Campaigning for a spot on the five-member Board of Selectmen in historic Concord, Mass. (pop. 17,000), Carl Velleca tells voters to look at his record. He is a past president of the local Jaycees, started a fund for a local orphanage and has spent countless hours reading to the blind. But Velleca has another record as well—a conviction for armed robbery and a 15-to-25-year sentence at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Concord.

How does a convicted felon happen to be running for office? "I saw an ad in the local newspaper last January asking for candidates," explains the raspy-voiced Velleca, a trusty at the medium-security prison, "so I took an hour-long furlough and went down to register. At first my campaign was mainly symbolic, but then it got serious." Since Massachusetts is one of two states (Indiana is the other) that allow prisoners to remain active politically, Velleca's candidacy is legal. But after Velleca led a voter registration drive that enrolled more than 300 prisoners, a few apprehensive Concord residents suggested that inmates might prefer to register in their hometowns. "I'm not telling you what to do," Velleca reminded the men, "but we get our visits and our mail here, we eat here and we sleep here. Nobody is guaranteed parole."

Although Velleca, 44, is not taking the inmates' votes for granted, they obviously share certain concerns. "One important issue is the bus that brings visitors to the prison," says the candidate. "It stops a mile down the road. If I am elected, I'll do all I can to get a bus stop right in front of the prison." He is aggrieved also by the cold shoulder the town gives the century-old prison. "It used to be that people in the community came here to buy hats and harness, to attend church and to see the movies," he observes. "But the latest town report doesn't even mention the prison. My candidacy will change that. It already has."

Whatever the outcome of April's election, Velleca claims to have turned forever from a life of crime. Born in the Federal Hill section of Providence, R.I. to a father who was a professional pool player and "the finest mother in the world," Velleca dropped out of high school and in 1950 joined the Army. He was clapped into the stockade on a larceny charge before he could ship out for Korea and has been in and out of jails ever since. His most recent skirmish with the law took place in 1968, when the million-dollar Paul Revere silver collection was stolen from the Phillips Andover Academy in Massachusetts. "I didn't take the silver," Velleca still protests. "I just helped get it back." The jury didn't agree, and while he was awaiting sentencing on that charge, he was indicted for armed robbery. "They say I furnished a key that enabled two men to stick up a dice game." Convicted again, he will be eligible for parole in 1981.

A model prisoner, the unmarried Velleca lives in a spacious private room in an unlocked trusties' house just outside the prison fence. He works in the prison gift shop and rarely ventures behind bars, where most of his 450 fellow inmates are confined. Frequently granted furloughs into town, Velleca has used them to win over skeptical voters. "My scholarship is in the field of human despair," he acknowledges in his campaign oratory. "My campus was a myriad of bars and cells. My master's degree is in humility." One of Velleca's campaign managers, Jill Brotman, a Concord law student, says, "People are either very enthusiastic about Carl's candidacy or they don't take him seriously." Velleca impressed townsfolk last month when he helped prevent trouble by coolly stepping between guards and an angry group of prisoners. "I'm a Concord resident," observed grateful warden Nicholas Genakos, "and I expect to register and vote for Carl."