The house did nearly burn to the ground one time because the wood-burning stove started a fire in the ceiling. The fire department had to come and spray the place down. Unfortunately, the trucks arrived in time to put it out. As I watched, I desperately prayed that the entire shack would burn so I’d never have to see it again. It survived with little damage.
Jack was a roofer by trade, and he started taking small jobs on the side, repairing residential homes to bring in a little extra cash. I started going with him, learning the process. I was only about thirteen, so mostly what I did was clean up the area when he was finished, and he’d give me a few dollars.
Perhaps up until this point I’ve painted a completely unsympathetic portrait of Jack. He wasn’t an absolute monster any more than anyone else is. He was just a man, both good and bad. I believe he did care about both my sister and me, in his own way. He could be generous. He would stop to help every single person whose car was broken down on the side of the road, and he always gave hitchhikers a ride. He was also more tolerant of any form of self-expression I chose than any other parent would have been. I was free to dress however I pleased and listen to whatever music I liked. He had no problem with things like me wearing earrings, and I heard him tell my mother more than once, “He’s just trying to find himself.”
My mother was also a more complicated character than she may seem. She always made certain we had enough to eat (even though it was usually junk food), she always went to Open House Night at school to meet my teachers, and she made sure we got Easter baskets with chocolate rabbits. She tried to take care of us when we were sick, although sometimes her idea of taking care was to sit next to the bed as I struggled with bronchitis and keep watch while smoking generic cigarettes.
I’m now at a point in my life where I look back on both of them with mingled feeling of love, disgust, affection, resentment, and sometimes hatred. There’s too much betrayal to ever be completely forgiven. I am not like my mother, who may argue with you one day and go back to life as usual the next. The best I can do is say that their good deeds may have softened the blow of the bad ones.
Five
Being in prison and having a case as well-known as mine puts me in an odd position. In a way, complete strangers come to feel that they know me just because they’ve watched me on television or read about me. It takes away their inhibitions when they approach me. I don’t mind it at all; it keeps my days interesting. Sometimes it provokes a great deal of thought, and sometimes it leaves me flabbergasted.
The letters I receive from people come from a variety of mental and emotional planes. I see the entire spectrum of human life. I’m like a bartender without a bar; people just tell me their stories. Some of them just want to get something off their chests, as if they just need to tell someone. Others look at me as some sort of oracle, and ask me questions about major life decisions. People going through divorces, people losing their children, people considering abortions—they all write and tell me their personal business. Others write and ask me about mine. I’ve even met a few of them in prison.
Years ago I was often visited by a religious couple. They were devoutly Pentecostal and much older than I was, though with almost no life experience. They had never been out of Arkansas or ever associated with people who were outside their own walk of life. They didn’t really know what to make of me but kept returning. I must admit that I enjoyed shocking them. In some ways they were as alien to me as I was to them.
More often than not they would bring the conversation around to sex. They truly had no idea that people practiced any sort of sex other than intercourse in a missionary position. When I informed them that there were indeed other positions, and that it could even be done orally, they looked like they were about to go into shock. They couldn’t comprehend it and eventually delivered the verdict that only extreme deviants would conceive of or engage in such acts. They stated that there was no way that a normal person could enjoy such a thing, although they seemed to enjoy discussing it.
Hate mail is the term used to describe the letters from people who haven’t actually stopped to learn the facts of my case and never get past their initial knee-jerk reaction. As a matter of fact I could count the non-supportive letters I’ve received on one hand, whereas I could build a small mountain out of the letters I’ve received from people expressing support and wanting to know how they can help.
Most people who spew hatred aren’t very intelligent or motivated. They tend to be lazy, and if for some reason they are coaxed into picking up a pen, their messages are mostly incoherent and largely illiterate. Their spelling and sentence structure tends to be atrocious, so it’s hard to take offense at anything they’d say even when they do write. After all, if they’re not motivated or intelligent enough to research the simple spelling of a word in a dictionary, then you know they certainly aren’t going to take the time to research the case. Still, all in all, hateful people just don’t seem to like writing, I guess. Either that or there simply aren’t many people in the world who wish me anything but good fortune.
There is one odd thing that happens every now and then, though. I think of it as a drive-by preaching. Occasionally I’ll receive a plain white envelope in the mail, with no return address. This alone makes the item suspect, because people usually want me to write back, so a return address is prominently displayed. When I get one of these anonymous missives I lay it aside to be inspected after I finish with the rest of the day’s mail.
When I get around to opening it, it’s always the same thing: a load of religious tracts and pamphlets. There’s no letter, no message, just a bunch of John 3:16s and Turn or Burns. I always get the feeling these things are sent in the same spirit with which the perpetrator would fling a flaming bag of dog shit at my front door. I picture an overweight housewife with dishwater-colored hair licking the envelope with a look of smug satisfaction on her face. It seems that the messages printed on these greasy, creased pieces of paper must have gone right over the sender’s head. Perhaps it’s just me, but I don’t think Jesus’ words were meant to be tied to a brick and chunked through your neighbor’s window at midnight. Anytime you drop a picture of Christ in the mailbox while muttering a self-righteous “This’ll teach ’em,” something has gone terribly wrong.
Preachers visit Death Row all the time, including Baptist ministers who try to convince us that death is preferable to life. Some go so far as to tell us that we should even drop our appeals and voluntarily allow the state to kill us. When someone is executed, these vultures make comments like “He’s in a better place now.” Somehow I doubt that even they themselves believe this. I think they’d be pretty quick to seek medical attention if they had a problem. They say the Bible tells them that death is more wonderful than life. I’ve read it, and I see a different picture. If death is so great, then why did Jesus raise the dead? Why did he call Lazarus back to life? That in itself causes me to believe there must be something wholly unpleasant about that particular condition. They know it, too. They just get high on watching people die. It’s the only thing left for them to get off on.
I cannot explain it, the way everything in my soul shrieks and gibbers for some sort of closure. How do you make someone understand what it means or how it feels to be torn in half? Not many people know this desperate need to be put back together again. I have been split like the atom, and the effect on my psyche was just as powerful. Part of me is missing, even if it can’t be seen with the naked eye. A coin is not complete without both heads and tails.
All of the negativity and unsavory characters in this environment only serve to make the exceptions shine all the more brightly. It causes you to appreciate kindness and consideration even more. When those with an inner beauty make their way into this hellish reality it shines forth like a beacon, and we denizens swarm to it like bugs to a zapper. In a very real way we’re starving to death, and these bright spots in the darkness are the only thing that can fill the hole.
On an average day the
re is nothing kind, generous, caring, or sensitive within these walls. The energy directed at you is hatred, rage, disgust, stupidity, ignorance, and brutality. It affects you in mind, body, and soul, much like a physical beating. The pressure is relentless and unending. Soon you walk with your shoulders slumped and your head down, like a beast that’s used to being kicked. You never make eye contact, and you constantly cringe mentally. That’s encouraged and enforced every day. The prison staff does not look at you as human, and they go out of their way to let you know it. The message that you are inferior and worthless is hammered in at every conceivable turn.
Take, for example, the way in which we are fed. On more than one occasion I have found insects such as grasshoppers and crickets that were boiled in my broccoli or greens. That’s because after it was picked no one even bothered to wash it. If the meat is starting to go bad, just smother it in generic barbeque sauce to cover the taste. Often the food is mixed together in inedible combinations, due to lack of care—pickled beets dumped in the applesauce, or a soggy roll floating in the boiled squash. The fat- and gristle-laden meat is never fully cooked, while vegetables are boiled to the point of disintegration. The only time a decent meal is prepared by the kitchen is when a tour or inspection is sent through by some outside agency. This happens a handful of times every year.
Every inmate in prison is assigned an account that family and friends can deposit money into, which inmates use for basic necessities. Everything in prison must be paid for. Most of the food I eat is bought with donations from supporters and friends. That alone enables me to avoid a great deal of the prison fare. Most aren’t so fortunate.
It used to be that the greatest time for prisoners was Christmas. This was because many local churches, both Protestant and Catholic, along with the Buddhist center, the ACLU, and many independent donors, would spend their time and money putting together what were commonly called “Christmas sacks.” These sacks contained fresh fruit (Christmas is the only time of year you get it), candy, homemade cookies, pairs of socks, a couple of stamped envelopes, and various other goodies. (In prison these snacks are called “zoo-zoos” and “wham-whams.”) People would talk about these sacks, anticipating them, for many weeks ahead of time. There was excitement in the air. This was the only thing that made Christmas different from any other day. Until the year that the prison administration decided they would no longer allow the volunteers to do this. They would not be allowed in to sing Christmas carols or donate fresh food. We would receive nothing, and Christmas would be just another day, unless you count the perceptible stench of depression in the air as a difference. No one knows why this tradition was suddenly banned, other than that our overseers arrogantly declared “because I say so.” No one explains themselves to inferior creatures.
One of the people who helped put together the Christmas sacks every year was a lady named Anna. She was from the local Buddhist center, and she visited the prison once a week to hold an hour-long meditation session. She told stories, gave teachings, and taught the inmates all sorts of Tibetan meditation practices. The number of people who could fit into the small room to attend her classes was extremely limited, so afterward she would walk from cell to cell, talking to anyone who wanted to chat or discuss a problem. She gave blessings and recited prayers, never turning anyone away. The inmates all behaved as if she were the Dalai Lama himself. You would know when she had arrived because word would spread like wildfire down the halls and through the barracks—“Anna’s here! Anna’s here!” Buddhists, Christians, Muslims—she welcomed all. She cut through the darkness like a spotlight, and for that reason the guards hated her. They did everything within their power to keep her out, but nothing worked. She would stand patiently outside the door for hours at a time until they finally had no choice but to let her in.
Sadly enough, failing health has put a severe cramp in her lifestyle, so we no longer get to see her. I believe part of the problem was that she spread herself so thin. No matter how valiant the effort, a single person cannot lift all this darkness. So many needed her that there just wasn’t enough of her to go around. She would have had to live here twenty-four hours a day and give up sleeping in order to talk to everyone. One candle cannot illuminate the entire universe, and not many people are interested in the job.
One other person the guards couldn’t seem to dissuade, no matter how much effort they put into the enterprise, was a priest of the Roman Catholic Church named Father Charles. He was unlike any priest I’ve ever known, before or since.
Father Charles always arrived at the prison, as he did everywhere else, on his motorcycle. He loved that thing and rode it everywhere. It’s odd to see a man in a priest’s collar sitting atop such a machine, and sometimes the mind finds it difficult to accept such a sight until it grows accustomed.
The first thing you noticed about Father Charles’s appearance was a bald head. His skull was shaved as slick as Kojak’s or Mr. Clean’s, and the light reflected off it as he crossed the barracks. Framing his mouth and chin was a Fu Manchu mustache and goatee, which seemed to be a perfect complement to the bald head. The only thing about his appearance that was traditional was his black suit and white collar.
It wasn’t only his appearance that deviated from the norm, as he had all sorts of interesting quirks and habits, one of which was that he brewed and bottled his own beer in his garage. After much practice he believed he’d stumbled upon the perfect recipe, and was quite proud of it. Also in his garage was a giant pet boa constrictor, which he confided to me he’d once watched swallow a chicken whole. He said this with awe in his voice, as if amazed by the intricacies of God’s creatures. In his spare time he played violin and was accomplished enough to tackle the works of Paganini.
Father Charles was one of the most gentle and intelligent people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. His eyes were alight with life, and even the non-Catholics on Death Row loved and wanted to talk to him. He was a very enlightened individual, and often told me to think of God more like “the Force” in the Star Wars movies. I don’t believe his approach was always popular with the bishop, but it appealed to me.
Over the years I had gradually drifted away from the Catholic Church, because the experiences I’d been through had left me bitter. I blamed Christianity in general as being a huge part of the reason I was sitting on Death Row for a crime I didn’t commit. It was Christians who had labeled me “satanic” and condemned me to death. It was hard for me to get past that, so I sought a new home in Zen Buddhism to help me deal with the anger and resentment. More than likely it saved my life, by preventing all the negativity from eating me alive. Some Christians would have frowned on my interest in Buddhism. Father Charles did not. He thought it was great.
It was Father Charles who lured me back into attending Mass in the small prison chapel as a complement to my Buddhist training. It’s the beauty of the Catholic Church that has always caused me to fall in love with it. It still does. I later learned that I wasn’t the only one to embrace both practices. Jesuit priests at certain churches have started teaching Buddhist meditation techniques to their congregations as a valid approach to dealing with life situations. Interestingly enough, I had wanted nothing more than to become a Jesuit priest in my youth. It was the whole celibacy thing I couldn’t handle.
Unfortunately, Father Charles was eventually transferred to another parish. He didn’t want to leave, and we didn’t want him to, but the decision was in someone else’s hands. Now, years later, people on Death Row still write to him, and he to them. People respect him and the advice that he gives. No one since has been capable of taking his place.
* * *
I have the shape of a dead man on the wall of my cell. It was left behind by the last occupant. He stood against the wall and traced around himself with a pencil, then shaded it in. It looks like a very faint shadow, and it’s barely noticeable until you see it. It took me nearly a week to notice it for the first time, but once you see it you can’t un-see it. I fi
nd myself lying on my bunk and looking at it several times a day. It just seems to draw the eyes like a magnet. God only knows what possessed him to do such a thing, but I can’t bring myself to wash it off. Since they executed him, it’s the only trace of him left. He’s been in his grave almost five years now, yet his shadow still lingers. He was no one and nothing. All that remains of him is a handful of old rape charges and a man-shaped pencil sketch. Perhaps it’s just superstition, but I can’t help but feel that erasing it would be like erasing the fact that he ever existed. That may not be such a bad thing, all things considered, but I won’t be the one to do it.
At one point I entertained thoughts that perhaps the living inmates weren’t the only ones trapped on Death Row. After all, if places really are haunted, then wouldn’t Death Row be the perfect stomping ground? At some time or another it’s crossed the mind of everyone here. Some make jokes about it, like whistling to yourself as you pass the cemetery. Others don’t like to speak about it at all, and it can be a touchy subject. Who wants to think about the fact that you’re sleeping on the mattress that three or four executed men also claimed as their resting place? Imagine looking into the mirror every day and wondering how many dead men had looked at their own reflections in it. When anything odd happens, some men blame whoever was executed last.
Once for a period of several months at Tucker Max, I had the privilege of having an entire floor of the Death Row barracks to myself. Recent executions had opened up cells on the first two floors, so the guards thought it a good idea to move people from the third floor down to the first and second, to fill the empty slots. They were hoping to be able to get out of walking up to the third floor altogether. The problem was that they were one short, so I was the only one to be left up there with another seventeen empty cells.
There were a lot of benefits to the situation, so I didn’t complain. For one thing, I had a television all to myself. No arguing about what to watch. I also had my own phone, and no longer had to wait for anyone else to get off it. There was no one above me to stomp on the floor and annoy me, and no one next to me. I could sit in meditation for as long as I liked without fear of interruption. I was up high enough in the air that I could look out of my slit of a window and see a field of horses. I used to watch them playing for hours at a time. Even better than the horses was the field itself, especially when it snowed during the winter. Looking at that snowy field and a ring of leafless, gray trees made my heart ache like you can’t believe. Nothing makes me wail with heartache and homesickness more than the winter. Sometimes the cold wind feels like it’s blowing right through a hole in my chest. It hurts, folks. It hurts like hell and reminds me of how long I’ve been here.
Life After Death: The Shocking True Story of a Innocent Man on Death Row Page 6
