Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

He Was My Friend…

May 26, 2018 Travis Runnels 5 Comments

My neighbors and I have one very large thing in common. In the name of security, prison officials have stripped us of every ounce of our dignity. In spite of that bond – we all know better than to get too close to one another. Each one of is here to be executed. We may not have execution dates – yet – but the possibility looms large with every court ruling, every denied appeal and every date set for one of our neighbors.

To remain emotionally separated from our fellow condemned prisoners may be what we want – but it’s not always possible. In reality it’s sometimes unavoidable while living in such close proximity, sharing our losses, talking, and being around each other, even if only in an emotional sense. Sometimes you find yourself compatible with someone, maybe because of their attitude, or maybe it’s just the way they carry themselves. There are also those you dislike for whatever reason.

Here on Death Row, you don’t ask a person what kind of charge they have or what they are here for. Everyone knows that – to live here – there had to be someone who was killed and you are either charged with it or involved. Despite that, there is an amount of curiosity, and it’s hard to accept some crimes. It’s an internal battle to be against the death penalty regardless of the nature of the crime. On one hand being opposed to the harshest of punishments, but on the other being judgmental of certain offenses.

It’s quite easy to be against execution when you are facing it. For me the struggle is not to be biased when someone’s crime involved a kid. This is a challenge for me, and even though I don’t ask guys what they are here for, I still try to be in the know with who did what.

Just the other day a guy was executed – Erick – it was April 25, 2018. He was a guy I had become close to and considered a friend. When I first met him, I saw me almost 20 years ago when I first came to prison – young, wild, knew it all and just didn’t give a f*#@. I could relate. I was at that same point in my life many years ago when I was that age. As the years passed I watched him grow and mature a bit, yet maintain that wildness that made him who he was. Yes, he still had a ways to go in his growth, but I accepted him for who he was. Then I found out through a friend why he was here. There was a five-year-old child killed in his case.

It hurt me to find this out, but I concealed the pain because I had come to like this guy and accepted him for who he was with me. But I was confused. It’s hard to ‘unknow’ someone once you’ve spent hours, days and years socializing with them. It was a learning experience for me about not judging someone – a lesson about offering a person the same forgiveness that I seek from those who come into my life.

I reflected upon this for a long time, as a battle went on inside me to come to my own understanding. It wasn’t about Erick anymore, it wasn’t about the crime. It was about me. Could I find it within myself to forgive and still accept the man I knew as a friend? Would the bond I found with him and the way I embraced him as a little brother remain strong? Yes. I forgave him and accepted him for who he was and the person he was trying to become, the man who was trying to better himself even though it wasn’t easy. The man who was open to learning and believing that it was possible to grow despite the nature of his incarceration. That’s why April 25, 2018, was a difficult day. It was the day Erick was executed by the state of Texas.

I was reading a book recently in which a man’s son was killed, and a police detective came to the home to talk with him. The detective said he wanted to get justice for his son. The man looked him in the eye and said, “There ain’t no justice, its only revenge, could you please leave.” Those few words said a lot.

What truly is justice? It’s sure not what the politicians tell us. It’s sure not what goes on in this country. Justice is a word used to convince people the right things is being done for them, making them feel they are getting what is due them for the wrong done toward them or their family. Executing a person is not justice. Taking the life of another human is not justice. It’s revenge in its purest form, cloaked in the robe of justice. 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… This has to be the most primitive view of ‘justice’ imaginable. How is this considered justice in any form? And yet politicians continue to stand firm that this is the way…

ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

Views From The Inside

Alone

May 21, 2018 John Green Leave a comment

Before this place, I always had someone that loved me unconditionally – my dad, my Aunt Sis, Laura, my dogs – and even my cats. So this is a unique experience, a very painful experience.

When I woke up sometime in 1995, when I finally realized this wasn’t just a horrible nightmare, I was lost. I’m still lost, but as long as I have my insulin and I can write, I’ll probably survive. Even though I don’t know exactly when or if I’ll ever leave here – at least I have an outlet for my emotions and feelings.

My dreams – they give me the most trouble emotionally. I go to sleep and when I do – I sleep hard. You can empty a trash bag of aluminum cans outside my cubicle, and nine times out of ten, I won’t flinch. When I sleep, I dream. I don’t dream of unicorns and dragons and supernovas. I dream about my dad – camping trips together, baseball games, Ohio State football, my old life. And I don’t want to come back – not to this nightmare.

When I wake, those first moments of lucidity are always hardest – when you realize you are still alone. People may say things like, ‘I’m okay, I can make it on my own,’ or ‘I like being alone,’ but everyone needs someone. Real, feeling, caring human beings don’t survive in this realm for long all alone. Alone hurts – worse than any charlie horse, or scrape, or bruise or broken bone because alone doesn’t heal. It’s seamless until it’s overcome. There is no fertile ground in which to plant a seed and regrow what has been lost.

There’s an old quote – ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.’ Maybe so, but if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to skip the lost part. What I’m experiencing right now is the hardest thing I’ve ever faced.

I will never take my pen friends for granted. I love them all dearly, and they have kept me alive for what seems like an eternity. To be brutally honest – if it wasn’t for them, I may have ended this experience long ago. But, there are two reasons I haven’t. One – I would never leave my friends thinking they didn’t do enough to make me fight for another day. Two – to quit would be the ultimate slap in the face of my dad, who is already quite disappointed in me for my present set of circumstances.

Everyone needs a period of solitude – a time to reflect and learn and change. This isn’t solitude anymore – this is alone. Loneliness is where you wish there was someone – anyone – you could talk to, to share feelings and emotions with, someone to understand things that no one else in the universe could understand. I’ve had two of these people in my life. I’m looking for the third –all I can hope is they are looking for me also…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’. In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Harsh Sentences, Views From The Inside

Part 2 – My Arrest

May 20, 2018 Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued…

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

Harsh Sentences, Juvenile Justice, Views From The Inside

Volunteering – A Lifelong Enterprise

May 19, 2018 Darrell Sharpe 1 Comment

As a 58-year-old prisoner of 17 years serving a life sentence, I always assumed that my role was to be a recipient of the many benefits provided by the army of volunteers from various organizations and persuasions who daily visit my place of incarceration. I was surprised to learn that my greatest satisfaction would take place when I became volunteer myself.

After I completed the required coursework to volunteer, I approached the endeavor with more than a little hesitancy, thinking I would never have the patience to work with adults who couldn’t read. You see, I liked fast learners – college students, gifted youth, and those who could catch on the first time I showed them how to do something. The thought of patiently reiterating the same instructions and lessons to new learners over and over again did not appeal to me at all.

Then I met someone who was serving a life sentence just like me. He had come to prison at the age of 14 and couldn’t read or write. His background was a turbulent and tragic one, and it didn’t include any school. His only living relatives were his dad and his brother, both of whom were also incarcerated. After we became better acquainted, he expressed to me that it was his main goal to be able to write them letters and to also be able to read any letters that they might write back.

I knew that teaching this young man would be an arduous task because he didn’t trust people and didn’t like sitting still for more than five minutes at a time. More significant than that – he didn’t believe he could learn or that he had any self-worth whatsoever. Changing that negative self-image was going to be more difficult than learning words and constructing sentences. What a challenge!

Days turned into weeks – weeks turned into months. Finally, the day came when he asked me, “Darrell, do you think that I can write good enough to send my dad a letter?” Without saying a word I slid him a blank piece of paper and handed him a pen. As I sat and watched, he painstakingly printed on the paper…

Dear Dad,
How are you? I am fine. I love you. Please write me back.
Love,
Your Son

As he looked up at me and our eyes met, both of us were welled up with tears. Then he thanked me as we shook hands, and he headed off to his housing block, the precious letter clutched in his hands. I knew at that exact moment not only why people become volunteers, but also why some make it a lifelong enterprise.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Darrell is a gifted and thoughtful writer serving a life sentence. He can be contacted at:
Darrell Sharpe #W80709
P.O. Box 43
Norfolk, MA 02056

Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

See It Through My Lense

May 5, 2018 Tracy Greer Leave a comment

Here is a look at surviving long term solitary confinement in a United States Prison. Imma try to stay positive, and be it the will of God, you will never experience this burden. It is heavy… Believe us. It’s bigger than myself. Much bigger. This I know.

Administrative Segregation – complete isolation – exacts it’s toll even on those who enter healthy. Individuals with stable personalities and stronger cognitive functioning will still experience some degree of stupor, agitation, difficulties with thinking and concentration, obsessive thinking, irritability and difficulty tolerating external stimuli. Some describe a moment of terrifying clarity and the sudden realization that they’re losing their minds and slipping into psychosis. It’s the result of living in an empty space, void of all stimulus, for years…

We sometimes begin to self speak with the inner voice and enter periods of regression. Sometimes we can feel ‘the voice’ approaching and think… I gotta tighten my grip, or I’m gonna drown… All of us experience some form of this – even if we don’t admit it.

Almost every incarcerated PERSON I’ve spoken to in the last twelve years has coped with the growing insanity in any way they can with whatever is available to them – constructive or otherwise. What saves most of our lives in Administrative Segregation is a productive routine. It’s is an attempt to approximate the vitalizing effects of your world. Personally, I live vicariously through newspapers and magazines when funds permit. A good fiction novel will do, too. Those existing in ‘solitary’ must devise a regimen of continuous rigorous activity that utilizes creativity. Some draw. I write!

As the old saying goes – out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; massive characters are seared by scars. COMRADES, from the moment I awake (I stay woke) until the moment that I fall asleep (which is rare) I strive for purposeful thinking. A passive mind, a daydreaming mind or a TV watching mind (I haven’t seen one in years!) is a self harming mind. If I stay in the cell in my mind, I’ll never escape. Trapped within a trap. Caged within a cage. Double locked! Stuck between a rusty boxcar style door and a hard place. I’ll lose my mind. At least – what’s left of it… I’ll become a victim of my environment, and I refuse to let that happen. I REFUSE TO FAIL MYSELF.

Remember this always – strength doesn’t come from winning. Your struggles develop your strength. When you go through hardship and decide not to surrender – that is strength.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR. The only thing I ask is that you become a part of the solution. If you have loved ones in here – listen to their issues, write and visit if possible. If you don’t, take time out to support someone. You never know, it may be a fulfilling experience. Make a difference in somebody’s life – and spread the word – We Are People Too. I leave you in growth and peace. Follow your heart, it’ll never lead you wrong.

Tracy Greer, Jr. 1153032
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542
Email: Jpay.com

Views From The Inside

My Prayer

May 3, 2018 David Alejandro Manzur Leave a comment

Dear God, let me start by saying
I’m serious when I say I’m tired of playing.
These games all the same,
Heroin or cocaine,
In the end you lose friends
and all you gain is pain.
I feel the rain on my hat,
I’m under Satan’s attack.
He’s contemplating if I’ll go back
to the life that I lived.
I got locked up
For the things I did.
I got a bid of twelve years,
Shed tears for my fam.
Going in as a kid,
Coming out as a man.
I understand now, God,
It was only a test.
Took a while to digest,
But I feel blessed.
Peace at last in my heart,
Staying away from the dark.
Regardless, they say I’m heartless,
Though I’m trying so hard
To start this new life.
Doing right is my biggest ambition,
But doing right in my hood
Means breaking tradition.
I got a mission
No man-made religion involved,
Just me and my dawgs,
Surrendering our lives
to the Almighty God!

ABOUT THE WRITER. David Alejandro-Manzur, also known as ‘Ghost’, dreams of a free life and a chance to help kids avoid the mistakes he’s made. He can be contacted at:
David Alejandro-Manzur #1709141
McConnell Unit
3001 S. Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102

Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

The Truth About Solitary Confinement & Administrative Segregation In Texas

April 29, 2018 Travis Runnels 2 Comments

It’s easy to misunderstand exactly how we are housed on death row, because we are not actually ‘classified’ as solitary confinement, nor housed as such. As death row inhabitants, we are classified under ‘administrative segregation’, a status that is reserved as punitive under TDCJ ID guidelines for behavior, gang membership and chronic disciplinary violations.

Regardless of whether or not a death row prisoner is an ideal inmate or not, they are permanently housed under these guidelines, with no arbitrary process to be removed from restrictions of movement and access. General population prisoners who are housed under the same punitive Administrative Segregation status are afforded the opportunity to go through courses created by TDJC ID in order to be removed from under the restrictions of Administrative Segregation. Death-row prisoners are not given the same chance of removal to a less restrictive classification. They are permanently ‘segregated’ and live under all the restrictions that entails. We are not classified as solitary – and yet it feels very solitary, with no chance at relief.

On death row, we are allowed to come out of our cell five days per week for solitary recreation, Monday through Friday, for two hours each day. On the weekends we are confined to our cells 24 hours per day. Over the course of a year, the weekends have us confined for 104 days, 24 hours per day. Throughout the year, we have four lockdowns for shakedowns of prison cells. During this time, all the cells are searched for contraband, and everyone is confined to their cell 24 hours a day until it’s over. The first and third lockdown of the year includes 12 buildings – death-row and segregation – and lasts seven to ten days. The second and fourth lockdowns include the entire prison and lasts 21 to 28 days.

Between the weekends and the lockdowns, we are confined to our cells 24 hours a day for approximately 164 days of the year – if you are a model prisoner. If you were to get written up for violating a prison rule, such as not saying ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, or using vulgar language, or refusing to groom, the number of days you are confined in a cell 24 hours per day can easily climb to over 200 a year.

On death row, we are not just fighting to not be executed, we are also confined in a prison within a prison at the most restrictive level possible. Any violation of prison rules relegates you to even more in-cell confinement.

This is because death row prisoners are subject to a form of restriction and confinement under a classification designation that none of the other 150,000 Texas prisoners fall under. The spokesperson for TDCJ ID has glossed over conditions on death row when it was expressed that prisoners are no longer housed in solitary confinement.

From one standpoint, the difference between death row confinement and solitary confinement is great. Solitary confinement, when it was used, was a temporary status for general population prisoners being punished for disciplinary infractions. Solitary’s use was confined to fifteen days per write up or disciplinary case. No matter how severe the infraction, the punishment was not permanent.

Death row’s restricted status is permanent and therefore, a lot worse than solitary confinement. I hear the media continue to identify our status as solitary confinement, which gives people a false understanding of our circumstances. We have no outlet here on death row. The years – not days – continue to pile up as we sit inside our cells, subject to a punishment based classification status.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

Views From The Inside

Prison Reform

April 28, 2018 John Green Leave a comment

I never thought prisons were unnecessary. They serve a purpose when someone dangerous to themselves and society is incarcerated – until such a time they are no longer dangerous. Which brings us to – Prison Reform. The term alone is a threat to those who profit from overflowing prisons.

When the prison population becomes such that most of the farm is over fifty, broken down, chronically ill and unable to find the front gate – much less escape – I believe we need reform. Every one of us makes mistakes, some worse than others, but when an inmate does exactly as he or she is told and serves the minimum amount of time required to be placed on parole – they should be allowed to go home.

If, after twenty-five years of incarceration, the system can’t prove you are up to something – chances are, you aren’t. I’m not a psychiatrist or psychologist, but I think it would be impossible to hide who you truly are – good or bad – for a quarter of a century. But, in order to justify their actions, the system will accuse you of – ‘manipulating the system’ – acting one way when you’re really another.

If they can’t prove you’re up to something, they believe they have not looked hard enough. It couldn’t be that you were not up to anything except living a life of monotonous, repetitive days filled with boredom and no productivity.

On the other hand, if a person comes into the system with both guns blazing, caution to the wind, devil be damned, there is a good chance he or she will be the next to go. That individual is categorized as a ‘repeat customer’. Why release someone who is never coming back? That would be bad for business. And – once again – the taxpayer pays twice, sometimes three times, for the rehabilitation process. The system is like sausage. It tastes great going down, but if a person actually saw how the sausage was put together from start to finish, there would be more vegans.

Once again, I’m not saying prisons should be abolished, but more thought should be given to who and why a person is determined ‘too dangerous’ to be released after they reach their parole date. A man in his sixties, convicted of something bad he did thirty years ago, is not the same person he was. Ornery, maybe, but not a danger to anyone. Without hope, it’s hard to start each day.

The philosopher, Confucius, 551-479 A.D., was once asked by the Governor of the province he resided in to report to him why the prisons were so full, why crime was so rampant, and people so corrupt and deprived. Being the philosopher that he was, Confucius went from town to town interviewing the sheriffs, the mayors, and the wardens of the prisons. When he returned to the Governor, he reported that the people were only as law-abiding and good as the people in charge and if the governor replaced corrupt officials with moral, good men – he’d see a change in the pattern.

The governor did just that. Almost a year to the day later, the prisons were nearly empty, the crime rate nearly erased, and people were back on solid footing.

I know this is not ancient China, however mankind hasn’t changed that much in 2,500 years – maybe technology-wise but not morality-wise. I believe the old philosopher was on to something. I believe we should take the profit out of prison and put the prophet back in.

John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Dream?

Last night I dreamed I was dying. Not from illness or old age – I was going to be executed by lethal injection. It all happened so fast. One moment I was living my miserable, yet consistent seventeen years of incarceration. The next thing I knew, my number was up.

I kept telling myself it wouldn’t happen to me – that the mighty fist of God would swoop down and smote my enemies. Then I remembered that my enemies had gods also – from my predicament it seemed evident whose god was winning.

I was kept isolated in a dusky room. There were barred windows, a television set, and a steel cot to lay in my misery. I paced in circles to unwind the hands of time. I painted myself invisible with repentance. I held intimate conversations with my family, though the walls said nothing in return. I snapped in and out of trances, thinking, “Why haven’t we been called to class yet?”

Then my picture blasted onto the TV screen with the bold caption beneath: KILLER TO BE EXECUTED TONIGHT, 2 A.M. I studied the image and hardly recognized myself – my face looked worn with burden. I slid into my flip-flops and searched for my headset, anxious to hear the report of a granted stay. But it was too late. Even a stay of execution would not quiet the mess that rattled in my head.

I made a decision – I was going to kill myself. The circumstances I faced were so horrible and unreal that suicide seemed like the only remedy. I combed the room for a weapon. I felt desperate to die. I noticed the bed sheets and was reminded of my friend E-Boogie, who’d hung himself. I whispered an incantation, “I can do this,” over and over as I fumbled to tie the knots.

I could do it, couldn’t I? It seemed paradoxical to be non-suicidal while contemplating killing yourself. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that I deserved to decide my own fate. Why should I give the state the satisfaction of terminating my life? Why would I give death penalty supporters a cause to rally in victory? These people were not loved ones of mine. They hadn’t made sacrifices for me. They’d never shed tears at night when I was late coming home or hugged me so tight that it felt electric.

The state hated me. Its mass supporters of capital punishment hated me. They believed that life was wasted on me with absolutely no chance for redemption. Well, I would show them. No longer would they draw strength from my fears. No longer would I be marked by their judgment. They would not get to congregate over coffee and scones while my body convulsed from their poisons. My life was not theirs to take – that duty was my own.

I knew that suicide was widely believed to be an unforgivable sin. Who was I kidding? 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.

I spotted a beam that was high up on the ceiling and hoped it would suffice. As I tied the sheets, I fashioned a noose to fit comfortably around my neck. Then I used a chair to hoist myself into my own death chamber. I was furious, terrified, and yet somehow content – there was no other way. I stepped off the ledge…

I was jarred awake in my cell on death row as my head swam with delirium. I glanced around the room and choked back sadness as every item was a reminder of the possibilities to come. I laid back, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I was convinced that it was all a dream. But after having lived through the reality of executions past, the dream left me with a single question, “Was it?”

©Chanton

Harsh Sentences

Caught Up In The Web Of Chicago Justice

April 15, 2018 kimberleyann Leave a comment

Everyone has a story to tell, and Terry Thomas has a few. It all started forty nine years ago, on the south side of Chicago. Initially, I’m struck by just how ‘normal’ his childhood sounds, if there is such a thing. He had a hard-working mom and dad, parents who wanted to educate and raise strong and independent kids. There was a ‘hint’ that something wasn’t quite right, but I sense the Thomas children were not exposed to a lot of the tension between their parents, or maybe Terry was just too young to be aware of it. Their father cheated, their mother didn’t like it. There was abuse. But – Terry remembers a middle class, loving home.

One night when Terry was twelve years old, everything he ever knew turned upside down. He woke to the sounds of his parents arguing. Oily and Lucille may have had issues before, but this night was different. It was so different that Terry’s older sister gathered all four of her siblings and huddled them into the basement bathroom. They listened as their father – the man they loved – begged for his life, followed by the sound of the gunshots that would later take his life.

Terry has memories from that night that can’t be erased. He remembers the exact words that were spoken to his father by the police officer that arrived on the scene – “Get up, big nigga.” That was one of Terry Thomas’ first encounters with law enforcement in Chicago.

A twelve year old boy in a middle class home lost both his parents that day. His father, whom he loved, later died, and his mother left to serve a nearly two year sentence.

The Thomas children had to continue on after that night, each in their own way. Terry remembers going back to school and feeling ashamed of what had taken place in his home. He struggled to focus. The fact that he was able to maintain any measure of stability in his life is due to his grandparents, who stepped up to take care of the children while Lucille served her sentence. A young father himself, Terry dropped out of school at the age of seventeen to support two children of his own.

In 1988 Terry had a brush with the law. He, along with several others, was searched, and drugs were found in the sock of his brother, Oily Thomas. Both brothers were arrested that day, but the charges against Oily were dismissed and Terry was charged with drug possession.

In 1989, when he appeared in court for that incident, he was surprised to learn he was also arraigned on two more charges. Those two charges claimed that Terry sold half a gram of cocaine to two undercover Chicago police officers in the same day. Although Terry Thomas has requested the documents from the courts that support these charges, such as inventoried drugs or money, he has not been provided with any documentation of the evidence.

What he does have is an affidavit from Curtis Singleton, the man that claims to be the one that sold the drugs to the undercover officers that night. Mr. Singleton expresses remorse – so much remorse that he completed Terry Thomas’ community service for him at the time. In the affidavit he spoke of his regret for not standing up and taking responsibility for his actions. He also states that he is willing to testify in court that he was the one that was actually guilty of possession with intent to distribute.

There is also an affidavit from Oily Thomas in regard to the original charge, confessing that the drugs that Terry was charged with having in his sock had actually been his.

In spite of the fact that there are affidavits signed by other individuals who admit guilt to these crimes, and also a valid argument regarding the length of time that took place between the arrests and the actual indictments, his lawyer convinced Terry to plead guilty to the crimes.

In April of 1996, trouble found him again. He was once again arrested. According to an affidavit by Byron Nelson, Mr. Nelson was selling drugs on the night in question, and Terry Thomas stopped by in his van. Byron got inside. At that point, they were approached by detectives and searched. According to Byron Nelson, the officers found him with 37 packages of cocaine in his pocket. Nothing was found on Terry. They were both arrested. When Byron Nelson tried to clear up the confusion at the police station, he states he was told to, ‘Tell it to the judge.’

Then again, in 1997, Terry found himself in trouble for drugs. And, once again, there is an affidavit stating that Terry took the fall for someone else’s crime. In the affidavit, Karl Merritt states that he was delivering drugs to someone when the police showed up. Karl states he dropped his drugs and ran. Karl says that he later found out that Terry laughed when he got away, and when questioned by the police, he wouldn’t give up his friend. He then states that the police planted his drugs on Terry and arrested him.

There is no doubt in my mind that Terry Thomas has not been angelic. He was often in places that he shouldn’t have been in and could have avoided some of his troubles, but he was a high school dropout becoming a man on the streets of Chicago with no parents and trying to raise kids of his own. Having trouble around was his reality.

Sadly, the divide between citizens and those who police them in Chicago has been historically vast. In a place that doesn’t often accept accountability there are many valid questions in the case of Terry Thomas. Where it appears that one man seems to be continually battling with missteps with a police department, it is a police department that is notorious for missteps. It is the very lack of consistent transparency within Chicago’s Police Department that makes Terry Thomas’ nightmare within the system possible.

There are some things that are not in question. Terry Thomas lost his parents when he was twelve years old in a tragic manor. He struggled to get his footing after that, which is no surprise. Terry was a high school dropout, trying to support children when he was a child himself. He lived in Chicago – a place where a Police Accountability Task Force has studied and documented the Police Department’s lack of accountability and transparency, not to mention targeting individuals of color. There are several affidavits signed by individuals who clearly acknowledge their own guilt in the charges against Terry Thomas, who is now in Federal Prison and serving an additional twenty years on top of a ten year sentence for conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute a controlled substance. Those additional twenty years are for a combination of crimes that have signed affidavits by other individuals admitting to guilt – not to mention questions regarding the legality of the time between arrests and indictments.

Terry is scheduled for release on March 14, 2031. He will be 62 years old at that time.

Inquiries as to the status of the Conviction Integrity Unit’s review of Terry Thomas’ case can be addressed to:
Kimberley Foxx
Cook County States Attorney
2650 S. California Avenue 12B13
Chicago, IL 60608

Terry Thomas can be contacted at:
Terry Thomas #16399424
Federal Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 1000
Milan, Michigan 48160

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