To Free the Truth

Even though the threat of violence is always there in prison, there are times of peace and people can change inside these gates. When I was still trying to learn how to “do time,” I met an old school black dude named Willy. I asked for his advice if he was in my shoes…he told me he’d been inside for 22 straight years and his best advice is to get involved in table games, sports, exercise, or whatever I want, but to strive to be the best, don’t ever do anything half-hearted. Another old con maned Marty said, “Man, you got 99 years. You aren’t gonna last trying to ‘do that time.’ You need to quit trying to do time and start living, because you ain’t goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

So, I absorbed my environment, tried to be the best at everything. I loved playing handball. It took a few months of hard work and practice, but I became a real challenge for the top players on the unit. I mastered the game of chess, competed in everything from sports to exercising. I started watching sports all the time, learning the games so I could get involved in gambling. Marty said a smart, knowledgeable gambler can make a little money in here, and it’s true.

Of course, gambling causes problems, which is why it’s illegal in here. I can’t tell you how many conflicts and fights I was in over gambling. It was how I made money for hygiene, stamps, and coffee, though. I couldn’t just give it up. People are gonna test a young guy like me no matter what I do–that was just my life.

Point is, there’s times when everything flows smoothly even in prison. I once had a job in the Officer’s Dining Room (ODR) where I could rest in the air conditioning  and eat good food. I got to know some of the rank and they’d move me where I wanted to go and let me slide on some stuff. I’d go to work around 2 p.m. and leave at 4 p.m. to go to the library, then I’d hang out with friends in the hallway before going back to the ODR from 5-7 p.m. I’d leave there with a big Gatorade bottle filled with ice and juice, go to outside rec, and play handball until the yard closed at around 10:30 p.m. I’d shower, crash out, and get up to do it again.

I also made extra money selling food from the kitchen. Cheese, peanut butter, four tortillas, jalapeno peppers, and even salad dressing can be swapped for stamps, hygiene, or commissary food. The grilled omelets with cheese that I made went for 3 stamps a piece all day long! The guys on my block knew who to look for if they were hungry.

I tried to become one with the penitentiary, play the part of the convict. It seemed to work for a time. For a moment, I thought I could do that 99 years without a hitch as we say in Texas. But, it ate at my soul, pulled me down periodically. I wondered why the psychiatric doctors on the unit never really tried to help me change how I started to think. I think they were just speechless after hearing my story. What do you tell a kid who’s faced with a lifetime in prison for a crime his father committed when he asks if death is better than life behind bars? I don’t hold it against them; I wouldn’t know what to tell me either. All I know is trying to be the consummate convict might not have been my best course of action. That seems to foster despair. I should’ve been finding reasons to fight, to hope. I lost all the hope that I had. Until I met Jenniy, I was content on just dying. All of my efforts were half-hearted. She inspires me to fight, to hope, to want more out of life. For that alone, I’m thankful she’s in my life.

Thank you, Jenniy…

Fighting doesn’t always save you. It only puts the odds in your favor. Some predators don’t mind a fight if they get what they want without any repercussions form the guards or inmates. If they can beat a guy badly enough and force him not to tell the guards, they will. Every situation is different…

Once, on Connally unit, a young Mexican new boot (new inmate). drove up to my pod. Generally, the Hispanic families (gangs) protect their own people. If they can’t recruit you, they’ll still support you unless you cross them. The whole “checking” process usually doesn’t apply to Hispanics. Anyhow, this Hispanic kid shows up and immediately starts talking to the black guys. The Hispanic families witnessed this and decided  he was on his own. So, there he is, Danny Boy was his name, in a deep conversation with a known booty bandit, Big Rock. Big Rock explained how everyone in here has a hustle, meaning they do things to make money. Some dudes get involved in drugs or cigarettes, others make soap, some create art–all sorts of things like that. Big Rock told Danny Boy he could wash his clothes and he’d hook him up with hygiene, stamps, and a little food. Danny Boy agreed and they both went into Big Rock’s cell when the doors rolled on the “in and out” which happens every hour. 

Once the doors close and the guards leave the section, they’re trapped in the cell for at least an hour. I noticed Big Rock put a towel over his door so no one could see inside. Moments later I heard banging around in the cell, then Danny yelling, “Hey, Stop! What are you doing?! Help!” His screams were muffled and more struggling could be heard, then silence. 

I wanted to help, but at that point there was nothing I could do. Everyone could hear that Danny Boy put up somewhat of a fight, but he also went into Big Rock’s cell, alone… The doors rolled and Danny Boy went to the shower to clean up, red marks on his face and body. After he stepped out of the shower, the leader of the TS (Texas Syndicate) approached him. I didn’t hear the conversation but later heard that they were going to help him despite how he “disrespected his race” by immediately talking with the black dudes instead of the Hispanics (as I’ve said, everything is extremely racially divided in here). Danny Boy said he’d already told Big Rock he’d move into his cell, though, so the TS backed off–you’re on your own, kid. 

Despite the fact that he fought, Danny Boy became the property of Big Rock. Big Rock broke him. It was this situation and countless others that compelled me to reach out to new boots, especially the younger ones. Most of the older convicts just don’t care about explaining how things work to new boots. Learn on your own is how it is sometimes. So, I talked to them, telling them about my experiences and trying to lace them up as to how to survive. On more than one occasion I stuck my neck out there for guys, even jumping in their fights. This caused me and the ‘woods I associated with (at first mostly non-gang members) lots of problems. I almost started a riot once for helping a kid that wouldn’t help himself. My friend pulled me to the side and said, “Dude, you got a good heart and I know you want to be Captain Save-A-Ho, but why fight for boys that ain’t fightin’ for themselves? You gonna get us all killed!”

It’s true. This is a vicious world, this penitentiary, and the weak are swallowed whole. Those that aren’t weak turn into something they come to detest…at least I did. This place breeds violence; it’s encouraged. The administration loves gang wars, dissension amongst the inmates because then there’s no warry of unified efforts against them. The guards tend to perpetuate false rumors, saying the person said this or that, to start conflict. In this world, even if you do fight, it’s survival of the strongest. And as much as I wanted to help others, I couldn’t be this sort of quasi super hero.

In my opinion, sexual deviants, as a general rule, have repressed sexual desires and/or memories. It’s no wonder to me why some priests, after years of suppressing their natural sexual urges, molests choir boys. Surely you’ve heard stories of men stuck out at sea for months…how some who wouldn’t normally turn to a man for release, do. Well, prison’s the same way. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard men who engage in homosexual behavior say they’re tired of their hands or they haven’t been with a woman in decades, rationalizing their behavior. As many know, homosexuality is common in penal institutions worldwide. 

Now, take someone who’s a natural or even conditioned predator. Someone who bullied kids at school, exploited the weak their whole life–toss him in a prison and repress his sexuality and you just might get what we here call a ‘booty bandit.”

During the mid-to-late 90s, when I was in general population, booty bandits typically stalked their prey for months before making a move. They’d hone in on a young guy (typically white or a light skinned black guy from what I’ve seen) and watch how he carries himself. Lots of young people in here try to impress upon people that they’re ‘hardcore,’ not to be messed with. Unless one has proven himself time and again, even this doesn’t deter a booty bandit. He’ll observe and search for any sign of weakness. Once weakness is detected, the game begins. 

In the old days booty bandits were more aggressive. They took what they wanted from whoever they thought they could. But, the administration put lots of pressure on sexual predators after the 1980s, charging them with aggravated sexual assault and putting them in administrative segregation, so they changed their tactics. These days they try to talk guys out of sexual favors. You’d be surprised how well some of these bandits use empty threats and fast talk to get a guy in their cell for a few hours of ‘romance.”

Maybe 3 months into my stay at Connally I become the target of a booty bandit we called ‘Head.” He was tall, muscle bound, and had spent the previous 20 years in prison preying on the weak. I was walking back from chow with the ‘woods (Peckerwoods or white guys) when one said to me, “Damn! Did you see the way that toad (black guy) was staring at you?! Like you was a double meat cheeseburger!” Everyone laughed as I turned to see who he was talking about, barely catching the back of him before he cut into the chow hall. 

Several days later, I felt someone’s eyes on me while in the hallway again. It was Head. So, I cut out of the line I was in and approached him. I asked him if he knew me or if there was some reason he stared at me. “Oh yeah, I think I seen you on the transfer unit I came from. What’s your name again?” he asked. I was firm when I told him he didn’t know me and I didn’t like the way he stared at me, made me feel uncomfortable. He laughed it off and tried to talk to me like we were old time friends.

Well, I got transferred to McConnell unit in January of 1998 for college academics and a couple months later, Head showed up as well. Word was he was playing his head games with another guy on Connally and that dude beat him in the head with a pitcher in the chow hall, so they shipped head to McConnell. Head, apparently, didn’t learn his lesson–he continued to star at me with lust in his eyes. So, I jam him up again and tell him I’m not the one to play with. Again, he laughed and said, “An understanding beats the world. You got a lot of time, I got a lot of time, no reason why we can’t do this time together.” I told him to just stop staring at me, that I didn’t play that way. 

A week or so later he was up to his old tricks. I knew there was only one way to handle him. I told him I wasn’t accepting his advances. he got loud with me and threatened to take me in the vegetable room (in the kitchen where we worked) and take my ass. Literally. So, I hit him with everything I had. We fought hard for a few minutes before the guards broke us up and sent us both to lock-up. Over the next 3 days we cursed each other in lock-up. He told me I’d ‘catch out’ which means I’d ask the guards to put me in protective custody, and if I didn’t I’d be his bitch when we got out of lock-up. I told him I’d kill him first. On and on it went until I was released (after disciplinary court) to population. 

I thought he’d make good on his threats so I asked an older ‘wood for a shank. He told me no. He said the dude was merely checking me. I fought him and showed him I wouldn’t break, and he would leave me alone, just watch. He told me to wait and see if Head so much as looked at me again when we crossed paths. “If he does, I’ll hand you a shank to handle your business.”

Head never once looked my way again. In fact, he avoided me when our paths crossed, but I watched how he targeted other young guys, and it disgusted me. Predators of his caliber stalk those they think they can talk out of their pants until proven otherwise.

As long as there’s the possibility — no matter how remote — that an innocent person could be killed, nobody should be for the death penalty –Kirk Bloodsworth, exonerated ‘93

One of the most serious concerns with capital punishment is the fact that it is very possible an innocent person can be executed for crimes they did not commit while the actual guilty party remains free. This isn’t just an unwarranted worry. To date, 131 people have been exonerated after spending years on death row. Wrongful convictions are a fact.

So, where does sentencing the wrong person fit into the whole idea of justice? It doesn’t or at least, it shouldn’t. What these cases tell us, though, is that this system has serious flaws. Innocent people are sentenced to die. In fact, considering the population of death row nationally is around 3350, those 131 people represent a 3.8% error rate. If you apply that same error rate to the 1156 people who have been executed, it’s quite possible that 45 or so people have been murdered by our government in the name of justice.

Just 1 person dying for another’s acts undermines justice. Just 1–that’s all it takes. A 3.8 % error on this system means that innocent people have and will die. Those 131 exonerees are both tragic and lucky. The years they spent in prison cells being treated as subhuman scum by guards, by society and even by some of their friends and family who doubted them… Their name was sullied, their families ripped apart, their lives shattered. Tragic really doesn’t even begin to cover it. But, they are also lucky because someone, somewhere listened to their story and decided to fight with them. All too often that isn’t the case, I know that from advocating in this case. It’s rare that anyone listens much less cares about the people who have been convicted. They are stereotyped and categorized. Claims of innocence deflect off stone hearts. All too often, people chalk it up to some sort of ploy, game or trap…so that just means an error rate of 3.8% is quite possibly on the low end.

Even using just 3.8%, the implications are huge. 3.8 may seem fairly small, almost insignificant, but let’s look at it a different way. Every now and then you hear a news story about a case of medical malpractice involving an amputation performed on the wrong limb or body part. The very idea is horrific. Immediately, people, after hearing about this one instance, begin questioning the medical profession and hospitals.  They want safeguards to prevent such a tragedy. They want the responsible party to pay… Right now, there are approximately 1.7 million people in the U.S. who have had an amputation. If you applied that 3.8% to the population of amputees, then 64,600 people would have dealt with ‘wrongful amputations.’ * 3.8% adds up…so, where’s the public outcry for those ‘wrongly executed?’ Why aren’t more people demanding safeguards in this system or proposing the only guaranteed alternative of life without parole? Or, working in the current system, why can’t we limit these cases following Maryland’s new law to only those involving DNA evidence, a videotape of the crime, or a voluntary, videotaped confession?

I can’t imagine the desperation, the urgency, the sorrow involved in being convicted and sentenced to die for a crime you did not commit.  No money, powerless… I can’t imagine how terribly alone and without hope that person must feel… No one should ever have to endure that. We have the capabilities to ensure this, so why don’t we?

For more facts on those exonerated, please see www.witnesstoinnocence.com

*This is not a factual number but only a projection of a 3.8% error rate.

Convicts love to give nicknames to newly opened farms. Eastham is known as “Ham.” At the “Friendly Boyd,” where everyone’s a trustee, there’s almost no violence. “Burn in Hell” aptly describes Clemens, where the nearby Brazos and surrounding swamps make living in the thick, brick buildings during the hot, humid summers feel like you’re burning in Hell. There were lots of riots and murders on the “Terrible Terrell” (now the Polunsky where death row is housed) in the early 1990s. A  unit like that is said to be “rockin and rollin” because of the high levels of violence, which is why the Connally unit is known as the “Rockin’ Connally.”

The Connally unit opened its doors in 1995. It was called Gladiator Farm because it was filled with trouble making youngsters from other maximum units who loved fighting and competing against each other. After several deadly gang wars and frequent rioting that first year, it was widely considered the most dangerous farm in the system. I drove up in the summer of 1997.

One of the first things you learn about Texas prisons is that they are racially divided. Look on any given outside rec yard in the system and you’ll immediately notice how the various races separate themselves. Of course you have dudes of all races who hang out and do things with people  of other races, some of which are their best friends, but generally speaking, the races are divided inside these gates. You’re taught by older convicts to be loyal to your race, to be present during racial conflicts and fight during race riots. If you refuse to support your own race, they won’t support you if you are jumped on by multiple people at once, robbed, or have other problems with one of the other groups. 

Some of this was apparent my first day on Connally. As soon as I was given a housing assignment, I carried my property to my cell, stuffed it all into my locker box, slammed the lock closed, tied my key to my ankle (I’d heard about people being knocked out and their key being yanked off their neck. That wasn’t going to happen to me.), then went out to the dayroom prepared to prove myself. I scanned the dayroom. A group of 20-30 black guys were under the T.V., eyes shooting darts at me. 20 or so hispanics filled the tables and benches to my right, sizing me up. Maybe 10 white dudes convened at 2 tables at the center of the dayroom, watching my every move. I calmly walked to an empty table and sat on a metal stool waiting. I tried to slow my breathing down, wiped the sweat off my face. An older white guy, in his 50s and clearly the leader of their group, approached me and extended his hand, “Hey, youngster, I’m Rusty.”

And then I replied tentatively, “Yeah, I’m Pruett. How do ya’ll do things around here? Who’s gonna check me?” (To check is basically being challenged by someone who wants to see where your heart’s at–the fight, f*ck, or bust a sixty question is a typical form of checking)

“Huh?” Rusty looked confused.

“Who’s gonna check me? Who do I got to fight?”

“Oh. Youngster, that’s what I’m gonna call you. Anyhow, youngster, we don’t exactly do things the way you think here on minimum custody. Sure, you’ll be tested soon enough but there’s no rules as to how or when. Now, if you get put on the other side of the farm…look, just be ready when the time comes. Don’t stay down if you get knocked down, keep swinging, and you’ll be okay. Do that and you’ve got the backing of the Peckerwoods.” He nodded towards the group behind him. “Break weak and they’ll fight over you,” he pointed towards the black guys and Hispanics. Rusty then waved the other white guys over and introduced them to me. 

Later on that day, a lanky black youngster with a tear drop tattooed under his eye asked me about my shoes. I already knew from my experiences in the Harris County jail that shoes cause many fights. The dude told me if I gave him my shoes I could “ride with him,” meaning he’d protect me, because he had everyone’s respect–no one dared disrespect him or his “property.” I’d already decided I wasn’t going to be anyone’s property. Before he could finish his speil, my fist connected with the side of his face. The fight was on. In the midst of our fight, we were surrounded so the guards couldn’t see. Again, I lost the fight, but I landed a few good punches, and I refused to stay down when he knocked me down. He knew I’d be there afterwards.

Rusty shook my hand and hugged me after the fight, “Boy, I ain’t goin’ to lie,” he said with pride in his voice. “When I first laid eyes on you, I felt sick to my stomach because I thought you’d be someone’s wife by nightfall. I hate to see one of mine go out like that. Glad you proved me wrong. Long as you stand your ground, you’ll be okay.”

An old lady with blue hair and a polka dotted smock greeted me at the front entrance to Skyview. A pungent mixture of Mentholatum and cigarette smoke assaulted my olfactory glands as she took my vitals and asked a few questions. The next thing I knew, I was locked in my new home–a 10 square foot concrete box with a drain in the center to piss in. I was given a blue blanket about 4 x2 feet to cover my naked body, nothing else was allowed. I assumed the fetal position, covered myself as best I could, and cried myself to sleep.

A few days later, I was given prison garb and shoes, then escorted to a room with a team of 5 mental health workers. They questioned me extensively and whispered to each other. I played the part of the warped lunatic, going into great detail about the voices I was hearing and what they were telling me. Several hours later, I was taken to a new cell with a bunk and mattress, toilet, and a window. I was allowed to keep the clothing I wore, nothing else.

I cursed Scratch. Where were the T.V.’s and reclining bunks? Sure there were nurses, but not a one under 60 or easy on the eyes! Yes, there was air conditioning, but try living in 50 degree weather in a concrete box–naked! It was nothing like the ‘hotel’ Scratch described.  The following day I went before the treatment team again and came clear. I am a faker. It was all a lie. I’m as sane as any of you…probably more so. Why did I lie? I was scared of being in prison, worried about being raped, and tired of the heat on Garza West.

Thank you for being honest, they said.

I’d be going back to my unit of assignment in about a week… The next day I was called back in to see the treatment team. I was at first confused then angry when they informed me that I would be admitted to the unit. Diagnosis: Adaptation Disorder. Huh?! I thought they meant to keep me in that cold cage with no property, so I vigorously protested, “I’m not crazy, I swear! Please send me back to my unit! Please!”

They calmed me down and explained that I’d be moved upstairs and could have my property, recreate with other patients in a dayroom with a T.V., even go outside, and possibly attend education as well as work–if I desired. I asked them why they’d keep me here if I wasn’t insane. They felt compassion for me, they said. I was a 16 year old that looked 13 and they wanted to teach me about prison life before throwing me back to the wolves.

I was moved upstairs that night into a relatively large cell (still no T.V. or reclining bunk!) and allowed to go to the dayroom. There were about 30 inmates in there of various ages and races watching T.V., playing table games, and intermingling. Some of them were obviously CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs… One guy was staring at the ceiling with drool pouring down his chin. I laughed when someone ran up to him and screamed in his ear, “Don’t look into the light, Carolanne! Don’t look into the light!” Johnny Rosales, who couldn’t speak a single sentence unless it rhymed, was listening to an old black man beg for a shot of coffee. “Come on, Johnny, I’m yo friieeend!” As if on cue, Johnny stomped and spat, “You want to be my friend?! Then, let me stick it in!!” I quickly realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Not all the inmates there were psychotic. I met Shane Handcock a couple of days after I arrived. He was several months older than me but had also been inside since he was 15 and was doing a capital life sentence for a crime his friends committed. The law of parties got him, too. He was incredibly small even for 16. While he was extremely intelligent and at times quite vocal, he was an introvert and mostly reserved. He later confided in me, telling me of being raped on Clemens Unit by “the blacks” which was why he cut himself and landed on Skyview. We talked a lot and became best friends, always competing with each other in chess and in the classroom in the education building.

My focus on Skyview was two fold–get bigger and stronger in preparation for my eventual placement in a “real farm” and get educated for my return to freedom someday. By January of 1997, I was Valedictorian of my GED class. And by the Spring of that year, I completed a plumbing vocation. I begged and pleaded with the school administrator to put me in more classes but she stated that I had taken everything they could offer me due to my lengthy sentence. I’d have to wait to be transferred to take more classes. I was a 6 foot, 150 lb wiry kid when I first arrived on Skyview. After 11 months of working out 5 days a week, stuffing my face at my job in the kitchen, and playing lots of basketball in the gym, I was 186 lbs of muscle and had grown an inch or two. I kept telling Shane, who worked in the kitchen with me and was my workout partner yet didn’t seem to get bigger, that I was ready for a real farm. He only shook his head saying he’d stick it out as long as they’d let him. I didn’t want to abandon him. I assured him that I’d ride it out with him, but in July of 1997, I was discharged from Skyview. I got caught fighting a pedophile who laughed about raping teen girls. By then, I thought I was ready to deal with the pressure of prison. I was tired of being treated like I shit myself by the doctors, and I wanted to prove to everyone, including myself, that I could make it out there. I was soon transferred to the Connally Unit in Kennedy, Texas.