April 8, 2019, was the hardest day of my life, even harder than getting a death sentence.  It was the day my mom passed away, and I remember it like yesterday.

I was in the cellblock when I got called to the Chaplain’s office over the loud speaker.  Usually, that’s not good.  I had been called down to the Chaplain’s office four times before and each time it was a death in the family, so I was on pins and needles.  Who could it be this time?  I never thought it’d be my mom because she was in fairly good health and hadn’t mentioned anything to me.  

When I saw the Chaplain and an officer waiting for me, I knew it wasn’t good.  She shut the door behind us and came around her desk to sit across from me before telling me that something had happened in my family and she was going to call my sister.  When she handed me the phone, my sister’s first words were, “It’s mom.”

I started to break down but held it together long enough to ask what happened.  My sister told me that my mom was cleaning a gun when it went off and hit her in the chest.  

Nothing about what happened next sounds right.  I was ready to cry my eyes out, but I chatted a bit more before hanging up.  The Chaplain tried to comfort me by asking if I was alright or if I needed anything, but I was numb.  The tears were gone, and I felt nothing.  I realize now I was probably in shock, but at the time it may have seemed like I was cold-hearted or didn’t care.  That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

I left that office numb with a million thoughts running through my mind.  Each step toward the cellblock seemed to make it more real, and I could feel myself breaking down.  As I neared the booth where officers control the doors, I heard Officer Roscoe call my name.  He asked if there was anything he could do, and he was sincere about it. 

Mr. Roscoe was one of the best officers I’ve ever met.  He cared and treated us like human beings, so I asked him to let me talk to a few of my best friends.  While we were able to go to recreation together, we lived on separate pods and were not supposed to have contact with each other outside of rec.  Mr. Roscoe did me a good service that day by supporting me in my time of need, and I will always remember that.

After he let my friends out into the hallway, I hugged each of them and started crying.  Those guys had been there for me since my first day on death row thirteen years earlier.  They were older than me, knew about loss and also knew how to be real friends despite all the prison stigma.  In prison you’re supposed to be hard and showing feelings can be seen as weak, but here on death row in NC, we’ve been around each other so long many of us have seen someone next to us lose someone important.  We try to be there for each other, especially if it’s one of our friends.  I appreciated those guys so much, and without them I would have been lost.  When one of us loses someone here, it’s a death row prisoner that helps us through the tough times.  

After I finished talking with my friends, Mr. Roscoe told me he was sorry to hear about my mom, and he asked me if there was anything else he could do.  I said no but that I appreciated him so much.  

Shortly after that day, Mr. Roscoe died in a car wreck on his way to work.  Everyone felt that loss, whether you were an officer or a prisoner, and I will never forget him.  Mr. Roscoe was a truly great person who treated people fairly, it didn’t matter what you did in life or what you looked like. It’s people like him who give me hope because he saw me for me and cared about me in my time of need.  

Thank you Mr. Roscoe for everything you did for us, and thank you to all the brothers who helped me when I needed it the most.  

ABOUT THE WRITER. Darrell Maness placed second in our recent writing contest with his essay, Those Who Care. Great writing often shares those times in life that are the hardest to share, and Darrell did that with this essay. The judges not only appreciated his vulnerable and honest writing, but he also wrote directly to the prompt. Darrell can be contacted at:

Darrell Maness #0831753
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
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