PAROLE DENIED – Again…

When a person comes up for parole in Alabama, they don’t get a chance to speak for themselves and aren’t present when their fate is decided.  A lot is left out of the equation.  Some of the reasons for Louis Singleton’s most recent denial – ‘Release will depreciate seriousness of offense or promote disrespect for the law’, ‘Severity of present offense is high’, ‘ORAS level is moderate risk of reoffending’. 

What they probably didn’t discuss…

On January 11, 1994, Louis Singleton was seventeen years old and still attending high school when he shot three men in a McDonald’s parking lot, killing one, and paralyzing another.  He was sentenced to life – with the possibility of parole.  He has since been denied parole four times and has been incarcerated for a quarter century.  The Parole Board will revisit his case in January of 2023.

Prior to the shooting, Singleton had been the sort of kid most parents would be proud of.  Boys will be boys, but his life was on track and he had positive goals.  He had a speeding ticket once because he was driving too fast to get to summer school.  He also got in a fight when he was sixteen. 

The neighborhood knew Louis as a ‘good kid’ who dreamed of football superstardom.  He might not have been the most academically focused, but he had goals and maintaining some standard of education was required, so he towed the line.  After his arrest he was evaluated by the Strickland Youth Center, who determined he ‘did not appear to be a behavioral problem’.  In the transcripts, he was described as enjoying a ‘favorable reputation within his community’.  Louis Singleton wasn’t known as a threat to others then – and he hasn’t been known as a threat to others since his incarceration. He did have a problem at the time though – a threat was pursuing him. 

One of Singleton’s close friends, Derrick Conner, was dating another man’s ex-girl.  By association, Singleton became a target of that man’s anger.  Had it happened today, things would most likely not have gotten as far as they did twenty five years ago. 

Over the many months prior to the shooting, Louis Singleton was shot at on several occasions by the ‘ex-boyfriend’, Kendrick Martin, and his friend, Nelson Tucker.  On one occasion, Singleton was inside a car when Martin was beating the vehicle with a crow bar.  Louis recalls one time when Martin pulled a gun from a book bag and pointed it at his head.  

The violence and bullying were no secret.  Louis Singleton tried to get it to stop by talking to parents, school officials and even the police.  Nothing was resolved, and on that winter night in that parking lot when Louis ran into Kendrick Martin and his friends – no one will ever know exactly what happened, but the boy who had been shot at and pursued for months – shot at those who had been terrorizing him.  

But for the months leading up to that night – it never would have happened.  Louis Singleton would have continued living his normal, average life.  The entire incident is tragic.  It’s tragic for the man who died. It’s tragic for the man who will never walk again. And it’s tragic for the seventeen year old kid who didn’t know how to deal with something he should have never had to.  The adults who were aware of what was going on not only let Singleton down – but the victims as well.

Louis Singleton has spent a quarter of a century in the brutal Alabama prison system.  He lost all his dreams.  He lost his youth. He lost his mother and has lived with the regret and memory of having to tell her what he did that night.  

Some feel no amount of time will suffice.  Forgiveness will never come for those.  Remorse has though. 

Louis Singleton today.

Alabama prisons are barbaric.  A typical prison is an inhumane warehouse of people, many dangerous, bodies packed in on top of one another in a sea of bunks, sheets hanging to try and give a semblance of privacy, a random individual laying on the floor at any given moment, having taken whatever they can get their hands on to escape the reality of their nonexistence, and there is not a moment that goes by you aren’t aware you have no value.  Your life can be lost in the blink of an eye. 

In the southern heat, there is no air conditioning and very limited staff.  As someone once told me – the inmates police themselves.  In spite of the place he lives, Singleton has not had a disciplinary action that involved violence since 2010, when he got in trouble for ‘Fighting Without A Weapon’. 

Before the hearing this year, Singleton was hopeful.  The board doesn’t think he’s suffered enough yet though.  One look in his eyes would tell them different, but they will never see him.  He’s exists only on paper to them.  A couple years ago, Singleton shared what happened right after the shooting.

“My mind was racing with thoughts that I couldn’t even grasp mentally.  I just went home and sat in the house with all the lights out, scared to move, don’t know what to do nor to say.  My mom was gone to a choir convention in Mississippi during the time of the incident.  While I sat in our house quietly and somberly in the front room, my mother pulled up with no clue of what just happened.   When she came in the door, turned to lock the door, I was sitting there in the dark room.  I scared her out of her wits.  As a mother who knew her child, she instantly asked me, ‘Boy, what’s wrong with you sitting in here with all the lights out?’  I was so discombobulated I honestly couldn’t speak, it seemed like somebody had my soul…”

Those are the thoughts of a seventeen year old boy – who has suffered enough.  The wrong will never be made right, and that seventeen year old boy no longer exists.   He’s paid the price.  Those who let it get that far never did – but Louis Singleton did. My heart goes out to those who have been touched by this tragedy. More suffering won’t heal that pain.

Would I even be writing this if Louis Singleton had been a promising white high school athlete?  I doubt it.  The school and authorities would have resolved the issues long before they got to that point.  

Louis Singleton can be contacted at:
Louis Singleton #179665 0-24
Donaldson CF
100 Warrior Lane
Bessemer, AL 35023-7299

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I Am!

They take my kindness for weakness,
My mean mug for a thug.
My silence for speechless,
Assuming I’m on drugs.
They consider my uniqueness strange,
While inflicting inhuman pain.
Years of blood, sweat and tears,
But still, I maintain.
They call my language slang,
My confidence conceited.
My mistakes defeated,
My anger parental mistreatment.
To voice my concern is discontentment,
When I stand up for myself, I’m defensive.
I’m defiant if I don’t cooperate,
I’m bombarded with modern day hate.
My character under constant attack,
They label me a maniac if I react or fight back.
Who am I?
A man, barefooted in black sand,
Trying hard to be the best man I can…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Jayvon Bass submitted this piece for our spring contest, and although he did not win, we were impressed with his work, and hope he submits more. Jayvon can be contacted at:
Jayvon Bass #1092697
Augusta Correctional Center
1821 Estaline Valley Road
Craigsville, Virginia 24430

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Mental Illness And Prison

I’ve spent the last fifteen years in solitary confinement here in Texas.  The ‘correctional model’ here is the punishment model. The school of thought being – by inflicting maximum suffering, maximum poverty, maximum humiliation, deprivation and pain, they can make the prison experience so shockingly traumatic and painful that the incarcerated individual will never want to return to this place and so alter their life to become an upright pillar of the community.

Rather – this correctional model creates monsters.  Trust me – I know.  This correctional model severely damages the weak and vulnerable while exasperating mental illness. During my fifteen years in solitary, I’ve seen numerous men lose their minds.  People who, when I met them, seemed relatively normal.  A few years in the hole and they are ghosts – shells of their former selves. There are those with such profound addiction issues that they buy psych meds from prisoners who game the psych system and consume them in toxic quantities to get ‘high’.  After a few years of that, they are goners – never the same again even if they quit the pills.

Meanwhile, the truly mentally ill, the schizophrenics who are uncommunicative or simply talk to themselves, the manic depressives and others, suffer in silence. As I write this, there is a schizophrenic a couple cells away having an episode, shouting at apparitions, banging on the metal table in his cell.  It is 12:43 a.m.  He takes no meds.  The psych lady never visits him.  Texas prisons are a wasteland for the mentally ill.  We’ve had three suicides in less than three months in this building alone.

There exists a callous indifference to suffering here. Of course, if you asked an official from the administrative side of things, they’d lie to your face and tell you Texas doesn’t house mentally ill offenders in solitary confinement.  If you ask a guard they’ll say, “Hell, they’re all crazy.”

Even inmates dismiss clear signs of mental illness, saying, “He ain’t crazy.  If he’s got enough sense to get up for chow, he ain’t crazy.”  Being hungry is a clear sign of sanity…

I once had a neighbor who smeared feces all over his hair – and worse.  Trust me, you don’t want to know.  We asked numerous times to have a psyche interview to get him out of here and to the psych unit. A lieutenant said, “He’ll just do the same thing there. What’s the difference?”

That kind of cynicism and indifference sums up many prison systems. Over the years I have come to believe that a large number of people are here as a result of either undiagnosed mental illness or poorly managed and self medicated mental illness.  Some have behavioral, emotional or personality disorders that, while they don’t cross the threshold into mental illness, they nevertheless contribute to criminality.

The actual dynamic between mental illness and criminality is a complex issue that is often fought over along ideological lines.  It is made all the more complex by legal issues, budget battles, a lack of political will, socio-cultural issues and a general contempt for prisoners. 

Each side of the conflict has valid positions, but what gets lost in the back and forth, I believe, is people’s humanity. As a long time prisoner with lots of time on my hands, I’ve thought of many ways prisons could be made into places of rehabilitation and healing. But the reality is daunting.  People have to want to be rehabilitated and healed. They have to want to learn life skills, self reliance, and marketable job skills. They have to want to change for the better, while living in an environment that reinforces their belief that their life has no value.  So… what do we do?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He only recently began submitting his work, and we are fortunate to be able to share his insight. Dalton can be contacted at:
Dalton Collins
#768733 Allred
2101 FM 369 N.
Iowa Park, TX 76367

All Writing by Dalton Collins.

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Frenemy

Friendships are pleasurable relationships that often stand the test of time.  They are the sharing of ourselves and our innermost feelings with those whom we trust the most. Even cultivating them can be an everlasting treat, like a stroll down the candy aisle of life.  However, just as sweets can be tasty yet terrible for our health, sometimes friends can do more harm than good.

It was a chilly Saturday morning in 1979 – I was five years old. The trailer we lived in was quiet, my mother buried beneath the covers after working a late shift. I poured a bowl of cereal and took my place before the television set, anticipating my favorite cartoons. Suddenly, familiar voices trickled in from outside – it was my older brother Ray, cousin Sam, and Kenny, a neighborhood friend.  I dashed to the bedroom, slipped into some clothes and bolted out the door.  The three of them were bunched together, walking steadily.  Kenny spoke in a hushed tone while Sam and Ray listened. I eased into their group and kept quiet – they paid me little attention.

Their discussion was about the local tadpole pond, which wasn’t much of a pond at all, but rather an abandoned foundation with busted pipes that formed a humongous sinkhole.  We often passed by the vacant site on the way to the corner store, and each time I guessed at the mysterious ripples in the water.  Kenny let on that he and Sam were headed to the pond to see a dog that drowned.  Ray was eight and impressionable – he would follow those two anywhere.  After agreeing to join them, the trio set out while I was tightly wound in their shadow.

We walked a short way before a voice called out and collared me from behind, “Hey, ya’ll, wait up!”

It was Junior, a tubby, spirited kid from around the way who had an enduring appetite for mischief.  He and I were friends, yet often turned rivals whenever my brother was around to stir the competition.  Only then did our Big Wheel rides become fierce battles to the finish line or a game of marbles end in a fight. Our spats never lasted long – Junior and I were usually back to being pals before the turn of day.  His cheeks wobbled like cozy gelatin as he hustled to catch up to our party. 

“Where ya’ll going?” he inquired.

“To the tadpole pond,” I answered.

We arrived at an enclosure and paused to take in the sights, a quaint oasis of thriving vegetation at the edge of the trailer park.  Incredibly dark waters swayed passively with the morning breeze, glistening with the rising sun.  Kenny slipped through a breach in the fence, Sam and Ray soon followed.  I was content to observe from beyond the barrier until Junior squeezed through as well. I tucked my head and dipped past the opening in the fence, fearful yet eerily excited. 

We stood scattered around the water’s edge as the ever dreadful tadpole pond lay before us, polluted with trash and a sodden couch partially submerged at the center.  Kenny pointed out a floating object that was fuzzy and swollen round.   He then looked for something to fish out the carcass while Sam and Ray gathered rocks. Junior fixated on the water and began to inch forward – my curiosity willed me closer.

There were tadpole, tiny critters with long squirmy tails, that flowed along the shallow end.  I squatted low until my reflection bounced back off the face of the water.  It was the first time I’d ever seen a tadpole.

“We need a can,” Junior proposed and disappeared behind me to search for a container. Enthused by the idea of having a pet, I was toying around with names when suddenly I was thrust forward and pitched into the water.

Like a phantom cutpurse, the chilling temperature stole my breath away.  I opened my mouth to yell, but gurgled as the agony gushed in.  My head was a jumble of fear and confusion – frozen with the shocking reality that I was cast beneath the mystery of the rippling pond – and I didn’t know how to swim…

My jacket and denims became weighty with absorption, like linen anchors wrapped around my limbs. Algae and other slush minerals surged down my nostrils and set my lungs afire. I flailed about in a desperate fight against the sinking madness until my wild kicks propelled me above the surface.

Water erupted from my mouth in a vicious spray as the scum fell away from my eyes. I saw my brother racing toward me.

“Help me, Ray!” I pleaded, splashing about to stay afloat until the menacing hand of gravity pulled me under.  I drew in a quick breath and held it tight within as the world collapsed around me.

Slowly, I drifted down into the hazy unknown, kicking, screaming in my head for my mother.  Again, my flapping elevated me, and I burst free from beneath the murky water. Ray shouted words, but they were lost in the frenzy.  Kenny appeared and stretched out toward me.

“Ray!” I cried before my pleas were cut short by another cruel descent into the black.  Lashing out in one final attempt to thwart my tragic end, I somehow grabbed a hold of an object – it was a stick with Kenny holding the opposite end as he plucked me from the horror.

I was drenched, shivering, and felt utterly defeated as I considered the dire possibilities.  Sam peeled off my jacket and replaced it with his own while Kenny assured me that everything was okay. Ray held me tight, but said little as he busied himself with an explanation. And Junior – he was halfway up the block hightailing it for home. 

Today, I saw Junior for the first time in twenty years.  It was a thrilling moment to see how much he had changed, yet concerning for the troubles he faced.  His thick, woolly dreadlocks dangled like tassels over eyes that drooped with sadness, while casting aside his ill-predicament to sympathize for my own. Junior’s trouble was life in prison, mine was the death penalty.  It’s ironic how parallel our lives felt to that day at the tadpole pond.  Still, the quiet agony was short lived and our jaded smiles reciprocated as we stared at one another through a Plexiglas divider and worked to repress our misery.  I realized that Junior was my oldest of friends despite our childhood quarrels. It had been forty years since the tadpole pond, and even now we hurt for one another.  For all the rivaling we did as kids, our friendship survived the chaos – even though he almost killed me, we’re friends all the same. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

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He’s Free

Robert Booker isn’t just any author of seven urban fiction novels. He’s bigger than that. He’s a symbol what can happen if we acknowledge the justice system is flawed, and we can do better.

I wrote about Booker in February, 2016, because he once had a life sentence with no possibility of parole – for a nonviolent crime. I sent him a copy of what I posted. He wrote back. The next thing I knew, he was publishing novels – six in the short time I’ve known him, with countless others yet to be published. He accomplished what many writers dream about with only a pencil and paper. And he did it, not expecting to get out any time soon.

Robert Booker isn’t an incarcerated author anymore. He’s a free author. He once inspired me to write about his unjust sentence – he now inspires me to write about what can happen when wrongs are made right. There is only one Robert Booker, as he would tell you, but there are others like him who deserve this same kind of chance.

Robert Booker went to prison June 29, 1994, but this week – he’s the picture of righting wrongs. He’s the picture of a man who is free thanks in good part to a commutation from President Obama and also the First Step Act.

I can’t wait to see what he does next, and I know I will return to this page often – just to watch this and remember what we’re doing right.

Robert Booker’s books can be found HERE.

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