tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78894861315031234812024-03-05T22:33:53.577-08:00Death Row JournalsA collection of thoughts, opinions and essays by Michael Lambrix, on Florida's death row for 34 years
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger177125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-1864073704806967242018-12-22T00:55:00.004-08:002018-12-22T00:55:43.869-08:00The Christmas Card<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
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<span style="font-size: small;">Essay written by Mike in 2012 for <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">MinutesBeforeSix</a></span></span><br />
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At this time of year I find myself wondering what Christmas has become.
For almost 30 years now, I have been in continuous solitary
confinement, condemned to death. Here on Florida’s Death Row there are
no shopping malls or shiny decorations that have come to define the
holidays in the real world. I can watch it all on my TV, and if what
I’m watching is what Christmas out there in the real world is, then
maybe I’m more fortunate that those who have been consumed by
commercialism, and have lost sight of what it should mean.<br />
<br />
What are we really celebrating at this time of year? Don’t get me wrong
– I would give almost anything to spend Christmas with my children and
grandchildren, and see that magic sparkle in their eyes as they rip open
brightly colored packages stacked beneath a beautifully decorated
Christmas tree.<br />
<br />
And what very little I might still have left afterwards, I would
willingly surrender too, if only I could spend Christmas Day gathered
around Mom’s table with long-lost family as we share a traditional meal
while basking in the glow of each other’s company, as those are the
moments that memories are made of.</span><br />
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<br />
But for me, Christmas will be spent in a cage and there won’t be any
warm hearth, or gifts beneath a tree. I will spend my holiday alone just
as I have done for too many Christmas’s past and although it may be
difficult for others to understand, I still feel blessed to celebrate
Christmas in my own way.<br />
<br />
I came to Florida’s Death Row in March of 1984 and it’s that first
Christmas on “The Row” that I look back upon and remember. That was a
very hard year. In that first year, there were eight men here on The
Row put to death, one almost every month, and at a time when there was
barely 100 of us here. That number now has increased to almost 400,
with executions averaging two yearly.<br />
<br />
With so many facing imminent executions, the stench of death practically
hung over all of us like a toxic cloud, threatening to suffocate us.
My cell neighbor had been on The Row for about eight years at the time,
and throughout that first year James (J.D.) Raulerson looked out for me
and, as only condemned men living in close proximity can, we became as
close as family. He took me under his wing and generously and kindly
showed me the ropes.<br />
<br />
But just before the holidays, the Florida governor signed a “death
warrant” on J.D., and he was taken away to the death watch area to await
execution. His Christmas would be spent alone on the bottom floor of
Florida State Prison’s infamous “Q-wing,” a few feet away from the door
that leads into the execution chamber, and the following month, J.D. was
executed.<br />
<br />
Although I had sat in my death row cell as eight others were each put to
death, and executions were not unfamiliar to me, by the time that first
Christmas on The Row rolled around and J.D. was moved to death watch,
it hit especially close to home. He was the first one that I was
actually close to, though far too many others I came to later know as
both friends and brothers would follow through the years.<br />
<br />
That first Christmas on The Row was especially hard in part because I
still held on to the more traditional way in which most celebrate this
holiday. I missed being able to be with my loved ones and I could only
wonder how my children might be spending their Christmas that year as I
had no way to communicate with them, and hadn’t heard from them since my
arrest in early 1983.<br />
<br />
But that doesn’t mean that my family and friends were not in thought,
and each night I anxiously waited for the mail to come in, hoping upon
hope that maybe, just maybe, I might get a card or letter, but those
cards and letters didn’t come.<br />
<br />
Even as alone a condemned man might feel in that solitary cage, that
physical isolation becomes a distant second to the overwhelming sense of
abandonment one feels as each day ever-so-very-slowly drags by and that
mail you so anxiously hope will come doesn’t, and each day without a
word pushes you down further into an abyss of hopelessness and despair
that slowly kills you from within – one small cut at a time.<br />
<br />
Today I can look back and understand what I could not back then; that
what I felt was not at all unique amongst those I lived around. It is
part of the experience we all feel on The Row. When it comes down to it,
those who love and care about us in the world don’t know how to handle
our death sentences. When that sentence is imposed, there’s a
presumption of finality not unlike what families experience when they
learn a loved one has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Even those
who truly do love us often become uncomfortable and distant, unable to
cope with the impending loss of someone they love.<br />
<br />
For them, there is the added stigma of having a loved one convicted of a
heinous crime in the very community they, our families, must continue
to live in. It took me many years to see beyond the misery of my own
circumstance and come to understand that even as hard as it might be on
me, my conviction and condemnation was at least just as hard on those I
left behind.<br />
<br />
For the many months of that first year, J.D. was my mentor and source of
support and then he was gone. Many mornings I would awake, still
expecting to see his arm reaching around that concrete wall that
separated our cells, extending a cup of coffee or perhaps some kind of
snack – his way of inviting me to get up and talk a while. Although we
couldn’t physically see each other, as each solitary cell was only open
at the front, facing outward, being able to stand there at the front of
the cell and talk around that wall was a very real sense of communion
that we shared.<br />
<br />
Just that quickly, it was no more and in that month leading up to that
first Christmas, that cell remained empty, leaving me all but isolated
(as the man on my other side chose to keep to himself and would rarely
talk at all.)<br />
<br />
Perhaps I have always struggled with depression, although I can’t help
but wonder who wouldn’t if thrown into a solitary cell facing the
reality of death all around you. But that first Christmas had me
feeling especially abandoned and overwhelmed and I became almost
obsessed with questioning the “why” of it all. Finding few answers, I
contemplated whether I should take the easy way out, and if I could find
the strength to commit suicide. I did think about the many ways that
might be accomplished and, as those thoughts too often invaded my
overwhelming isolation, the person that I was back then would have
welcomed an end to what has become an ongoing nightmare.<br />
<br />
That Christmas of 1984 was on a Tuesday, just as it will be this year
(2012) and when the cards and letters I hoped to receive didn’t come by
that last weekend before Christmas, like too many others around me, I
clung on to the hope that they would come that Monday, Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
Then that Monday came and I was not the only one on the wing who
silently stood at his cell door hoping upon whatever measure of hope
remained that this night before Christmas would miraculously bring that
one card or letter from a loved one. It was almost a collective ritual,
as each of us anxiously watched that clock in anticipation for “mail
call.” We strained to hear the sound of those heavy brass keys as the
guard came down to open the inner catwalk gate that led into the
cellblock area, where he would slowly work his way down the wing, one
cell at a time, passing out the mail. The whole floor went quiet as
each of us anxiously waited for what we might receive.<br />
<br />
As the guard approached my cell that night, he stopped and I’m sure in
that moment my heart skipped a beat as I held my breath like a child
would if confronted by Santa Claus. I watched as the guard looked down
on his small stack of mail and silently picked up the top one, then
unceremoniously laid that one plain white envelope on my door and
without a word, walked away towards the next cell.<br />
<br />
I picked that envelope up from my door and looked to see from who it
might be, but there was no name or return address. I then looked at the
postmark and could see that it was mailed from Key Largo, Florida a few
days earlier, but I didn’t know anyone down in Key Largo.<br />
<br />
A small piece of scotch tape had been used to seal the envelope, and I
pulled it apart, then carefully reached in to pull the card out. It was
just a plain card sporting a modestly decorative pattern on the front,
with gold print letters that read, “Happy Holidays,” and inside, a
generic wish that the season would be joyful and not much more.</span><br />
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But then I read what was written inside – just three simple words, and
that was all… “I forgive you,” signed E. Banner. There was a moment of
confusion before that sank in, and then I realized what I was holding,
and I involuntarily sunk down upon my bunk. Sitting in silence, I stared
at that simple card for what may very well have been hours as the
passage of time became irrelevant…. “I forgive you.”<br />
<br />
That simple card was from the mother of the victim in the case for which
I now sat on death row. I recognized the name from court documents,
and as I understood it, “Chip” was her only child. Throughout my trial,
she never came to court and unlike the family of the young woman who
also died that night Ms. Banner never campaigned for or demanded my
death as the only acceptable measure of justice.<br />
<br />
I didn’t sleep that Christmas Eve and carefully laid that simple card up
on my small bookshelf and that night I laid there alone and in the
darkness and solitude that surrounded me, I cried for the first time in
too many years and then I got down on my knees and prayed to a God that I
had given up on. That night I found the words and in my own incoherent
way, I thanked Him for that card, and asked Him to touch Ms. Banner in a
special way.<br />
<br />
Not much is ever written about the personal persecution of condemned
men, but I’d like to think that I am not the only one who has often
struggled with an overwhelming sense of remorse for the tragedy that has
touched too many lives.<br />
<br />
But we live in a world in which the qualities that define what is good
in humanity are only too rare, and a condemned man reaching out to ask
for forgiveness is met with the heavy hand of scorn and impassioned
vengeance. How dare we ask, much less expect such. But that card was
sent on her own - from something within her – a quality that I can only
stand in awe and respect of, as in my entire life I have known so very
few people who had the strength and moral character to rise above their
own personal loss and suffering to reach out with such compassion and
forgiveness. <br />
<br />
What made this act of unsolicited compassion especially remarkable is
that she did not know what had actually happened that night that
tragically resulted in her son’s death. She knew only what the
prosecutor had told her, which now, many years later has been revealed
as fabrication (see <a href="https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/">https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/</a>)
When she wrote out that simple card, she had every reason to believe
that I had deliberately take the life of her child. In the years since,
it has been revealed that the prosecutor deliberately manipulated and
concealed crucial evidence while coercing false testimony that would
have substantiated my consistently pled claim of being involuntarily
compelled to act in self defense.<br />
<br />
For this reason, that simple card meant so much and as I sat in that
solitary cell that night before Christmas, I received a gift that I
could not have imagined, beyond even that measure of mercy and
compassion we all wish to receive from our fellow man, especially when
we find ourselves alone and overwhelmed and feeling like the whole world
is against us. There is no greater gauge of our humanity than
summoning the strength to forgive another, and it’s a quality that is
tragically too rare.<br />
<br />
As that Christmas came and went, that card remained on my bookshelf, and
countless times every day I would pick it up and read it again, and I
thought about how incredibly hard it had to be for her to write those
three words… “I forgive you.”<br />
<br />
That Christmas card was, for me, the very definition of Christmas. So
many get lost in the materialism of this spiritual holiday. But then
there are these moments when the magic of Christmas shines through and
in these moments we are blessed with the gift of being reminded of what
Christmas is really about and our faith in humanity can be renewed even
under the darkest circumstances.<br />
<br />
Few of us seem to find that measure of strength within ourselves to
forgive another, but I do believe that strength is within each of us,
and knowing only too well how that simple Christmas card touched me on
that Christmas so many years ago, it is my wish today that each of us
can find that strength within ourselves.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike</span><br />
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-81859464799285349762018-10-05T09:53:00.001-07:002018-10-28T09:59:03.767-07:00One Year Ago Today...<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
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<span style="color: #20124d;"> Mike was taken from us one year ago today, he is still missed. </span></h3>
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<span style="color: #20124d;"> We hold you close within our hearts,<br /> And there you will remain.<br /> To walk with us through out our lives<br /> Until we meet again</span></h3>
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<span style="color: #20124d;"> Rest in Peace dear friend..</span></h3>
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The following is an unpublished essay, written by Mike for <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2018/10/as-embers-of-hope-die-out.html" target="_blank">MinutesBeforeSix</a> </h3>
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As the Embers of Hope Die Out
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By Michael Lambrix<br />
<i>(Written August 2017)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Our beloved Mike was executed by the State of Florida on October 5,
2017. To honor his memory, we share with you this essay he wrote eight
weeks before his execution.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">What is hope? As a man condemned to death I´ve often confronted that
elusive question. But even after decades of desperately clinging to the
thing we call hope, I still cannot define it. One day it´s there and I
find strength from it, and, the next it´s not.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In my world, hope is the light keeping the darkness at bay. The warmth
of its fire keeps a man´s soul from growing cold, but like the flames of
a candle, it burns only as long as it has substance to feed upon. And
then the embers of hope die out and the darkness closes in around you.
And maybe that´s not such a bad thing. Darkness can become your only
true friend (read: <a href="https://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2014/06/hello-darkness-my-old-friend.html">“Hello, Darkness – My Old Friend”</a>)
as the overwhelming weight of not only physical, but emotional and even
spiritual loneliness closing in around you. The solitude of your mere
existence drags you down like an anvil as the powers that be cast you
into a bottomless sea of despair.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hope gives you strength to fight, to frantically claw your way back up
to the surface. As you break water, hope is the desperate gasp for air
before you´re dragged down again, and again, again.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe hope is best defined not by what it is, but by its absence, since
hopelessness weighs so much. During my three plus decades in solitary
confinement on Florida´s “death row,” I have been forced to confront my
own mortality too many times as my own date with death approached I’ve
also witnessed too many others take that last walk toward the other side
(read, <a href="https://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2016/01/execution-day-involuntary-witness-to.html">“Execution Day – Involuntary Witness to State Sanctioned Murder”</a>).
I know that while the physical deprivations might inflict pain upon
your flesh, such pain pales in comparison to the emptiness inside.
Psychological isolation, emotional abandonment and the absence of
someone to love and to be loved by inflicts the greatest pain. While
this environment might batter and bruise my fragile flesh, those wounds
will heal. But this living death becomes even worse than any concept of
hell. I hold such contempt for the concept of hope even as I struggle
to keep it from slipping away.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I wonder whether it´s a coincidence that the width of my
concrete crypt is six foot from wall to wall, the same as the depth of a
common grave. Or could it be by design? Could it be that long ago,
about the time I was conceived, those who laid the first concrete blocks
that would make up Florida State Prison somehow knew that I and others
would one day be cast down into the bowels of this beast where we would
remain? So many of us entombed as decade after decade would crawl by and
those around us would die off or mentally fade away one at a time. The
familiar faces would become fewer and fewer, until the number of those I
once knew would greatly outweigh the number of those I now choose not
to get to. I know that those I allowed myself to grow too close to would
one day be taken away, too, as that was the nature of the beast.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Increasingly, as the years slip away, there are many long nights when
I´m unable to sleep. In darkness I silently arise from the steel bunk
bolted to the wall. Before the catwalk lights come on and they run
breakfast, I sit on the edge of my bunk feeling empty and so alone. As
loneliness consumes both body and soul, I stand and move two short steps
toward the cold concrete wall. Press my back firmly against it and look
straight ahead towards the shadow on the opposite wall six foot away. I
imagine I am already dead, and find comfort in that illusion.
Inevitably I begin to see beyond the wall where the ground above my
imaginary grave gives way to the world beyond. Perhaps, if I stare long
enough, I can penetrate the barrier between what once was and could have
been my life, and death. I dare to dream of where I want to be: beyond
this living death.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But try as I might, the cold concrete wall never truly gives way. The
reality of its unyielding nature consumes me yet again. Deep down in my
tortured soul, I find myself seeking comfort not in the hope of freedom,
but in the freedom that might only come from mortal death. In death, I
hope, the misery of my existence might end.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At thirty minute intervals the guards make their “body check” rounds on
the outer catwalks to make sure that none of us actually drops dead.
It´s not uncommon for them to find one of us hanging from a homemade
sheet-rope. The heavy brass key turns the steel lock of the gate
leading onto the tier, and I hear the boot steps getting closer and
closer. The tell-tale wag of the flashlight dances through the darkness,
and I quickly move back to my bunk and pretend to be asleep until he
passes, wondering whether I am the only one that indulges in this
ritual. Maybe others around me do too.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A few minutes later, the guard has reached the end of the tier and
begins to walk back. I remain nestled in my bunk as if I had never moved
at all, and once again the beam of light breaks the darkness,
illuminating my solitary cell and quickly moving on to the next. The
boot steps fade and I wait for the distinctive sound of the brass key
turning the lock, knowing that I will have another 30 minutes before the
next unwelcome interruption. I arise, and take my place against the
wall once again, and resume my ritual of imaginary death.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Few understand that this ritual is not the abandonment of hope, but
rather the evolution of hope. In dreaming of death, I find a perverse
form of renewal – a sort of spiritual communion that gives me a newfound
strength. In those moments of embracing the step beyond this mortal
existence I can feel peace within that I´ve never felt in life. When I
allow myself to “die” for those few moments, I bring an end to pain and
suffering.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Funny thing about hope is – it´s not fixed in any objective definition,
but rather subject to interpretation. If you had asked me 30 years ago
how I defined hope, – I would have said that it was my belief in our
justice system, that truth would prevail resulting in my exoneration and
release. But now I know that innocence is irrelevant. The only thing
that matters is the politics of death and our courts will not hesitate
to put innocent people to death under the pretense of administering
“justice” (check out my website <a href="http://www.southerninjustice.weebly.com/">www.southerninjustice.weebly.com</a>).</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Once the courts had refused to allow review of my substantiated and
consistently pled claim of innocence, even as I came within hours of my
own scheduled execution, I found myself feeling betrayed by the concept
of hope that I’d held so desperately onto.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The years passed and I grew older and grayer, and was forced to confront
the truth. Each day that passed was one more day of my life lost
forever and there were now far fewer days left ahead than those behind.
I woke up one morning realizing that as of that day I had spent more of
my so-called “life” condemned to death than I’d spent in the free
world. That day was many years ago. My arrest was 11,785 days ago (34
years, 5 months, and 15 days as of August 17, 2017).</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hope either evolves or goes extinct. What we hoped for yesterday is not necessarily what we hope for tomorrow.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Through the years I´ve read many books and articles about the concept of
hope and how many find it through spiritual faith. I´ve come to accept
that no matter what life, or even death might throw at me, life remains
nothing more than the mortal confinement of an eternal soul. Attempting
to define hope within the limited parameters of this temporal existence
we call life only leads to disappointment. Often what we truly hope for
can never been accomplished in this life.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Recently I read a short story about a Hungarian doctor by the name of
Edith Bone, who, at sixty years old was imprisoned and thrown into
solitary confinement for seven years, but refused to be broken, as told
by author Michael Harris in his book <u>Solitude</u> (summarized in the June 2017 <i>Discover </i>Magazine):</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">“Dr.
Edith Bone has decided not to cry. On this autumn afternoon in 1956,
her seven years of solitary confinement have come to a sudden end.
Beyond the prison gates, the Hungarian Revolutions final, scattered
shots are echoing down the streets of Budapest. Inside the gates, Bone
emerges through the prison´s front door into the courtyard´s bewildering
sunlight. She is 68 years old, stout and arthritic. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Bone was
born in Budapest in 1889 and proved an intelligent – if disobedient –
child. She wished to become a lawyer like her father, but this
profession was closed to women. Her options were school-mistress or
doctor; she accepted the latter. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">The Great
War began soon after her graduation and so she went to work in a
military hospital. Perhaps it was there, seeing the suffering of the
poorer classes, that her communist sympathies bloomed; she watched an
illiterate soldier, a shepherd before the war, as he cried at the
window, cradling his shattered arm and worrying about his lost children.
He was only one broken man among many. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">After the
war, Bone devoted herself to political work in England for 16 years,
and it was this foreign connection that would excite suspicions of
authorities when she returned to communist Budapest in 1949. Secret
police stopped her at the airport on her way back to England. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Inside
headquarters, a slim man presented himself, decked in fine clothing and
smooth manners. He took her into his little office and told her they
knew she was a spy, an agent for the British Secret Service. “Until you
tell us what your instructions were, you will not leave this building.” </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Bone
replied, “In that case, I shall probably die here, because I am not an
agent of the secret service.” What followed – her seven years and 58
days of solitary confinement – is the stuff of horror films. She was
held in filthy, freezing cells, the walls either dripped with water or
were furred with fungus. She was generally half-starved and always
isolated except when confronted by guards. Twenty-three ill-trained
officers interrogated her with insults and threats – once for a 60 hour
stretch. For one period of six months, she was plunged into total
darkness. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">And yet
her captors received no false confessions, no plea for mercy; their only
bounty was the tally of her insolent replies. It became a kind of
recreation for Bone to annoy the prison authorities on the rare
occasions when she saw them. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">But
Bone´s most extraordinary strategy was not the way she toyed with her
captor, it was the way she held sway over herself – the dogged
maintenance of her own sanity. From within that forced void she slowly,
steadily, built for herself an interior world that could not be
destroyed or stripped from her. She recited poetry, for starters,
translating the verses she knew by heart into each of her six languages.
Then she began composing her own daggered poems. One, made up during
her six months without light, praised the saving grace of her “dark-born
magic wand.” </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Inspired
by a prisoner she remembered from a Tolstoy story, Bone took herself on
imaginary walks through all the cities she´d visited. She strolled the
streets of Paris and Rome, and Florence and Milan: she toured the tier
garden in Berlin and Mozart´s residence in Vienna. Later, while her feet
wore a narrow furrow into the concrete beside her bed, she set out in
her mind on a journey home to London. She walked a certain distance
each day and kept a mental record of where she´d left off. She made the
trip four times, each time stopping when she arrived at the Channel, as
it seemed too cold to swim. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Bone's
guards were infuriated, but she proved proficient in the art of being
alone. They cut her off from the world and she exercised that art,
choosing peace over madness, consolation over despair, and solitude over
imprisonment. Far from being destroyed, Bone emerged from prison, in
her own words, “a little wiser and full of hope.”</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Each time I read a story about how another did not merely survive, but
found the strength to overcome such imprisonment – others such as Nelson
Mandela, Victor Frankl, Deitriech Bonnheifer and so many more – I am
inspired. I believe that within each of us we have the strength to
overcome and even master anything this life throws at us.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Like Edith Bone, when fate and circumstance cast you down into the
bowels of a physical, or even mental prison, escaping that reality is
the key to surviving. No matter how much steel and stone they build
around us, no matter how contained our bodies may be, our mind and
imagination give us the power to rise above and beyond it all.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hope is not something set in stone, but rather <i>intangible</i>, even
indescribable, the quality that allows us to find the strength to not
merely survive, but emerge with our mental capacity still intact and
even enhanced.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Reality becomes what we choose it to be – imagination becomes our ticket
to “freedom.” In the early years dreams of being free and with my
family kept me going. I dreamt of all the things we would do together if
I had the opportunity to be part of their lives again.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But as the years passed, dreams of family drifted further and further
away. I found my solitary life to be ever more alone. The absence of
emotional interaction slowly eroded the way I once defined hope, making
it evolve into what it is today: an acceptance that I am and will always
be alone.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As each appeal fell on deaf ears, each one a step of the journey, I grew
that much closer to accepting the likelihood of being put to death for a
crime I did not commit. Once the Florida governor signed an active
death warrant on me (which I remain under and my execution could be
rescheduled any time) I became even more determined not to allow death
to hold any power over me – not to even allow myself to fear death.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And so, once the hope of my physical freedom faded away like the dying
embers of a fire, I chose to embrace darkness, indulging in my imaginary
death. When my actual death comes at the hands of these
state-sanctioned serial killers, they will hold no victory, no cause to
celebrate. When my time comes, I will embrace my death just as I do in
the darkness of these nights, knowing without doubt, that my spiritual
consciousness will then find freedom beyond this thing we call life.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-end-</div>
<div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzj-cclxnjQyQJNALzvKK6D7mJhujdseWBqqgvpvOs6Wv54daRxEZaHMrJOMRz0axe9SY7skEDmB-ZM66pBcnjDDYKDqrOCfswJ0fvN8PqREsvabv0ZUtqaX-tHm6jsCy2PKANK2KOHw/s1600/SCN_0042.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="577" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzj-cclxnjQyQJNALzvKK6D7mJhujdseWBqqgvpvOs6Wv54daRxEZaHMrJOMRz0axe9SY7skEDmB-ZM66pBcnjDDYKDqrOCfswJ0fvN8PqREsvabv0ZUtqaX-tHm6jsCy2PKANK2KOHw/s320/SCN_0042.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Lambrix was executed <br />
by the State of Florida <br />
on October 5, 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-7821682678627209492018-09-24T02:09:00.002-07:002018-10-06T00:21:06.940-07:00Exhibition in Nobel Peace Centre (Oslo, Norway)<span style="font-size: large;">"Tell The World About Us" Exhibition in Nobel Peace Centre (Oslo, Norway) about prisoners around the world and on death row in USA. Pictures of Mike Lambrix were included.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVAyQNjQ4suL7t3F_CT7LHJJNjmUePAfJ23kJb3oTOSE1SJtGfq2TBr6uy82IaAB_8JLklOCJlu7J_g5tnAW5gmlbNki19szwIfH1ZLhfJEUu-G855htQLxnvwNIzIEEYQmKyO-P2D7_Y/s1600/img-6813_orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="579" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVAyQNjQ4suL7t3F_CT7LHJJNjmUePAfJ23kJb3oTOSE1SJtGfq2TBr6uy82IaAB_8JLklOCJlu7J_g5tnAW5gmlbNki19szwIfH1ZLhfJEUu-G855htQLxnvwNIzIEEYQmKyO-P2D7_Y/s400/img-6813_orig.jpg" width="288" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Through the bars of his solitary confinement cell in a detention centre
for political prisoners, a prisoner pushed a piece of paper into the
hand of photographer Rune Eraker. There was just one sentence written on
it:<br /> <i> <b> "Tell the world about us"</b></i><br />This
was in 2001. A decade and a half later, Rune Eraker embarked on a four
year project in which he sought out forgotten prisoners and others who
had had their freedom snatched away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This exhibition is about them, <br />those who are imprisoned,
isolated, tortured, steam rollered and sentenced - in the worst cases,
to death. Some for what they believe in.Others are victims of unjust
laws, prejudice, politics, regimes, violence, religion of the
devastation of war.<br />But the exhibition is also about strength. About courage, the capacity to suffer and endure.</i> </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.save-innocents.com/news/review-of-tell-the-world-about-us-an-insightful-photo-exhibition-about-prisoners-around-the-world-and-on-death-row-in-the-usa" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">https://www.save-innocents.com/news/review-of-tell-the-world-about-us-an-insightful-photo-exhibition-about-prisoners-around-the-world-and-on-death-row-in-the-usa# </span></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-67653735951518474542018-08-27T07:54:00.000-07:002018-08-27T07:55:18.174-07:00Death by Default <h2 class="date-header">
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Written by Mike </span>Monday, 16 February 2009</span></span></h2>
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was sentenced to death over 24 years ago, in my ignorance I
thought my fate might lie in “Old Sparky,” Florida’s then infamous
electric chair. I didn’t realize that the reality is that most of those
condemned to dearth are not condemned to die at the hands of the state,
but slowly rot away in solitaire confinement until they inevitably die
of “natural causes.”<br /><br />Recently several newspapers have reported
that in the past decade more men on death row have died of natural
causes than of actual executions. According to these published reports
at least 29 men have died on Florida’s death row in recent years while
waiting their judicially imposed date with death -- a few more have been
stabbed by other prisoners and at least one (Frank Valdes) was beaten
to death by prison guards. See, Valdes v. Crosby, 450 F. 3d 1231 (11th
Cir. 2006).<br /><br />The truth is that increasingly those sentenced to
death are more likely to slowly die of old age than by execution.
Although the state sanctioned serial killers (politicians and judges who
exploit the death penalty to advance their own pathetic careers)
constantly cry about speeding up executions – most of this is rhetoric –
the truth is that they actually only want to speed up executions
against those they believe they can actually execute… and many of those
presently sentenced to death cannot be executed without controversy that
would undermine the credibility of the death penalty itself. See,
Justice Delayed Is Justice Denied.<br /><br />That’s the dark secret of the
death penalty in America – when the judicial system screws up and
sentences someone to death who legally should not have been sentenced to
death; then what do you do with him? In Florida, and many other states,
it’s become death by default -- killing the condemned when they cannot
be executed by simply letting them slowly rot away in a solitary cage
until they die of old age, or other convenient “natural cause.”<br /><br />Earlier
today on the wing adjacent to the one I am warehoused on the guards
were making their routine rounds when they discovered death row inmate
Jack Farrell laying dead in his cell. Preliminary examinations indicate
that Jack, a longtime diabetic, died of a massive heart attack. Another
dead of “natural causes” after many, many years of waiting for his court
ordered death sentence.<br /><br />Down the hall from me just a few cells
away a man I’ve known many years is slowly dying of cancer. Henry Garcia
has been locked up almost his whole life. Now well over 50, he has
almost nobody other than the friends he has in here. That’s the nature
of the beast – as the years pass the condemned become increasingly
isolated from the free world. Both family and friends drift away and we
find ourselves abandoned and forgotten. <br /><br />When
Henry was told that he had cancer they also told him that it was
decided by the medical department that it was not “cost effective” to
treat him – that the prison would not even attempt to fight the cancer,
but would only let him die… death by default. Now Henry must face a slow
but inevitable death alone in his solitary cage – and somehow this is
supposed to be “humane.”</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsGUeTQAbruFMLqKSPlN5ub4cITzg4QEJ9yEbWdJ-IQDigJdCdfCSRCBzTPUtx6obAzOZz0xhzIRNiDb6OBsmOwDawPcQZpZi7rhkHTiH0lfxreCjve-LtSIKDpv4LFsQkvLUFTXvvlLP/s1600/garcia_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsGUeTQAbruFMLqKSPlN5ub4cITzg4QEJ9yEbWdJ-IQDigJdCdfCSRCBzTPUtx6obAzOZz0xhzIRNiDb6OBsmOwDawPcQZpZi7rhkHTiH0lfxreCjve-LtSIKDpv4LFsQkvLUFTXvvlLP/s1600/garcia_h.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Henry died November 2009, read here Mike's essay about <a href="http://deathrowjournals.blogspot.com/2017/11/thanksgving-with-henry.html" target="_blank">Thanksgiving with Henry</a></span><br /><br />Maybe that’s what bothers me the most…
we are supposed to be a Christian society, a society that values
compassion and humane treatment, and yet we will deliberately turn a
blind eye towards the inhumanities that exist in our own backyard.<br /><br />Maybe
if Henry was a mangy stray dog starving on the street then someone
might care enough to show him compassion. Am I the only one that’s
bothered by the fact that my friend Henry Garcia has now effectively
been thrown out alongside the road and left to die while the world races
by?<br /><br />Equally so, what does it say about our system when we allow a
man to simply rot away, deliberately deciding that he is not worth
saving? How would any one of us feel if we went to our doctor today and
were told that we had cancer – but that the doctor decided it was not
“cost effective” to treat us and that we have already been given up for
dead? How can we call ourselves a humane and civilized society when
bureaucrats, who are more concerned with their budget than the patient’s
life, decide the value of any person’s life?<br /><br />If I had access to a
telephone, I would personally call the Florida Department of
Corrections appointed secretary Jim McDonough and ask him why prison doctors are refusing to treat Henry
Garcia – why they have decided to simply let him die. But death row
prisoners in Florida are not allowed to use the phone, so I can’t…<br /><br />You
have to excuse my ignorance, but even after spending my entire adult
life in a cage in solitary confinement condemned to death for a crime I
did not commit, there’s still a part of me that believes that there is
good in each of us… that there are still people who are compassionate
and do care, even about the welfare of the least of our society. That
I’m not the only one who finds it morally offensive that any man should
be abandoned and left to die alone. I’ve seen the worst of humanity and
lived among the evil incarnate. But I’ve seen men society labeled as
monsters show genuine compassion for those they live among while the
world outside relentlessly gathers in glorified lynch mobs slobbering at
the mouths while screaming for our deaths.<br /><br />Now I look around me
at the world I remain condemned to and I see what society doesn’t want
to acknowledge… I see that the malice society has for the lowest of low
has reached new heights, as society remains deliberately oblivious to
the fact that more and more of those we condemned to death decades ago
are rotting away and left to die of “natural causes” when they cannot be
killed quick enough by the hands of the State.<br /><br />And nobody cares.
What could be more inhumane than to deliberately confine a man to a
cage for decades (many now in excess of 30 years!) and when unable to
quickly carry out his execution instead let him slowly rot away until he
dies? To be deliberately isolated from the free world, abandoned and
forgotten by society and given up for dead as if your life means
nothing? Henry Garcia is only one of many others presently condemned to
the same fate – death rows across the country have hundreds of condemned
men and women perhaps even thousands, who will never actually face
execution, but will be left to slowly rot away in their solitary cage
until they die. Death by default is America’s new means of carry out the
death penalty and this form of execution is administered not in
minutes, not in hours, or ever months, or years – but in decades. It is a
slow and methodically torturous death that is designed to kill the
man’s soul long before the body finally gives up the ghost.<br /><br />Is
this what we, as a self-proclaimed “civilized” society intended? As a
matter of moral conscience shouldn’t it bother us that another human
being has now been left to die in a such a manner? If these men were
dogs, every animal rights group in the country would beat the hates of
the prison down to save them – why is it so hard for people to show that
same measure of compassion to another human being? As Henry Garcia now
slowly dies alone and abandoned by the world beyond, his inevitable
death will remain as a commentary on the kind of society we have become –
and perhaps that is the greater tragedy. <br /><br />Michael Lambrix </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDixTBUi7DZA9JxUdRVjuI2B2wQX3LoFYKJ0Af3MZlW1qeC6FgPhqnAVm45bW5yMb90oBdTftEonnc9VEl8Azwj8813auEmENKfV87rl25o-RYWb1yHiQyw5AVIPbAm2iYbtzOIjXpejmk/s1600/5538a7890e9c4ac3acd80c11631c7d65.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="840" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDixTBUi7DZA9JxUdRVjuI2B2wQX3LoFYKJ0Af3MZlW1qeC6FgPhqnAVm45bW5yMb90oBdTftEonnc9VEl8Azwj8813auEmENKfV87rl25o-RYWb1yHiQyw5AVIPbAm2iYbtzOIjXpejmk/s320/5538a7890e9c4ac3acd80c11631c7d65.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;">(Mike was executed by the state of Florida on October 5, 2017)</span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-66194699669398463872018-06-29T05:31:00.000-07:002018-10-28T10:02:31.158-07:00To Live & Die on Death Row<span style="font-size: large;"> Written by Mike in January, 2009</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hanging On To Hope </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Rotting Away One Day At A Time</b>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.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJZD0OjTRK-WysiNyPK5pfXcW0BQdyfbG17gx-D5gNKAledlaRPK5co1AoRF8GIaA3LBzUcMfQFLn-oG6ddEXKgjn9HLo8Hxwah9_WvDbsAy1IfP9DD5tGPfyZxhGkR6tV49sGnRkJ7R7/s1600/A4S_lambrix032716d_16922518_8col.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="684" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJZD0OjTRK-WysiNyPK5pfXcW0BQdyfbG17gx-D5gNKAledlaRPK5co1AoRF8GIaA3LBzUcMfQFLn-oG6ddEXKgjn9HLo8Hxwah9_WvDbsAy1IfP9DD5tGPfyZxhGkR6tV49sGnRkJ7R7/s320/A4S_lambrix032716d_16922518_8col.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Mike shortly before being </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="st">incarcerated</span></span> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5fIOwgnEJUWLDLD-z8KDchNBtxHTXu7uS7ahN9Sc-lxqGZhUq-T2s2pqMLav-EieE0nFsPxWctZzPXSdtNrnjQWWagqRzXWYgZtWyyirBagT8U9VwJOtmAzSAImwzXp_fe29IcE5GXux/s1600/Mike-Lambrix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="577" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5fIOwgnEJUWLDLD-z8KDchNBtxHTXu7uS7ahN9Sc-lxqGZhUq-T2s2pqMLav-EieE0nFsPxWctZzPXSdtNrnjQWWagqRzXWYgZtWyyirBagT8U9VwJOtmAzSAImwzXp_fe29IcE5GXux/s320/Mike-Lambrix.jpg" width="207" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> Mike in 2009</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>From Cockroaches and Rodents to Rats and Snakes</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r1AI8ILondqRizJXHniZEphvdszs0t-Qe3X_LposYoIuvLxyJj2WlfLeL_9q86Kd1EWxR63eeJVNTkeHS4-97mD4CUumtLqTl6yth-2f7pJqSn0gOOP1mRvpRAewfRMjz0RiCLdt8vvX/s1600/FSPraiford.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="540" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r1AI8ILondqRizJXHniZEphvdszs0t-Qe3X_LposYoIuvLxyJj2WlfLeL_9q86Kd1EWxR63eeJVNTkeHS4-97mD4CUumtLqTl6yth-2f7pJqSn0gOOP1mRvpRAewfRMjz0RiCLdt8vvX/s320/FSPraiford.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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 and an inmate and a
correctional officer and 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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Watching the World Slip Away</b>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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike Lambrix</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike's website: <a href="https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Southern Injustice </a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-59730426568171964282018-04-17T00:49:00.000-07:002018-10-28T10:03:48.706-07:00Execution Day – Involuntary Witness to Murder<br />
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">The PEN Prison Writing Contest just released the winners for the 2017-18 contest and Mike placed third in the essay category with this essay. </span></b></i><br />
<br />
Written for <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.gr/" target="_blank">MinutesBeforeSix</a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As if a scene straight out of The Twilight Zone, circumstances trapped
me within the cold and calculated process that resulted in the murder by
state sanctioned execution of Oscar Ray Bolin on January 7, 2016. In
all the years I´ve been on Florida´s death row, I´ve never been in such
close proximity to an execution as it unfolded around me, forcing me to
become part of the very process that they intended to then subject me to
in precisely five weeks’ time.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
On November 30, 2015, Florida Governor Rick Scott signed my death
warrant and I was immediately transferred from the main death row unit
at Union Correctional (less than a mile away) to the “death watch”
housing area on the bottom floor of Q-Wing at Florida State Prison. I
joined Oscar down there—his own death warrant had been signed about 5
weeks earlier and they intended to murder him on January 7. There are
only three cells in the death watch area, and Oscar was in cell one, and
I was place in cell three, with an empty cell separating us.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Through those five weeks, each day brought him closer—his wife of almost
twenty years solidly by his side, uncompromised in her commitment to
stand by him and prove that he was innocent. And those familiar with the
case knew that recently developed evidence did establish a persuasive
issue of innocence, too.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
His final rounds of appeals focused specifically on evidence supporting
his innocence and the hope that the courts would do the right thing. As
the New Year weekend passed, the Federal District Court summarily denied
review of his innocence claim upon the finding that the lower Federal
Court didn´t have jurisdiction to hear his claim of innocence. But there
was hope, as the District Court granted a “Certificate of
Appealability” (“C.O.A.”) authorizing appellate review before the
Eleventh Circuit, and soon after the Eleventh Circuit issued an order
establishing a “briefing schedule” in March…it seemed all but certain
that Oscar would be granted a stay of execution and his claim of
innocence would be fully briefed and heard by the appellate court.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Monday, January 4 passed as he anxiously awaited word that a stay of
execution would be granted, but there was only silence from the court.
Each day his wife spent every minute she could and it is impossible to
imagine the pain she felt—she too was unquestionably a victim caught up
in this cold process that unfolded around her.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I sat in my solitary cell not more than ten feet away and found myself
impressed with the strength Oscar exhibited, and the concern he held for
his wife and what this process inflicted on her. Society wanted to
label this man a cold-blooded killer, yet if only those only too willing
to throw stones could see the desperate concern he had for his wife,
they could see how wrong they are.</span></div>
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</span>
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</span>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Now I struggle to find the words—and with a reluctance to even write
about what I involuntarily witnessed. But if I don´t, then who will? And
is it really fair that the record of what transpired would otherwise be
the state´s own version, leaving no perspective from those that they
kill?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnOoSMzr2h5jIGfWod96O5tils03zF5uVpi6goeeq5Wim3e4WhAFrwdA-SXePIOnmlnnT4s9Evm5J4DCa6CHiCnX2qQEvqWVFhoj3CWbY8PojeBvhXvHNGIIgpPvKrUNCGrWfID3QFOPb/s1600/bolin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="634" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnOoSMzr2h5jIGfWod96O5tils03zF5uVpi6goeeq5Wim3e4WhAFrwdA-SXePIOnmlnnT4s9Evm5J4DCa6CHiCnX2qQEvqWVFhoj3CWbY8PojeBvhXvHNGIIgpPvKrUNCGrWfID3QFOPb/s320/bolin.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
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</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I must emphasize that even as much as these events impacted me due to my
close proximity to this process, it is not comparable to what they were
forced to endure, and the loss those who loved Oscar Bolin suffered. My
attempt to share what transpired from my own unique perspective is done
in the hope that perhaps by bearing witness, others would see just how
incomprehensibly inhuman this process is, and how truly cold-blooded
this act of murder is…and to know it is carried out in all of our names.</span></div>
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</span>
<br />
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</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
And I apologize for rambling on—it is not easy for me to find the
necessary words. I can only hope that I can convey the true impact of
what unfolded and compel those that read this to ask themselves whether
this truly is what we aspire our society to be? It´s easy to justify the
death penalty by claiming that it is in the interest of justice to kill
those convicted of killing another—to become a killer ourselves. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
But how many give a thought at all to just how much contemplation is put
into this process employed to take that life? I am again reminded of
what I once read, written by the philosopher Frederick Nietzsche,
“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a
monster.”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Think about that. It´s easy to dismiss what I say by blindly insisting
that a jury convicted Oscar Bolin of murder and that justice demands
that society take his life. But really—who is actually investing more
conscious thought into the act of taking a human life?</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
It is for this reason I´m determined to share my own unique perspective
of what this process is, and how by these very actions it reduces
society itself to that very level of becoming “the monster.” Perhaps in
my attempt to share this, others can see just how wrong this is.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
On the early morning of Monday, January 4, the day began with the death
watch staff advising both me and Oscar of our scheduled visits and phone
calls for that day, I had already asked my family and friends not to
visit that week as I didn´t want my visits to interfere in any way with
Oscar´s visits. All I had was a phone call from my son early that
morning and a legal phone call with my lawyer later that day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Oscar had a visit with his wife and both anxiously awaited any word from
the Eleventh Circuit courts hoping that a full stay of execution would
come and the court would allow full and fair review of his innocence
claim. But the day passed without any word from the court. By that
evening Bolin was down to 72 hours—and I know from personal experience
how difficult that was, as I had come within hours of execution myself
when I was on death watch years earlier—only I was granted a stay.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
By Tuesday morning, January 5, Oscar was down to sixty hours, and the
clock continued to tick away and yet still nothing from the courts on
whether they would allow his claim of innocence to be heard. Oscar spent
from late morning until mid-afternoon with his wife in the non-contact
visiting area. Upon his return, his demeanor was more subdued and the
stress and anxiety he felt became all but tangible. And as I sat
silently a few feet away in my own solitary cell, I wondered whether any
of those willing to take his life gave even so much as a moment of
thought into what they were inflicting upon other human beings—and
again, Oscar was not the only one forced to count down those final hours
anxiously hoping that phone would ring with the news that the court
would allow his claim of innocence to be heard…every second of every
moment, every hour that passed inflicted incomprehensible pain upon his
wife and those that cared for him.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
That evening passed in an uncomfortable silence as the courts would have
closed their doors for the night and no news would come until at least
that next morning. That psychological trauma of uncertainty weighed
heavily upon them.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I doubt Oscar slept much that Tuesday night—I know I didn´t. His T.V.
remained on into the early morning hours. By that next morning
(Wednesday) he was down to about thirty six hours until his still
scheduled execution and still no word from the court. It would be a long
day. They brought the breakfast trays as they did each morning, but
neither of us had any interest in eating. Down here on death watch, our
meals are kept under direct supervision of security staff to ensure
nobody (other prisoners or staff) has any chance of tampering with the
food or smuggling anything to the condemned prisoner.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
This methodical countdown to the intended execution actually starts a
full week before, when they remove all personal property from the
condemned prisoner´s cell, placing him (or her) on “Phase II.” From the
moment they place the condemned prisoner on Phase II (that final week) a
guard is posted directly in front of the cell twenty four hours a day,
his only job to observe the condemned prisoner to ensure he (or she)
doesn´t attempt suicide or harm themselves—and a few have tried. Any
activity is written in a forest green “Death Watch Log.” Throughout this
time, not even for one second are you allowed to forget that they are
counting down your last days—and last hours.</span></div>
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</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Oscar again had a visit with his wife as she stood faithfully by him
spending every moment she could—even if those visits were restricted to a
few hours of non-contact (through glass) visits.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
By early afternoon Oscar returned to his death watch cell—still no word
from the court. The hours dragged by as Oscar talked to the guard
stationed in front of his cell, simply talking about anything at all.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Warden Palmer came down, accompanied by Deputy Secretary Dixon (the
second highest Department of Corrections employee). They talked to Oscar
for a while mostly just to check on how he was holding up. But the
preparations had begun and that final twenty four hours was quickly
approaching. After they talked to Oscar, they stepped that few feet
further down to the front of my cell and spoke to me.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I must admit that I was impressed by their professionalism and their
sincerity that bordered on genuine concern. Perhaps the most heard
expression on death watch is an almost apologetic “we´re just doing our
job” and the truth is that the current staff assigned to work the death
watch area and interact with the condemned prisoners counting down their
final hours do go to great lengths to treat us with a sense of dignity
and respect seldom even seen in the prison system.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
The significance of this cannot be understated. I´ve been down here on
death watch before years ago and came within hours of being executed
myself, and there´s always been a deliberate distance between the
condemned and the staff—especially the higher ranking staff. But it´s
different this time. In the five weeks that I´ve been down here almost
daily high ranking staff have come down to the death watch housing area
and made a point of talking to us in an informal manner, abandoning that
implicit wall of separation between them and us.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
And now none other than the Deputy Secretary himself personally came
down to talk to us—I´ve never heard of this before. Shortly after they
left, Oscar asked the sergeant for the barber clippers. He wanted to
shave his own chest and legs, rather than have them do it the next day.
It had to be done, as the lethal injection process requires the
attachment of heart monitors and Oscar preferred to shave it himself—as
most would.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Oscar received another legal phone call later that afternoon—now down to
almost twenty four hours until his scheduled execution and still no
decision by the Eleventh Circuit as to whether or not they´d allow
review of his innocence claim. The lawyers would call if any news came,
but it was assumed that the judges deciding his fate already called it a
day and went home. No further phone call came that night. Again Oscar
stayed up late, unable to sleep until sometime in the early morning
hours and he was not alone, as sleep would be hard to come by.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
We reached the day of execution. Typically, they change shifts at 6:00
a.m. working a full twelve hour shift. But on days of scheduled
execution, they change shifts at 4:30 a.m., as with the execution
scheduled at 6:00 p.m. they cannot do a shift change then, as the entire
institution will go on lockdown during that time.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
With that final twenty four hours now counting down, each minute was
managed by strict “Execution Day” protocol, and the day started earlier
than usual. As if an invisible cloud hung in the air, you could all but
feel the weight of this day as it was that tangible, and undoubtedly
more so on Oscar. But he was holding up remarkably well, maintaining his
composure even though the strain was obvious in his voice. How does one
go about the day that they know they are to die? Again, I´ve been there
myself and I know how he felt and it cannot easily be put into words.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Oscar was diabetic and as with each morning, the nurse came to check his
blood sugar level and administer insulin, if necessary. Now within that
final twelve hours, nothing would be left to chance. Around 7:00 a.m.,
they let Oscar take a shower, and then after locking down the entire
institution, they took him up front for a last visit with his wife. They
would be allowed a two hour non-contact visit until 10:00 a.m., then an
additional one hour contact visit—the last visit before the scheduled
execution.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Shortly after 11:00 a.m. they escorted Oscar back to the Q-Wing death
watch cell. A few minutes later “Brother Dale” Recinella was allowed to
come down and spend a few hours with Oscar as his designated spiritual
advisor. Contrary to the Hollywood movies depicting the execution
process, the prison chaplain is rarely, if ever, involved as each of us
are allowed to have our own religious representative—and many choose
“Brother Dale” as he is well-known and respected amongst the death row
population.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Many years ago Brother Dale was a very successful lawyer, making more
money than most can dream of. But then he experienced a life-changing
event and spiritual transformation, as chronicled in his book “And I
Walk on Death Row”.
Brother Dale and his equally-devoted wife Susan gave up their wealth
and privilege and devoted their lives to their faith and ministering to
death row. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Even as these final hours continued to count down, I remained in that
solitary cell only a few feet away and unable to escape the events as
the continued to unfold around me. There are only three cells on death
watch and I found it odd that they kept me down here as they proceeded
with this final process—when I was on death watch in 1988, they moved me
upstairs to another cell removed from the death watch area as they
didn´t want any other prisoners in the death watch area as these final
events unfolded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Brother Dale left about 2:00 p.m. and the death watch lieutenant, a
familiar presence on death watch, then made a point of talking to Oscar
and they went over the protocol—shortly before 4:00 p.m. he would shower
again and then be brought around to the west side of the wing where
they had only one cell immediately adjacent to the door that led to the
execution chamber. I listened as this process was explained, knowing
only too well that in precisely five more weeks I would be given the
same talk.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
The warden and Asst. warden came down again and talked to Oscar. A few
minutes later the Secretary (director) of the Florida Department of
Corrections, Julie Jones, personally came to Oscar´s cell and sat in a
chair and talked to him—I´ve never heard of that happening before. But
her tone of voice and mannerisms reflected genuine empathy towards
Oscar, and he thanked her for taking that time to talk to him.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As they now closed in on that final two hours before the scheduled
execution, Oscar received another phone call from his lawyer—the
Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals still had not ruled on whether they
would grant a stay of execution and allow a full review of his pled
innocence claim. Oscar´s voice was obviously stressed. Per protocol, the
nurse gave him 5 mg. valium to calm his nerves.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Just before 4:00 p.m., Oscar spoke to me, wanting to talk about a
problem he and I had years ago—a problem that I alone was responsible
for and of which I have often regretted. In the five weeks we had been
on death watch together, it was not spoken of. But now, to my amazement,
even dealing with all that he was dealing with, Oscar wanted me to know
that he forgave me for what I did. And for a few minutes we talked. And
then the warden and his staff removed Oscar from his cell and escorted
him around to the west side of the wing, to the execution chamber
holding cell, where he would remain until the court cleared the way for
execution, or he received a stay of execution and was brought back to
this side.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
A single sergeant remained on this side, and for the first time since I
was brought to death watch I was alone as the sergeant remained at the
desk just outside the cell block area—and I didn´t want to be alone. As I
do often, especially when stressed, I paced in my cell anxious to hear
any word on what was going on and checking my watch almost every minute,
and each minute dragged by so slowly it was almost as if time itself
had stopped and I couldn´t begin to imagine what Oscar and his wife were
going through.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
At irregular intervals the sergeant would walk down to my cell to check
on me and I asked whether there was any more news. The Eleventh Circuit
had denied his appeal and the case quickly moved on to the U.S. Supreme
Court. The designated time of scheduled execution—6:00 p.m.—came and
went without any word from the Supreme Court.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Oscar would remain in that holding cell until the Supreme Court cleared
the way for execution—but at least both he and his loved ones still had
hope as the minutes continued to tick away.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Most don´t realize just how many people are involved in this execution
process and everybody remained on hold not knowing whether the execution
would proceed or not. Immediately adjacent to my cell was a solid steel
door that led directly into a hallway stretching the entire width of
the wing. Just inside this door was an area with a coffee pot and
chairs, and I could hear a number of unknown people congregated only a
few feet away from me on the other side of the door as they discussed
the continued uncertainty.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
A larger crowd of unknown participants congregated on the lower
quarter-deck area between the west side of the wing where the death
watch housing area was and the door that led into the east side where
Oscar remained in the holding cell. I couldn´t make out what they were
saying and wondered, especially when I periodically heard laughter. I
suppose this long wait was stressful on them, too, and a moment of
levity could be forgiven. And yet I found myself wondering what they
could possibly find funny as they awaited that moment of time when they
would each assume their assigned task and take the life of another human
being.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
One hour passed, and then another, and another yet. Then at almost 10:00
p.m. it suddenly got quiet—very quiet. All the voices that continuously
hummed both behind that steel door and the quarter-deck area just
suddenly went silent and without anyone around to tell me; I knew that
they all moved to their positions in the execution chamber.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhki4wh-2h1nYeczmaO9bvy9mOTLA6ATnQiOKsDQuj2ElkshzUkCSBr6esf4gEh2-wTqfAKTDRJSfVwfD1y7UdCsxj032JYCzG7tg-h1I5Ogdar1vITTdgTIL6Frnbpb_ivpZPh4m1qdqON/s1600/oscarbolin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhki4wh-2h1nYeczmaO9bvy9mOTLA6ATnQiOKsDQuj2ElkshzUkCSBr6esf4gEh2-wTqfAKTDRJSfVwfD1y7UdCsxj032JYCzG7tg-h1I5Ogdar1vITTdgTIL6Frnbpb_ivpZPh4m1qdqON/s320/oscarbolin.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> Vigil Oscar Bolin</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
It remained utterly silent—so quiet that I could hear the coffee pot
percolating at the sergeant´s desk on the other side of the gate and I
held my watch as the minutes passed and I strained to hear any sound at
all. But there was nothing and I knew they were now putting Oscar to
death. I cannot explain it, but I just felt it—and I got on my knees and
I prayed, and yet I couldn´t find any words and found myself kneeling
at my bunk in silence for several minutes.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Then I heard what sounded like a door on the other side of that concrete
wall that separated my cell from the execution chamber. Then I once
again heard muffled voices on the other side of that steel door. It was
over and it went quickly…Oscar was dead. A few minutes later I heard the
sound of a number of people going up the stairs leading away from the
execution chamber. Their job was done and in an orderly manner they were
leaving.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
For obvious reasons, I didn´t sleep that night. Only a few feet behind
that wall of my cell, Oscar´s body now lay growing cold. There are no
words that can describe how I felt, but that emptiness that consumed me
and left me laying in my bunk in complete silence through the night.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Somewhere in the early morning hours I fell asleep, only to awaken just
after 7:00 a.m. It was a new day. The death watch Lieutenant was already
here and I was now the only one left on death watch. But just that
quickly, I was instructed that I had to immediately pack my property as
they had to move me to cell one—the cell that Oscar only recently
vacated.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I didn´t want to move to that cell, but I didn´t have any choice. That
was the same cell I previously occupied in late 1988 when I myself came
within hours of my own execution (read, <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-day-god-died.html">“The Day God Died”</a>)
and especially knowing that only a few hours again Oscar was in that
cell still alive and holding on to hope, I just didn´t want to be moved
to that cell. Every person who has been executed in the State of Florida
in the past forty years was housed in that cell prior to their
execution.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
But it wasn´t a choice and I obediently packed my property and with the
officer´s assistance, I was moved from cell three to cell one. And as I
worked on putting all my property back where it belonged (storing it in
the single steel footlocker bolted firmly to the floor), a long-awaited
phone call from my close friend Jan Arriens came through.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
While on death watch, we are allowed two personal phone calls each week,
and since my warrant was signed five weeks earlier, I had anxiously
awaited the opportunity to talk to Jan, but through the Christmas
holiday he was visiting his family in Australia. Having only recently
returned to his home in England, he arranged this phone call.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
It was good to hear a friendly voice just at that time when I most
especially needed a friend. But we only had a few minutes to talk and
unlike those eternal moments of the night before, these minutes passed
far too quickly. But just hearing the voice of a friend comforted me.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Shortly after that phone call, I then had a legal visit and was escorted
to the front of the prison to meet with my lawyer´s investigator. We
spent hours going over legal issues and then it was back to the death
watch cell. Not long after I returned, I learned that the governor had
already signed another death warrant. This machinery of death continued
to roll along. By mid-afternoon a familiar face was brought down to join
me…Mark Asay (who we call “Catfish”) had his death warrant signed that
morning, with his execution scheduled for March 17, exactly 5 weeks
after my own scheduled execution.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-ypqM5Ug9MuK0IFezRpLwfR35GhGkSDWhW-KMztewxnY8mCbxur5gHqDaBU-4D5nA3cOIcv5ZcTpu_xuzIbc1C_1bS7-hh8uwcuI-7FjTpX86Q0JKLDihjJsrdNQMWpWbTzoCWTDeS6D/s1600/asay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-ypqM5Ug9MuK0IFezRpLwfR35GhGkSDWhW-KMztewxnY8mCbxur5gHqDaBU-4D5nA3cOIcv5ZcTpu_xuzIbc1C_1bS7-hh8uwcuI-7FjTpX86Q0JKLDihjJsrdNQMWpWbTzoCWTDeS6D/s1600/asay.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
With the methodical precision of a mechanical machine, Florida has
resumed executions with a vengeance, establishing a predictable pattern
of signing a new death warrant even before the body of the last executed
prisoner has grown cold.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Now I remain in the infamous “cell one,” next in line to be executed—and
on February 11, 2016 at 6:00 p.m., the State of Florida plans to kill
me. Until then, I will remain in a cell in which the last twenty three
occupants, without exception, resided until their own execution. I do
not like being in this solitary cell. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike Lambrix</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mike's website: <a href="https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Southern Injustice </a></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Mike was executed by the state of Florida on October 5, 2017, Mark Asay was executed August 24, 2017) </span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-24386201185832258932018-03-31T06:32:00.002-07:002018-10-28T10:05:09.509-07:00Alcatraz of the South Part 9 “Fire in the Hole” <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Written for <a href="https://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.gr/2018/03/alcatraz-of-south-part-9-fire-in-hole.html" target="_blank">MinutesBeforeSix</a> website</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Today, March 29, is Mike's birthday and in his honor we are posting </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>a previously unpublished essay he wrote in the summer of 2017."</i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>To read Part 8 click <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2016/08/alcatraz-of-south-part-viii-sacrificial.html">here</a></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As I stood at the back of the cell one late September morning in 1988,
an unfamiliar voice yelled out from somewhere downstairs, “Fire in the
hole!” It was quickly echoed by others to make sure everybody heard. A
white shirt was on the wing. Back then the wing sergeants and officers
generally left us alone to do our own time, just as long as we didn't
make them look bad. And we'd get a heads up if the confinement
lieutenant (”white shirt”) came on the wing so we could tighten up and
at least make it look good. There's a lot of truth to what they say
about how shit runs downhill... -- if we made the wing Sergeant look
bad, it would come down hard and heavy on us and nobody wanted that.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcJ3SgKaLnqbASnI-JCOugy0TxUcLbYkkzAoFW89KAqxQW_vrhmPOQk4CvBFwbFJ-nmIzgabsKaq_1rO-4eOqN1HdFjUhJ2k0tjnPIrY6yWhdcVLgVbFh1agGOX57GDMExY5R97SxV8xHe/s1600/mike1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcJ3SgKaLnqbASnI-JCOugy0TxUcLbYkkzAoFW89KAqxQW_vrhmPOQk4CvBFwbFJ-nmIzgabsKaq_1rO-4eOqN1HdFjUhJ2k0tjnPIrY6yWhdcVLgVbFh1agGOX57GDMExY5R97SxV8xHe/s1600/mike1.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Quickly, I tried to do what I had to do. I was already on disciplinary
confinement (”the hole”) for fighting on the recreation yard a few weeks
earlier over a stupid call during a basketball game. I only had about
another week to do before my 30 days were up. But if I got caught with
any contraband while in the hole, it would add another 15 days.
Football season had already started, and I really wanted my TV back.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
When they first called out, I had just started to heat up a cup of water
to make my morning coffee. That isn't as easy as it might sound when
you're in the hole. Just getting someone to smuggle a bit of instant
coffee to you was enough to make you think seriously about quitting, but
I loved my coffee. It was one of the very few pleasures that I had no
intention of giving up if I didn't absolutely have to. I was willing to
risk another 15 days in the hole rather than do without.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Then there was the problem of heating the coffee, as there was no
electricity to the cell and no coffee pot, either. Never underestimate
how resourceful a prisoner can be. Each morning we got a half pint of
milk at breakfast, in a small waxed carton. By taking my roll of toilet
paper and wrapping it around my fingers and palm until it made a small
but loosely wrapped roll, then tucking in both the top and bottom, I
made what we called a “bomb.” I had purchased a small piece of wire with
trading stamps. By touching the wire to the top and side of the battery
while holding the end of a cotton Q-tip to the wire, first a bit of
smoke, then a small flame would appear. In a single, fluid motion I
would drop the battery and hold that now smoldering Q-tip to the bottom
of the bomb and use it to set it on fire. The flames sprang to life in
the hollow core of the bomb. I sat it down on the edge of the toilet,
balanced precariously above the water only inches away. I would hold the
small milk carton filled with water above the bomb, which was by now
burning like a small campfire. Within minutes the water would come to a
boil.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw2SXe2qMIhC-p9mqavlXJgrh0upqXVBS0_CKrn5GIYR49v9ekvNVB1M0puaIyd_k3bT1zdBlCC76TkE2iSKJsKJzS4b19WjTxjvY6BAKXgd-zd4g0sI2qvjD48OMJWVQg6LR_101ussM2/s1600/part3InsideCell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1418" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw2SXe2qMIhC-p9mqavlXJgrh0upqXVBS0_CKrn5GIYR49v9ekvNVB1M0puaIyd_k3bT1zdBlCC76TkE2iSKJsKJzS4b19WjTxjvY6BAKXgd-zd4g0sI2qvjD48OMJWVQg6LR_101ussM2/s320/part3InsideCell.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I stood there wearing nothing but my baggy state issue white boxer
shorts, since even late September in a concrete and steel box gets hot,
too hot to wear clothes if you don't need to. Like most on the third
floor (heat rises to the top), I wore as little as possible. When the
“Fire in the hole” call came, I at first thought little of it as the
daily rounds typically never had the Lieutenant coming up to the third
floor. Nobody wanted to walk into the scorching oven if they didn't
have to.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
But then I heard the distinctive sound of heavy brass keys turning the
lock on the steel security gate leading onto the tier where I was
housed. I knew they were on my floor. As quickly as I could, I pushed
the burning toilet paper bomb into the toilet, a generous puff of smoke
rising as the water extinguished the flame. I pushed the chromed button,
causing the toilet to come to life with a loud groan flushing the
disintegrating bomb down the pipes. I went to the nearby bunk, stashing
my coffee under the pillow and turning a half step around to sit on the
steel footlocker against the wall as if I was doing nothing at all.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
No sooner did I sit down then Lt. Walmsley and the Administrative
Sergeant Timothy Giebreg were standing at my cell door. Lt Walmsley
called out, “Inmate Lambrix.” I had to suppress a laugh, since he
obviously knew who I was, and he ordered me to stand. I stood and
stepped the short step to the cell front and said, “Yeah?” He instructed
me to grab my address book and get dressed as I had to go up front.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Instantly, I knew what it was. We have all seen this play out too many
times before. When a white shirt shows up at your cell and tells you to
grab your address book, that meant the Governor had signed your death
warrant, scheduling your execution. You would be escorted up front to
see the Warden. We all knew the routine.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
They waited at my cell front, watching closely as I opened up my
footlocker to retrieve a small notebook I had already prepared with the
names and phone numbers of my family and friends. Although death row
prisoners were not allowed to make phone calls, the exception was when
the governor signed your death warrant they would allow you to make one
phone call to either family or a friend (many of those on the row had
long been alienated from their family), which is why they told us to
grab our address books, I reached for my blue state issue canvas pants
and apricot colored t- shirt, the color of the t-shirt indicating that I
was death sentenced.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As I began to dress, a few of the guys in the hole with me called to me.
They already knew what was going on, each calling out, “take it easy,
Mike” and other cordial comments. A few cells away, Ted Bundy called
down, jokingly telling me he'd hold my cell as long as he could. I
laughed and responded that he'd better or he wouldn't get the fruit pie I
still owed him. I didn't really owe him one but that was his weakness,
he really loved his Little Hostess pies we could buy once a week off the
prison canteen (store) and there never were but a few available each
week so the inmate canteen clerk usually charged a premium, especially
if you wanted more than one. When I could, I'd pick up a few for Ted so
that he didn't get robbed too badly by the greedy bastards out to
exploit us.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGe04iJPLw7Jnz-oAj_UV2hxXCdABcYjSeO643Bayl5yy8J7BLUxPsVQVMyQWojmh8_wrTK2DcZsGYNYFsRuyBEjlguEbfTrElWilhXckNw_YWXWdTlEK-2baOYSRoHnLgA3oWqwOQ4BKf/s1600/170px-Bundy_FLA_8179.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGe04iJPLw7Jnz-oAj_UV2hxXCdABcYjSeO643Bayl5yy8J7BLUxPsVQVMyQWojmh8_wrTK2DcZsGYNYFsRuyBEjlguEbfTrElWilhXckNw_YWXWdTlEK-2baOYSRoHnLgA3oWqwOQ4BKf/s1600/170px-Bundy_FLA_8179.jpeg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Once dressed, I already knew to back up to the cell door. A I did, I
felt the handcuffs being secured on my wrists. Anytime we were removed
from our cell, even if only going to the shower at the front of each
tier, we were handcuffed behind our back. We would stay physically
restrained until we were securely locked in a cage, whether it was our
assigned cell, or the shower cell, with the exception of the recreation
yard and the visiting park (for social visits with family and friends).</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I had only been under a sentence of death a little over four years and
had not had the opportunity to pursue collateral, post conviction
review. This was the only opportunity to argue evidence the jury never
heard, evidence that supported your innocence. Also other substantive
claims that would show that your court appointed trial lawyer failed to
provide competent legal representation, resulting in a wrongful
conviction.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I didn't even have a lawyer assigned to my case. Florida's governor,
Robert Martinez, one of a then new breed of Rabid Rednecks Republicans
(”RRR,” the natural evolution of the politically unpopular 'KKK') who
won political office on promises of exploiting executions by any means
necessary had, for the first time, used the power of the governors
office to sign so many death warrants that it overwhelmed the judicial
system. Eventually, significant changes were made to prevent future
governors from abusing the power of the office as Governor Martinez had.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As I was being escorted off the tier, past each cells and barely aware
of the words of encouragement spoken by each prisoner, I felt
emotionally numb. The reality that I was being led to “death watch” to
face my own execution, began to weigh heavily upon me.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
We exited the wing, into the main corridor that runs the length of the
prison (please read, Alcatraz of the South, Part I and II) the
Lieutenant radioed for a security lockdown, since protocol was that
anytime a “death watch” inmate was brought out into the main corridor,
the entire prison was put on lockdown. Before the Lieutenant had
finished broadcasting over the hand held security radio, the solid steel
doors at each of the twelve wings began to slam shut, loudly echoing as
steel met steel with a thunderous force. When the last door was secure
we began to move up the main corridor, southward towards the “Colonel's
office,” where the Warden would be waiting.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
With the Admin Sergeant to one side and the Lieutenant at the other, we
moved at a leisurely pace, neither in too much of a hurry. Once past the
“Corridor E” security gate, we slowly walked past the dayrooms used for
general population prisoners, each dayroom separated from the main
corridor by windows. At each window, prisoners looked out. Many were
former death row prisoners and as I recognized a familiar face, I nodded
and he would silently nod back. At almost a quarter mile long, it took a
few minutes before we finally reached what is commonly known as “Times
Square”, where just inside another set of security gates the main
corridor intersected with the secondary hallways.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
The main control room for the prison was at the southeast corner of
Times Square. The officer inside electronically opened the security gate
and we walked through and across the intersection another or so paces,
before stopping at yet another electronically controlled security gate
that led into a small complex of administrative offices as well as the
small rooms where death row had their legal visits. Walking inside, we
then crossed the open area at the center of these offices, going
directly to the office in the far corner. I had never been in that
office before, but knew it was the Colonels’. The highest-ranking
security officer at each state prison, formally titled, “Chief Security
Officer,” wears the quasi-military rank of Colonel.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Nudging me by the arm, the Lieutenant guided me a few steps into that
wood paneled office until I stood in front of a heavy wood desk. Rumor
had it that the desk was made out of the same hardwood oak used by
inmate labor to build “Old Sparky,” Florida’s infamous three legged
electric chair.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
I immediately recognized Warden Tom Barton sitting behind the desk. He
looked up at me and said, “Morning Michael...do you know why you are
here?” Hearing him call me by my first name kind of threw me for a
moment as I've known Warden Barton for a few years, and never heard him
call anyone anything but inmate, usually with an unmistakable tone of
contempt in his voice, comparable to the inflection a plantation owner
would use towards his slaves.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As he spoke, he held up a single piece of paper that had a distinctive
black border around the edge. The “death warrant” that Governor Martinez
had signed, ordering my execution. Warden Barton then proceeded to read
the warrant, word for word, and as he came to the end where it said
that my execution was to be carried out the last week of November, at a
specific day and time set by the Warden, Mr. Barton looked up over his
steel framed glasses and without even a hint of emotion, informed me
that I was scheduled for November 30, 1988 at 7:00 am.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Warden Barton asked if I had any questions, but I had none. As he rose
to his feet, he informed me that the death watch Sergeant would explain
how things work down there. I felt a hand take me by my elbow and lead
me back out and down that long corridor again, only this time we did not
stop at the death row housing wing that I had come off of, but instead
proceeded to the very end of the corridor and the heavy steel door over
which was the letter “Q”... the infamous “Q-Wing, and it wouldn't be my
last time there. I already knew that the top row of the three floors
were used to house prisoners in ultra maximum security cells unlike
anything else in the Florida prison system, since I had previously spent
time in those cells when I got into trouble. Each of the two upper
floors had twelve cells, six to each side, each cell within it's own
concrete crypt. When the steel door closed it became a world of its own,
completely isolating the occupant from all else.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
But this time I wasn't brought upstairs. Instead, as we walked on to
Q-Wing, I was instructed to go down the staircase inside the door. Lt.
Walmsley held me by the elbow, not so much to offer support so I
wouldn't fall, but to exert his control over me. We descended downward
one floor, and as we reached the bottom I was immediately surprised by
how clean it was -- even the concrete floor common in prison was tiled
and polished to a bright shine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
To the right was a heavy steel gate made of the same bars as our cells
and just inside was a Sergeant. He quickly got up from his desk and
using the heavy brass key, opened the security gate and we stepped
inside. I already knew the Sergeant since he worked the death row wing
from time to time and we exchanged greetings. Just as I started to walk
through the open gate, Sgt. D. laughed and told me I wasn’t going in
there yet, pointing to the other side of the wing. I would be on the
West side for now.</span></div>
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</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Locking the security gate behind him, Sgt. D. and Lt. Walmsley led me
about 25 feet to the West side and then another almost identical heavy
security gate was opened and we stepped inside. I had never been in this
part of the prison. I walked past a small closet, a shower cell, then
three cells in a row, each surprisingly large -- almost twice as big as
the regular death row cells.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
Sgt. D. asked me which of the three cells I wanted. I laughed at the
thought that I had a choice, since I've never been given that kind of
choice before. In the open area outside the cells near a large
steel-barred window was a small table with a microwave and large coffee
urn on it. I said that I'd take the middle cell, not only to be close to
that table, but to be as far away as possible from both the front
security gate we just walked in, and the nearby solid steel door at the
back. I already knew without being told that it led into the execution
chamber where the electric chair awaited it's next victim.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
As soon as I was secured in the “death watch” cell, the Sergeant
removing the handcuffs, Lt. Walmsley walked away without another word.
Sgt. D. told me that he was going to wait a bit before he explained how
things work on death watch, since I had a neighbor coming. He asked me
if I wanted a cup of coffee, and I said, “Oh, hell, yeah!” Sgt. D.
disappeared around to the other side of the wing where his desk was,
returning a few minutes later with a small Styrofoam cup of fresh,
percolated coffee which I thanked him for as I took it from him. We
heard voices coming down the stairs.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
A moment later Lt. Long appeared in front of my cell, escorting Amos
King. He asked Sgt. D. which cell he wanted King in, and Sgt. D. said
that he could pick and Amos chose the third cell and stepped inside, and
once he was secured in that cell, Lt. Long left.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
I didn't really know Amos although I had met him a few times out on the
recreation yard. Sgt. D. left because Amos wanted a cup of coffee, too.
Because of the way the cells were situated I couldn't see into the
adjacent cells, but Amos and I began to talk around the concrete wall
that separated us. The first thing we both wanted to know was how long
it would be before they brought our personal property to us so that we
could write our family and friends to let them know we had our death
warrants signed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
As Amos and I were talking, Sgt. D. brought him his cup of coffee and
then Lt. Walmsley suddenly reappeared, this time escorting Robert “Bob”
Teffeteller. I had already known Bob for a few years and was almost glad
to see him, since I couldn't ask for a better guy to have to go through
death watch with. Like myself, Bob had a healthy, if a bit twisted,
sense of humor and didn't waste anytime throwing his first shot at me,
even before they put him in the front cell. ”Awwhh, hell, Mike,” he said
in his backwoods Tennessean accent, “What the hell did you get us into
now?” We all laughed, and Amos quickly quipped, “Hey don't blame Mike,
it was one of you Bob's that done this shit,” (referring to Governor
“Bob” Martinez), and we all laughed again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
As we had our little bit of fun, Sgt. D. pulled up a chair in front of
my cell so he could talk to all three of us at once. With a grin, he
said, “Alright, children, settle down” and we found that funny, too.
Then Sgt. D. proceeded to explain the death watch protocol, letting us
know that as long as we had money in our account we could buy whatever
we wanted from the prison canteen everyday (instead of only once a week
on the regular death row) and that there was a small refrigerator for
sandwiches and sodas, and a microwave for heating things up, as well as a
coffee pot just for death watch.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
He then explained that we would be allowed a legal phone call once a day
as well as two social phone calls to family or friends each week. Amos
quickly asked, “What's a phone?” since regular death row was not allowed
phone calls, and that got a few chuckles. We would not be allowed to go
to the rec yard while on death watch, and would only be allowed
non-contact visits with those on our approved visiting list. We already
knew all of that, since although this was our first time on death watch,
we knew from others what the special rules were.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
The rest of the day passed quickly and toward the late afternoon the
property room Sergeant brought our personal property and small black and
white TVs to us (at the time, death row was not allowed to have color
TVs-it wasn't until 2004 that we were finally allowed to purchase small
color TV’s).</span></div>
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</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
As the days and weeks passed, Amos and Bob and I formed a close
comradery, constantly passing the time talking and joking. Since it was
our first death warrant, none of us were concerned as we knew that
nobody was executed on their first death warrant-at least, they weren't
back then. That later changed.</span></div>
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</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
But it wasn't all fun and our gallows sense of humor only hid the stress
we all felt as the reality of possible death hung over us. as well as
those closest to us. Especially in the morning hours a heavy silence
would hang over the cell block until one of us finally called out to
another and asked how we're doing. If the silence became too prolonged
we would check up on each other and use humor to take that edge off.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
On the other side of the death watch floor they had Leo Jones and Jeff
Daugherty, next in line for scheduled execution. The reality of the
uncertainty of our fate was driven home that first week of November when
in the early morning hours of November 7, 1988 the Lieutenant came down
and woke us up and told us to grab what we need for the day as we were
being moved upstairs right away.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
They told us that Jeff didn't get a stay of execution as we all had
expected. At that time Florida carried out executions around 7:00 a.m.
Grabbing our bedrolls and some writing materials, one by one we were
moved upstairs since they didn't want any prisoners on the death watch
floor when they were carrying out an execution. That would also change
in later years (please read: <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2016/01/execution-day-involuntary-witness-to.html">“Execution Day- Involuntary Witness to State Sanctioned Murder”</a>).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
Each of us was placed in a cell on the second floor and waited the hours
out, knowing that downstairs they were putting Jeff to death. Around
mid- morning the wing Sergeant told us to grab our property since we
were going back downstairs. A short while later the death watch Sergeant
came and escorted us, one by one, back downstairs.</span></div>
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</span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
Not long after that Bob got a Stay of Execution and was moved back to
the regular death row housing area. About a week later Leo Jones came
within a few hours of execution, even having his head and lower leg
shaved and eating his last meal, before receiving a Stay of Execution
and also being moved back to the death row housing wing.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
After Leo was moved off death watch, they moved Amos King and me around
to the east side. We were now the next in line for scheduled execution
did Amos was put in cell three and I was placed in cell one. That same
day they moved Abron Scott, John Marek and David Johnston to the west
side cells we’d just vacated and we had a full house again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
As our scheduled execution date drew closer, Amos got a stay while I remained alone on death watch. (Please read “<a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-day-god-died.html">The Day God Died</a>”
which describes my last few days on death watch). On November 28, 1988 I
finally received a 48 hour temporary Stay of Execution and then on
December 2, 1988 I received a full Stay of Execution and was moved back
to the regular death row wing.</span></div>
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As the years passed, every person I was on death watch with died except
me. Of the eight men I shared that experience with, I am the only one
still alive. </span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
Leo Jones, Jeffrey Daughtery, John Morek and Amos King all were
eventually executed, while my brother Bob died of cancer over a decade
later, and David Johnston died of a heart attack when a second death
warrant was signed against him in 2010. Myself I would survive another
death watch experience. (check out the PBS documentary “Cell One” about
my 2016 death watch experience at <a href="http://cellone.wlrn.digital/">http://cellone.wlrn.digital/</a>)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mike's website: <a href="https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Southern Injustice </a></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzj-cclxnjQyQJNALzvKK6D7mJhujdseWBqqgvpvOs6Wv54daRxEZaHMrJOMRz0axe9SY7skEDmB-ZM66pBcnjDDYKDqrOCfswJ0fvN8PqREsvabv0ZUtqaX-tHm6jsCy2PKANK2KOHw/s1600/SCN_0042.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="577" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzj-cclxnjQyQJNALzvKK6D7mJhujdseWBqqgvpvOs6Wv54daRxEZaHMrJOMRz0axe9SY7skEDmB-ZM66pBcnjDDYKDqrOCfswJ0fvN8PqREsvabv0ZUtqaX-tHm6jsCy2PKANK2KOHw/s320/SCN_0042.jpg" width="207" /></a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-73710118829970546262018-03-20T08:28:00.001-07:002018-03-21T12:00:15.339-07:00Hello Darkness – My Old Friend<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Attached is Mike's entry for the annual 2013-2014 PEN Prison Writing Contest. *This story received an honorable mention in the memoir category. The essay appeared also in <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.gr/2014/06/hello-darkness-my-old-friend.html" target="_blank">MinutesBeforeSix</a></span><br /><br />It is there in the dimly lit shadows of the darkness that I find my comfort within this concrete crypt I am condemned to not merely live, but ever so very slow die, within. I could simply reach up above my steel bunk and pull the long string that dangles down from the fixture above and so easily flood the confines with that artificial light, but I choose not to. The darkness is my sanctuary, where despite all the misery and chaos around me, I can retreat and sit silently and find my solitude in this solitary cell on Florida’s infamous Death Row. The brightness of that light would only be unnecessarily intrusive, an unwelcome invasion that would only serve to cruelly deprive me of those stolen moments in time, in which I am able to at least momentarily detach from the reality around me and retreat back into my own little corner, in my own little world.<br /><br />I already know only too well what the light world would reveal as all day of every day now, for not merely months, or a few years, but for decade after seemingly endless decade, and yet another decade still, I have sat in this cold, concrete cage and I know it only as a condemned man can, so intimately well that even when I close my eyes, I can count the number of concrete blocks on each wall, I can still see that plain and deliberately featureless, faded soft pastel beige walls, accented only by the dark, heavy wool horse blanket that I am required to cover my bunk with each morning, as God forbid I might be tempted to sleep a few hours during the day and then there’s the black bars at the front of the cell, each bar spaced precisely four inches apart, which allow me to look outward a few short feet upon yet another wall of heavy steel bars, separating the outer catwalk and not too far beyond that, the fortified narrow windows, long ago covered with dust and debris, and yet in defiance, still barely allowing just enough light through to know when it is day and when it becomes night.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />During the warmer months, these narrow windows are opened just enough to allow a bit of air to flow through. From time to time small birds will venture in and awaken me from my early morning sleep with their chirping, which at first I found inviting, as if they brought life itself to this culture of cold death. But at some point along the path of time, this incessant chirping became unbearable, as if their only intent was to tease and taunt me and have come to so cruelly mock the man in the gilded cage before they then simply fly away and I find myself being driven by an overwhelming anger within me to yell and scream at these demonic winged monsters and even throw small items at the window screen to chase them away. The birds no longer come to visit as much and now I find myself missing my little friends.<br /><br />Once upon a time this relentlessly monotonous micro-environment I am entombed within could be brought to life with a few photos, faded reflections of a life that once was, but the powers that be decreed that any sign of life hung from the walls was somehow a “security” threat and not even one photo would be allowed. To violate this draconian rule would result in the loss of the photo and an immediate transfer to “lock-up” and the loss of the very few “privileges” we might be afforded. Given that few privileges are even allowed, this “punishment” would almost be ironically meaningless, if not for the disruption to this methodical routine we come to almost religiously cling to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaFFGBeeHzhTeqVncXnm-5xH0Q9r4fjUm1Akp9kObNNFJIB7fTCgkVytBMf5EoW9czksmxMsKCzu73mhiGJK4gtbWPxKj0Bp4FjFNUKJUvDxgGZ8HRgj0upLEktFKNbaL13Bq2BoM5jvr/s1600/Michael-Christmas-2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1517" data-original-width="1535" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaFFGBeeHzhTeqVncXnm-5xH0Q9r4fjUm1Akp9kObNNFJIB7fTCgkVytBMf5EoW9czksmxMsKCzu73mhiGJK4gtbWPxKj0Bp4FjFNUKJUvDxgGZ8HRgj0upLEktFKNbaL13Bq2BoM5jvr/s320/Michael-Christmas-2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />I’m told that long term solitary confinement under such objectively oppressive physical conditions and the deliberate deprivation of any meaningful interaction with others will inevitably drive even the strongest of men insane and I’m sure there are many who believe this to be true. Some might even argue convincingly that this inevitable insanity is the objective as when the monsters of my fate cannot break the body, then they become that much more determined to break the spirit. But nobody yet has told me just where that ever so elusive line is that separates “sanity” from the slippery slide down the proverbial “rabbit hole” leading downward into that bottomless abyss of madness, in which seems that each of us is expected to descend is?<br /><br />Each week the prison psychologist will make his rounds of the death row unit and always without even so much as stopping, do the required “welfare check” on each of us, as the state has a vested interest in proving we have not become “insane” and we all know that our psychological state is irrelevant as even those who have long ago slipped beneath the murky surface of insanity will be automatically assigned a “normal” rating each week, as any other conclusion that might dare to call our sanity into question might later serve to obstruct the state’s objective of putting us to death. Becoming insane and being recognised as insane are two totally different things and prison staff who conduct these psychological drive-bys are part of the pretence.<br /><br />But then I smile as I struggle to understand just who these people are who so pretentiously proclaim themselves to be “normal” and want to insist that insanity is such a bad thing. If I have learned nothing else in the too many years that I have been entombed in my solitary crypt awaiting the uncertainty of my fate, it is that my selfish??? structured psychosis provides my mental escape from this thing they want to claim to be “reality” and that it is this reality that sucks, not insanity.<br /><br />When I sit silently in that comforting darkness of my solitary crypt, I can often listen to the many others around me in this monolithic warehouse of tormented souls, or on the increasingly rare occasion when I might reluctantly venture out for a few hours of “outdoor” recreation on the razor-wired concrete pad they call our “recreation yard” and am able to see and even look into the windows of the lost souls of condemned men among me, I find that I truly do envy those who now have that empty look in their eyes, those who have already been blessed by the detachment from that burden of reality that still weighs down heavily upon those of us not so fortunate.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />For them, they are the lucky ones, no longer imprisoned by this cruel world around them. For them, the past, the present and even the future and with it the uncertainty of their judicially imposed fate have lost all meaning and although their physical body may remain condemned to that solitary cage, their “spirit” is free to fly away and soar high above the stormy clouds and into that picture perfect blue sky beyond and as I witness their existence in a world of their own making, do I come to appreciate that insanity is something any sane man in my predicament can only envy and I as agaon retreat back into the recesses of my voluntary darkness do I find myself praying upon a long deaf god that I too one day soon might be blessed by this gift of insanity, so that I too might find my own reprieve from the harsh truth of reality.<br /><br />Then there’s that whimsical wisp of hope that keeps me pushing forward and I am reminded of a particular scene in the movie “The Shawshank Redemption” in which the seasoned convict (played by Morgan freeman) is sitting at the table in the prison “chow hall”, looking up at the fresh meat fate cast down upon them and offers this profound truth, that every convict will inevitably learn in their own way, …..”hope will drive you insane”. Perhaps that is why in Dante’s “Inferno”, as the desperate soul slowly stepped through that passageway leading down to into the very depths of hell itself, he took a moment to absorb those words enscribed above that portal into hell – “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”. And yet, despite that paradox of clinging to hope as a means of sustaining the strength to survive, yet knowing that each time that hope is crushed, insanity steps another step toward you, so many still so desperately cling to their hope.<br /><br />But can hope drive a man insane if what he truly hopes for is insanity? Only the helplessly naïve would think that life and death was black and white, as only by being condemned to living within the very shadows of death, while hopelessly bearing witness as one by one around you are put to death in such an arbitrary and utterly unpredictable manner, can you come to understand that death itself comes in an infinite array of shades of grey – and even long before they might come to drag the next man away do we know that physical death too often follows long after the man within that fleshy vessel has already dies a slow and tortuous death of the spirit within.<br /><br /> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />To understand the therapeutic value of my voluntary darkness, one must first appreciate that death too often is not a singular event, but a prolonged journey towards that finality that is marked by the degradation of the inner-will with each stumbling step. In my voluntary darkness, I have come to know that a man’s worst fate is not to be condemned to death, but as if peeling away the layers of a onion, each day is another step in which that will to live is maliciously stripped away until only the inner core itself remains, a mere fragment of the man that once was. With each layer, that light of life within the windows of the soul dims just a bit more and the world within takes on a darker shade of grey and only in our arrogance do we attempt to define the precise moment of a physical death. <br /><br />Only by attempting to understand why a condemned man might be relentlessly haunted by such thoughts might another understand why the darkness has become my friend and why as I so willingly surrender to that darkness, do I place such value in the power to be able to choose whether to pull that string or not. Each day I alone decide whether in that moment I will live or die as in that voluntary darkness I inflict death upon the reality that imprisons me and in the shadows of my refuge, I find a fleeting sense of peace, knowing only too well that in the coming days, or weeks, or months they will soon enough come to lead me away and as they place me in that solitary cell, just outside that solid steel door that leads into the execution chamber, I will no longer be blessed with the power to retreat into that comforting refuge of my voluntary darkness, but will instead be dragged into a brightly lit room, then strapped upon a gurney, as just a few feet away, on the other side of a glass wall, a small crowd of witnesses will have willingly gathered to silently witness my state sanctioned execution.<br /><br />As I then lay physically restrained and powerless upon that gurney, as those who have so methodically stalked my death for so many years nod to the masked executioner standing but a few feet away, as he pushes down on the plunger that will send that lethal cocktail of chemicals into my veins, and as I draw that final breath, I will once again find comfort and peace as the light fades away and as that darkness of death descends down upon me, the temptation of pulling that string will be no more. Just as in my solitary cell I have been condemned to live alone, I too will now die alone and in the end, darkness will be my only remaining friend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-51640476116219816682018-02-16T00:50:00.000-08:002018-02-16T00:50:21.257-08:00Mike's Story <h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<br /></h3>
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(written by Mike in 2009) reflecting on his life; youth, upbringing and the time before he was sent to death row)</span></span></span></h3>
<span style="font-size: large;">Many moons ago in a life now far, far
away I was born at San Francisco General Hospital in California on March
29th, 1960. I was the fourth of seven children brought into the world
by my mother; by the time she was only 24. By right and reason I should
not have been born as after the first three (my oldest sister Debra and
my two older brothers Donald, Jr. and Jeff) my mother contracted polio
and was bedridden and not to have any more children.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In those early years my father and
grandfather owned a steel fabrication plant in San Rafael and we lived a
comfortable middle class life in Marin County. I was too young to
remember the first home I lived in, in Mill Valley and as the family
grew and evolved we would move often. My first memories were of a house
on Oak Spring Drive in San Anselmo and those memories were and still are
unpleasant. Although faded and broken by years that have passed at
times I can still remember the violent arguments that led to my parents’
divorce. Or rather remember hiding from them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mike and younger siblings</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Then mom was gone and I remained alone
with the father I feared, especially when he was drunk – and it seemed
he was always drunk. About the time I began school I met my stepmother.
She barely spoke English and was hired originally as a housekeeper. I
was to young to recognize the seemingly sincere Mary Poppins persona she
first projected that all too quickly evolved into the incarnation of
evil within her that manifested itself immediately after she and my
father married. By that time we were living in a large house high on a
hill in Woodacre, over looking the Lagunitas Valley below. Not long
after they wed we moved to a subdivision in San Rafael, on Court Street
close to where the canal opened into San Francisco bay.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Soon the family began to grow even
larger as my stepmother Consuelo became pregnant with her first. We
moved again to a house outside of Novato but still within walking
distance to Olive Elementary School. I met my first best friend there as
his family has a small ranch nearby. Over the hill behind us, a short
walk away, was the valley George Lucas where parts of “Star Wars” was
filmed. There were good times, but there were bad times. My best friend
Russell was killed in a freak accident and my oldest sister – often my
only protector – ran away. By the time I was ten she was barely a teen
but I understand now why she had to leave, why living on the streets off
the generosity of so-called “hippies” and hanging with bikers was
better than staying at “home.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">With a half brother and two half sisters
the family grew to a total of ten children. From outside looking in I
suppose we appeared to be an average family – at least it was the only
family I knew so I thought it was average. On weekends, especially
during the summers we would all pack up and drive out to my uncle’s
coastal ranch (“Diamond T”) on nearby Ft Reyes, now part of the Ft.
Reyes national Seashore. On long weekends and holidays we would go
camping at Clear Lake, or Lake Mendocino and as evening set we’d all
gather around a campfire singing songs as dad played the guitar.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But then came the early seventies and
the family business was abruptly forced into bankruptcy. We moved from
Novato to the sleepy hollow community of San Anselmo. My two older
brothers and I joined the Boy Scouts and served as alter boys at the
Catholic Church. My oldest sister, then barely 16 was committed to the
Napa State Hospital, pregnant with her first child. By the time I began
middle school we moved again to a small farm with an old Victorian house
outside of Sebastopol in Sonoma County. By then I discovered the means
to escape reality first with alcohol, then drugs.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My grandparents suffered a car accident
and both died a few weeks later and my dad all but gave up even trying
as he found his own escape in heavy drinking. There were no more
holidays with the grandparents, outings to the ranch, or camping trips.
As my stepmother took control life at “home” went from bad to worse. It
wasn’t long before we again moved – this time in a caravan of travel
trailers like a band of gypsies. But it was the best time of my life, as
for the entire summer of 1974 we camped out at Yosemite National Park.
Now barely 14, I couldn’t imagine how it could get any better. Any
pretense of parental supervision was now gone and I was free to explore
the park all day, every day as if it was my private playground. As a
bonus, I quickly discovered a seemingly infinite supply of free beer; as
campers upstream would place their beer in the icy Merced River only to
be washed downstream by the rushing current… entire six packs were
there for the taking and in surprising abundance. What I couldn’t drink
was easily sold or traded for pot (marijuana) and the best summer of
life became a long party. It was the best of times.As the summer drew to
an end we packed the trailers up and began a two week exodus across
America, finally reaching Florida.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">For several months we lived in the two
trailers and a large tent at a campground outside of Tampa. At that time
I began going to a local Baptist Church for the very best of reasons – a
girl I met in school belonged to the youth group and I really wanted
her to belong to me. As I got more involved “Brother Jeff,” the
charismatic youth director “saved” my soul and I found a new high in
Jesus. After years of attending the Catholic Church this seemed so alive
and fulfilling.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A few months later Dad bought a small
house in the farming area southwest of Plant City known as Turkey Creek.
My stepmother claimed her domain and made it clear that only her
children would be allowed to live in the house. But we didn’t complain.
My oldest brother Donald, Jr. joined the Army and became “career
military” until that career abruptly ended when he was hit with an
aerial grenade during the first Gulf War. That left my older brother and
I, and arch nemesis Jeff to share the one small travel trailer while my
even younger sisters Mary and Janet shared the other.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">With the family reduced to living on
welfare, we were all forced to skip school and work on local farms or
orange groves and the income was used to feed us. If any of us dared to
protest, of God forbid not work at all, the physical repercussions were
immediate. But once that day’s job was complete, that pretense of
parental supervision again quickly disappeared and we did as we pleased.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Not long after moving to Turkey Creek my
older brother, Jeff and I and even my younger sister Mary began hanging
with a “neighborhood” crowd. We never aspired to be a “gang” and never
roamed the area preying upon anyone. Our thing was simply to meet almost
nightly in a group, pool our money, and party. Looking back, I now
realize that all of us were from similar backgrounds and in our own way
became family. On the days I was allowed to go to school I would often
join a crowd of others who regularly “skipped” school. On good days we
would hang out and party in the woods behind Plant City High School or
go swimming at nearby Mudd Lake. On bad days we would walk to the mall
in Plant City and hang out. Although caught more than a few times, it
didn’t really matter, as I knew nobody at home would care. When the
school would impose suspensions it only meant that I didn’t have to
pretend to go to school in the first place, which was even better. I
never failed a grade. Somehow I attended just enough classes to absorb
what was necessary to pass the tests and I made a point of always taking
the important tests. Never – not even once – did a single teacher
attempt to talk to me about my chronic truancy or anything. I was a lost
child and they accepted that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As the months passed my stepmother
demanded more of us and we became, for all practical purposes, virtual
slave labor. My protests increased and the physical beatings became more
severe. A few months before my 16th birthday the fair came to Plant
City for the annual Strawberry Festival and I found a job working at a
game concession… and I found a new life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">By my 16th birthday I was out on the
road on my own, working carnivals around Chicago. Say what you want
about “carnies’” but this band of misfits were family and they made a
point of looking out for each other. Most nights I would sleep in the
carnival tents and spend my money on food and partying. Although it
would seem to have been the last place a teenage kid should be on his
own, even though I didn’t appreciate it, those on the lot knew I was a
kid and seldom did I go anywhere without a watchful eye keeping me out
of trouble. We worked long, hard hours and when the lights on the Midway
went off we’d gather in groups – often pooling our money to rent a
motel room – and party to excess.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mike and friends</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In all the years I worked on the road,
not even once did I get in any kind of legal trouble. Contrary to
popular myth, habitual criminals were not welcome as the show would not
tolerate anyone bringing heat down on the show. From early spring into
the summer we would work local carnivals in Chicago area, then with
summer came the county and state fairs, which meant even longer hours,
even days straight during “Midnight Madness.” From Michigan and Illinois
State Fairs, we would work our way south through Arkansas and Oklahoma,
then into Texas, and across to Louisiana and finally back to Florida
for “winter quarters”.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Returning to Florida in late 1977 I met a
girl I knew in high school when I briefly joined the high school ROTC
program. Almost immediately Kathy Marie and I became inseparable. A few
months later when it was time to head back up to Chicago for the new
season she tagged along. By late summer she was pregnant and we made
plans to return home and settle down. On October 27th, 1978 – both of us
barely 18 – we were married at the Polk County Courthouse in Bartow,
Florida. The next day I was on a bus and on my way to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma
to report for active duty in the Army. Without a high school education
and any job skills other than working carnivals, the military meant I
had the opportunity to take care of my new family. But what may very
well have become a “career” as it was for my brother, abruptly ended
with an accident while on duty and a discharge for failure to perform my
required duties. After my discharge we lost our health coverage and
when our daughter was born in March 1979 at Tampa General Hospital we
almost lost her when the doctor failed to do a c-section in time and our
little “Niki” (Jennifer Nicole) came to life still in the womb and
drowned in her own fluids. For a month she remained in a coma at the
neo-natal unit of Tampa General kept alive by respirators, and tubes,
and wires, but then she finally came home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The prolonged deprivation of oxygen and
physical trauma of her birth caused permanent brain damage and epilepsy.
But she was our little girl and she was home and that’s all that
mattered. Both of us still too young and irresponsible to be parents
ourselves, and still “partying” beyond excess, bad judgment was a way of
life. Within months we returned to the road, living in our car and
countless motel rooms. Working carnivals and fairs was he only life we
knew. As the season drew to an end Kathy Marie announced she was
pregnant again and we made plans to “settle down.”Returning to Florida
just after Christmas in early 1980.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I quickly blew the money we had saved to
get our own place on a motorcycle – then wrecked it racing another bike
on the highway. That was the last straw… Kathy Marie’s family descended
upon her, insisting she leave the loser. Her mother gladly hired a
divorce lawyer and formal divorce proceedings were initiated; however,
before any hearing could be held, we reconciled, rented a mobile home,
and I actually got a real job. Accomplishing all that I didn’t see any
need to stop partying too. Soon I was supplementing my income by any
means necessary as my use of alcohol and drugs substantially increased.
No longer surrounded by the protective “family” of carnies, I began
hanging out with a more destructive crowd.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In July 1980 our son Daniel Brian was
born at Tampa General Hospital. With my irresponsibility reaching new
heights, Kathy Marie began paying expenses by forging her mother’s
signature on her family’s trust account. On our second anniversary, she
was arrested on 24 counts of forgery, and I was arrested on outstanding
traffic tickets. Her family took temporary custody of our kids. After a
month I was released but she remained in jail until February, three
months later. Her family refused to let me have custody until Kathy
Marie was out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Again my “partying” escalated and I
began getting into trouble. With nothing to hold me back, I lived in
bars and lounges selling drugs and consuming the profits. Having proven
my inability to be a mature and responsible husband and father, nobody
was surprised when I started cohabitating with another woman. When Kathy
Marie was released from jail in February 1981 she quickly renewed the
divorce proceedings and by April the divorce was final. Now accompanied
by “Kitty” I returned to Chicago to work the new carnival season. Kitty
was not a carnie, nor would she ever be. In June we returned to Florida,
as she was pregnant. Shortly after we returned I ran across Kathy
Marie. With our divorce (which I never challenged) final less than two
months, she had already remarried a family friend. But by that night she
left Walter – and I left Kitty – and we reconciled.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In August of 1981, while extremely
impaired, an argument evolved into an act of inexcusable road rage
resulting in an accident when the other vehicle hit a telephone pole.
Intoxicated and in possession of illegal drugs I fled the scene only to
be arrested a few days later for aggravated battery. For months I
remained incarcerated until the charges were finally dropped. During
that time Kathy Marie’s probation on her forgery charges was violated
and she was ordered into a state “halfway” house in the Ybor City area
of Tampa. In late November 1981, Kathy Marie was walking to a nearby
store from that halfway house when she was abducted, then taken to a
nearby lot where she was raped repeatedly by two men, then beaten and
left for dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Again this created a wall around her
that I could not penetrate. The next month, I left Florida for Utah
where I intended to meet my mother for the first time since I was a
child. I knew I had to get out of Florida and away from the destructive
lifestyle I was living. Once in Salt Lake City I stayed with my mother
and found work. But I didn’t escape my need to party and it wasn’t long
before I was hanging with a new crowd but doing the same thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOtu_T2BuAE62u8V398jdPWpgpsohrsk3MkhXWwzKKBkQwCQoHpdOLjt4orOFNasI-19H62A58UB6iEv6m042N7lQReQm-GFOnNHCKpaQxXN6hra3FOKzR9U_tZFV6Yrh38vyWaH2qGY/s1600/youngmike3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOtu_T2BuAE62u8V398jdPWpgpsohrsk3MkhXWwzKKBkQwCQoHpdOLjt4orOFNasI-19H62A58UB6iEv6m042N7lQReQm-GFOnNHCKpaQxXN6hra3FOKzR9U_tZFV6Yrh38vyWaH2qGY/s1600/youngmike3.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A few months later came an arrest for
drunk driving – even though I wasn’t driving at the time! (It was Utah –
everybody knows those Mormons are nuts!). In early March 1982 I
received a telephone call from my former girlfriend Kitty telling me our
son Cary Michael, Jr. (born prematurely in Michigan in late December)
was in the hospital with pneumonia in Plant City, Florida and might not
make it. That next day I left Utah driving nonstop to Florida in less
than 48 hours. Not long after arriving back in Florida I was arrested in
Plant City on an outstanding warrant for violation of probation. After a
few months in the Hillsborough County Jail my probation was formally
revoked and I was sentenced to state prison for two years on the
original felony conviction – a single “bad check” charge, my only prior
felony conviction. (It should be noted that when many members of the
Congress committed the same crime – deliberately writing a check on
their accounts without sufficient funds -- no action was taken against
them.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">With almost nine months of time already
served in the county jail, that two year prison sentence was actually
less than a year. After about six months in state prison I was
transferred to a state work release center, where I would work a regular
“free-world” job then report back and stay at the work release center.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Once again my drinking got the best of
me. Within a few days of arriving at the work release I was caught
smoking a joint and “busted.” A disciplinary action was filed and I was
placed on administrative probation. A few weeks later I skipped work and
went out drinking with my younger brother Chuck – and again got caught.
This time it was another disciplinary action and assigned extra duty in
the kitchen, and instructed I had to find a new job working days, not
nights.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A few days before Christmas 1982 the
company I found work with held a Christmas party, which included a
smorgasbord of hard liquor. By the time I was due back at the work
release center I was wasted. I knew if I went back in would be my third
violation and I would be returned to state prison as well as lose all my
accrued “gain time” which would mean almost a year in prison. That
seemed like a lot and I didn’t want to face it, so I simply did not
return, which in Florida is technically considered an “escape” from
state prison. A fact I conveniently failed to appreciate when I made my
intoxicated decision not to return. That decision led me to relocate to
LaBelle, Florida and set the stage for the case that led me to death
row. And here I remain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Michael Lambrix </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-74282178691166957712018-01-16T03:57:00.000-08:002018-01-16T03:57:05.518-08:00The Yellow Brick Road <b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Written bij Mike Lambrix in 1996</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Outside the window a cricket sings out in its private celebration of life, </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">as the humid aroma of recent showers
steaming off the hot concrete barely overcomes the stench of a hundred
living souls compressed into an abyss of lost humanity. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Darkness, in its possessive manner, steals its way forth as I stand at the front of my cell.</span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Beyond the bars that separate me from
the rest of the world, I can bask in the simple pleasure of watching day
give way to night in my own selfish celebration that I have endured -
and even survived -yet another day. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is my evening ritual; my way of paying homage to the ability and inner strength of perseverance. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">And even in this shadow of condemnation, I do find strength.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I accept that the definitive measure and
molding of character is not simply the ability to survive adversity -
but to overcome and even manipulate the essence of adversity into a
productive entity of which I might find the strength to master. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I cannot see beyond this artificial hell in which I've been confined.</span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The horizon I see is nothing more than a
scattered number of lights flooding the compound grounds and dancing
with glittering fire upon the honed edges of razor wire that lie between
the statuesque "iron curtain" perimeters. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The only sign of life in this world
outside is a spotlight, as it lazily rakes its way across the grounds in
an unpredictable, haphazard manner.</span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But even as they've confined and
condemned my body, there remains a part of me that is rebelliously free;
that no amount of steel and stone can confine and no man can condemn. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Within the inner self of the man I am,
just as within every condemned prisoner, there's a path that leads its
way off into a different horizon. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">This path is landscaped and lined with
the symbolic fruits of faith, hope, encouragement and perseverance;
stolen moments of our humanity - and even sanity.</span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">For each of us, we strive to maintain
some recognizable, </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">progressive forward motion, refusing to succumb to
the </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">environment, finding inner strength to keep pushing ahead one slow
step at a time. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">And all too often, it is a constant
struggle, as this imaginative path takes its twists and turns through
the highest of emotional peaks, to the lowest of emotional valleys.</span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">For me, I call this imaginative escape
from the reality of condemnation the "Yellow Brick Road", in personal
reflection of the theologically symbolic nature and promise of the
covenant of the rainbow; because even in the worst of storms, there's
always the presence of a rainbow.</span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">And somewhere over the rainbow is the promise of hope. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">And this Yellow Brick Road is my odyssey through Oz - my exodus through hell. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">And somewhere at the end of the Yellow Brick Road is my redemption.</span></span></span></span>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And it is a strange road.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There's night and there's day.</span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5to2_5_5NAvz08iHJGzRovnmQuBFgjant9oJcR1zZ-3DoEyOrywnEbgWsd2ALwOznWiahUuJxJMWK4u_8MWe_eQ1TJIeP-x6IdVPsWjaO95nN09qkZhQRzArbRMr0mi_2xAki1FXZLj4/s1600/rawImage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5to2_5_5NAvz08iHJGzRovnmQuBFgjant9oJcR1zZ-3DoEyOrywnEbgWsd2ALwOznWiahUuJxJMWK4u_8MWe_eQ1TJIeP-x6IdVPsWjaO95nN09qkZhQRzArbRMr0mi_2xAki1FXZLj4/s320/rawImage.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<br />
With the night comes; the uncertainty
and even fear of darkness; the long moments and hours of hopelessness
and despair, the feeling that all has already been lost, and that to
continue would be futile, the mocking echo of silence, which serves to
remind me that I am alone in this concrete crypt. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Long nights of lying awake - unable to sleep as thoughts of what was and what might have been haunt me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The demons of darkness creep stealthily
in to rob me of my most prized possessions of hope, faith, and the
strength of perseverance.</span>
<br />
<br />
But then comes the new day and with it
mixed confusion. Darkness, and all it holds, has again been defeated -
but there is no joyous victory as the new day does little to restore the
gradual erosion of those values that compel me forth. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The day brings with it the anticipation
and anxiety of uncertainty; of hopelessness borne of living in an
environment of forced conformity and dependence.</span><br />
<br />
Life of the condemned is not life at all. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rather, it is an existence somewhere
between hell and who knows where. A constant state of forced limbo, like
a puppet on a string. Having been condemned by society, we now are not
allowed to live - or die. Only exist ... if being stored in a virtual
warehouse devoid of emotion can be said to constitute an existence.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpruBAfKHEC4I4yXFWqfQMcxsh8RudiixpleKT3nmNUQ9X8UBFkTaTRlp7B02VYj4mDpr8BP-kxskoeACvuDrdzcaWNemA3oiqES6pYJEgRGzQAPry79KEt35IWZn1BeraPGGr0-8V572l/s1600/18556996_1993339670894127_755699970134077971_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="480" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpruBAfKHEC4I4yXFWqfQMcxsh8RudiixpleKT3nmNUQ9X8UBFkTaTRlp7B02VYj4mDpr8BP-kxskoeACvuDrdzcaWNemA3oiqES6pYJEgRGzQAPry79KEt35IWZn1BeraPGGr0-8V572l/s320/18556996_1993339670894127_755699970134077971_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
If life is but the struggle for mere
existence and its value judged by longevity - then perhaps by cheating
those disciples of death that now demand the forfeiture of my life is
itself worthy of that unknown cricket's celebration of life.<br />
<br />
I only wish I could find some
justification and comfort in that argument. But, I do not; for me life
is not merely a struggle for biological existence. Without the
preservation of my humanity and individuality, such an existence would
have no meaning, or worth. Here on death row, we do exist. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet through the condemnation imposed
upon us, society has deprived us of the recognition of our existence --
denying our humanity.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_KkWP66r9hC3_oHP9R_zvC3I2izzQLUhUMK99vwwHVlyc6J3FuztHiHYkJzbKhOWYubdGwJcKKuf2N3Vimms8G9zZYmm3GU3lqMJscywcDkr7559R7HdynW4ZEIfDpvfeGKQ7uApSddt/s1600/mike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_KkWP66r9hC3_oHP9R_zvC3I2izzQLUhUMK99vwwHVlyc6J3FuztHiHYkJzbKhOWYubdGwJcKKuf2N3Vimms8G9zZYmm3GU3lqMJscywcDkr7559R7HdynW4ZEIfDpvfeGKQ7uApSddt/s1600/mike.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
It is not enough to condemn us. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">In society's demented state of moral
consciousness, we must first be stripped of our humanity before being
deprived of our life. To recognize our humanity is to create a
reflection of their own inherent imperfection, as well as face the truth
that they are taking a human life. But to make us less than human
pacifies society's guilt. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">They don't kill any particular individual, but rather something less than an individual.</span></span><br />
<br />
And so for years on end a death of the
inner self is methodically inflicted upon us so very gradually that it's
practically unperceivable. An erosion of all emotion, until having been
subjected to the endless rigor of administrative conformity, the person
within is lost in a penologically conditioned sacrificial surrender. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The strength to resist no longer remains and without realizing it - we have been subdued. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Conformance, and compliance - even the
acceptance of death - become a form of adoptive security, protecting us
from confronting atrocities we've suffered in the name of justice and
"We The People."</span></span><br />
<br />
But for each of us, there is a Yellow
Brick Road; an escape from the reality of our condemnation; a place of
solace and security.<br />
<br />
The adversity we suffer remains and
continues to plague us; continues to rob us of the humanity and
individuality we so desperately cling to. But as long as we each keep
sight of our own Yellow Brick Road, we will deprive our captors and
executioners of the theft of our humanity and stand strong in our inner
strength.<br />
<br />
Not only to survive -- but to overcome.<br />
<br />
Michael Lambrix </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-18158191593622866852017-12-18T01:25:00.000-08:002017-12-30T07:36:01.552-08:00Christmas in a cage - Death Row Holiday<span style="font-size: small;"> - Written bij Mike in December 2009 - </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXwL0ic9g3x1Z8DqKwzCc0sUUeedyeJtsfDu-BmbsSWCMaJg6laqJ5LtZm6XINWfGFUnln07Ow1u7h0CZoMKjVxloxCwq5P-Tv5TYJyVZpliwKIIvpjFJ62dyDCrvEHC5RmxIr8BU4my2/s1600/christmas4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXwL0ic9g3x1Z8DqKwzCc0sUUeedyeJtsfDu-BmbsSWCMaJg6laqJ5LtZm6XINWfGFUnln07Ow1u7h0CZoMKjVxloxCwq5P-Tv5TYJyVZpliwKIIvpjFJ62dyDCrvEHC5RmxIr8BU4my2/s1600/christmas4.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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 branches 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrTH3Jbq_rLjxjyrrbYxmJyeMZ0vzG1SH-UB44DkXzpBOZ_oo18JIMhtKYwQm_djp6J52t3o5Lfb-W-z-iyN04ZMlHezqR-jEU6ZzXPkuapXV-zFxm2fbIw6E3aAIdIBOZ5W8g9bonevE/s1600/christmas5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrTH3Jbq_rLjxjyrrbYxmJyeMZ0vzG1SH-UB44DkXzpBOZ_oo18JIMhtKYwQm_djp6J52t3o5Lfb-W-z-iyN04ZMlHezqR-jEU6ZzXPkuapXV-zFxm2fbIw6E3aAIdIBOZ5W8g9bonevE/s1600/christmas5.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuZkBKt-jQ89stppmhqbQjz8TtgZHaXFJD_wCJK0gCEF8cARqL1Rpi1QeHp7ZcxfG-Ol0Oc3rTBnWr9coVAT4PJ6EuxNkCm6hHbEHZjsEJr_SP5kQwcYukAMwWj8m31Obm0OolnVJPW-I/s1600/christmas6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuZkBKt-jQ89stppmhqbQjz8TtgZHaXFJD_wCJK0gCEF8cARqL1Rpi1QeHp7ZcxfG-Ol0Oc3rTBnWr9coVAT4PJ6EuxNkCm6hHbEHZjsEJr_SP5kQwcYukAMwWj8m31Obm0OolnVJPW-I/s1600/christmas6.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">To both friend and stranger equally the same, I say… Merry Christmas!!! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Michael Lambrix</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-2535755188920219712017-11-22T02:13:00.003-08:002017-11-22T02:13:51.835-08:00Thanksgving with Henry<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Mike wrote this blog post November, 2009 - about Thanksgiving on death row and a tribute to his friend Henry Garcia.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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 we must order the necessary
items at least a week ahead of the time on order to get them on time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbHUaXDcJcL-zlJ8caB2Weyp4tiHVzclXFcfAEzRUTmiGMS-esl6KYfRnvGA7OJWeuyzSyphIYxwbkgY8-ruTutWyu7_aUt6PvtamjzlZ52zGIr6nXjvzQOpsHzs3N1zYM0XH394M_SY8/s1600/1200px-Bear_claw_pastry.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1200" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbHUaXDcJcL-zlJ8caB2Weyp4tiHVzclXFcfAEzRUTmiGMS-esl6KYfRnvGA7OJWeuyzSyphIYxwbkgY8-ruTutWyu7_aUt6PvtamjzlZ52zGIr6nXjvzQOpsHzs3N1zYM0XH394M_SY8/s320/1200px-Bear_claw_pastry.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyymCna2KrG18SmfqkEAEbo17_Uiby7OGtsHJFsL1BKqJKMykuryOw6RCbyb0OVaT0YD-CVQU6mPbaHZu9miZawKJECV2zFU5EzH3v_JFv9e3k9z4q5PuWAXFVz5Yj_K-ZKzyH2i-lPdZ/s1600/knockingheavensdoor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyymCna2KrG18SmfqkEAEbo17_Uiby7OGtsHJFsL1BKqJKMykuryOw6RCbyb0OVaT0YD-CVQU6mPbaHZu9miZawKJECV2zFU5EzH3v_JFv9e3k9z4q5PuWAXFVz5Yj_K-ZKzyH2i-lPdZ/s320/knockingheavensdoor.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mike Lambrix</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-2374466031712279262017-11-13T04:10:00.001-08:002018-10-29T02:36:08.441-07:00Clemency Gone Missing From Florida’s Death Row<br />
<a href="http://www.sun-sentinel.com/opinion/editorials/fl-op-editorial-clemency-florida-death-row-20171110-story.html" target="_blank">Sun Sentinel Editorial Board November 11, 2017</a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Justice is supposed to be blind, but not as blind as the <a href="http://www.sun-sentinel.com/topic/crime-law-justice/justice-system/u.s.-supreme-court-ORGOV0000126-topic.html" id="ORGOV0000126" title="U.S. Supreme Court">U.S. Supreme Court</a>
when it ruled in 1993 that a Texas death row prisoner — who claimed to
be innocent, but had run out of appeals — should look to the governor to
save his life.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">“Executive clemency,” wrote Chief Justice William Rehnquist, is “the 'fail safe' in our criminal justice system."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But when it comes to the death penalty in Florida, the fail-safe has gone missing.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There hasn’t been a death row commutation in Florida since 1983, the first year of Gov. Bob Graham’s second term.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Since Florida resumed executions in 1979, governors have put 95 people to death and spared only six, all by Graham.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In
at least 17 of those cases, advocates say grounds existed for commuting
the sentence to life in prison. That’s not “getting away” with
anything, by the way. The only alternative to execution is life without
parole.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In four of those cases, Florida juries had recommended
life sentences, but were overruled by the judges. At least two of those
put to death were insane, including one who believed he was being
executed because he was Jesus. And two were Vietnam veterans with
post-traumatic stress disorder.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s hard to understand what’s
happening because when it comes to open government, death row clemency
is a black hole. Everything about the process is secret unless the
governor or Cabinet chooses to hold a public hearing, which hasn’t
happened since the Jeb Bush administration.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">There’s no way to know whether the governor is
receiving erroneous reports from his staff or from the Commission on
Offender Review, which reviews clemency applications.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Neither is there a way to tell whether the governor even reads the files for himself.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Like his predecessors, Gov. <a href="http://www.sun-sentinel.com/topic/politics-government/government/rick-scott-PEPLT00007609-topic.html" id="PEPLT00007609" title="Rick Scott">Rick Scott</a>
routinely signs death warrants without saying why he denied clemency,
other than that he found no reason. We asked his spokeswoman. She said:
“His foremost concerns are consideration for the families of the victims
and the finality of judgment.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Those final words say more than
she may have realized. “Finality” is the mantra of appellate courts that
have decided they’ve heard enough from a prisoner. Now it’s the
governor’s mantra, too?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But what if the criminal justice system got it wrong?</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s
not a hypothetical question. Florida leads the nation in death row
exonerations, with 27. That means that in sentencing someone to death,
the state has gotten it wrong 27 times.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Given that sobering statistic, you have to wonder how many innocent people may have been executed or remain on death row.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Gov.
Scott has presided over 26 executions, more than any governor since
they were resumed in 1979. The latest took place Wednesday, when Patrick
Hannon was killed by chemical injection for his role in killing two
Tampa men in 1991.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The governor’s silence about his use of the
ultimate punishment is an insult to the people of Florida. Nothing in
government is as grave as the power to choose between life and death. He
should be accountable for how he uses it. Does he read the letters sent
him by families, attorneys or prisoners? Has he ever questioned the
reports and requested more information? Has he ever had doubts? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s
not “soft on crime” for a governor to commute a death row sentence to
life without parole. In many ways, life without hope is a fate worse
than death.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Former governors understood this.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">From 1925
through 1964, the start of an unofficial nationwide moratorium, Florida
governors commuted 55 of the 250 death sentences that came to their
desks, a rate of 22 percent. Every governor spared at least one in five.
Two commuted nearly half.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The most famous instance was LeRoy
Collins’s 1956 decision to spare Walter Lee Irvin, a black man condemned
for the alleged rape of a white woman in Lake County. In the aftermath,
a posse killed a man who had been with Irvin that day. Irvin, along
with two others, was badly beaten. Later, while being transported to
jail, he was shot by a sheriff, but survived.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Irvin commutation was used against Collins in his re-election campaign. He won.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">“My
conscience told me that this was a bad case, badly handled, badly
tried, and now on this bad performance I was asked to take a man’s life.
My conscience would not let me do it,” he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Collins was vindicated. The “Groveland Four” had been framed. This year, the <a href="http://www.sun-sentinel.com/topic/politics-government/florida-legislature-ORGOV0000182-topic.html" id="ORGOV0000182" title="Florida Legislature">Florida Legislature</a> formally apologized for the injustice and asked Scott to pardon them posthumously. He has yet to say whether he will.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Collins example deserves to be followed, not ignored.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Among
the proposals filed by members of the Florida Constitution Revision
Commission is one that would repeal the death penalty. This deserves
serious consideration.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">At a minimum, the commission should open
the curtains on how governors use or don’t use the power of clemency.
Given how often Florida sends the wrong person to death row, we need, as
Rehnquist said, a fail-safe backstop.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiQanNO1FlhdxtS4bJ3o9G5YZXgquJgHy54yk-uVxhYHkVNzf_ZgHjiS14fAFkR0sTTKfZgiMBuUslhsfQL1yQ47QMt2sSHBP9wiL-H6o163NaAuqmrQDsOhgtrzrXG8QLDpeLhLrKKk_V/s1600/executive_clemency.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="910" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiQanNO1FlhdxtS4bJ3o9G5YZXgquJgHy54yk-uVxhYHkVNzf_ZgHjiS14fAFkR0sTTKfZgiMBuUslhsfQL1yQ47QMt2sSHBP9wiL-H6o163NaAuqmrQDsOhgtrzrXG8QLDpeLhLrKKk_V/s320/executive_clemency.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* Read also: <a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/does-clemency-exist-in-florida" target="_blank">Does Clemency Exist in Florida? </a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* Read the letter from Mike's familie, <a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/the-family-of-michael-lambrix-asks-the-governor-of-florida-rick-scott-to-reconsider-granting-an-exceptional-clemency-hearing" target="_blank">asking Governor Scott for </a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/the-family-of-michael-lambrix-asks-the-governor-of-florida-rick-scott-to-reconsider-granting-an-exceptional-clemency-hearing" target="_blank">an exceptional clemeny hearing. </a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* Read the <a href="http://www.southerninjustice.net/clemency.html" target="_blank">Petition for Clemency</a> for Mike, written by Roseanne Eckert, Clemency Counsel</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* Excellent article by <a href="http://www.sun-sentinel.com/opinion/editorials/fl-op-editorial-death-row-travesty-20171003-story.html" target="_blank">Martin Dyckman</a> - </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">*</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>Mike's website: <a href="https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Southern Injustice </a></span></span> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-38065139669087277072017-11-11T11:21:00.001-08:002017-11-11T23:52:55.102-08:00Joseph Thornton: Former Florida Death Row doctor with a Veterans’ Day message<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://floridapolitics.com/archives/249423-joseph-thornton-former-florida-death-row-doctor-veterans-day-message" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;">By Joseph Thornton for Florida Politics </span></a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Did you know that 18-percent of Florida’s death row is made up of veterans of our military services?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is an important fact as we prepare to honor those who have served
our country this Veterans Day. I have learned from firsthand experience
that veterans sentenced to death can help us all to understand some of
the failures of Florida’s death penalty, as well as how to improve our
justice system overall.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">I am a psychiatrist trained at Stanford University with more than
30-years of clinical experience, including 3-years overseeing medical
and psychiatric care on Florida’s Death Row.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">In our system, for a conviction and execution, a defendant must meet a
legal standard of competency at the time of at the time of the crime,
during the trial, through the appeals, and right up to the execution.
However, even cases where guilt is certain, we cannot be 100-percent
certain of mental capacity, yet an execution is a 100-percent final.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">There is a better way.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> We can learn from veterans and their experience in the criminal justice system.</span> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Take the case of <b>Michael Lambrix</b>, who was executed
by the state of Florida last month. Lambrix served in the Army and was
honorably discharged after becoming disabled in a training accident. He
became involved with drugs, was arrested for murder in 1983, sentenced
to death and executed 33-years later.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Patrick Hannon</b>, who was executed by Florida this
week, had extensive drug use while in the military. However, neither of
these men had the benefit of current intervention tactics deployed by
the Veteran’s Administration to care for veterans with a history of
trauma and drug abuse.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">In response to the growing needs of veterans suffering from trauma
and drug use, in 2008 the Veterans Health System established the
Veterans Justice Initiative.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Florida now has 2 dozen Veteran Treatment Courts. While under the
supervision of these courts the veterans must attend treatment for
indicated conditions such a Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and substance
abuse. For those with substance use disorders there is periodic
mandatory urine drug testing. The objective is rehabilitation and
successful adjustment to the community rather than incarceration.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">If we truly want to honor those who have served in our military this
Veterans’ Day, then we should expand the number of veterans’ courts and
the services they provide.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4Jm9pILD9kaUKlLS7_hmiIL7ZzHr6AMZkQkrM-Wb2BYQK14-zSeE4IqIdmE7K4KSXyapBJPYeZK2HAKj5JL8m0DbUFL1hAN9zFmanXUxsZQTVd-iyI04tv5Tv5FK8l2c6bTiOgjHN65d/s1600/20161108_VeteransDay16_1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="1000" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4Jm9pILD9kaUKlLS7_hmiIL7ZzHr6AMZkQkrM-Wb2BYQK14-zSeE4IqIdmE7K4KSXyapBJPYeZK2HAKj5JL8m0DbUFL1hAN9zFmanXUxsZQTVd-iyI04tv5Tv5FK8l2c6bTiOgjHN65d/s320/20161108_VeteransDay16_1000.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">We should also urge the governor to place a moratorium on executions,
and not just those of veterans, but everyone on Florida’s death row.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">The fact is, almost all of them experienced childhood trauma, drug
use and more. The time and money Florida spends on the death penalty can
be much better spent on more mental health treatment services,
especially for military veterans, who deserve better treatment after
sacrificing so much for our country.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>Read Mike Lambrix's blogpost about Veteran's Day written in November 2009.</b> <b><a href="http://deathrowjournals.blogspot.gr/2009/11/forgotten-veterans-condemning-americas.html" target="_blank">The Forgotten Veterans: Condemning America's Heroes</a></b></span><br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
</h3>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-63619960113316621672017-11-06T06:07:00.003-08:002018-10-29T02:37:27.357-07:00"Dignified Death process?"<span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>(from Save Innocents - <a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/did-mike-lambrix-enjoy-less-rights-than-a-dying-stray-dog-at-the-time-of-his-execution">http://www.save-innocents.com/news/did-mike-lambrix-enjoy-less-rights-than-a-dying-stray-dog-at-the-time-of-his-execution</a> ) </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>When Mike Lambrix was executed in Florida last October 5, some of
his friends were choked by an information he gave them in respect to the
medical procedure behind the preparation of his execution, leading to
this question:<br /><br />Did Mike Lambrix enjoy less rights than a dying stray dog?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Under the 2017 Florida Statute 828.058(4)(a): "Euthanasia
[of dogs and cats] shall be performed only by a licensed veterinarian
or an employee or agent of a public or private agency, animal shelter,
or other facility that is operated for the collection and care of stray,
neglected, abandoned, or unwanted animals, provided the employee or
agent has successfully completed a 16-hour euthanasia technician
certification course." </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Did the people involved in Mike Lambrix's execution have any such certification at all? We do not know.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As
his family is preparing a memorial service for Michael Lambrix, his
close friend Geesje offers her reflection on his execution.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIVESKdLgCrUUfzbF3FkLM3Nd4xP0a-RX3lpUO7FLuXX4oYbKIG9-3pi6IiKbw9emrHCSOeYYFzIUv7vNe4NFpRzW9PydDVg_jVI4odPiFAD8XQMrwJdwm3HafA3J4SSlgyS1n_nIbRoi/s1600/Mike-FSP.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIVESKdLgCrUUfzbF3FkLM3Nd4xP0a-RX3lpUO7FLuXX4oYbKIG9-3pi6IiKbw9emrHCSOeYYFzIUv7vNe4NFpRzW9PydDVg_jVI4odPiFAD8XQMrwJdwm3HafA3J4SSlgyS1n_nIbRoi/s320/Mike-FSP.png" width="214" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<b> Photo credit: Rune Eraker</b><br />
<br />
<b> </b>
<br />
<div class="paragraph">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Michael Lambrix was executed on October 5, 2017.
I've been a friend of his for 14 years and I visited him several times
over the years. Michael Lambrix was also a much beloved son, brother,
father and a long time friend to many.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm deeply troubled by something he wrote a week before his execution":</span></div>
<blockquote style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“And shortly after they removed all my property,<br />the
warden came down with a few people from Medical. I can only assume that
it was the “doctor” responsible for carrying out the execution. They
went to great lengths to conceal his identity, as although I could tell
he was an upper middle aged white man, maybe just a bit shorter than I
am, he was dressed from head to toe in a light baby blue hazmat suit,
which included a white surgical mask. So all I could see of him was his
eyes. He kept his head down — probably some part of him has to be
ashamed of making a living putting people to death.<br /><br />(...) With
total detachment, I was ordered to extend my arm through the cell-front
bars and this masked man proceeded to touch my veins at the inner elbow,
first the left arm and then the right, while whispering to another man
standing beside him, and that was that.<br />Now they were ready to kill me.<br />Yep, not just a job — it’s an adventure.”</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike Lambrix</span></blockquote>
<div class="paragraph">
<span style="font-size: large;">I wonder: Why was he covered from head to toe, with only his eyes visible?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There was absolutely no medical reason for this.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Was he hiding his identity, or was he ashamed of what he was doing?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Why was he not facing Michael, looking him in the eyes, introducing himself, or even speaking to him?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Michael
Lambrix was a person, a human being, not a thing that needed to be
expelled of. To me, it seems as heartless as giving a kick to a dying
stray dog.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I need to understand the reason for, what seems to me,
an unreasonable cruelty inflicted upon a defenceless man facing death. I
understand the necessity of checking someone's veins before you execute
him, after all you don't want any last minute nasty surprises, but
surely it doesn't have to be this way?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When asked the warden of Florida State Prison (Warden Barry Reddish) about this, the reply was:</span></div>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The
Florida Department of Corrections supports a dignified death process
for those inmates with an active death warrant. The identity of the
medical providers involved in the death process is restricted by Florida
Statute, thus it’s not open to public disclosure"</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm struggling with the words: "<b><i>Dignified death process</i></b>".</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">What is dignified or even remotely decent about any of this??</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If
we have to have the death penalty, there is no need to treat condemned
people in their final days like sub-humans, any person facing death
should be treated with some dignity and compassion.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uWP5ruS13XoK5vrB3hkJg_wjd9AXNAdDqU2UdyMXUHBTU1wORrKd_9p4MmcFzV3D8vk_aGgO-fD_HMxZ5KP0gkoU2Rmh64y0OZeMXagjBlG-b9ujA4XC3O7gcVtOM5OeqI4TpFMi6cGs/s1600/Cary+funeral+111717+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uWP5ruS13XoK5vrB3hkJg_wjd9AXNAdDqU2UdyMXUHBTU1wORrKd_9p4MmcFzV3D8vk_aGgO-fD_HMxZ5KP0gkoU2Rmh64y0OZeMXagjBlG-b9ujA4XC3O7gcVtOM5OeqI4TpFMi6cGs/s320/Cary+funeral+111717+11.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Read Mike's post "<a href="http://deathrowjournals.blogspot.gr/2010/02/floridas-death-squad.html" target="_blank">Florida's Death Squad</a>" where he discusses this procedure with a fellow inmate</span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Read also on SAVE-INNOCENTS: <a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/florida-should-introduce-new-laws-to-allow-a-more-dignified-death-process-for-prisoners-facing-execution" target="_blank">Florida should introduce new laws TO ALLOW A MORE DIGNIFIED DEATH PROCESS FOR PRISONERS FACING EXECUTION</a></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Read: <a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/is-this-how-medical-personnel-conceal-their-identity-when-participating-to-executions-in-florida" target="_blank">Is this how medical personnel conceal their identity when participating in executions in Florida?</a></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>Mike's website: <a href="https://southerninjustice.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Southern Injustice </a></span></span></span><br />
<h2 class="blog-title">
</h2>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-19288967948104103502017-10-23T09:33:00.002-07:002017-10-23T09:33:13.381-07:00Music Mike Listened To While on Death Watch<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Some of the music Mike listened to and held special meaning for him</span><br />
<br />
Every Storm Runs Out of Rain - Gary Allen<br />
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Fight Song - Rachel Platten<br />
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Absense of Fear - Jewel<br />
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Halleluja - Leonard Cohen<br />
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Do What You Have To Do - Sarah McLachlan<br />
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Amazing Grace - Celtic Woman<br />
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I Won't Let Go - Rascal Flatts<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-63801680078052846072017-10-18T04:17:00.002-07:002017-10-22T11:36:12.490-07:00Letter from a friend of Mike<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Wednesday, October 18, 2017</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />I, too, was lucky enough to have known Mike and was his friend. I fully support the sentiments expressed by the author of <a href="http://deathrowjournals.blogspot.gr/2017/10/letter-from-friend-of-mike-to-governor.html" target="_blank">Letter from a friend of Mike to Governor Scott, October 9th,2017</a>.<br /><br />It sickens me that States such as Florida and Texas, among others in the US, can so disregard the fact that the death penalty is an anachronistic, senseless and cruel punishment – and that the US is the only Western country to cling to it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The death penalty has nothing to do with justice. It is applied in an arbitrary manner, however it happens to suit corrupt law enforcement and Courts for political purposes. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />I admired Mike’s courage in calling out the rotten system in Florida for what it is, even though he realized his precarious situation. Executions, a pitiful blight on humanity, will only continue for as long as those who know better, remain silent – a point Mike often made. You may not be concerned, that is, until your friend or relative is murdered by the State. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Why the people of Florida live with the risk of a wrongful conviction, together with possible imposition of the death penalty, is beyond my understanding. This can and does happen: Florida leads the States with 27 Death Row exonerations since 1973. While there is no way of knowing how many wrongful convictions there have been, the high number of exonerations, at least, points to the strong likelihood that innocent people have been executed. I believe that Mike is in this sad category. The outrage that I would
expect decent people to feel at such a possibility surely is enough to
end this horror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In Mike’s memory, I ask you to please become active in ending executions in Florida. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Rest in Peace, Mike. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Heather Land</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-981098562388463792017-10-14T08:52:00.003-07:002018-10-29T02:38:48.235-07:00Letter from a friend of Mike to Governor Scott<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91816" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91818" style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91821" style="color: black;">9</span><sup id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91820"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91819" style="color: black;">th</span></sup><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91817" style="color: black;"> October 2017 </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91818" style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91817" style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrs2cJXE7g6YW4NpQAi9V-nlfI8Y4kcePj799kdLnIWjRqrzIS8QbdNmlgIyrW90iejuXRr-Dke7ibEh9Gdc8a4XtrN85VvLe1pDcrR70xgSTKN1GsTGe8BuChQMOz1LI5Tz0rTRjJLV5/s1600/scott-rick-close-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrs2cJXE7g6YW4NpQAi9V-nlfI8Y4kcePj799kdLnIWjRqrzIS8QbdNmlgIyrW90iejuXRr-Dke7ibEh9Gdc8a4XtrN85VvLe1pDcrR70xgSTKN1GsTGe8BuChQMOz1LI5Tz0rTRjJLV5/s200/scott-rick-close-up.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91818" style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91817" style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Dear Governor Rick Scott</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91826" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91825" style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Since August 2011 I have had the pleasure of calling Michael
Lambrix a true friend, despite being a convicted prisoner who lived on death
row for 34 years and labelled a “monster” I was astonished to find that he like
the rest of us, was a human being, with a heart, emotions and feelings. Mike
was highly intelligent and fully capable of providing friendship to a number of
people.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91062" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91061" style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Being a Christian myself I am fully aware of my sin, which
is what makes me not perfect, just as we ALL are not perfect. I believe as a
Christian we are not given the job of judging others, Jesus himself became very
angry at those who judged others for the sins they committed as how can we
judge others when we have failed to look at ourselves first? Are you, Governor
Rick Scott a perfect man? You call yourself a Christian and claim to have
peoples best interest at heart by showing your support for others when disaster
strikes, but we all know that this is purely to obtain votes for the next
election, I am certain that you don’t actually care. Does it not bother you
that many of those you helped recently in Puerto Rico were quite possibly
unconvicted thieves, rapists or drug lords? You didn’t sit them all before a
jury to decide if they deserved your help, you saw a need and fulfilled that
need, isn’t that correct? That was very Christian of you, though I’m sure as it
served your ultimate goal of achieving votes you were happy to look past the
sins of those you were helping. Now my friend Mike, who was on death row until
you so cruelly took his life, and yes it was you Rick Scott who took his life,
you may hide behind people that do the dirty deed for you but ultimately you sign
the death warrants, you say that it’s ok to kill someone as a punishment, you
are responsible. Now tell me as a Christian, or at the very least a man who
claims to care for others, would it not be right, having been responsible for
the deaths or should we say cold blooded murders of so many people, to then
punish you yourself with the same punishment you are administering? Why are you
any different? You have killed many more people than any one of the guys who
are on death row have been alleged to have killed, so why are you not rotting
away in a cell with them? Why is it ok for you to premeditate murder in such a
disgusting manor that you are exempt from the punishment you hand out?</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">At this moment I would like to point you towards the blog
which I’m sure you are aware Mike kept in which he was able to tell the truth
not only about his individual case but also the manner in which the system
works for those on death row and in particular death watch. I am not here to
argue Mikes case, we both know that many years ago he chose not to take a shorter
sentence in preference for putting his trust in the courts and legal system to
give him the fair opportunity to prove his innocence which he has maintained
all of these years. I do believe that someone willing to put their life on the
line to prove their innocence must be very certain of their innocence and
ability to prove it if the alternative is execution and let’s face it, Mike
would have been living in the free world years ago had he taken the relatively short
prison sentence offered to him. I beg that you take time to actually read the
details of his case and come to the only conclusion which you can possibly come
to which is that he was innocent. Obviously there is nothing that can bring
Mike back to us, you have already so cruelly punished not only Mike himself but
his many family members and friends who cared for him so dearly. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="http://www.southerninjustice.weebly.com/"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: "calibri";">http://www.southerninjustice.weebly.com/</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: "calibri";">https://deathrowjournals.blogspot.com/</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I would like to quote a short passage from his most recent
blog written shortly before he died as it was very troubling to me. You, the Governor
pride yourself on supporting and upholding the death penalty and its ultimate
punishment, execution, yet it seems you go to great lengths to distance
yourself from both your responsibility in the cold act of execution and
concealing those others who perform the act for you. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91829" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Mike writes: </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91827" style="line-height: 107%;">“<span style="color: #4c1130;">And shortly after they
removed all my property, the warden came down with a few people from Medical. I
can only assume that it was the “doctor” responsible for carrying out the
execution. They went to great lengths to conceal his identity, as although I
could tell he was an upper middle aged white man, maybe just a bit shorter than
I am, he was dressed from head to toe in a light baby blue hazmat suit, which
included a white surgical mask. So all I could see of him was his eyes. He kept
his head down — probably some part of him has to be ashamed of making a living
putting people to death.<br />
<br />
Then again, for all I know, he could be eagerly volunteering for the job, only
too happy to help carry out these state sanctioned murders and probably
couldn’t care less if he helped kill an innocent person or two. With total
detachment, I was ordered to extend my arm through the cell-front bars and this
masked man proceeded to touch my veins at the inner elbow, first the left arm
and then the right, while whispering to another man standing beside him, and
that was that. Now they were ready to kill me. Yep, not just a job — it’s an
adventure.</span>”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So
why go to such lengths to hide the identity of the Doctor/Executioner? And even
if the death penalty was a just form of punishment may I ask why it was done in
such a way that clearly promoted such an evil thought process that a man
concealed, barring his eyes was sent to someone who knew they were facing
imminent death, striking I imagine further fear into what would have been unbearable
emotional pain that Mike was suffering at the time already, like some kind of
sick joke to laud your power over such people. If you are so ashamed of your
actions that you have to hide people’s identity who are involved in the murder
which you sanction and distance yourself from being responsibe than why on
earth do you think it’s acceptable? Either have the balls to do it yourself and
take responsibility for your decision and the punishment which you hand down or
recognise that it is not the action of a Christian or a decent human being,
someone who should be showing love and compassion and forgiveness. I’m not
suggesting we don’t put people in prison and punish them for varying lengths
for their crimes, but killing them makes you no better than those you
incarcerate. Many of whom have committed crimes in random bursts of emotional
trauma whilst under extreme stress and life’s circumstances fell at their feet
in such a way that they did something they will regret for the rest of their
lives. You Rick Scott sit in a comfy office, with a fat pay check and everyone
running around after you like your some kind of God, yet whilst sipping your
tea at your nice desk, you are able to rationally think about (premeditating)
how to punish others by the use of the death penalty (murder), and you think
those incarcerated are the monsters?! </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I
think to further prove your cold heart, less than 48 hours after killing my
friend Mike you signed the warrant on another inmate, Patrick Hannon to be
executed only a month later. I can only assume that you are worried about the
support you currently have from your people in Florida because it seems to me
like you are desperately trying to spin the wheels of your execution factory as
fast as possible in order to win over those who are crazy enough to agree with
you. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91836" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91834"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91833" style="font-family: "calibri";">I
accept that my letter and views will have no impact on you and that no doubt I
am wasting my breath, but I can make efforts in making sure as many people as possible
are aware of you and who you really are in the hope that one day the death
penalty ceases to exist and that you will not be voted in as Governor. The
American motto “In God we Trust” makes me laugh, you are not trusting in God, and
you are taking life in to your own hands and trying to be God yourself. I hope
that those who vote for you realise that should life’s circumstances ever affect
them in such a way that they hope and trust in you and your legal system to
treat them fairly and to allow the truth to be known and justice served justly
then they will be very rudely awakened won’t they? </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">May
I ask why it is that Florida’s death row has such a high exoneration rate? Is
that because all you are bothered about is someone being held accountable for a
crime, even if they are the wrong person? So if so many have been exonerated I
wonder how many innocent people didn’t get the chance to prove their innocence
who you have killed? Does that seriously not play on your conscience? </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I
would like Governor Scott for you to really think about what you are doing,
when you face God at the final judgement are you honestly going to be able to
say that you did everything you could to be loving and forgiving towards
others? Will you have a clear conscience? The good news is that Jesus offers us
forgiveness and new life to any of us who accept our sinful nature and accept his
forgiveness. It isn’t too late for you Governor Scott, just because you have
killed so many doesn’t mean you can’t have a change of heart, doesn’t mean you
can’t be a real man and stand up in front of everyone and say you were wrong,
that you apologise for what you have done and that you will not sign the warrant
of anymore prisoners because you are going to be a Governor who does things
right, who sets the Christ like example to other Governors in your country.
Even if it means losing your position and status, surely it is more important
to do what’s right, than to live this life of cruel punishment and false
identity which you hold.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91841" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91839"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91838" style="font-family: "calibri";">Mike
wasn’t able to take any of his worldly goods with him when he died, what few
you allowed him, but I am certain that when he stands in front of God he will
be welcomed with open arms. He accepted he wasn’t perfect but even until the
end, he was only concerned for others. Mike was happy in the knowledge that if
his murder brought peace to the family of those he was convicted of killing
(which he didn’t) then it would have served at least some purpose, though I
feel very sad for them because one day they will either find out the truth or
already realise in their own hearts that Mike was not responsible, then his
death will have been in vein in that sense, in which case what have you
achieved? </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91861" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91859"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91858" style="font-family: "calibri";">Break
the cycle of senseless murder that you are putting your name to Governor, you
think you are punishing a murderer but in fact you are punishing so many more
people than that. Should one of your own children lose their way, which happens
to even the best of people no matter how great a parent they are, would you
without hesitation, hand down this same sentence to your own child for that
crime if they committed it? You can’t say that they wouldn’t, hypothetically,
would you murder your own child to punish them for a crime? We are all God’s
children, it is not his will for you to murder anyone, and it is not
acceptable. I will pray for you Rick Scott and hope that you see sense. We must
treat others how we wish to be treated. We are not animals and should not be
treated in such a way. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91857" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91855"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91854" style="font-family: "calibri";">On
Thursday October 5<sup>th</sup><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91853"> I stayed up for most of the night waiting for
you to act out your premeditated murder on my friend, your punishment of Mike
will last me a life time, I have lost a dear friend. Who were you really
thinking about when you signed his warrant and had the lethal drugs plunged
through his veins? Was it seeking justice for the victim’s family? I wonder if
it has really made them feel any better, nothing would make me feel better
about losing a loved one unless they were brought back to life. Was it to
punish Mike? If so you have failed, he was not punished but has been released
from your hell and is free from both the physical and emotional chains with
which you contained him like an animal, I imagine he’s laughing at you right
now! Or was it for you and your gain? In which case when you sit drinking your
tea at your lovely desk in your posh office which you have gained through
stamping on those around you and murdering your way to the top, do you feel
satisfied? Has it made you happy? </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91848" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91846"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91845" style="font-family: "calibri";">Mike’s
experiences and life will live on through his words and through his friends,
you will not be able to get rid of that, you cannot take that away. I will
continue to be inspired by a man I am so proud to have called my friend,
someone who despite being treated so terribly faced life with so much love,
faith and bravery despite the bleak outlook his physical life laid before him.
The way he cared for others and put others first despite the pain and anguish
he went through and suffered on a daily basis was incredible. Even at the end
you couldn’t break him and he finished how he wanted to finish, as a true man
of faith giving only love to those around him, even those who wished to benefit
from his death. If you feel like the opening words to one of Mike’s favourite
songs don’t apply to you or to any of us then you haven’t grasped the meaning
of life.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507961035031_91849" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;">Amazing Grace! </span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;">How sweet the sound</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;">That saved a wretch like me!</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: medium;">I once was lost, but now am found;<br />
Was blind, but now I see.</span></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mike's friend</span></span></span><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">, Lester Griffiths-Bartlett</span></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-71674925099165189102017-10-14T07:32:00.000-07:002017-10-24T11:45:02.003-07:00Vigil for Mike Lambrix<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">October 5, 2017 - Vigil in front of Florida State Prison</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">October 4, 2017 - Gathering in Paris, France where a <a href="http://www.save-innocents.com/news/the-family-of-michael-lambrix-asks-the-governor-of-florida-rick-scott-to-reconsider-granting-an-exceptional-clemency-hearing" target="_blank">letter from Mike's family</a> was read, asking the governor for an exceptional clemeny hearing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Prayer Service During Vigil Florida State Prison</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Michael Lambrix Remembered:</span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-4975527388830324702017-10-08T12:14:00.001-07:002017-11-08T07:13:45.800-08:00Death Watch Journal — Written Friday, September 29, 2017<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8907">
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<span style="font-size: large;">(<b>This was just received and written by Mike a week before his execution on October 5, 2017</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b>) </span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8907">
</div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8907">
<span style="font-size: large;">I now have
less than a week to go until my scheduled execution. Yesterday I was put
on “Phase II” of death watch. I stay in the same solitary cell, but now
they take all my personal property out of the cell — even my clothes
and shoes (except for what I’m actually wearing) and put a guard in
front of my cell to watch every move I make and write it down. No
privacy anymore!</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8908">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8909" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8910">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">And
shortly after they removed all my property, the warden (warden Barry Reddish) came down with a
few people from Medical. I can only assume that it was the “doctor”
responsible for carrying out the execution. They went to great lengths
to conceal his identity, as although I could tell he was an upper middle
aged white man, maybe just a bit shorter than I am, he was dressed from
head to toe in a light baby blue hazmat suit, which included a white
surgical mask. So all I could see of him was his eyes. He kept his head
down — probably some part of him has to be ashamed of making a living
putting people to death.</span></b></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8911">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8912" /></span></b></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8913">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Then
again, for all I know, he could be eagerly volunteering for the job,
only too happy to help carry out these state sanctioned murders and
probably couldn’t care less if he helped kill an innocent person or two.
With total detachment, I was ordered to extend my arm through the
cell-front bars and this masked man proceeded to touch my veins at the
inner elbow, first the left arm and then the right, while whispering to
another man standing beside him, and that was that. Now they were ready
to kill me. Yep, not just a job — it’s an adventure.</span></b></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8914">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8915" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8916">
<span style="font-size: large;">Earlier
today I had a visit with the “second chair” lawyer assigned to my case,
Bryan Martinez. He’s been working on my case for a few months, but this
was the first time I’ve met him. And because I was in “Phase II” this
legal visit was non-contact (behind glass).</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8917">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8918" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8919">
<span style="font-size: large;">Just
before Bryan entered the prison he received a phone call from the
state-agency office letting him know that the Florida Supreme Court had
just issued its 5 to 1 decision denying my last State appeal. That was
the one arguing that the Florida Supreme Court’s earlier decision that
held that although all of Florida’s death-sentenced prisoners were
illegally sentenced under last year’s decision in Hurst vs Florida, only
those sentenced after June 2002 could be granted relief, was
unconstitutionally arbitrary and unfair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8921" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8922">
<span style="font-size: large;">My
lawyers argued that this “partial retroactivity” rule had to be set
aside, as it was constitutionally unsustainable — never before has any
court recognized that a new law was retroactive, only to then limit
retroactivity to some but not all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8924" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But
the majority of the court refused to address the issues, instead
summarily reiterating that they already decided the issue and would not
address it again. However, Justice Pariente dissented, writing a lengthy
opinion as to why the rest of the court was wrong and unequivocally
stating that they are constitutionally obligated to throw the illegally
imposed sentences out.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8926">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8927" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8928">
<span style="font-size: large;">By
early next week — before this blog can be posted — my lawyers will file
an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court arguing why Justice Pariente’s
dissent correctly recognized that constitutional “due process” and the
prohibition against infliction of cruel and unusual punishment dictates
that my illegally imposed death sentences must be vacated.And obviously,
if the death sentences are thrown out, they cannot execute me.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8929">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8930" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8931">
<span style="font-size: large;">This
is one of the things I have a hard time trying to explain to my family
and friends, who ask me how it is that they can execute me when the
courts do recognize that my death sentences were illegally imposed.
Common sense leads most to assume that if a person has been illegally
sentenced to death then they cannot legally execute that person.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8932">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8933" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8934">
<span style="font-size: large;">But
as I’ve said too many times already, when it comes to the death
penalty, the insidious politics of death trump what’s fair and right. In
our legal system, the Supreme Court itself (Herrera vs Collins) made it
clear that there is no constitutional prohibition against executing the
innocent — and if a state can “legally” execute an innocent person,
then they can also proceed to execute someone who has been illegally
sentenced to death… the ends justify the means.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8935">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8936" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8937">
<span style="font-size: large;">So,
in just a few days the odds are that I will be put to death for a crime
that I am innocent of — and despite the irrefutable fact that I was
illegally sentenced to death by non-unanimous jury votes, what they
cannot do is say that they are administering justice as there’s nothing
fair or just about about carrying out the execution of an innocent
person who was illegally sentenced to death.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8938">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8939" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8940">
<span style="font-size: large;">No
matter, I’m almost done whining about how inherently unfair and
politically corrupt our legal system is. By the time this blog is
posted, I will probably be dead.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8941">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8942" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8943">
<span style="font-size: large;">But
then again, maybe not… a funny thing happened this week in that at
least at the time I’m writing this offers a bit of hope. On Monday,
September 25, the United States Supreme Court did their “conference” on
cases considered for review and included in that conference was my case
that under Martinez vs Ryan, the claims collectively establishing my
actual innocence must be heard.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8944">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8945" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8946">
<span style="font-size: large;">Normally,
after such a conference the Court will release its list of the cases
that were denied review — or granted review. We anticipated a decision
in my case by no later than Thursday (September 28), but as of Friday
evening there still has not been any released decision.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8947">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8948" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8949">
<span style="font-size: large;">Do
I dare get my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, the Court will do the
right thing and order that the lower Federal courts must allow the
evidence substantiating my consistently pled claim to b heard? I want to
— I really do want to hope. But there’s that part of me that tells me
that if I do dare hope that the failure to release a decision could mean
I may have won and my execution will be call off, then on Monday we
will get the news that they denied relief.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8950">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8951" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8952">
<span style="font-size: large;">At
this point, now only days away from my scheduled execution, I am afraid
to get my hopes up. It is easier to accept my intended fate and spend
these last few days preparing for my death. A big part of that
preparation is finding the strength not to be angry at this injustice so
deliberately imposed upon me.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8953">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8954" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8955">
<span style="font-size: large;">Too
often, I find myself wanting to pray that those who have judged me will
be judged by the same measure. But I don’t want to allow those thoughts
in… my spiritual faith instructs me to forgive others as the only
condition of being forgiven myself.</span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8956">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8957" /></span></div>
<div id="yiv3594459868yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1507469504278_8958">
<span style="font-size: large;">And
I know that if I must die in a few days, I will be in a better place
and that despite my 34 years of being condemned to solitary confinement,
I have been blessed by having so many who chose to come into my life
and extend love and support. I could not have maintained my strength
without those who have stood by me. So, as I spend what will most likely
be my last few days on earth, I choose to focus on how blessed I am to
have had so many others there for me.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-23307805522581474912017-10-07T05:10:00.000-07:002017-11-11T23:20:20.629-08:00<br />
<br />
Mike has left us, but his blog will stay alive, as he wished. Every
few weeks one of his writings will be re-posted. Mike started his blog
in 2008, but there are essays from even before that time. Also, relevant
information, updates and developments about topics close to Mike's
heart will be posted here, so while he is not with us, his spirit lives
on in this writings and in the hearts of all who cared about him.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-52377944897003882872017-10-05T19:35:00.001-07:002017-10-23T00:27:33.814-07:00Michael Lambrix - Rest in Peace<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> Rest in Peace Dearest Friend</span></span><br />
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<br />
Sky above Raiford, October 5, 2017 <br />
Photo by MaryLynn McDavid<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I saw you standing in the middle of the thunder and lightning<br />I know you're feeling like you just can't win, but you're trying<br />It's hard to keep on keepin' on, when you're being pushed around<br />Don't even know which way is up, you just keep spinning down, 'round, down</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Every storm runs, runs out of rain<br />Just like every dark night turns into day<br />Every heartache will fade away<br />Just like every storm runs, runs out of rain</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So hold your head up and tell yourself that there's something more<br />And walk out that door<br />Go find a new rose, don't be afraid of the thorns<br />'Cause we all have thorns<br />Just put your feet up to the edge, put your face in the wind<br />And when you fall back down, keep on rememberin'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Every storm runs, runs out of rain<br />Just like every dark night turns into day<br />Every heartache will fade away<br />Just like every storm runs, runs out of rain</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's gonna run out of pain<br />It's gonna run out of sting<br />It's gonna leave you alone<br />It's gonna set you free<br />Set you free</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Every storm runs, runs out of rain<br />Just like every dark night turns into day<br />Every heartache will fade away<br />Just like every storm runs, runs out of rain</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's gonna set you free,<br />It's gonna run out of pain,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's gonna set you free</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Every Storm - Gary Allan</span></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound<br />That saved a wretch like me<br />I once was lost, but now am found<br />T'was blind but now I see</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear<br />And Grace, my fears relieved<br />How precious did that grace appear<br />The hour I first believed</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Through many dangers, toils and snares<br />We have already come.<br />T'was grace that brought us safe thus far<br />And grace will lead us home,<br />And grace will lead us home</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Amazing grace, Howe Sweet the sound<br />That saved a wretch like me<br />I once was lost but now am found<br />T'was blind but now I see</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Was blind, but now I see.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Amazing Grace - Celtic Woman. Mike wants this played at his funeral </span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-11326242243364935312017-10-05T09:57:00.001-07:002017-10-05T12:31:12.066-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-10444097589734413022017-10-04T23:19:00.004-07:002017-10-29T11:23:14.407-07:00Date With Death: Contemplating My Last Words - Michael Lambrix<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">By Michael Lambrix - written for <a href="https://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.gr/2017/10/date-with-death-contemplating-my-last.html" target="_blank">MinutesBeforeSix</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">What if someone approached you today and told you that you only had two
days to live - and that you had to spend your remaining days in
solitary, away from all those that mattered to you. Alone, you slowly
count down each moment of every day, each tick of that clock, drawing
you closer to a date with death.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">You will be allowed to say a few (and only a few) “last words”. Whatever
you decide to say is what you will be remembered for (or forgotten, if
all you do is waste that last breathe of life).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">That is where I am today. As I write this, it is Friday, September 15,
2017, and I am in Cell One, formally known as Q-2101, only feet away
from Florida's execution chamber. And in the early evening of October 5,
2017, at precisely 6:00 p.m., the State of Florida intends to put me to
death for a crime I did not commit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After 34-years on Florida's Death Row, I've become familiar with how
this process unfolds. I’ve seen many others where I am today (please
check out “<a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2016/01/execution-day-involuntary-witness-to.html">Execution Day- Involuntary Witness to State Sanctioned Murder</a>”).
I've survived three previous attempts by the state to take my life, but
I know that this time is different. This time, the odds of surviving
this date with death are significantly stacked against me. I don't
expect to make it out alive. The Governor is running an election for a
tightly contested U.S. Senate seat, and he needs to rally the votes by
executing as many as he can. To him, all my life is really worth is the
hope of winning a few more votes. He has already sent more people to
their death then any other Governor in Florida’s history and, after he
kills me, he will move on to his next victim.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warden Reddish came down to Death Watch the other day and asked me why I'm doing a <a href="http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.com/2017/09/scheduled-for-execution-florida.html">hunger strike</a>.
I explained that I am protesting the injustice of putting me to death
without allowing all readily available evidence substantiating my
innocence, including DNA evidence, to be heard. He responded by sharing
with me that in all the years he has worked in prisons, he has never
seen a hunger strike actually accomplish anything.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Continuing our casual conversation, as if the set of steel bars that
separated us didn’t exist, the morning sun now shining through the
windows behind the Warden, I offered my observation that, from the
prisoner’s perspective, it's not about actually winning whatever issue
compelled you to take that drastic act. I don't expect a tangible
result.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rather, in prison, a person has extremely limited options available with
which to protest perceived injustice. Even the slightest hit of
expressing anger on the part of a prisoner escalates the situation and
punitive sanctions are a standard response.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By the time most get to where I am today, they are already broken. The
long journey from being condemned to death, to confronting that date
with death is, itself, a deliberate process intended to slowly erode
your will to do anything but passively submit to state sanctioned
execution.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When that time comes, I am expected to walk into the execution chamber
and those waiting within that room will gently, without even the
slightest hint of malice, assist me as I climb up on to the gurney where
a moment later they will then firmly pull the straps down to render me
motionless and unable to physically resist, so they can proceed to
expeditiously insert needles connected to long I.V. tubes in each of my
arms at the inside of the elbows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQERL3su4YoR2RQnns_zzYX2mRLYJK5dJtNVK00ueWkIjqw4B6sHQMbmYxckF8PxQhvVlI79mVtfxTG51RbHYfQvxZGdw2he_r_JkYfEW3ZAYd6l3GnpQzLvO3ghyphenhyphenGtOsgYHZ848uJc-bS/s1600/execution_chamber__florida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="164" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQERL3su4YoR2RQnns_zzYX2mRLYJK5dJtNVK00ueWkIjqw4B6sHQMbmYxckF8PxQhvVlI79mVtfxTG51RbHYfQvxZGdw2he_r_JkYfEW3ZAYd6l3GnpQzLvO3ghyphenhyphenGtOsgYHZ848uJc-bS/s1600/execution_chamber__florida.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then the white curtain that separates me from a panel of witnesses
safely seated behind a single pane of polished glass will be pulled
open. I will quickly scan that small group of people, not more than
ten-feet in front of me, desperately looking for a friendly face, or at
least a familiar face, but likely to be met with blank stares by most
gathered, who have waited many years to watch me die.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then, in a predetermined and all but imperceptible gesture, the
executioner hidden behind a nearby partition will push that first
plunger down, forcing a presumably cold lethal liquid into my veins.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It's a ritual, and every aspect of that ritual has been planned to
precise detail, and everybody performs their part. And I will too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But I don't want to just lay down and die, exterminated like nothing more than a glorified cockroach.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And, so, I am doing a hunger strike. I don't expect to gain anything but
to protest against this deliberate injustice, and that, itself, is my
only objective. It is my way of saying that I accept that I am powerless
to change the outcome, as this cold machinery of death grinds its
gears.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For now, though, I sit in this solitary cell. Twenty-days to my date
with death doesn't seem to be that long, and yet I find it to be way too
much time. I find myself trying to pull up the memories of the life I
once had so long ago, as a means of escaping the thoughts of my
relatively imminent death.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But try as I might, like the invisible force of a blackhole slowly
consuming the universe around it, I am pulled in again and again,
dragged back to envisioning what that last moment of my life will be -
and what my last words will be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Part of me wants to put all I can into a concise statement that will be
something to remember. But no matter what I try to say it, I imagine it
will be forgotten. Nobody's coming to witness my execution to hear what I
have to say. They’re coming to watch me die.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I think a lot about the young woman's family. They lost their daughter
and, through all these years, have believed that I was the one who took
her life. Their need to seek justice can only be satisfied with my
death. This has given them the strength to cope with their loss. But I
didn't kill their daughter.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I've prayed for them, that they might find the strength to forgive - not
because the person responsible for taking the life of their daughter is
worthy of their forgiveness, but because carrying around that much hate
towards any other person for so long is like a cancer that will eat at
their own soul.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe my death will bring them peace and, if it does, then I can go knowing that there was a purpose in all of this.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Years ago, I tried to reach out to them, to explain the circumstances
that transpired that night, and how much I wished I could take their
pain away. Their response was to contact the prison - they found it
offensive that I wrote them and demanded the prison punish me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But still, as the years have passed, I’ve kept them in my prayers,
wishing that I could turn back the hands of time and change it all. I do
that a lot, escaping the reality of this place by picking my memories
apart and trying to identify that one point in time, so long ago, where
it all went off the tracks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe I should use my last words to ask for their forgiveness, even
though I didn't kill their daughter. Maybe they need that. Then again,
maybe their need for vengeance has consumed so much of them that they
cannot forgive under any circumstances, and anything I may attempt to
say to them at that time would only make them suffer more. I don't want
to bring any more pain into their lives. I wish I could take all their
pain away. My death won't accomplish that. Only they can make that
decision to let it go.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then there's my family. They've committed no crime, but they've suffered
just as much. They will stand by helplessly as their son, their father,
their brother, and their best friend, is put to death for a crime that
they know I am innocent of.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Those in my life who have been there for me through the years have been the “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iAzMRKFX3c">Wind Beneath My Wings</a>”;
nurturing my hope and sustaining my strength. I have been so incredibly
blessed by these who sacrificed so much to be a part of my life. I know
it has not been easy. They have suffered along with me, at every
setback, and felt the pain of injustice with each appeal denied.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Most families quickly fade away, and all but forget you once you cross
over to that death row life. And, as the years passed, there's been
times that my family did too. But we always were drawn back together,
and are now stronger than we've ever been. Having to go through this
Death Watch process and endure our last visit will cause them so much
pain.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe my last words should be to tell them how much it has meant to me to have them in my life. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not only my family, including my children, but also the small group of
friends, spread out across the world, that have been there for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">What would I say? What few words could possibly convey what I feel in my
heart?? When they visit, at each visit I hug them like I never would
let them go. Like I knew that this day might come.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I can no longer hug them. Once my execution date was set, my contact
visits were immediately terminated and restricted to non-contact. They
still come, now more frequently, driving many hours, even through the
aftermath of Hurricane Irma, to spend a few hours of communion with me.
We talk, and I try to make them laugh, but I can see in my mother’s and
my sister’s eyes how hard this is for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There are the moments of silence, when I see the tears forming in their
eyes, and I quickly work to find something to talk about, to get their
minds off what lies ahead.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They are worried about my health, fearing that this hunger strike will
only cause me to suffer more. Just as with the Warden, I patiently
explain why I feel I must do this. But nothing I say is enough to
comfort them. They beg me to eat. They are allowed to purchase
sandwiches and snacks from the prison canteen, which the guard will then
bring around to me. But I refuse, and then they refuse to eat too.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I explain that they do not have to worry. The nurses check on me each
day, taking my weight and blood pressure. As of today, I've only lost
17-pounds - and, truth be told, I really needed to lose some weight
anyways.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I return to my Death Watch cell, I lay down and put my MP3 player
on, and then relive every moment of the visit to prolong it, as if it
never had to end. But my moment of meditation is broken, as someone on
the floor above me is kicking at his solid steel door.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I get back up, and look at the pile of old cards and letters I've
stacked against the wall of my cell. As the days pass, I slowly go
through them, rip them up and throw them away. Some I've had for many
years, some not as long. But each was saved in the very limited room I'm
allowed for storage of personal property for a reason. And now, I find
myself destroying the things that I treasured the most.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I must do this before I'm placed on “Phase II”, and all my property is
removed from my cell to ensure that I cannot cheat the state out of its
intended act of murder by committing suicide. I still cannot destroy so
many. And the stack of what means too much to throw away soon grows
high. I've accomplished nothing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The pictures are much harder. In my world, it's the photos of the
smiling faces of those you love that keep you going. And photos of the
past, of family and of my children, and of my grandchildren.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I go through them one-by-one, remembering each as if I just received it
yesterday and, in the end, I throw very few away. A few years back, I
lost all my pictures, so what few I have left are part of me and I
cannot bear to toss away the memories reflected. Many are of visits I've
had, and each photo allows me to think of that special day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Try as I might to think of other things, that one thought keeps pulling
me back - my last words. I find myself becoming consumed. What will I
say?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I think of my spiritual advisor of many years, a man who gave up a
successful career in law to become a Catholic lay minister devoted to
Death Row prison ministry. Dale Recinella has visited me more times than
I can begin to count, and is family too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEYbVTOT3LWn37Ayyzc9p7_KaSAuE5G0v0C2us5D9SmeZu2MnZQoOzX2gfKXuHFg6wWLrm9XEm2zpKPrUtGKdKSTl6GjOC9IvwSJj34sfinvH3hyphenhyphenRYX65Zpqu7jNjnrOP0Dy2kkLK0NOX/s1600/dale3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEYbVTOT3LWn37Ayyzc9p7_KaSAuE5G0v0C2us5D9SmeZu2MnZQoOzX2gfKXuHFg6wWLrm9XEm2zpKPrUtGKdKSTl6GjOC9IvwSJj34sfinvH3hyphenhyphenRYX65Zpqu7jNjnrOP0Dy2kkLK0NOX/s1600/dale3.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Before me, he has been there for many others, patiently listening to
their words and offering an inspiration of spiritual comfort. When my
day comes, he will be here. Contrary to movies, they will not allow him
to walk with me into the execution chamber. But he will share time with
me in the hours before my execution is carried out, and they will allow
him to join the panel of witnesses to watch my execution.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He has witnessed many executions of those he has come to know and
provided spiritual comfort to; not only us in our final hours, but to
our families too. (Dale Recinella has written numerous books relating to
his death row ministry that can be found at <a href="http://www.iwasinprison.org/">www.iwasinprison.org</a>)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Although long disillusioned by what contemporary Christianity has become
and those who claim to be Christian, I have never doubted my spiritual
faith. I find strength in it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So, when that final moment is upon me, and the opportunity to express
what will be my last words I will ever utter in this life arrives, maybe
I will say the Lord's Prayer. Nothing I could come up with could
possibly be more profound than that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFD-Ez6qKDWlBfaDE97c7Ebc8pW9tFQldxvUGp2y-5y1Qdu1jCJQ7_D0KEAhTtnf0X_D2_j-pJ5DBg_Ds1e4g2VPZOu2cKOJxuXNOzKKBvu60BLx7KJut2prJu2IJHDNbfM3-n8iIUt06V/s1600/22219782_1826979850945442_585544581212628011_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="1280" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFD-Ez6qKDWlBfaDE97c7Ebc8pW9tFQldxvUGp2y-5y1Qdu1jCJQ7_D0KEAhTtnf0X_D2_j-pJ5DBg_Ds1e4g2VPZOu2cKOJxuXNOzKKBvu60BLx7KJut2prJu2IJHDNbfM3-n8iIUt06V/s320/22219782_1826979850945442_585544581212628011_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I sit silently at the edge of my bunk and look outside the window on the
other side of the cell bars. Not more than ten-feet from where I sit,
the green grass of a lawn that stretches from that window to the distant
perimeter fence begins. A few days ago, a lawn mower outside that
window came so close that I could smell its distinct exhaust.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I can smell the grass. Only a few feet away in another direction, the
execution chamber patiently awaits me. I can close my eyes and imagine
laying out on that grass - preferably at night, so that I can see the
heavens above and count the stars, and, if by chance a shooting star
passes, even make my wish.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe I won't die. That's the thing about being down here and facing
that date with death. As each day draws to a close, you find yourself
thinking about how these are your final days, your final hours, and your
final minutes. It becomes real. No matter how much you try to think of
anything else, you cannot escape those persistent thoughts that this
won't end well.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I've been down on Death Watch now for two weeks, and I have less than
three weeks to go. So far, my lawyers haven't been able to do anything
to stop my execution. Hurricane Irma (what they are now saying is the
worst hurricane in Florida's history) shut everything down across the
state, including my lawyers’ offices and the courts.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I talked with them yesterday, finally, but they can't get up to visit me
until next week. By then, we will have two weeks left. That clock
continues to tick. This time is lost forever.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I've already had numerous appeals pending. The two still before the
United States Supreme Court could even result in my exoneration and
release, if only the court would grant a review. But that's a long shot.
I know, only too well, that the Supreme Court only looks at a handful
of cases of the many thousands filed each year.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My lawyers continue to believe that the most favorable issue is the
challenge to my illegally imposed sentences of death. The jury did not
unanimously vote to sentence me to death. But, by marginal vote, the
Florida Supreme Court decided that only those illegally sentenced <i>after</i> June 2002 would be allowed relief, and that those, such as myself (and almost 200 others), sentenced to death <i>prior</i> to June 2002, are still to be executed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If the Supreme Court agrees with my lawyers, that this is
unconstitutionally “arbitrary” and that my death sentences must be
vacated, then I would have my sentences reduced to “life” and become,
almost immediately, eligible for parole.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I struggle to keep that hope alive.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't have faith in the court doing the right thing.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe that's just what I should tell them, as they so deliberately put
me to death for a crime that I did not commit. I should tell them that
they are committing an act of murder, and quote Socrates by saying “To
which of us go the worst fate, you or I?” And then breathe my last
breath.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsrxBk9NCN3VpgiN2kV3zfEmG5qfrXMOx7Q6IfUSgSOmmOqVXS4C6scJVPDoxg1IZMG4tEvacquCOhntfOobUdrTUiYo6bboZQxk-hbYiDRQctOAq20OXuCdJWa-zel6v98Dfq9bpNXETt/s1600/DLbf5gDUIAU6s5e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1199" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsrxBk9NCN3VpgiN2kV3zfEmG5qfrXMOx7Q6IfUSgSOmmOqVXS4C6scJVPDoxg1IZMG4tEvacquCOhntfOobUdrTUiYo6bboZQxk-hbYiDRQctOAq20OXuCdJWa-zel6v98Dfq9bpNXETt/s320/DLbf5gDUIAU6s5e.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Michael Lambrix recited the Lord's Prayer, his last words were: "Deliver Us From Evil"<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7889486131503123481.post-8072149428812608592017-10-03T23:23:00.003-07:002017-10-29T11:29:21.050-07:00An Act Of Cold-Blooded Murder:' Florida Death Row Inmate Speaks Out Against Scheduled Execution <span class="submitted"><span content="2017-10-03T19:07:56-04:00" rel="sioc:has_creator"><span class="submitted-label">By</span> <span class="name">Wilson Sayre for WLNR</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfSId9WxxTGB0CBhNXzwIQ4lOaYlRpa215ICOAccPkWtt9yPwuMIgVoRkVYig9ZMSjzK-66nbPv5gEfjsxgcfBmPK8VT6tLWVT-Pqsx_BoWRrmJUahik30naYCWLgBNgdyLNkVfkRCp5S/s1600/Lambrix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfSId9WxxTGB0CBhNXzwIQ4lOaYlRpa215ICOAccPkWtt9yPwuMIgVoRkVYig9ZMSjzK-66nbPv5gEfjsxgcfBmPK8VT6tLWVT-Pqsx_BoWRrmJUahik30naYCWLgBNgdyLNkVfkRCp5S/s320/Lambrix.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Instead of opting for a few final words as he is strapped to a gurney in
the death chamber, Florida Death Row inmate Mike Lambrix decided to
speak his mind during an hour-long group interview Tuesday, two days
before his scheduled execution</span>. <span style="font-size: large;">Read interview <a href="http://wlrn.org/post/act-cold-blooded-murder-florida-death-row-inmate-speaks-out-against-scheduled-execution" target="_blank">HERE</a></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/p_w085clyAU/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/p_w085clyAU?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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A few minutes of the interview<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju37-c_FlLrDcDMsvbMUxhfdA_ug76z68WkTICnCKFRVCDG5JOTCMPzMRXton8kLlr4EVshwduiGjpu5aDsB9Ic63gxUVsruU0Xvce102fJ7zgjTFbpfT0j5gzfWRpnxOpBAiccPtGcIPX/s1600/Lambrix3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju37-c_FlLrDcDMsvbMUxhfdA_ug76z68WkTICnCKFRVCDG5JOTCMPzMRXton8kLlr4EVshwduiGjpu5aDsB9Ic63gxUVsruU0Xvce102fJ7zgjTFbpfT0j5gzfWRpnxOpBAiccPtGcIPX/s320/Lambrix3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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