Untying the Knot: John Mark Byers and the West Memphis Three

by Greg Day

  If people didn’t recognize Mark from the extensive TV and newspaper coverage of the trials—the Echols/Baldwin trial had been held in Jonesboro, after all—they were sure to spot him after the premiere of the HBO film. The repercussions of his prominent role in the documentary were varied and sometimes violent. Once, while visiting a “private club” across the street from his apartment, Mark was attacked in the men’s room by four men ranging in age from late teens to early twenties. “We know who you are,” one said just as Mark was backing away from the urinal. “You’re that baby killer.”122 Without further warning, two of the men landed sucker-punches to Mark’s head and face, dropping him to the bathroom floor. When he came to, the men were gone, but upon a quick survey of the club, he found two of them hanging around shooting pool. Grabbing a pool cue off the wall, Mark hotly strode toward the table. Before he got there, however, two bouncers collared him and dragged him to the door. By this time his eye was swelling shut, and his split lip was bleeding profusely down the front of his shirt. The police were called, but by then the attackers were gone.

  Without a car, Mark had little hope of getting a job, though it is questionable how successful he would have been at maintaining any kind of steady employment. He had also completely lost touch with Ryan and was virtually alone, and when Mark was alone, he “self-medicated.” It was in this zombie-like semiconscious state that Mark participated in the filming of Revelations: Paradise Lost 2. To be sure, there were periods of lucidity, and these can be seen in the film. Appearing in front of his Stone Street efficiency, decked out in his signature American flag shirt, Mark is clear-eyed and coherent. A scene filmed inside his apartment, as he hangs out with friends Willie Burns and James Lawrence, reveals a Mark Byers arguably in control of himself. In other scenes—the confrontation with the Free the West Memphis Three organizers on the courthouse steps, for example—he appears bloated and puffy-eyed, slurring his speech and mixing up his words. In October 1998, during the first round of Damien Echols’s Rule 37 hearings, Mark was filmed on the sidewalks of Jonesboro, his eyes bleary and stance unsteady, as Echols was led into the courthouse. “You ain’t goin’ to be no boogeyman in West Memphis,” he slurred, “’cause you’re goin’ to be dead in hell!” At this, he cocked his thumb and forefinger in a mock-shooting pose, pointing straight at Echols. His posture, despite his hulking form, was somehow weak, unbalanced. He was bloated from months of poor nutrition, heavy drinking, and drug use.

  Mark has often been described as “scary.” To those who knew him well, he looked pitiful at this point. The contrast between his physical appearance six months earlier, when he was filmed singing at the table in his Jonesboro studio apartment, and that of the haggard inebriate at the Rule 37 hearing is startling.123 He seemed unaware at this point that he was being set up. “They keep wantin’ to find someone else to blame to get their three off. That’s their job. Draw suspicion, do their thing,” he told a reporter on camera. “But the world knows who’s guilty and who’s innocent.” By now, Mark was well aware that the suspicions they were “drawing” were aimed squarely at him. The knowing glances between Kathy Bakken and Burk Sauls as Mark strode off toward the courthouse after a somewhat heated on-camera exchange provide some evidence that they knew as well. It didn’t matter. If Mark was aware of what was happening, he probably would have waded right in anyway, as he has done so often, like a prize-fighter in the late rounds after taking one too many punches.

  By the time Creative Thinking International and HBO Productions packed up and rolled out of Arkansas, and the last of the Rule 37 hearings wound down in March 1999, Mark had gotten himself into a world of trouble. His depression had returned. His lifelong friend James Lawrence had died in 1998. He saw his family only sporadically; it was difficult for them to watch him fall apart. “My brother says today that [the family] was just waiting to hear that I was dead,” Mark recalls.

  In August 1998, after sitting by the side of the road, “waiting for an eighteen-wheeler” and contemplating suicide, Mark once again checked himself in for medical treatment, this time at St. Bernard’s Behavioral Health Center in Jonesboro. He was again diagnosed with major depressive disorder, anxiety disorder, and alcohol dependence, which at the time he denied. According to his doctors, he “became angry and threatened the physician” when substance abuse treatment was recommended. At the time he was admitted, he was taking many prescription medications, including Zoloft and trazadone (for depression), Depakote (for seizures related to his brain tumor), Xanax (for anxiety), and propranolol (for migraines and anxiety). The doctors took note of his medical history, which included a right frontal lobe brain tumor, a seizure disorder, a hiatal hernia, gastroesophageal (GE) reflux, and “chronic losses”—the deaths of family and friends.124 Not surprisingly, they attributed his depressed state to those factors, as well as to alcohol abuse. They also noted a “facial asymmetry” and “abnormal gait” and recommended a repeat CT scan.

  Mark “continued to remain on the outer fringe of the therapeutic milieu [group therapy],” according to his doctors, and was “not engaging in treatment initially, continuing to be distractible.” The reasons for this were apparent: “[Mark] did continue to ruminate over the death of his son, and voiced resentment and anger toward the individuals who murdered his son.” His contemplation of suicide suggests the truth of what is said of grieving parents: they don’t choose to live; they just don’t choose to die.125

  The doctors noted with some satisfaction that toward the end of his treatment, Mark was beginning to “process his grief issues.” On August 9, 1998, after a few medication adjustments and two weeks of therapy, Mark was discharged. He was given a lengthy list of prescriptions to fill, including Xanax, Depakote, Gabitril (seizures), Pepcid (GE reflux), Inderal (headaches), Vicodin (headaches), Desyrel (insomnia), and Zoloft. He was instructed to have magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) testing done on both his brain and neck as an outpatient. He was also instructed to attend Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous meetings nightly for “aftercare and support treatment.” But he “left rehab, went straight to the drugstore, got [his] prescriptions filled, and bought a six-pack of beer at the Stop ’n’ Go,” Mark said. “I went home, drank the six-pack, ate a hand full of pills, smoked a big, fat joint, and never looked back.”

  Paying the Piper

  For all the bullets he took, Mark had unquestionably dodged his share too. As noted earlier, shortly after graduating jewelry school, he had been arrested in Louisiana for possession of marijuana. The evidence “disappeared” before trial, and he was more or less forced to flee the state. His 1987 arrest and conviction for the terroristic threatening of Sandra Sloane resulted in his being placed on probation for three years. Although this was a misdemeanor charge, a violation of the probation could have resulted in up to a year of imprisonment. The 1992 Rolex watch incident could—and some would say should—have led to felony charges, had the district attorney decided to prosecute.126

  There was also the botched 1992 sting operation where Mark briefly faced federal drug and weapons charges, from which a ten—to twenty-year prison sentence easily could have resulted. In February 1993, just three months prior to Christopher’s murder, Mark was arrested after police seized a pound of marijuana from the trunk of his car. He had a court date set, but after Christopher’s murder, the local prosecutor dropped the charges without explanation. And of course, there were the original convictions for residential burglary, theft of property, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor in Sharp County in 1996, which earned him two concurrent five-year sentences and one twelve-month sentence—all suspended—and banishment from the Arkansas Third Judicial District. These last three convictions were what eventually became his undoing.

  Wrong Number

  The events of January 9, 1999—like those of May 5, 1993, and March 29, 1996—drove home to Mark just how quickly and profoundly life can change. For all his misdeeds and all the slippery slopes he had negotiated, his downfall ca
me not from any coordinated police action or as the result of a targeted criminal investigation, but by his own hand or, more accurately, his fingers. Many of the details of his arrest in Jonesboro on that winter’s day are drawn directly from the police reports. For his part, Mark doesn’t remember exactly what happened. “It could have gone down that way,” he said when first asked about the incident. “I’m not saying it didn’t. I’m just saying I’m not sure.”

  Earlier on that chilly Saturday, Mark had sold twenty of his prescription Xanax pills to a friend of a friend, Leon Burgess,***** for three dollars each. All of Mark’s income at the time was coming from his disability check, so selling his prescriptions brought in cash, though there is evidence that this instance was simply intended to be an exchange of drugs; Mark was selling his Xanax in order to buy some marijuana. Apparently, Leon had not paid the full sixty dollars for his purchase that morning because at around five o’clock in the afternoon, Mark called the young man on his cell phone and reminded him of his debt and also asked if he wanted to buy the remaining twenty pills.127 There was a problem, however. The number that Mark dialed was off by one digit. Instead of calling Leon, he had dialed the cell phone of Arkansas state trooper Brent Tosh, who was on duty and in the middle of a routine traffic stop when he received the call. Tosh told Mark that he would have to call him back. He took Mark’s phone number and immediately called Sergeant Roger Vickers at the Arkansas State Police, Troop C, to see if he could do a reverse lookup on the phone number to get an address.128 When Vickers told Tosh that he could not perform such a lookup, Tosh called Mark back.

  “I’m interested in buying the stuff,” Tosh said, “but I’m busy with a girl and really can’t make it tonight. Is it okay if I send someone else to pick it up?”

  “Who would you send?” Mark asked.

  “Do you remember Jeff? I introduced him to you today.”

  “I think so,” Mark said. “What does he look like?”

  Tosh replied, “About five feet ten inches tall, brown hair, kind of stocky.”

  As if this entire dialogue wasn’t warning enough that something was awry, Tosh then asked Mark for directions to his house. This was nothing short of incredible. Leon had been to Mark’s house that very day, yet Mark was supposed to believe that he had forgotten how to get there? There was no Jeff, and the man Mark was talking to was not Leon. How could he not have known this? He had successfully moved many pounds of marijuana over the years, and yet he was breaking a cardinal rule of the drug business: never do business with someone you don’t know. He was taking this risk for a measly eighty dollars. How could he have been so careless? Regardless of these clearly sounding alarms, Mark gave Tosh/Leon directions and waited for “Jeff” to arrive.

  “And you had better not do Jeff wrong,” Tosh added, apparently to add some credibility to the call, though it was hardly needed; Mark was completely clueless about what was really going on.

  “I won’t,” Mark replied. “It will all be there. It was all there this morning, wasn’t it?”

  And so it went. “Jeff,” who was in reality drug task force (DTF) investigator Bob Andrews, withdrew five twenty-dollar bills from department funds, grabbed a mini-cassette recorder, and headed out to 1609B Stone Street with DTF investigator Rick Harmon. If Mark was suspicious about Jeff arriving with another male in tow, he said nothing. Mark greeted the agents, made the exchange, and was promptly placed under arrest (though not before asking the agents for a ride to a friend’s house to buy some pot). One can only imagine the amusement on the faces of Andrews and Harmon when Mark asked, with a totally straight face, “Since I’m under arrest, can I have my pills back?”

  For this offense, Mark was looking at three to ten years in state prison. He was taken to the Jonesboro police station, where his mug shot and fingerprints were taken. He was then transported to the Craighead County Jail, where he spent the next two nights. At the arraignment, Mark was formally charged with delivery of a controlled substance and held on $1,000 bond, which he posted the following Monday. He was to appear in court on February 26 before Judge Ralph Wilson Jr. Mark applied for, and was granted, the services of public defender Bill Howard to represent him in court; prosecutor Chuck Easterling would be representing the state. Howard and Easterling negotiated a guilty plea on Mark’s behalf, and on April 19, 1999, Judge Wilson accepted the plea and sentenced Mark to five years of supervised probation. Further, he was to pay $211 in court costs, a monthly $20 probation fee, and $250 to cover the cost of his court-appointed attorney; payments were to be made in monthly installments of fifty dollars. Mark was to make monthly visits to his parole officer, submit to drug testing, and curiously, “work faithfully at suitable employment.” Mark was completely disabled at the time; one can only assume this parole condition was part of a boilerplate form and had been mistakenly included.

  Disaster had once again been averted, but for how long? Unbeknownst to Mark, Sharp County was already after him. On April 9, 1999, ten days before his sentence was imposed in Craighead County for the Xanax sale, prosecutors in Sharp County filed a petition for the revocation of the suspended sentences Mark had received in 1996 and ordered him to appear in court on May 26. Prosecutor Stewart K. Lambert had decided that it was time for Mark Byers to ante up for his crimes. (“I hated that bastard,” Mark said of Lambert in a letter from prison, “and he hated me.”) Despite what others—notably Mara Leveritt—have said about Mark leading a charmed life when it came to avoiding prosecution, he didn’t feel so confident entering the courtroom that morning. In fact, he was “scared shitless.”

  He showed up in court that day looking like a condemned man. He also showed up without an attorney, and the public defender was out of town. Because Mark had successfully petitioned the court to proceed in forma pauperis (literally, “in the manner of a pauper”), circuit judge Harold S. Erwin assigned attorney Larry Dean Kissee, who happened to be in the courtroom on another case, to represent Mark. Kissee had also represented Mark in 1996 when he was convicted of the original felony and misdemeanor charges in Sharp County. Mark must have been overjoyed to see him again. (“He was a real asshole. Floated me down the river.”129)

  From the bench, the judge peered down at Mark. “You’re looking at twenty years, Mr. Byers,” Erwin said flatly. “I think you had better talk with your attorney, and I’ll see you back in court in thirty minutes.”

  Kissee disappeared into Lambert’s office and came out with two words: “Eight years.” Mark recalls, “Eight sounded a whole lot better than twenty, so I took it.” Erwin signed a judgment and commitment order and turned Mark over to the Arkansas Department of Corrections (ADC), and just like that, it was done; John Mark Byers was going to prison.

  Summer Camp

  From the courthouse in Ash Flat that day, May 26, 1999, Mark was escorted across the parking lot to the city jail. The usual routine for newly convicted prisoners is to spend anywhere from several days to several months—or more—in a city or county facility before being transported to the Diagnostics Unit at Pine Bluff. Time spent in jail is credited toward an inmate’s sentence. For Mark Byers, as was the case with so many things, a different procedure was followed. Rather than wait for the sheriff’s office to come for him, someone called in a deputy on his day off to drive Mark to Pine Bluff; he spent less than an hour in the Ash Flat city jail. Why the departure from the norm? “They hated me. They wanted me out as soon as possible,” Mark said. If this sounds paranoid, we need only remember that, contrary to the provisions of the Arkansas State Constitution, and upheld by a later court ruling, Mark had been “exiled” from the five-county area that includes Cherokee Village and Ash Flat.130 Further, Sharp County sheriff’s deputy Dale Weaver’s firm belief that Mark was involved in Melissa’s death lends credibility to the position that Sharp County had a beef with Mark Byers.

  After having his belt, shoes, and shoelaces taken at the city jail, he was quickly hustled down to Pine Bluff.

  The Diagnostic Unit at Pine Bl
uff lies approximately forty miles south of Little Rock and about a three-and-a-half-hour car ride from Ash Flat. In comparison to anything Mark had ever seen, this was the Big House. “When I first laid eyes on Pine Bluff, I just about shit. It was all I could do to keep from running or showing how scared and afraid I was. It freaked me out.” Mark arrived at ten minutes past five on the afternoon of May 26, just hours after being sentenced. He was fingerprinted—again—photographed, deloused, and issued the standard orange prison jump suit, which he, like other inmates, would wear until being shipped out after diagnostics. He was then marched down the center of the unit to the taunts of the inmates hanging around. Because of the ponytail he wore at the time, he heard jeers such as “We got ourselves a Jesus here!” He was led to a large steel door, which the guard ordered to be opened. Mark was pointed down the cell block and told, “Last one on your right. Welcome to your new home.” Completely alone, Mark navigated his way toward his cell. Above him were two additional tiers of cells. As he made his way down the block, inmates from the two tiers above began pelting him with all manner of debris and garbage—anything they could get their hands on—all the while mocking and insulting him, letting him know what they were going to do to him later. Despite being on knees that felt like water, Mark managed to get into his cell, and the door mercifully clanged shut behind him.

  The cell itself contained the usual prison furnishings: steel cot, steel toilet (no seat), and a steel sink. The sink would be Mark’s only source of water for the next thirty-six hours. Because the faucet only dribbled water even when wide open, he first tried putting his head in the sink under the faucet to catch the meager flow but was eventually forced to form a makeshift cup out of an empty toilet paper roll. He used this until it disintegrated.