I am in prison because of my downward spiral of compromise, the gradual degeneration of my character and consequent choices.  One compromise led to the next which led to the next, each one increasing the momentum of travel to and the probability of the next compromise.

My story is a tragedy, but not one of tragic beginnings.  I was tremendously blessed to have wonderful parents and the advantages of academic gifting and opportunity, yet I still ended up in prison with a life sentence.  How?  Why?

My parents were incredible – loving, caring, kind, gentle, giving and honest.  They taught and lived by their Christian beliefs of loving God and loving others.  They prioritized the needs of others, supported without being overbearing, disciplined firmly yet without harshness, provided while instilling appreciation, and emphasized character, integrity, and respect for all. 

I was academically gifted.  Teachers frequently told my parents I was the smartest child they had taught.  I won math contests and Science Olympiad events, participated in numerous opportunities reserved for top students, attended the prestigious North Carolina School of Science & Mathematics (NCSSM), and received several college academic scholarships.  

I did not nose dive from the apex of the values my parents taught down into a cesspit of selling cocaine and carrying a gun.  I descended one selfish, unprincipled choice at a time over several years.  I entered the downward spiral by compromising with alcohol and marijuana.  I drank alcohol for the first time while spending a week at the beach with a friend’s family.  We went to a condo where more than a dozen people, all older, were hanging out.  Drinking with the older crowd made me feel accepted and cool.  Although I threw up and passed out, looking like a fool, I liked being part of the ‘cool’ crowd, naive with the dangerous desire to be accepted as part of the ‘in’ crowd.

The next year, the same ‘friend’ introduced me to marijuana, or pot.  I did not want to smoke but did not have the courage to say ‘no’.  My cowardice caused me to open a proverbial Pandora’s box of drug use.  I liked being high on pot because it settled my mind, which was normally like an extreme laser light show, constantly on hyper-drive.  Pot slowed the pace, allowing me to relax and feel normal for the first time.  I eventually developed a daily habit.

My junior year began at NCSSM.  Graduating from the residence high school for academically stellar students was my dream, but I traded it for nothing. Compromising by drinking and smoking pot cost me that valuable opportunity – it would not be the last one I wasted.  Preparing to leave for college, I made another pivotal compromise, purchasing pot to sell.

For a while I could smoke pot and function well and still excel in school, even winning a math contest (Calculus) while very high.  Selling pot allowed me to smoke every day, but smoking pot that much bore a critical side effect – it stole my drive.  The exceedingly driven person with big plans, goals, and dreams, as well as the dedicated effort to accomplish them, was replaced by a distracted slacker.

As a freshman, I attended far more parties than classes, did more drinking and smoking pot than studying and learning, and added experimentation with other drugs (ecstasy, LSD, hallucinogenic mushrooms).  I forfeited the academic scholarship due to terrible grades, having to attend summer classes to maintain eligibility.

I regained my academic focus and made the Dean’s List the next two semesters.  Although the frequency of partying, drinking, and using drugs decreased (mostly on weekends), continuing to use at all was complete compromise.  Two years later, I made another pivotal compromise, the terrible choice to sell cocaine.  Quickly, I became addicted to the money, and began to view myself as a drug dealer.  Adopting that identity led me to accept violence as a necessary part of the drug business.

Eight months later, my apartment was broken into and ransacked, drugs and cash stolen.  My little beagle puppy, Bruiser, was left hiding under my bed, shaking uncontrollably.  The break-in shattered my sense of security.  I hated feeling afraid, violated, helpless.  I wish I had responded by quitting the selling and using of drugs – forever.  Instead, I responded by seeking revenge.  Thinking I had determined the culprit, I organized a late-night armed robbery, however, the people we accosted were not involved in the break-in.

I thought striking out at someone, anyone, would make me feel less afraid and more in control, but the fear increased.  I started carrying a gun everywhere, even to class.  I always reentered my apartment with the gun at the ready, afraid.

Two weeks later my long, ever-worsening series of bad choices caused irreparable harm.  Killing other human beings and being arrested for murder awakened me to how far down I had descended. I had the gun because for two weeks I carried a gun everywhere, because guns and violence are part of being a drug dealer, because using drugs can easily transition into selling drugs, because one compromise leads to the next.  The overall direction of the compromises I made was steeply downward, but the incremental drop from one compromised choice to the next was so small as to be indistinguishable. 

My parents and my gifts gave me the foundation for success, but I wasted both.  The mistakes I have made are my own.  I am solely, wholly responsible for my impulsive, immoral choices.  I failed to learn from my mistakes, not only repeating them but making worse and worse choices.  Smoking marijuana took my drive, selling drugs took my direction, identifying myself as a drug dealer destroyed my boundaries.  

Now, I refuse to compromise on my values of honesty, integrity, compassion, diversity, and social responsibility.  I know it takes only one compromise to enter the downward spiral, and I will never again re-enter the downward spiral of compromise.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson placed second in our most recent writing contest.  Timothy has been incarcerated for nineteen years and is serving a life without parole sentence.  He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Pastoral Ministry with a minor in Counseling from the College at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary; he serves as the assistant editor for The Nash News, the first and longest running prison publication in NC; he was editor of Ambassadors in Exile, a journal/newsletter that represents the NCFMP; he is a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers; and he has been published in the North Carolina Law Review (Hope for the Hopeless:  The Prison Resources Repurposing Act https://scholarship.law.unc.edu/nclr/vol100/iss3/2/).

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com

It was an unusually quiet night, the normally blaring TV’s and radios were quiet.  The typical long-distance conversations between inmates yelling back and forth from several cells away, or the blusterous sound of someone triumphantly declaring “Checkmate!” – were not heard on this night.  On this night, some of us were preparing to say good-bye to a friend for the very last time.

Hashi was ‘making his rounds’, saying his final farewells to those that mattered to him.  It was a ritual that played out each time someone’s ‘death date’ was upon them and upon all of us, like some Shakespearean tragedy.  Thus is life on Death Row – a series of greetings and farewells.  And my turn to say good-bye was approaching faster than I wanted it to.

I could hear Hashi drawing ever closer to my cell, and I steeled myself against the emotional onslaught that was certain to come when I looked into the face of my friend – a dead man walking.  I needed to be standing when he got to my cell.  I felt it would be inappropriate and disrespectful to be sitting, but I also felt like I had a ton of bricks strapped to my back, and I struggled to rise to my feet.  As I did, my solid resolve began to melt away like ice cream on a summer day.

Within seconds, Hashi was at my cell, his hand thrust through the bars in search of mine, and in that one gesture, my resolve dissipated to nothing.  I grasped his hand with mine and reached my other arm between the bars and hugged him.  “I love you, brother,” is all I could manage.  The dam broke, and my eyes flooded with tears.  

Hashi squeezed my hand one final time and told me, “I love you too, little brother,” and walked away.  In that moment, there was a dignity and grace to him that I had never seen.  Even in what were to be his final days, he was still teaching, and I was still learning.  I sat back down feeling a little lighter and sat vigil for the next three days.

We all knew that Hashi had about 72 hours to live.  And as it is with all who are transported to the ‘death house’, we prayed for that last minute stay of execution, but God decided to say “no” this time, and at 12:07 a.m., Hashi was pronounced dead by lethal injection.

Several years later, God would say “yes” to me, and I am alive today and no longer on death row.  Now, if I could only get him to say “yes” to easing this never-ending pain and loss.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Tony Enis does not write for WITS often, but I always look forward to hearing from him, and he never disappoints. He is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-years, was at one point on death row, and he has always maintained his innocence. He can be contacted at:

Anthony Enis #N82931
P.O. Box 1000
Menard, IL 62259

This will be the biggest favor I have asked of anyone, I realize, my head slumped and the phone receiver shaking in my hand.  My friend answers the call.  

“Are you current on the situation with my Dad?”  I ask, relief seeping through me when he responds that he is.  I do not have to say the awful words.

My Dad is dying – not dying like we are all dying, or dying with two months to live – dying in that he will be dead in a few hours.  The shocking news has hit me hard.  I am scrambling to take care of the necessaries.

“I have a huge favor to ask,” an understatement, but I cannot think of adequate words.  When my friend pledges his willingness to do anything for me, I press on.  “I want you to represent me at the funeral.  I am going to write a speech to honor my dad and want you to deliver it.”

Without hesitation, he replies, “Of course.  I’ve got you brother.”  The tears I had been holding back break through before I hang up the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.  

It isn’t until I enter my prison cell and shut the door to muffle the ever-present clamor that I allow the tears to stream.  Yet, even as I struggle to breathe, gratitude to God mingles with the suffocating grief, gratitude for a friend, a brother who loves me so much that he is willing to bear such a weight.  My thoughts travel back to the day when I prayed for a friend and God gave me a brother.

“Wake up.  You’re not going to sleep away our last few minutes together,” I told my biological brother, elbowing his arm.  “You’re going to talk to me.”  He sighed heavily and yawned but sat up, a reluctant compliance.  

In our early twenties, we had traveled many thousands of miles side-by-side, but not quite like this.  In the backseat of the family car on trips to visit family in Maryland and Florida, vacations to the Blue Ridge mountains, Disney World, and Myrtle Beach.  Then, in high school and college, one of us driving and the other riding shotgun on road trips.  So many miles, so many happy memories.

Never had we journeyed confined by shackles, bounced relentlessly by the decrepit shocks of a prison transfer bus.  Never before had the trip guaranteed our separation, maybe forever.

Arriving at the Sandy Ridge depot, we were herded off the bus into the ‘Cattle Shoot’, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the livestock.  My brother and I were being transferred from Foothills, where we had been together for about a year, to different prisons.  With him serving thirty years and me life without parole, we wondered if this goodbye was the goodbye.

His name was called first.  We exchanged “I love you” and “Keep your head up”, hugged as best we could in shackles, and he shuffled away.  I prayed, “God, please take care of my brother.”

When my name was called, I prayed again, “God, please give me a friend where I am going,” while doing the shackles-shuffle to the next bus.  Some of the guys already knew each other.  They caught up on news of various prisons and prisoners.  I did not plan to talk to anyone – the sting of saying goodbye to my brother still too raw.

The two guys closest to me discussed the previous night’s Fiesta Bowl.  Upstart Boise St. had upset powerhouse Oklahoma in dramatic fashion.  One of the two turned to me, asking if I had watched the game.  Initially, I just stared through my fog.  His smile nudged me into a response of “yes”.  Despite my barely verbal opening, the conversation on my favorite topic, sports, drew me out of the haze.

We recapped the spectacular (now legendary) plays:  the hook-and-ladder, the statue of liberty, the running back’s proposal to his girlfriend, a cheerleader, after he scored the winning touchdown.  The sports talk replaced my lifelessness with animation.  I was a  Claymation form temporarily brought to life.  At least the conversation helped the bus ride pass, I thought..  God had more in mind.

When I thanked God for the semi-familiar face of my sports conversation partner in the next cell, God must have chuckled, knowing He had already given me abundantly, exceedingly more than I dared ask.

The confined, compact nature of the prison environment amplifies the obstacles to developing and maintaining a friendship, while simultaneously intensifying the need for a friend.  In the friendship building stage, the prison environment causes near constant contact, an abnormal closeness for the start of a friendship.  The excessive time together combined with the high-stress state of living generates numerous opportunities for friction.  Only when both parties are committed to working through the inevitable conflict does a friendship develop.

A friend is not a person without flaws but a person with whom exists a mutual contract of grace.  If friendship required flawlessness, nobody would choose to be my friend.  My new neighbor, Tommy, extended grace to me despite my caustic sarcasm and know-it-all attitude.  Instead of taking offense, he laughed, even at himself.  And he helped me laugh, a much needed soul-medicine.

Even when friendship demanded a price, Tommy embraced the imposition.  After I tore my ACL playing prison-yard gladiator basketball, he helped take care of me, getting my tray in the chow hall.  When a miscreant thought the crutches a license to be rude, Tommy bluntly informed the misguided chap otherwise.  His exact words, “His leg might be messed up, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs.  So, what do you want to do?”  Tommy, a Marine always and forever, could be rather intense.  Somewhere along the way, we became more than friends, we became brothers.

Many in prison avoid friendship because of the inevitable sudden separation.  One person moves to another unit or transfers to another prison, without any warning, without a chance to say goodbye.  That’s what happened to Tommy.  He was just gone one day, transferred to another prison, no warning, no farewell.

Keeping in contact, even by letters, violates prison rules.  As a Christian, I submit to a higher authority when a divergence emerges between the two.  I write letters of support as a ministry.  Most persons in prison have no way to navigate, or circumvent, the prohibition, but an understanding family member relayed letters between Tommy and me.  We supported and encouraged each other through those simple words and, of course, we conversed on sports, especially football.  In many letters, he expressed his commitment to always be there for me and to help provide for me after his release.

Tommy walked out of prison after fifteen years.  I had not seen him in seven years.  My parents visited him that week to help him get a few things.  They had gotten to know him well over the years. They were emotionally impressed by the way he spoke of me as his brother and of his love for me.

I have had a number of friends get out, promising to keep in contact and send pictures, order magazines, etc.  Most are never heard from again, unless and until they return to prison.  A few kept in touch, briefly, then essentially vanished.  Not my brother. 

Maintaining contact and transitioning to the role of a supporter after release begets numerous problems.  Upon release, a person is not starting from zero but from deep in the negative.  Acquiring a job, home, transportation and food, plus paying supervision fees – with a felony record – sets many up for failure.  If a person does make it through the post-release quicksand, playing catchup makes life move at warp speed.  Staying in contact and providing support increases the strain.  

Many leave prison carrying with them the trauma of that environment.  Yelling, slamming doors, quick movement, feet scuffling, or countless other triggers can activate the adrenaline rush and other fight or flight responses.  Every phone call, visit or letter with those still behind bars takes a toll.  Maintaining contact with friends left behind forces the released person to constantly confront their own trauma, a steep price.

My brother sacrificed, and continues to sacrifice, for me.  As soon as he could manage, even at a cost to himself, he put money on the phone, sent money to my canteen account, ordered books and magazines (mostly sports magazines, of course), sent photos, and relayed jokes and funny memes to cheer me up.  On his first truck, he put a NC State sticker on the passenger side, his way of letting me ride shotgun.

When I prayed for a friend, I asked for someone for a season, wanting God to supply a temporary need.  God recognized a permanent need and supplied a brother for life. Thanks to the gift of Tommy, on the day I learned my father would die in a few hours, laying on a prison bunk with tears tumbling, I whispered, “God, thank you.  I asked for a friend.  You gave me a brother.  I did not know how much I would need him, but you knew.”  

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Timothy Johnson is not only a great writer, but he also expresses through his writing who he is today and helps to illustrate personal growth. WITS is about allowing readers to find their own understanding through the written experiences of the writers, and I’m grateful to Mr. Johnson for sharing not only his loss, but also his faith. Timothy is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.

Mr. Johnson can be contacted at:
Timothy Johnson #0778428
Nash Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

Timothy Johnson can also be contacted through GettingOut.com