To Free the Truth

The way I was raised in prison was you don’t ever back down from anyone, no matter how big and bad they are. If you feel disrespected you immediately address the issue. To let anything slide without doing so will inevitably draw the interest of those who want something from you you’re probably not willing to give. Remember that any sign of weakness is exploited.

Once, I was outside playing basketball with a  little dude we called Critter. As we volleyed the ball, a huge black guy, about 6′7″ and well over 350 lbs, ran right through the court. He was running laps around the yard to lose weight, I guess. What concerned me was him running through the handball court while we were playing a game–a huge violation of the convict code.

“Hey, dude, ” I called. “Don’t you see we’re playing a game here?”

No response. He kept running laps.

I told Critter that it was disrespectful of him, that it’s not acceptable. He agreed. We thought maybe he’d go around the court next lap, or so we hoped. The dude weighed more than both of us combined.

As he got close to the court on his return lap, I saw that he was going to run through our court again. We were in the middle of a game, for crying out loud! I snatched the ball up and dropped it on the ground with my left hand and power served it with my fist as hard as I could right into him as he passed through the court, no doubt leaving a welp under his shirt. He cried out and turned after me.

There was no way I stood a chance with the dude head on, so I ran around him, danced around him sort of… I talked bad to him as I ducked aroudn his advances, hoping to tire him out some. After some name calling, he was pretty furious, but he couldn’t catch me.

Finally, after 2-3 minutes, he stopped running and merely walked fast after me. He told me, “I’m gonna get some of that pretty white butt when I catch you, white boy!” I took a deep breath, thinking it was now or never as the fence was crowded with observers,and lunged forward, connecting square in his face and busting his nose. By then I’d developed a pretty solid fight game, or so I thought. My punches were quick and solid, and I bobbed and weaved away from all of his. At first. I was damaging his face, cutting him up, and briefly, I thought I might win this fight. Then he finally landed one of his powerful overhands and I dropped to the ground instantly, dazed out of my mind.

Had he kicked me, jumped down on me and punched me a few more times, I would’ve been hurting pretty badly, but I would’ve been okay with it. Instead, he simply pointed down at  me and shouted, “I drop you ho-ass white boys!” That’s what we call clowning someone after a fight, adding insult to injury. I’ve lost many fights, and I’m okay with that. Disrespecting me further and calling me out like that in front of everyone can’t go unchecked. I ran to the metal trash can and yanked the lid off, then darted towards him and swung, hitting him in the arm. I tried to swing again, but he caught it and tossed it to the side before barrelling down on me. Just then the yard filled with rank led by the captain who stopped the fight and locked me up..the next time I ran into him he apologized to me and shook my hand, saying he hopes it’s over. In my book that made it over. Thankfully!

That incident is one of the disciplinary offenses I was convicted of…the report simply states that I fought with a weapon. In my trial, to show that I was a future danger to society, that report was included with all the other s in my ‘prison file’ for the jury to deliberate over in the penalty phase. This is one of my key issues on appeal. I wasn’t allowed to defend myself against that prison file. I didn’t get to tell the jury that I picked that lid up and fought with the guy because I had to. To do otherwise opens the door to robbery, rape, and all sorts of degrading repercussion. There is no running in here. You either “fight, f*ck, or bust a $60.” The guards don’t protect you. If you read those reports and don’t hear the entire story, of course I look like an aggressive person, a ‘future danger to society.’ They don’t tell the full story though. That’s one of the reason’s I’m writing this post. Yes, I hit him with that trash can lid. Yes, I was in possession of prison shanks. Who didn’t have a shank? That’s the question. We all did. Very few of us ever wanted to use them, but everyone kept one close just in case. I’m thankful I never had to use one. Fighting back was all I ever had to do besides the trash can incident. Some weren’t so lucky. Imagine living in a 9×7 cage with a guy the size of the one I hit with that lid. How do you defend yourself when he gets horny and looks at you? My jury never got to consider that scenario when sifting through my prison file nor did they get to consider the reasons I received the disciplinary cases I did. I didn’t have a fighting chance at any stage of my trial.

The first thing most people notice when they meet me are my tattoos. My left arm is entirely inked out except for a small piece of flesh on my bicep, and my right arm is a quarter of the way covered. A third of my back is covered by a piece as well. All that was done in a little over 2 years while in general population. Had I not been charged with capital murder and placed in administrative segregation in December of 1999, 90% of my body would be covered by now, I think. Tattoos are very addictive. 

What most people never see at first or even second glance are the deep scars up and down the inside of my left arm, from my wrist to the bottom of my bicep. A moment of weakness that the ink covers rather nicely. 

It was around November of 1996. A psychologist named Dr. Cripen presided over the wing where I lived on Skyview and he caught wind that I was selling coffee to the patients that drank theirs up quickly. He must’ve thought I was exploiting them because he called me into an office and gave me a lecture about it, then told me he’d have me discharged from Skyview and sent to a “real man’s farm.” The problem was that I wasn’t quite ready to go.

My friend Shane told me the only way to avoid being discharged is to make the doctors think you’re truly suicidal. “How the hell do I do that?!” I asked. 

“Cut yourself. Do it good and do it in front of someone so you don’t actually kill yourself, ” he advised. 

Later that day I broke a shaving razor apart and cleaned the blade. I tentatively pulled the blade across my wrist barely drawing blood. It was too superficial of a cut to make anyone think I was seriously suicidal, I thought. The sound of approaching footsteps told me the guards were walking around doing a head count, so I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and dug in deep just above the first cut. Blood was pouring out more freely now, and when the guard looked in my cell, he shouted, “Stop that!!” and to the desk officer he yelled, “Call the rank! We got one cutting! Hurry it up!”

Moments later the hall in front of my cell was crowded with bodies. By then I’d cut myself a couple more times, blood was oozing down my arm and hand. I tell people that I was only fooling, that my intention was to stop the discharge in hopes of staying at Skyview a bit longer. Maybe a part of it was really that. I think all of it was when I first drew blood, but as I got going my mind started racing. Ninety nine years, not hearing anything from my mom for months, the thought of spending my life in prison…it all washed over me and gripped me. If the cutting was slow and easy at first, they were surely fast and hard at the end. I raised my hand up and slashed down ferociously, blood started spraying the walls and floor. I was in a zone and I wasn’t stopping, so they opened the door and tackled me, carefully wrestling the razor out of my hand. 

A physician cleaned my arm and sewed me up while several guards held me down. I spend over seven hours strapped down in 5-point restraints on a cold, steel bunk…naked. It wouldn’t have been so long but for the first few hours, I cried and tried to bang my head against the bunk. They strapped a football helmet to my head after that. Once I was completely exhausted and calm, they moved me to the suicide room where I ate peanut butter sandwiches and peed in a hole in the ground for eight days, wishing I was truly dead. 

I ended up staying on Skyview for about 9 more months, but the scars will last a lifetime. I caught a lot of hell for them, too. In prison any sign of weakness is exploited. People who cut themselves are seen as “weak-minded.” They don’t do their time; they let their time do them. so, people thought they could take advantage of me because of my scars at first. I got into lots of fights just because they thought I’d break weak and pay some form of protection. 

I never did, but what I did do was try to cover the scars, those symbols of life overwhelming, with tattoos.

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.

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.

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.

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?!