Donovan Moodley parole bid reignites outrage as Leigh Matthews’ parents say he shows no remorse
A family’s fight to keep a convicted murderer behind bars
Two decades after the kidnapping and murder of 21-year-old student Leigh Matthews, her parents say nothing they have seen convinces them that the man who killed her has changed. As the parole process for Donovan Moodley moves into its final stages, Rob and his wife, Sharon, are back where they have been for years: writing submissions, answering phone calls, and reliving details no family should have to revisit.
Moodley, now in his early 40s, was sentenced in August 2005 to life in prison for murder, plus 15 years for kidnapping and 10 years for extortion. He admitted he planned to target a student from Bond University, believing families would pay. In July 2004, Leigh was abducted from a campus parking area, her family was coerced into paying a R50,000 ransom, and she was later shot three times. Her body was found in an open field in Walkerville, south of Johannesburg.
That timeline is fixed. What has never stopped shifting are the questions around remorse, risk, and whether a man convicted of a crime that shocked the country should ever leave prison. The Correctional Supervision and Parole Board has now recommended parole after two hearings. The case still goes to the National Council for Correctional Services, and then the Justice Minister, who has the final say. Until that sign-off, nothing changes for Moodley. For the Matthews family, though, each step is another emotional blow.
Rob Matthews does not mince words. He believes Moodley is still manipulating the system. He points to a 2024 court application where Moodley said his life was in danger from another inmate and asked to be moved. State papers opposing the application said the man he named was not even in the same facility. To the family, that episode tracks with a pattern: not accountability, but calculation.
During the 2005 proceedings, Moodley pleaded guilty just before a lengthy trial with dozens of witnesses was due to begin. Prosecutors still raised problems with his version. He claimed he shot Leigh at the site where her body was found. The state argued evidence suggested her body had been kept in cold storage for roughly 12 days before being dumped, and investigators flagged the possibility of an accomplice. No one else was charged, but the nagging inconsistencies never disappeared.
For victims’ families, parole hearings can feel like a repeat sentencing, except the focus is no longer on the harm done but on whether the offender has changed. The Matthews family says they have seen no credible proof of meaningful rehabilitation or honest remorse. In 2023, they received a letter of apology as part of the parole process. They view it as a box-ticking exercise rather than a moment of truth.
At sentencing, the judge called the crimes callous and beyond comprehension, noting the devastation left in their wake. That tone has echoed in the public response each time the case returns to the headlines. Leigh’s name became a symbol of a country’s fear and anger at violent crime in the early 2000s. Her parents wore white ribbons during the trial. They still use that symbol today, a quiet refusal to let the case fade into statistics.
The parole board’s decision to recommend release does not answer the questions that linger. It reflects what the board must consider: time served, disciplinary record in prison, psychological and social work reports, participation in rehabilitation, risk assessments, and inputs from victims and prosecutors. None of that automatically means release; it is a framework to guide whether the law’s idea of rehabilitation has been met and whether the inmate can be safely supervised in the community.
In law, parole does not erase a sentence. It is a conditional release under strict supervision, typically with rules around reporting, employment or study, treatment programs, curfews, and travel limits. Any breach can send an offender back to prison. The Matthews family understands those conditions. Their point is simpler: they believe Moodley remains a danger because they do not see sincere insight into his crimes, and they worry that a man they consider manipulative will treat parole as just another loophole.
That clash—between a system designed to rehabilitate and a family’s lived experience of harm—sits at the heart of this case. South Africa’s parole system allows victims to make representations. The Matthews family has done so repeatedly. They argue that remorse is more than a letter and that actions matter: truthfulness about what happened, acceptance of responsibility without excuses, and consistent, verifiable progress in programs aimed at changing behavior.
It is also why the disputed details from the original case keep coming back. The prosecution’s cold-storage theory raised the possibility that the murder did not happen where the body was found, and that more than one person could have been involved. Those questions were never resolved in court beyond the guilty plea, which stopped a full trial from unfolding in public. For many who have followed the case, those gaps make it harder to accept any narrative of closure.
The Matthews family’s stance is not only emotional. They point to behavior they see as recent and concrete. The prison transfer application, described in state filings as based on a false claim, is one example. Their view: if you are truly rehabilitated, you do not invent threats to maneuver for personal benefit. They say it rings of the same thinking that led to the crime—calculating and self-serving.
Correctional Services has kept to a neutral tone. Spokesperson Singabakho Nxumalo has confirmed the parole board’s recommendation but stressed the process is not finished. That matters because the National Council for Correctional Services can send matters back for more information, endorse the recommendation, or advise against release. The minister can accept or reject the advice. In high-profile cases, ministers often face intense public pressure, and their reasons—whichever way they go—are scrutinized line by line.
For the public, one of the hardest parts of cases like this is the gap between legal definitions and gut instinct. The law looks for evidence of risk reduction: stable behavior in custody, completion of programs (anger management, victim-awareness courses, life skills), and a workable release plan with supervision. Families look for something more personal: a sense that the offender has faced the full truth of what they did and is not minimizing it. Those standards can collide.
There is also the timing. Lifers become eligible for consideration only after serving a significant minimum period, and then only on the strength of reports and reviews. Moodley has been in prison for nearly 20 years. His case was not rushed to parole; it was filtered through the usual steps: a case management committee inside the prison, a Correctional Supervision and Parole Board hearing (in this case two), and now the National Council and minister. That slow machinery is by design. It is meant to be cautious.
But caution is not comfort. For a family that never heard a full account of what happened to their daughter, every inch of movement toward release can feel like erasure. They are not campaigning for harsher punishment in general. They are saying this offender—this case—fails the test of truth and remorse. Leigh’s father says he is 100% convinced Moodley remains manipulative. That certainty is not rooted in rhetoric; it is rooted in what the family has watched and read, from court transcripts to prison affidavits.
Those who argue for strictly procedural decisions say feelings cannot drive parole outcomes. They are right, legally speaking. The procedure has to be fair to the inmate too. But the law does give victims a voice for a reason, and the Matthews family is using theirs with clarity. They want the National Council to scrutinize the parole board’s file, line by line, for signs of staged compliance—letters that say the right things without evidence of genuine change.
What happens if parole is approved? Moodley would not simply walk free. He would be under community corrections with strict conditions, reporting to authorities, and facing immediate re-incarceration if he violates terms. He would have to navigate a world that still remembers his name and his crime. For many South Africans, that is not the point. The point is whether the system should take that risk at all, given the severity of the crime and the unresolved questions.
And if parole is denied? The law allows for a new review after a set period, with a focus on new information or progress. That is the loop many families know too well: prepare, relive, testify, wait, read a decision, and do it all again. The Matthews family has been doing that for years, quietly and relentlessly.
There is an uneasy truth that sits beneath this case: not every story ends with closure, and parole does not require it. But parole does require credibility. When the judge at sentencing described the crime as beyond comprehension, it captured what the Matthews family still feels. They do not believe remorse can be real while lies persist, and they see inconsistencies as proof that the full story has never been told.
Beyond the courtroom and hearings, Leigh’s life is what anchors her parents. She was a young woman with plans, friends, and a family who loved her. The white ribbons they wore were not just a symbol for a moment in time. They were a promise to keep her memory present in every decision that touches her case. As the file moves to the next desk and the next, that promise is what keeps them going.
How parole works in practice—and what to watch next
South Africa’s parole framework for serious offences is layered by design. It starts with the prison’s case management team, which compiles a profile of the inmate: sentence details, disciplinary record, program participation, psychological and social work assessments, and a proposed supervision plan. Victims’ submissions are added. That file goes to the Correctional Supervision and Parole Board, made up of officials and community representatives, which can hold one or more hearings.
If the board recommends parole, the case goes higher to the National Council for Correctional Services. The Council reviews the law and the file, tests the risk assessment, and can ask for more information or further programs. Only after the Council’s view does the minister decide. The decision can approve release with conditions, refuse it with reasons, or defer it pending more rehabilitation. In high-profile cases, the minister’s reasons are often lengthy and detailed, given the public interest.
Criteria that matter include stability and insight: does the inmate accept responsibility in clear terms? Are there contradictions in their account of the crime? Have they completed victim-awareness programs and demonstrated change beyond paperwork? Is there a verified plan for housing, employment, and ongoing therapy? Are there disciplinary red flags, like contraband, violence, or efforts to manipulate the system? These are not tick-boxes; they are weighty indicators.
In Moodley’s case, the 2024 transfer application has taken on outsized importance because it touches multiple criteria at once: honesty, compliance, and risk. If state papers are correct that the threat claim was fabricated, it is hard to square that with the idea of deep rehabilitation. On the other hand, the parole board still recommended release after considering the file, which suggests other elements weighed in his favor. That tension is where the National Council is likely to focus.
Public reaction remains intense. For some, the legal principle is clear: once the minimum term is served and the criteria are met, parole should be possible, even for serious crimes. For others, murder with ransom and planning is the kind of case that should never open the door to early release. The Matthews family is not asking for a new law. They are asking for the current law to be applied with a sharp eye to credibility and risk.
As the file heads to the National Council and the minister, three things will determine the outcome. First, whether the reports show consistent, tested insight into the crime without evasion. Second, whether the risk assessment is supported by real-world proof—years of stable conduct, program completion, honest disclosures, and a structured release plan. Third, whether recent conduct, including the disputed transfer bid, undermines the case for trust.
For Leigh’s parents, the stakes are not theoretical. They have sat through each stage of this process, spoken publicly when they had to, and endured quietly when they did not. They will keep going, because the promise behind those white ribbons never expires: to honor their daughter, and to say, as plainly as they can, that remorse must look like truth before it looks like freedom.