“Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always.”
Psalm 105:4 (NIV)
Everyone knows small children rely on their parents for necessities, things like food, water, clothes, shelter. But as an adult, I’d forgotten how much needier kids really are until I spent a day with my friend Kevin and his four-year-old son, KJ. When KJ couldn’t open his soda, he brought it to Kevin. After KJ brushed his teeth, he got right in Kevin’s face and grinned for inspection. When we took KJ to the park, I noticed that whether he climbed on the monkey bars, slid down the slide or swayed on a swing, KJ constantly sought Kevin’s gaze – as if for approval. Even when Kevin and I were lost in conversation, KJ would shamelessly run over, get between us, grab Kevin’s face and say, “Daddy! Stop talking to Uncle George and look at me!” Instead of getting irritated, Kevin seemed to actually delight in his son’s incessant need for attention.
Reflecting on that time all these years later, I believe KJ’s dependency on his dad can model how we adults should depend on God, our heavenly Father. Perhaps it’s partly what Jesus meant when he counseled us to ‘become as little children’ (Matthew 18:3). When weak, seek God’s strength. Before making decisions, seek God’s guidance, wisdom and approval. When hurt, anxious, or lonely, we should seek God’s comfort, healing, reassurance. No matter how advanced our age, we should never outgrow our reliance on God – for we will always be his beloved children.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion and has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics.
George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More recently, George partnered with Kat Brodie, authoring Digging Deep, a book of writing prompts intended to guide readers to self-reflection and growth. Much of George’s work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
He can also be contacted via textbehind.com and gettingout.com
Note: This is seventh in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. And, sadly, not everyone who is innocent gets out. 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. This most recent entry was not actually obtained from Terry’s journal, but is a brief clip from a conversation that took place In The Cellar.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction, his memoir and co-authoring a project with his In The Cellar co-host, Mumin. Terry is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share that innocence.
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 ten-year-old hands gripped the bottom of the old wooden window and hoisted it open as far as I could. The pane had long been busted out, sharp edges of glass still protruding out of its frame. As usual, the crisp 2 a.m. air stung the back of my head as I lay in a fetal position with my back to the opening, wrapped in my piss saturated sheet. The moisture and the unyielding night air contributed to my fierce grip, securing the thin fabric around my body. My grip wasn’t only meant to shield me from the chilling night air, there was something much colder about. I suppose one could have mistaken me for a mummy or perhaps a body wrapped for burial before being lowered into the Abyss.
Colder than ice itself, is the heart of a mother that would abuse their own child.
Boom! My bedroom door slammed into the wall. Fear paralyzed me, even though I’d endured these night attacks for years. I don’t know how, but I had drifted off to sleep, missing all the warning signs that ‘colder than ice’ was near. I also missed my opportunity for a hasty escape into the prickly arms of the 2 a.m. night air outside my window. Oh, how I wished I was a mummy!
Mummified.
Standing in the doorway, the look in my mother’s eyes chilled me to the bone, as it did every time. To my young eyes, she appeared to levitate a couple of inches off the floor and glide closer to my bed, the odor of alcohol seeping from her pores and into my nostrils.
* * * * *
I was awakened by the birds chirping outside my window and smiled. Surviving yet another wintery night storm gave me hope. How do the birds endure the bitter cold each night and show up every morning singing and dancing? I wished I could be like the birds outside my window.
Then I heard the knob of my bedroom door. This was rare, leaving me unsure how to proceed, as I stared at the doorway and my mother appeared. Filled with alarm, my mind raced to figure out what was about to happen since I rarely saw my mother in my room during the day. I knew it was vital to assess quickly and accurately. Then her voice cut through the air, sounding different, less hostile, less angry. “Go take a bath, and put these on,” she said, throwing me a new t-shirt and pair of jeans. “Be ready to leave in twenty minutes.”
Without hesitation, I complied, tears forming in the uncertainty of it all.
Let’s go, Larry!
Not heeding my mother’s command meant pain, plain and simple. As I walked out the front door after my mother I noticed the broken door jam hindering our front door from closing and locking properly. Scenes from the violent attack my mother unleashed on her new boyfriend the night before crashed back to my mind, tightening my chest. My mother’s bloodcurdling screams came to mind as my eyes landed on the blood stains on the floor, wall and sofa. Hell, it was everywhere. Things ended badly for the man after he dared to kick in my mom’s front door.
I was about four or five steps behind my mother as we raced up the street, going to only God knew where, when she broke her stride and I nearly ran into her. Then it happened. She turned and reached for my hand, telling me to ‘come on’. With our hands firmly gripped together, she all but dragged me to the bus stop.
She grabbed my hand!
I wasn’t sure what phenomena blew my mind more, my mother’s hand gripping mine, or the fact that I was about to board the bus for the first time. I had ridden, hanging onto the back, several times, but never actually boarded. What a delight! In that moment, I felt safe; important even! It was new, and I dared not fight it because whatever it was, I liked it. Smiling, I looked out the bus window, watching my neighborhood disappear. My eyes were again drawn to my hand cuddled inside my mother’s. How were those same hands that soft and tender?
Is this Love?
My mother pulled the chord that ran the length of the bus before gathering her purse and me as the bus slowed down and pulled over. Walking through the folding doors, I was caught off guard by everything I saw. This was a world I never knew existed. Cars were whizzing by, people were everywhere and there were more restaurants and stores than I could ever count. We made our way across the highway and right up to the Golden Corral.
Once inside, my mother pulled out a wad of money and handed it to the pretty white woman behind the register. I liked the way the lady spoke to us, “You two enjoy your meal, eat all you want!” I smiled in kind, and as we walked farther into the restaurant the sweet smell of food – fish, bread, chocolate, fried chicken and more – caused me to salivate. My heart began to race as my mother handed me a tray with various empty dishes, napkins and a set of shiny silverware. I could literally see my reflection in the face of the spoon, and I remember looking happy.
I smiled.
My mother and I got situated at a table, and she again reached for my hand. I was sure I was experiencing the thing called ‘love’. Her face was different than what I was used to, beautiful. I had never remembered seeing her teeth so plainly. As interesting as the thought of eating was, I was captivated by her smile.
Then Mama let my hand go and told me to go get whatever I wanted. That was the day I fell in love with barbequed pork chops! I gorged myself on porkchops, long fish (Mama called it trout), and sliced ham. Mama made me also eat some green beans and a bit of mashed potatoes, but I was not mad or upset at all. I took notice of how lightly my mother ate that day. The few times I remember looking up, I felt she was happy to be looking at me. Maybe she was feeling it too, that thing called love.
Then it happened! No doubt also having the best day of his life, a kid walked by licking the hell out of a triple stacked ice-cream cone. My head spun in all directions searching for where he may have gotten it. And there it was on the other side of the buffet line, a two sided ice cream machine, offering chocolate and vanilla. Alongside the machine were several side options for topping off the ice cream. My mother, still eyeing me, handed me a bowl. Love escaped her lips yet again as she told me to go get what I wanted.
Happy birthday, Larry.
While eating my ice cream, my mother came around to sit beside me. She leaned closer to ask, “Do you know what today is?”
When I didn’t respond she told me – “Larry, today is your tenth birthday!”
I took in what she was saying without asking any questions. It didn’t really matter what she was saying. Whatever was happening, which I fully believe was that thing called love, just seeing the smile it put on my mother’s face demanded that I be all in for whatever it was. And I certainly was.
I didn’t think things could get any better, yet they did. I generally knew that gifts were often given to people on their birthdays. They were given to kids at Christmas time for being good all year. I remember seeing other kids with new bikes, Big Wheels, BB guns, remote control cars, new shoes and other things. It always felt bad in my chest, and I had learned never to expect those things. Mama told me quite often that I was no good and she wished she never had me. So when my mother asked me if I was ready for my gift, my throat got dry and tears threatened to fall.
Shining bright!
My mother ushered me into a huge building, the letters on top reading, ‘Movie Theater’. Again, she pulled out a wad of money, passing some through a little trap window, before guiding me into the middle of what looked to be a million chairs in front of the biggest TV I had ever seen. Again I thought, was love here too? My mother laid her coat and purse in my lap before telling me to sit still, she’d be right back.
After she left, the already dim lights ceased to shine at all before the brightest lights I had ever seen blasted onto the giant screen, along with a thunderous roar that accompanied the action on the screen. Wide-eyed, heart pounding, I knew this was truly the best day of my life. It only got better when Mama returned with two buckets of butter smothered popcorn, Coca Cola and jelly beans. We watched Howard The Duck that day, and I have never forgotten it, but what shines the brightest in my heart from that day is the laughter I heard from my mother. Her smile is forever etched on my heart and in my mind. Maybe, just maybe, we could remain in that moment, surrounded by that thing I think is called love.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Larry Thompson, Jr. is a well respected and talented WITS writer. He is also a man of strong faith, whose positive energy has an impact on those around him. He is a delight to work with.
We’re born with ambition to live, unbeleaguered by time.
Years tick by, counted in birthdays and anniversaries, the years lived before we die.
I waited for the school bell to signal the end of the day; at work, the clock to tell of time to go home.
There was elation at the end of a span of time, confined by school or work, rewarded with time away before going back.
At the age of 63, I’m 26 years in on a life sentence, Death by Incarceration. I serve perpetual time with no anticipation of end.
Time is my life.
No chance to start anew, seasons tick by as staff measure time in shifts and promotions, short-timers make parole, sometimes repeatedly returning.
I could not have imagined how foolishly I would spend precious time, until life would be lost to it.
Now, it is imperative I mentally venture out to spend time beyond this enclosed space, to live vicariously through 15-minute phone calls. Television is a gateway to new information, gadgets or tragedy.
A world I am no longer a part of ebbs and flows through a time that is different than mine, a world where there is no scent of a flower or the sound of bell when walking into a department store.
Memories now sustain life through time gone by. Life finds meaning through giving back, that honor may be bestowed on those hurt over time by the life I lived.
Don’t waste the time you’ve been given, make the life you have worth your time.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jeffery Shockley has been a contributor to the WITS newsletter and his writing can also be found at Prison JournalismProject, Prison Writers, and Muck Rack. Common themes of his writing reflect what Jeffery shared here, encouraging people to find purpose and making the most of the time one has. If you would like to contact Mr. Shockley, you can do so at:
Jeffery A. Shockley #ES4796 SMART COMMUNICATIONS/PADOC (SCI MERCER) P.O. Box 330298 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
The craziest thing happened to me on Thursday. As God as my witness, this is exactly how it went down. At around 11:30 a.m. I was working on a water main break that happened over the weekend, nearly shutting down and evacuating the prison. I’m in the Maintenance Shop, the phone rings, and my officer answers it. He says a few words into the phone as he looks at me smiling. After he hangs up, he walks to the desk where I am eating lunch and says, “I don’t know what exactly is going on Steve, but that was the Administrator and the Center Lieutenant. Go back to your unit and get your things together. You are going home today! I think the clemency you applied for might’ve came through. I double checked, and they are saying it is definitely you. They have your release paperwork with your photo on it and your SBI#. You are walking out the door at 1:00 p.m. today.“
No sooner had he told me, I felt the blood leave my face. A Sergeant I’ve worked with almost everyday over the last eight years and a few other officers came into the shop, one saying, “Holy shit, Steve, we just heard. You are going home, dude!”
At this point, I was in utter shock, tearing up and shaking a bit. Inmates were hugging me, cops were openly shaking my hand, and I was walking back to my unit to get my things before heading to intake for release. It is a huge no-no for officers to shake hands with inmates, it does not happen, and I had sergeants, lieutenants, civilian staff and about 25 officers shake my hand, saying things like, “If anybody deserves to get out early, it’s you Steve.” “You’ve kept this shit hole open with all the work you’ve done.”
I was beside myself with emotion. When I got to my unit, the officers were blown away, having gotten calls that I was getting released. They double checked and were told, “It’s him, stop calling here, tell him to get to intake with his shit.”
I asked if I could make a phone call to tell somebody I was getting out. “Absolutely, get on the phone and call.” I called my friend Alan, and he was overwhelmed with happiness and emotion. I told him I needed a ride. I tried to call my sister Linda, and she didn’t answer. I tried to call my friend Ammie, and she didn’t answer. I have nobody else to call, and as I’m on the phone, I realize how alone I am in this world.
It was getting close to 1:00 p.m. and my time to walk out the door when the phone rang in my unit. My officer looked over at me, and I heard him say, “I’m NOT telling him that, you better send somebody here to tell him that, I’m not.” And a few minutes later I was told it was all a huge mistake made in Classification. There was a guy with the same last name as me. His name was David Goff, and he was getting released. How my SBI# and face sheet photo ended up on all his release paperwork was a sincere, unintentional, massive f#$@-up.
People were amazed how calm I remained, more upset than I was. The Administration and some officers were screaming at the people who made the mistake. I heard things like, “I just told this guy he was going home, and now I’m supposed to tell him …oops my bad.” I had people in suits apologizing to me all day long.
Inmates have been getting clemency releases by the dozens. The closer Governor Murphy gets to the end of his term, the more frequent they are happening. He needs bed space within the prisons and he doesn’t have it. I thought it was my day, that my lottery ticket had come in.
I came within minutes of walking out the door, and if I had, multiple people would’ve lost their jobs. I felt so bad for the lady who made the mistake. They told me she was so upset for putting me through that, she took off work the next day. I don’t want her to be upset over me. I’m fine. Can you imagine if I had walked out of here, and the next day a SWAT team showed up? They would’ve come in heavy to take me back, all because of a clerical error.
That Thursday was the most emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on since the day I walked into that police station and confessed to a twenty-three-year-old unsolved murder. I was shaking for hours afterwards, went to bed that night at 7:30 p.m. and slept till 6:00 a.m. I was out cold… didn’t even get up to pee in the middle of the night. The thing I thought about before I fell asleep was not how sad and disappointed I was about not going home or being angry about the colossal mistake. I thought about how alone I felt making the calls to tell somebody – anybody – I was coming home. I need to get some more people in my life – that was my final thought before falling asleep. That day had the possibility of being the most monumental day of the rest of my life, and I had hardly anybody to share my joy with.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Steven Goff is a first time WITS contributor. Steven takes solace in writing, which is one of the many reasons why WITS exists. The writer is also a self-described veracious reader, interested in learning and also allowing his mind to travel outside of the prison walls. Mr. Goff can be contacted at:
Steve Goff #640012B Bayside State Prison – 1403 P.O. Box 96777 Las Vegas, NV 89193
“No way.” That’s what I thought of moving in with a youngster dealing with a fifty-year sentence. He’s going to yell at the CO’s and listen to rap music all day long. He was from Elkhart, Indiana, and I was from Merrillville. Anytime you try to explain the rules of prison to a youngster, they automatically think you’re trying to be their father. The reality is, as someone ten years older, you’re just trying to share the tools needed to navigate this life.
But this young man was receptive, and he became my cellie for five years, from the age of 19 to 24. He also became my little brother. We did everything together, expressed our thoughts toward each other on our birthdays, played basketball, and shared meals. On lockdown, we played chess and cards, and I gave him advice on how to deal with baby mama drama. I talked to his mother to assure her that I would try my best to keep her son out of trouble.
When my little brother transferred, his sister made it possible for us to stay in touch. We’d arrange a time to link up, he’d call his sister and then she would add me to the call. We’d laugh like we were still in the same cell.
Living in prison can be lonely and depressing, but when you form a bond with someone, a total stranger can become like a blood brother, someone who would fight next to you and cry in front of you. Those are the relationships that keep going. Me and my little brother, we made a pact. Whichever of us gets out first will give the mother of the other a thousand dollars.
Luv you Bro.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Ronnie Rice is new to WITS, but we couldn’t pass up this piece, it’s meaning powerful in its brevity. In very few words, Ronnie expressed the value of social support in the carceral setting and how that can impact well-being. We hope to hear more from him in the future.
Ronnie Rice can be contacted at: Ronnie Rice #221051 N-224 Wabash Valley Correctional Facility 6908 S. Old US Hwy 41 Carlisle, IN 47838
It was May 7, 2025, but between the sound and smell of the popcorn machine, the double-door entrance, and the floor-to-ceiling movie screen, it felt like my brother and I were carefree kids entering our rural hometown theater. We were far from home though, and after 21 years in prison, Tim and I were entering the gym at Nash Correctional Institution.
We grabbed our popcorn and weaved through dim lighting to the sound of excited chatter, though no one was more excited than me. I was about to see my hero, my brother, finally make it to the big screen. I always looked up to Tim, in every way imaginable. If he did something wrong, then I had to try it too, regardless of the consequences. If he went somewhere, I was going too. When Tim started elementary school, I was miserable. I waited for him like a labrador until he made it home. On this day, the crowd in the gymnasium around me was waiting to see him too.
We made our way to two center seats on the third row of the metal, pullout bleachers. The event was a celebration of sorts for the Correctional Enterprises Print Plant workers and the NC Prison News Today (NCPNT) team. NCPNT was a new statewide prison publication produced by the incarcerated for the incarcerated. We were all invested in watching an episode of Tar Heel Traveler, a WRAL news segment hosted by Scott Mason that highlights unique stories from across the Tar Heel State. This unique story was about us.
The episode, The Prison News, was going to feature the story of creating the first issue of NCPNT. Each of us had contributed to the process. The NCPNT team wrote articles, designed layouts and graphics, and polished the issue with several rounds of editing. Print plant workers provided skilled labor, printing, cutting and binding the finished magazine. NCPNT connects every person incarcerated in the North Carolina prison system. Individuals at both men’s and women’s facilities can submit articles for possible publication. Upon completion, a digital magazine can be accessed through the Edovo education app, available to everyone for free on individual tablets. A goal of the publication is to create community through shared experiences and information. The inaugural issue featured articles about frustration over the TextBehind mail-relay policy, effects of mass incarceration on children, and the potential of a new reentry council.
Tim has always been talented and intelligent, but he didn’t always apply his abilities in the positive way he does now. Despite having a LWOP sentence, he lives every day with purpose. That is what led him to become the acting editor of NCPNT, which is just one of his many achievements. He graduated from the NC Field Minister Program in 2021 and now teaches academic writing. He also co-authored a bill that would give state lifers an avenue to qualify for release through their rehabilitative efforts.
Education and writing are not Tim’s end game. They are tools he wields to inspire, teach and mentor other incarcerated men, and his dedication to live a transformed life has positively influenced countless lives. Tim has always been my hero, but now he is shining for all to see.
As the episode began, The Prison News included a sneak peak inside the NCPNT newsroom where Tim and NCPNT’s graphic designer were interviewed. The segment also gave viewers a behind-the-scenes look at the print plant and interviews with three key workers. I smiled through the entire thing, but my smile was biggest each time Tim flashed across the big screen. I’ve never been prouder than when my hero delivered the show’s most important line. “I don’t believe that I can ever deserve the opportunity to get out [of prison], because I took two lives. But I try to live in a way that I’ll be a person who will bring restoration and healing wherever I go.”
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first time Tony Johnson has contributed to WITS, though his hero and brother Timothy Johnson has contributed on several occasions. Tony has lived in prison for 21 years. He was the sports reporter of The Nash News, a prison newspaper, and a contributor to NC Prison News Today, a new statewide prison publication. He was also the featured poet at an event hosted by the Brothas United, a nonprofit. In addition to his writing, Tony is a freshman in the Second Chance Initiative program, where he intends to earn his Associates and Bachelor degrees from Campbell University.
The segment of the Tar Heel Traveler that Tony wrote about can be seen here.
Mr. Johnson can be contacted at: Tony Johnson #0868310 Sampson Correctional Institution P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Tony Johnson can also be contacted via GettingOut.com.
Describe a time when you chose to be your authentic self when it took courage to do so.
ENTRY DETAILS: Only those who live in prison are eligible to participate & we don’t accept anything that has been previously published. Submission is also permission to edit & post in future WITS projects. Submission is free. Entries should be 1,000 words or less. Poetry is considered if it is inspired by the prompt. Submissions can be handwritten.
PRIZES: First Place: $75 | Second Place: $50 | Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: September 30, 2025. Decisions will be posted to the WITS website by approximately November 30, 2025.
MAILING ADDRESS: Walk In Those Shoes, Writing Contest Entry, P.O. Box 70092, Henrico, Virginia 23255
Please share with any writers you know who live in prison. The details are also shared on Page 3 of the Summer 2025 Newsletter which has a sampling of the writing WITS accepts.
i want to go back and speak with the little one console the tiny witness tell him it is not his fault
-the wind whips
his mother explodes through the glass door falls bloody and motionless to the floor beige carpet sprinkled with thousands of shards little one stands with fear-scorched nostrils alone
-the wind whips & whirls
a giant stumbles through the jagged door boots crunching every cursed step slurred rage flips a table and chairs fly across the room a moan from the limp mass on the floor distracts
-the wind whips & whirls with no intent
little one flees through the shattered doorway runs down the middle of the street in the middle of the night bare feet slapping cooled asphalt he is screaming out for help for someone
-the wind whips & whirls with no intent that we know
“it is not your fault little one”
ABOUT THE WRITER. In addition to Geoff’s accomplishments as a writer, he has worked incredibly hard and graduated from North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program in 2023, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he uses to counsel and mentor his incarcerated peers. Not only is he choosing to serve and support others spiritually, but he takes on that task with grace and purpose.
Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. All of his writing for WITS can be found here. He has also contributed to the N.Y.U. Review of Law & Social Change with his poems Rainy Respite and A Sorry List – Abbreviated. In addition, Geoff has organized a small group that meets regularly to follow along with a curriculum designed to explore self discovery and personal growth. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and has chosen to invest his time in positive endeavors.
Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.
For a time when I was a kid I dreamed of someday becoming an architect. While other kids reveled in stickball and tag, I opted for dirt schematics. The idea of designing and building homes was a playground for my mind. I’d sit in the Projects just waiting for rain, and when everyone else in the neighborhood stayed indoors to keep dry, my best friend Chris and I competed over the intricacies of our mud houses. I was fascinated by our ability to make use of the slush many others considered a social hindrance and mold it into a sanctuary. I carried that dream of being an architect for more than half my life, even when I was standing on the pathway to becoming something else. It was a dream that would survive adversity, unaffected by ill-fortune and one fostered by a purpose from God.
Today it’s injustice that has claimed my longtime dreams of architecture, and for the last twenty-six years I dream only of vindication. I’ve been in prison all this time accused of murdering a man named John by conspirators with motive and a trial court with terrible aim. Today I dream of accountability for those that wronged me and restoring my reputation. More than anything I dream the truth of my innocence will come out and I’ll be set free from Death Row.
However vindication can feel much like a pipe dream after over two decades of disappointment. Waking up day after day to being falsely imprisoned can render all hope lost. Yet I continue to dream of vindication in the face of disappointment out of necessity, needing to believe that my life does have value and a false accusation will not be my undoing. But whereas my dream of architecture was one of a soothing nature, the dream of vindication hurts. In one dream I felt fulfilled by future possibilities; in the other I loathe the coming days. Before, the dream was my inner refuge; today’s dream poses risk – the hefty toll of waiting around, hoping and praying for justice that may never come.
The fault was my own for dreaming so big when I knew damn well what I was up against. A man was dead and when someone has to pay, any old villain will do. From the moment I was accused and made a prime suspect, my innocence was in dire trouble. All I had to back me was the word of an alibi whose credibility was tainted by addiction. My downfall was the likeness of my two court appointed attorneys whose sole interest was in mitigation, a novice jury with no qualms of snatching away dreams, and a judge who orchestrated it all. The nerve of me to think I could ever be more than the model to which they assigned guilt. My innocence never stood a chance in a court of iniquities that operates on popular opinion. So here I am twenty-six years later, wrongfully convicted and trying to hold myself up with a dream, which seems so futile given the reality that my hopeful tomorrow will end much like my hellish yesterday.
Today, May 18, 2025, marked twenty-six years since I was falsely imprisoned for murder. Twenty-six years I’ve awaited vindication. Twenty-six years a dream has been deferred. Anyone who ever said “…don’t give up on your dreams,” ain’t never been to Death Row or they’d know the time spent on appeals is the real dream-killer while execution becomes the resolve. Twenty-six years and the only thing more damning than a dream that hasn’t happened is one that’s close but slipping away – when the supporters no longer rally, the faith dwindles, and the legal representation is slow to task. Twenty-six years and I’m back where I started, daydreaming of a life outside my prison cell while the passing time burns my vindication to ashes and leaves me to sift through the residue for a smidgen of hope that ‘someone somewhere’ will make things right.
I am innocent, and I won’t ever get tired of saying it. I’m not responsible for what happened to John. I was not a party in the commission of the robbery that killed him, nor was I privy to the criminal intent. I was condemned by fabricated testimony, misconduct, tunnel vision, and a jury eager to convict. But there’s someone out there that knows I’m innocent, as made evident by their account of the crime, that one person, the cornerstone of my vindication and who can attest to my innocence.
How am I supposed to fight a court system that re-envisions the facts and views circumstantial evidence as truth? Where is the victory if exoneration comes after they’ve stolen from me twenty-six years? Life on Death Row won’t sustain many dreams, but it will crush them under ominous heels. I’ll never become an architect… I know that now. My purpose is just to stay alive. Wrongful convictions are not a misfortune that falls on a few but a transgression that lands on many. My false imprisonment is a breach of moral ethics… it has to be because I’m innocent. So I’m appealing to all those out there who would dare to defy injustice – somebody somewhere please do something!
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in including facilitating Spanish and writing groups, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, he was a subject of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions and also as co-host of In the Cellar, a podcast that explores the challenges, tragedies and triumphs of living with a death sentence.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven, and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
