I have learned two lessons in my life: first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones. Second, just as despair can come to one another only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings. –Elie Wiesel

Older convicts taught me a lot about life in prison and how to not only survive but thrive here. Of course I helped myself by always asking questions. Lots of guys seem to be reluctant to ask for advice, but that was never me. In fact, I used to drive the older guys mad with my incessant questions, but it was necessary and I would advise anyone coming in to do the same.

One of the things I was taught is to ‘let the free world go.’ If you’re always thinking about your life in the free, your days and nights in here get longer and harder. Most believe that if you just forget about it and try to build a life in here, you’ll be okay. My old friend Marty once told me to stop ‘doing time.’ He said I’m a lifer and the only way I’d survive without losing my mind would be to learn to ‘live’ in here, not ‘do time.’ In other words, I should accept this as my new life and forget about being free. Thinking about my life as a free person would only make me depressed and would eventually cause me to kill myself or lose my mind.

‘Let the free world go’ is a common axiom in here that can be interpreted a couple different ways. The way I took it initially was to completely forget about ever getting out of here. I wrote a lot about that early on here. The free world meant nothing to me. Prison was my world and I tried to dominate my environment. In many ways, I did just that. But, I got so caught up in it that I lost all hope of ever being free again. Letting go the way I did helped me for awhile, but it eventually broke me down.

In The Shawshank Redemption, Tim Robbins’ character said, “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies”. To lose hope in here is the worst thing you could do. I guess the best way to interpret letting the free world go would be to not dwell on it; don’t worry about what you don’t have, yet don’t completely forget either…and always keep hope that you’ll find yourself a free man again. There is always hope.

It’s all still relatively new to me–hoping for a life outside these walls. Lots of nights I find myself lying in bed waiting to fall asleep and daring to dream about emerging from prison , living the life I’d love to live. These hopes and dreams no longer cripple me or inhibit my ability to survive in here; they fuel my fire to succeed. I firmly believe that I must have the courage to hope for something better than this, to believe in my freedom in order to realize it. It’s still a bit painful to think about the life I don’t have, the one I hope for, but I use it as an inspiration to fight.

I’ve read and heard accounts of guys who were exonerated and one thing they invariably say is they never lost hope. Even though I can’t say I never lost it, I’ve regained belief in seeing life outside these four walls with ferocity. Somehow I think believing is a big part of the key. My whole attitude must be shaped with the idea that I will regain freedom if I fight hard enough. I owe this renewed hope and belief to Jenniy. She showed me that there’s a better way. She inspired me to get off my butt and fight for my life (she wouldn’t have it any other way, trust me). I don’t think it’s possible, I believe it will be.

The thing is, I need help. I can’t do this alone. Yes, I have Jenniy helping me fight, as well as my awesome friends Tony and Candice. But, we need more people screaming from the tops of mountains. If you’re reading this, you are, at least, interested in my story, maybe you even care. Maybe you think, “what can I do? I’m just one person?” There’s a lot that can be done to help me prove my innocence, just ask. Mainly, I just need people believing in my fight. If you believe, as we do, then you’ll reach out and try to help. And right now I feel the most important thing is to get people in my corner to help earn the attention of the public and let them know I was wrongly convicted. Somehow, I feel it’s important to get the media involved. The public should know. So, you might help by contacting the media, directing people to the website, and expressing how you feel about my case. I also need help advertising the site. My hope is that my story will draw national attention and some well qualified law firm will take my case pro bono because ultimately I must prove to the courts that I’m innocent.

Sometimes I find myself starting to slip back into my old ways of thinking… This site doesn’t get much attention, our letters to attorneys, politicians, and organizations haven’t gotten too much response at all, and there’s still no word from the federal court on my appeal. It’d be easy to throw in the towel and just let the state kill me, but I refuse to give up hope again. Instead, I’m imploring everyone reading this to please help. The more people I have on my side, the better chance I have at surviving. Without any support, it’s just that much harder.

Some people don’t have the time to get proactive yet can spare a few dollars to help with postage costs while others don’t have money yet have plenty of time to help contact media outlets, law firms, politicians etc. Some of you may just have ideas. It all works. Honestly, just knowing that I have people who believe in me enough to even offer a kind word is enough to add fuel to the renewed hope I have burning in my soul.

i'll be on the outside of the fence one of these days...

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.

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.

All I have in this world is my wife…once they banned my wife it was over for me. They’re gonna have to kill me the old fashioned way now. I have no reason to live…

I’m on level 3, the bottom of the barrel, the worst place you can be in prison in the USA. All of these cells are sealed up so we can’t pass things (books, mags, newspapers, etc.) to each other. Even the windows in the doors are covered with Plexiglas so we can’t throw bodily fluids or shoot spears at passers-by. It always smells like smoke from old fires, feces, urine, and pepper spray down here. Most of us are pretty pissed off; some have every reason in the world to be.

It’s 6 a.m. and the newly formed shakedown crew (a.k.a. “terrorist crew”) is at my neighbor’s door banging for him to uncover his window and submit to hand restraints so his cell can be searched. He’s already made it clear that he’s not coming out willingly. After twenty minutes of yelling at him with no response, the lieutenant sprays a full can of gas into his open food tray slot. Five minutes later another can, then another. Still no response. There’s a team of nine men suited up in pads and helmets lined up outside his cage and they all look nervous as does the lieutenant. The gas isn’t working and they know they’ll have to conduct a cell extraction. They also know it won’t be easy. Another can of gas is used as they pull the door open with a come-along (my neighbor had his door blocked off so they couldn’t just open it) and the team runs in on him. Banging and grunts are followed by yelling and a scream. They finally get him out and carry him to medical. The lieutenant comes out with a shank, but no one was stabbed today because the metal folded in on my neighbor as he tried to strike one of the team. They got lucky this time, he says when they bring him back and leave him naked in the cell. 

Fast forward a day. Another cell extraction a few cells down after the inmate refused to give the tray slot at lunch. No shank was used, but they took two minutes getting him out; he put up quite a bit of resistance.

The next day an inmate is carried down here to level 3 for stabbing a sergeant in the forehead with a used hypodermic needle. He says he has at least several forms of Hepatitis. It’s likely they have been passed on to that guard.

Another cell extraction the same day followed by a guy laying on the run and making them carry him to his cell causes the administration to shut down all operations on levels 2 & 3. Lockdown. We eat johnny sacks for several days and don’t get to rec or shower. The administration hopes this calms down the aggressive ones, but it only fuels their fire.

Why are these guys being so violent, you may ask. All except for one has had their parents, wives, children, and other loved ones banned from ever visiting them again. Over 50 people here on death row are experiencing the same treatment. Why? Well, they used illegal cell phones to call their family and friends. Once the phones were recovered, the administration banned the people whose numbers they found on the phones. “You want to talk to your son on death row on the phone?” the administration asked. “Well, you can’t visit them again for doing it” was their response. In my eyes, that’s an extremely harsh punishment for people who only talked to their loved ones that they can’t even touch at visit…people waiting to die. What mother would pass up the chance to talk to her baby boy a few more times before he was taken away from her forever even if it was on a phone illegally smuggled into prison?

So, these guys don’t have anything to lose anymore. They have been sentenced to die (and under law of parties, for crimes they didn’t even commit for some), put on level 3 where they can’t have their property (which isn’t much to begin with–radios, food, even multivitamins), and then the big blow lands: you’ll never see your family again because you called them. “Die alone and broken” is what the administration says.

Forced into a corner with absolutely no incentive to behave, these men try to strike back. Some reason that violence is all the TDCJ understands, which is typically true. I’ve watched guards slap inmates and refuse to feed them…because they knew the inmate wouldn’t react violently. These same guards would never do that to my neighbor who just fought 9 cornbread fed men with a shank. Non-violent inmates are typically shafted by the guards and administration, they’re disrespected and ignored, told to file a grievance about their issues. But once said inmate behaves aggressively and the threat of violence is imminent, then the guards and administration try to act like their buddy. Now they want to listen to the inmate’s issues and help. So again, aggression is conditioned in most here; it’s the only thing that appears to work for a lot of us.

The administration isn’t backing down on this visitation thing, though. If they find your people’s info on a phone, it’s over. The inmates who are fighting back still fight. My neighbor cried to me through the crack in the wall, “Man, all I have left in this world is my wife. She’s been keeping me in check all these years. I don’t care about anything that these people have been doing to us, but once they banned my wife it was over for me. They’re gonna have to kill me the old fashioned way now. I have no reason to live.”

The shakedown crew is also causing many people to react violently. These guards bust into your cell and rummage through all of your property. They read your personal letters, flip through the photographs you have of loved ones, trash your few possessions by tossing items here and there and stomping on it all with dirty boots. It feels as if a tornado has hit your house. That’s no way to search for contraband. It’s blatant disrespect, treating us like animals in the name of security. Is it any wonder that some react aggressively to that? For those of us here, our punishment is death, our life extinguished by the mixture of ingredients used in lethal injections. Our time here  isn’t going to be easy no matter what, but making our lives a living hell comes with a price sometimes.

It’s sort of a catch 22. When the administration or a guard does something against you, you can either accept it and let them run over you–which they will do if you let them–or you can respond aggressively and strengthen the prosecution’s case that you are a future danger to society. Either way, you’re screwed if you’re on death row. The administration knows this. They’re not the ones dealing with the violent responses, the guards do. And many of the guards are so tired of it. Some have quit and I don’t blame them.

The state of Texas is killing us here at a rapid pace. Close to 15 inmates have been executed just in 2009 alone–3 times as many as Maryland has killed in over 30 years. Hope is a fragile thing on Texas death row. For those who have little hope in surviving this experience–such as my neighbor–then a violent reaction is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The administration is only asking for trouble when they don’t give such people any incentive to behave. I’m hoping someone in a position of power recognizes this and shows some humanity by lifting the senseless ban on these guys’ family. It’s the right thing to do.

When I first arrived on death row, I met Brian Wolfe. An old school black dude who’d done time in Louisiana. He didn’t know me from Adam, yet he shot his line in front of my cell door and told me to pull it. Tied to the nylon string was several bars of soap, deodorant, toothpaste, some coffee and a few ramen noodle soups with a kite (message) taped on one: “Here’s a lil’ something to get you through until store day. I know how it is when you first get here and don’t have anything. You owe me nothing. Respects, Wolfe.”

Over the following few years I got to know Wolfe and became friends with him. He grew up on the streets stealing and robbing with a little gambling on the side. He told me he’d made lots of bad choices in life, including smoking crack cocaine. “That shit was the death of me,” he expressed with deep emotion. He was high out of his mind when he robbed an elderly lady and ended up killing her. As someone who has experienced the stranglehold crack can put on a person, I know exactly how he felt when he was under its spell. I knew Wolfe very well and it was written all over him how much he despised the person he was, how he hated his former self.

We had a lot of good times together gambling on games (NFL, NBA, MLB–even horse racing, lol!) and talking sports. He’d cook up some BBQ tacos every Sunday during football season and send me some with a soft drink just prior to kickoff. Everyone here liked him. I don’t know of a single person who ever said a bad thing about him. If you needed something and he had it, you could get it–no strings attached.

I had a visit the day of his execution so I got to talk to him his last day on Earth. He seemed to handle things pretty well. I told him I loved him and to keep his head up, then we talked about the NBA play-offs, which he’d be missing if he didn’t get a stay…I couldn’t help but cry when I heard he didn’t get that stay. Some people just don’t belong here no matter what your stance on capital punishment is and Wolfe was certainly part of that group. Yes, he deserved punishment for his crimes but not death. Not death.

You get to know these people better than you’ve ever known anyone, and it’s hard to lose them time after time. When you’re waiting for your number to be called, you tend to be who you truly are sometimes; all those complexes and walls you’ve built up crumble when you’re out on the yard one on one, having a heart to heart with someone in your shoes. I often think, “This is someone’s father, brother, son, husband…” when I talk to people. Here’s a man who’s made some awful mistakes, but does he deserve to be slaughtered? No. A lot of people here just got caught up in bad lifestyles or made one senseless mistake without ever even contemplating it, and now they pay with their life.

A month ago I lived in a cell on 2 row overlooking the back gate to death row where everyone comes in and leaves. I hated living in that cell because on execution days the white transportation van would show up below me at noon sharp. Watching people I know, some of whom were friends, being loaded into that van to take their final ride tore me up inside. They all try to walk tall and proud, but the eyes don’t lie; their fear is there and it transfers to all of us in our windows watching. Most of us try to avoid the real issue of our friend being sent away to be killed by being angry at the guards who are standing around the van shaking hands, laughing, and joking with each other. You always hear someone on the pod yelling and banging on the window at the guards escorting the guy scheduled for death. We’ve all got ways of dealing with the horrible things going on…

This year alone I’ve watched 12 people step into that van with zero being returned to the unit. It’s like a train wreck–you can’t help but stand on your mattress and watch. Often, you just want to see your friend one last time, but afterwards, you feel awful because you don’t want to remember them that way. You want to remember them smiling, telling you a story about something or another with happiness in their eyes rather than the last images of lifelessness and fear of their impending doom. Yet, you keep watching them get loaded into the van like cattle being herded for slaughter wondering if your turn to take that ride will be coming…

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….”

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…

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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