When my family and I moved to E. B. Jordan Homes in 1980, it was like a ghost town in the woods – rural, secluded, somewhat lawless and all the perks of country living.  There were ditches to scour, trees to climb, fields to rove; and also the not-so-friendly white people to consider.  It was the early period of gentrification in Wilson, when underprivileged families were uprooted from the inner city and relocated to areas where we were less welcome.  

E.B. Jordan Homes was a project housing community on the outskirts of town between a predominantly white neighborhood and a motorcycle club.  We had the n-word flung at us from some few cars passing by, but other than that, it was a  great place to live, and my mischief began when I was young.  At seven I cussed, bullied and vandalized.  I stole candy almost everyday from the old service station across the street.  I wasn’t afraid of getting caught, nor was I bothered by the obscenities of some whites, but no matter how tough I acted, I was always scared of one thing… London Church.

That was all I knew about the old creepy church that sat several yards from our front door. It was called London Church.  It was faded white with chipped paint and shutters on the windows and guarded by towering oak trees. The older kids told stories about London Church being built atop a cemetery and the funerals for those graves were held inside London Church; that alone kept me up many a night staring over at the church grounds waiting for something to move.  I spent the first few years trying to forget all the scary stories I’d heard, but often enough I would pass by London Church and wonder – yet throw a pretty girl in the mix and just like that, I was ready to confront my fears. 

It began one day with some silly notion that was caught on the wind. We were hoping to impress some neighborhood girls when  someone said, “Let’s break into London Church.”  At the time, I associated the name London with England, and I thought of him as some ancient white man, one whose spirit would not take kindly to a bunch of Black kids running around in his church. But then the thunder crackled and the lightning flashed, and the break-in seemed like the perfect thing to do, as though God himself was saying, “I’mma lookout for y’all little bad asses this time, but you owe me one.”

So we headed over to London Church, one foot-step coaxing the other with the acoustics of thunder to incite our false courage. We told tall tales of ghosts and demons and old white slave masters, who would shackle not our bodies but our spirits. When we got there, all the wide-eyed looks turned my way, and unanimously I was elected the scapegoat… so I shimmied open the window and with a boost I climbed inside, in effect breaking into London Church.  What happened next is spotty and irrelevant as the events of that day are now but a haze in my distant past, but what I did was dishonorable and has left me with lingering regret as I would come to learn more about the man called London.  

On Valentine’s day, 1970, three years before I was born, the Wilson Daily Times published a full-page article on London Woodard, a man who was born a slave, yet died as a pivotal figure in Black history.  London was born in 1792, the whip-cracking era when black bodies were deemed no more than chattel in an economy driven by cruelty.  A time when Black heritage and Black identities, like the names of London’s parents, were snuffed out of existence and did not survive the passage of time.  Much of London’s young life was unknown, but at 24, he was recorded in the estate of Asa Woodard, and later at 34 with Julan Woodard, indicating the familial passing down of his enslavement.  On March 22, 1827, just one year later, London would be sold again. He was bought at an auction by Administrator James B. Woodard for $500.  London would spend the majority of his adult life on the Woodard plantation as the slaves in those days seldom strayed far from the “good master”.  London was 35 when he met another Woodard slave, a woman named Venus, and the two found marital bliss and would remain a union for 18 years, until Venus died in 1845.  

London was recognized as a distiller in fine fruit brandies, providing a euphoria to the other slaves to best deal with the day’s long heat and the lash of the master’s tongue.  He was baptized on August 24, 1828, as a member of the Tosneot Baptist Church, a site located some few miles from the E.B. Jordan projects where I grew up and established as the oldest church in Wilson. From there London was promoted to the Overseer, tending to the slaves for the master, a discovery to which I felt indifferent to old London, but unfair since I don’t know what it’s like to be a slave.

It was, in fact, as the Overseer that London caught the eye of Penelope Lassiter, a woman born free in 1814.  When she was 29, Penelope was hired as the housekeeper and surrogate mother to the children of James B. Woodard after the death of his second wife.  Woodard would again marry 4 years later, but by then Penelope had become vital to the rearing of the children, and so she was kept on as she would come to be known as Aunt Penny.  It was while working on the plantation that Penelope’s admiration for London grew, and in 1845, the same year his wife Venus died and London was left with 9 children, he and Penelope married.  London was 58.  He and Penelope had 6 kids together. 

Penelope was born the daughter of Hardy Lassiter, a mulatto who owned a farm south of Wilson. Penny, herself, would prove to be business minded, and at 39, she bought 106 acres (five miles east of Wilson on Tarboro Road) for $242.  It was then 1853 and she and London had been married 9 years.  The next year, she paid $150 to James B. Woodard and bought London’s freedom. 

But freedom would come at a far greater price when enslavement was all that one knew, and London would stay on at the Woodard plantation for another 11 years until he was officially emancipated.  He did, however, continue to thrive, and on December 11, 1866, just one year after his emancipation, London bought 200 acres of his own.  He also continued in his devout membership at Tosneot Baptist Church until after the Civil War, and on April 22, 1866, he was granted permission to preach amongst his “acquaintances only”.

Elizabeth Farmer, who was also a member of the Tosneot Baptist Church, donated one acre  of land for $1 for the purpose of building a Black church. The stipulation was as recorded, “…in the event that said premises be used for secular affairs, either by concord or trustees, then deed was null and void.”  London went on to preach in Black homes and other circles of his peers for 4 years, until he was officially licensed to preach and saw the construction of the Black church completed.

London Primitive Baptist Church was opened for service on Saturday, October 22, 1870.  It was regarded as the first Black church in Wilson County.  London was 78 and unfortunately he would preach at the church for only 3 weeks.  His last sermon was on November 13, 1870.  The next day he suffered a stroke and fell into an open fireplace.  Burned beyond recovery, London lived long enough to dictate a will, leaving his wife Penelope much of his furnishings and equipment, and to his children, his beehives and a tenth of the residue each, valued at $7 a share.  He dictated the will before the Woodard brothers (William, James Simms, and Calvin) as witnesses, though London was too weak to sign the will himself.  He died the next day, November 15, 1870. His will was attested and probated one week later. 

And that was the story of old London Woodard, who was best known as Uncle London. But it  was only the beginning of his lasting legacy as his church would stand more than 100 years later. 

The history of London Church was declared murky for the next 25 years until it was rebuilt in 1895.  It’s new location was on Herring Avenue, some 50 yards from the original site on London Church Road and even less than that from my childhood home.  It was recognized under the umbrella of the Turner Swamp Primitive Baptist Church in 1897, and it is still in use today, making it a prestigious landmark for Black spiritual practice.

So that day when I broke into London Church, I broke the seal on something sacred – a place where Black ancestors far and wide once congregated in holy union. I’d passed under the threshold and stood in the halls of an ex-slave and survivor, whose name would now defy the passing of time. And though I’d trodden on the floors of Black excellence, desecrated by my youthful ignorance but made whole I would hope by my earnest accountability, I pray that my egregious offense to Black history and my blundering childhood ways are  pardoned by the spirit of Uncle London.

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 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.  

Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

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.

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