Doing Life on Death Row

Execution Day November 15, 2011

2011-11-28T02:29:00.001-08:00

Days like today really suck. Few people can even begin to understand what all of us here on death row go through when they put one of us to death. A few hours ago the State of Florida put Oba Chandler to death by lethal injection. For those who even knew of this event, at best it amounted to nothing more than a few seconds on the sic o’ clock news, summarily reporting that at 4:00 PM this afternoon Oba Chandler was put to death at Florida State Prison. As the story was told on the news, they may have seen the white hears pulling out of the prison gate carrying his body back out to the real world, but that’s it.

For those of us here, it was an all day ritual that cumulated in the death of someone who lived among us for 17 years. Myself, I did not personally know Oba Chandler, as |I was never housed on the same tier as him. We live in a small world, but it is a methodically segregated world where each of us are continiously kept in individual solitary cages until they are ready to put us to death.

Unless you’re actually housed on the same floor in proximity of others, you may never cross paths with many others as the only other time you might meet others is in the death row yard or in the “visiting park” And in the 17 years Chandler spent on Florida’s death row he never once had a visit. Many of the guys back here never get a visit – nobody cares to come see them, not even when the state prepares to kill them. Prisons are full of tragic stories. Nobody should have to face death without someone there to reach out in compassion. In the weeks leading up to the death of Oba Chandler we heard many on the local news zealously arguing why simply putting a 65 year old man, who allegedly killed 3 people over 20 years ago, by lethal injection was too humane. These people wanted him to suffer, as in their opinion taking his life was not enough.

I honestly don’t know what to say about those who are compelled to advocate torturing a condemned man to death. For over a quarter century I have lived among those that society has labeled to be the worst of the worst, but when I hear these people talk I have to wonder who the real monsters are? Even if I am to assume that these condemned are actually guilty of whatever heinous crimes they were convicted of, I know that inflicting that same measure of death upon another would only make me just as much as a monster.

What I know is that Oba Chandler’s last days and hours were not easy. I cannot imagine how anyone of moral conscience could say that forcing a person to quite literally count down the final hours, then minutes until they are deliberately put to death is humane. I have been there myself comig within hours of being executed and although tat was now almost 22 years ago this month, I still have nightmares about my own death watch experience. ( see www.doinglifeondeathrow.blogspot.com )

I personally know a lot of the staff who work here and I was troubled by what I heard. Up until recently, when executions are scheduled the warden would do all he could to make it appear to be just another day. But not warden Singer. He apparently thrives on the whole ritual, making it an all day event that every prisoner here cannot ignore. Warden Singer wants us to know that it is a special day, that it will be a day that one of us will die. From early morning hours he has ordered the staff to wear their “dess uniform” (class A), which is only done on execution days. From breakfast through dinner the meal schedule is deliberately thrown off, breaking te normal routine and causing stress and anxiety among all prisoners.
Up until warden Singer took ver, previous wardens would at least try to show compassion to the condemned - but humanity comes from being humane, and just because you’re a man doesn’t make you humane. I was troubled when I was told that contrary to long standing tradition warden Singer did not allow Oba Chandler to have a last meal. Instead, all he got was a brown bag with a state peanut butter sandwich. If we can not find that measure of compassion and basic humanity when taking the life of another person then we really have to wonder who the real monsters are.

Michael Lambrix

In my nightmares I can see their faces

2011-10-31T03:59:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share the following article that was recently published in Newsweek magazine (October 3, 2011) Most of the time what I post reflects my own perspective of life on death row. But there's always more to the story than just one side. The following tells a story few of us ever gave any thought to - what it's like for the guards and wardens who are ordered by their superiors to put someone to death.

In the many years that I have been on Florida's death row - since March 1989 - I have come to know many of the prison guards who interact with us daily. I've also gotten to know a few of the wardens. i know many have expressed their own personal and moral reservations with the whole issue of capital punishment. But equally so, I've known many more who openly advocate expediting executions, even if it means putting innocent people to death.

The below article made me take a look at the issue from the perspective of those few who despite the environment still possess that measure of moral conscience that ultimately defines our humanity. And as long as there are a few within the system willing to speak out, there's hopw for all of us.

Michael Lambrix
October, 2011

Ordering death in Georgia
'In my nightmares I can see their faces'
September 29, 2011|By Allen Ault

I can't always remember their names, but in my nightmares I can see their faces. As the commissioner of the Georgia Department of Corrections from 1992 until 1995, I oversaw five executions. The first two were Thomas Dean Stevens and Christopher Burger, accomplices in a monstrous crime: as teenagers in 1977, they robbed and raped a cabdriver, put him in the trunk of a car, and pushed the vehicle into a pond. I had no doubt that they were guilty: They admitted it to me. But now it was 1993, and they were in their 30s. All these years later, after a little frontal-lobe development, they were entirely different people.

On execution days, I always drove from Atlanta to the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison in Jackson. I knew death row well: 20 years earlier, I had built it. The state had hired me as the warden of Georgia Diagnostic in 1971, where I renovated a special cell block for especially violent offenders. After I left Georgia in 1977, the state reinstated the death penalty and turned the cell block I had developed into death row.

The state executed Stevens first, in June 1993, and then Burger in December. In both instances, I visited them in a cell next to the electric-chair chamber, where they counted down the hours until they died.

They were calm, mature, and remorseful. When the time came, I went to a small room directly behind the death chamber where the attorney general worked the phones, checking with the courts to make sure that the executions were not stayed. Then we asked the prisoners for their final words. Stevens said nothing, and Burger apologized, saying, "Please forgive me." I looked to the prison electrician and ordered him to pull the switch.

Last Wednesday, as the state of Georgia prepared to execute Troy Davis despite concerns about his guilt, I wrote a letter with five former death-row wardens and directors urging Georgia prison officials to commute his sentence. I feared not only the risk of Georgia killing an innocent man, but also the psychological toll it would exact on the prison workers who performed his execution. "No one has the right to ask a public servant to take on a lifelong sentence of nagging doubt, and for some of us, shame and guilt," we wrote in our letter.

The men and women who assist in executions are not psychopaths or sadists.

They do their best to perform the impossible and inhumane job with which the state has charged them. Those of us who have participated in executions often suffer something very much like post-traumatic stress. Many turn to alcohol and drugs. For me, those nights that weren't sleepless were plagued by nightmares. My mother and wife worried about me. I tried not to share with them that I was struggling, but they knew I was.

I didn't grow up saying, "I want to work in prisons." I had never even been in a prison or a jail before I became warden of the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison. The commissioner at the time hired me to revamp the system, to implement case management, and work with inmates to make them safer. I had always worked in helping professions, and my main goal in corrections was always to reduce recidivism, so that inmates would leave prison better than they arrived. Over this course of time, the death penalty figured larger and larger into my work. I never supported it, but I also did not want to let it distract me from improving overall prison conditions. Death-row inmates are, after all, only a tiny fraction of the prison population.

When I was required to supervise an execution, I tried to rationalize my work by thinking, if I just save one future victim, maybe it is worth it.

But I was very aware of the research showing that the death penalty wasn't a deterrent. I left my job as corrections commissioner in Georgia in 1995 partially because I had had enough: I didn't want to supervise the executions anymore. My focus changed to national crime policy and then to academia, where I could work to improve the criminal-justice system without participating in its worst parts. Today, I am the dean of the College of Justice & Safety at Eastern Kentucky University.

Having witnessed executions firsthand, I have no doubts: Capital punishment is a very scripted and rehearsed murder. It's the most premeditated murder possible. As Troy Davis' execution approached — and then passed its set hour, as the Supreme Court considered a stay — I thought of the terrible tension we all experienced as executions dragged into the late hours of the night. No one wanted to go ahead with the execution, but then a court stay offered little relief: You knew you were going to repeat the whole process and execute him sometime in the future.

I will always live with these images — with "nagging doubt," even though I do not believe that any of the executions carried out under my watch were mistaken. I hope that, in the future, men and women will not die for their crimes, and other men and women will not have to kill them. The United States should be like every other civilized country in the Western world and abolish the death penalty.

Newsweek/Daily Beast Company

Allen Ault is the dean of the College of Justice & Safety at Eastern Kentucky University.

When Death Hits Home

2010-11-08T09:54:00.000-08:00

In all the years that I’ve been on death row, I’ve never had what I would call a positive experience with a prison chaplain. Like most others here, I have come to see the State employed prison chaplains as an extension of the corrupt bureaucracy itself and not as a religious representative or spiritual advisor. I have never seen a prison chaplain come to the death row wing and talk to a death-sentenced prisoner out of concern or genuine spiritual communion. That just doesn’t happen.

So, when the wing sergeant cam to my cell last Thursday (October 7) and told me that I had to go to the Chaplain’s office, I already knew it was not good news. Without exception there is only one reason a death row prisoner is brought to the chaplain’s office – somebody in the family died.

As with all other “call-outs”, before I could leave my cell, I had to first be strip-searched and then chained and shackled like Hannibal Lector in the Silence of the Lambs. Only then was I escorted off the wing and slowly shuffled down the long main hallway towards the front, where the chaplain’s office is located. Although I have been on death row now almost 27 years, I have never actually been to the prison chapel as death row prisoners are not allowed to participate in worship services. Still I know where the prison chapel is as I’ve passed it countless times, the solid steel double door always securely locked. As I approached the doors the Sgt escorting me instructed me to stop. Then we waited a moment and the chaplain came out, like the wizard of Oz revealing himself from behind the curtain, and then I was led through the doors and into the part of the prison I’ve never been allowed before.

As I was ushered into a small office the chaplain was already dialing a phone number. The chains and shackles that bound me were never removed. I was instructed to sit in a chair and a moment later I heard my older sister’s voice come over the speakerphone. I was not surprised to be told that my father (Donald Lambrix) had passed away earlier that morning.

Although we knew it was coming, it still is news that leaves you empty and unresponsive. My father’s health has been declining for years. After several heart attacks and strokes at 80 years old he has spent the past four or five years in a nursing home. Last month I was told that he had taken a turn for the worse and was placed on a breathing tube. We all knew that he wouldn’t hold out much longer.

Mentally I knew that this news would come. As soon as the Sgt came to my cell and told me I had a chaplain call-out, I knew that it would be the news of my father’s death. Yet in the moment of hearing the words actually spoken I felt the emptiness of its reality. Dad was gone and I never had the chance to say goodbye.

Like most others, through the years my contact and communication with family members slowly eroded until for all practical purposes I no longer had any meaningful communication with my family – even my own children have now grown and no longer communicate. That’s just how it is for most prisoners. Although I remain close to my mother and stepfather (who recently celebrated their own 40th anniversary), they are the exception. But through the years dad tried to write and we would talk about going fishing or maybe take in a football game. He always believed that I would walk out one day and we would catch up on the years lost. Even when my own hope wavered, his faith never failed. When I would get one of his letters, I would read and reread it often, thinking about where we might go fishing and what we’d talk about. Personally I never cared much for fishing – but he did and it wasn’t really about the fishing anyways. That was just his way of saying that he looked forward to seeing me get out and spend some time together. Going fishing was just a metaphor.

The phone call lasted only a few minutes and most of it was just words. All too often I’ve heard people talk about how families need “closure” to deal with the death of a loved one. Most often, it’s coming from politicians who define closure by expediting the execution of those condemned to death as if yet another death somehow ends all the suffering. But how do you come to terms with that “closure” when you’re not even able to say goodbye, or participate in the funeral? That’s just how we are wired – funerals, or memorial services, are not about those who passed, but are really about the necessary opportunity to deal with the reality that someone we love is now gone. It’s our way of saying goodbye, and the first step of moving on beyond that loss.

But for prisoners, we never have that opportunity. The most we can hope for is that someone will at least let us know when someone close to us has passed away. Beyond that, we can only retreat into our solitary cage and find a way to deal with the emptiness that flows. No matter how alone and isolated we might feel in this solitary existence of death row life, it becomes a heavy burden we return to our cell and sit alone thinking of the loved one that is now gone forever. Even if I walked out of here tomorrow, I would never again see my father.

In my world death is a frequent visitor. A few days before my father passed, another death row prisoner on my wing suddenly died of a heart attack. David Johnston was my age (50 years old) and had been here on “the row” almost as long as I have. His death was unexpected and sudden, but the death of one of us is all too common and accepted.

I can’t help but wonder about that paradox, I can accept the death of someone I’ve lived with in close proximity to for over a quarter of a century, and in the past year a number of close friends here have died (Henry Garcia, Jim Chandler, Martin “Big Eddie” Grossman) and with each I never was at a loss of words to express the pain of a brother passing. Yet now I feel an unfamiliar emptiness and an inability to define that depth of loss.

Even as much as I deal with the reality of death only too often, it’s when death hits home that it’s felt most of all. Even now, a week later, I still feel an emptiness I’ve seldom felt. And I’m sure I’m not alone, as most of us here have had to make that trip to the chaplain’s office at one time or another. And each time it brings the reality of death we so often must confront to a whole different level. So, here’s to hoping that my father has now found peace and is in a better place.

Michael Lambrix #482053
Death Row Florida

Mike's book published!

2010-06-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

To Live and Die on Death Row by Michael Lambrix, Mike's experiences, thoughs, hopes, opinions, despair and injustice during the 27 years he has been locked up on Florida's death row.

"The autobiography of C.Michael Lambrix, an innocent man who has spent 27 years under sentence of death on Florida's infamous death row."

The book can be ordered here

Florida Proposes Closing Prisons

2010-05-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

I never thought I’d see the day when Florida’s conservative anti-prisoner, pro-death penalty politicians in Tallahassee would actually debate the logic of closing some of Florida’s prisons. But there it was, they were proposing shutting down three of the oldest prisons and laying off 639 guards. With the United States (and most of the rest of the world) now in the worst economic recession since the great depression, budget cuts have become common. Many other states have already confronted the necessity of reducing the cost of incarcerating millions of prisoners.

Up until now, the state of Florida had reduced the prison budget by cutting back on the food and other provisions. Last year they cut the amount of food served by almost half, completely eliminating all real meat, fresh fruit and milk. They also increased the prices of food items that can be purchased by inmates through “canteen”, which is basically a privately contracted store that has a virtual monopoly within the prison system. We must purchase food items, cosmetics (shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste etc) and even shoes and clothing through this canteen. Of course, the state gets a cut of the “profits” so by increasing the prices of these items the state makes millions of dollars a year by collaborating with the private contractors to rob the prisoners, or actually the prisoner’s families and friends, as they are the ones
providing the prisoners with small amounts of money whenever they can.

As many of you already know, the former director of Florida’s prison system (James Crosby) is now himself a prisoner after pleading guilty to accepting substantial kickbacks from the private company that operates the prison “canteen” That federal conviction was only a small part of the “culture of corruption” that became so pervasive within the Florida Department of Corrections that even the systematic assaults upon prisoners by the guards became routine (please read “welcome to the jungle)

But as the state of Florida suffered under the severe economic recession and repeatedly devised ways to “save” money by reducing what prisoners received, the cartel of conservative politicians that controls the Florida legislature, led by pro-death penalty chairman of the corrections committee Florida senator Victor Crist, vowed that they would allow the state to go bankrupt before they allowed even one prisoner to be released.

In Florida, like so many other states, prisoners have become a virtual industry and political elections often decided by which politicians would promise to lock up more prisoners – more prisoners meant more prisons, and more prisons meant more money getting pumped into the local communities. In the past few decades, Florida went from about 20.000 prisoners to now well over 120.000. Almost every county in the state now has at least one prison and each prison employs hundreds of guards and administrative personnel.

These communities then form powerful political lobbying groups that pump incredible amounts of money into the political campaigns of those that run for public office on the promise that they will build even more prisons and lock up even more prisoners. This perpetual political circus has now created a virtual industry throughout America, resulting in the United States now having the highest incarceration rate in the world, even exceeding countries like North Korea, Iran and even China.

So I was surprised when I watched the state legislature on the local public broadcasting station (PBS) and they openly talked of passing a law within the next few months to close 3 of Florida’s oldest prisons, and effectively fire at least 639 guards and prison staff.

As I listened to this debate, I then began to smile. I really should have known that these “lock em all up” conservative politicians would never propose closing even one prison if they didn’t have an agenda. Sure enough, it’s yet another game of smoke and mirrors as although they are proposing closing down 3 state prisons under the pretense of “saving money”, what they actually want is to open an even larger state prison recently built in Santa Rosa County by a private prison company.

This is the nature of the beast – with billions of dollars used to fund the prison industry and countless “Fortune 500” multi-national corporations anxious to get their cut of the profits, a number of huge private corporations now specialize in building and operating private prisons and then charge the state and federal government per prisoner, per day.

Florida has long embraced the concept of “for profit” prisons and privately owned prisons operate throughout the state. With the projected growth if this prison industry substantially outpacing any other segment of the financial markets, these private companies pumped more and more money in into the political campaigns of the conservative politicians in exchange for their support to build even more private prisons.

Several years ago one of the largest private “for profit” prisons in the country was approved to be built in rural Santa Rosa county, way out at the eastern edge of Florida’s panhandle. This massive complex now known as Blackwater Correctional was completed just a few months ago. But with the economic recession suffocating Florida’s budget, there was no money in the state budget to open this new complex. That means that this politically powerful private company that spent over a hundred million dollars to build this complex would now face a substantial loss that could easily even force the company into bankruptcy.

As coincidence would have it, this is an election year. That means that all these politicians must raise incredible amounts of money to run for office and although individual contributions to political campaigns are limited, “special interest” groups such as the company that owns the new private for profit prison in Santa Rosa county can pump virtually unlimited amounts of money into ‘political action committees” to support the election of politicians willing to help them.

That is what this is all about. These politicians now want to close 3 of Florida’s state-owned state-run prisons so they can come up with the money to open the new private for-profit prison in Santa Rosa County. These politicians claim that by closing the 3 state prisons and using the money to open the private Blackwater Correctional prison in Santa Rosa County, they can save about $15 million a year.

Some of the politicians argued against effectively firing 639 employees when Florida is already suffering from a record unemployment rate of over 12 %, as not only would it be unlikely these state employees could find work
Comparable to what they now have, but with these state prisons located in mostly rural counties, closing these state prisons would have a substantial “ripple effect” on the entire local community, resulting its small businesses in the area dependent upon the prison money to also be forced into bankruptcy.

But so what if what amounts to thousands of people being negatively affected by closing down 3 state prisons? Don’t they get it? This is not about what is good for the taxpayers of Florida, or the state employees that have built their homes in these local communities, as the communities themselves that are now economically dependent upon the revenue generated by their share of this prison industry. That’s not what it is about. Rather, what this is really about is twisting the issue about to justify opening a private “for profit” prison for no reason but because the multi billion dollar corporations that wants to open the prison can pump large amounts of money into the political campaigns of the politicians running for election this year.

This isn’t about confronting the inevitable reality that our contemporary prison system in which almost one out of every one hundred citizens in America is now imprisoned within this insatiable beast of a prison industry. This isn’t about the common sense conclusion that America simply cannot sustain the cost of incarcerating so many without compromising the quality of other public services such as the public education system and general infrastructure (roads, highways, bridges etc) and many other services provided for by the state.

Rather, this is really about the fundamental truth that the entire system has become politically corrupted by the private interests. Perhaps now these prison employees who have believed these conservative politicians are their “friends” will finally wake up and realize that they’ve been sold out as when it comes down to it they are just as expendable as the prisoners. Myself I’m convinced that both America’s and Florida’s prison industry represents a substantial threat to the survival of our constitutional democracy itself and politics have corrupted this virtual prison industry. When imprisoning our citizens through for-profit ventures becomes accepted practice, then America itself can never again be “The land of the free”

Michael Lambrix
Death row Florida

Florida's Death Squad

2010-03-06T00:39:00.000-08:00

As many of the regular readers of my blogs already know, on December 18 I was abruptly transferred from the main death row unit at Union Correctional to the old death row unit at Florida State Prison, where all of Florida’s death row prisoners used to be housed before they built and opened the ‘new’ unit at Union Correctional in 1992.

Coming back to this old prison was not something I anticipated as the last time I was housed at this old prison I was brutally assaulted by the guards in an attempt to silence me as I had witnessed the gangs of guards physically assault many other prisoners, leading up to the deliberate murder of another death row prisoner by the name of Frank Valdes. His own brutal assault and murder is graphically detailed in the federal court ruling Valdes v. Crosby, 450 f.3d 1231 (11th cir. 2006) and anyone who might doubt that violence against prisoners in American prisons doesn’t happen should read that case as it describes the systematic assaults and even murder of countless prisoners at this prison. I would strongly encourage you to read it so you can see how Florida often treats death sentenced prisoners.

After that 1999 incident I was transferred to the main deathrow unit at UCI which is just a short distance down the road from here. The state then paid me a substantial amount of money to drop the lawsuit, and I agreed to ‘settle’ the case- but only on the specific condition that I would not be transferred back to Florida State Prison. By now transferring me back here they’ve deliberately violated the specific terms/ conditions of that federal court settlement, so now I fully intend to reopen that federal lawsuit and this time I will demand a public jury trial to fully expose this prison’s long history of violently abusing prisoners.
But although I certainly do not like being here, it’s not too bad as by coming back over here I am able to see many old friends I’ve known for years, including Paul Johnson.

I’ve known Paul for many, many years, and of the many hundreds, if not thousands of prisoners I have known in all these long years, Paul is one of the very, very few who I would gladly welcome in my own home. He’s as straight as they come, and that’s a quality that is very rare in any prison. But a few months back Florida’s governor ‘Chaingang Charlie’ Crist eagerly gave in to a political campaign to try to expedite Paul’s execution, even though he was not ‘death warrant’ eligible, and signed a death warrant to schedule Paul’s execution in an attempt to obstruct and circumvent his pending appeals.

But the Florida Supreme Court then stayed Paul’s execution, publicly condemning Governor Crist’s politically motivated attempt to deny Paul a fair review of his appeal by insidiously pushing for an expedited execution. The court’s senior Justice, Barbara Pariente, made it very clear that Gov Crist engaged in improper misconduct when signing Paul’s death warrant while his appeal was still pending.

As coincidence would have it, once I was transferred back to this zoo, I was placed in a cell on the same floor and in close proximity to Paul, even though he remained on ‘death watch.’ And I enjoyed many long conversations with him, especially when we went out to the recreation yard for a few hours twice a week. Paul sends his thanks to all of you who have sent him cards and letters of support.

One of the conversations I had with Paul really shocked me, and believe me, after a quarter of a century on death row there’s not a lot that shocks me anymore! I have been on death watch myself and even come within hours of actual execution, not just once, but twice (please read, Doing Life on Death Row) and so I’ve been through the Phase 11 of death watch, which is when they come down to measure you for the suit the state so generously provides to kill you in, and you order your last meal and write down your ‘last will and testament.’

But when I went through all of that the state still used the infamous ‘Old Sparky’ ~ the electric chair. They’ve since switched to lethal injection as the means to which to now put the condemned to death after numerous prisoners quite literally burst into flames in the electric chair and challenges of cruel and unusual punishment were pursued ~ somehow they think injection is more ‘humane.’

So, of course I asked Paul how they do it now. Although it may seem a little morbid for two condemned prisoners to compare notes on how the state intended to kill them, when you’ve lived in the shadow of death for as long as me and Paul have, it is just part of ‘normal’ conversation.

But not even I could not have anticipated the horror that Paul described. Apparently the state is now concerned about reaching that hour of execution only to find that the prisoner’s veins are damaged and then there may be a problem in killing him, as there have been numerous executions, such as that of Angel Diaz, who were slowly and deliberately tortured to death two years ago here in Florida, which they claimed was his fault as his veins were damaged from years of drug use.

So now they’ve come up with a new procedure which to my knowledge has never been publicly exposed before, and should certainly shock the conscience of any person of conscience. Here’s how Paul described it to me ~ about a week after he was moved down to the bottom of Q wing, where Florida’s death house is, suddenly the back door that leads to the actual execution chamber opened. From personal experience, I know that this solid steel door is only a few feet from the cell they keep you in while on death watch.

Through this door walked in at least four, perhaps even 6 people who were fully dressed in plastic ~ like suits and a full helmet/mask over their head like we have often seen in the movies ~ such as those who handle nuclear waste. Slowly they marched single file only to stop in front of Paul’s death watch cell, then facing him they demanded to examine his veins. Paul says that even the small widow in the front of their uniforms was concealed, so that he could not see their faces.

As if he were nothing more than a piece of meat, without showing even the slightest semblance of humanity, this state sanctioned ‘death squad’ coldly examined Paul’s veins on his arms and talked openly among themselves about how his veins seemed to be alright. Paul was ordered to stand there as they took turns examining each arm, agreeing with each other that they would have no problem inserting the lethal chemicals to deliberately put a man to death.

Once they all agreed that Paul’s veins would pose no problems when they were called to kill him, then they turned and filed back through that solid steel door that leads to the execution chamber.

I cannot even imagine this utterly surreal scene that Paul described ~ nor can I imagine how unconscionable such an act is. Never before, other than the infamous death squads of third world countries, have I heard of a group of deliberately concealed and masked men approach a condemned prisoner and without even a hint of humanity, coldly examine him with the intent to put him to death. This is America, we don’t have masked death squads that serve the government and it shocks me that they would do such a thing. But I have also to wonder- am I the only one who is shocked by the use of death squads in the USA? What does it say about the society we have become that a state government can act in such an unconscionable and inhumane manner? Equally so, what does it say about our so-called civilized society that others are not as equally shocked by this?

Well, the good news is that this cold blooded state sanctioned death squad will not inflict deliberate death upon Paul Johnson as this past week the Florida Supreme Court has thrown out Paul’s death sentence upon finding that the state deliberately engaged in misconduct leading to his death sentence. Within the next few months Paul will be sent back to Polk county for a new sentencing phase trail and I pray that he will then be sentenced to ‘life’ rather than death.

As for me, I remain in this zoo hoping that my own nightmare will soon end. But just knowing that the Florida Supreme court was willing to stand up against the immoral politically motivated attempts to have Paul expeditiously executed gives us all hope that the courts will still recognize state misconduct and throw out death sentences obtained illegally. And we should all now pray that the lower court that will review Paul’s new sentencing will show its own compassion and humanity and sentence Paul to something other than death.

Please read also my website www.southerninjustice.comMichael Lambrix

Michael Lambrix
Death row Florida

Imminent Threat To Lambrix’s Safety

2010-01-26T22:42:00.000-08:00

Please read Mike's letter to Governor Crist that has been pubicly posted on his website http://www.southerninjustice.com/

Freedom is just another word

2010-01-10T08:23:00.000-08:00

How is this for irony? Even after over a quarter of a century in a concrete cage condemned to death, I still find myself looking out that dusty window and beyond the razor-wired recreation yard and the fences beyond that, to that faraway distant world- the real world. When I stand at the front of my cell, I can see a road with cars and trucks passing by and I wonder where each might be going. Sometimes I even wonder what if I was in that vehicle, where would I want to go at that particular moment.

Lately I have been thinking a lot more about freedom than I have in many years as now I am once again confronted with the very real possibility that within a matter of months I could once again be “free”. After so many years of fighting against a completely corrupt judicial system (please check out my case on www.southerninjustice.com )and trying to prove my innocence, my capital case has finally been heard by the Florida Supreme Court on November 4, 2009. Typically it takes from 3 to 6 months, maybe less, for the court to issue an opinion- either granting or denying relief.

Although I am not a lawyer, I have been forced to play one in here as I fight for my own survival. I am familiar enough with the law to know that my pending appeal is exceptionally strong and that it is more probable than merely possible that the court will finally throw out the capital convictions that have condemned me to death. Collectively this appeal substantiates what I have adamantly argued for over 20 years that an overzealous, politically ambitious but completely unethical and immoral prosecutor (please read “Anatomy of a corrupt prosecutor”) had deliberately collaborated with their sole “key witness” to deliberately fabricate wholly circumstantial theory of premeditated murder, with the intent to wrongfully convict and condemn me to death. (The appeal briefs are available online at www.southerninjustice.com/hearing-briefs )

My claim of innocence has been repeatedly argued before the courts for years, yet each time the courts have disingenuously side-stepped addressing the issue, conveniently finding cause to “procedurally bar” my claim or simply just ignoring it altogether. Sometimes I smile when someone will ask me why only now my innocence is an issue – why wasn’t it raised before? But I understand their ignorance as most people out there do not give any thought about just how completely corrupt our judicial process is- and they just do not know that it is actually only too common for the politically corrupted courts to just ignore a claim of innocence. When it comes down to it, our courts would rather put the innocent to death than risk the political backlash of seeming to be too ‘liberal” by admitting that the legal system made a mistake.

But what if the Florida Supreme Court does rule in my favor in just a few months? Whether they only order a new trial, or order my immediate release, I would still suddenly be facing the almost certain reality of walking out a free man after spending the past 26 years in a solitary concrete crypt condemned to death. There is just no way that the state of Florida can take my case back to a new trial as the evidence now shows beyond any reasonable doubt that they did fabricate the entire case of alleged premeditated murder. Whether they like it or not, the state would have to drop all charges and release me.

In just a few months I will be 50 years old. I was only 22 years old when they arrested me on these fabricated charges and threw me down into the very bowels of a hell few could even begin to imagine (please read “Bowels of the beast”) All 3 of my kids are now adults and I have numerous grandchildren. That whole world out there has moved on without me and it has become a completely different world, one in which people now communicate on “cell phones” and get money from “ATM’s” and listen to music on mp3 players, or I-pods, and virtually every element of the life I once had has now been changed completely by this “electronic age” as when I left that real world none of these things existed.

For me, it will be like awakening from a long coma and realizing that everyone I once knew has grown old and become a stranger, although I have a large family through the many years they have drifted away and become strangers. My kids have grown now and I have grandchildren I have never seen or met.

It is actually not that uncommon for death row prisoners to win an appeal and walk out a free man. On average, it happens about once a year. When you live in a relatively small community of less than 400 even the release of one person gives the rest of us hope. Each time one of us walks out that front gate a free man, everyone else here can not help but wonder what they would do if it was them.

A few years ago a guy on my floor had his turn. The court had already ruled in his favor and he was not sure if they would send him back down to the country jail to stand trial again, or the state would drop charges. Just after Christmas that year they came to his cell and told him that the captain wanted to see him up front. He was then told that the state decided not to pursue a retrial and he was to be released that day. Then he had to go back to his cell and pack up his property. But like many others here, he did not even have a pair of shoes to wear when he walked out. I gave him my own shoes, and he went from cell to cell saying goodbye to those he had lived among for 16 years. And we were all glad to see him go- each of us wishing we were in his shoes, too.

If they came to my cell today and told me that the court granted my appeal and ordered my release, I would not even have clothes to wear. The state gives prisoners a pair of pants and a shirt when they are released, so I would have to wear whatever they gave me…and my own shoes. The prison also gives each prisoner 200 dollars upon release - but only to those who are released after expiration of their sentence. Those who are released because the court threw out their conviction are technically not entitled to that money and so I would get nothing. Like others who were suddenly released I would have to phone a friend to come and pick me up and just hope that someone would. Otherwise, I would just walk out to the nearby state highway and start walking in no particular direction as long as it took me away from this prison. But where would I go?

A friend recently asked me what I would do if I suddenly found myself free. The truth is that I really don’t know. That is the paradox of it – after having the court deny so many appeals in the past I am almost afraid to think that far ahead. In a way it seems like I might be jinxing myself if I make any definite plans.
I am actually blessed with a small group of genuine friends who would want to help me in the small way they might be able to. But they all live either out of the state, or out of the country. My mom lives here in Florida, but their health is not good and more often than not they are no longer able to even visit anymore. The last thing I would want to do is impose upon them, even though they would welcome me “home” with open arms.

But how does a man walk back into a world he no longer knows, and start over at 50 years old with nothing – not even the shirt on his back? After living in a solitary concrete cage for over 26 years, with virtually every element of your life micromanaged by your captors, how do you just step out across that thresh hold back into a world you no longer know? Sometimes I wonder whether after so many years in solitary confinement I would ever be able to be “comfortable” in the real world where people are all around me.

I think my thought and worries are reasonable. If and when that front gate opens and I do walk back into that free world, then I will adapt as that’s just human nature. Many, many years ago as a much younger man I walked into this world when they condemned me to death and although at the time it seemed impossible, I did learn to adapt to this environment and survive in spite of it. And although I do worry about what might lie beyond that front gate, if I were to walk back into that world beyond it, although I don’t know how I will adapt, I know that I will.
When it comes down to it, freedom is just another word and it is really all just a state of mind. Like this man-made hell I once walked into, if my freedom does come in the next few months, then I will walk out into that world I once knew and once again, it will come one step at a time.

Mike Lambrix

Thanksgiving with Henry

2009-12-11T08:21:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is the traditional American Holiday, the one day of the year when family and friends gather around the table with a feast laid out in abundance and give thanks for the blessings that have been and might yet be endowed upon us. Up until just a few years ago the prison system would recognize Thanksgiving with a special holiday meal of real turkey and all the trimmings, as well as various tasty deserts and we would all look forward to that one meal a year. Weeks and even months ahead of time we would make deals with each other to trade a favorite food such as maybe trade the turkey to someone for their pumpkin pie. Everybody had their favorite food, for me it was the turkey more than anything else.

But in recent years they’ve all but eliminated the traditional Thanksgiving dinner for prisoners. We haven’t seen real turkey in many years now. The prison system will tell you that they still serve us a “holiday meal” but it’s not like it was before and what they do serve now isn’t worth writing home about.

For this reason many of us will plan ahead and make our own holiday feast by saving up what few extra dollars we can and buy foods off the canteen. Both as a means of communion with those we live among, who have become our surrogate family, and to share costs of the purchases. Many of us will plan ahead with our cell neighbors as e must order the necessary items at least a week ahead of the time on order to get them on time.

This year me and Henry decided we would eat good. Henry’s been my cell neighbor for a few years now, and was my neighbor on another wing before that. But for awhile now Henry has been fighting liver cancer. He’s put up a pretty good fight, which is not a surprise as Henry is a natural fighter and never had an easy life. Born in Texas of Mexican descent, he grew up poor and gave in to the lure of an outlaw at a very young age. Through the years Henry did time in some of the worst state and federal prisons in the country back when doing time meant struggling to survive every day. Yet through these hard years Henry remained one hell of a man, and was quick to share his sense of humor and in all the years I’ve known him, not even once did he have a harsh word to say about anyone.

Neither me nor Henry had any reason to expect a visit over the Holiday weekend. Although we both come from large families, through the years our families slowly drifted away and that’s just how it is, and we accept that. So, when it came to planning our Thanksgiving Holiday each of us became the others “family” and we spent countless hours what we would make to have a holiday meal that was different and special.

Last week and the week before we got the packs of tuna and mackerel to make fish steaks, the Ramen soup so we would use the noodles a make a casserole, with more tuna and assorted packs of potato chips for flavor, with a dill pickle on the side. And that was just for the main course.

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without a lot of sweets. In past years I would make up a big batch of chocolate treats for everyone on the floor. But between the elimination of many items necessary to make them and substantial increases in the prices of what is now sold, it just is no longer possible. So we pitched in together and bought a Hershey chocolate bar for everyone on the floor so that everyone would at least have a little something.

With meticulous details we planned our meal. In a lot of ways, planning out what we intended to eat was almost as good as the eating itself! First, as an appetizer we would share a box of Ritz crackers, with beef and Jalapeno cheese sticks to go with them. We planned to start at around 10 o’clock that morning, and then around noon we would make up the main course. It would take me a few hours to make the fish steaks, which were a lot like crab cakes, but made with a mixture of tuna fish and mackerel steaks, mixed with crushed Ritz crackers and then seasoned with the spice pack of the Ramen “spicy vegetable soup” and a packet of soy sauce, and a bag of crushed spicy potato chips for flavor. Then coated with a crushed Ritz cracker crust. We would each have two.

The tuna casserole was basically flavored Ramen noodles mixed with tuna fish, a lot of mayonnaise and sweet relish and poured over crushed sour cream onion potato chips, with generous slices of dill pickles.

After having the main course, we planned to each have a Bear-claw pastry for dessert, with a cup of hot chocolate. Although we can only purchase the small envelopes of hot chocolate of the canteen, by adding some coffee creamer and a Hershey chocolate bar, it made a cup of thick hot chocolate which goes really good with the cinnamon and spice bear-claw pastry.

Later in the day we planned for some more sweets and snacks as football would be on TV all day – another Thanksgiving tradition. We had bought a box of Swiss rolls – basically small chocolate covered, crème filled cakes, and we’d make up some big cups of sweet tea to go with it. For later in the day we planned to use up the last big bag of Doritos Nacho Cheese chips I still had, pouring two packs of hot chili with beans over it, then topping it off with numerous packs of melted Jalapeno cheese spread – you just can’t put too much Jalapeno cheese on anything!

Yep, me and Henry planned to eat pretty good this Thanksgiving. Although holidays are meant to spend with family, in here it’s the guys we live around that become our family and we looked forward to sharing it together.

This year Thanksgiving would be on Thursday, November 26. Every year it’s on the last Thursday of November. But for all our meticulous plans it’s always the unexpected that comes along to ruin them.

On Monday our floor had recreation yard and Henry went outside to play volleyball for a few hours. With his health problems, yard usually left him exhausted but he would sleep it off and be ready to go again. Monday was not different and by early afternoon Henry was joking around, as we often do. By dinner he was his usual self, and then we had the thrice weekly showers (Monday, Wednesday and Friday) and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

After showers the mail comes in and we talked a bit about that it was late on Monday as the guard who normally passes out the mail has the week off. So we didn’t get our mail until around 8.00 PM. Henry said he got one letter, but was concerned as he didn’t hear from his longtime dear friend Liz. I told him that they probably just didn’t pass out all the mail – he’d probably get a letter from her tomorrow.

About an hour later they came around for the nightly “master count” That’s the only time of the day we must each stand up and give our number – not our name, but only our prisoner number as in here that’s all we are – a number. Henry’s cell light was on and he said he was going to write a letter. But when the Sgt got to his cell he found Henry slumped over his table and the end of his bunk and Henry was not responsive. For a few minutes they yelled and banged on his door, assuming he was asleep as that was not uncommon, and the Sgt got on the radio and called for the nurse.

After several minutes Henry responded and awoke, but seemed somewhat out of it and wasn’t able to get up. So the Sgt decoded to send him to the main unit infirmary so they could check him out. This Sgt is a pretty good one and goes the distance to help us out. A few years ago he was working the floor when another guy fell ill and if not for this Sgt quick response in getting this guy out he would have died. Once again, this Sgt (who I am deliberately not naming) was quick to call for medical help.

They brought a wheelchair and Henry got on it and they pulled him out. As he stopped for a moment in front of my cell while they grabbed his photo ID I spoke to Henry and he seemed a bit out of it. But said he’d be right back.

A little while later I caught the Sgt making his rounds and asked how Henry was doing. By that time, he should have been back. The Sgt said that after they pulled Henry out, he started to cough up a lot of blood so they decided to keep him over at the main unit infirmary for the night.

But in the early morning hours just before breakfast the midnight staff came and packed up all of Henry’s belongings. If they expected him right back they would not pack up his property so I knew something was up. Throughout the day I asked others how he was doing and they said he’s not too good and would probably stay over at the main unit infirmary for a few days just to keep an eye on him. But they said they’d save his cell next to me, so I didn’t think much of it.

By Wednesday afternoon those I asked started saying that Henry took a turn for the worse and didn’t look good. Anxiously I squeezed all the information I could from those I knew would know.

Early Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Day, I was told that Henry had died at 2:30 AM, but that he didn’t suffer. I try to tell myself that at least his fight is over and he’s now in a better place and that at least his suffering was not prolonged as only too often it can be with cancer. But somehow it isn’t much of a comfort as he was a good friend and neighbor – he was family.

Just that quickly on Thanksgiving there isn’t much to be thankful for. The plans we made for weeks for our holiday feast now meant little as Henry was gone and so was my own appetite. Instead I spent the day just pacing my floor back and forth, four quick steps to the front then four quick steps to the back, listening to the radio and trying to get my head out of this place.

Then a song came on that made me smile….maybe even a message from Henry to a friend and brother who already greatly misses him. Bob Dylan’s “Knocking on heaven’s door” a song that not so long ago me and Henry sang together. Hearing that song brought tears to my eyes – but I smiled, as just hearing that song, at that particular moment, let me know that Henry’s alright and is now in a better place. Here’s to knocking on Heaven’s door – I will miss you my brother.

Mike

Christmas in a cage - Death Row Holiday

2009-12-11T03:04:00.000-08:00

Growing up in a large family Christmas was always celebrated in the traditional Norman Rockwell style with many brothers and sisters both older and younger than myself, the excitement and anticipation of Christmas began immediately after Thanksgiving, when dear old dad would pull out all the holiday lights from the cardboard boxes concealed in the attic and spread them out across the floor as us kids would compete with each other to find any burnt out bulbs that needed replacing. Once that task was completed, it would be an honor to hold the long strands of lights as dad balanced precariously on a ladder nailing them along the roof overhangs, then as if by magic seemingly always just at the right moment as darkness began we would all gather to watch as they came to life. In that moment of unified silence the Spirit of Christmas became one with us.

Then would come the tree. Never but never an artificial tree, not in our house. Even in the years when there would barely be enough money for food, there was always a large freshly cut evergreen tree, with the scent of pine filling the room. Boxes of beautiful antique ornaments handed down through the generations would be carefully unwrapped and meticulously placed in just the right spot with rows of tiny flashing multicolored lights accented by a million strands of silver and gold tinsel, almost each strand carefully dropped over the boughs by us kids leaving the lower part of the tree with significantly more than the harder to reach upper branches, but no body even complained.

This majestic Christmas tree would always be up no later than the first week of December and then brightly wrapped boxes would begin to appear beneath the tree. That was the Christmas tease that has tormented children through the ages… What could possibly be in these beautiful boxes? Of course, children being children, we would all find a way to ever so very carefully steal a peek in that one of two particular box with our name only to almost without exception discover that the box contained nothing more than clothes. Silly kids – we already knew that only Santa Claus brought the good stuff and that wouldn’t happen until Christmas Eve.

Each Christmas Eve all of us kids would be herded off to bed early and given a stern warning that soon Santa Claus would be near and he’d know for sure if we weren’t sleeping. Of course we couldn’t sleep but each of us in our own way did our very best to pretend to as we each fantasized about what Santa might leave us. The hours would pass slowly – very, very slowly – until the early morning hours when dad would open the bedroom doors, releasing us from our rooms with the excited announcement that Santa had come and we would all rush into the living room and stand in awe at the piles and piles of presents that had been left beneath the tree.

With so many kids all anxious to rip open these gifts, controlling the chaos was the first priority. With the barely contained excitement of a child himself, dad would reign over the distribution of the presents, picking one box at a time and loudly calling off the name of each. In that large circle all our eyes would be gleaming in silent anticipation as we each awaited our name to be called. Then quickly pouncing forward when it was, to claim our gift and retreat behind the lines to rip it open. Soon enough the living room would be overcome with haphazardly discarded boxes and wrappings but nobody seems to really notice.

No matter what each of us received in that moment of time it became our entire world. Of course there would be the obligatory clothes, which were inevitably piled neatly to the side, to be collected later. Although we seldom got the toys we really wanted – apparently Santa Claus had a cash flow problem and couldn’t afford the most popular toys – what we got quickly made us forget about what we thought we wanted and the joy of receiving those gifts overcame any disappointment.

Looking back, I can’t recall even being disappointed at not receiving what I thought I wanted, as what I got always seemed to be even better. That’s why I knew even long after other kids my age gave up that Santa had to be real; dad couldn’t possibly afford all those wonderful presents. Only too many years later did I realize how much he would willingly sacrifice each year to make Christmas special, working long hours at the steel plant and even pawning off his few prized possession as nothing was ever allowed to break the sanctity of Christmas.

Soon after all the gifts were unwrapped we would be forced to set them aside and retreat back into our rooms to dress in our Sunday best then pile in the station wagon for a drive to the Christmas service. Even the thought of resisting this ritual seemed silly – marching into church as a family each Christmas morning was as much a part of Christmas as Christmas itself even of we didn’t fully understand the spiritual implications of Christmas at that time. But even as the priest administered the solemn sermon, already our thoughts were on the fest that would soon follow.

Within a few hours we were home again. The Christmas Spirit filled the house with a joyous mood as Christmas carols played endlessly on the record player and our attention turned from the gifts we already received to plots of pilfering the table piled high with cakes and candies laid out for guests that might drop by. With military precision us kids would band together and recon the living room then slowly sneak our way towards that table and careful not to let our presence be known, our little heads would pop up quickly as our hands reached for that morsel of sweet goodness and then a quick retreat would be made.

As all the dishes of cookies, candies, and cakes would slowly disappear the smell of Christmas dinner would fill the house. Without exception Christmas dinner would be provided with abundance in the traditional style with all the trimmings and the family would gather around the expanded table and eat. This was the one meal when no matter how dysfunctional the family was the rest if the year, we were truly family for that one meal. But then it would too soon be over and that one special day became only a memory.

These memories continue to be my Christmas and have become my ritual. Merle Haggard once sung a song about a man turning 21 in prison doing life without parole. My own ballad would not be that much different. I’ve never had another Christmas since leaving home. At 46 years old, this is now my twenty-sixth Christmas in a cage; the past 23 Christmas’ have been spent condemned to death in a cage on death row.

It is the Christmas of the past that remains my Christmas of the present. Being condemned to death I am not allowed to celebrate Christmas in any traditional sense. In the early years I would anxiously await the Christmas cards from family and friends, then hang each upon my cell wall and share the Spirit of Christmas with the few who chose to remember me. But as the years slowly passed the cards became fewer and fewer, even most of my brothers and sisters have now long forgotten me and given me up as dead. Although I remain blessed by a few special friends who make a point of sharing their Christmas Spirit with me, the friends too slowly drift away and become fewer and fewer.

Many years ago when I first came to death row we were allowed to celebrate Christmas and it was something we looked forward to. Each December we would be allowed to receive two packages from the outside world containing various necessities such as winter clothes, a pair of shoes, cosmetics and toiletries, and even a nice watch or ring. Then the Christmas meal would be traditional style, real turkey with all the trimmings and various pieces of cakes and pies. But then conservative politicians found out about the “special treatment” given to prisoners at holidays and made political careers by campaigning against these things. One by one every holiday privilege was eliminated and out of vindictive malice and spite the Spirit of Christmas was banned from prisons.

Where I once proudly displayed the few cards I’d receive on my otherwise barren grayish beige wall, I am now prohibited from doing so. Up until a few years ago I had a photo of a beautiful Christmas tree I’d tape to my back wall above my sink until one Christmas Eve a guard made an issue of it. I was ordered to remove it, but refused. A few hours later as I was taking a shower that guard went into my cell and removed that picture – ripping it into small pieces then throwing it into my toilet. That one small semblance of Christmas I so cherished was lost forever as that Spirit of Christmas was overcome by malice and spite.

Now each Christmas becomes more depressing as I become even more isolated from that world outside. Too often my thoughts now turn to my own kids and grandkids and wishing I could spend just one Christmas with them. All my own children are now grown, but I can only imagine the joy on my grandson’s face as he anxiously rips open the brightly wrapped box containing the small gift a friend so generously sent in my name.

Then I think of all the others here and in prisons across the country who like me can only think of Christmas’ past, as the Christmas of both present and future no longer even hold the hope of what the true Spirit of Christmas is about. I remain blessed by the few cards I will receive, but know that many others around me won’t get a card at all. There will be no Christmas sweets and treats. There will only be the same cold, barren walls and the sound of silence as each of us retreat into our own dreams of what once was and most likely will never be again.

So, this Christmas I ask you to remember what the true Spirit of Christmas really is as we gather to celebrate the birth of a men condemned to death for our sins, that through His condemnation each of us equally were given the gift of Hope. If those of us who claim to be Christian cannot actually be Christians on Christmas, then when can we be?

What would Jesus do of He were to celebrate Christmas today? I’d like to think that He would reach out to the lowest of the low and share hope with those condemned to death; that in the true Spirit of Christmas, in the true Spirit of Christ. Especially those condemned would not be forgotten.

To both friend and stranger equally the same, I say… Merry Christmas!!!

Michael Lambrix

Message from Average Joe, a Death Row inmate on Florida´s Death Row since 1977

2009-11-03T02:07:00.000-08:00

Hey Guys,

Average Joe is back with you! I've been absent for a while due to not having someone to post my site. A lot has happened since I last wrote..

Last time I wrote I warned not to be fooled by the Secretary of Prisons they appointed McDonough. He was stricktly PR there to give the impression of prison reform, untill all the dirt was swept under the carpet from the previous secretaries of prisons and their illegal dealings. That and the death of Frank Valdez. I said: once the press was no longer interested, things would go back to same ole, same ole. Just like the The Who's song - "Meet the new boss - same as the old boss". And that's what we have now. Which is reflected in the rash of officers being fired or under investigation for prisoner abuse. And it's just the tip of the whole attitude. With that said, I'll switch to Death Row...

An execution occured here in August, John Marek. Which is unusual is how quietly it was done. I watch the news for such things, and I could have missed it but I did not see the coverage of it. I did not know they had re-signed his death warrant until the day before he was scheduled. Many did not. And I did not hear it had been carried out until the day after.
Usually all the local news stations are all over an execution, hard to miss. Maybe it is just not as newsworthy these days??

As for myself, I've had a change of mind on the system as a whole. I always believed if you fight the good fight long enough the truth would prevail. If the truth would come out - you would win. I don't believe that anymore. It's really just a matter of luck or chance when someone wins. Sometimes based purely on politics or a question of "will this hurt my career if I rule for his case?". Maybe it is due to the George Bush appointees in Federal Courts and the US Supreme Court. A trickle down of Republican type of law. Whichever, I now believe, you do whatever you have to do to win. Because that's how they play it to keep you from winning! I came to this mind set after my last trip to Florida Supreme Court.
Everyone involved in my case believed I had won a new trial at the least - or freedom period, after 32 years. We even had the prosecutor say: other than a statement I had given the police after when first arrested there was no other evidence. This came when Justice Perlente asked him what other evidence was there that I did this crime. He said: That's easy - Nothing!" But instead of winning, when they ruled it was the worst decision I have ever received. Even after we proved and the state prosecutor stated there was no further evidence they ruled that there was substantial evidence. Where they found any? - no one knows. It was just a bizar ruling!

Suffice to say all involved were shocked. I was at first, but now I see it as that's reality. That is the system. You know, I've never had any help legally except state appointed counsel. Not that I have not asked or tried to get help. Just never received any. And I understand some of it. There are only so many pro bono cases that can be accepted. And I will not say that those who worked on my case did not care. Many have and believed in me. I do however wonder if I would still be here if I had the financial means to hire a really good attorney. Someoen who isn't working on general cases all at the same time, overworked and underpaid. But that is just a "what if" and "what if's" change nothing.

I thought it over and asked myself "what do I need to win my case and freedom?" You know, the answer was simple. I need one person who has the means to come and go as I need, the mindset to take care of and do what needs to be done, who only cares about the results not the method, who is sharp enough to handle whatever needs to be done. That person need not to be an attorney, just someone who is ready to help me win my freedom. I know what needs to be doen. Together we would walk me out of here a free man. Now that is important. Because every time a man is found not guilty - and walks off death row it is a step closer to ending the death penalty. Imagine after 33 years - if i were to walk free!! Now as I read all this, that is what I need.

I'm 53 years old now. I'm still in good physical condition and mentally as well, which is unusual probably. But it's part of what I've become here. I refuse to give up. I refuse to allow this place to break me. Not in body or spirit. But I still believe with all the support that you guys give, the death penalty will end. The only question is - when. And that efforts are yet needed to end it.

But we know - nothing comes quickly nor easily. Lives will be lost along the way. Hearts will be broken. Tears will fall. But because you guys are there, there will be less of each. And isn't that what the struggle is all about? Anyways, I can not even ask for help - by law. But no law says someone can not volunteer! For me all I can do is state what I need. OK enough for now, I shall talk to you again soon. Till then, take care of eachother and yourselves.

Sincerely,

James Hitchcock # 058293
P- 5127
Union Correctional Institution
7819 NW 228th street
Raiford, Florida 3202-2600
USA

For more writings of James Hitchcock see http://againstdeathrows.blogspot.com/

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse..

2009-10-05T04:16:00.000-07:00

I already figured out a long time ago that death row sucks. After 25 years in a concrete cage I got used to that fact. When it comes down to it people have a lot in common with cockroaches - we have an incredible ability to adapt to our environment no matter how hard it can get. There's just something within us that compels us to survive no matter what. That's human nature, for better or worse..

Way back in early 1984 at the relatively tender age of 23 i found myself descending into a hell few could ever begin to imagine. I had been locked up before so it wasn't just being led to just another cell that caused my anxiety and despair. Rather, this long walk led me down into the depths of Florida's infamous "death row". I didn't know what to expect and had only heard too many stories about the 'cold-blooded killers" I would now live among. I'm not ashamed to say that I was scared; that the uncertainty of my new world caused me to lay awake that first night listening to the sounds around me and praying to God that it was all just a bad dream and that I would awake and find myself home again, playing with my children and getting ready to go to work...awake to a normal life.

But it was not a dream - it was a nightmare that I could not escape from. Each morning for months, then years, and now decades I again awoke to that concrete hell among the condemned and was forced to accept that I too was and am condemned. As these years passed I both physically and psychologically "adapted" to my environment and I became one of the too many condemned men.

Looking back now I smile when I think about it. Back then death row didn't seem like such a bad place to be. Of course, at the time I didn't see it that way. But in a lot of ways back then wasn't so bad.

Beginning in the mid-eighties America took a hard turn towards conservative politics and it didn't take long before these rabid wanna be politicians started foaming at the mouth as they openly competed with each other to prove who could be the "toughest" on criminals. Young, ambitious politicians earned their nicknames like "Chain gang Charlie" - now known as Florida's Governor Charlie Crist - by aggressively pushing to eliminate all comforts and unnecessary privileges prisoners might have had as they quickly learned that by promising to make these cold-blooded killers suffer, they could win more votes.

Each election brought with it the elimination of more privileges. They took the weights from our recreation yards under the pretense that these criminals were getting too strong working out and big muscle bound prisoners scared the hell of these coward parasitic politicians. So, no more weights on the yard. Then they took our gift packages that we used to get twice a year (plus two at Christmas) from family and friends - just a small amount of simple stuff like maybe a pair of shoes, and pajamas from home. It didn't mean much to the politicians, but it meant a lot to us to be able to get something from home. Not surprisingly, after they eliminated these packages the prison system started selling these items at substantial profit and now the prison system makes millions of dollars each year selling us what we must have - shoes, warm clothes, shampoo, deodorant and stuff.

After that, they took away hobby craft packages which were used to have art supplies and hobby craft items sent in. Many of death row are incredibly talented artists and would paint and draw, while others were equally talented in crocheting and making toys out of yarn, like teddy bears and animals. It passed the time and kept the guys productive as most of us wanted to send something home to our kids, or send a nice card or painting to a loved one. But the prison didn't make any money off what we had sent in so they eliminated the hobby craft packages and started selling their own limited inventory of hobby craft items at a huge profit, of course.

Slowly, as the years passed the prison system went from a taxpayer subsidized step-child nobody talked about to evolving into a virtual "for profit" industry with countless companies and even multinational "Fortune 500" corporations all competing to provide services to this prison industry and greedily profit off the misery of the now millions of prisoners incarnated in the United States.

Then the economy collapsed and America quickly spiraled downwards into what is being called the worst recession since the Great Depression of the 1930's and Florida's multi-billion dollar prison budget became a stone around the State's neck. After building their political careers on the get-tough-on-crime agenda, these parasite politicians could not now suddenly say that it was time to release any of these criminals they fought so hard to lock up.

Besides, the modern day American prison industry now has entire communities across the state dependent upon keeping these prisons open at full capacity. These same politicians have already sent all the factory jobs overseas so if they close the prisons then tens of thousands would be unemployed. And in the past 30 years of consistent growth in the prison industry these prisons employers have grown to be a formidable political force in their own right. Any politician who even dared to suggest that it was time to release prisoners and close even one prison down quickly found himself being run out of office.

So, as America's recession forced the state of Florida to cut the prison budget instead of releasing prisoners, like many other states did, Florida politicians decided to just cut down on the cost of feeding and caring for the prisoners.

In recent months our daily calorie intake was reduce from around 3500 calories to just over 2000 calories. on paper, that might not sound too bad, but in reality what it means is that the prison administrators have now eliminated almost half of what we were used to being fed.

Incredibly, the Florida prison administrators decided that the best way to save a lot of money is by totally eliminating the really expensive stuff, like real meat, milk, and fresh fruit. Up until recently we would get a half pint of real milk at breakfast and a cup of fruit juice. At lunch or dinner we would get fresh fruit, such as an apple, orange, or banana. Although processed meat patty's have long been a staple of prison food, we did get real meat a few times a week - but not anymore. They have replaced most of it with some form of foreign substance they call processed meat - but is awfully similar to the "protein patty's" featured in the cult classic movie "Salient Green". (Could they now be feeding us our fellow prisoners??)

I understand that the general public wants prisoners to do "hard time" and if they could only walk a mile in my shoes they'd certainly understand what hard time is. But at the same time the public has to understand that there is a balance to be maintained. First, the real reasons prisoners are given privileges is that they have an incentive to be "good". Take away the privileges and you eliminate any incentive to stop them from rioting and burning down the prisons ("Attica, Attica, Attica") Second, like it or not, now that the prison industry has evolved into the monster it is today, most of the millions of men and women presently imprisoned are going to be dependents of the state the rest of their lives. That means that basic common sense tells you that "it's penny wise, but pound foolish" to provide prisoners with a diet that does not provide basic nutrition.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this out. Already the single biggest expense in the prison system is health care, especially as more and more prisoners are growing old in prison with no hope of ever being released. Above all else, any responsible prison administration would recognize that by eliminating all the real milk, meat, fresh fruit and fruit juices you are virtually guaranteeing that tens of thousands of prisoners will develop all sorts of serious health problems as they grow older. Right now, it might seem like a smart thing to save a coupe cents a day per prisoner by eliminating these basic foods - but without adequate nutrition it will cost the state millions of dollars in future health costs. How does that even make any sense?

Last, this is not a third world country. As Americans, we have long prided ourselves on our respect for basic human rights, quickly condemning other countries for the alleged abuse of prisoners in their custody. Already America now has the highest rate of incarceration in the entire world, even exceeding China, Russia, Iran and other countries generally seen as "totalitarian" societies.

The real question here is what kind of society are we becoming? At a super facial level it may seem as simple as "punishing" prisoners, and so what if they don't get fresh fruit or milk, or other basic foods we all take for granted? It's just too easy to say "so what?" without considering the consequences of becoming "that" kind of society ourselves. Is that what we have already become? Is this the kind of society we want to be? where the basic welfare of prisoners just doesn't matter?

I ask you to consider these questions - and think about how being deprived of basic nutrition would impact your life, or the lives of your loved ones. And then I ask you to phone, or email the Florida Department of Corrections Secretary, Walter McNeil and encourage him to remember that there are predictable long term consequences to not providing a nutritious diet to prisoners. Being penny wise but pound foolish at the expense of jeopardizing the long term health of prisoners is not a responsible way to run a prison system. And at least for now, America is not a third world county that's willing to tolerate the neglect and deprivation of basic human needs - not even the prisoners.

Please contact:

Walter Mcneil, Secretay of Florida Department of Corrections.
Phone: # 850/448-7480
Email: mcneil.walter@mail.dc.state.fl.us

Mike

Death Row Consultant Will Work For Food

2009-09-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

Welcome back and my apologies for the absence. My sponsor was taking a much needed vacation (who wouldn’t need a vacation from me? :)) and myself, I was busy writing up a comprehensive Federal Civil action challenging the unconstitutionality of Florida’s capital post conviction review process as being deliberately dysfunctional and fundamentally unfair (see: www.southerninjustice/federalcivilaction) But now I’m back and I plan on writing more regularly again.

Let me first begin by thanking Tanya for the great comments she regularly leaves. As she doesn’t leave an email address for a response I can only thank her in this manner. It means a lot to me to know that what I write is being read and that people out there care. So thanks Tanya.

Now to what I’d thought I’d write today. The other day I was reading the newspaper and couldn’t help but notice the small front page article entitled “white collar cons ask the pro’s” (USA Today, July 15, 2009) In this article it talked about the “growing market” for ex-convicts who are paid substantial amounts of money to provide “consultations” to recently convicted “white collar” criminals so that they will know what to expect when they are sent to prison and how to survive that experience without getting their throat cut or becoming someone’s “bitch”

This has to fall under that “only in America” category. Some rich mommy boy’s ripped off banks and embezzles millions from clients who trusted them and plead in exchange for a relatively light sentence and what do they do? They then hire an ex-convict as a “consultant” and pay up to $ 20.000 to be told what to expect when they go to prison and how to fit in with the hardened criminals they will soon share a cell with.

According to this article, this is now a growing industry with ex-cons establishing consulting firms and making millions of dollars teaching these momma boys how to play nice with real convicts. One particular company “Wall Street Prison Consultants” says that the course they offer to white collar criminals “covers everything” and “helps offenders avoid assault, cope with the daily grind, decode prison lingo, and even avoid bad prison jobs” Their website even provides photos depicting the harsh transition from the exchange floor (Wall Street) to the prison yard.

You know, sometimes you see or read something and then it hits you – hey, why didn’t I think of that? That’s the kind of moment I had when I read that article, why not hire myself out as a “death row consultant”? Since capital punishment is a growing industry not only in America but China, Iran, North Korea and other countries where basic human rights don’t matter much, there might just be a pretty good market for a death row consultant.

To hear the state tell it, anyone coming to death row had to have planned to commit a crime and kill somebody, so as they plan this murder they can give me a call and plan the consequences of their action too. I could put ads in all the major newspapers…”Planning to commit a murder? Call Mike and I’ll tell you how to survive death row”

If you think about it, it kind of makes sense. If you are planning to commit a murder, then you should also plan on the consequences right? Of course, my first piece of advice would be that anyone planning to come to death row should be put in a mental hospital as this place sucks. And in the past 25 years that I’ve been here I can’t think of any that actually planned to come here. Well, that’s not quite correct = there’s been a number that all but begged the court to sentence them to death after they were convicted as many guys prefer the solitary life on death row over doing a mandatory life sentence out in the general population.

But what words of wisdom can I offer to the soon to be condemned? What advice could I provide to help them make that transition from the real world to a concrete cage, where it will be their fate to slowly rot away for decades at a time and inevitably they will reach the point where they will wake up in the morning and just pray to God that the nightmare will soon end and even death itself will become a means of escaping from the harsh reality of death row.

Death row is not like the general prison population where they are allowed out of their cells each day to work a job, go to the library, to the chow hall, and even the prison chapel, or maybe play a game of softball on the yard. Here on death row you sit in your cage all day, everyday and rarely are allowed out. We eat our meals in our cells and only get a couple of hours a week on the concrete yard. Like so many others who have been here for many years I stopped going to the yard and haven’t been outside for years now. Arguably I’m now the whitest man in America, my skin so pale I could easily be mistaken for the dead.

But unlike others I have not yet “bugged” out. That’s what we call it in here when a guy slowly slips over that cliff and loses touch with reality. In some ways I actually envy those guys as in here reality sucks. So maybe I should teach the soon to be condemned the art if “selective psychosis”, how to control the periodical escapes from reality without falling completely over the edge and into the abyss of insanity. I do think it’s that ability of retaining hope and purpose that keeps a person going in here.

Then by far the biggest and most important advice I might give is to read Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”, especially ‘Act II’ so that you can appreciate Shakespeare’s words when he wrote “The first thing we got to do is kill all the lawyers” Of course, we can’t actually kill them – but you’ve got to accept that for the most part you cannot trust them! Like so many others here I have come to learn the hard way that all too often the lawyers appointed to represent death row prisoners are more interested in providing nothing more than a pretense of representation and are a far greater threat to you than even the prosecutor (please read Death Row representation, privilege or pretense?)

Then there’s family. Unless you want to go insane, forget about everyone you knew out in the real world as with very few exceptions they will all drift away. If you want to survive death row, you will have to form new friendships and most of them will come and go as nobody lasts forever. But the blessing in this is that many of the friends who will reach out to you while you’re on death row will become your surrogate family and they will stand by you even when your own family has long given up and gone their own way. These friends will become your strength and you will come to value these friendships above all else.

Then there’s the food – it sucks! That’s why when it comes down to it, if I were to hire myself out as a death row consultant I think I’d gladly work for food. I can’t even remember what real milk or real meat tastes like. But most of us do take the crap they feed us and mix it up with stuff we buy from canteen and cook up our own meals. So yeah – I’d work for food…real food!

Well there it is. Now who knows someone planning to come to death row as I’m ready to play death row consultant and I can tell you all about what to expect and how to survive. But you better bring some good food, cause you won’t get it here and by God I’m hungry!

Death Row Recession

2009-06-22T09:58:00.001-07:00

Unless you live in a cave – or a cage – you are more than aware that there’s a major global recession going on. Some are saying that it’s the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression of the 1930’s. Maybe they’re right, but I really don’t know as I do live in a cage here on death row as I have for the past quarter of a century. For the most part I’m isolated (or should I say “insulated”?) from that real world worry out there somewhere beyond these cold concrete walls and the rows and rows of razor wire.

In my world my economy evolves around a very simple system. I’m not allowed to work a job or earn any money. My basic needs such as food, shelter and clothing are provided for by the great state of Florida. I have a secure roof over my head and am fed three meals a day. The state provides me with a bright neon orange shirt and pants made out of what appears to be tent canvas. A couple of times a week they come around and do my laundry – it’s a lot like room service as they pick it up and then deliver it the next day.

On paper it all looks really good. The meals we are served follow a 4 week “perpetual” menu, meaning that it repeats itself every 4 weeks. It has for many years without any substantial change and after you’ve been here a while you can’t help but memorize it. Every morning before I get up I already know exactly what to expect when they bring my breakfast tray to my solitary cell, as death row inmates are not allowed to eat among other prisoners. I doubt this has anything to do with a fear that we might use our eating utensils as weapons as all we are allowed is a simple plastic spoon – never a real fork or knife.

The problem is that these meals only sound good on paper – and the paper this perpetual menu is written on probably is far more edible than the food served. I doubt anyone would expect prison food to be all that good, but I swear these people actually go out of their way to make it as bad as they can! Sometimes this can be frustrating as the food itself actually could be pretty good if only those supervising the kitchen would see to it that at least a minimal effort went into preparing it right.

Most of us here on death row purchase “canteen” food items sold by the prison commissary, upon which the prison system makes a substantial profit. From what I recently heard, just last year alone the Florida prison system made over 30 million dollars just in profits on food items sold in the prison canteen. With that kind of money being made, the prison system doesn’t have any interest in preparing and providing edible meals as by serving the crap they feed us, they force us to buy more snacks and food items from the canteen.

The problem is that when we (the prisoners) are forced to become dependent upon purchasing food from the for-profit canteen that money comes out of the pockets of our family and friends. They already pay their taxes to support the prison system, but now they must also provide substantially more, so this really is not fair to them.

Recently the prison system substantially cut back even more on the food/meals they serve us as due to the economy the Florida Department of Corrections has had significant budget cuts. For many years we were provided a diet consisting of at least 3000 calories a day, collectively for the 3 meals. That has now been reduced to 2400 calories. Additionally we are no longer given real milk at breakfast as we have for at least the past 25 years that I know of. Now they come around with a large jug of watered down powder milk and we are each provided a single cup each day.

Death row inmates no longer are fed any form of real meat other than one small thinly sliced piece of liver once each month. All other “meat” products are now some mysterious form of processed (and tasteless) meat patty or “turkey” hot dogs that taste like rubber. Regular bread that we might use to make a sandwich is now provided sparingly, replaced by what they call “cornbread” or even a couple dry, rock hard biscuits.

Because of this the death row population has now become even more dependent upon the food items we must purchase from the prison canteen. But many families and friends are now struggling themselves and unable to send as much money as they might have in better days.

To further compound this problem, the Florida department of corrections has recently increased the the prices of what is sold in the canteen. They claim that another private (for profit, of course) company has taken over management of the prison canteen system and this somehow justifies the sudden substantial increase in prices. Many items that must be bought regularly at least doubled, even tripled, in price overnight. Even a basic plain white envelope used to mail a letter out now costs 15 cents each.

The few food items they sell that could actually be used to make a meal out of now costs significantly more. For example, up until a month ago I could purchase a 4, 2 ounce pack of tuna fish for $1, 83 and it would make a pretty good sandwich. Now they only sell 2.3 packs of tuna fish for $1, 50, and it takes 2 packs to make just one decent sandwich.

We can also buy “ready to eat” meals, such as beef stew and chili with beans. Those cost about $1, 30 each, and are only 8 ounces. Each meal consists of a total of 250 calories, so you’re sure to be hungry soon after eating that if that’s all you’re eating.

A lot of the guys, including myself, would regularly buy individual packs of instant oatmeal, which previously sold for $0, 29 a pack and it would take at least two of these packs to make half a cup of oatmeal. Now this same instant oatmeal has suddenly gone up to $0, 39 each pack – that extra ten cents a pack really adds up.

We also used to be able to buy small “Little Debbie” oatmeal cakes at $0, 15 cents each. A couple would be enough to handle the hunger. But all the cheap snacks have now been eliminated and in its place we must buy pastry type cakes such as honey buns, chocolate donuts and bear claws – at $1, 50 each! These are the very same pastries that just a few weeks ago cost half that amount. The only alternative is either pop tarts, that went from $0,50 to $0,89 overnight, or Native Trail Mixed Berry bars (like granola bars) that suddenly doubled in price.

For as long as I can remember most of us have regularly bough instant “Ramen soups” as the ultimate back up. They were inexpensive, and we could salvage the potatoes, or beans, or vegetables off the food the state serves and make a soup as the main meal of the day. But now suddenly these soups cost twice what they used to. A simple pack of potato chips or corn chips also more than doubled in price, from $0, 48 to $1.29 per pack.

All of this adds up – and keep in mind that death row prisoners are not allowed to work or earn money. Everything we must buy comes out of the pockets of the family and friends willing to help us out. Our families and friends are suffering from the rough economy too – many of these are now without work or living on a fixed income. Is it really fair to them that now the state is effectively robbing them during these tough times?

But just buying the basic amount of food necessary to keep from going hungry is only part of it. The state – at best – only provides the most basic needs that they are legally required to provide. Anything beyond that the prisoner must buy himself – at a substantial profit to the state. If I want shampoo to wash my hair or a bar of soap to shower with, or deodorant so I don’t stink up my cell during the long hot and humid summer days with no air conditioner, I must buy that myself.

Equally so, if I want to write to my loved ones, I must purchase the paper, the envelopes and the ink pens. Nothing comes for free, as I must also pay all the postage to mail this out. It all adds up.

I am one of the few who are blessed with a few family and friends who do help me out. But where only recently I was able to get by with $25 to $30 a week, now to cover even the basics I must spend at least $40 a week on canteen – or go hungry.

The truth is that I don’t want to ask my family or friends for more money as it’s already hard enough on them as it is. But what am I supposed to do? It would be only too easy to say that I should eat what the state provides and suck it up. I know many here do that, as they simply have no choice. Some of those who have nothing and nobody end up committing suicide, going nuts or dying an early death of “natural” causes. I do believe that there is a direct relationship between the prolonged deprivation of basic needs in this inhumanely oppressive environment and the mental degradation that inevitably leads to suicide, mental illness and early death.

Death row is already a stressful environment. Each day all of us struggle to sustain the strength just to mentally and physically survive. And it is equally as hard on our family and friends as they too face the uncertainty of our fate. Bur unfairly adding this additional factor of price gauging is perhaps the worst thing I’ve seen in years. I can’t help but remember that just a few years ago when similar price increases were imposed on canteen good, a subsequent Federal investigation revealed that the Florida Department of Corrections director, James Crosby, was actually taking monetary bribes – pay offs – to allow the private contractor to rob the prisoners. Since then Crosby is in Federal prison himself.

Maybe its time that someone looks into the current canteen prices and the contracts awarded to for – profit companies to see who is getting the kick backs this time. But until then, I do hope that all prisoners’ family and friends will contact the current Florida Department of Corrections director Walter Mc Neil (mcneil.walter@mail.dc.state.fl.us ) and formally complain about these unfair prices.

To see the Soul- A Search for Self

2009-05-12T23:50:00.000-07:00

A simple plastic mirror hangs upon the door frame of my death row cell, faded with the age of years gone by. I could easily replace it with a new one, but I don’t want to. That inanimate object has become my friend. I can look within its reflection and see a person I’m still coming to know. I doubt anybody else would ever understand, but I do. And that’s good enough for me. You see, years ago when I first arrived and was placed within the confines of my solitary crypt, condemned to an existence of a seemingly endless state of judicial limbo, we had no mirrors. For reasons beyond my personal comprehension, any type of reflective object was deemed to be a threat to the security of this institution. For years I did not see myself, with the exception of a few opportunities stolen along the passage of time. But it was just as well, as even when confronted with the reflection of my own being, I couldn’t recognize the person who looked back. It was a stranger I did not know, and could not understand. And it scared me.

My true friend, the mirror, is a patient being. Willingly, it has given me the time to look deep within myself, grasping in almost maniac desperation for the person that I knew existed beyond that shell of emotional void. So many battles in the past had tempered my ability to rationalize and overcome. I came to this crypt with a death wish, as I saw death as an escape. It would allow me to end the continuous cycle of adversity that plagued my life. As a crutch enabling me to survive, I had come to accept that I was not at fault or the way my life had painfully twisted its way through one nightmare after another. Responsibility for my personal actions was an alien concept. I had conceded that for reasons unknown to myself, my life was cursed. I came to accept that philosophy, no longer even attempting to defend against the plague of pain that continued to fall forth.

Yet, ever so slowly over the years I’ve gained a new understanding of the man in the mirror. Oh yes- I’ve still fought what I did not want to see. I still created my own justifications for what I chose not to accept. But in its silent wisdom, that inanimate piece of plastic ever so patiently drew me back into its reflection of self. At times I would spend hours doing nothing but staring at this stranger I knew so well, but didn’t know at all. In the stillness of night I lay awake searching the very depths of my soul for understanding. I expected a miracle. I anticipated the day I would awaken and hold all the answers. It never came. But ever so slowly I came to know that once-stranger.

I came to accept reality, no longer imprisoned within my imaginary world of excuses. I could at long last identify the paths I’ve travelled, ascertaining the many places along the path in which I’ve chosen to challenge the natural flow and do things my way. I’ve come to accept that the deceptive vehicle of illusive charms which I’ve followed and travelled upon so blindly in reality the foundation of my life’s disasters. In the ignorance of my youth, I had adopted the use of intoxicants as my crutch from reality. Rather than confront the problems of life, I turned in weakness for the closest available form of deception. Alcohol. Drugs. It didn’t matter. I would use either without hesitation. And somewhere along that river of intoxicated stupor, I continued to flow even further apart from the person within. But I am not an old man. I have not spent a life of absolute intoxication. I am not the proverbial ‘wino’ our society so quickly identifies as a model of alcoholism, or the ‘junkie’ that haunts the depths of the inner city. I was only a young man- a working man, a husband, a father, an alcoholic and a coward who could not and would not face that truth; a teen alcoholic who had matured only physically into an adult alcoholic. I had become a person trapped and imprisoned by the compelling need to drown all time within a bottle, or whatever else might be readily available- any escape from the harsh truth of reality.

Now I look at the person within, and find someone I can identify with. No longer am I a stranger trapped within myself. Only, the search of self came too late. In at last escaping from the imprisonment of alcoholism, I have only awoken to find myself now condemned to death as a direct result. I cannot retrace that path of the past. I cannot recreate what has already been. Yet I feel as if a burden has been lifted. Still I can sense the inner freedom as I explore who I am, the one within. And over these years I’ve kept journals about my solitary environment. Perhaps one day I will gather these thoughts and reflections together and allow others to look within as I have done myself. For now I’m satisfied with simply confiding my thoughts upon that paper, creating my own security blanket, another trustful friend who will hold my deepest secrets and always gladly spare a listening ear. And within those many pages I will form a trail to follow, a path in which I will be able to see the metamorphosis of self as it slowly evolves, as I come to know even more of ‘me.’ And as I see more of the true self emerge from the dark recesses of the past, I am inspired and motivated to push even harder toward a future. I am compelled to tell others of the experience, as I realize that I had been cheated out of my own life by a bottle, but even more so by the deceptive justifications I had so readily created to rationalize why I had fallen into the well of alcoholism.

In coming to know myself, I have realized what had first instilled within me the weaknesses that led to my addiction, and by identifying that weakness, I have found the strength to overcome the circumstances now present in my life. For the first time, even though imprisoned and condemned to death, I am in control of my life. I know what I want to achieve and can make plans to do so. I can look beyond the moment of today and the eternity of tomorrow. For me, that in itself, is a victory. Nothing I say or do can change the past. But I know now that I can use yesterday’s battles as a source of strength in building a future, because I am willing to accept my addiction to alcohol, and how it can so easily become my master, enslaving me to an existence of irresponsibility and failures. For this realization I owe a great debt to that mirror that still hangs silently as if in its wisdom, it knew all along that time itself would slowly bring about the unity of my body and soul. The piece of plastic could only reflect back what could be seen. It could only show me the physical being, but it was the stranger I saw that forced me to look deeper. Time, itself, brought about the gradual evolution of the stranger and the soul, each discovering the other along the path of a desperate search.

I can now only wonder what I would have become had I continued to live as I once did. Could any alternative path be worse than my present state of condemnation? Yes, I believe it could, as I can deal with what I face today. I may not still understand how it all came to be, but I continue to pray an opportunity will eventually present itself, allowing me to exhibit all the facts, all of which I am now willing to accept and confront. I have no doubt that if such an opportunity was to present itself, even this condemnation would be lifted. For now, though I accept it. And I equally accept the truth that my prison of today is not at all as restricting or enslaving as the prison of alcoholism I had been previously confined to. In this small, solitary cage I am free not only to discover self, to explore who I am and to allow myself the hopes and dreams of what tomorrow might bring. The prison of alcoholism had never allowed that. It only mastered my body, but entrapped my soul. In my present condemnation I have found the true essence of life and in my solitary confinement I have found freedom. And all in the reflection of a plastic mirror.

My First Day at Death Row

2009-04-26T00:53:00.000-07:00

My journey to death row began early on the morning of Friday March 23, 1984. Only the day before Judge Richard Stanley had formally sentenced me to death as I stood before him in the one room Glades County Courthouse. It was merely a formality as there was no question of what the sentence would be. A month earlier in that same small courtroom the jury had convicted me of both counts of capital premeditated murder I was charged with. At a subsequent sentencing phase my court appointed public defenders had called several family members to testify on my behalf in the hopes that the jury would show ‘mercy’ and recommend only a ‘life’ sentence. But as a stranger in a small southern town, the panel of 12 jurors felt no mercy or compassion towards me.

Walking into that courtroom chained and shackled like a mangy dog I knew just what to expect as my fate was already determined. On this day of reckoning none of my family was present and that was just as well. I didn’t want to be there myself as I still felt angry and confused as to how this jury could have convicted me as they had to see that the state’s wholly circumstantial case simply made no sense. Looking back now, I accept that their verdict was not about justice, but vengeance, so truth had nothing to do with it. The way they saw it, a young woman from their own small rural community lost her life- someone had to pay.

Sgt Tommy Hearne seemed almost excited as he pulled me from the cell I had involuntarily called ‘home’ for the past year. As small as the county was, the local jail only had two cells with four bunks in each. No matter how bad prison might be, I certainly would not miss this backwater dump. It didn’t take but a minute to grab what few possessions I had, which Sgt Hearne carelessly threw into a small cardboard box- but gently laying my Bible on top.

Then Sgt Hearne and another deputy instructed me to assume the position which anyone familiar with police or prison procedure knew to mean stand up facing the wall, legs spread, slightly bent forward. They first placed the heavy leg shackles on my feet, then a chain around my waist. Handcuffs were fed through an enlarged eyehook at the front of my waist, then each of my hands attached at the wrist. They then double-locked the handcuffs, and then placed a black box over the cuffs through which the squared eyehook was fed and the chain pulled through, with its end pulled to the side out of reach and attached with a heavy lock.

I didn’t care to speak to Hearne. He was involved in the case and had on numerous occasions expressed his opinion that they should execute me. He was a small town redneck cop, intoxicated by his own power and I had nothing to say to him- I had nothing to say to any of them.

They then led me out the back door of the county jail where an inconspicuous two tone blue Chevy station wagon was parked and awaiting us. The back door was opened and I was instructed to sit in the middle of the seat, then a short piece of chain was secured with a heavy padlock to the shackles on my feet so that I could not run. The seatbelt was then placed around my waist and pulled tight. A moment later Sgt Hearne and another deputy got into the front seat and as we pulled away my journey to death row began.

It would be a long trip from the flatlands and sugar cane fields along the western bank of Lake Okeechobee where the small town of Moore Haven (the county seat for Glades county) was located to where the “Reception Center” for the Florida prison system known most simply as “Lake Butler” was located in the rural north central Florida. Back then all prisoners coming into the Florida prison system went through Lake Butler. Less than two years earlier I had myself first entered the prison system at Lake Butler and spent almost a week there awaiting transfer to Baker Correctional- another state prison in north Florida. At least this time I knew what to expect, or at least I thought I did.

I watched out the window as we drove north up Highway 27 through the heart of the state, until we got to Polk County where we then went northwest on Highway 98, basically a two-laned state road that traveled through farms, orange groves and open ranch land. I watched through the window as the world I once knew passed by. I had traveled this same stretch of highway myself as a free man and I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps this was the last time I would ever see it.

Not long after that the Florida flatlands began giving way to the gently rolling hills around Ocala. This part of Florida reminded me of my home in northern California. Along the sides of the interstate were large horse farms with their planked fenced pastures, dotted by majestic grandfather oaks draped with Spanish moss. It seemed almost surrealistic that as we passed through this beauty and tranquility I was being driven to my own death. Again, I wondered if I would ever see such beauty again.

By mid afternoon we pulled off the Interstate on to a two-laned country road just north of Gainesville. I couldn’t help but notice the name of the small town we then passed through…Providence. Not long after that was a sign pointing the way to Lake Butler- for some reason I was surprised that there actually was a town and a lake there in Lake Butler as for me and so many others it was simply known only for the prison reception center, a large complex containing the main building and prison medical center where all incoming state prisoners were received and processed, but also the large 3-storey main dormitory building located in the very center of the compound, where the infamous ‘K-Wing’ was located- a maximum security wing with a reputation of brutality at the hands of vicious guards known to all by such names as “K-Wing Slim” and “Breezeway Red” and their reputation feared by even the most hardened convicts, to the many smaller single storey open dorm buildings lined up along the perimeter of the back fence, to the open recreation area and its sheltered pavilion with rows of concrete tables and the adjacent softball fields, and basketball and volleyball courts where countless lost souls have passed time awaiting transfers to whatever state prison they might end up assigned to.

But I would see none of that on this trip to Lake Butler. Until I actually arrived at the reception center, it never occurred to me that death-sentenced prisoners were treated differently. I knew that all death row prisoners were then housed only at Florida State Prison near Raiford, but that’s all I really knew.

After arriving at Lake Butler I was signed over to a prison sergeant who was then assisted by another sergeant as they removed the shackles and chains belonging to Glades county and immediately replaced them with almost identical shackles, chains and blackbox of their own. Other than asking me my name, they said nothing beyond curse orders to follow and then with one sergeant in front and another at my side I was led into the main room where at least 40 other prisoners sat in silence awaiting their own name to be called so they could be processed.

Unexpectedly, the sergeant in front all but yelled “death row coming through!” and the mass of prisoners and guards at the processing desk miraculously parked like the Red Sea and I was led to the front of the line. Other prisoners who had waited many hours, perhaps even all day, silently stepped aside. At the desk they already had my file ready and it didn’t take but a few moments to process me through the place.

I had assumed I would stay at Lake Butler a few days, just like all other prisoners do, but I was wrong. Within an hour I was processed into the system and given a cursory physical examination, then just as quickly escorted out of the building and into a plain white transport van. Although not that hot a day, the van was obviously also used to haul garbage and once inside the fully enclosed van the stench was almost overwhelming. But I didn’t complain as the reality that in their eyes I was nothing but human trash was only too clear.

I knew where we were now going- Florida State Prison, commonly known then as the “East Unit”- the Alcatraz of the south. Its reputation as one of the most violent prisons in the country was well earned. Except for those condemned to death very few prisoners are sent directly to the East Unit. Rather, it was the end of the line for the most violent Florida prisoners who could not be kept in any of the state’s other ‘correctional institutions’. Although housing about 1,000 prisoners, most ended up in the East Unit only after stabbing or killing someone at another prison, or becoming an escape risk. Nobody wanted to be sent to the East Unit.

This part of North Florida is known as the “Iron Triangle” as the entire economy of Bradford and Union County is built upon the numerous maximum security prisons in the area. In addition to the massive complex known as Lake Butler the oldest prison in the state, Union Correctional Institution, commonly known as “the Rock” was in Raiford.

Around the entire area, about 18,000 acres of state owned land, the prison has farmed and ranched the area for many decades. If one were to drive along Highway 16 and passed by these massive complexes they would see many homes and trailer parks lining the road, but this ‘secret city’ would not show up on any map. The streets have no names and the town doesn’t exist. These homes are state owned, used to house prison employees. The almost too perfectly sculptured lawns and gardens maintained by squads of ‘prison chain-gangs’. This part of Florida has never evolved into the 21st century and continues to exist as a window into a darker past when slave labor and all the evils it entailed was an accepted practice in the Deep South.

Beyond the state subsidized housing for prison employees lies thousands of acres of cattle and farming operations, all state owned and maintained by inmate labor. Just outside the rear gate of Florida State Prison is a smaller unit known as “O-unit” where prisoner cowboys and farm laborers were housed. Much of the meat and produce used to feed the prisoner came from this camp until the mid 1990s when the prison system contracted theses services out to private industry.

Behind the massive complex of Florida State Prison is another unit then known as the “Butler Transit Unit” (BTU). This unit was to house prisoners in transit between other prisons and was part of Lake Butler. I spent a few weeks there myself in the summer of 1982 after being processed at Lake Butler and while awaiting transfer to Baker Correctional, a maximum security prison about 30 miles north. Back then BTU was nothing more than a row of flimsy plywood ‘dorms’ with close-quartered rows of steel bunk beds. In the stifling heat of the Florida summer the stench of 100 men packed neck to neck in a plywood bunkhouse without even so much as a fan for ventilation was often overwhelming. With only a single guard assigned to each bunkhouse, who more often than not would conveniently step outside to escape the heat and human stench himself, fights and even rapes were only too common. But it was prison and nobody really cared.

The van now pulled up to the back gate of Florida State Prison. Looking forward through the front of the van I could see the rows of wings of the prison. Like the skeletal remains of a beached whale, the main hallway ran like a backbone for over a quarter of a mile in a straight line while the individual wings branched out like ribs at consistent intervals a couple of hundred feet apart. Between each of these 3 storey wings was a grassy area. No movement could be seen, even the small fenced recreational yards at the end of each wing were empty.

To the left was a large open recreational area used by ‘general population’ inmates when they were allowed to do so. Beyond that was the row of plywood bunkhouses I once briefly called home. Within a few years these bunkhouses would be torn down under orders by a Federal Judge and replaced with permanent concrete structures renamed “New River Annex” as if simply changing its name could erase the inhumanity of its previous existence.

The van pulled through the massive gates and into an enclosed sally port where several guards inspected the van. Several moments later the sergeant started the van again as a second set of massive steel gates slowly opened and we were pulled through, finally entering the compound of Florida State Prison.

The sergeants led me up a ramp and down a short hallway until we came to a set of steel gates. The gate buzzed and we stepped into what is known as “Grand Central”, where the two main halls of Florida State Prison intersect. About ten paces to my right was a large steel cage with a wooden bench where I was placed and locked within while the sergeant went to a control room to do his paperwork.

A few minutes later the transport sergeant returned and without opening the cage I was in, he removed the shackles and chains and without a word he left. I would later learn that I had arrived just before afternoon (4 pm) shift change so was left in that cage for hours, until they were ready to process me into this prison.

In prison, patience is much more than merely a virtue - it’s a means of survival. No matter how long they would have me wait, nothing good could come of me trying to push them. Even with my limited experience in the prison system I knew only too well that a big part of the violence that was only too common came at the hands of the guards, not other prisoners. As the hours passed I knew enough to keep my mouth shut and just silently watch as prisoners from general population lined up in the main hallway waiting to go into the dining room. Still unfamiliar with death row, I half expected to be brought to the large open dining room myself.

After a few hours a guard stopped by my cage and asked “you eat yet?” and I said “no.” He turned and walked away. A few minutes later he returned, now accompanied by an inmate wearing white holding a plastic food tray, which he handed to me through a cutout in the gate. I accepted in silence, looking down at what appeared to be a noodle casserole. There was no fork so I quickly asked the inmate if he had a fork, but he just walked away. It didn’t matter as I wasn’t hungry anyway. I sat the tray on the wooden bench.

It must have been a good three or four hours before two sergeants finally came to the cage and ordered me to “cuff up”. Again, my prior prison experience proved helpful and I silently turned around and stepped back towards the “bean slot” (aptly named as that is where the food trays are passed through) and they quickly handcuffed me behind my back then ordered me to come with them.

I was led to another larger cellblock located directly behind the main control room and placed in that cage, then they removed the cuffs. I came to learn that anytime I was removed from a cage or cell, I would be handcuffed behind the back. Only later did another prisoner tell me that they started doing that a few years earlier after a death row inmate stabbed and killed a guard. Before that death row prisoners were allowed generous out of cell time daily without the use of physical restraints. But as is only too often the case in prison, it only takes one incident to cost everybody a valued privilege.

In that cage I was ordered to strip. The clothes I was wearing were taken and I was given a pair of worn out prison denim pants- dark blue with a wide white stripe running the length of each side, and an apricot colored T-shirt that I would learn was to identify me as death row. At Florida State Prison they used different colored shirts to identify the classification status of all prisoners.

The general population inmates wore dark blue, unless they worked as a clerk or the canteen, then they would wear all white. The many who were in “closed management” which is what Florida calls those placed in punitive segregation- often for many years at a time- wore green shirts. Death row wore apricot shirts.

After I changed into the apricot shirt, the two guards again handcuffed me and we began our journey from the front of the prison towards the back down the long straight hallway that eventually ended at a partition that segregated the last 5 wings of the prison.

As we walked, I curiously looked into each open door, passing the prison chapel, the main dining room of general population and a large gymnasium with a basketball court and stage area filled with weights for those who wanted to work out. I tried to take in every detail, assuming that I would soon be able to visit the dining hall, chapel and the gym- not knowing that I never would as death row was not allowed to participate in worship services or go to the gym, or even eat meals in the prison dining hall.

We passed wings housing prisoners, each directly opposite of the other. As I passed each door I could see that each was a three tier layout with an open center area. Many prisoners were walking around in each of the wings and there was a TV/Rec room adjacent to each population wing.

To the opposite side I first saw “W Wing” which was closed off by a solid steel door. I couldn’t see into that wing and I would later learn that I didn’t want to. W-Wing was the psychiatric housing unit for the prison and was infamous among prisoners for the horrors that took place within. Through the coming years I would become aware of the inhumanity inflicted upon those placed on that wing under the pretense of psychiatric care. I would hear firsthand accounts of prisoners who had been shackled naked to steel bunks for days and weeks at a time, and how physical brutality was the true form of mental control. I would come to know that even as brutal as death row solitary confinement might be, at Florida State Prison there were many levels to this man made hell and perhaps even far worse than even the infamous “Q-wing” where the death chamber used to carry out executions was, W-wing remained a horror even worse.

After W-wing there was a small barber shop off to the side of the main hall, followed by two more wings, each with its solid steel door closed. These wings housed those placed in “closed management” which was long term solitary confinement for those who had been found guilty of “serious” rule infractions such as assaults or stabbings- or just as often not really guilty of anything but arbitrarily incurring the wrath of a vindictive guard who then used his power to write an unfounded “disciplinary report” as a means of having the prisoner placed in segregated “close management”.

In coming years I would become only too familiar with how common it was for guards to abuse their power by writing fabricated “disciplinary reports” as a means of retaliating against a particular prisoner for some form of perceived offense. That is how it is and always will be. Although disciplinary sanctions are a necessary means of maintaining order within a prison, if you do have a problem with any guard you can expect to be subjected to a fabricated disciplinary report, which is then rubber stamped substantiated by the kangaroo court you’re brought before.

My journey continued as we came to a steel bar partition with electric controlled gates to each side. Beyond that gate remained the last 5 wings at the far end of the prison. At the time (early 1984) only the two wings on the left (S and R wings) were for death row, while the two wings to the right (N and P) were used for more “closed management” confinement prisoners.

I was led to the solid steel door (with a small ‘peep’ window) of S wing and the sergeant escorting me knocked on the door leading to the “quarter deck” Each wing of Florida State Prison was laid out in a similar fashion, with a quarterdeck off the main hallway where the wing officers station was.

As I was turned over to the wing sergeant I was “logged in” and my name and inmate number was added to a large board. That only took a moment, then I was led to the staircase, and escorted downstairs. My assigned cell was “S106” meaning S wing, first floor, cell #6. Each floor was divided into a northside and a southside. I would be placed on the southside. Each side had a total of 17 cells, as well as two shower cells where we were allowed to shower three times a week.

It was already dark when I entered the wing. My first impression was the smell, an almost suffocation mixture of smoke, body odors of every sort imaginable, and humanity at its worst. I would come to learn that during the winters they would seal the windows shut so that for many months (from November until April or May) the wing would be almost sealed- and the smells and odors fester- with the exception of broken windows; deliberately broken by the prisoners who would rather endure the freezing temperatures of a north Florida winter than suffocate by the smells.

The next unexpected thing I noticed was the sounds. Once we reached the first floor and approached the gate leading into the tier, all sorts of noises could be heard. The cellblocks were on the inside of the wing away from the outer windows, so that the prisoners could not have access to the windows. Outside the cells were “catwalk” runs, the second and third floor catwalks constructed of steel scaffolding. If standing on the first floor catwalk you can look up all the way to the 3rd floor as the area is open. Thus the noise being generated was not only the 17 cells on 1-south but a total of 71 cells.

The floor was dark with just a few light bulbs spread out along the way. Some of the cells had their lights on too. But most cells were only dimly illuminated by the light of a small black and white TV that each death row inmate had. And each TV was apparently tuned to a different station. A few used headphones, but most apparently preferred to simply turn up the volume on their own TV as a means of drowning out their neighbor, while others listened to small radios. This was certainly not what I had expected, but then I really didn’t know what to expect.

As we came to cell # 6 the sergeant signaled an officer at the front gate and a mechanical system “rolled” the cell door open. The sergeant reached for a light cord and pulled the string and the single light bulb that precariously hung from the ceiling at the front corner of the cell flickered on. As my eyes adjusted to my new home, I was disgusted by the mess- trash and even discarded food lay all over the floor. But I remained silent. The sergeant removed the handcuffs and left without another word.

No sooner did I hear the gate leading on the wing slam shut, I then heard a voice calling ‘cell 6”. I didn’t realize that I was in cell six until suddenly an arm reached around with a rolled up newspaper and banged on the bars of the cell- I was in cell six and I had my first “phone call.”

Unlike the Hollywood version of being the new guy in prison, nobody called out “fresh fish” or taunted me in any way. The voice that called me quickly told me his name was J.D (James D. Raulerson) and asked me what wing I came off- he thought I simply had a cell change. I told him I just came in, and that my name was Mike.

As I kicked the old newspapers and trash towards the front of the cell, J.D talked to me. He held a mirror around the wall that separated our cells, so that I could see him- and I suppose more importantly, he could see me. He asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee or anything. I thought he was joking when I said, “Hell yeah!’ but a moment later he was reaching around the wall holding a steaming cup of hot coffee out for me. As I accepted that from him, a moment later he reached around again with a pack of cookies.

As I hesitantly accepted the food I told him I didn’t have any money yet and he laughed. I’ll never forget what he told me- “Hey man, we’re all in this together. Back here we look out for each other.” Soon word got around the wing that a new guy was on the floor and others hollered at me, each introducing themselves by whatever name they chose to be called and more often than not, also asking me if I needed anything.

Within just a few hours various others sent me an assortment of snacks, a bag of instant coffee, several cups and spoons, even a few bars of soap and a new bed sheet to throw over the moldy canvas covered ‘mattress’ that lay on the steel bunk.

It didn’t take long to clean the cell as there wasn’t much to it, just a 6 foot by 9 foot concrete cage with nothing but a steel bunk attached to the side wall and a stainless steel toilet/sink combo at the back wall. I was exhausted from the long day but too curious about my new world to want to sleep. Besides, the noise would not die down until after midnight, so I stood at the front of the cell and talked to JD for hours as he patiently told me about my new world.

J.D Raulerson had already been on death row many years by the time I came in early 1984. He was an easy going guy who called himself a ‘Christian Buddhist’ and was self–educated in many vocations. I could not have asked for a better neighbor as in the weeks and months that I adjusted to this new life, J.D. generously mentored me, never once asking for or expecting anything in return. But before the year was out the Governor signed his death warrant and in January 1985 James D. Raulerson was executed.

To my other side in cell # 5 was a Hispanic man named Louie Urango. He was quiet and preferred to keep to himself. A few years later Louie had his convictions thrown out by the court and was released. I later heard he had returned to Colombia, only to be shot and killed shortly after.

I came to realize that for the most part Florida’s death row was not unlike a college fraternity house. With few exceptions there was a “commadre” among its residents. And it was not uncommon for the guys to generously share what little they might have with each other, even occasionally some homemade ‘wine’ or a little bit of pot obtained by means never asked or spoken of.

As I came to know the others around me, I also came to know men who would by every right and reason become my brothers- my family. It would be years before any of my family would visit, but these guys taught me how to adjust to prison life “death row style”, and some even hooked me up with penpals they knew.

Looking back at that floor I was first housed on, I can do a mental roll call and it’s reflective of what I’ve come to know. Many of those I originally met have been executed, but even more slowly succumbed to death by ‘natural causes’ as they toll of prolonged solitary confinement took its measure. But equally so, a number of those I then knew were later exonerated and released- and others removed from death row by having their death sentences reduced to life.

As months became years and years became decades, I became one of the “old timers” myself, and in respect for the generosity so many showed me when I first arrived, I too try to share what I am blessed to have. By doing so I hope that those “new guys” that I meet will look back on their own first day descending into the uncertainty of a hell few can even imagine with a memory not of the overwhelming isolation and sense of abandonment we all feel while condemned to our solitary cells, but with a memory of the kindness of another condemned prisoner and the truth that ultimately no matter where we might find ourselves, as individuals we choose to be the person we each become and collectively we chose to create the environment we must live in.

Happy Birthday Mike!

2009-04-08T00:08:00.000-07:00

It’s just a birthday and not much more. Today I became 49 years old and that marks about the 28th birthday that I’ve spent locked up. Merle Haggard once sang a beautiful song about turning 21 in prison, doing life without parole, and when I hear it, I smile. My 21st birthday was the first birthday I spent locked up and I’ve spent every birthday since locked up. The past 26 birthdays I’ve spent in solitary confinement here on Florida’s death row.

After all these years you’d think that birthdays don’t mean much anymore. It’s just another mark in my calendar, another day lost forever. But in truth this birthday is different. In all the years that I’ve been locked up, I’ve never had a visit on my birthday (actually I did have a legal visit on a birthday once – the lawyer came to tell me she was leaving and dropping my case. I never saw her again) But for most of the years I’ve been locked up I didn’t get that many visits anyway, so I had no real expectations of getting a birthday visit.

That changed about 10 years ago when my mom and stepfather retired and moved from California to Florida. Before that, because of the distance, they never could visit. But in 1998 they moved to a town about an hour away and suddenly for the first time ever I had regular visits.

At first they were here, rain or shine, like clockwork every other Sunday. A few times my sisters would come up with them and even bring my niece and nephews. Those visits meant a lot as it made me feel like “family”. I enjoyed the few hours spent just talking about what’s going on in their lives and feeling, at least for that moment, that I was part of their lives – and that I still mattered.

But it is only too common, as the years passed the visits became fewer and fewer. Other things would come up and they couldn’t make it. The visits every other Sunday became once a month, and then became even more unpredictable as the month would pass with no visit and now I no longer even know when to expect a visit – they just come whenever they can.

In all fairness, I really don’t blame my mom and John (my stepfather of 40 years) as they are now getting old and they both have serious health problems. For many years now my stepfather has been confined to a wheelchair and it was hard for me to watch out the visiting area windows as my mom slowly pushed him the long distance from the front gate to the death row unit.

I really do understand why their visits have become fewer and fewer, and I’m grateful for even being able to still see them at all. But it still hurts that I don’t see them that much anymore. As for other family, they almost don’t come at all anymore. My oldest sister might come up with mom once or twice a year, but no other family members have visited in years. Most of my 9 brothers and sisters have actually never visited at all, not even once in 26 years.

Like so many others in prison – maybe each in their own way, all prisoners - holidays and birthdays take on a different meaning as its not so much a celebration but its how we gauge our ever fading contact with the real world outside. The reality of it is that family and friends do inevitably drift away, it is a slow but certain erosion and one day you wake up realizing that you’re no longer a part of their lives and the reality of that loss does brings you down.

Of all the men I’ve known here, there were very few (not more than 10) who have been here more than 5 years and still get regular visits from family. That’s all part of being condemned to death - we are condemned to slowly die one day at the time for years, even decades at a time, and all that we know and love in that world out there just slowly fades away from our lives until all that we know and love is gone and lost forever. Both family and even the closest of friends become only a faded memory, but try as we might they are never forgotten as those memories are all that we have to hold on to.

My fate is not my own, but a fate only too common among the condemned. Even if not at first, in time as the years slowly pass, we each become a forgotten soul. As the family and friends we once knew drift away we desperately try to form new friendships and even more serious relationships with new people who come into our lives. But it is the State’s cruel intent that we shall be isolated and forgotten. They know that family and friends do inevitably drift away and our only hope to stay in touch with that outside world is to form new friends, who might become our new family. A few years ago the prison system here in Florida insidiously created a new rule – the only one like it in the country –that prohibits Florida’s death row prisoners from “soliciting pen pals” or new friends.

For as long as I can remember prisoners would always place “personal ads” in publications asking people to write them a letter. But now its no longer allowed. After this hate-induced draconian rule was passed the prison system began targeting any death row prisoner who dared to violate this rule. Prison employees would actually scan the internet and newspapers to search for prisoner personal ads, then subject them to severe disciplinary sanctions – at least a month in punitive lock-up and loss of all privileges, and up to 6 months of “no mail” restriction.

I have no doubt that the purpose and intent if this insidious rule was to deliberately isolate death row prisoners from the outside world. Family and friends kept the condemned prisoner’s hope alive and with hope we find the strength to survive. They want to kill us and by taking away that source of hope they know our will to live will fade away just as family and friends do..

In the years since this rule prohibiting “solicitation” of new friends took effect, the intended consequences are only too clear. Most death row prisoners are now far more isolated and alone, a great number never getting any mail at all. They are forgotten and their hope and their will to live fades away ever so slowly like the dying flame of a burnt out candle. Then one day they wake up to the reality that the light is gone completely. Although physically still alive, inside they have already died.

The truth is that I’m one of the lucky ones as I still have a small network of friends who diligently work to keep my hope alive. Most are overseas so they cannot visit often even though I have no doubt they would come more often if only they could.

Still today I spent my birthday in my cage, alone. As coincidence would have it, my birthday only falls on Sunday (my designated visiting day) about once every 10 years. And today was the day it fell on a Sunday. Although I know only too well not to get my expectations up, today I did hope for a visit, and it does weighs heavily upon me that no one came to visit and no one of my family even sent a card.

Still I have to wonder how other lost souls around me must feel when their birthday comes around, as they know they have long been forgotten by both family and friends. Is it any easier for those among the ranks of the condemned when they don’t have any expectations? Perhaps by accepting that nobody cares you are not so disappointed when holidays and birthdays pass without even a card. I don’t know. But I know how I feel today – alone and abandoned. And I hope that by sharing this with those that that might read this perhaps those that have a friend on death row will reflect upon how much it pains each of us when we don’t even get a simple card that reminds us that we are not forgotten – that even in a world seemingly intent to kill us, someone still has the compassion to care.

Today I wish myself a Happy Birthday. And hope that, one way or another, this is my last birthday in this man-made hell as on days like this I truly do wonder if perhaps living is itself a fate worse than death.

Death Row Daddy’s Little Girl

2009-02-19T01:25:00.001-08:00

Although now condemned to death for over a quarter of a century there are windows that allow me to look beyond my world of steel and stone and look back to the life that I once had. These windows are the photographs that I still have from a time long ago, from the life that I once called my own.

One of these pictures is perhaps my greatest treasure. When I look upon it, I can still vividly recall that very moment when I took that picture. It was in April, 1979 just afternoon on a seemingly perfect spring day. It is a picture of my now ex-wife (divorced in 1981) holding our firstborn, our daughter Jennifer Nicole – whom we lovingly called “Nikki” This photo was taken on the lawn at my father’s house, our first stop as we brought Jennifer home from the hospital. Looking back, I realize now that we were both still kids ourselves, both me and my ex-wife the still in our teens.

We had met in high school while both of us were participating in the ROTE program. (for those unfamiliar with “ROTE”, it stands for “reserved officer training corps” a quasi-military type elective course provided at most American high schools and colleges) We were both only 15 at the time. A serious relationship would only come later. At 17 we became inseparable and by 18 we were married. Both of us coming from impoverished families, the ceremony was at the Polk county courthouse in Barlow, Florida. The very next day I enlisted in the army, following a path both my older brothers took before me, believing that a military career would provide the means to take care of my family.

In late 1978 my days as a soldier abruptly ended with a duty related accident at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. By the end of December 1978 I was honorably discharged and thrown back into civilian life. In less than 10 weeks I was to be a father.

The birth of any child is a memory all parents cherish. Nothing I can say can define the anxiety both of us felt as we counted down the days, wondering when the moment would come. Of course, there were always the relatives on both side of the family around only too willing to offer their advice and insight. Some would swear it would be a boy, others just as convinced it had to be a girl. But for us, it just didn’t matter. I can remember the first time she took my hand and gently placed it on her swollen stomach, and the sparkle in her eyes as she whispered “feel this” and how amazed I felt as the child within her womb kicked – and I felt it!

Then the moment came when we knew it was time. We were so certain as we rushed in a frenzied panic that hour drive from the rural area of the county where we lived to Tampa General Hospital. But it was a false alarm. The water had not broken. Only a day later the real thing came around. I’m sure I had a puzzled look on my face as she told me her water had broken. But we again quickly sprang into action.

Then came the too many hours of anxiously waiting in the soon-to-be-daddy room. For reasons unknown to me, I wasn’t allowed to stay with her. They would call me when it was time. Many hours passed, but nobody called me. Then a nurse came in and I knew something was wrong. She quietly whispered to follow her, and I silently did. We went into a small room and a doctor joined us. There had been unexpected problems, an intern had misread the monitors and after almost 8 hours of labor out little girl was determined to be brought into the world, but the birthing canal didn’t open as it was supposed to. Their voices echoed in my ears as I struggled to listen. They explained in an emotionless monotone that they had to perform an emergency “c-section” The doctor touched my arm and assured me that my wife would be alright. But then told me that my daughter might not make it. I don’t remember what else was said. In that moment everything around me ceased to exist. Something within my very soul died. I can only now vaguely recall the many more hours that passed before again a nurse approached me and I was allowed to see my wife. As I entered the room our eyes met and our pain became one as I then held her in my arms, both of us crying. She asked me if I had seen Jennifer yet – the first time I heard our daughter’s name spoken. I said no.

Another nurse stood nearby and told us that we could see Jennifer soon. At the moment of birth she was stillborn. Because of the complications during delivery she had come to life while still in the womb. Her first breath filled both her little lungs with the fluid in the womb and she quite literally drowned. It took some time to perform the c-section and pull her from the womb, and in that time she was deprived of oxygen. There would be brain damage, but they wouldn’t know how severe.

As that evening passed into the morning, we periodically got updates. Faceless doctors and nurses doing what they could to keep us informed, yet never willing to answer the infinite number of questions we had. Only much later would we come to know that the unexpected complications were the result of inexcusable incompetence. But none of that mattered as we only wanted to see our newborn daughter and know she was alright.

Many hours passed before we were finally told that we could see Jennifer, but to do so we would have to go to the neo-natal intensive care unit. Neither of us knew what to expect, but nothing could have prepared us for what we were about to see. First we were led into a small room where we had to thoroughly wash our hands, then a nurse gave us gowns and latex gloves to put on. Only then were we led into the neo-natal unit, and to an incubator. Our Jennifer lay inside. She had all forms of wires and tubes attached to her, with various machines on each side. Someone stood nearby and in a explained that our Jennifer had her lungs filled with fluid, causing double pneumonia and was in critical condition, dependent upon the machines to keep her alive. She also suffered serious brain damage and was having seizures. We were told that if she made it the first few days her chances were good that she would survive. But for now they would keep her in an induced coma until she was strong enough to breath on her own. We could only look down upon our little girl and pray that she would know that we were there.

The following day my wife was discharged from the hospital, but we didn’t want to go home. We were only allowed to visit Jennifer about an hour each day. After a few days we finally did go home but no sooner did we arrive that the hospital called and said that Jennifer had gone into cardiac arrest and we should return immediately. We drove the two hours back to Tampa General Hospital and spent the rest of the day and that night in the waiting room. Jennifer had been revived but was still in a coma. For at least a week after that we refused to leave her. Mostly we stayed in the waiting room until they would allow us to go into the neo-natal unit and be with our baby girl. Sometimes they would allow us a few minutes even when they were not supposed to. We were told that we couldn’t sleep in the waiting room, so we would take turns sleeping in the car so that one of us would always be there.

Then the day came when we were told that they would allow Jennifer to wake up. We both stood at the side of the incubator for several hours before her little body, still attached to all kinds of tubes and wires, started to move - the first movement we has seen of her My wife squeezed my hand. Then Jennifer cried, a soft cry, but the most beautiful sound we could ever hope to hear.

As the days passed we were allowed to touch Jennifer through the holes in the incubator. As I touched my little girl’s hand, her tiny fingers wrapped around my own finger and she refused to let me go. Somehow she knew who I was and that we loved her and she didn’t want to let us go.

As coincidence would have it, at the incubator beside Jennifer was a little boy born prematurely to a friend of ours (Terri Simpson) from Plant City. At the time following my discharge from the army we were renting property from her father. But only a few days after he was born he passed away. I never even knew if he was given a name as the sticker on the incubator only said “baby Simpson” But I’ll never forget the look on Terri’s face as we watched from across the room as they told her that her little boy had passed away, as the color drained from her face and the anguish physically overwhelmed her…a bleach blonde teenager mother already experiencing a pain that no mother should ever have to know.

As the weeks passed Jennifer grew stronger and one by one they began to remove the tubes and wires that had sustained her. Soon we would be allowed to hold her for the first time. When that day came, my wife silently cried as she sat in a chair placed next to Jennifer’ crib and the nurse gently placed our daughter in her open arms. All else ceased to exist that moment. Then came my turn. I can still remember the anxiety and fear as if it were yesterday. It was one day after my 19th birthday when I nervously took that precious gift into my arms and marveled as she wiggled, then opened her eyes to look up at me – for the first time I realized that she has my eyes, that she was truly daddy’s little girl. Then, like a little angel she snuggled up and went to sleep in my arms.

About a week later we were finally able to take Jennifer home. She was strong and she grew healthier each day. But the botched birth had its consequences and we knew that she had suffered brain damage. To control the frequent seizures we had to give her liquid Phenobarbital several times a day. Because of the medication Jennifer slept a lot and rarely cried, others noticed but were too polite to comment.

With the pride of new parents we left the hospital with our baby girl and went straight to my parents to show her off. That is where that picture, that I now so dearly treasure,
Was taken – Kathy Marie proudly holding Jennifer on the front lawn of my father’s house.

Many moons have passed since then and yet each time I look at that picture I’m transported back into time, to that moment. A little over a year later we had our son Daniel Brian, who was born perfectly healthy. A week after the divorce was final, my ex-wife remarried. Because I refused to take part in the divorce proceedings or even go to court, my ex-wife was given sole custody. A few months later I learned that she then allowed her sister to legally adopt our son.

From that year on I have been almost continuously incarnated, with the exception of just a few months in early 1982, the again in early 1983. in February 1983 the deaths of Aleisha Bryant and Lawrence Lamberson resulted in these capital charges being brought against me. By early 1984 I was on death row, where I have remained ever since.

Through the years I often tried to find ways to get in touch with my children. But I wasn’t able to hear even so much as a rumor. Either my family, the few who stayed in touch, did not want to tell me, or my children had fallen of the face of the earth.

Years and years passed but I never gave up. Often I would write letters to radio shows, asking them to play songs and make dedications. One nationally syndicated radio show “ Delilah after Dark” would sometimes read my letters on the air, then play a song for “Nikki” Each time I hoped that she would hear it, but she never did.

The in the summer of 2003 a friend suggested I get someone to look at state records on the then new “internet” For months I saved every cent I could with the hopes of hiring an investigator, only to have it come back with no “Lambrix’s” in state records under either Jennifer’s of Daniel’s name. But then I found out that they could also search state records for just their first names and dates of births. Again I anxiously
Waited for news from the investigator.

Exactly five years ago this week the letter arrived from the investigator. A single sheet of paper with two names and addresses, the only two matches – but they matched perfectly! My little girl “Nikki” was now 24 years old and lived only a few miles away. Her last name had been changed, but everything else matched.

It took me days to write and rewrite that first letter. What if it wasn’t her, but just by coincidence another Jennifer Nicole with the same date of birth? Jennifer was a common name. I began the letter with an apology if I was wrong, but that “you
might be my daughter” I sent her a poem that I had written many years before just for her. Then I waited. What if it was her but she didn’t want anything to do with me?

Several weeks slowly passed and each day my hope faded. Then there was a single small envelope from the Jennifer I had written. I nervously held it, afraid to open it for fear of the response within. I sat on the edge of my bunk just looking at the envelope and then finally I opened it. Only a single folded page within, and as I pilled it out I prepared myself for the rejection.

Then there it was in my hand, unfolded. And it began “Dear Daddy” and I cried. Like the scribble of a young child, it was difficult to read. But it was her – it was my little girl and she was happy to hear from me and wanted to get to know me. A few days later I got another letter from my ex-wife. They had moved to the adjacent county in 1986 when she remarried (for the 4th time) and had been living just a few miles away all these years. She explained how Jennifer had suffered permanent brain damage and was mentally handicapped, with the functional capacity of somewhere between a child and a young teenager. She didn’t think it was in Jennifer’s interest to know me since I was on death row, as they assumed I would be executed and Jennifer couldn’t deal with that.

But Jennifer got my letter and wanted to get to know me. Through the next few weeks we exchanged several more letters. Then my parents offered to help by picking Jennifer up when they came to visit so we arranged to get Jennifer on my visiting list. Before long, there she was - after all these years I was having a visit with my daughter. As she came into the visiting room I gave her a big hug as if I didn’t want to let her go. Her smile lit up the room and she giggled as only little girls can do. Then we talked for hours and she told me about the little kitten she had and the movies she liked and the friends that she had known forever and on and on, and throughout it I could only smile.

In recent years we had many more visits. I came to know that more than anything else she just wanted to have a normal life. She wanted a boyfriend, then a husband and a family of her own. And I just wanted her to be happy.
Last year she met someone she fell in love with. Now 29 years old, although limited, she is capable of independent living. She wanted to be loved and he loved her. He too has limited mental capacities, but able to work a job and drive a car. Suddenly I realized my little girl was grown up. After so many years of praying that I could be part of her life, she now wanted more…she wanted to be Billy’s wife.
How could I let my little girl go? But it wasn’t my choice. What mattered most is that she would be happy. Jennifer and Billy married and I haven’t seen her since. They had moved further away to be closer to where Billy worked and with a very limited income, they simply couldn’t afford to visit.

A few months ago Jennifer gave birth to her first child, a healthy little girl they named Sarah Anne. Now I anxiously await the day that I might meet my new grand daughter, knowing that it may be some years. But like with my daughter, I will not give up hope, because I know that as long as hope remains the impossible might yet happen. It pains me to know that my little girl now must struggle just to pay the bills and yet there is nothing I can do. I assure them that I understand that they can’t afford to visit and I will be patient. But in my heart of hearts, it cuts to my soul knowing they are so close and yet so far away. And each day I pray the day will come when I get to see my little girl – and my granddaughter, and I will.

Mike, Jennifer and Sarah Anne, January 2009

To Live & Die on Death Row

2009-01-04T10:32:00.000-08:00

There’s a song I recall from many, many moons ago in a life now far, far away ~ the words still haunt me from time to time, and I smile… “Once was the thought inside my head, before I reach 30 I’ll be dead…” At 48 years old now. I’ve spent almost my entire adult life in a solitary cage on Florida’s death row. Doing life on death row isn’t about living at all, but about dying slow, a day at a time. If there’s anything even harder than living alone, it’s got to be dying alone, as I only exist in a very small world where death is the only absolute reality and everything else is just part of that path getting there.
But there’s many kinds of deaths ~ there’s the death of the body and the death of the soul. There’s a point man can reach when even physical death is seen as a blessing, as a means in which to end a nightmare that has no end. I remain alive only because I still have the strength within me to cling desperately to the remnants of hope that pass my way. But perhaps hope is the greatest deception of all ~and the loss of hope the cruelest death. I’ve seen it only too often, men I’ve know for years slowly broken down by the existence in this artificial environment until you can see it in their eyes ~ that dull look that means only one thing… they’ve given up hope and now await the fate of the condemned, a fate that ultimately becomes more of a mercy killing than an execution, as that physical death brings with it the promise of freedom from a fate far worse than death itself.
That’s what doing life on death row really is ~ it’s a fate worse than death. It’s being condemned not merely to death, but the torturous, methodical degradation of one’s humanity in a world designed to first break you down and make you something less than human before they finally strap that broken flesh to a cold chair or gurney and ritualistically terminate your existence. In truth, most of those ultimately executed at the hands of the state have already given up the ghost long before and have embraced death as the end of a long journey through a hell few could begin to imagine.

Hanging On To Hope
Each month all of us receive a slip of paper that advises us of any “gain time” we might have received that previous month. By law, the prison officials are required to do this, as well as provide the prisoners “presumptive release date” recalculated each month to reflect the deduction of any gain time that might have been awarded.
Every prisoner on Florida’s death row has a presumptive release date in the year 9999. That gives me only, 7992 years yet to go before my presently scheduled release and I’m already counting it down one day at a time. I’ve read in the Bible that Methuselah lived to the ripe young age of 969 years and that was thousands of years ago. So, with modern medical breakthroughs extending the average lifespan I figure I’ve got a good shot at it… all I’ve got to do is live to be at least 8,039 years old and then I’ll walk out the front gate a free man.
This is the kind of humorous “hope” that we cling on to. When these slips of paper are passed out each month, inevitably someone on the wing will holler out, “Hallelujah, baby ~ I’m coming home!” or just as often one guy hollering down the row for all to hear, “Pack your sh__, Bubba, they’re throwing you out.” And some laugh.
A lot of us talk about going home and in that stolen moment of fantasy we can see the green, green grass of home. For some, this hopeful fantasy evolves into a form of psychosis and they not only believe they’re soon going home, but know the exact date and when that date approaches they even give away their personal belongings and awake that particular morning and await the guards to escort them to the front gate. Reality is nothing more than what any of us chose to perceive it to be, and in their own little corner of their own little world , that’s their reality and in a way I truly do envy them as I remain trapped in my reality.
Through the years many have gone home, having proven before the courts that they were wrongfully convicted and upon that legal exoneration they won their freedom. There’s been more than I can remember, but knowing that there have been so many is, itself, a form of hope.
About five years ago or better a long time friend of mine, Juan Melendez, known affectionately to us as “Puerto Rican Johnny” was on the floor I was on. Johnny and I had lived in the same area out on the streets and we would often talk about places and even people we both knew. Johnny would show me pictures of the house he grew up in, of his elderly mother, and talk about how when he got out he would return home and take care of his mother.
Just before Christmas back then he got word that the lower state court threw out his convictions, recognizing that the state had illegally withheld exculpatory evidence. Mucho Macho Johnny cried that night and in our own way we all shared a tear with him. In the sixteen years that he lived among us, he became our brother. Then a few weeks after Christmas the warden came up on the floor and told Johnny to get his stuff as they were releasing him that day. Johnny’s cell was down towards the end of the hall and as he passed he spoke to each of us momentarily. As Johnny approached my cell I felt only joy ~ sharing his joy ~ as he told me, “Rum and coke, esso” … remembering our promise to have a drink in the free world . And then he was gone, but a part of each one of us walked out that front gate back into the free world with him.
Hope… yet another four letter word, a mistress that can and gladly will deceive and seduce you with her elusive charms. It’s that whisper of a promise that your time there will come too, that gives a man the strength to keep that hope alive. But when hope fails then that mistress can become the Angel of death as that lost hope becomes nothing more than the desperate last act at the end of the rope. And there are few things more despairing than to watch helplessly as the guards rush into a cell in the middle of the night and can be heard cutting a man down, then moments later passing by your cell with the cold body of someone you knew and lived among for years.

Rotting Away One Day At A Time
While hope is a stolen luxury that brings with it a fragile strength, death continues to be a reality that cannot be denied. For too many of us now doing life on death row this condemnation is about slowly growing old and rotting away until death claims us not at the hands of an executioner, but by “natural causes.”
Although I have now been on death row almost a quarter of a century, there are many who have been here much, much longer. After the Supreme Court threw out the death penalty in Furman v. Georgia (1972) Florida was the first state to rush newly written laws into effect to allow the continued use of capital punishment. Although these new laws didn’t pass constitutional challenge until 1976 in Proffit v. Florida, many of the men still on Florida’s death row today have been here since at least 1974.
When I was charged with the capital murder case that brought me here, I was 22 years old. Recently divorced at the time, I had three young children; my youngest barely a year old. I look in my mirror today and it’s hard to see that young man I once was, as the face looking back is that of a grandfather. My full head of hair is long gone and what hasn’t fallen out is turning gray.
I am not alone. Death by default that’s what it is. Too often when morally corrupt prosecutors know they cannot kill you, they will maliciously drag your case out until you simply die of old age. Under any circumstances living in solitary confinement under the stress of being condemned to death takes its toll upon the physical and mental health of even the strongest men.
Inevitably, we all grow old, and again, death is the only absolute reality. In a way I should consider myself lucky as at least I came to the row while still a young man. There are many more significantly older when they arrived and the years living in a cage were not as easy. For every man executed in the past 30 years, there’s been at least one other slowly rotting away and inevitably dying of old age.
I read recently in the past 10 years alone at least 30 men have died of “natural causes” on Florida’s death row. Some were of old age ~ others of various types of cancer… many I personally knew. With so many here now for well over 25 and even 30 years, death row is growing gray. At the front of each death row floor there is a handicapped cell intended to house the many who are already confined to wheelchairs. More than a few are now over 75 and will almost certainly slowly rot away and die in their cell as even if they lost all their appeals the governor would not sign a death warrant on them as it’s politically incorrect to put an old, physically disabled man to death ~ but it’s perfectly acceptable to, instead, let him rot away until he eventually dies.
In some cases this is actually by intent and purpose. I know at least a few here today who have lost touch with reality and if ever scheduled for execution the courts would be forced to reduce their sentence to life as it’s constitutionally prohibited to execute a person who has become legally insane. It’s also politically unacceptable to recognize their insanity and reduce their sentences to life. So that they can be transferred to a prison psychiatric unit and receive proper care. The solution is to simply ignore them ~ to deliberately let them rot away until they die in that cage. Inevitably they do… they always do.
But nobody cares. When was the last time you saw any newspaper talk about the many on death rows growing old and dying alone? Recently a national debate about the constitutionality of using lethal injection as a means of carrying out executions generated substantial media interest after Angel “Popo” Diaz was allegedly “tortured” to death by a botched execution and witnesses said it took at least 24 minutes to kill him…. 24 minutes.
But what of the many more who are slowly dying in their cells? If prolonging a man’s death for 24 minutes constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, then why can’t it also be argued that allowing a man to slowly rot away in solitary confinement for many decades until he dies is also cruel and unusual? As a presumably civilized society we are ultimately defined by the measure of humanity we show to others and yet nothing personifies that malignant evil within the heart of man than by looking at the inhumanity we so deliberately inflict upon the least of the least ~ and nothing in our contemporary society illustrates this truth better than the deliberate deprivation imposed upon the condemned ~ it’s not enough to want to take our lives, society demands that we must also suffer until we are slowly broken and then ~ for those who are lucky ~ something less than human is put to death.

From Cockroaches & Rodents to Rats & Snakes
When I first came to death row in March of 1984 this was a much different place ~ not only physically, but the mentality was different. At that time Florida’s main death row was at Florida State Prison, long infamous as the end of the line, where prisoners were warehoused when they could not be securely kept elsewhere. Physically, the wings housing death row were comparable to Third World living conditions. In the winter we froze and in the summer we boiled. With “open wings” (the interior of the wings open from the first tier all the way up to the third tier) it was noisy, as a hundred men would be yelling or watching TV or whatever. With no screens on the always broken windows, the wings were quite literally infested with cockroaches, rodents, even snakes, and birds ~ and then there were many wild cats that would come in to feed off the mice and rats.
But as bad as the physical conditions were it was a better place. In 1992 they built and opened a new building designed exclusively to house death row. Soon after the majority of the over 300 condemned were transferred to this “Northeast Unit” of the Union Correctional Institution. As I write this I can look outside the window on the catwalk and in the distance I can see the Florida State Prison ~ so close, and yet so far away.
At “FSP,” as we call it, there was a unity ~ even a “brotherhood” ~ that tied us all together. We lived in close proximity to each other and looked out for each other. If a guard came down and screwed with one of us without cause, he took on the whole wing. Although there were always a few assholes and idiots on both sides of the bars, most of us looked out for each other. Back then you knew the difference between a convict & an inmate and a correctional officer & a guard ~ and there is a world of difference. A convict is a stand up guy whose word is his bond and he knew enough to mind his own business and keep his mouth shut when he didn’t know something for a fact. An inmate was seen as a prison rat; the lowest form of life; worthy of no respect. An inmate was by nature unworthy of respect, he was the kind of guy who would lie, gossip, and backstab even his own best friend; often for no reason at all. Inmates were rare on death row back then.
Equally so, the difference between a corrections officer (known only as an “officer”) and a guard was like night and day. An officer came in to work his eight hours and go home ~ it’s just a job and he wasn’t going to take it personally. An officer had no personal malice towards the prisoners and didn’t go out of his way to provoke anyone. If he came in to do a cell search (“shakedown”) he did it without maliciously destroying your property and didn’t have to prove his manhood by being a jerk. Although avoided as much as possible, officers were respected ~ guards were not.
A guard was commonly referred to as inbred redneck scum, the kind of guy who got the job because he couldn’t work anywhere else. A guard didn’t just work eight hours ~ he lived the job and it ate him away like a cancer until all that was left was a bitter broken man who went out of his way to make everyone else miserable. He has malice in his heart and was looked upon with nothing less than contempt, not only by prisoners, but the officers who respected their job.
In those early years a man was allowed to do his own time. In the early 80’s we had only just began to see politicians begin to campaign on promises to lock up more people and make sure prisoners did “hard time.” Although physically our environment was deplorable, we would all gladly go beck if we could have all our privileges returned. Back then we had packages sent in from family and friends four times a year with personal clothes, shoes, cosmetics, maybe even a decent watch or ring and a nice radio. We were allowed to receive “hobby craft” packages monthly with materials for painting, crocheting, and all sorts of other stuff. All of that is long gone now ~ nothing comes in from the outside world anymore and anything we might get must be bought from the prison store at significantly marked up prices; the profits used to subsidize our incarceration, as the prison system has become a virtual industry with thousands of companies now dependant upon contracts they receive to provide everything from the food we eat to the toilet paper we wipe our asses with. It’s all about politics now.
Death row has changed, in every conceivable way. No longer is a man able to do his own time and mind his own business. A new generation has taken over and even so many of the old timer “convicts” are now nothing more than inmates themselves. Because of this death row has become hard time as now not only do we live in a much more deliberately segregated building with only 14 men on each closed run, but you learn to keep to yourself as the man you call a friend today will only too quickly backstab you tomorrow. Respect means nothing in this new generation. And it’s become a much lonelier place.

Watching the World Slip Away
I see that outside world only through the very limited media I’m allowed… a small TV, which the powers that be have determines necessary to prevent against insanity ~ if I were to go insane, then they could not kill me. A small “walkman” type battery powered radio, that doesn’t pick up any stations, and a few magazines and newspapers.
In my world there are no computers, no cell phones, and none of the electronic conveniences that most people take for granted. In the past 24 years I have not touched dirt or grass as our small fenced yard is nothing more than a concrete pad between two wings. I sometimes wonder if the moon and stars still exist as I haven’t seen the night sky in so many years it becomes hard to even remember it.
The deprivation of material those material things that most people simply take for granted out there in the real world certainly pale in comparison to those things that really do matter; especially in this world ~ those things that once separated make it seem that we are helplessly watching the world slowly slipping away.
It is the nature of prison to alienate a man from those he loves. For most, with very few exceptions, as the years pass the few family and friends that once stood by slowly drift away and move on with their own lives. Through the years I can count on the fingers of a single hand the number of death row prisoners who have had family consistently stand by them. Friends tend to drift away even quicker.
That’s not to say they deliberately abandon those they love at the time they need them most. I’d like to believe that most of our families and friends never intended to abandon any of us, but simply moved on and we became less and less of their lives. I’m personally blessed with a large family but haven’t had any communication at all with most of them for many, many years. Life out there in the real world doesn’t come to a stop just because we are no longer in it and as time takes its toll the distance becomes greater and before you know it you’re no longer part of their lives. That’s just the reality of doing time. Accepting that reality doesn’t make it any easier and many in here do turn cold and bitter as they’re abandoned by those who mean the most.
Most of us learn early on not to count on anyone other than ourselves. Contrary to a popular myth the prison doesn’t provide all our needs ~ at best, it provides only the absolute minimum and even then does so in such a way that encourages ~ if not coerces ~ each prisoner to actually purchase even the basic necessities from the prison store, as with each purchase the prison makes a substantial profit.
Without a friend or two outside willing to help prisoners ~ especially those on death row ~ can become even worse than what might be imagined. At least in general population most prisoners can work a job and “hustle” for what they need through a long established barter system. Death row prisoners are not allowed to work a job and have no means in which to barter ~ our only means of survival with minimal comfort is through the compassion and generosity of those who care about us.
As family and friends tend to drift away we are forced to try and reach out to new friends and establish new ties with that outside world. But there are many who hold nothing but malice in their hearts towards prisoners ~ especially death row prisoners ~ and have exerted political pressure to pass laws that now prohibit prisoners from placing personal ads that might allow them to meet new friends, perhaps even a girlfriend who might want to visit.
Florida is unique in the country in implementing these draconian rules prohibiting prisoners from attempting to meet new friends and the result can be seen ~ more and more. Those of us who have been here the longest are increasingly isolated from the free world; effectively abandoned and left to die alone. More and more I see strong men break down and give up, unwilling to have to beg their neighbors for a simple cup of coffee or bar of soap and slowly retreating into his own world of self consuming bitterness and anger and a fate far worse than death.
When it comes down to it, that’s what doing life on death row is really all about… it’s not about living, but about dying one slow day at a time. It’s about simply existing in a solitary concrete crypt. Increasingly isolated from all that really matters, of being methodically deprived of the most basic elements that make us human ~ companionship, compassion, and hope, as hope itself is dependent upon a reason to live.
As I am increasingly isolated from all that matters, that hope and will to live continues to erode ~ I’m not doing life on death row … I’m simply waiting to make my death final.