behind the glass

Robert and I write each other once or twice a week. I’ve already asked him to start working on things from his perspective, so installments will arrive and be posted as they come.

My mom, brother, sister, and I...I couldn't have been more than 1 or 2

My father missed the first 7 years of my life. He was in prison for a robbery spree across America. He left my mother alone to raise my brother, sister, and myself. Being uneducated and without any real job skills, she constantly struggled to make ends meet. She did the best that she could. Nevertheless, my earliest memories are of being hungry and moving around a lot.

Neither of my parents were equipped (mentally or financially) to raise children. And this is illustrated in how my father reacted to being in my life. He tried to be super cool to me, rarely disciplining me when I misbehaved, smoking pot with me, and generally treating more like a friend than a son. He simply thought he could make up for all the lost years by being my friend. While I totally enjoyed having the coolest dad in the neighborhood, what I really needed was a father.

By the time I was 15, I was out of control. As a child, I hated being the poorest kid around, so I started stealing. It started with an ice cream sandwich in kindergarten and evolved to clothes and bikes by my early teens. Before I knew it I was stealing vehicles, committing burglaries, selling drugs, and making more money than my father and brother combined.

Mom and I, in my early teens

Things got considerably better when my father was released from prison in1986. He promised my mother that his days of being an outlaw were over, that he would settle down, be a man, and take care of his family. I was just ecstatic to have a father of my own.

I lived in places like this off and on for most of my free years just as when this part of my story took place.

My life in the free world came to a screeching halt in August of 1995 when I was 15 years old. I burglarized a home with my cousin and a friend, and we were apprehended later that night. Some of the stolen guns from theburglary were found in my trailer park the next morning by my neighbor, Ray. All but two of the weapons were eventually turned over to the cops by my father to show that he was an honest parent. Eight days later I was released from juvenile hall to my parents’ custody.

 Being locked up for the first time was a rude awakening. I told myself that I’d straighten up and promised the same to my parents and friends. No more getting high, running the streets, and being a thug. I told my best friend that I wanted to be the first Pruett to finish high school.

 But, I wasn’t entirely reformed. About a week after I was released, I found out my neighbor, Ray, had a couple of guns from the burglary. This angered me because Ray and I weren’t getting along, and I somehow still thought that was “my” property.

 At first I got along well with Ray and his wife, Jane. There were older, but I liked hanging out with older people. I smoked pot with them and even took Ray to score crack a few times before he quit smoking it. Things between us deteriorated that summer. Jane’s daughter Nicole, who was my age, came down to Texas to stay the summer. She and I had started messing around like teenagers do and Ray didn’t like that. He said I was a bad influence, and, in retrospect, he was right. But, he allowed things to go on until Jane’s purse was stolen by my friend. Ray blamed it on me and forbid me to ever come over to his place or see Nicole. So, when I heard he had some of the stolen guns, I was furious. I asked him about them one afternoon and he denied having them. A heated argument ensued and ended with my mom yelling at me to get my butt inside.

Later that day, I told my brother–who was closer to Ray’s age at 25–what Ray said. He told me he’d kick his ass when Ray got home. I, then, told my father what happened and he echoed what my brother had said. Fights were a common way for settling disputes in the neighborhoods where we lived, and this trailer park was no different.

My parents fell asleep before Ray ever made it home. My brother talked to me about the situation and said that it would be best to let it blow over. I agreed because a part of me really wanted to stay out of trouble.

As I prepared for bed, I heard Ray’s truck pull into his driveway. Moments later I heard cursing and screaming so I looked out the window and saw him waving his arms at our trailer. I told my brother and he went to wake my dad up as I put on my boots. I walked outside and rounded the end of the trailer. Ray was bent over inside his truck. I panicked thinking he was going for a weapon, and rushed him. I yanked him from his truck and we fought briefly until my brother arrived. He wrestled Ray to the ground and they rolled around for maybe a minute before my father appeared. Ray broke loose before Dad arrived and ran behind his trailer, where my brother and father chased after him. I stayed by his truck talking to people from the trailer park who had come out to see what was happening. Shortly thereafter my father came running from behind the trailer covered in blood.

First, all of this was a huge misunderstanding. At trial, Ray’s wife testified that their dog had gotten out when Ray came in which is why he was screaming when I looked out the window. I thought he was yelling at me. He kept an extra dog leash in his truck, which is why I saw him bent over inside of it.

Second, I never saw Ray get stabbed nor did I want that. It freaked me out to see both my father and my brother covered in blood. All of that being said, I was still certified as an adult at age 16 and sentenced to 99 years in prison under the law of parties.

Nearly everyone who hears my story asks, “How could they give you 99 years when you weren’t the murder and you were just 15 when it happened?” Unfortunately, that’s a question that will probably never be answered. A jury isn’t required to explain why it votes a certain way. Apparently, they thought I was beyond rehabilitation, that the solution was to throw me away forever.

Think about this for a second. Society places countless restrictions on minors because they aren’t mature enough to make certain decisions. Studies have shown that the parts of the brain related to cognitive reasoning don’t fully develop until the mid-20s. At 15, I wasn’t old enough to decide to be outside alone after 10 p.m. watching R rated movies alone, smoke, vote, get a tattoo, own a gun, drink, or even drive, yet I was mature enough to make a decision to impact the rest of my life? That simply unfathomable, especially considering I wasn’t the actual murderer. My first reaction to my sentence was complete and utter shock. The district attorney only asked for 40 years. My brother thought I’d get half of whatever the jury gave him because of my age and the fact that he played a considerably larger role in Ray’s death.

After the shock wore off, denial crept it. It was incomprehensible that I would spend the rest of my life in prison for something my dad did. I began thinking my conviction and sentence would soon be overturned by some reasonable judge, that the people who run the system wouldn’t let me waste away. I started going to the law library to study the law and fight for my life. Every jailhouse lawyer I told my story to assured me things would work out and I’d “give that time back.”

In many ways, being arrested, convicted and sentenced to 99 years awakened me. For starters, I was off drugs for the first time in 8 years and reality truly sunk in. I’d been a selfish, reckless screw-up most of my life. I thought about the crimes I’d committed and the people I’d hurt. My stomach would turn when I thought about the people who’d return to their homes to find them robbed and trashed; I felt dirty knowing I was perpetuating a disease by selling drugs; I still tear up to this day when I think of Ray’s wife and kids. I’m disgusted with the person I was back then.

GED 01/07 with Mom who is holding my niece

So, I made every effort to change. Not only because I wanted to show the courts I could change–which I partly did–but more so because I wanted to be a better person. The first thing I did upon arriving in prison was request to be placed in education programs. By January of 1996, I had my GED and several months later, I had my plumbing vocational. Next, I signed up for college academics. My free time was mostly spent reading. I read lots of self help books and also read a lot of novels. Prior to my incarceration, I’d read one book. To date, that number has exceeded 3500. An old convict told me that the penitentiary doesn’t rehabilitate anyone. You’ve got to do it yourself. I took that to heart. In every way, I worked to better myself and grow as a human being. In my heart, I believed I would one day regain my freedom and so I had to prepare for life in the free world.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve heard, seen on t.v., or read about, nothing can prepare you for prison life. All of my father’s horror stories only worked to intensify my fears. As I stepped off the bus, my heart was speeding. Sweat poured down my face. As I entered my cell block, everyone’s eyes were on me, checking out the fresh meat, yet I tried not to convey my fear. Any sign of weakness would be exploited, I was taught. I had to be strong, stand tall, and at all costs, fight back or I’d be eaten alive by the predators. No way could I let that happen. You can’t ask for protection from the guards either because most will tell you to be a man and send you right back to the cell block, then you’re branded a snitch. That’s the last thing you want. A snitch is at the bottom of the hierarchy; they’re treated even worse than child molesters. 

My first day on Garza West Unit a young, muscle-bound black guy in his early 20s approached me, “Say, white boy, you gon’ fight, fuck, or bust a sixty?” 

Translation: I had the choice to fight him, let him have sex with me, or give him $60 worth of commisary. His gold tooth sparkled as he smiled. He clearly thought he had easy prey. He was surprised when my fist landed on his face, but he quickly recovered and sidestepped my next swing before schooling me in the art of prison boxing.  He hammered me, but I got up every time I fell down. That was the key. Had I stayed down and not fought back, I’d have belonged to him. By showing heart and fighting, I gained some respect. Of course, respect is something you have to maintain over and again. But, it’s much easier in here if you have it…unless, of course, you enjoy being sodomized against your will amongst other horrible acts.

Sam Pruett in the early 90s

My father was raised in penal institutions. He was placed in reform school at age 10, and at 17, he ‘graduated’ to the penitentiary. He later spent several terms in Texas and Missouri prisons before killing Ray. 

As I’ve written, violence is the order of the day in here. You are conditioned to respond aggressively to any perceived threat. My father was a very violent man from this sort of conditioning. Anytime someone appeared to challenge his manhood, he became aggressive. He used to scare the hell out of me when he’d go into a rage on someone. From 1986 to 1995, he stabbed 3 different people on 3 separate occassions. Each time we had to move in the middle of the night so he wouldn’t go to jail. There wasn’t any running away from Ray’s murder though.

My point is that prison conditions people to become aggressive and violent with my father being the perfect illustration. After a couple of years inside, I started noticing my father in me. A part of me was proud that I had respect amongst the convicts, that everyone knew I would not only fight, but that I was a force to be reckoned with… It had become almost instinctive to be aggressive when I felt disrespected. I wouldn’t tolerate violations of my personal space or boundaries. 

The day that I realized that I was becoming my father was a depressing one. Don’t get me wrong, I love him and always will. In my heart, I know he’s sorry things happened the way they did, and I know he’d give anything to change it all. But, he was a product of his environment–one mean son of a bitch. I didn’t want to be that way; it brought tears just thinking about it. But, to renounce violence in prison is equivalent to losing all respect. To lose all respect means to concede to rape, robbery, and the whims of the predators.

What could I do? I’d need $20,000 for an attorney to file my state habeas corpus, and if that was denied, an additional $50,000 for federal appeals. I didn’t have $2 for a tube of toothpast; where would I get that kind of money?!? There were a few decent jailhouse lawyers who could file my appeals, but they wanted no less than $2500 deposited into free world bank accounts–if I paid the $1000 for my trial transcripts. 

With nowhere to turn and no real way to fight for my freedom, I sank into a deep state of despair. I’d already been depressed because my mother rarely wrote. The letter from my attorney only exacerbated it. The psych doctor increased my dosage of antidepressants, yet I still walked around listlessly, thoughts of suicide frequently on my mind. There were several guys there that I thought of as true friends, dudes who expressed sincere love and empathy, yet I still felt alone.

No coffee that morning meant more than feeling drowsy. A caffeine headache hit me hard around 10 a.m as the blistering south Texas sun scorched me. Monotonously pounding dirt with my hoe in time with the lead row’s (leader of the field squad) song didn’t help much. When the sole of my boot broke off, I dropped to my knees in frustration. If there is a god, I thought, he surely hates me.

At noon, the field lieutenant raised his cowboy hat and pointed his horse towards the back gate. “Hat time” meant time to turn in and go eat lunch. That day, for me and another guy with old boots, it meant a trip to the boot room with our field boss.

After the typical 5 minute wait in a line filled with naked men holding their clothes in their hands to be searched, our boss took us to the boot room. An hour later he led us to the chow hall in our new boots. Fried chicken, potatoes with gravy, and chocolate cake! We were hungry, that’s for sure. But, just as we approached the chow hall door, Lt. Wallace slammed it shut. “Chow’s over!”

“WTF?!?” I was in disbelief. I pointed towards our field boss and quickly told the lieutenant that we were field squad and had been taken to boot up. He told the lieutenant this was true. Yet, Wallace was indifferent. He told our boss to take us to the ODR (officer dining room) and give us a johnny sack, which is a sack lunch with a peanut butter sandwich and raisins.

My coworker and I were infuriated. The entire walk to the ODR I complained, telling our boss that we didn’t bust our asses in the hot sun for him for peanut butter and raisins. It was fried chicken day for crying out loud! He didn’t seem to care all that much.

Walking down the hall with my shoulders slumped and my head down, I took a bite of my sandwich and headed towards my building. I must have passed 5 ranking officers and 20 guards, not one of which said a word about me eating in the hall. Yet, when I entered 3 building, the desk officer, Daniel Nagle, barked at me, “OFFENDER! DO NOT EAT IN MY HALLWAY!” I didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him crazy. I rounded the desk area and dropped my ID card in a box designated for inmates going to the outside rec yard, then walked towards the outside door. Nagle screamed, “Hey! I told you not to eat in my hallway! That’s a case! Throw that sandwich away NOW!”

I was pissed. I’d worked hard for 6 hours for a stinking peanut butter sandwich, passed all that rank eating it, and this guy wanted me to throw it away? Sure, everyone knew Nagle was a stickler for the rules, but where was his humanity? Did I have to be treated like scum for eating my lunch? We had a heated exchange for about a minute before I told him in a not so kind way why I had a sandwich and was eating it in the hallway. He told me he’d call Lt. Wallace to verify my story, but I was a getting a case until he heard from him. I shrugged my shoulders and went outside. While I was outside, I spoke with Sgt. Martinez and Sgt. Ortiz through the fence separating the outside rec yard and the main hallway. I explained to them what transpired between Nagle and me and all about the chow hall closing. They listened to me, but only had smart comments. They headed to the front desk where Nagle was.

I’m not sure if was before or after I talked to the sergeants but while on the rec yard, I worked out on the universal weight machine. While adjusting the pin on the bench press for another guy, I cut my thumb. The machine was old and out of line, so in order to adjust the weights, someone had to press the bar up while another person placed the pin between the weights. As I was doing that, the guy on the bench press jerked the bar and the metal pin cut me badly. Blood poured out of my hand, so I used my shirt and pants to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t the first time that pin bit someone.

After rec, I went back to my cell block to get my dirty clothes for exchange. I then left the block and stopped at the desk to speak with Nagle. I told him I was sorry for getting mad, but I wasn’t in the wrong for eating my lunch. He told me it was okay, that he called and found out I was allowed to have it, but he didn’t want me eating in “his hallway” again.

I left the building to exchange my clothes. After getting clean clothes, I lounged around the commissary and 3 gym–a good 150 yards from 3 building where Nagle worked. It was my routine to hang out in this area with a group of others waiting for last chow around 4:30 p.m. My thumb was still bleeding so I used torn up pockets on a shirt to stop the bleeding.

While I waited for the chow hall to open, I noticed several Hispanic inmates who lived on 7 building. They rushed down the hallway and slipped through the gates leading to 7 building. They looked nervous. A couple of guys around me said someone just beat the shit out of Nagle. They said he was knocked out on 3 building. Everyone talked but no one walked toward the building to investigate.

Maybe 10 minutes passed before a bunch of rank came running towards 3 building screaming, “Clear the hall!!!!!!” We were all ushered into the gym and the doors were locked. Shortly thereafter, the rank came rushing back down the hallway with someone on a stretcher, presumably Nagle. Cheers rang throughout the gym. No one like Nagle. He was hard on everyone, inmates and guards alike.

About 2 hours, Sgt. Ortiz came into the gym and did an inmate head count. He left. About 30 minutes later, he returned with a group of officers. They handcuffed me and led me to 11 building which is the lockup building. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

In 11 building, Sgt. Martinez stripped me naked and took pictures of me. I was then placed in a legal visit cage. These are metal cages approximately 2 square feet around and 10 feet high. I sat inside for 7 hours in only boxers without food or water while a cold front chilled south Texas.

In the middle of the night, I was taken to the administration building and interviewed by two investigators. “Nagle is dead,” they told me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Huh?? Well, he was a tough officer. I’m not surprised someone killed him.”

“Do you know who or why?,” they asked.

“No, I’m not a snitch, but I don’t know anything anyway. I was by the gym and commissary.”

I did express to them about how the inmate population felt about Nagle. He treated us like dirt, subhumans. No less than 10 times a day, he had arguments with inmates about rules. I had one with him myself that very day. I’d heard countless officers in shouting matches with him. At this point, I had no idea they were focused on me as a suspect, but it became clear in another interview the following day when they accused me of murdering Nagle, and immediately transferred me off the McConnell Unit to the Michaels Unit over 500 miles away.

By the time I was indicted, I’d begun entertaining thoughts of taking the blame allowing the state to kill me. When I was 16, I slashed my arm with a razor in a failed suicide attempt. I just didn’t have the guts to do it myself, but the thought of letting the state do it sounded appealing in my convoluted head. It’d be sweet release.

In short, I put up a half-hearted defense. I never lied and said I did it, yet there was so much more I could have done to save my life. The defense I did present was a facade for my family and friends. I didn’t want anyone knowing I’d totally given up on life. That said, I got pretty emotional during the punishment phase of trial when the DA asked me, “I’m not sure I understand you. Just what are you asking this jury, Mr. Pruett?”

I looked at the jury with tears in my eyes, “I don’t care what ya’ll do. I’m going to die in prison anyway.”

I was sentenced to die by lethal injection on April 30, 2002.