‘White privilege’ was something she admits she had her entire life, but she didn’t realize it until a few years ago, not until all the movements that took place to bring attention to mistreatment of black and brown people. She wanted to help, do something, speak up and fight for the voiceless and those whose voices were heard – but ignored. She wanted to get involved, but she didn’t know where to begin or how to start her journey.
She didn’t have to, but she took the initiative to take the first step. She reached out to a church that connects inmates with positive people on the outside willing to get to know them without judgment, and eventually she became my penpal.
She had found a passion for change, and she shared that with those she knew, though many didn’t understand or support her. Everyone thought she was crazy for wanting to help people in prison, but she still reached out to me, determined to put light on what she saw as an unfair justice system that often sees guilt in the color of your skin.
She took the time to read about my case and the fifteen to thirty year sentence I was given for aiding and abetting, for being present when a crime took place, but not actually participating in a crime. She didn’t have to, but she chose to speak up and help fight for my freedom – or at least bring attention to it. She posted on social media sites and talked to advocates about my story. People she knew were embarrassed that she posted about me and knew people in prison. The people closest to her were against her, but she didn’t give up on me.
It was the first time in nine years of incarceration I felt hope again and believed someone cared even without actually ‘knowing’ me. She helped me to fight for my life and file appeals again even though I had already given up. She could have lost people close to her, but she stood up for something, against all odds, and showed true grit.
I ended up getting my federal appeal approved, and my penpal will forever have had an impact on my life.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Nero is our third place writing contest winner. This is only our second post by Tevin, and I am really glad to see him here for the contest. He wrote exactly to the prompt, and it does take a lot of courage and grit to stand true to your convictions when your peers see things differently. Curiosity had me look up his case – and I have to agree with his penpal. It was a very harsh sentence.
Tevin Nero can be contacted at: Tevin Nero #792000 Alger Correctional Facility N6141 Industrial Park Drive Munising, MI 49862
I went to trial not because I was innocent but because in my adolescent mind I assumed a jury of my peers would go easier on me than a judge.
I was sixteen years old on December 12, 1995. Me and another guy were out getting high. We were walking down a street in a gang infested neighborhood, and we saw some people that were clearly not from the area. I took part in an unplanned and uncoordinated robbery.
After the jury found me guilty, they recommended thirty years for the three robberies, fifteen years for kidnapping, fifteen years for assault with non-serious bodily injury and five to fifteen years on attempted robbery and armed criminal action. Prior to my trial, the state offered me a plea bargain of a soft life sentence, the equivalent of thirty years.
At my sentencing hearing on February 28, 1997, it was left up to the judge to run my sentences either concurrently, thirty years, or consecutively, 241 years.
“You made your choice, you will live with your choice, and you will die with your choice because, Bobby Bostic, you will die in the Department of Corrections. Do you understand that? Your mandatory date to go in front of the parole board will be the year 2201. Nobody in this courtroom will be alive in the year 2201.”
In February, 2018, the Judge who said those words and sentenced me to die in prison came forward and tried to help me get out of prison. She now says the sentence was too harsh. She regrets it.
My adult co-defendant was given thirty years – 211 years less than I was – and he would have been home now, but he died in prison in 2018 at the age of forty, may he rest in peace.
I’m very sorry for the crimes I committed. I changed my life despite being sentenced to die in prison. I’ve taken over fifty rehabilitation classes through the Department of Corrections and outside entities. I have self-published five books and written ten more. I have an Associates of Science degree and have a few classes left to get my Bachelor’s Degree in Social Work. None of that means anything to the State of Missouri. What matters to the state is that I die in prison for a crime I committed at sixteen years old where no one was seriously hurt.
I feel myself growing old. My bones ache from the steel bunks and concrete floors. Nieces and nephews that weren’t born when I was on the street have kids taller than me now. I’ve watched them grow up in the prison visiting room. I was sixteen – all I want is one second chance. It’s all I would need…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Bobby Bostic was sentenced to die in prison for a crime commited when he was 16 years old. His co-defendant and the leader of the two was an adult and received thirty years. At sixteen years old, in a crime where no one was seriously injured – Bostic was given essentially – a death sentence. Mr. Bostic spends his time writing books and educating himself. If you would like to show your belief that his sentence is unjust, you can sign his petition here.
You can contact Mr. Bostic at: Bobby Bostic #526795 Jefferson City Correctional Center 8200 No More Victims Road Jefferson City, MO 65101
I was sixteen years old when I came to prison, and now I am forty. I was sentenced to two hundred forty one years for robbing a group of people while I was a teenager.
I still believe in justice. I read about it. I see wealthy people and those who have family connections get it. It just doesn’t apply to all of us in here. Some of us haven’t experienced it. She eludes us, this justice. The statue of the Lady of Justice furnished in the courtrooms is blindfolded… How is it then, that her scales are tipped for us?
Do we ever deserve a second chance?
“Bobby Bostic, you will die in the department of corrections. You do not go to see the parole board until 2201, nobody in this courtroom will be alive in the year 2201.” – Judge Evelyn Baker
ABOUT THE WRITER. Bobby Bostic was sentenced to die in prison for a crime commited when he was 16 years old. His co-defendant and the leader of the two was an adult and received thirty years. At sixteen years old, in a crime where no one was seriously injured – Bostic was given essentially – a death sentence. Mr. Bostic spends his time writing books and educating himself. If you would like to show your belief that his sentence is unjust, you can sign his petition here.
You can contact Mr. Bostic at: Bobby Bostic #526795 Jefferson City Correctional Center 8200 No More Victims Road Jefferson City, MO 65101
Growing up in Detroit on Brady & Hastings in a once vibrant and bustling neighborhood where blacks owned several businesses and created jobs and livelihoods for many who resided there, Leonard aka Leanbone – a nickname given to him by his uncle due to his skinny frame – learned early on how to survive by adapting and finding ways to cope with the many challenges he faced. It was during those years, he experienced his own personal trauma as well as witnessing police brutality. Those experiences led him down a road of dysfunction, despair and destruction. Leonard shared with me how his nearly fifty year incarceration has taken its toll on his health. He now battles cancer, requires a cane in order to get around and has a prisoner assistant help him with his meals and other necessities.
Leonard attributes the path he chose in good part to bad choices and poor decision-making, which led him to a life of crime that ultimately resulted in a man losing his life during a stick-up attempt. Leonard expresses regret and remorse for the harm he caused the victim, their family, his family, the black community and society as a whole because that’s who was impacted by his reckless and out-of-control behavior.
This writer can relate to Leonard and the harm he caused because I am also responsible for a young black man losing his life to an act of senseless violence. It’s sad that we didn’t value the life of another human-being and acted so impulsively. However, men like Leonard Bradford-Bey, who is now almost 70 years-old, realize the devastation of past criminal behavior. He strives relentlessly to deter the same behavior in younger men and has become a well-known mentor and example that others can follow despite being behind bars. Even so, as I peer into Leonard’s eyes, I see agony and shame for past deeds.
Leonard’s health is rapidly deteriorating, and at this point, with the life expectancy of a black man, he is living on what we call ‘borrowed time’. The stress of having to deal with cancer and not receiving adequate healthcare can lead to more health issues. I have been around Leonard for the past 35 years or more and watched him go from an athletically-inclined, able-bodied individual, to that of a nearly handicapped man in need of constant assistance to get around on a daily basis. It saddens my heart and pulls at the core of my soul to see my friend become slowly debilitated before my eyes. If punishing offenders for crimes they’ve been convicted of includes this form of torturous madness, having them deal with life ending illnesses like cancer, heart disease, and kidney failure behind these bars – then I must ask… At what point is prolonged incarceration enough, especially if its met the threshold of its intended penological purpose? In other words, if the punitive and retributive aspects have been reached, why not then focus on the rehabilitative and transformative aspects of an individual’s growth and maturation out of criminality? Leonard has evolved and worked for his transformation, even earning a one year certificate towards his Associates Degree.
Over the last four decades, I’ve had to witness countless folks like Leonard suffer and wither away to near nothingness. The reality of it hits home because I can honestly put myself in Leonard’s shoes as I am approaching the same age bracket and have serious health concerns as well. I realize that many of us have committed terrible acts of violence, and people have lost their lives. However many of us, like Leonard, have shown and genuinely expressed our remorse and sorrow, shown sincere empathy, and taken full responsibility for our actions which led up to the crime and the offense itself.
In the early ’80s I was housed at Marquette Branch Prison, an old prison known for its vicious and volatile violence and stark similarities and resemblance to Alcatraz because it sits less than 50 yards off Lake Superior. One day a prisoner was aggressively harassing a young female prison guard who was terrified. Leonard happened to walk up and see the fear in the guard’s eyes and the danger she was in. He immediately intervened and saved her from harm. He didn’t consider the harm he was putting himself in, but that was Bradford-Bey for you. He wasn’t little Leanbone anymore, he was 6 foot tall and 260 lbs. – Grandman. He transitioned from being known as Leanbone to Grandman because he became a political activist and spiritual leader. He was a straight up cat, who didn’t particularly like to see anyone taken advantage of. I believe in my heart that if Leonard was to be released tomorrow, he could contribute something good to his community. If you were to talk with anyone here in the Michigan Prison System, I have no doubt whatsoever they would agree with me that he is the last of the Mohicans and surely a soul worth saving from this madness of prolonged unnecessary incarceration and the physical and mental suffering he deals with everyday. I pray the day comes they release Leonard and let him live the remaining days of his life on the other side of the gate.
Dedicated to Leonard ‘Grandman’ Bradford-Bey – From One Soul Brother to Another.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Ricardo Ferrell sent in the last entry recieved in a recent writing contest. I had never seen his writing before his essay arrived. Although the combined judges’ scores didn’t result in his placing in the top three – his essay got my vote for first place. He wrote with heart and compassion, which is exactly what this site is about. He became an advocate. Mr. Ferrell sent in an essay that was exactly what I was looking for when I started this contest – and he is my Honorable Mention choice. Ricardo Ferrell can be contacted at:
Ricardo Ferrell #140701 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 E. Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221
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
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.
This morning I woke up from a dream of being free – to the nightmare of being incarcerated.
As I went to the
community bathroom to take care of my hygiene like every morning, I walked past
a man named Morris Martin who has been incarcerated over forty years – forty-four
to be exact. I first met him twenty years ago when I came to prison. At the time I was nineteen and didn’t really
understand the reality of what it meant to have life without the possibility of
parole.
Morris did, because he
had been living it for twenty four years already. He took a liking to me and
started working with me on appealing my case as well as teaching me about
surviving in prison. Morris and I have
been together at several different facilities over the course of my twenty
years, and he is one of the men who has borne witness to my transformation from
a savage boy to a righteous man. While
he has seen my transformation, I have witnessed his physical deterioration.
This morning when I walked past Morris I saw the look of a man who is being tortured in the name of so called justice. I see how incarceration is slowly eating away at his soul. A once strong and vibrant man is now a feeble senior citizen. The thing I love most about Morris is, he is always in good spirits and still fighting for freedom. Not just his, but also the freedom of others.
As I looked at him, tears formed in my eyes because I saw him losing the fight to father time. The worst fear of every prisoner is dying in prison, but in reality most of us with life or long indeterminate sentences will do just that – die in prison. The saddest part is, after decades in prison, one isn’t a threat to society like the ones who profit off our enslavement would like you to believe.
Often times I find myself
questioning the real motive of this injustice system. At what point does this become torture? The daily
dehumanization of incarceration takes a toll on the strongest person’s mind, so
imagine what it does to those who are not mentally strong. Yes, it breaks them.
I see it every day as I walk the yard filled with prisoners on psychotropic
medication because the torture of incarceration has robbed them of their
sanity.
I refuse to let it be
me. My body may be locked up, but my
mind will forever be free. The days of me being mentally enslaved are over.
TAKE THE CHAINS OFF!!! I just hope that one day we can take the chains off the
minds of those in society who see death by incarceration as justice. There is
no justice in torturing a person to death. To all my brothers and sisters who
are trapped on these modern day slave plantations, I feel your pain. Keep fighting – better days are coming!
The race is not given to the swift nor the strong – but the one who can endure to the end. Peace.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers. He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”
Quentin can be contacted at: Quentin Jones #302373 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 East Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221-3506
The number ofinnocent individuals who have lost their lives to the death penalty is unknown.
******
People are executed every single year in cases where reasonable questions exist as to their innocence.
******
There are individuals whose job it is to house the condemned, feed them their last meal, strap them to a table, take their life, and remove their bodies from the room.
******
Vengeance is not mine.
The price is too high.
There are currently two back to back executions scheduled in the state of Texas for the month of September. Those will be followed by more in October.
Troy Clark #999351 is on the calendar to lose his live on September 26, 2018.
The following day, on September 27, the same facility will take the life of Daniel Acker #999381.
I have sent the following letter to the Texas Board Of Pardons and Paroles for each of these individuals. Please feel free to copy, paste, and revise in any way you like and send to bpp-pio@tdcj.state.tx.us.
Dear Members of The Texas Board Of Pardons and Paroles,
I sincerely request that you recommend to Governor Greg Abbott a lesser sentence than death in the case of Troy Clark #999351, who is scheduled for execution on September 26, 2018.
The Death Penalty doesn’t just take one individual’s life. It also inflicts irreparable damage to everyone who loves and cares for that person. Their parents, siblings, friends and loved ones. It can’t be undone.
Just as importantly – it is a burden that every single person in the process of enacting the execution should not be made to bear.
The events that took place to get an individual on death row are inarguable. They exist. Guilt or innocence may be arguable, but the events – happened.
The reality of enforcing a Death Penalty for those who must have a hand in taking a life share the same guilt as those – whoever they are – that created the original hurt. It’s a contradiction of everything it stands for.
If it is a question of faith in a country that is founded on Christianity – there is no question. Vengeance is not ours. Please, stand for what is right, and recommend mercy.
Thank you for your time,
You can also call the Governor Abbott Information and Referral and Opinion Hotline at: 512-463-1782; and The Office of the Governor Main Switchboard can be reached at 512-463-2000.
Words from the real people on Death Row in the United States – who I believe include some that are innocent:
“’You know, in my day your kind would’ve never gotten so much generous attention. We simply would’ve brought you out yonder, found a good ole tree to hang ya from. Just one less…’ he was saying just before he cut himself off” – Charles ‘Chucky’ Mamou, Death Row
“It’s baffling that people can actually believe justice is being served by watching a man being strapped to a table and having an IV inserted into his arm to be filled with poison until it kills him. Justice…” – Travis Runnels, Death Row
I just heard on the radio they put him to death, And his last words were, “I can finally rest.” I feel ya bro, no more pain and misery, Rest in peace my friend, you’re finally free. – Troy Clark, Death Row
I’d been labeled a murderer by all those that mattered. There’d be no more tedious claims of innocence for doubters to discredit. There’d be no salvation for people like me as long as there are people like them. And there’d be no hope of a better tomorrow when my tomorrow was upon me today. – Chanton, Death Row
I seen Lil Jack get in that van. I seen Big Buck get in that van. I seen Thread get in that van. I seen Smoke get in that van. I seen Chester get in that van. I seen Ross get in that van. I seen Tick get in that van. I seen Savage get in that van. I seen Bones get in that van. I seen Diaz get in that van. They won’t get me, ‘cause I have a plan. I don’t want to kill myself, I don’t want to kill myself. – Pete Russell, Death Row
My thought – ‘My life is over’. No more clothes, parties, women, vacations. No more freedom and all that joyously came with it. As we drove, I noticed beer trucks zoom past. Commuters drove by without a care as to why the ornery white van was even on the same highway as their colorful vehicle.
As I began to reflect, the silence became revealing. I noticed things I would’ve missed under other circumstances. My senses adapted with a sense of urgency. I knew the van’s muffler had to be busted because it made a hissing and popping noise every 45 seconds or whenever we slowed down and sped up again. I noticed when the driver loudly belched twice and gave a hearty laugh. Then he gave a doughy chuckle while he lifted his butt off the seat and released a silent fart that was ferociously smelly. Whatever he ate must’ve had a lot of onions in it. His partner gave him a displeased sideways look before he cracked his window, allowing the funk to exit.
The van’s radio was tuned to a country station, playing songs like Smoke Rings In The Dark and You Don’t Impress Me Much. The singer had a hook that stuck in my mind – ‘Who do you think you are? Brad Pitt?’ It was a braggadocious melody that I actually liked, even though I didn’t have a clue who Brad Pitt was.
At our first stop I was handed over to TDCJ prison officials. One of the officers looked like Boss Hog from the Dukes of Hazard, just taller. He gave the deputies a solid handshake before exchanging a few words and gestures in a code that only they could understand. “Na, look here. Can you read, boy?” The prison guard asked me in a gauche southern plantation owner’s drawl that made me sick in the ears. At this point I was so emotionally drained that I felt faint. I was broken, and I didn’t even realize it. I answered him by nodding my head ‘yes’. “A’ight. Na, we’se gonna take you inside and get you processed in our system. It’s only gonna be two ways it’ll happen. One. You act like a man, and we treat you like one. Or, two. Act like a ass, and we’ll f!@# you like one. Is we clear?”
Again, I nodded my head ‘yes’.
They took my chains and handcuffs off without a care of me attacking them. The guards seemed comfortable around the convicted, as if they’d accepted the idea that they were simply ‘inmates’ too, except they were getting paid to be there. Or their ease could’ve been due to the guard towers that held gunmen inside with their rifles aimed at me, ready to shoot with any sign of a snafu that I might cause.
I followed behind them, and when we entered the huge crimson brick building one of the guards yelled an introduction that was louder than a bullhorn, getting the attention of the other sixty or so inmates and officers. “Dead man walking! Get y’all faces against the wall!”
Prison policy demands that all non-death row inmates are supposed to face the wall in a frisk position, not looking at any death row inmate as one passes by. Why? I have no clue – makes no sense to me. As I passed by some inmates stole glances at me. Some had sympathetic eyes. Others were only frustrated that my arrival had delayed them momentarily from getting to where they wanted to be.
I was placed in a bullpen that smelled of bleach. The floor shined from being freshly buffed. Again, I was ordered to strip nude, hand over the county’s orange uniform that I had worn, and given an off-white jumpsuit with ‘DR’ painted on it. Then I was quickly ushered to an awaiting barber’s chair where the baby afro I was beginning to admire was cut into an uneven buzz cut. “Standard prison haircut. Sorry,” the inmate barber explained.
Once that was over I was brought before the classification officer. He looked like a thin, 60-year-old liberal and impressed me as educated and reasonable. He smiled at me, which was a welcome sight, and directed me to sit down. After taking a seat I learned that looks are quite deceiving. As it turned out, the man was the most disrespectful officer I met that day.
“You know, in my day your kind would’ve never gotten so much generous attention. We simply would’ve brought you out yonder, found a good ole tree to hang ya from. Just one less…” he was saying just before he cut himself off, not finishing his racist insult. He was about to say the almighty peccant N-word that has divided whites and blacks from the moment it was conceived for the sole purpose of pejorative dehumanization – but he didn’t. He didn’t have to. It was already understood who and what he was.
He would go on to ask me a bunch of questions that he fed into his computer. Questions like, “With a name like Mamou, what, you Muslim?” pronouncing the ‘s’ like a swarm of ‘z’s, in an effort to insult the religion.
“No. I’m from Louisiana.” And even though I had no previous religion, I told him I was a Christian – because that’s what my mom said would set me free. I would later find out that in 1999, Texas sent 48 men and women to death row. That was the most ever sentenced in a single year, which many defense lawyers would say indicates DA’s abused their power and overcharged the poor and minorities just to stay true to their tough on crime stance.
As soon as the interrogation was over, I was loaded into another van. This one had no window. And the guards were two redneck hillbillies that drove like NASCAR drivers down the non-scenic back roads with their music blasting to an R&B/Rap station. I just knew we were destined to get into a wreck. We sped over humps and nearly ran over a three-legged dog as we made our way around sharp curves, knocking me to the floor several times. It took about an hour before we pulled up to the back entrance of the Ellis One prison. Like so many before me, I knew nothing of the process or what to expect once I exited the van. I didn’t know anything about appeals. All I thought about at that moment was that I was about to face the executioner.
I was quickly escorted through the general population showering area, where a hundred obsequious nude inmates stood in line to take a quick shower. I recall thinking that the margin of error of one inmate rubbing up against the backside of another was extremely tight. I told myself, ‘If this is how death row inmates shower, I’ll be one smelly dude.’
I kept my face straight ahead, not allowing my curiosity to invade their privacy. The walk was quick and then that damn announcement rang out again as we entered the main hallway, “Dead man walking! Hit the wall, you maggots!” The officer barking the order tightly gripped his steel club stick, eager to beat back any inmate that wasn’t in compliance. Again, the inmates faced the wall, noses touching brick, hands and legs spread. I felt bad that so much attention was being placed on me, causing these incarcerated men more humiliation. As soon as we passed, they continued doing what they were doing as if I’d never walked by.
We reached the housing area where death row inmates were held, and my body alerted me that it had been an entire day and a half since I’d eaten anything. I was famished. I was brought to J-21’s wing and there on the floor by the entrance was a blue food tray with what appeared to be a perfectly uneaten piece of baked chicken. My mouth began to salivate in ways that were unnatural to me because I’d never experienced that kind of hunger before. I wanted that chicken so badly I didn’t care about the self-imposed dignity I’d conjured up about being a Mamou. Mamous don’t cry, we don’t beg, we don’t embarrass ourselves in public, we are to act regal even if we aren’t. Well, hunger pains are a callous dictator too, and I would have dropped to my knees and lapped that meat up with my mouth like a dog had they told me I could. I informed the guards I was extremely hungry. They smiled, checked the time on their watches and told me that chow would be served shortly.
It would be two hours before ‘chow time’ came. In the meantime I was brought to a cell that reminded me of an ecosystem of grime, filth, germs, critters, graffiti and loneliness. There was a banal smell that hung in the air.
At around 4:30 they brought us ‘chow’, which consisted of what they called tuna-pea-casserole. I’d never heard of anything like it. I tasted it, taking in a huge chunk, gagged and immediately threw up. Prison food smells and tastes different in a way that alarms your body as it enters. Natural defenses go up and try to eject the invasion. It takes months to get acclimated to the taste of half cooked foods, that are at times spoiled or not food at all.
All the TVs were on, and the rest of the guys were glued to the cartoon show on Fox called Beast Wars. I thought that was too immature for me, so I sat on my bunk. I was hungry, frustrated and angry. I threw my crying face into my hands with my mouth trembling, silently whispering a prayer to this God my mother prayed to, languidly mouthing, “I can’t do this sh**!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas and currently working on his next novel. He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
Calendars are my enemy, sheets of paper that have the audacity to not only record but embellish the fact that I am losing time. I can regain space, never time – ever!
My vision is diminishing. Only days away from 29, and I suffer from glaucoma. Overhead fluorescent lights that stay on 22 hours a day shan’t bear the blame, no. The men and women who manufactured these isolation units in the conservative state of Missouri are to blame. I can’t blame the ‘tool’, only the wielder – the BUILDER of my very own personal torture chamber. Aren’t they sweet… I’m all alone to rot in peace.
I have other ocular issues too. The optometrist has diagnosed me with photophobia, meaning my eyes are extremely sensitive to bright light. He told my keepers to allow me to ‘purchase’ my own sunglasses – Nope! Nor can I get tinted or transition lenses. Is this not deliberate indifference to my medical issue, hmmm…
My left ear has a ringing in it. My right just seems to ignore the madness. A good thing, you say? Ehh, no, I’m just going deaf. I’ma attest, my body is deteriorating s-l-o-w-l-y. My sanity is leaving faster.
My neck and shoulders are strained from being hunched over writing and reading without a desk or a chair to assist me. Only a metal bunk that will give you a case of swollen hemorrhoids if you got ‘em. My upper spine and back muscles are so damn tight that I can barely turn my head – ouch – I’m stiffer than Frankenstein’s monster but twice as mean, so my captors say…
Seven hundred days. Seven hundred days plus in an outhouse. Seven hundred days in a lunchbox. Seven hundred days… and many more in the same spot – HELL.
This makes religious fanatics question faith – believe it or not. The most loyal, stringent, devotee and follower will find themselves crying out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eli, Eli, Iama Sabachthani? My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’ I look up, distracted from a noonday nap. The blatant declaration of disbelief is repeated – of course, I laugh. Did he not know we were already in hell, duh, everybody knows that – “Jesus take the wheel!” SMH.
Do “I” believe in a merciful God? I do(n’t). A merciless? I do! Can you blame a man that’s surrounded by devils who brandish the crucifix in their defense for every sick, twisted, malicious and sadistic act they commit?
SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. COMPLETE ISOLATION. BEATING. YELLING. KNOCKING. YELLING – Oh, I said that. HARASSMENT. CONSTANT ILLUMINATION. SPIT AND HAIR IN MY FOOD, UMM… IS MY NORM. My life is a crypt.
If I don’t push this pen… I would cease to live. My being would evaporate and my thoughts no longer exist. So with this I build, build diamond encrusted pyramids, that’ll become a wonder of the world for all warm hearts to see (smile). Maybe your emotions will somehow affect me. All I know is scowls, mean mugs and fury.
All I think is conflict, war and violence. I’m physically deteriorating, yes, but I can fix that. That’s not beyond repair. But what they’ve done to me mentally, my sanity – I can never regain – EVER!
*700 days*
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D. is a writer, poet, spoken word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor. He can be contacted at:
Tracy E. Greer #1153032
SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32
Licking, MO 65542
Email: Jpay.com
As I began to reflect, the silence became revealing. I noticed things I would’ve missed under other circumstances. My senses adapted with a sense of urgency. I knew the van’s muffler had to be busted because it made a hissing and popping noise every 45 seconds or whenever we slowed down and sped up again. I noticed when the driver loudly belched twice and gave a hearty laugh. Then he gave a doughy chuckle while he lifted his butt off the seat and released a silent fart that was ferociously smelly. Whatever he ate must’ve had a lot of onions in it. His partner gave him a displeased sideways look before he cracked his window, allowing the funk to exit.
They took my chains and handcuffs off without a care of me attacking them. The guards seemed comfortable around the convicted, as if they’d accepted the idea that they were simply ‘inmates’ too, except they were getting paid to be there. Or their ease could’ve been due to the guard towers that held gunmen inside with their rifles aimed at me, ready to shoot with any sign of a snafu that I might cause.
He would go on to ask me a bunch of questions that he fed into his computer. Questions like, “With a name like Mamou, what, you Muslim?” pronouncing the ‘s’ like a swarm of ‘z’s, in an effort to insult the religion.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas and currently working on his next novel. He can be contacted at:
Calendars are my enemy, sheets of paper that have the audacity to not only record but embellish the fact that I am losing time. I can regain space, never time – ever!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.