for exonerees in the critical early months after release.
“It’s really important to help them from the beginning, because they get out with this sense of elation, like life is gonna be great now, the grass looks so green,” she said. “And then when they realize how hard it is, they can really plummet, and plummet deep enough that they can’t come back out.”
When Joseph Sledge was still in prison, Mumma used to ask him, “What do you want to do when you get out?”
Mumma said his response was always the same. “All Joe wanted for the 37 years he was in prison was to sit on a porch in a rocking chair and grow a garden.”
Above: Chris Mumma hopes the new homes will provide a refuge for exonerees transitioning to a life of freedom. Photo by Abigail Bromberger — The 9th Street Journal
