Solitary confinement, isolation – the hole. Help me to understand the impact on an individual, whether yourself, someone else, or as a whole. Share an aspect of this method of punishment that I can’t understand, never having experienced it.
Woven into the purpose of prisons is the idea of rehabilitation. Prisons are not designed to be the end. They aren’t viewed as the ‘disposal’ of people. The majority of society perceives, is under the impression, prisons are places of punishment and preparation for a more productive life. How does solitary confinement fit into that design?
Every writer I have ever encountered has either had first hand experience with solitary confinement or has witnessed its use and the consequences. Help me to understand what that means.
Only those who are incarcerated are eligible to participate.
We can’t accept anything that has been previously published.
Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.
Entries should be 1,000 words or less. Poetry is considered, as long as it is inspired by the prompt.
Submissions can be handwritten.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: September 30, 2022. Decisions will be posted on or before October 31, 2022.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
Footnote: Entries that do not follow the prompt are not passed on to the judges.
For all posts from this site as well as current criminal justice issues, you can also follow us on Facebook or Instagram.
Eighteen years ago I killed two men – Brett Harmon and Kevin McCann – during an altercation while tailgating at an NC State football game. I cannot restore their lives, but I can live each day in a way that honors Brett and Kevin, that honors the sorrow their loved ones endure each day, and that honors the burden my family has been forced to carry. By living with the values of compassion, honesty, integrity, and social responsibility, my life can serve to restore brokenness rather than cause it.
Surrounded by the gray concrete walls of a jail cell, I was lost in a pit of despair – despair from the guilt of taking two lives, from forever changing everything for at least three families, from thinking my life was nothing but a disaster. The despair left me struggling to find even a glimmer of hope. Ruinous thoughts swirled – ‘I have destroyed everything.’‘My life means nothing.’ ‘It would be better if I had never been born.’ Yet, that abyss was not my grave. The words of two mothers – mine and Brett’s – have served as my muse, lifting me out of the pit of despair and inspiring me to live with purpose.
My mother leaned forward, wanting only to wrap her arms around me, but the dingy, scratched Plexiglass made contact impossible. The day after I was arrested and charged with two counts of murder was a visitation day at the Wake County jail. I crumpled against the cubicle’s side, unable to look into her tear-teeming eyes. How could I have let her down so terribly when she had sacrificed so much? Her words broke through the desire to fade into non-existence. “Look at me. Timothy, look at me.” My chin trembled as my watery eyes were forced to meet her gaze. My mother’s words then cast a lifeline to my drowning soul. “I love you. I love you, and I will never give up on you.” When I thought I was too far gone to save, her love rescued me.
A number of people testified during the sentencing phase of my trial; the words of Brett’s mother have echoed in my head since the moment she spoke them. Brett was a Marine on the verge of leading his platoon to Iraq and a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. His mother shared how proud she was of him, of the man he was becoming even more than his accomplishments. Then, she acknowledged one of her regrets. “I will never again answer the phone to hear his military staccato voice, saying, ‘Hello, Mother’.” Her imitation of his cadence and greeting demonstrated her deep and painful sorrow with utmost precision, piercing my heart to its core, revealing the anguish my actions caused Brett’s and Kevin’s mothers.
Only two things can compel a person to truly change – something incredibly good or horribly bad. The merging voices of my muse grants me both. My mother’s words remind me of the blessings still in my life – the love and support of my family, the prospect of another heart’s day alive, the opportunity to positively impact the people and world around me. Les Miserables author, Victor Hugo, declared, “The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.” In spite of myself, in spite of disastrous mistakes, my mother communicated love and value when I was on the brink. She imparted the belief that my life could still have value. The words of Brett’s mother remind me of what I took and therefore the steep consequences of compromising on life-values. Her words motivate me to maintain course on making positive choices guided by values instead of the selfish choices that shattered lives and dreams.
When guilt and shame stir up the roiling sea of despair, when this riptide sucks me under and pulls me away from the shore, spinning and twisting, turning and rolling me, over and over, until I cannot determine which way is up or down, my two-voiced muse reveals the glimmering hope of living with compassion and social responsibility. Their words dispel the disorientation and pull me to the surface. My muse reminds me to look beyond myself, beyond circumstances, and encourage others.
There are things men, especially men in prison, do not talk about. We do not talk about pain or loneliness. We do not talk about despair. We say we are fine, when we are anything but fine. We put on an outside mask of strength, because to display weakness brings vulnerability. When we are struggling with despair, we feel utterly alone, like nobody knows our pain, our loneliness, our hopelessness. Yet we are not as alone as we think. In fact, we are not alone at all. Many of us struggle with despair but never talk about it. A person struggling with despair needs to know they are not alone, that there is hope. Someone must start the conversation.
My muse gave me the courage to start that conversation, to face the vulnerability of admitting I know the depths of despair, the practice of putting on a mask all day, saying I am fine when I am dying on the inside. I know the performance of smiling and laughing around others, but ending the day by walking in my cell, shutting the door, sliding down the wall, and sitting on the concrete slab floor, arms around my knees, head on my forearms, drained of all energy from the performance of “fine, just fine.”
By sharing my struggle, others can know they are not alone or lost in despair. They do not have to hide their pain or put on a mask. There is hope. Their lives have value and purpose. I can be for them what my muse has been for me – a source of inspiration and motivation to rise from the depths of the circumstances of my creation and sail the shimmering sea of a life of purpose.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Timothy Johnson is new to WITS, and I am glad to say he also won First Place in our recent writing contest. I don’t judge the contests, but one of the judges commented that it wasn’t just the writing that had him place so highly – it was also his expression of accountability in the first sentence. The judge that said that lives in prison. WITS is a lot of things, but at its foundation is truth. Also at the foundation is allowing readers to find their own understanding through the written experiences of the writers. I’m grateful to Mr. Johnson for sharing this, and I hope we hear from him again.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at: Timothy Johnson #0778428 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
For all posts from this site as well as current criminal justice issues, you can also follow us on Facebook or Instagram.
Hope inside prison is a rare thing. You can always tell which people have it and which don’t. The inmates who don’t possess this precious gift are aimless. They roam, trying to find the next meaningless activity to fill time. They have a void that needs filling and anything will do: drugs, sex, cards, fighting. They’ll do whatever it takes to not think about the circumstances of their life. I know this because I used to be that person. I never engaged in fighting or drug use so it was even easier for me to ignore what I was doing and justify my behavior as a product of me being so young. In truth, I was searching. I was hurting. I was guilty and ashamed. I was overwhelmed by the pain of a 48-year-sentence. I was disgusted by what I’d done to find myself in prison. Back then I didn’t have the skills I needed to verbalize this to anyone. Nor was I even aware that I had a problem. All I knew was what I knew, and in reality that was nothing. Until one day I encountered the other group of people.
The inmates who had hope were a different breed than I had seen. Something was strange about them, and I was drawn to them. They were alive. They carried themselves in a way I wanted to. Their heads were held high, and the guards spoke to them with respect. To me they looked like they had it together. I didn’t realize at the time that what they had was hope. It just seemed like they cared a little more about what they did.
It was at this time I began taking college classes and moved into the college wing inside the prison. I suddenly found myself surrounded – by hope. It filled the eyes of the ladies I lived with. They had dreams, plans, and purpose. It was infectious. They all had jobs and told me I needed one to. Nobody had ever told me I needed to get a job inside of prison. I thought all we did was play cards and sleep. I wanted what they had, so I got a job as a tutor. I was now working and going to class and spent my free time studying. I felt myself changing. It wasn’t an overnight process, but I knew I was experiencing a transformation. Maybe I really could be like these other inmates, these adults who seemed so successful.
Unfortunately, I still didn’t have a purpose in life. I didn’t know why I was doing all of these things. What was going to keep me going? In 2017, I graduated with an Associate’s Degree and became a certified optician. I even gave the valedictorian speech, and I got a job working for the Chaplain. Certainly I was now just as successful as those women I sought to be like.
Just as I thought my life was coming together, it came crashing down. I got into a fight, and my actions landed me in segregation. I wasn’t there long – just 10 days, but to me it was forever. As I walked back to the hole with hands cuffed behind me and head hung low, a guard said something to me.
“Aren’t you the girl who works for the Chaplain?” he asked me with condemnation in his voice. All of the shame and guilt I felt before came flooding back to me. It was like I was the preacher’s kid who got locked up. During my seg stay, those words played over and over again in my head. I had disappointed so many people. I prayed. It was all I knew how to do. I begged God for another chance. I asked Him to save me, and I thanked him – and I cried and cried and cried. Then I felt His love. It filled me up, and I knew that this was what it felt like to be Saved. I became a Christian in the lowest place I could find myself.
When I got out of isolation, the Chaplain showed me forgiveness and let me keep my job. I had to work hard to earn the respect back that I had built for years. I was determined now. I had found hope in that empty cell. I knew that no matter what, God would love me. I now had a goal post, something to hold on to no matter what happened. I was different, and people started to notice. I began self evaluations and examining why my crime happened. I began working on becoming whole. I purposed myself to help others. I wrote proposals for classes. I started working with the Prison Dog Program. I wanted to give my hope to everyone.
Then, in 2019, I lost my brother to an overdose. He was my best friend, but we had been estranged since I became incarcerated. I never had the chance to make amends with him and that still haunts me. I think about myself in that moment, and what I would’ve done if I didn’t have hope. But I did have it. I took that hope and organized a recovery summit for the prison. It was days of testimonies, powerpoints, and overdose awareness.
I hope I changed at least one woman’s life in that time. Two years ago, Virginia passed a bill for people who committed their crimes as juveniles. After serving 20 years they will be eligible for parole. I was seventeen when I committed the heinous crime that took my mother’s life. This new development, compounded with the hope I had, lit a fire inside me. I can see my future even more, and it is good. It is full of change, growth, and success. I hope I can use my life to change the lives of the people who hear my story. So I write. I write to impart hope to those who have none. I write to tell the stories I see. I write to share my muse with the world.
Mostly though, I hope…
ABOUT THE WRITER. If you’ve read a lot of WITS posts, you will know – this is the first post that has ever been shared here by a female. For that alone, I couldn’t be happier. If anyone has ever wondered, we rarely recieve any submissions from women, not because we do not support them. I couldn’t be happier about this being written by a female, but I am also thrilled to have one more strong voice on WITS with a different perspective than we have ever shared. I hope that we hear from Ashleigh again. She also came in second place in our spring writing contest with this essay. Ashleigh can be contacted at:
Ashleigh Dye #1454863 Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women 144 Prison Lane Troy, VA 22974
Unfortunately, I’ve been incarcerated the majority of my adulthood, in and out of correctional facilities since the tender age of seventeen; more so in, rather than out. Although considered a late bloomer when compared to some of my felonious fellow men, none-the-less, here I am, an equally welcomed recidivist.
As a young man, the revolving ‘ins and outs’ never affected me, or apparently I was too naive to realize the effects that were in fact taking place. So what if I lost my right to vote, own a gun or leave the country, I was a ‘street n-bomb’ and jail and prison were almost a certainty, sort of an occupational hazard that came with the lifestyle.
Never once did I realize the emotional and psychological toll the continual stints of confinement were taking. I’ve spent from two weeks in jail to thirteen years and nine months straight in prison, a total of five individual trips to prison, and I’m currently serving a 7-9 year sentence. Now I’m just learning the lesson I should’ve grasped decades ago.
The cumulative amount of time that I’ve spent chained, shackled, and caged surrounded by concrete and steel has completely desensitized me in regards to common human emotion. No, I’m not professing to be some deranged psychotic killer, but things that once meant something have lost tremendous, if not all, value to me.
Birthdays have become just another day, and holidays are the worst, most boring and slowest times of the year. I dread to see them, knowing the feelings they are bound to stir. “Bah-humbug’. These are only a fraction of the losses I’ve experienced.
I’ve lost friends and family who weren’t mentally ready or mature enough to ‘ride-a-bid’ with me, but I understand now, that is an earnest request. The commitment and dedication required to stand by someone incarcerated can be emotionally taxing, not to mention someone who is repeatedly returning.
I’ve also lost family and friends to old age, ill health, accidents and the same ‘street life’ that has stolen so much of my very own life. None of this having any exceeding affect, all just casualties along the way.
During one of my short stints home, ‘on the streets’, ‘free’, I managed to create a child. But, just like every other time, Daddy was hell bent on returning to the pen.
While in the county jail, with the mother of my child alone, needy and months into her pregnancy, I pledged to my mother all the things I planned to do right if only God gave me a chance. I swore to do right by my little girl.
Now, let me preface this next part by saying, I’m a bonafide ‘mama’s boy’ and proud of it. There’s nothing I love more than my mother and nothing I wouldn’t do for her, but I just couldn’t seem to ‘keep my behind’ out of prison.
While proclaiming my new found inspiration and reason for doing things the right way – my daughter – my mom said, “Well, son, why can’t you just do it for yourself? I understand you doing it for your daughter, but you need to do it for yourself… Stay free for yourself… Love yourself.”
The words struck a chord, not simply resonating, but finding root in my mind, heart, and spirit. It was only months later when I faced my greatest fear – I lost my mother while incarcerated. I received the news while in the ‘hole’ and on my father’s birthday. Adding insult to injury, I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral nor any closed viewing. Never given the chance to say, “goodbye”, or “I love you”, or “I’m sorry.”
No matter how callous I’ve become through the years of confinement, this pain managed to penetrate my core, my soul, my very being.
Where do I now draw my inspiration to endure my hardship of incarceration? From my daughter, my mother and her words, “Do it for yourself, son.”
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is going to be revealed to us.”
Romans 8:18
ABOUT THE WRITER. I’m happy to say Carter came in third place in our most recent writing contest. I don’t judge the contests, but when I saw his entry, I was pulling for him in my heart. He hasn’t written much for us, but what he has shared has touched me. If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.
it is stale breath in chow lines crammed behind vikings who haven’t showered in months
or…racial divides like lawmakers fistfights over what to watch street outlaws vs love & hip hop MAGA vs #BLM acronyms of the violence we kill to view acronyms of the society we thought we once knew
in this zoo hallways twist in a maze leading past a monkey’s cage fronted by plexiglas that displays thieves = chimps rapists = orangutans killers = gorillas broken men who fall here only to be broken again
in a pool of blood from a shank’s puncture wound seeping out like the hope left in courtrooms
yet…it can be an awakening of the spirit and soul to encounter dickinson, hughes, angelou, emerson, and bukowski then to mimic them in my own gravely voice rubbed hoarse by decades of silent activism in my cell with a pen as a shovel digging me out of this hell
while staring at her face across the visitation table i repeat her question but more as a question to myself
i muse…before asking… what is prison really like?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Phillip Smith is an accomplished writer, across many genres. He is a student, an advocate, author of NC HB 697, editor of The Nash News, and we love to see him here. His accomplishments are extensive, and he has no intention of slowing down. I am grateful to be able to share his work.
Mr. Smith can be contacted at: Phillip Vance Smith, II #0643656 Nash Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
People are surprisingly hard to kill despite how fragile we are as human beings, and the fact that I was unfortunate enough to do so at the age of thirteen was horribly stunning. There were no bullets or knives. No bombs, or weapons employed of any kind. However, his blood is on my hands. The shame and the fault are mine. I’ll take them to my grave.
Willie Lee Lacey was a man who’d worn many hats in his short sixty-six years of life, lived many lives. At six years old he became a cattle rancher when his father told him to bring him a calf. It took little Willie all day, but with his brothers watching, he got it done – without a rope. He was a soldier in the U.S. Army in WWII, and fought overseas. “Not much different from living in the south as a black man,” he used to say. “Once you’ve seen your brother burned and hung as people from miles around party under his body, it’s all the same.” “Don’t ever volunteer!”
He was the father of six children who loved him, all by one woman who he abused. Not all of the hats he wore were pretty. He came home one day to find everyone and everything gone. A house, where once a home had stood. They never came back despite his efforts.
A part time Mr. Fix It and pimp, he once, as word had it, pulled a wooden plank from a six foot fence to beat a whore called ‘Classy May’. Brutal, tough and loved, Willie was also my grandpa.
He carried a huge folding buck knife, smoked a collection of pipes and rarely ever spoke. It was as if God had given him a sack full of words, and he was just about out of them.
His woman’s name was Beaulah Charle Moore, a five foot dynamo with all the sass and pop that the fates could fit into such a small space. She cooked everything from scratch. That was the Belzona, Mississippi, in her blood. She drove as if her name was Jeff Gorden just three points out of the lead, and had a name for all nine of her wigs! That woman could peel the bark from a man at twenty yards, just talking.
To see the rendering of people’s lives, their experiences, passions, defeats, their regrets, calls for a vision that I didn’t own as a thirteen year old. I also didn’t know that when people love you, they give you a part of their souls. I didn’t know what I had, to respect it, that I was standing on sacred ground. I was a simple kid who wanted to be somewhere and someone other than where and who I was, only to find that when I got there and put on those clothes, that it was cheaper to just be me. But who the hell was that – I? Foolish.
My grandparents lived 1½ blocks away from the beach in paradise – Pismo Beach, California – one of three black families within a thirty mile radius. It was as far away from Watts, California, or Compton, California, in every way and as on many levels, as it could be, only find a military base and you’ll find a black community. Close that base and we move on, like the Romany gypsies. But grandpa had anchored himself with a job in the city’s parks and recreation department. At sixty and with little education, it was far from ideal. However, after twenty-five years of service, he was forced to retire at the age of sixty-three, a legend in the area.
However deep the scars of life ran in the man, he seemed to have found a measure of peace, a way of shifting into a position that didn’t stress him to the point of snapping, with all but one of those searing brands – that being the murder of my mother, his daughter. I imagine that he saw my sister and I coming to live with him as a second bite into the apple of her life. A chance to rectify a measure of his pain, and close the wound by sacrificing for her children. A connection denied to the two of them in her lifetime. But hope blinds us to the fact that patches are but scars, and that new, only means that it’s new to us.
A murder in a family freezes people in a photograph of their pain. To toss away the photo and move on is to forget – to say that my love for you is too heavy. I must lay it down here so that I can survive. For some it’s doable, for other families… not so much.
I was just hitting my teens at the time, however, I had a full mustache like Carl Weathers, and I passed for much older if I didn’t smile. Once, while with my step-mom, the clerk asked me if it would be cash or credit?! I could buy beer, get into adult clubs – and adult trouble. About that time I also found I could charm (lie) the panties off an adult woman. Game over! You couldn’t tell me anything!
I’d stay gone for weeks. I hustled my way to an Interceptor 1100 motorcycle and could be found anywhere from the bay area to LA at thirteen years old. Fearless? No, too dumb to be afraid!
My G-pops would be out looking for me with tears in his heart, anger and confusion clouding his vision, embarrassed by my actions, yet trying.
I’d eventually slink home, and he’d put it on me something tough, trying to make me fear him more than I loved running the streets. My batteries spent, drained, out of love and respect, I’d take it. I had no other options, not in my mind at the time.
Okay – brass tacks, as they say. Women and girls have sway in the hearts and minds of men and boys. Facts! It’s how grown men find themselves dressed as princesses in wigs and full make-up, voguing like they are a star on AMC’s ‘Pose’. It’s how women find themselves giving their all to a man with zero ROI (return on investment). I was no longer at the wheel, but rather being driven physically, mentally, emotionally and even spiritually. Gone!
I came home that last time to find my grandpa had suffered a heart attack and a mild stroke. Bea also told me that all of his children were in town, and had been riding around looking for me, that my bags were packed and in the trunk of their car, and that currently they were all at the hospital, simply waiting on my return to hit the highway. My family was putting their foot down. Hard!
I showed up in the hospital room and Willie was sitting up smiling and laughing with all of his children, save mom. I hadn’t seen my aunts and uncles in years. They’d come together for the first time since my mother’s death to defend their father. But when they looked up and saw me, every face fell, my grandpa’s crumbling into tears as he pointed at me, stammering through his grief, “I tried to -”
“Just go!” they all yelled repeatedly at me. “You’re killing him DeLaine! You’re killing him!”
It was as if my mother had died all over again for him in that moment. If she had ever touched your life, you would know you could find her in my eyes. I’d ruined far more than a moment for them. Oddly, I never saw myself as a cause of so much pain, and I had never felt more alone, guilty, or so much shame in my young life.
Willie Lee Lacey would pass away eighty-three days later, asleep on the couch, at the age of sixty-six. We would never speak again. Every time someone spoke my name he’d cry. I was never able to apologize, or heal his heart.
It’s crazy the things you learn about yourself after the use for the information has seemingly passed. We all want and need to be loved, but to do so is to be trusted by another’s heart. It’s not the love you give that breaks your heart, it’s what you do with the love that you take – are given. It’s in that space that you make or break those you love, even unto yourself.
Now, I seek to invest in people through conversations that will last a lifetime, and I dedicate my pen to all of my mother’s people. I do this hoping I can give something I never recognized in my life, so that they will know it when they see it – hope. Give yourself a chance to win by not giving up now.
Always me… DeLaine Jones
ABOUT THE WRITER. What can I say? I LOVE DeLaine’s writing. There has not been one thing he has sent me that I have not used. He tells his stories in such a charming and honest fashion, I open his envelopes with confident expectation.
Mr. Jones has served over three decades for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, a juvenile. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 Snake River Correctional Institution 777 Stanton Blvd Ontario, Oregon 97914-8335
My life was over. I could tell from the looks on their faces. No more was I Duck, Dreadz or EyeGod – brother or son. When I stepped into the courtroom, I was nothing. Blank, a clean slate, yet covered in the dirt of my past, so much so that the me I knew disappeared under the grime. And now I was just a stage show, a star villain in a real-life tragedy that left a man dead and others calling for my execution. There was no going back after that. It was as sure as that prickly feeling nagging me for the first time ever – whether good or bad – my old life was gone.
I was dressed in a flannel button-up and beige dockies – the first clothes I’d worn in eleven months besides jailhouse jumpsuits and prison browns. I was supposed to look civilized, already mitigating before the judgment began. My black and white Airforce sneakers and outfit didn’t match, but neither did the stories match that were told about me, so my clashing wardrobe was keeping with the theme. Still, I wanted to explain away my uncoordinated attire and tell the jury that I had better clothes to die in, but silence was the etiquette when trying to elicit sympathy. So, I didn’t speak. I didn’t tell them that they had the wrong man. I hoped my sober face, mismatched clothes and nappy Afro said it all – I didn’t kill John Rushton.
I was escorted by a sheriff who held my elbow in a grip that was bolt-resistant. I didn’t blame him for thinking I would run. I’d done so twice before. Seated at the table were my defense attorneys, looking busy as they shuffled through a mess of papers, cutthroat attorneys whose aim was all wrong since they kept trying their tactics on me.
“One juror is your mother’s coworker? …that could work in our favor.” “Oh, you weren’t supposed to pass the IQ test,” and, “Have a look at the victim’s body and tell me… does it make you wanna sign a plea?”
They were persistent at trying to invoke a sense of guilt and responsibility in me – now if they could just be as committed to defending me. My eyes swept over the room in search of my mother. I didn’t want to lose her face in the crowd. I was comforted by thoughts of my mother during those cold dark nights in solitary confinement when I took myself to trial. I found her amongst the section of the pews reserved for those in sorrow, the woman who nursed me when I had a cold or scraped my knee was now watching a capital boo-boo unfold that her Band-Aids couldn’t fix. Her face looked unendurably strained, like commercial glass pelted by a storm’s debris. A face that had long ago shattered, but one she put back together for my sake. She was trying to be strong for me. But who was going to be strong for her? I picked my head up and acted like it all meant nothing.
The jurors were seated side-by-side in a wooden box, their arms and legs shielded from view allowing them to fidget anxiously in private. I was told that they were a panel of my peers, but I’d never seen any of them on the corner selling dope, so to me they were strangers, there to judge my life without repercussions to their conscience. They were decent-looking folks who all claimed to be Christians but said they could come back with a penalty of death. I figured they were reading from the Bible with a typo that read, “Thou shalt not kill, unless…” They appeared like the heads of a mythical creature, inhabiting their wooden box as they waited to lay waste with their pens and perspective. I made the mistake of looking over at them and many glared back, but only one of us turned to stone.
The door swung open and in walked the judge with a blond comb-over hardened with gel. He was a small man sporting a giant personality, his shoulders raised and eyes steady as he flowed across the room draped in black, a good place under which to hide his personality. He took to the stand and seized hold of his gavel, the same one from the day before when he struck down my attorney’s motions. I sucked in a deep breath of air and held it there bracing myself for the impact.
The judge spoke fancy gibberish that made some eyes narrow with wonder, lawyer talk for ‘now’s the time to tell me what this boy has done’. The prosecutor lead off by saying he could prove I carried out the murder. I was immediately concerned, more than I already was – his accusation sounded like a fact. Mild mannered and with an affinity for neatness, he straightened his tie and said he would ask the jury to kill me. I could tell they were thinking about it – they hardly looked my way again.
My attorneys continued their paper shuffling while pitching whispers at one another. Every so often they gave me a reassuring grin – somewhere in those papers was proof of my innocence. They, in turn, gave a compelling opening argument to rival the prosecution, and for a moment I was proud to have such prestigious white men speak adamantly on my behalf. The judge banged his gavel signaling the end of the preliminary warmups as the real fight was about to begin.
The prosecution called on several law enforcement officers to take the stand, each laying out the credibility of his case. It was a professional exchange that grew more intense the longer the inquiry lasted. For the most part I was able to follow along, but I kept getting tripped up in the terminology so I paid attention only when they mentioned my name. By the time it was over, my word was already shot. These were men and women with guns and integrity for the law, and all I had was a story full of holes.
During the cross-examination, my attorneys recovered, though they didn’t fill in any holes but rather created some of their own by asking questions that warranted answers scientifically in my favor. But I didn’t care much about the DNA, as I knew it wouldn’t point to me. I was waiting on the testimony of the two people I knew – Jed and Udy.
Udy was a neighbor whom I’d known since we were kids. We were in-laws since we were born. He was an impressionable teen with a propensity for trouble – but hell, so was I. I’d been to prison twice before and talked with Udy about what it was like. I tried to steer him on a different path because he was like a brother to me. I’d made whole-hearted attempts on several occasions to keep him out of prison, so it was not only shocking for him to say I encouraged him to do a robbery – it was insulting.
Jed was a different matter – he was trouble personified yet a charmer masquerading as civil. He was a master manipulator which didn’t bother me before because we were blood relatives, and I looked up to him. But now he was claiming I confessed murder to him and that he reported me because it was the right thing to do. Bullshit! Jed was up to something, and I needed to look into his eyes to figure out what.
Udy took the stand wearing a dress shirt and tie with a fresh buzz cut and a youthful face, the kind of look that made it hard to discredit him. He testified to the same story he’d made previously in a statement to the police, except now the details were extensive. He sounded so believable that I wanted to puke. His lies were so sickening that they made me regret our friendship, yet strangely enough my anger wouldn’t keep me from feeling sorry for him.
Then Jed, who was kept sequestered to preserve his grand entrance, burst through the door, all mad and determined. Part of me was hoping that, as family, he would be bound by a code of ethics to tell the truth. But swearing on the Bible was like swearing on a matchbook to Jed because his story was even crazier than Udy’s. It was all the same I guessed to a Christian jury who believed God would support their vote for death. He gave such a heartfelt testimony of how much it hurt him to have to turn his cousin in, claiming he did it because it was the right thing to do. It was then his motives became obviously clear. Jed had no allegiance to any higher power – his God was self-preservation.
I could hardly wait to take the stand on my own behalf and tell the jury what really happened. There were corroborating witnesses to vouch for my whereabouts – I was off selling drugs that night. I didn’t own a gun. I wasn’t hard up for cash. I didn’t make any robbery plans. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, and I certainly didn’t confess to doing so. Still, the jury would want to know why my cousin and friend said I did those things, and for that – I had no answers. But the burden of proof wasn’t on me, right? Right?
Turns out, I wouldn’t get the chance to testify. At the last minute my attorneys advised me not to, assuring me that putting on evidence would ruin any chance of a favorable verdict. “The DA has the burden of proof. You heard them, Terry – they didn’t prove a thing. If we start throwing crackheads on the stand, it’s gonna look like we’re grasping for straws and they’ll find you guilty for sure. Besides, our putting on evidence would mean we’d have closing arguments first, and I want to argue last.”
I didn’t give a damn about straws and arguing strategies. I wanted to fight for my life. But I also couldn’t afford to piss off the only two men assigned to defend me and I was unfit to deal with their tantrums, so I stood up in open court and waived my right to present evidence. It felt like I killed myself. It took the jury a few hours to decide that any man who won’t confront his accusers is likely guilty. As they read the verdict I fiddled with the fabric of my clothes, so I wouldn’t forget what it was like to be me.
The rest of the trial was a haze of legal formalities that grew limbs and sprouted into the death penalty. While all the mitigating, paper shuffling and scrounging was going on, I was still trying to figure out how I got there. A man was dead. I was accused. I didn’t say shit to the jury – and just like that, my life was over. The numbness softened the blow, the sentence not affecting me like I thought it would – that’s what happens when you judge a stone. I was afraid that at the mention of the word ‘death sentence’, I would keel over and die. Nope. They were saving me for the lethal injection. I wondered about the jurors, when their lives were done and their day of judgment came, what would they do when they learned that they were wrong?
As I headed to Death Row in a prison van, my wrists and ankles bound by a chain, I took in the sights around my hometown for the last time. I cried not because I’d lost my life to injustice. I cried because they took my name.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
I felt alone today, by myself in a great big world, my mind and heart yearning for a familiar closeness that just wasn’t there.
I guess for the first time I faced the gravity of my reality. I am, in fact, alone, by myself, detached from the world at large – a barren island of sorts, surrounded by a sea of destitution and braving a storm of bereavement… all alone.
As do most, I too took for granted having a place of refuge amid adversity, finding truth in that bitter sentiment – ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until its gone’.
At one point in time, no matter where or what I faced, there was a place I could find solace and security, a harmonic vibration, a channel I could tune in that reassured comfort, confidence and completeness. It was a source of strength that superseded all anxiety, fortified fortitude and boosted morale.
My quiet place silenced the chaotic chatter, providing a sense of still, and the much needed presence of peace. A stronghold, shielding against every advancement of the adversary, the cornerstone of an unwavering foundation.
Loving arms, listening ears, and a well of wisdom that shone like a beacon of light; giving guidance along my journey. If I veered off course or found myself lost and astray, that same light beckoned, correcting any misdirection. It was a luminous love that calmed every raging water, gently guiding me home.
No matter the distance, if I called, she’d come. Despite the odds, she stood tall, head high and proud… that I was her son. My mothership has sailed, leaving me behind… alone… by myself… another prisoner of time.
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first piece I have posted by Carter Cooper. WITS writers are all special and unique, and when I get a submission from someone new who has that ‘something’ it reminds me, once again, why we are here. I saved this for Mother’s Day. I look forward to seeing more from Mr. Cooper. If you would like to contact him, please reach out to me directly.
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
July 9, 2014 (Wednesday, 1:05 p.m.)
Aw, man – I just got to meet Mr. Eugene Brown. What an experience. I’ve talked about the movie, ‘Life Of A King’, so much, and now I’ve met the man that inspired the movie. I was really surprised by his aura of normality – I was expecting much different. Now I realize it was his normalcy that gave such realness to his words. Dude is truly a powerful man, and I think his philosophy can potentially change the world. I am a King, and I do control the pieces of my life… definitely. I’ve gotta start making better decisions for myself if I want to finish with a strong and relevant end game. It was cool that Mr. Brown came out to see us – I’ll carry the things he said to us forever. A true blessing to have experienced that today. I wish I could talk to my brother right now, I would pay it forward. We are all our own Kings. Wow – what a day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There’s a song I remember from years ago – “Don’t Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone”. No truer words…
Before I got sick, I lost two of my best friends. One, I’ll call him ‘The Mouseketeer’, to gall bladder disease and the other to my own selfish, egocentric stupidity. That one comes into view every once in a while, keeping their perfect distance but close enough to throw me a lifeline if I need one.
So, when I got sick in March of 2020, I had all but given up. I was drowning in a sea of self-pity. I had let my health deteriorate to a point that the smallest medical problem became one that could end my 60 year run. I had almost 50 pounds of water weight, and fluid had accumulated in my body to the point that the slightest scratch or infection could kill me. I’d had bouts of cellulites for the previous 12 years.
I lost my great toe on my right foot due to staph infection, and I caught Covid 19 coming back from the hospital. It felt like I had a really bad case of the flu – runny nose, fever, night sweats, cough, upset stomach. I survived it though.
Four months later, I contracted it again. This time it was different. It stopped me, I couldn’t breathe. TDCJ had to life flight me to a hospital half a state away.
As I lay in my hospital bed, I encountered a nurse who explained to me that they were going to have to ‘tube me’ so I could breathe – my oxygen level was around 60-70%. I was drowning above water. She told me not to worry, that she would be there when I woke up.
Ten days later, when I regained consciousness she was there by my bedside, holding my hand. I was strapped to a hospital bed with IV tubes and monitors sticking in me and on me, but I noticed her eyes were full of tears.
“We didn’t think you were going to make it. I promised you I’d be here when you came to, so here I am.”
She even hugged me. She brought me ice water and juice for the next five days. I’ve run into these angels in white over the years. They are few and far between in here, but they exist.
While I was ‘out’, I dreamed of my dad, my friends and my family – bittersweet memories brought to life by my subconscious mind. This two-year, hard journey has brought me to this page. Hope.
Despair isn’t the opposite of hope, it’s the conviction that hope doesn’t exist, and that it will never return in the future. That’s where I was before.
I’ve since lost 52 pounds of fluid. My blood sugar is now between 90-120, never above 200. I’m in a wheelchair still because I can’t maintain my balance enough to walk – yet. But I will. And if a higher power wills it, I’ll get another opportunity to show the world that I’m a force of good and not bad.
ABOUT THE WRITER. John Green has been a frequent contributor to WITS, and he is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.”
John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 Jester III Unit 14-18 3 Jester Road Richmond, Texas 77406
