She was sentenced to life in prison for murder at 19. Now 71 and with cancer, she faces roadblocks to early release.

Doreen Kerrigan Burgess will never forget what the teen robbers who shot and killed her father 51 years ago did to her family. But she can forgive them, she said — and even supports their release from prison.

Pennsylvania’s Department of Corrections doesn’t share her view.

Marie Scott was 19 and addicted to heroin when she and Leroy Saxton, her then-16-year-old boyfriend, robbed a Germantown convenience store in 1973. Scott was acting as lookout when — to her surprise, she says — Saxton shot the cashier in the back of the head.

Michael Kerrigan, 35, left behind a wife and seven children, including Burgess, who was 11 years old at the time.

A jury convicted Scott of felony murder and she was ordered to spend the rest of her life in prison without the possibility of parole. Saxton, who pulled the trigger, was convicted of first-degree murder and was sentenced to the same fate.

But in 2020, after the U.S. Supreme Court overturned mandatory life sentences for juveniles, Saxton — whose legal name is Benjamin Alston — was released on time served.

Scott, now 71, who uses a wheelchair and is suffering from Stage 2 breast cancer, remains behind bars.

In the more than half a century she has spent in prison, Scott, better known as “Mechie,” has had only minor, nonviolent infractions on her record, save for three prison escapes more than 40 years ago. Since then, she has become a model inmate, her attorney Bret Grote said.

She has expressed remorse and speaks often of the painful circumstances of her life that contributed to her actions in that convenience store. She has written books about healing, directed plays, and led drug and alcohol treatment courses for inmates. She has become a mentor and mother figure to dozens of women inside the State Correctional Institution Muncy, where she has spent most of her sentence, teaching them how to control their emotions, plan for the future, and work to redeem themselves.

For years, Scott has applied for a commutation from Pennsylvania’s Board of Pardons, asking that her life sentence be reduced. But under what her attorneys say is a slow-moving and opaque system, her applications have consistently been denied without explanation.

Then last year, Scott applied to the board again with renewed hope after, according to Grote, the leadership of SCI Muncy said they would support her petition.

But Grote said Laurel Harry, the secretary of Pennsylvania’s Department of Corrections, told prison officials in December that she would not support Scott’s application — all but guaranteeing it will fail. It’s rare for the board to approve a commutation without the secretary’s support, Grote said.

A spokesperson for Harry declined to comment, saying the secretary “cannot discuss positions taken or decisions made on specific commutation cases.” A spokesperson for SCI Muncy also declined to comment.

Grote, his team, and Scott’s relatives are exasperated, frustrated by what they called the inhumane treatment of a woman who is no longer a threat to society. She is undergoing chemotherapy and recently had a double mastectomy, Grote said, and deserves to spend whatever time she has left with her daughter and grandson. Still, under state law, Scott does not meet the criteria for compassionate release because she’s not within a year of dying, he said.

“If the prison — the people who know the person the best and are supervising every aspect of their life every day for decades — think she’s a strong applicant, how does the secretary disagree with that?” Grote asked. “... If mercy does not have an effect on a case like this, at a moment like this, then what does mercy mean?”

At least two of the victim’s relatives support Scott’s release. Burgess, in an interview, said that while not all of her siblings agree, she and her younger sister believe Scott has suffered enough for her actions. Efforts to reach Kerrigan’s five other children were not successful.

“I try to see the good in everybody,” said Burgess, 64. “I feel bad for her. ... I think it’s time for her to get out because Leroy’s out, and he’s the one who pulled the trigger.”

In denying Scott’s request, Grote said, Harry pointed to the three times between 1975 and 1980 that she escaped from Muncy. Decades ago, the medium-security prison was not surrounded by fences, he said, and it was fairly common for inmates to “walk off” the grounds. (In 1983, for example, 18 of the more than 350 people incarcerated at Muncy escaped, the corrections department said.)

And Grote said other inmates with escapes on their records have had their sentences commuted.

Years ago, Henrietta Harris slashed a prison guard to escape from prison, and remained on the run for five years before she was returned to custody. In 2020, the board approved Harris’ request for a commutation, agreeing that she had redeemed herself, and Gov. Tom Wolf approved and authorized her release.

Scott has three other infractions from her time in the prison, her record shows. In 2011, after she took a shower without approval and then mouthed off to the guards, she was written up for indecent exposure and issuing threats, Grote said. The next year, Scott was written up for being in an unauthorized section of the prison after what Grote said was a misunderstanding between staff.

“Ms. Scott never intended to threaten anybody and has not harmed anybody in many, many decades,” Grote said.

Over the last month, Grote and his colleagues have spearheaded a public campaign to persuade the Board of Pardons to take up Scott’s application, despite Harry’s lack of support. The board is scheduled to vote on whether they will review her petition March 6.

Every Monday leading up to that date, volunteers with Grote’s team have called and written letters to the board and Shapiro, asking them to show mercy and pointing to an issue long eyed for reform.

In Pennsylvania, people who take part in a deadly felony — such as a robbery — can be charged with second-degree murder, even if they didn’t commit the killing or intend for anyone to die. More than 1,100 people are serving life in prison for felony murder in Pennsylvania — one of only two states in the country to mandate such a sentence for the crime.

Grote’s team at the Abolitionist Law Center has been fighting to overturn the law for years. Shapiro filed a brief in support of Grote’s position last year, calling the mandatory sentence for felony murder “not only unjust; it is unconstitutional.”

The Pennsylvania Supreme Court took up the issue last fall, and has been weighing its constitutionality since October. It’s not clear when they might announce a decision, though during the hearing, justices suggested the matter might be more appropriate for the legislature to consider than the court.

In the meantime, the Board of Pardons is the only option for people like Scott who are seeking to be released.

Hope Segers has always tried to suppress any expectation that her mother might one day join her outside the prison walls. Segers was born in SCI Muncy 44 years ago, the result of one of Scott’s brief escapes, during which she reunited with a man who worked in the prison kitchen and with whom she had fallen in love.

Raised by her father’s sister, Segers has spent her entire life wondering what her relationship with her mom might look like if their time together wasn’t confined to short, infrequent visits and phone calls. She doesn’t visit her often, she said, in part because it’s too painful to say goodbye. But she has forgiven her mother, she said, and has a room in her Northeast Philadelphia home prepared for her.

She dreams of seeing her mother and son embrace, and making up for lost time through their shared love of cooking.

“She did her time. How much longer?” she asked, shaking her head. “Fifty-one years. Now, cancer.”

Beyond her family, Scott has a community of women she helped at Muncy waiting to welcome her in Philadelphia. That includes Braetta Deloach, 47, who was mentored by Scott during her 14½ years in prison for a fatal stabbing. Scott’s advice and support, Deloach said, is the reason she can better process her emotions, and now has a job supporting the homeless in Philadelphia.

“She shows you a different outlook on life, but she doesn’t just show it, she maps it out for you and helps you reach it,” she said. “She would be a good asset out here in this community.”

Deloach said she saw over the years how Scott did not let her commutation rejections dampen her spirits. Initially, Scott would appear dejected, she said, but then she would look up and say: “It wasn’t my time, but it will come. God is not going to let me die in here.”