To Free the Truth

There’s a common misconception about death row prisoners: We’re all supposed to be serial killers, serial rapists, child molesters, or depraved sociopaths that have committed the most heinous acts imaginable–the Ted Bundys of the world. Indeed, that’s what the death penalty was meant to address–the most heinous of crimes. In reality, it’s just not like that, at least not in Texas. Sure, there are people here who are guilty of unspeakable things, yet for every one of those, there’s at least 25 who hasn’t. A large percentage of Texas’ death row is comprised of guys who are first time offenders, many of which weren’t even the actual killers. They’re victims of the Law of Parties. I can’t count how many conversations I’ve had with guys who told me that they only meant to rob a store or a house and someone ended up dead. Virtually every one of these guys expressed great remorse for what happened. They certainly don’t meet the criteria of what most people in society think of as the typical death row prisoner.

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…