It was an early Saturday morning along our town’s main street, a brisk chill in the air carrying discordant chatter.  Revelers gathered shoulder to shoulder in heavy jackets and mittens, braving the joyous winter air of Christmas.  Popcorns, candies, grilled franks, and 10¢ soda in paper cups pleased tongues and tummies alike, and hearty smiles reflected on the faces of people from all walks of life, differences put aside for another day.  Utility trucks crept along at a snail’s pace, bearing floats decorated with scenes of the Nativity, and community volunteers put their talents on display, from dance troops to horseback riders.  Everyone had come out for the arrival of Santa, but my anticipation lay elsewhere.

We were the typical fishing trips, backyard cookouts, and holiday get-together family, with the occasional in-house drama kept to a whisper.  But that day, I felt like we were a noble clan in a swell of common folks giving praise to the man of the hour in his bloated red suit, while we celebrated the achievement of one of our own.

Santa cruised by in a decked out jeep loaded with knapsacks marked ‘Salvation Army’; the star attraction, he was, with his cherry stained cheeks and grin that promised to fulfill Christmas wishes. Workshop elves and other parade hopefuls poured through in the unfortunate shadow left by Santa’s star power.  Then it came, the thundering percussion and blaring notes stretched gloriously around the corner – the Beddingfield marching band was on the move.

I craned my neck and stood tiptoed, but the crowd was thick and blinding.  Taking the steps three at a time, I found the greatest shoulders on which to stand to be the top landing of the Superior Court building.  From on high, I watched the drum major appear with his juking dance moves, the middle of the street his stage.  He was flanked by darling majorettes in spandex and twirling batons, and behind them came the marching band in their swanky blue uniforms and bedazzling gloves glinting golden in the morning sun.  They swayed with synchronicity, the woodwinds flittering their fingers while the brass raised their horns to the sky in devotion.  Lastly were the percussionists, their booming sounds causing windows to shudder as the sidewalks threatened to crumble under dancing foot soles.  I recognized the confidence of one drummer as his wooden sticks rapped on with fluidity, passion, and wonder; it was my big cousin – the drummer boy.

A lover of music for as long as I can remember, Big Cuz fostered an inner relationship with beats that ran deeper than any 3-minute song track.  Everything from pencils, pens, and twigs transformed to drumsticks in his hands as he conjured up sounds that were funky and raw.  I was there when he was gifted his first drum set on Christmas morning when I was five, and he woke me up early to watch him play.  He was a one-man band, convinced that he would someday make a living off the drum beating in his head.  He sat me down at his station that day and taught me a  4-count combination, one that would evolve into my own fondness for the craft.  And now, there he was, drumming in the Christmas parade with a flare that riveted the crowd and a spirit that stole the show. 

The marching band fanned out for a halting performance as I waved exuberantly from my courthouse perch.  Big Cuz drummed like it was nobody’s business, except ours… his song was an anthem of our family.  He beat his drums with a fierceness that was nothing short of a statement to the world that said he had finally arrived.  The band commenced playing medleys of current hit songs until the exhilaration in the crowd was spent, then the drum major carried on with his marching cadence, grooving on down the street with majorettes and marching band in tow.  I watched as Big Cuz faded from view with his sound so distinguishable that everything else was background noise.  His was an extraordinary talent that nestled in the hearts of listeners.  Soon the parade was over, the streets swept clean as the crowds returned to life as normal…

Normal until 17 years later.  This time, the spectacle would play out inside the courthouse.  There would be no drum major that day, only a judge with a strict reputation and a lone majorette to his right, wearing a tweed jacket and plucking keys on a stenograph.  The band included the raging prosecutor, spewing accusations on the woodwinds, and the sub par defense attorneys blowing smoke on the brass.  And the crowd, twelve faithfuls hand-picked from the jury pool, their perspectives would scream the loudest.  I was the star attraction this time, sitting at the defense table, charged with 1st degree murder.  The stage was set.  One by one the witnesses paraded before the jury, a prelude to the main event as the door opened behind the judge’s bench and in walked the State’s star witness – the drummer boy.

Big Cuz must’ve shed his confidence somewhere, along with his uniform, because he spent much of his walk looking down trying to find it.  His eyes swung low like pendulums with a razor’s edge, ready to slice my character to pieces.  He climbed the steps to the witness stand where he could see me from up high, his passion now gone, replaced by desperation.  He then placed his hand on the Bible, this wooden stick stained and hollow, as he swore to play a song of truth.

I then listened as Big Cuz wove a tale of robbery, murder, and confession, drumming up lie after lie to the amusement of the jury.  They rewarded him with their steadfast concentration, it was a sound they hadn’t heard before.  The questions poured in from the prosecutor who proved masterful at conducting testimony, while my brass tongue attorneys sowed woeful discord with their blaring objections. The encore fell to the prosecutor when he asked Big Cuz, “Is the defendant there the man who told you he killed someone?”

“Yes”

“And who is he to you?”

“My cousin. Terry Robinson.”

With that, Big Cuz drummed his final note and scurried out the door, his beats reverberating throughout the courtroom long after he was gone.  The jury found him credible and applauded him with their guilty votes; it didn’t matter that I was innocent, to them I was background noise.  Once again, I was impacted by the drummer boy’s performance, except this time in the very worst way, costing me more than a biting chill, 10¢ sodas and spent legs laboring up the courthouse steps – this time it cost me my life.

Growing up, I never had a birthday party; a few gifts here and there, yes, but no festive gatherings over music and treats. The closest I’ve come to a birthday wish was helping my baby sister blow out the candles on her cake. To be clear, my mom celebrated me daily with her sacrifices. She was always buying us kids the things we wanted that she couldn’t afford. But when money is scarce and you’re a ‘December’ baby like me, birthday parties often come in close second to an abundant Christmas. 

So, I would attend the party events of others with gift in hand, eager to dance, and with a tiny sparkle of envy in my eyes. Though they say, ‘you don’t miss what you never had,’ part of me still wanted people to eat, drink, and dance solely because I existed, but it just wasn’t in the cards for me to have a birthday party back then.  It is also said, ‘things happen for a reason’, and for some reason my birthday party was meant to happen now. 

It would be 49 years of trite birthdays before my fiftieth offered a time to remember.  The morning began with well wishes from my fellow Death Row inmates, each showing up at my cell door with fist bumps and canteen treats. Then came what I thought was the surprise of the day posted on the wall, my name slotted for an 8:30 a.m. visit.  I headed to visitation on the heels of suspicion with roving eyes leading the way.  

Once there, I sat down in the booth, ecstatic about the pop-up surprise visit.  It wasn’t long before I was greeted by two familiar faces, though I was surprised to see them together for the first time.  It was my mother, along with a very close friend; women who, throughout the years, have carried me over the threshold of surviving Death Row with unending love and support. They arrived with a festive gleam in their eyes, their energy bursting like fireworks, bright and exciting. Their hearty voices were music pouring through the speaker box to which I danced away to the melodies in my head. Their smiles were sweet as icing on the most lavish birthday cake, glistening with a thousand candles; way too many for my fifty years, but they were making up for lost time.  And, they’d brought with them yet another surprise, gifting me the invitation to reach out to another supporter of mine, the one and only Jason Flom, through a phone call.  I’d come to know about Jason from a previous interview he’d given regarding his stance on Criminal Justice Reform. Since then, he’d contributed in the fight against my own wrongful conviction – and now I was given the chance to thank him.  

Visitation ended, and I scurried back to Death Row, excited to make the call. The phone rang on one end while I stilled my nerves on the other, fighting back the anxiety that would make my voice quiver. Jason answered with the poise of someone born to greet people, “Hello.”

It was all I could do not to shrink at the thought of his status; he was Jason Flom, music extraordinaire, but I was somebody too. I began talking without much thought, the gratitude bursting from my mouth like party confetti. It was more than his contributions to my case alone but his passion for systemic change that earned my admiration. I was just revving up the praise when Jason let on that he wasn’t alone and was in the company of another person.   

“Her father made a name for himself in the boxing world. You might’ve heard of him… Muhammad Ali?”  He then introduced me to Khalia Ali over the phone and told her of my special day. 

I heard her voice chime, “Hi Terry. Happy Birthday.”

I gasped when I realized I was on the phone with the daughter of my hero, Muhammad Ali. I’d read countless books on him and seen several documentaries on his plight throughout America’s racial disparity. And now his daughter was wishing me a happy birthday, although all I heard was, “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. Rumble young man, rumble…aahh!”

My spirit abandoned my body long enough to race through the prison halls yelling, “Muhammad Ali’s daughter just wished me a happy birthday!”

On the phone however, I gathered my composure and thanked her for the shout out; it was more of a birthday gift than I could’ve hoped for. Jason then pitched the notion to visit me here on Death Row. I knew the possibility was unlikely with the visitation approval process here slow and meticulous, but I didn’t have the nerve to disappoint him, so I didn’t express my certainty that it likely could not happen.

I had not fully accounted for the tenacity of those supporting me though, and by the end of the week and after all of the prison’s policies and procedures were followed, Jason and Khalia were approved.  I was up that Saturday morning early enough to rouse the sun awake.  I paced wall-to-wall in the quiet of my cell. Today was the big day.  Though it was approved, my visit with Jason and Khalia was still in limbo – yet nothing could smother my excitement. It was nerve wracking all the same, as I watched other Death Row men escorted to visitation without me. 

Suddenly, my name was called, and I pressed on to visitation taking two steps to the C/O ‘s one. I kept sorting through the validation of my own worth along the way, that two such notable people would come to visit me. Once there, I waited in the excruciating seconds as my confidence began to falter. I chanted reggae songs to keep me company while soothing the raging doubt.  Before long, the elevator opened and two visitors stepped out enveloped in the air of excellence. I recognized the height, glasses, and salt & pepper hair of Jason from his interview; Khalia bore the striking resemblance of her father. They swept through the door into the booth where I waited like titans in designer threads, yet with the humility about them to dismiss the tight quarters, dismal lighting, the grit and grime. Khalia waved affectionately before taking a seat with a smile that brightened the room as Jason plopped down on the stool next to her, weary from the rush of a last minute drive. 

We exchanged pleasantries as though seemingly unbothered  by having to talk to one another through reinforced glass. When we spoke, Jason’s every word was teeming with genuine concern for the injustice I’d suffered for so long. I spoke about the events that led to my false imprisonment and my struggle on Death Row while Jason occasionally coursed his fingers through his hair, adjusted his glasses but said nothing – he was a  good listener. Khalia peered on with the keenness of her legendary father, her eyes trained to study every movement, whether friend or foe. Together they would make a formidable pair for whatever cause they championed.  I was just glad they were on my side.  At times, they asked poignant questions about my case, other times they wanted to know about my family. I soon saw them no longer as A-listers but merely influential people who cared enough to want to right wrongs. 

Jason slid on his jacket when the visit was over, gearing up to fight injustice elsewhere. They were off to attend a rally for another wrongfully convicted man; yep, injustice, too, is an epidemic.  Jason popped up from the stool, pressed his fist to the glass, and said, “I’ll see you on this side of the glass soon.”

Somehow it made it more real when he said it, and for a brief second I was free.  Khalia rose with the gusto of someone who was a champion in her own right. I realized then I hadn’t mentioned her dad’s name once.  I didn’t have to… her exploits were equally as impressive.  The two of them made for the elevator as Jason pumped his fist and Khalia blew kisses goodbye.  Afterwards I sat alone again, except now I felt accompanied by the spirit of a wonderful experience.

Later, while in my cell, I replayed such an eventful week, comparing it to birthdays of the past. People had gathered in my honor.  There was music and gifts and the dancing of my own soul. And though my time with Jason and Khalia happened unexpectedly, still it was a wish come true as I’ve now realized the best wishes are sometimes those we never wished for at all. 

It would take fifty years, but I’ve had that birthday party. It wasn’t a traditional celebration, but mine was unique and fulfilling. Not to discount my other forty-nine birthdays, because they were special in their own way, but this year’s party was a long time coming and well worth the wait. 

Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions.

Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful that Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven in the not too distant future and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.

Terry can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.

I was in the dayroom that day, taking up a tiny bit of necessary space when Moose walked by.  It was medication call, and he walked with a pressing pace, a man on a mission.  He had slimmed down a pound or ten, and his friendly countenance was gone.  I must’ve commented on his shrinking waistline because someone blurted out, “Ya ain’t know Moose got stage four?”

Cancer.  The killer that lives amongst the killers on Death Row.  A parasite that looms around the turn of each year, slaying with impunity.  It is an ominous disease, so widely suffered that it is recognized by several epithets.  Stage Four.  The Big C.  Sick.  And more infamously – The Cancer.  

To some, this may be considered justice – anguish suffered in kind.  But no one, not even a hardened killer, deserves the agony of a slow, wilting death.  Even still, not all Death Row inmates are hardened killers.  Some have slain in self-defense.  Some, crimes of passion; some, drug fueled rages; and some haven’t killed at all.  Still, there is no preference to a worldly killer that strikes without prejudice, affecting hospitals, schools, workplaces – even prisons; but a place where men were already slated to die?

The death penalty is the court’s swift, intolerant stance on heinousness, some actions dissolving our humanity.  But when lengthy court appeals threaten to prolong executions by decades, cancer can become a welcome resolve.  I was on Death Row for five months when Mr. Roper died of cancer, although he was well within its throes when we met; a frail man, surly at times and confined to his bunk most days, yet he adamantly refused to take his morphine pills.  Then it was Gary, a mediocre gambler with a wishing-well for pockets who once summed up his terminal condition in poker slang, “I keep on catching the loser’s best.”

Then it was Ernie, who complained of stomach pangs and died weeks later, and J.W. who was found dead in his cell.  Mr. Leroy.  John.  Another Gary and Eric, and some others whose names have been lost in the years past.  And now it was Moose, a cheerful man who had befriended me often, that was said to have stage four cancer and likely preparing to die.  An impossible task, one that I passed off as rumor – that way it was easier to dismiss.

A week later, I bumped into Moose while on the way to see a friend.  We chatted briefly during which time he cracked a joke about his terminal condition.  I was too caught off guard to respond.  To laugh felt like I was downplaying the seriousness, yet my vacant response felt like pity; neither of which seemed appropriate for a guy who had just opened up to me about his struggles, so I thought to engage him instead.  Moose was a talker, an enjoyable quality when he hosted role-playing games in the past, but that day he outdid himself.  He jumped from one subject to the next, not saying much in the way of significance.  It felt like he just needed someone with whom to talk.  We covered sports and motorcycles, gossip and family – just thinking up random shit to say.  I never made it to see that friend of mine but stayed hanging out with Moose and soaking up what could likely be one of our last talks together.

The topic of cancer came up, the word mentioned enough times to have been a person across the room, burly and menacing and marking his time to storm over and break up our bonding session for good.  The more Moose let on about adjusting to his daily struggles, the more I admired his perseverance.  It was a moving testament that I hoped would survive the cancer.  On a whim I asked if I could interview him.  I didn’t realize how insensitive it sounded until after the words left my mouth – but surprisingly enough, Moose said yes.  

The next day he invited me into his room, a neatly kept area with gleaming white walls and folded sheets covering the floor. Any excess property he had accumulated over the years had been minimized to the barest essentials – a radio, cosmetics, and pictures on the wall were the only items in sight.  There was an eeriness to the air that felt clustering and dark although sunlight poured into the room from the window.  I wasn’t bothered by the cancer – I knew it wasn’t contagious, but death felt like something I could catch.  Then Moose, ever the generous one, offered me a soda and some nabs and told me to have  a seat.  Suddenly, the eeriness was gone, replaced with compassion, and I remembered why I was there.  

Chanton:  Thanks for the soda, brother – man, but I would’ve brought something if I knew we were having a party.

Moose:  Oh, naw – you keep your stuff, Chanton.  My house, my treat.

Chanton:  Your hospitality really isn’t all that surprising.  You’ve always been a giver.  In fact, I’ve still got the D-N-D handbook you gave me some years ago.

At this, Moose began to look around as though searching for something else to give away.  To avoid my motives being mistaken, I dove into another subject.

Chanton:  How’s that Washington football team of yours coming along?

Moose:  They’re the worst.  They should’ve kept Heinke in as the starter.  That boy gooder than everybody think.  I’ve done said if Riverboat Ron is still our head coach next year – I’m jumping ship.

We drank cola, ate knick-knacks and candy, and settled into the awkwardness of two men alone together who barely knew one another.  I was nervous, but I wiped any trace of it from my face as the soda washed down the clump in my throat.  There I was getting ready to delve into that man’s life while he was preparing for that very life to end.  I figured I owed him every ounce of professionalism I could muster for the courtesy he was showing me.

Chanton:  So, how’ve you been feeling, my man?

Moose:  I’ve been doing good – ya know… except for that medication.  It keeps me nauseated.

Chanton:  What?  The chemo?

Moose:  Nah, I ain’t doing the chemo.  All that’s gonna do is drag things out – ya know.  I’mma let it do what it do.  Let nature take its course.

Chanton:  Don’t you wanna fight to live as long as you can?

Moose:  What’s the use?  Stage four cancer is terminal.  Maybe if they’d caught it a few years ago, I might have a chance.

Chanton:  How did you find out that you have cancer?  Were there symptoms?

Moose:  Hell, naw.  I felt fine…  a little tired every now and then.  Funny – I was watching a story on Ron Rivera, the Washington head coach, and his recovery from cancer.  So I’m fucking around and I checked my throat… and I found a damn lump.  

Chanton:  And your first diagnosis was stage four?  Man, that’s fucked up.

Moose:  Yep – stage four.  They did that same shit to Ernie.  And Eric, too.

Chanton:  Oh, yeah, we know the State don’t got the best medical track record in early prevention.  But here’s what I wanna do – let’s switch gears for a bit, Moose.  Tell me a little about yourself.

Moose:  Hmmm.  Let me see.  Well, I’m 56, and I grew up around Mount Airy.

Chanton:  That’s in NC, right?  I thought since you were a huge V-Tech Hokies fan that you were from around Blacksburg, VA.

Moose:  Nah – I like V-Tech ‘cause their colors were the same as my high school team.

Chanton:  You played football in high school?

Moose:  Yep.  I ran track, too, at Moss High.  It’s a wonder how I graduated though, I was always the class clown.

Chanton:  So what was going on with you before high school?  What was your childhood like?

Moose:  I dunno… great parents.  My mama used to model for the clothing stores.  Daddy was a salesman.  He done been a bunch of other stuff too.  I used to slop hogs and bale hay with him before school.

Chanton:  So, your pops was a farmer?

Moose:  For a while – yep.  He owned a bit of land in Mount Airy.  But then daddy became a preacher and everybody loved him.  He never had to pay for shit.

Chanton:  What?  I never knew you were a preacher’s kid, Moose.  Is it true what they say about all the restrictions?

Moose:  Daddy was strict when he needed to be – but mama would tear our asses up too.  I stole some bubble gum when I was three ‘cause she wouldn’t buy it for me.  She whooped me all the way to the car.

Chanton:  Spare the rod, spoil the child, huh?

Moose:  That’s the thing though – mama and daddy did spoil us.  They taught me and my sister to work hard but they still gave us anything we wanted.

Chanton:  How many siblings do you have?

Moose:  Just that one.  Debbie.  She’s older than me by six years.  Overprotective too.  One time when I was riding my bike I just got for Christmas and this older boy her age kept making me let him ride on it, Debbie caught that boy and – 

Suddenly Moose’s face was a twisted mask of anguish, and his muttered words were drenched in tears. The memory had taken him back to a time in his life when death row and cancer wasn’t real.  I felt so fucking guilty to ask a dying man to recount his life and not expect it to crash into an emotional wall.  Yet, it was an emotional turnaround I didn’t see coming, and I was thinking of an excuse to terminate the interview when Moose smeared away his grief on a handkerchief and pulled himself together.

Moose:  My bad, Chanton.  I didn’t mean to get emotional.

Chanton:  Aw, hell, man – you’re okay.  I appreciate you feeling comfortable enough to let go in front of me.  What was it that made you so emotional?

Moose:  Just thinking about my sister.  That girl always had my back.  Even now.  She ‘bout all the family I got.  Like I was saying – she caught that older boy riding my bike and pulled him off it by his shirt and was beating on that head of his good.

Chanton:  As well she should’ve.  I’ve got an older brother who had to stick up for me when I was getting picked on.  So, where’s the rest of your family?

Moose:  Well – mama and daddy is gone.  My grandparents passed years ago.  I’ve got an uncle I was named after, but he lives way down in Florida.  And my son – I don’t know much about him though.  He don’t have nothing to do with me.

Chanton:  Yeah, I know what you mean.  Kids can be resentful to parents who weren’t around.  I’ve got to imagine he does love you though… at least cares about you.  You’re his dad… the only one he’s got.

Moose:  Yeah.  I do really love my son.  If I could change things for him – I would.

Chanton:  What are some things you would change about yourself?  Any regrets?

Moose:  I was headed to the military after high school, the Marine Corp.  But daddy offered me a job working with him, so I stayed.  I wish I would’ve went on.  And – when I was a kid, I found a love for motorcycles from watching Chips.  I wanted to own a shop someday.

Chanton:  What kept that dream from happening.

Moose:  I started running with the wrong crowds.  Drinking and smoking weed.  Getting into trouble.

Chanton:  Tell me more about those motorcycles.

Moose:  Shit, what’cha wanna know?  Motorcycles is my thing.  I started riding ‘em when I was 18.  Later, I bought an old panhead and fixed it up.  I was green as hell when it came to motorcycle gangs, but I loved riding with them.  I got offered to be a prospect in the Sonny Barger gang before – but I ain’t never hold no colors.  After that, I just started fixing ‘em up, trading parts – until I knew everything there was about a bike.

Chanton:  Did you work on motorcycles for a living?

Moose:  Oh man, I’ve done some of everything.  Picked cherries.  Chopped trees.  I was a sprayer, mower, skating rink DJ, school bus driver, and salesman, like my daddy.  When I took a machine out to sell, I never brought it back.

Chanton:  Damn!  With all those jobs, it’s a wonder if you were ever broke.

Moose:  Shoot!  I kept money.  But I was a giver, just like daddy.  I helped a lot of people.

Chanton:  Ok, so you being a white guy and me, a black guy, I’m interested to know what were some of your experiences in race relations.

Moose:  I’ve tried not to get  into that stuff ‘cause daddy said, ‘we’re all God’s children’.  But I’ve been around some Whites who didn’t like Blacks, and Blacks who didn’t like Whites.  As soon as they show that’s who they are and how they think – I’m gone.  Nope.  I don’t play that.  Don’t bring that stuff around me.

Chanton:  Have you ever felt pressured to stay in a group of friends after they’ve shown racist tendencies?

Moose:  Nope.  I’ve had guys say racist stuff around me ‘cause they thought it was cool.  But ya know what – I stopped messing with them after that.

Chanton:  Good for you, bro.  I always find it interesting how cultural and environmental backgrounds shape our views on race.  I didn’t always speak out against my social peers for trashing other races.  I’ve tried not to join them – though I’m sure I’ve crossed the line once or twice.

Moose:  It happens… don’t mean you’re a bad person.  Daddy said one time, ‘don’t judge no man by the color of his skin – judge ‘em by the color of his heart’.

Chanton:  That’s deep.  Your pops said that?

Moose:  Yep.  Daddy treated everybody fair.

Chanton:  If your mom and dad were here right now, what would you say?

Moose:  Tell ‘em how much I love them, and thank ‘em for all the stuff they put up with me.

Chanton:  How old were you when you came to Death Row?

Moose:  I got here October 1, 1992.  I was 26.

Chanton:  And what was it like, coming to Death Row?

Moose:  I was a little scared – but it wasn’t nothing to me.  I was on safekeeping down the hall from Death Row before I got the death penalty, so I knew some of the guys already.  My first day on Death Row, the Sgt. pulled me in the office and there were a bunch of shanks laid out on the desk.  He told me to pick one ‘cause I was gonna need it.  When I did – they all burst out laughing at me.  They were bull-shitting.  He told me to put that shit back down and that I would be fine.

Chanton:  And were you fine?  Any trouble over the years?

Moose:  I mean – I’ve gotten into a fight or two over shit that could’ve been avoided.  But sometimes people need to know that you will fight before they’ll leave you alone.

Chanton:  What’s your days like now, waking up with the cancer and all?  Are you scared?  

Moose:  Not really.  A little bit.  I guess – but I don’t want to waste my last days worrying about something I can’t change.

Chanton:  Did they say how long you’ve got left to live?

Moose:  They said probably six months… could be a year.  But I won’t last that long.  My body is already shutting down.

Chanton:  How so?

Moose:  I wake up sleepy as hell.  I can’t keep no food down, except the peaches.  And my stomach be in knots all the time.

Chanton:  And you’ve decided against the medications?

Moose:  Oh, no – I take the meds.  I just ain’t doing the chemo.  I’ve gotta take the pain meds; it’s the only way I can make it through the day.

Chanton:  I feel ya – in fact, it’s med call right now, so we should wrap it up for today.  I’ve got a few more questions for another time. But even after this interview is over I’d love to swing by every now and then to hang out with you – if you don’t mind.  You and I have played lots of D-N-D games together in the past.  You’ve always been cool to me.

Moose:  Thanks for saying that, Chanton.  And sure – swing on by when you get the chance.  Remind me to tell you about the dragon I’ve seen in real life.

Chanton:  Dragon?  In real life?  This I’ve got to hear.  Stay up Moose – and keep pushing on ‘til the wheels fall off.

Moose:  I will.  But wait, before you go – I want you to have this.  They’re pictures of a panhead, shovelhead and knucklehead.  Get you some tape, and you can make a bookmark out of them.

Chanton:  Wow – thanks bro.  This is pretty cool.  Alright, Moose… I’ll see you tomorrow.

Moose:  See ya, Chanton.

And with that, me and Moose dapped it up and officially concluded this leg of the interview.  

The next day proved more challenging than we anticipated when we were hit with a COVID outbreak.  The prison went into the red zone protocol and locked down all the dorms.  We agreed to postpone the interview, but the cancer never let up.  Moose was vomiting and losing sleep.  He had to be hospitalized.  I was trying to be optimistic of his return – screw the interview, I just wanted him to live.  But on February 17, 2022 we got the news from the prison chaplain – Moose was dead.

Not a day has gone by that I don’t think about my friend and what his last moments were like.  Maybe he wasn’t all that scared of dying, but I was scared for him.  I wanted it to be one of those things where he could apologize to the cancer and everything would be okay.  I wanted him to change his mind about the chemo and fight a little longer to live.  What I hadn’t realized was that by not taking the chemo – Moose was fighting in his own way.  He fought to keep cancer from depriving him of a death worthy of faith.  Even his agreeing to do the interview was a challenge that he embraced because even though he knew he couldn’t beat the cancer – he fought for his words to survive.

Everyplace has a code of conduct, a pre-established format on how to behave, especially Death Row, where violating communal norms can have fatal consequences.  And although I was surprised to learn when I arrived how clueless the men were to the accused crimes of one another, I soon learned it was a naivete woven from a thread of doubt that was necessary for us to coexist.  Here on Death Row, we never discuss the crimes of others.  Our spats are never armed with accusations.  We share living space with men who have committed heinous acts and the courtesy between us is doubt.  But what happens when the media airs coverage that shatters that doubt?  What happens to courtesy when a vicious murderer is unveiled by his own admission?  How do we come to terms with the visions of horror when there is no naivete behind which to hide?  And what is the code of conduct when learning the person who is responsible is someone I’ve called a friend?

I first heard the rumor during my orientation to Death Row by a CO escorting me to the pod.  He motioned toward a dark skinned man sitting alone at a table as we passed by a murky window.   “See him?  Watch out for that one there – he’s a serial killer.” 

With questionable motives himself, I brushed off the warning as though it was merely a scare tactic.  Either that or the CO was harboring a cold, vindictive grudge since his comment was dripping ice.  I did, however, take notice of said ‘serial killer’, but I didn’t see a killer at all.  No beady red eyes, twisted grin or drawing on the wall in his own blood – at least, that’s how I imagined a serial killer to look.  This guy wore schoolboy glasses and had a quiet demeanor.  He was husky and out-of-shape.  It was not the infamous costume of a serial killer, but I decided to avoid him just in case. 

Years passed before I ever said a word to the man and even then, it was mostly brief exchanges in passing.  My observation of him was that he seemed knowledgeable about the world, well-respected, and typically kept to himself.  The first time we ever had a greater interaction than that it was over a bet and got a bit tense.  

“R. Kelly sings that shit!” 

“I’m telling you man – it’s Aaron Hall.” 

“Put $5 on it then.” 

“Bet then mutha-fucka!” 

We shouted opposing truths back and forth until he upped the bet to ten.  I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of everyone, so I agreed.  I lost and paid the debt, but I felt manipulated by him raising the stakes.  We didn’t speak again for over a year. 

But one thing about proximity on Death Row, it forges bonds out of shared affliction.  Many a friendship here is founded on empathy alone; some on familiarity.  We began having casual talks, and over time, I found he was quite pleasurable to be around.  He was thoughtful, soft-spoken, easy to engage, and never lost his temper.  I felt petty for griping over a bet that I agreed to, and I discussed with him my point-of-view.  He apologized and said he, too, was caught up in the moment.  He’d bet to save face with the others.  We were both trying to be liked in a place where likeability is relative to survival.  We made our peace, shook hands with one another, and the two of us were friends ever since.  

My friend, like myself, received visits frequently, and our loved ones became acquainted as well.  My mother often asked about him, and I’d have great things to say.  Occasionally, he stopped by the booth to wave hello.  His name was mentioned regularly during conversations with my mom, but not once did we discuss the crime that brought him here.  I told myself I didn’t care whether he was a serial killer – but maybe I just didn’t want to believe it. 

Then came the Friday night that 20/20 aired its special coverage on his case.  I felt like I was betraying my friendship simply by watching the episode.  Did I even want to know?  Was the element of doubt that was the glue to our friendship about to be dissolved?  I decided that a friendship that hasn’t been tested is hardly a friendship at all. 

From the moment the face of the first victim was shown, I was struck by the horrible reality.  Such a sweet face and promising life snuffed out by a pair of hands wrapped around her throat. Then there was the girl’s mother whose tears and pleas made my own eyes blur with sympathy.  I wasn’t thinking about forgiveness or reform for the killer – I was thinking somebody should pay. 

Then came the face of another young woman that riddled me with guilt, her image penetrating me in a way that accused me of excusing her death.  Then there was another face; and another, until the victim count was more than ten – all of them had been raped before having their lives squeezed from their bodies.  The police had no leads, except the still-shot image of a man hunched over an ATM machine.  It was grainy and distorted, but I’d recognize that hulking figure anywhere – it was my friend. 

After his arrest, he confessed to the murders and gave a detailed account of his slaughter.  The person sounded like my friend and looked like him, but it couldn’t be the man I knew.  He was too thoughtful a person to want to hurt anybody, while the guy on TV was a monster.  I kept trying to remind myself that people can change – but how does someone come back from that?  Is there redemption after tying up the neck of a baby and leaving him for dead?  If not, and we are forever judged by our past, then what would be the motivation to change?  

Long after the show was off the air, the episode kept replaying in my head.  I saw the women’s faces, heard their names, and re-lived hearing their families’ grief.  Eleven women strangled, stabbed, even burned to death for no other reason than knowing the person I knew. Callous hands would cut down their future, choke away their dreams and desecrate a mother’s pride.  And to think that I’d shaken those very same hands without consideration of the hurt they’d caused.  I couldn’t help but feel I was committing a disservice to victims by befriending their murderer. 

Suddenly, I was faced with two grappling concepts – justice and forgiveness.  Many are taught to believe that by withholding forgiveness, we are perpetuating justice.  But the perpetuation of anything is the opposite of justice, and forgiveness is a self-serving device.  Different concepts that sit on the same end of the moral spectrum because there is not one without the other.  I was taught that salvation comes after the worst thing we’ve ever done.  I’m a believer in forgiveness, and no one is more deserving of justice than my friend’s victims. 

There were two of the victims’ mothers and one sister who all said they’d forgiven him.   However, one male cousin seemed consumed by the need for vengeance, vowed to petition for execution.  Strength and resolve.  Persistent anguish.  How I admired one and pitied the other.  Those women from whom everything had been taken were determined to take something of their own.  Perpetuating the hate is a transfer of their power – by forgiving him, they took it back.  It was the one defining moment throughout the entire segment in which justice felt truly served. 

Now I know that I, too, must forgive the horrible things that were done.  Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing the wrong, but allowing him to pay.  And allowing him to live to pay – that is the only justice.   

Note: This is sixth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go 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.

January 29, 2023

[Typically, these journal entries are sent in written form. Terry called me on January 29, 2023, wanting to share something that he wrote, impacted by seeing the mother of Tyre Nichols on the news. We started recording shortly after he called.]

Entries From My Journal #1

Entries From My Journal #2

Entries From My Journal #3

Entries From My Journal #4

Entries From My Journal #5

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Terry can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.

Note: This is fifth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go 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.

April 17, 2016 (4:02 am)

It’s been 4 months since I wrote in this journal, but tonight I’m having trouble sleeping and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. I keep having these dreams of getting off Death Row, but I can’t stay long. For some reason I’ve gotta come right back. I’m going around visiting people I haven’t seen in years but it’s just to say goodbye. I don’t know if it’s meaning I belong on Death Row or this place is so far removed from the world that once you’re here, you’re lost forever. I wonder what happened to that little kid that used to be me, the one who wouldn’t be caught dead on Death Row. I used to dream of white picket fences and gardens around a trailer, now all I can dream of is the chance to see people before I die. Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, being woke to face all the bullshit that happens on Death Row, or going to sleep and realizing I’m still in this bitch.

Entries From My Journal #1

Entries From My Journal #2

Entries From My Journal #3

Entries From My Journal #4

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Terry can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.

My father was a wild man who lived
with his feet off the ground
an eagle soaring on the wings of errant
pride
he was love on fire
scorching heart
beat on the move
swaying
to the groove of a
guitar and a mended spirit
a cue-pid ball gliding across the
evergreen way chasing all the pretty
numbers in the school yard
he was brick pile wild
the allure of promise
jive talk over corn stalks and
hawk bills in hip pockets
perched on high a rooftop throne of
rock tiles and sometimes regrets
the king of tickled bellies
shot gun shells and
shattered windows of
proven love crazy with that
“I wish you would…” courage
My daddy was cold Budweisers and
‘son, bet wiser
fitted caps and
waist tucked tees and
greeted death with a smile on his face
he was hard work
potential
and good old memories
and 2 o’clock gatherings over
hymns and hyperboles
the greatest dad ever
salute Wild Man Steve

“God called my daddy, Steve Robinson, home on November 6, but he left us with a lifetime of memories and three generations to carry on his name.
Hug your family while they’re still here.”

Steve Harris Robinson
July 27, 1948 – November 6, 2022

Terry Robinson he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com
OR
you can follow the writer, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson, on Facebook, all messages left there will be forwarded to him.