July 28, 2008
July 22, 2008
July 18, 2008
July 12, 2008
The Stranger
The person who wrote this blog entry isn’t really named “X,” but the Florida Department of Corrections doesn’t tolerate death row inmates maintaining a web presence. I began corresponding with X in January of this year, directly following The Supreme Court’s decision to rule in Baze v Rees, which subsequently generated a court enforced moratorium on all public executions. The essential premise to Baze was that The U.S. Constitution protects its citizens from being subjected to “Cruel and unusual punishments,” and the Baze defendant, a Kentucky death row inmate, presented the challenge that, based on recent botched executions across the country as well as the findings of doctors who’ve studied these cases, lethal injection constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. Of course, The Supreme Court ruled 7-2 against this premise and executions in this country have already resumed full force, including the recent state-sanctioned murder of a Florida death row inmate named Mark Schwab.
My decision to befriend X has certainly been a rewarding and enlightening one, and I envision the two of us being friends for as long as the ticking clock permits. And these blog entries, which consist of bits and pieces of our correspondence, are our way of collaboratively speaking out against capital punishment, by giving a face and a voice to inmates on every death row across the country. After all, there’s no guilt in murdering a nameless, faceless stereotype, but when it’s human blood on our hands…well, that’s a different story.
March 13, 2008
Dear Robert,
How goes it, my friend? I can’t sleep right now, because there’s a bizarre spectacle going on next door. Since taking my neighbor to the box, workers have been painting his cell, polishing the stainless steel, and putting in new lockers, a mattress, pillows, and a TV—all of which will be removed in a few hours. But, at this very moment there is a film crew shooting the cell from every possible angle, and the police are walking up and down the hall and opening and closing the cell door. I just heard the director tell the cops that they were awesome, and that their performance was Oscar worthy. Everyone is giggling, like Quentin Tarrintino just praised their performance. The plan is to shoot the yard next, and to have one of us out there. It won’t be me, Bro. Nobody’s asking, of course, but nothing in the world could compel me to volunteer. The way I understand it, the video is being filmed for use on the internet—perhaps on the DOC website that you mentioned in your last letter. That isn’t some anti-capital punishment outfit, where a man might actually gain a little sympathy. No, free world people tend to forget about those of us locked up in here, and I have no desire for anyone to see me and to ask themselves, “Isn’t that X? You mean to tell me they haven’t fried that guy’s ass yet?” Granted, I seriously doubt that judges ever have reason to access the DOC website, but I prefer to remain “Beneath the radar,” if you know what I mean. So, I figured why not write a few lines.
I finished reading Camus’ “The Stranger” last weekend and wanted to give you my opinion. First, this is an amazing work, especially coming from someone who’s never actually done time. In fact, there are parts that ring so true that it’s unreal, and the whole ordeal with his mother, at the front of the book, is right on the money. I don’t consider myself to be cold-hearted, but I’m not going to get emotional and break down in front of total strangers, either. I remember when my own mom died. The chaplain brought me out to his office for an obligatory phone call. Afterwards, he inquired concerning whether or not I wanted to talk, which I didn’t. Rob, I’m telling you that my mom’s death was a sledgehammer blow—not totally unexpected, but I was still feeling every single bit of it.
Anyway, the chaplain comments to the next guy in his office that I’m the coldest man he’s ever met (this is the caliber of chaplains that we have in prison). So, you can only imagine what type of problem this would be if this particular chaplain were ever called upon to testify as a character witness on my behalf, because his assessment isn’t even close to being accurate, but it would definitely be accepted. After all, he’s a chaplain. But you can’t win for losing in prison: if you’re calm, then you’re detached and not capable of experiencing human emotions, and you will hear many times that you feel no remorse for your crimes. But go ahead and show the slightest inkling of remorse and you’re a fraud, playing on the compassionate nature—which I assure you doesn’t exist—of the jurors. And it’s the same with guns: fire once and you’re a homicidal maniac who kills his victims execution style. Fire all six rounds out of a revolver and you’re a homicidal maniac who kills his victims execution style. How can it be both ways?
I’ll tell you a story. I fought my lawyer for years over mitigation, because I want to argue the issues, not to whine, “Oh, poor little me. Please don’t kill me, Mr. Judge, because I’m defective.” Do you think you’re ever going to find genuine mercy for someone like me in a judge’s heart? Not likely. My lawyer didn’t understand. In order to feel right about himself, he has to do everything in his power to help me. I get that now, but I didn’t necessarily get it 17 years ago. He felt like most guys on the row have a ton of mitigation, while mine was like nothing. But to me mitigation is still begging and making excuses, when all I have left is my integrity. And If I lose that, then I’m really fucked.
Anyway, my mitigation was basically that I went through the foster care system, and that I was adopted. Then they talked about me being in a bad car accident when I was 16, at which time I was severely injured and my girlfriend at the time was killed. I wasn’t driving, but still…This accident supposedly changed me and caused me to turn bad. Granted, it changed me, but it’s not like I would be in the White House now if it hadn’t been for a car wreck. My point is that the lawyers and the jury and the judges want you to be stuck in time. The state wants to act 17 years later like I’m still the same boy who experienced that wreck, and then they want to act like I’m still the same person who existed in January of 1991, during my original trial. In both cases the reality doesn’t exist. The “true you” will never get the opportunity to step foot inside a courtroom.
Hell, the prosecutor in the book suggests that the protagonist displays a complete disregard for human life, and this is coming from a man who’s working to have someone else’s head chopped off. My prosecutor says that about me as well. Frankly, I find the allegation offensive, but since no one seems to get that, I just suggest that the problem might be that the state taught me the value of a human life. These bastards get on TV and drink champagne to celebrate one of the people they prosecuted being executed. And when Old Sparky malfunctioned and they literally burned Tiny Davis alive, they made jokes. And like in Dostoevsky’s novel, they convert the guy before killing him, so they can feel good about saving his soul. Is all this crazy, or am I?
Camu is right about time behind bars, though: “The days are long, but the years are short.” Some days it’s like I’ve been locked in this cell forever, while other days it feels as though a minute has passed. And this is why the best, most accurate line in the novel is where the protagonist hopes there is a large crowd for the execution, and that their eyes are filled with hate. I laughed so hard that I nearly pissed myself. As long as you have that—that your being calm at the time of death is your last “Fuck you”—the thought of dying isn’t as scary. Perhaps not light as a feather, but do-able.
Best real-life line: a black prisoner who was here before my time—his name escapes me at the moment. When the warden asked what he wanted done with his body after the execution, he answered, “Why don’t you take it home for your kids to play with.” The book was an excellent read and the perfect birthday present, Bro. Thank you.
Sincerely,
X
