All posts by Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky

Part 2 – My Arrest

October 15, 1999 – it was three days after my best friend, Jeremiah, committed the heinous act of killing three police officers and wounding two others, before taking his own life.

At approximately 2:30 am, while sleeping fitfully on a pallet of couch cushions and blankets on the living room floor at my parents’ home, I was easily awakened by the phone ringing loudly in the other room. I glanced over at Sara, the mother of my son, lying next to me. She stirred in her sleep, as though having a troubling dream. Understandable. The events of the past three days left me quite troubled as well. ‘What the hell was Jeremiah thinking?’ I lament to myself.

I feel as though I failed my friend in some way. The news stories about the incident keep flooding my mind – pictures and video of the crime scene; bright yellow police tape everywhere, blocking roads and nearby properties; blood stains on the ground; a police car splattered with blood and riddled with bullet holes; police officers combing the area for evidence; little yellow cones all over the ground marking numerous bullet casings….  I squeeze my eyes shut, and try to think of something else. The phone rings several more times as I lie in the dark with my eyes shut before it stops. Either someone answered it, or whoever was calling hung up.

A minute later I feel someone lightly nudge my shoulder before whispering my name, “Kenny, wake up.”  It’s my mom. She’s kneeling next to me with a scared and worried expression on her face, holding the phone out for me. As I reach for it she says in a shaky voice that it’s the police, and they have the house surrounded. I was so damn tired, and now confused. I accepted the phone and slowly stood up. As I look around I see bright lights shining through the curtains in the front and rear of the living room windows. ‘What the fuck is going on?!’ I think to myself.  “Hello?”

In a professional, no-nonsense tone, a male voice identifies himself as a Texas Ranger, says he has a warrant for my arrest, the house is surrounded and I need to come out right then, with my hands up.  “What? Why? What’s going on?” I ask, bewildered.

“Just come on out, right now, and we’ll explain everything to you. Don’t make us come in and get you,” responds the Ranger.

“Can I at least put some clothes on first?” At this point, I’m wearing nothing but silk boxer shorts.

“No,” replies the Ranger.  “Just come on out how you are, and we’ll get your clothes for you. Come out slowly. Do exactly as instructed. If you make any sudden movements, you will be shot.”

‘Holy shit! This is serious!’ I think to myself in a state of disbelief.  Now, I am fully awake, my heart beating like it was just injected with a syringe full of adrenaline. Anger begins to mix with the confusion. “Okay,” I respond in a tone that sounds sure and unafraid as I hang up feeling shaky and scared.

Everyone in the house is awake now and watching me. I take a deep breath and quickly struggle into a pair of dark green cargo pants, there is no time to locate my shirt and shoes, while I repeat everything the Ranger said. We are all frightened and in a state of bewilderment. We immediately discuss what to do.

Obviously, I have to comply. They are not going to just go away. Mom says she’ll call an attorney we know, first thing in the morning. I can feel my time running out, so I hug everyone goodbye. First, Dad, with just a quick hug. Then Mom.  She embraces me a bit longer and tighter. I can feel her trembling a bit. Finally, Sara. She clings to me like a child clings to their parent on the first day of school – afraid and not wanting to let go. But, alas, it is time to go. We softly kiss one last time. To this day, I can still feel the warm embrace of everyone that ominous night.

My hand shakes slightly as I turn the knob of the front door and pull it open. I turn back to face my family, take a deep, shuttering breath, muster a smile, turn slowly back to the open doorway, and raise my hands up to the sky before I begin my very slow descent down the three front steps.

Little did I know this would be the end of our physical contact for many years to come. Had I known, I would have lingered awhile longer. Hell, I may have even made that Ranger and his goon squad come in and get me! To pry my arms from around my family. Sigh.  But I didn’t know. How could I? I didn’t know the so-called justice system would use me as a scapegoat.

There was a light, cool breeze carrying the scent of fall as I descended the steps to my unknown fate. It rustled the hair on my chest and under my arms, giving me goose-bumps. The sight of all the police cars surrounding my parents’ home was staggering. I got the urge to run, like a startled gazelle being chased by a hungry lion. ‘Is this really necessary?’ I thought to myself.  Along with the breeze, I detected a faint, foreign smell. ‘What is that?’ I pondered from somewhere in the recesses of my overloaded mind. It did not dawn on me until much later – fear!  It was the scent of my own fear.  I’ve come to know this scent very intimately throughout the course of my battles with the justice and penal system.

There was one officer standing slightly in front of all the others, as though he was the one in charge. The bright headlights pointing at me from all the police cars, made it difficult to make out any details. As I turned to him, he told me to keep my hands up and walk towards him very slowly. The grass beneath my feet felt cool, soft, and wet from the dew beginning to cover it. But that didn’t fool me, as I knew that grass was notorious for producing some pretty nasty stickers. I proceeded with caution.

When I reached about halfway to the lead officer he told me to stop, turn around, and walk backwards the rest of the way to him. Slowly. ‘Seriously!? What is this guy’s problem!’ I wondered to myself.

As soon as I began my backwards walk, I stepped on a damn sticker.  Shit, that hurt! I had to fight my instinct to reach down and pull the offending sticker out of my foot. That might be construed as a “sudden movement”, and therefore an excuse to shoot me. I wouldn’t give them that pleasure. So I forced myself to keep going, hoping like hell I wouldn’t step on any more.

I was told to stop again. When I did, I was immediately surrounded by officers with hate written all over their faces pointing their guns at my head and chest. The lead officer harshly grabbed my hands, one at a time, twisting them down to my lower back, and snapping cold, steel handcuffs on my wrists. Click, click, click – left wrist. Click, click, click – right wrist. There is something about being handcuffed that’s very unnerving. It’s a feeling like no other. A feeling of doom. Of finality…

The lead officer roughly searched my pants for weapons. When none were found, he guided me with an iron grip by my neck and cuffed hands to the already open back door of his patrol car, before shoving me, not so gently, onto the cold, hard back seat. “Hey, watch it asshole!” I instinctively blurt out. He just smirks and slams the door shut.

I took that time to brush the sticker out from the bottom of my foot, using the toe of my other foot.  Ah…that felt better, especially as I massaged the puncture area with my toe.  The lead officer got into the driver’s seat, and another officer filled the passenger seat. Both put their seatbelts on. Police jargon was spoken into a police radio by the lead officer. He received a similar response within seconds, and then we were off. A few patrol cars went first. We took the middle, followed by who knows how many behind us. They were all driving well over the posted speed limit, even around corners. All I could make out was taillights and headlights, and the roar of all the engines reminding me of being at a car race. Since the lead officer didn’t bother to buckle me in, I was able to entertain him by roughly sliding around at each turn on the cramped, tan colored, hard plastic seat that smelled heavily of disinfectant. I caught his damn smirk looking at me several times through the rear-view mirror. After about 25 minutes, which felt like hours, we arrived at the County Jail.

To be continued…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky is  a gifted writer, serving a 30-year sentence in Texas, based on the “Law of Parties”.  He can be contacted at:
Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky
#01362329 – Pack 1 Unit
2400 Wallace Pack Road
Navasota, TX 77868

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Part 1 – Letters From Home

BANG! BANG! BANG! “Mail call!  What’s your number?” yelled the obese guard as he finished beating on my rickety cell door with his pale, meaty fist, as though he was trying to wake the dead.

Startled out of my blank stare at the off-white, filthy, concrete wall across the cell, with its peeling chunks of paint, I drone a response, in a voice devoid of feeling, “Nine, nine, nine, three, seven, seven.”

I was lying on my ‘mattress’, another word for a hard, plastic sleeve, stuffed with what feels like a bunch of golf balls.  Lying on a bed of dirt would be more comfortable.  I was wearing the dingy white Death row uniform, basically a jumpsuit made of a denim-like material, the letters “DR” painted boldly on the back and on one of the legs, with thin, grey socks on my feet, attempting to keep my feet warm. My head was propped up on the thread-bare blanket I was issued, something a homeless person would balk at.

“Here!” barked the police academy reject in a voice that let me know he was disgusted with me before he slid two letters under my cell door, just past the doorway.

It took my depressed mind a second to register the mail on the floor. Once realization hit, I leapt off my bed as if it were on fire, took three steps to the doorway, and snatched my mail from the cold concrete. From the evening light struggling to squeeze through the tiny window in the back wall of my cell, I read the front of each envelope – one from mom and dad, one from Sara, the mother of my son.

My heart beat so hard and fast, it felt like it was going to explode right out of my chest. My hands were trembling and my breath struggling, as if I just sprinted a mile. The sheer desperation emanating from my being blurred out everything but those two letters. Someone could have opened my cell door and hit me over the head, and I would have been oblivious. I was starved beyond words for communication from outside the steel and concrete walls – especially from my family.

I read the letter from Sara first. Even though our relationship was on the rocks, I missed her terribly. Just holding her letter brought me comfort – the softness of the paper she handled and the scent she left on it. I soaked in her words like a dry sponge touching water for the very first time. Her loving words made me ache for her even more. I did not realize she was experiencing as much pain and suffering from being apart, as I was. I read her letter so fast, I had to read it again, a bit slower, to make sure I didn’t miss anything.  I read it a third time, slower still, because I needed the reprieve from the darkness that had plagued me since my arrival on Death Row nearly a month earlier. I clung to her words like a drowning man clings to a life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

Reluctantly, I placed her letter on my bare desk, which is nothing more than a thick sheet of metal welded to the wall, right next to my metal bunk.  The desk and bunk are dingy and rusted in several spots.

I took a deep breath and opened mom and dad’s letter. I say ‘mom and dad’, but my dad isn’t much of a writer, so mom writes for both of them. Their letters are always so full of love, comfort, encouragement…things I need to hear in order to keep from being swallowed by the darkness and going insane. It would be too easy to just let go. Like I did with Sara’s letter, I read my parents’ letter a second and third time, basking in the comfort with each pass. God, I miss them so much. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what they were going through. Children are not supposed to die before their parents…

I placed their letter next to Sara’s, and sat on my bed.  My cell was cold, which told me it was still cold outside. The heaters don’t work here. No surprise, nothing seems to work right here. To operate my steel-encased wall light which resides above the sink/toilet combo, you have to beat the front of it – one or two hard hits turn it on, four of five hard hits turn it off. I’m surprised the light bulbs haven’t shattered yet.  The toilet is probably the only thing that works properly. It’s a stainless steel sink/toilet combo bolted to a stainless steel wall. It’s quite the beast! In fact, it works so damn good, when you sit on it and flush, it feels like it’s going to suck you right down the drain! I have to be careful, as I only weigh a buck thirty. When it rains, water trickles through all the cracks in the walls, which is probably why my cell smells like a moldy, wet dog.

Sitting on my bed, the pain and horror of my situation begin to creep back in, like watching a horror movie in slow motion. I am soon filled with despair. The jury foreman’s words haunt me: “We the jury, find the Defendant, Kenneth Vodochodsky, Guilty of Capital Murder of a Peace Officer….” And then there’s the voice of the Judge: “….I hereby sentence you to Death.”  What a nightmare! When will I wake up?! Murder…Guilty…Death…All for a crime I did not commit!

“How the hell did this happen?!” I wonder aloud for the thousandth time.  I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can, trying to block out the memories. Tears begin to stream down my face, hot and accusing, puddling on my lap. My eyes red, puffy, and hurt to the touch. I no longer bother to wipe the tears away. When will they stop?! My nose is red and on fire from attempting to wipe away all the snot that seems to be trying to keep pace with all the tears running down my face.

It’s times like this I’m grateful to at least be in a cell by myself.

The sight of a grown man breaking down and crying is disturbing. In prison, it’s also a sign of weakness. If you’re perceived as weak, the predators will come after you. Hence, being surrounded by a pack of convicted killers is another reason to be grateful for a cell to myself. I contemplate if any of them are planning to come after me. What about the guards? Their looks of disgust and hatred are overwhelming.  I shiver from the fear, the unknown.

I pull my knees up to my chest, tightly wrap my arms around them, and rest my chin on top. I take a deep, shuttering breath. The tears are now down to a trickle. I think to myself for the umpteenth time, “What am I gonna do now? Am I going to die here?”

—-To be continued—-

Written by
Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky
#01362329 – Pack 1 Unit
2400 Wallace Pack Road
Navasota, TX 77868

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