To Free the Truth

A  Q & A with Robert Pruett and Lee Taylor:

In 1995 Harris County (Houston, Texas) led the nation in adult certification.  In an attempt to reduce the expanding juvenile crime rate, over 150 juvenile offenders (ages 14-16) were certified as adults.  Any kid charged with an aggravated crime or in possession of a large quantity of dope was certified as an adult and transferred to the Harris County Jail to await proceedings in the adult judicial system.  For many of us, this meant lengthy prison sentences in the TDCJ-ID as opposed to being placed in the TYC where we would receive proper treatment and be rehabilitated and reintegrated into society one day.
The following is an interview conducted by Robert Pruett and Lee Taylor, two of the certified juveniles from Harris County in 1995.  Robert was certified on 10/31/95 at the age of 16.  He was then convicted under the law of parties for murder and sentenced to 99 years in the TDCJ-ID.  Lee was certified on 11/17/95 at age 16 and was convicted of two counts of aggravated robbery/cc and sentenced to an Aggravated Life Term in the TDCJ-ID.

Q. What exactly does it mean to be certified as an adult?

Robert: It means that you’re dealt with in accordance to the State Penal Code which offers a wider range of punishments and you’re placed in an institution (TDCJ) where rehabilitation isn’t highly valued versus one (TYC) that’s geared towards rehabilitation and child development.

Lee: Basically, Robert covered it. I’d only add that you’re locked inside a cage for a longer period of time, with no reprieve, no second chance. I believe I would have grown out of my wild, teenage ways, seeing as I have grown into a man that regrets the actions of a boy eleven years ago.

Q. Prior to your certification, did you undergo a psychological evaluation and take other tests to determine whether you should be tried as an adult?

Lee: Man, all they had me do was play with little blocks.  That’s about it!

Robert: I talked to a man, but he seemed to be more concerned with my case rather than my maturity. I recall playing with blocks too, but I don’t know how blocks can tell if a person understands right from wrong or whether he’s capable of making decisions that will effect the rest of his life.

Lee: Yeah, I wasn’t coked up or high while playing with those blocks either!

Q. What went through your mind the day you were certified as an adult?

Lee: I realized that I was about to face a system that I had no knowledge of. I was scared, clueless as to what was actually happening. I just felt helpless, like I was caught in a river and couldn’t swim to shore. I felt total despair.

Robert: Yeah, I didn’t really know what they were doing to me either. All I remember is feeling scared because the staff at the Juvenile Detention Center told me that if I was certified, I’d have to fight off grown men for my manhood in the county jail. That wasn’t easy to deal with at age 16.

Q. Harris County apparently used those certified in 1995 as examples. How do you feel about being used as a guinea pig in an experiment that didn’t work according to the recent juvenile crime statistics?

Robert: If I dwell on it, it makes me feel angry, bitter, and aggressive. I can’t believe that they’d just throw me away like that. I think I could’ve learned my lessons in TYC for a few years rather than spend the rest of my life in prison.

Lee: Honestly, I take responsibility for my actions. Even for the things that I did as a child. But, I still feel like society let me down, because I wasn’t mature enough, I wasn’t an adult. At that time in my life, I didn’t realize how much of a dumbass I was being. There was room for improvement, as evidenced by who I am today, but they didn’t give me a chance to get clean and grow up. I was out of control.

Q. When you were certified, do you think you were mature enough to make decisions that would effect the rest of your life?

Lee: No, I was only 16. Looking back I realize now that I was a child and my judgement was clouded due to the lifestyle I was living, which included drugs, alcohol, partying, and sex. That’s all I seemed to care about back then. Mature…? Of course not! I was just a kid man.

Robert: Being that we grew up in the same neighborhood, I was also sucked into that lifestyle. It was all about getting high and chasing girls back then. It didn’t dawn on me that I’d have to spend the rest of my life in prison until I was about 17 or so. So, no, I don’t think I was very mature at age 16. I suffered from a severe inability to delay gratification.

Q. What’s the difference between being in a juvenile facility versus and adult penitentiary?

Robert: There are a multitude of differences. First of all, being sent to an adult prison means you’ve been convicted of a felony and that’s on your permanent record. If you were ever to get out it would be tough to get a job and most people would shun you. As far as living conditions go, you are housed with grown men who have been locked up for decades, some of which won’t ever get out, and a lot of these guys try to prey on younger guys, especially white dudes. In juvenile, it’s all about fighting and seeing who’s toughest, whereas in prison it’s about survival and every little confrontation could be fatal.

Lee: Yeah, I hear you on that. The juvenile system is a controlled environment, whereas a TDCJ unit is run by the inmates (prison “families” or gangs). When you send a kid into an environment run by life-long criminals who are mainly concerned with perpetuating the drug business, prison rape, and prostitution, then you aren’t putting the kid into a situation conductive to rehabilitation, but rather one that breeds hate and violence. It teaches a kid how to be a criminal. This shows that the state is more concerned with punishment rather than rehabilitation for the youth of the country.

Robert: It’s all about money as far as I see it. they do things to cater the constituents of crime ridden counties without thinking them through completely. people who live in these counties are only worried about stopping the crime, and the politicians voting for them vote however they think will help them in the polls. In other words, the root of the problem, juvenile delinquents, isn’t really tended to. So as long as these kids are locked up, the citizens and politicians are happy. But in essence the kids are basically ruined. We’re tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.

Lee: I invite you (the reader) to look at the statistics and you will see that the majority of young men in prison are either doing Life or an aggravated sentence, which means that they’ll be doing most of their time. Texas is tough like that. It’s a waste of life.

Q. Did your family/friends support you (emotionally,spiritually,financially, etc.) after you were certified?

Lee: Friends, what friends? There aren’t any friends in the dope game. The only friend that stayed with me after I was certified was a female who visited me at the Juvenile Detention Center, someone I met after I got locked up. She was a counselor or something. She was from my neighborhood too, so that was cool. As far as my family, I was never too close to my family when I was free. I love them and they love me, but I couldn’t expect them to stop their lives for me. Over the years my mom has been my number one supporter; even though she’s had a rough life herself, she’s always tried to be there for me. I was raised and ruled by prison politics.

Robert: Obviously my dad and brother couldn’t be very supportive because they were being charged with the same crime and in jail. My mom hung around for a year or so, then sorta blinked out of existence for a few years. Everyone else pretty much bailed on me right after I was arrested. Most of the last 12 years I’ve had to do my time alone. After I came to death row, I was fortunate to meet a few people who showed compassion and love to me like I’d never experienced in my life. These people, a couple of which are still with me, have been more like family to me than my own. But early on it was difficult living in this place without any support from the outside.

Q. Do you think there were other options besides adult certification that would have gotten you back on track in life?

Lee: They could have sent me to TYC to be rehabilitated and to learn more about life. At the age of 18 they could have evaluated me to determine if i should be placed int eh adult system, released under stipulations, or even offered a chance in the military because people change daily, we never stay the same. Are you the same person you were five years ago? Of course not. I’m not the same person I was at 16 either. In fact, tomorrow I’ll be a little different than what I am today. Aging is a growing process, mentally and physically.

Robert: No doubt we are ever- evolving and growing from our experiences. The leap from adolescence to adulthood is a monumental one. We change so much in that period. It’s why car insurance is so high until you’re around 25yrs old, when we typically really mature. This is why I don’t think most people should have to pay for the rest of their lives for something they did as an idiot kid. You’ve got to give kids a chance to grow out of their behavior. So yeah, there were many options that the courts could have utilized to handle me rather than send me to prison forever. I’ve never really understood their logic.

Lee: Isn’t it funny that they won’t allow you to buy cigarettes, alcohol, and you have a curfew until you’re 17-21 years of age, yet they can certify you and send you to prison for the rest of your life at ages 14-16?! What’s wrong with our system?!

This is an article written by Robert and published in Prison City: Life with the Death Penalty in Huntsville, TX by Ruth Massingill and Ardyth Broadrick Sohn. It was published in 2007; the article was written, though, in 2005. The article begins on page 164.

Those of us living on Texas’ death row are presented with many challenges and obstacles in our everyday lives. We expend an enormous amount of energy fighting for our lives and constantly struggle to cope with the stress involved with being separated from our loved ones, not to mention the loss of our freedom. There are officers who seem to think that their job is to punish us, rather than maintain the security of the institution; suffice it to say that these rogues are a constant reminder of exactly where we are…. These are the obvious challenges we face here on the row. I’d like to expose a problem that is more subtle, yet can be equally detrimental to our psychological well-being.

As many of you probably know, the living conditions on Texas’ death row are virtually identical to those of TDCJ’ administrative segregation, (ad.seg.) which was designed by a team of criminal psychologists. The objective was to create a behavioral modification system that punished recalcitrant inmates with the harshest living conditions, (level 3 status) then rewarded their good behavior with somewhat better living conditions (level 1 status). Eventually the inmate would be reintegrated back into the general prison population. This system wasn’t designed to house inmates long-term, yet TDCJ has misused it by keeping people in ad. seg. for decades and forcing death row to live under its guidelines as long as we have a death sentence.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the environment in which we live, please allow me to briefly elaborate: We are locked in single-man cells (10ft. x 7ft.) for 23 hours a day, with 1 hour of recreation per day, depending on your level status. Anytime we leave our cells we must be restrained with handcuffs and escorted by 2 officers. All visits are non-contact and recreation occurs in a single-man cage, alone. All physical contact is strictly prohibited… If you are level 1 status you can utilize the commissary (given that you have someone in the freeworld that sends money to your account. We are totally dependent on outside help to use the commissary) to purchase an Am/Fm radio, shoes, fan, coffee pot, typewriter, hygiene, writing supplies, and various food items. Levels 2 and 3 aren’t allowed any electrical appliances (except a fan) or any food items. We aren’t allowed televisions, microwaves, access to swimming pools or any other absurd things like that, as the media would have the general public believe! If I’m not mistaken, you can read the “Ad. Seg./Death Row Plan” on TDCJ’ s website, where all the rules/guidelines applicable to us are listed.

If there is an official name for the debilitating disease that often arises out of these living conditions, I am unaware of it. I like to refer to what torments many of us as Ground Hog Day Syndrome. How many of you have seen the movie “Ground Hog Day” with Bill Murray? That’s the one where Mr. Murray keeps waking up on Ground Hog Day only to relive that day over and over again. In a sense, this is basically what most of us are experiencing in that we find ourselves repeating the same old things, day after day. While the movie is highly entertaining and absolutely hilarious, those of us on the row (or ad.seg.) who fall victim to Ground Hog Day Syndrome are in danger of developing severe psychological disorders
 
The environment in which we live is geared towards sensory deprivation. The scenery never changes for us: cold steel bars, imposing white walls, dirty concrete floors, and whatever view we have from our 4f. x 3in. windows, which usually isn’t anything to write home about! Our options for action each day are limited to recreating, writing, reading, creating art, listening to the radio (if you are level 1!) and conversing with each other through our doors (this type of communication only contributes to our diminishing social skills since we aren’t face-to-face with the person we are conversating with.) We can also play such games as chess or dungeons–n-dragons by calling out our plays through the door.
 
It is so easy to find yourself trapped by a fixed schedule that can best be described as tediously monotonous, simply because we are so restricted as to what we can do. We’re lulled into a routine that repeats itself for months and even years at a time. Our every action soon becomes mechanical and our behavior becomes more reflective of that of a robot than a human being. I sometimes get my days mixed up, thinking that I did something on a certain day, when in fact it was a week before. Life becomes a blur, creativity diminishes, depression can creep in, some fall prey to psychotic behavior, and others attempt suicide (BTW – dropping your appeals is suicide!) The adverse affects of Ground Hog Day Syndrome are often lethal.
 
The other day (I think!) I asked someone that I hadn’t seen in awhile how he was doing. He just stared at me somberly and replied, “Dude, it’s the same fucking thing every day. I wake up, go to rec., eat chow, write a little, read a little, talk shit, go to sleep, then wake up and repeat the same damn thing. I’m burnt out!”
Most of us here can truly empathize with that.
 
To further illustrate just how destructive Ground Hog Day Syndrome can be, I’d like to share a very personal story with you: Before coming to death row I spent a couple of years in ad. seg. A close friend of mine, who I’d spent some time with in general population, was moved in a cell next to me on the Conally Unit. We passed the time by reminiscing about old days and we even shared our dreams, hopes and aspirations. A few months of this and -predictably – we settled into a routine. Then one day my friend came to his door and told everyone that he didn’t want to talk to any of us and that we should leave him alone. Huh? He rejected every attempt I made to communicate with him by ignoring me. He refused to accept his mail, didn’t go to rec. or shower, and once they called him for a visit that he refused. Maybe a month or so of this went on and he began talking to himself. Finally, he covered himself in his own feces and started slashing his arms up with a razor…… As I watched them carry my old friend away, covered in feces and blood, I felt a profound sense of sorrow and loss. It was very difficult for me to comprehend what had transpired right before my very eyes. This was my first experience with how psychologically damaging this environment can be and I’m positive that what happened to my friend was the result of Ground Hog Day Syndrome evolving into psychosis.
 
From what I’ve heard, there are guys here on the Polunsky Unit who’ve gone insane since leaving Ellis Unit, where death row used to be housed. We’ve lost a few to suicide since I arrived on the row in 2002 and many others have attempted it. I’ m no psychologist, but undoubtedly Ground Hog Day Syndrome played a role in some of these cases.
 
Some of you may have friends or family here who are experiencing Ground Hog Day Syndrome and you’re wondering what can be done? Once again, I’m not a mental health expert, but I have found a few things that seem to work for me and I’d be happy to share them with you.
 
First of all, I think that it is imperative that we create variety in our schedules. Beware of falling into a routine that is repetitious and make every effort to mix-up your daily activities so that you aren’t repeating the same routine for any extended period of time. Also, if there are activities that you don’t do, such as playing chess or dungeons-n-dragons, then try them out every now and then. It might not be your cup of tea, but anything helps so long as it breaks the monotony!
 
Obviously, the love and emotional support we receive from those in the free world helps immensely. A visit from someone who cares can offer a much needed respite from this hell-hole, enabling us to leave the pod for awhile to be with the people we love and care about. Receiving a letter also provides a wonderful escape from this place, reminding us that someone out there is thinking about us! Never forget that you people in the free world, who are there for us, showing us love and compassion, keep us going. Without the support of you all, many of us would be utterly lost. With your help we can overcome Ground Hog Day Syndrome.

Peering through the window in my cell last night, I watched an electrical storm bring light and life to an open field just beyond the prison grounds. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to behold and it filled me with a sense of tranquillity that has eluded me for quite some time. As I watched the breath-takingly bright flashes of light streak across the sky, I found myself reminiscing back to a time when I was just a small boy, no older than 5. My mother, brother, sister, and I were all living in Houston when a major storm rolled in (hurricane Alicia? This was like ‘ 83 – ‘ 84) We were all huddled closely together, watching the violent winds whip the tall pines around like mere twigs. We were dirt poor (my mother being a single parent at the time, trying to raise three kids on welfare) and I’d already experienced much adversity in my short life, but I felt a strong sense of security with my family that night, despite the storms in our lives. My mother never let my siblings and I forget that she loved us.
 
As I fondly reflected on the innocence of my youth, the lightning illuminating the razor-wired fences brought me back from my reverie. It’s usually quite noisy on this cellblock at that time of night, but as I watched the storm I noticed that it was peacefully quiet. Maybe I wasn’t the only one gazing out the window, remembering a time long past? Every now and then mother nature does her part in helping us combat the tedium of death row on Polunsky Unit….

Most people have misconceptions about prison and what actually happens on the inside. You might be surprised to learn that inmates in the TDCJ don’t have access to swimming pools, tennis courts, microwaves, or the Internet contrary to popular belief. In fact, high security inmates on death row, ad. seg., and close custody don’t have access to televisions. It’s not that I’m complaining; I just want everyone to understand the truth of the matter. That’s roughly 20% of the 155,000 inmates here. 

The TDCJ is divided into 3 main security levels–minimum, medium, and maximum. For my purposes, I’ll describe the functions of a maximum security facility, which houses inmates of all security levels. 

A maximum security facility such as McConnell unit has two sides–A side and B side. A side is minimum custody or the ‘job’ side. Unless you are a confirmed gang member, have a high profile case, or were an extremely bad actor in the county jail prior to coming to prison, you start off on minimum custody. These prisoners run the ‘farm.’ They work in the kitchen, laundry, maintenance, commissary, paint crew, barber shop, clean up crews, they do clerk work, and a few even work the fields. B side houses medium custody, close custody, and ad. seg. (administrative segregation). On Polunsky unit, the ad. seg. building houses death row. 

Minimum custody inmates have T.V.’s in the dayrooms which are recreation rooms close to the housing area with benches and tables to sit on. Here you can play games such as dominos and chess or even write a letter. Each building has a large outside recreation yard with a universal weight machine, basketball court, and handball court. As long as you aren’t at work or on restriction, you can use the dayroom or outside rec yard from 7:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. on weekdays and until 1 a.m. on weekends. 

Additional privileges for minimum custody inmates include admission to educational programs (i.e. GED classes, vocationals, college academics), the craft shop (woodworking, leather working, and art), and sporting tournaments. Minimum custody spends $85 commissary every two weeks if they have the money to spend. Contact visits are also possible for minimum custody. At a contact visit, you can sit with your family, hold hands, and even kiss them goodbye. Non contact visits occur with a glass partition separating inmate from visitor and you talk to each other via telephone receiver. Minimum can have 1 regular visit per week which lasts 2 hours. A special visit is reserved for family or friends which live over 300 miles from the unit. These visits are 4 hours a day on consecutive days (2 days only). You must be minimum custody to get 1 special visit a month. 

Chronic rule violators find themselves on B side, medium custody. Here your only job is the fields. Picking cotton and vegetables or pounding on dirt with a hoe or ‘aggie’ is your typical task. You are only allowed 4 hours of rec time a day, 2 regular non contact visits per month (no special visits), and GED classes only. Medium custody can spend up to $30 every 2 weeks on commissary. You generally 6-9 months on medium custody without a major disciplinary case before making minimum custody. 

Close custody is supposed to be for the most aggressive inmates. Fighting with a weapon, assault, or even multiple fights will land you on close custody. Here you can’t work anywhere. You only get 1 regular non-contact visit a month (no specials) and just 2 hours of rec a day. There’s no TV on close custody. Close custody can spend up to $20 commissary every two weeks. It takes about 9 months to a year without a major case to make medium custody from close custody. 

Death row and ad seg are housed on the same building, under a totally different set of rules than the general population. There’s a level system similar to behavioral modification of the custody system in general population. You are never allowed physical contact with anyone. Every time you leave your cell you must be handcuffed and escorted by two officers with riot batons. 

Ad seg/death row level 1’s have all of their property, get to recreate in a day room (no T.V.) or outside rec yard 10 hours a week. They get to spend $85 every 2 weeks on commissary. Level 1’s also get 1 regular noncontact visit per week (1 special visit a month), no contact visits. Level 2’s don’t have any electrical appliances except a fan. They get 4 hours of rec per week, no commissary privileges except $20 hygiene and stamps, and only 2 regular non contact visits each month (no specials). Level 3’s are treated the same as level 2’s except they get only 3 hours of rec a week and only 1 regular visit (non-contact) each month.

With close to 14 years experience in a maximum security facility, I have countless stories from both sides of a farm. For your convenience, they will be recorded under two subcategories: general population and the row.

As I mentioned in my story, I was 16 when I arrived at the Garza West Unit, a maximum intake facility. My brother and I “caught chain” (rode the bus) there together with about 50 others from Harris County Jail. It was the first time, I’d seen him since trial and the only quality time I’d spent with him since before Ray died. Handcuffed together, we talked about our family, appeals, and hope for our future. We both hoped we’d be assigned to the same unit after the intake process at Garza but realized it was unlikely because the TDCJ doesn’t like to house family together. Once we stepped off the chain bus and received our TDCJ-ID numbers, we were assigned to different dorms. 

Garza West and Garza East were built on the old airforce base Chase Field in Beeville, Texas. The inmates are housed in dormatories made of sheet metal. Think of living in a tin box with the South Texas sun heating it up in 105 degree weather. There were two large fans to each dorm, but they only circulated hot air. It felt like living in an oven. I tried to stay out of the dorm as much as possible during the day for more than just the heat. The predators hung out in there watching T.V., gambling at the domino table, and doing unspeakable things behind the bunks in the back of the dorm beyond the guards’ observation.

I went before a committee my first day there to determine my housing and job assignment. Being a skinny kid, I’d hoped to get in the kitchen to put on a few pounds. When I asked the warden about it, he bared his tobacco stained teeth and in the deepest redneck voice you’ve ever heard said, “Boy, we gone start a young’un like you in da fields. Come see me when you got some whiskers on ya face, then we’ll see about a food service job.”

Think of slaves on a plantation with the slave owners on horses with whips, cracking them to push the slaves harder. Only here, all the slaves weren’t black, and the master wielded a gun. Everyone had an “aggie” (hoe), You form a line and beat the dirt while the “lead row” (lead inmate) sings in the scorching sun. It’s tedious work, monotonously beating on dirt in time with a tune, and it only pissed me off because I didn’t believe I deserved to be here for a crime my father committed especially when trustee inmates would come around later with a tractor and plow the field we were hitting on in an hour. In other words, all of our hard work was inconsequential. That just added insult to injury. 

My brother and I caught chain from Harris County with a guy tattooed from head to toe. We called him “Scratch” because a lot of his ink looked like it was scratched on. He’d been inside before, so he tried to lace us up on how everything works, what to expect, how to act, etc….Scratch told me he was going to try to get to Jester 4 unit, a psychiatric unit that, according to him, was air conditioned, had hospital bunks that reclined with the push of a button, cable T.V., great food, and pretty nurses who treated you like a human. I asked him how to get to such a place and he just told me to “act crazy” as in tell them I hear voices and see things that aren’t there. 

I didn’t really want to leave my brother, but I felt like we’d soon be sent to different farms anyway. Besides, I was tired of the hot dorms and the hard work after only 3 weeks. Scratch said you didn’t have to work and you lived with psych patients on Jester 4, nothing like the predators on Garza and the other units. So, I told the psych doctor that my field boss’ horse was stealing my thoughts, and that I had suicidal thoughts because I kept hearing my dead uncle calling me from the other side. The next day I was sent to the Skyview Unit, a psychiatric unit in Rusk, Texas.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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…

The most appealing part of being locked in administrative segregation, for me, was not being forced into slave labor. Texas doesn’t pay its prisoners. You either work or get punished for refusing. It used to eat at my soul working for free. Not only was I in prison for 99 years for a crime I didn’t commit, I was being yelled at by a fat redneck chewing tobacco on a horse to “stay in time with the line, Pruett!” That shit drove me crazy.

Once I learned how to deal with the rogue guards who thought it was their duty to retaliate against me, ad. seg. offered a respite from the struggles of general population. I could sleep as much as I wanted, read, write, or do whatever all day in the confines of my 10×7 cage, and most of the things I needed like food and necessities (clothes and cleaning stuff) were brought to me. It seemed like a much better alternative to working and fending off booty bandits–especially when I was promoted to level 1 status and could listen to my radio! A year without music, which is how long it took to make level 1 from the day Nagle died, felt like an eternity in the boiling pits of hell.

What I failed to realize early on is that one can’t live in sensory deprivation without stimulating your mind and body regularly. If you don’t go to recreation much and exercise, your muscles begin to atrophy and all sorts of physical ailments plague you. I didn’t exercise for a couple of years after being segregated. Then I’d go strong for a couple of months and do nothing for just as long, repeating the cycle for years. We need adversity and struggle to grow and stay healthy; that’s just how life works.

I always kept my mind sharp. I’m an avid reader; sometimes I’ll read over 700 pages a day of novels if the story is good, but when I read anything of substance I ruminate over it, taking my time. Also, I played lots of chess, wrote stories and some poetry, and had many interesting conversations with my neighbors…As you can read in my article Groundhog Day Syndrome, failure to exercise your mind often leads to completely losing it.

The threat of violence remains even in ad. seg., but it’s not as great. Being locked in single man cells, there’s not much a person can do to you. People like to make spear tips of of metal pieces and attach them to long poles, tightly made with magazines or newspaper, and shoot them at others with spear guns made from rubber bands and altered bottles. Spears can be deadly if one hits you in the right place. Besides that, people in seg are fond of throwing urine and feces or other liquid substances at their enemies. I’ve seen many TDCJ employees quit after being showered in feces or urine; I don’t blame them either! Occasionally, a crafty inmate will figure out a way to get out of handcuffs or open their door and stab someone. It’s rare but it does happen.

All of the above mentioned threats of violence aren’t enough to deter the “cell warrior.” A cell warrior is someone who enjoys cursing and threatening people–all day, every day. Typically, the cell warrior was someone else’s property in population, a rape victim, or some other type that was treated badly often. But, put them behind the protective steel doors of ad. seg., with little threat of really violence, and they feel secure enough to vent their previously secret thoughts. I’ve heard it all. Once, on the Hughes unit, there was a dude called ‘The Ultimate Cell Warrior’ (a play on the old wrestler, The Ultimate Warrior) who loved to challenge people to cell warrior contests. The first time I heard him, I was in disbelief. He ate his breakfast (around 3 a.m.) and kicked on his door for 5 minutes at least.

 Boom!

Boom!

 Boom!

The acoustics in these pods are so good that it sounded like gunshots. Then he screamed:

“I AM THE ULTIMATE CELL WARRIOR! AHHHH!! Look out 74 cell, you d*cksucking, p*ssy packing punk, bring yo b*tch @ss to the door and take this @ss whooping!”

He went on to disrespect 74 cell for over 3 hours, calling him and his family every obscene name in the book. I asked my neighbor what 74 had done to him… “Nothing,” he chuckled. “He never spoke one word to the dude, the ultimate cell warrior just went off on him like he does all of us. Welcome to ad. seg….”