Full Circle

I caged a bird once when I was a kid.  I used a small box to build a makeshift trap, equipped with string, a branch, and bread crumbs for bait. Then I crouched down in my shadowy perch and counted off the seconds as I lay in wait, imagining the thrill of victory. Before long a small bird soared into view, landed near the hidden dungeon, and ventured inside. Unable to contain my excitement and anticipation, I yanked the string, and the box slammed shut.

I was so elated to see the trap had actually worked. I sprang towards the prize with little consideration for anything but my own sense of accomplishment. I had outsmarted the opposition and conquered it. I had won.

Initially, the commotion from within the box confirmed the prey was inside, but then everything went silent. I contemplated my next move. Where to keep the bird? What to feed it? It struck me that, more importantly, the bird needed air. So while firmly holding the box with both hands, I lifted it just slightly enough for a crack of sunlight and air to creep through. Nothing happened. I started to doubt if I’d even captured the formidable adversary or if its innate elusiveness had something to do with magic. The curiosity was killing me. I had to know.

I eased the box higher, just enough to peep inside. That’s when the bird saw its chance and made a break for it. It shimmied out the slit, hopped several times, building momentum, then took flight. I stood motionless, disappointed, as I watched my victim escape. I felt duped and deprived, as though the bird was at fault for defying me and not conforming to an outcome I had set. It had stolen the feeling of invincibility from me, and it just didn’t seem fair. I was the greater force at work. My happiness was the only thing relevant.

Today, I was caged by a bird. It sat perched atop the windowsill outside my cell here on death row. At first, I tried paying it no mind, but its looming presence was impossible to ignore. Then I tried shooing it away. Unfazed by my frivolous antics, it refused to budge, instead peering at me here in the box with, seemingly, no consideration or regard for the victim trapped within, its eye stoic, holding no empathy or remorse for the horrible conditions I suffered. I suddenly remembered a time when the roles were reversed.

The day I watched the bird escape and fly away, not once did I consider what an ordeal it must’ve been like for it, how afraid it must’ve been, being swallowed up in the darkness. The loneliness it must’ve felt. Confusion. The hurt and anger of being violated and victimized. And what of the consequences had it never returned to the nest? Would its family miss it? Would there be songs to mourn its absence? Were there young that depended on its safe return for survival?

I have known what it’s like to be the bird outside my window but not the one that I trapped in the box, until now. Today I am that bird, trapped beyond the cruel dark thresholds of North Carolina’s death row. Except here there are no cracks to breath, no slits from which to escape, and the only air to breath holds the aroma of death.

Sometimes I think it’s karma. The encounter with the bird was certainly not the only stain on my moral canvas. I would go on to do many things I regret. Other times I think maybe it was a test. That the bird was sent to metaphorically provide an escape from a gateway of terrible decisions and a path from which there was no return. Maybe the bird was never really trapped at all. Maybe it was me all along. If so, then here I wait – afraid, lonely, and confused, feeling violated and victimized, and desperately hoping for the day when a crack of sunlight will come creeping through.

© Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or the two individuals who accused Robinson of murder.   No detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of Terry Robinson’s case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

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Beaten To Death By Deputies While Jailed For Drinking

Larry Trent was 54 years old when he was arrested on July 5th of 2013.  He lived in Kentucky.  The citation from the day of his arrest reported that Trent claimed to have had about four beers and some mouthwash.

So it was that Larry found himself in jail for operating a vehicle under the influence.  The story should end there, with whatever reasonable punishment Kentucky feels is suitable if guilt is established.  It doesn’t though.  His story isn’t big news, but it should be.  It is one more story that has become part of the fabric of a justice system that is in a shambles.

There is poor justice, and there is wealthy justice.  Those are two different things.  The system is set up that way.  Larry Trent did not have the funds to post bond, so he stayed in jail.  If Larry Trent were wealthy, he would not have remained behind bars.  Larry received the poor man’s justice.

Four days after his arrest, Larry was murdered by two deputies.   One of the deputies is reported as standing 6’6” tall and weighing over 400 pounds.  The indictment stated that Larry was killed by the deputies striking, kicking and restraining him while he was at the Kentucky River Regional Jail.  According to Ken Howlett, News Director at K105, Larry wasn’t only beaten down to the floor, one of his attackers stepped back into his cell to kick him in the head after he was left on the floor.  Medical attention wasn’t called in for about four hours, only after another employee discovered the body.

As reported in the articles below, the deputies responsible for Larry’s death were actually staff trainers.  These men coached other employees on how to behave at the jail.  After Trent’s death, the jail did not make note of any training failures or a need to reevaluate existing training.

A lack of accountability, the practice of turning a blind eye, and – as one corrections employee termed it to me – the good ole’ boys’ club are all a part of our corrections system.  Those are the things that led to a man who was too poor to post bond being beaten to death by jail staff.   It has happened before, and it will happen again.

We aren’t the first society to find a way to accommodate a population that encourages survival of the fittest, most talented, most graceful.   But – let’s call it what it is.  Acknowledge it.  It isn’t going to change unless people are aware of it.

It’s an election week.  I have seen commercials with politicians spouting how they will be ‘tough on crime’.  I had one actually knock on my door as he canvassed the neighborhood looking for votes.  It’s time they quit standing on a statement they think works – ‘tough on crime’ – and got their heads out of the sand.  A 54 year old man was murdered by deputies that were staff trainers while in jail on drunk driving charges.   It’s time to be ‘smart’ on crime.

REFERENCES

Downs, Ray. “Kentucky Jail Guard Sentenced to 10 Years for Beating Inmate to Death.”UPI, UPI, 1 Nov. 2017, www.upi.com/Top_News/US/2017/11/01/Kentucky-jail-guard-sentenced-to-10-years-for-beating-inmate-to-death/1941509584733/.

Dunlop, R.G. “Trouble Behind Bars: When Jail Deaths Go Unnoticed.” Kentucky Center for Investigative Reporting, 22 Nov. 2016, kycir.org/2015/10/05/trouble-behind-bars-when-jail-deaths-go-unnoticed/.Howlett, Ken. “Former Deputy Jailer Sentenced to over 10 Years in

Howlett, Ken. “Former Deputy Jailer Sentenced to over 10 Years in Prison for Beating Inmate to Death.” K105, www.k105.com/2017/11/03/former-deputy-jailer-sentenced-to-over-10-years-in-prison-for-beating-inmate-to-death/.

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Day of Silence

It is October 18, 2017, and on this day I will not talk.  I cannot talk and have not talked for the entire day.  Silence is my voice, my method of communication.  A way for me to see, know and realize what is going on around me.  It is the day of an execution.

I want to be as one in understanding and knowing today could never be a regular, normal day like tomorrow or the day before this one.  For me, to act in any way like it is, would be insane on my part and ignoring my own situation, that of being confined with a death sentence hanging over my head.  It’s not me today, but the possibility is there that it could be me in the future.  So, it is through the condemned that I see everyone around me living in their cells.

Each day we have a responsibility to realize the reality of our circumstances.  If we come to the point of rationalizing an execution day as normal and just another day, we come into acceptance of this being okay, justifying our own execution or death sentence through embracing an execution day as a day to be normalized.

My silence toward prisoners and guards keeps my mind on the reality that we are all here to be executed.  That should never be forgotten.  Until I’m not in this situation, I can think no other way.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Knowing Eli

I’m not a convict. Let’s get that straight first. I’ve been incarcerated for almost 25 years. I have some convict ways, but I lean toward keeping myself safe and others that I have a feeling share the same values that I’ve clung to desperately…

I will not tell on someone if they are doing something against the rules, unless their actions would endanger others.  That includes officers, despite my like or dislike of them.

My dad, Bob, told me years ago, “Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.” My dad never came close to being in prison, but he nailed that one.

So, a day into the exodus of myself and my fellow inmates during an evacuation caused by a storm, I met a kindred soul.  We had only been away from our unit for a day when, on my way to breakfast, I saw a cat.  It was grey, with the greenest eyes you ever saw.  Emerald green.  Irish – a good sign.

I haven’t talked about cats, but I’ll freely admit it, I’m a cat person. I love dogs, but I adore cats. Dog is man’s best friend, no matter what. Cats are friends ‘cause they want to be.

That being said, this cat caught my gaze, and while he sat just on the other side of our fenced in enclosure, his eyes followed me for about twenty feet.  He was definitely checking me out, and as I walked the twenty feet to my temporary living area, there was definitely twenty seconds of dialog between us.

The officer at the check point followed my gaze and told me that the cat’s name was Eli.   He told me that in the five years he’d known the cat, Eli had never let a human touch him.

So, the gauntlet was thrown down. The next morning I coaxed the cat near the gate and stroked his head and scratched his ears. The officer couldn’t believe it.

“He’s never done that before,” the man said.

“That’s because he isn’t a ‘he’. He is a she. Her name is not Eli, it’s Ellen.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, since we’re friends now, I was able to see she lacks the proper equipment to be a he.”

“I’ll be damned,” he replied.

So, every morning I brought Ellen a boiled egg.  And she let me pet her for however long I wanted.  But if anyone else approached her, she’d hiss, but stand her ground.  Territory is everything to a cat.

One morning, she followed me to the chapel (we were living on the floor).

I sat down on the steps leading in, and Ellen climbed onto my lap and started to purr. If anyone approached, she became offensive, but she never scratched me. I bought three packs of mackerel at commissary that day, and she ate well for the entire time I was there, 21 days.

One day, I went outside after a rainstorm, and she was on the outside of one of the dorms, sitting on a window sill. I called out her name, and one of the other officers said, “You’re wasting your time. That cat is feral.”

Ellen’s ears perked up, and she came running into my arms. I wish I had put some mackerel on the bet.

I saw her the day before we left to come back to my unit of assignment. She weaved through my legs about a dozen times, and when I picked her up, she licked my nose.  I guess she knew I was leaving.

I haven’t had any human contact, except for a brief visit from my daughter, in 24 years. That one instant, with Ellen in my arms, meant more to me than I can put into words.

When you separate people from the ones they love and care about, and deprive them of touch, you create a painful place inside peoples’ hearts.

But they haven’t been able to do that in mine.  Ellen knew that.  Cats know about pure hearts.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, Misunderstood’, but he still has the things his father instilled in him – humility, respect and love.  In spite of 25 years behind bars, he 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 A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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What Are The Things I See?

What is the view from inside my cell, what are the things I see?

I see the walls, with their peeling paint and scribbled words left behind by hands that made this cell their home before me.

There are tiny squares that make up the door frame, and I can sometimes try to make out was is happening just beyond my reach.

Standing on top of a stack of books, I can look out the window located just about at the top of the cell. Seeing off into the distance over the razor wire, there are guard towers and buildings inside the prison fencing.

I can look in the stainless steel wall around the sink and toilet combo and see my reflection gaze back at me in its shiny surface.  I look and wonder just how many images and memories are stored in that steel, pictures of faces that have looking into it, staring with their eyes full of different hopes and dreams.

This is my reality, my view of the world as I’ve come to know it over the years, enclosed by four square walls of the dullest white.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Vigil On The Row

Another domino is falling, to be toppled over by a substance injected into its core, within days to be marked by a grave stone in memory of who it was and what it represented in this lifetime.

For hours it’s a waiting game, defined by the unknown, to live or to die, what will be their fate beyond this day, these minutes, each and every second that passes?

Everyone is holding their breath and wondering with conflicting emotions.  Family members are embracing hope that humanity will come to the forefront, and they will not have to mourn this day.  The victim’s family also wait, but with anticipation and a different kind of hope that is laced with pain, anger and vengeance, wishing for a twisted form of justice that will never bring the closure they seek.

Guards wait with the indifference of those who’ve done this before and, just as factory workers view boxing up goods for shipment, they glance at their watches, waiting for the shift to be over and thinking of going home.  They are blind to the fact that a man’s life will be taken as part of their work shift, it’s become routine.

The clock continues ticking, later and later the day wears on and the sky begins to darken, the stars making an appearance, and the sun finally lays down to rest as darkness descends.  The street lights come on, and still, nothing is decided.  The cruelest part of it all becomes when there starts to form within the heart of the the condemned a false sense of hope that they will survive, they will get a stay of execution.

Even the family begins to hope with the passage of time and no news coming.  For whatever reason could there be such a delay in such a monumental decision?  Everyone gets antsy within their own thoughts that are all based upon what they hope to come out of the situation.

Then the ax drops, all the lights and power of hope are extinguished with the ring of a phone.   The execution is to proceed as planned.  No stay, no last second decision after so many hour of nothingness, and with the finality of a last breath, the leather straps and restraints are buckled and locked on the body of the condemned.

This is the hard core reality of legalized, state sanctioned murder.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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I’m Still Breathing

You can cast me in the darkest pit
And turn from it while seething.
And erase me from this very world,
But baby, I’m still breathing.
Does it really make me worthless
And deserving of no love?
‘Cause the strength to overcome your madness
Courses through my blood.
Just like town halls and chow calls
Your antics are meant to weaken.
Just like fish under mountains of troubled waters,
Still, I’m breathing.
Did you think that I would take it
Now you want to unleash your wrath,
‘Cause I’m angry, black, and dysfunctional
The product of your bloodbath.
Do you really mean to demean
My legacy to a lie?
‘Cause I take your punches in the gut
While holding my head high.
You can dub me a gangster, thug, or crook
A hoodlum, or a heathen
And strip from me everything I love
But still, like wine, I’m breathing.
Do you really think that I deserved
The lashings on my back.
‘Cause I made it through your troubled storm
With my soul still intact.
Til the ashes of Mother Earth yields up the voices of my people,
I’m breathing.
Til the day when materialism no longer determines my equal,
I’m breathing.
Til chains, chairs, and chambers are no longer justices’ end and my fellow American can call me brother, regardless of my skin,
I’m still breathing.
When my past sins reinvent themselves as my present day regrets,
I’m breathing.
When the weight of the entire world is riding on my chest,
I’m breathing.
When reason enough for the war to be won
Is just knowing that I’m somebody’s son
And I’m breathing,
I’m breathing,
I’m still breathing.

*This poem was written as an homage to Maya Angelou’s – “Still I Rise”

Chanton ©

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

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Did Texas Just Execute An Innocent Man?

This week while I was driving my kids home from swim practice, a man lost his fight to live.  He didn’t struggle during his execution, but he chanted, trying to make his voice heard and be a part of this place till his last breath.

Most of us are wired to try to save lives, I hope.   Preserve it.  People get paid to keep us safe, heal our bodies and minds, improve the length and quality of our lives.  That makes it hard for me to come to terms with a state strapping a person down and employing people to take their life – while they are immobile – while invited guests watch.  Some people call that justice – I call it barbaric.  I call it the ultimate irony.  I call it a lot of things, but justice isn’t one of them.

Some firmly believe Robert Pruett was innocent of the crime he was put to death for.  They were fighting and calling and praying until the end.  Texas can’t argue some of the reasons they believe that.

Robert grew up knowing what struggle was.  His dad wasn’t always around and was incarcerated for some of his childhood, while his mother tried to numb herself with drugs and moved from trailer park to trailer park.  There weren’t family meals shared around a dinner table, hugs when you needed them, and displays of unconditional love.  He never knew that life.

Stock Photo

When his father wasn’t in jail, the man was running from trouble with his family in tow.  He also taught his little boy how to get high when he was seven years old.  Robert was raised rough, and it was all he knew.  And when he was fifteen years old, he got into a fight with Raymond Yarbrough, a 29-year old man who lived in the same trailer park.  Things got out of hand when Robert’s father and brother got involved.  According to the prosecution and the state and everyone – Robert’s father stabbed Yarbrough to death, while Robert held the man down.  That has never been in question.

At sixteen years of age, Robert Pruett was essentially sentenced to life in prison, receiving 99 years for his participation in Yarbrough’s death.   A boy, who never received any guidance in his life and only knew abuse of all kinds, held down his neighbor while the authority figure in his life, his father, his role model, his guardian, violently killed the man.  Robert wasn’t wired to do anything less.  He needed intervention way before that day, he needed an advocate, a hero, somebody to rescue him – but he never got that.  Instead, Texas felt justice would be served by putting him in prison until he died of old age.

So the sentence began.  The story didn’t end there though.  When Pruett was twenty he was accused of killing a corrections officer.  Daniel Nagle was found stabbed, and the cause of his death was actually reported to be a heart attack.  Two years later, a jury found Robert Pruett guilty of murder, and he was sentenced to death.

It’s not that cut and dry.  Texas doesn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Robert Pruett killed that officer.  Even if the cause of his death was bleeding from the stab wounds, which it wasn’t, there is doubt that the man Texas put to death this week even committed the stabbing.

Eighteen years after the officer’s death, Robert Pruett maintained his innocence.  What’s more, some of the inmates whose testimony was used to convict Robert received rewards for the cooperation.  Often times, in the world of prison, inmates testimony is excluded as ‘untrustworthy’ if it doesn’t benefit the institution, but if it can further their cause – an inmate’s testimony can send someone to the death chamber.   The jury didn’t know that the witnesses benefited from their testimony.

Outside of the inmates, there was no physical or DNA evidence to put Robert Pruitt at the scene of the crime.  In a crime that takes place in such close quarters, it seems logical to think Robert’s DNA would be found on something – the weapon, the torn up disciplinary paper next to the body, the body itself.  There was none.  There was nothing found on Robert’s body either.  Nothing.

I wasn’t on the jury.  I don’t know what they were thinking, but I’ve seen aggressive lawyers paint pictures.  The truth gets blurry – it can actually sometimes get obscured from view.  In a world of smoke and mirrors, should there be a death sentence?  Should death be decided based on ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’?

Corruption takes place in prisons all the time. There is story after story of officers going rogue.  They lose perspective.  According to one report, the officer that was killed had some enemies at the prison because he was trying to shed light on some corruption at the facility.

Everything I read about Robert Pruett leads me to believe he was a smart man.  In addition to the many questions raised in his case, I find myself questioning a man murdering someone who wrote him up and then tossing the torn up report next to the dead body.  It defies logic to try and stay so tidy that you don’t leave any DNA behind, but you leave a torn up note with your name on it.  Again – Robert’s DNA was not found on the note or the weapon.  And the victim’s blood was not found on Robert.

It’s pointless now to argue whether Robert Pruett murdered anyone.  People will continue to question it without me.  But, there is one thing there is no question about.  The state of Texas buckled Robert Pruett down and calmly injected enough poison into his system to end his life, with witnesses watching every moment of the process.  That we know.  We also know that Texas will continue to do that as long as the laws allow.

REFERENCES

Baptiste, Nathalie. “Junk Science? Unreliable Witnesses? No Matter, Texas Plans to Execute Robert Pruett Anyway Mother Jones – 2017-10-10T10:00:11.000Z.” Junk Science? Unreliable Witnesses? No Matter, Texas Plans to Execute Robert Pruett Anyway, Mother Jones, 10 Oct. 2017, dailyreadlist.com/article/junk-science-unreliable-witnesses-no-matter-tex-71.

Randall, Kate. “Robert Pruett, First Imprisoned at Age 16, Executed in Texas despite Questions about Evidence.” Dolphnsix Intelligent News Agency, www.dolphnsix.com/news/5430477/robert-pruett-first-imprisoned-executed-texas.

Robinson, Nathan J. “Texas Should Not Execute Robert Pruett Tonight.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 12 Oct. 2017, www.nytimes.com/2017/10/12/opinion/texas-robert-pruett-execution.html.

“Texas Inmate Executed for Prison Guard’s Death.” Fox News, FOX News Network, www.foxnews.com/us/2017/10/12/texas-inmate-executed-for-prison-guards-death.html.

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The World According To AARP

I never thought much about old people growing up.  I mean, I never really noticed the daily things that go into being elderly.  I used to hear my grandfather or my grandmother talk about their rheumatism or arthritis or the famous ‘creaking old bones’ or how their knees hurt before it rains, but when you’re twelve years old, you’re more concerned with riding your bike to town or buying comic books at the drug store.  When you’re twelve years old you’re immortal, full of ‘piss and vinegar’ like my dad used to say.

That being said, I’m starting to see the light at the nursing home entrance.  I’m surrounded by walkers, canes and crutches (oh, my).  It’s like a geriatric Wizard of Oz, without the magic slippers.   I live  in a minimum security unit in the Southeast corner of Texas, south of Houston.  There are around 1,500 inmates here, 450-500 of which are medically unassigned  – pardon the expression, ‘the broke dicks’.

We don’t work in the kitchen, the laundry or the unit cannery.  We don’t clean dorms or floors or anything.  Most of us are over the age of fifty.  Most have done the required amout of ‘flat time’ to be eligible for parole.  Most have little or no disciplinary problems or records.  Some have families to parole home to.

Some have everything an incarcerated individual could dream of, three meals a day, a hot shower, a bed to sleep in, a phone available to call their loved ones, and $95 every two weeks to spend at the unit commissary, where they can buy things like stamps, paper, envelopes, soft drinks, snacks, coffee and tea, or hygiene products like soap, toothpaste, shampoo, etc.

But you can’t by time.  You can’t buy a visit from your family or friends.  In most of our cases, time is the enemy now.

I’m not a soap box kind of guy.  I’m not a crusader or an advocate, however, I’m a very emotionally connected person.  When I watch the television or listen to NPR and I hear of a tragedy or see human suffering, I’m deeply affected. When I see a man in his 70’s and 80’s being set off for parole after twenty years or more of being a model prisoner, I ask myself two questions.

Why?  and How much longer?

I’m starting to ask those two questions in reference to myself.  I was 32 years young when I arrived here.  Now I’m 57, and I came up for parole ten years ago.  I have less than a dozen minor disciplinary cases over the last twenty-five years, most of these are directly related to my being a diabetic.  I’ve been a Type I diabetic since I was eleven years old.

I’ve never been in a fight.

I’ve never tested positive for any drugs.

I’ve never extorted anyone for anything.

I’ve never disobeyed a direct order or had any problems with staff or guards.

I’ve done every possible thing these folks have asked of me to go home.

Yet, I’m still here, and I’m not alone.  And I’m getting older, and so are my brothers and sisters.

It is stated that it takes $30,000 to feed, house, clothe and guard me, plus medical expenses.  That’s over $750,000 for the time I’ve been here, plus two visits to the hospital – close to a million dollars.

How many books could that buy for students?

How may hospital wings could that build?

How many roads and bridges could that repair?

How many homeless could that feed?

I want to make one thing clear – I’m not saying that prisons should be abolished. They are, as my dad used to say, a ‘necessary evil’.  There are a group of people who should be incarcerated for what  they’ve done.  But everyone deserves a chance to redeem himself, because everyone, incarcerated or not, makes mistakes.  Everyone has momentary lapses of reason.  Everyone is human.

No one is above the law and no one deserves to be abandoned by it.

I’ve met some truly amazing individuals in the last 25 years, people who would give anything for a second chance.

My dad used to say, ‘We live life forwards, but we learn from it in reverse’.  Those who learn should be rewarded.  Those who do not should continue to be guarded.  I’ve seen inmates leave here only to return two or three times because they were uneducated, unprepared, and overwhelmed, but there are some of us here who are not.

I consider myself lucky.  I had a father who was my best friend, who loved and trusted me, and who, in his 56 years on this planet, never let me down.  And I cry every day, not because I’m behind these walls, but because I miss him and I let him down.  And because my time on this earth is growing short, and I might not get the opportunity to right what I did wrong.

I can’t undo what I’ve done, I can’t change the past.  But I can undo some of the damage and I can change the future, and I will if given the chance…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, Misunderstood’, but he still has the things his father instilled in him – humility, respect and love.  In spite of 25 years behind bars, he 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 A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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A Brutal and Predictable Prison Cell Murder

In April of 2012 a twenty four year old man lost his life while in the care of the Department of Corrections.  His name was Ricky D. Martin.   Some might say he was still a boy, although he was the father of two.

According to Julie Brown with the Miami Harold, Martin had a rough start in the world.  His parents were murdered when he was two years old, and he and his sister were sent to live with their grandparents in another state – Florida.

Ricky was a bit on the small side all his life and had a hard time fitting in.  He was an easy target for the neighborhood bullies, and he turned to the wrong crowd looking for protection and got involved in gangs.  According to the Harold, he was in special education, and his academic performance was three years below his age.  He couldn’t compete in the job market when it came time for him to start earning an income, and he sometimes turned to stealing and reckless behavior to pay the rent.

The chips were stacked against him from the very beginning.  Having your parents murdered would be devastating, living with a learning disability is a struggle, being the victim of bullying is life changing – Ricky had all those things to contend with.

He was arrested nine times as a juvenile, mostly for burglary, grand theft and larceny, and also was charged with assault on a juvenile probation officer three times, according to the Harold.  His final arrest was for grand theft and armed burglary.  He broke into a home when no one was there and stole guns.  He later sold them.  In Florida, ‘stealing a weapon’ is classified as armed robbery.

While incarcerated Mr. Martin received 32 disciplinary reports, the majority of which involved cutting and tattooing himself and disorderly conduct.   There was also an incident with a fight and spoken threats.  Early in his incarceration, he gravitated towards gang members as a means of survival and for protection, but when he later tried to distance himself from that life, he became a target.  He also felt he was the target of staff members after reporting that officers were running a fight club.

According to the Harold, he would do what he could to stay in trouble after that in order to keep himself in segregation, which often meant cutting himself.  He even wrote to the administration, telling them he feared for his life.  As written in Ricky’s slightly shaky handwriting in a grievance to the Department of Corrections, dated November 18, 2011:

I’m filing this grievance cause I feel that my life is in Jeopardy.  In May 2010 I was transferred in middle of the night from North West Florida Reception Center on account of me telling on Officer Sittenberry about having a fight club in food services.  Well now I’m being housed at Holmes C.I. and there are several officers here that came from North West Florida Reception Center, such as Mrs. Rock, Sgt. Newberry, Mr. Meeks, Mrs. Jackson and the Warden.  They told me that I was a snitch and told inmates about the incedent.  Now I have inmates and officers after me.  I can’t check in cause officer will play with my food.  I’m in confinement at this time cause a officer set me up with a knife and the officers play with my mail, food, and religious material.  I’m trying to catch more Dr’s while I’m in confinement cause I’m safer in here.  I’m asking for help.  Please take this matter seriously cause my life is on the line.  I was transferred here to protect myself but this camp is to close to NWFRC.  So please look in to this, and handle it wisingly.  Thank you.

On December 11, 2011, this response was issued:

Your request for administrative appeal is in non-compliance with the Rules of the Department of Corrections, Chapter 11-103, Inmate Grievance Procedure.  The rule requires that you first submit your appeal to the appropriate level at the institution.  You have not done so or you have not provided this office with a copy of that appeal, nor have you provided a valid or acceptable reason for not following the rules.

Furthermore, if you fear staff, you need to file an informal grievance to the Colonel.  The Colonel should have the opportunity to address these issues regarding staff at the institution.  If you fear another inmate, contact the shift officer in charge for immediate action. 

Upon receipt of this response, if you are within the allowable time frames of processing a grievance, you may resubmit your grievance at your current location in compliance with Chapter 11-103, Inmate Grievance Procedure.

Based on the foregoing information, your grievance is returned without action.

G. Wellhausen.

A little over three months later, Ricky Martin was admitted to Santa Rosa Correctional Institution.

There was an inmate at Santa Rosa that had been there before Ricky, by the name of Shawn Rogers.  As anyone in corrections knows, officers and staff get to know the inmates they house and have a feel for their demeanor and how dangerous they are.  Shawn Rogers made it quite easy for staff though, as he was very vocal about his level of violence and never attempted to hide it.  As the department of corrections knew, he had an extensive record behind bars.

Mr. Rogers was serving a life sentence.  During his incarceration he often threatened staff.  His record as of December 17, 2014 included 107 disciplinary actions while in custody, including Disrespect to Officials, Disobeying Orders, Spoken Threats, Lying to Staff, Assaults or Attempt, Failure to Comply, Lewd or Lascivious, Unarmed Assault, Disorderly Conduct, Inciting Riots, Destruction of Property, Aggravated Assault Against an Inmate, Battery Against an Inmate.  I have not included all of the charges, and there were multiple incidents of the charges that I listed.

Rogers was 6’4” and weighed 260 pounds, in comparison to Ricky, who stood 5’4” and weighed 140 pounds.  That, in itself, is significant, as Rogers was nearly a foot taller and weighed nearly twice as much as Ricky.

The staff at a Florida prison placed Ricky Martin in a cell with Rogers, locked the door and walked away.   According to the Miami Harold, a witness in the neighboring cell said that he heard Martin ask an officer to move him. The witness also said that Martin was told by the officer to, “Fight or f….”  Other inmates testified to hearing the same response from the officer.

There was racial tension at the time Ricky was placed in Rogers’ cell, and witnesses reported that earlier, Rogers had loudly said he wanted to kill a white inmate.

The Harold reported that 53 inmates provided testimony relevant to what happened to Ricky in that cell after he was locked in.  When officers finally went in to check on him, he was unconscious.  He was in a pool of his own blood with his hands and feet tied.  He had bloody shorts on his head and fabric around his neck.  As reported by Julie Brown, there were bloody handprints smeared onto the wall.  His shorts were around his ankles.   The 5’4” twenty four year old suffered.  He endured a brutal death.

While Ricky was screaming for help, along with the inmates in the surrounding cells, there was no response.  In a prison, a place that is designed for surveillance and to supervise individuals, the screaming, torture and murder took place without interference.

At 7:01 p.m. prison cameras show an officer looking inside the window to the cell shared by Ricky and Rogers.  The officer kept walking.  There is then a shadow of another officer walking the second floor.  Then – at 7:09 a different officer looks into the cell and sees blood and Ricky’s body under a blanket.  Rogers told the officer his cellmate had been cutting himself.

Upon entering the cell, Ricky Martin, who was unconscious and never woke up again, was handcuffed by staff and had leg restraints put on before he was carried to the infirmary. It was reported he was so badly beaten he was unrecognizable.

After the death of Ricky Martin, Rogers wrote a lengthy letter to the judge in the case.  In it he said:

…it has been no military secret that I have been one of the most vicious and violent prisoners in the entire state of Florida.  My disciplinary history reflects numerous assaults, stabbings, slashings, fights and a blatant disregard for authority of any kind.

He continued to say:

Your honor I’m pretty sure that you’ve been dealing with the department of corrections long enough to know what goes on and what type of games get played.  On the day of the incident in question, I was moved out of a cell with a good cellmate that I was getting along with perfectly fine and put into a cell with Ricky D. Martin.  The people in charge knew that me and Mr. Martin was going to have a serious problem.  The last time I was at this institution in February, 2005, I had a similar kind of incident with an inmate named Noah Stancil. They moved him in my cell and I didn’t like him.  So I knocked him out, tied him up and almost beat him to death.

He then goes on to describe the crime and asks to be put to death, expressing he felt no remorse and he would do it again if he is allowed to live.

A slight, young man with a sad youth and a learning disability was in prison for burglary, with two years to go and two children and a wife to come home to.  He was locked into a cell with a man twice his size, who had stated he wanted to kill a white man, who had pages of violent behavior documented by the department of corrections.  Ricky Martin died screaming and pleading for help, joining the voices of the surrounding inmates.   No one in the tax funded Department of Corrections was held responsible for allowing this to  happen.

REFERENCES

All the documents used in this article were obtained through Julie Brown’s, Miami Harold.com article.

Brownjbrown@MiamiHerald.com, Julie K. “Was Killing behind Bars a Set-up?” Miamiherald, www.miamiherald.com/news/local/community/miami-dade/article5915970.html.

 

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Prison Writing and Expression