Death by Default

Written by Mike Monday, 16 February 2009

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.”

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).

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

                                             

Henry died November 2009, read here Mike's essay about Thanksgiving with Henry

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.

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?

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?

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

Michael Lambrix 

                                                

(Mike was executed by the state of Florida on October 5, 2017)

To Live & Die on Death Row

 Written by Mike in January, 2009

There’s a song I recall from many, many moons ago in a life now far, far away ~ the words still haunt me from time to time, and I smile… “Once was the thought inside my head, before I reach 30 I’ll be dead…” At 48 years old now. I’ve spent almost my entire adult life in a solitary cage on Florida’s death row. Doing life on death row isn’t about living at all, but about dying slow, a day at a time. If there’s anything even harder than living alone, it’s got to be dying alone, as I only exist in a very small world where death is the only absolute reality and everything else is just part of that path getting there.

But there’s many kinds of deaths ~ there’s the death of the body and the death of the soul. There’s a point man can reach when even physical death is seen as a blessing, as a means in which to end a nightmare that has no end. I remain alive only because I still have the strength within me to cling desperately to the remnants of hope that pass my way. But perhaps hope is the greatest deception of all ~and the loss of hope the cruelest death. I’ve seen it only too often, men I’ve know for years slowly broken down by the existence in this artificial environment until you can see it in their eyes ~ that dull look that means only one thing… they’ve given up hope and now await the fate of the condemned, a fate that ultimately becomes more of a mercy killing than an execution, as that physical death brings with it the promise of freedom from a fate far worse than death itself.

That’s what doing life on death row really is ~ it’s a fate worse than death. It’s being condemned not merely to death, but the torturous, methodical degradation of one’s humanity in a world designed to first break you down and make you something less than human before they finally strap that broken flesh to a cold chair or gurney and ritualistically terminate your existence. In truth, most of those ultimately executed at the hands of the state have already given up the ghost long before and have embraced death as the end of a long journey through a hell few could begin to imagine.

Hanging On To Hope
Each month all of us receive a slip of paper that advises us of any “gain time” we might have received that previous month. By law, the prison officials are required to do this, as well as provide the prisoners “presumptive release date” recalculated each month to reflect the deduction of any gain time that might have been awarded.

Every prisoner on Florida’s death row has a presumptive release date in the year 9999. That gives me only, 7992 years yet to go before my presently scheduled release and I’m already counting it down one day at a time. I’ve read in the Bible that Methuselah lived to the ripe young age of 969 years and that was thousands of years ago. So, with modern medical breakthroughs extending the average lifespan I figure I’ve got a good shot at it… all I’ve got to do is live to be at least 8,039 years old and then I’ll walk out the front gate a free man.

This is the kind of humorous “hope” that we cling on to. When these slips of paper are passed out each month, inevitably someone on the wing will holler out, “Hallelujah, baby ~ I’m coming home!” or just as often one guy hollering down the row for all to hear, “Pack your sh__, Bubba, they’re throwing you out.” And some laugh.

A lot of us talk about going home and in that stolen moment of fantasy we can see the green, green grass of home. For some, this hopeful fantasy evolves into a form of psychosis and they not only believe they’re soon going home, but know the exact date and when that date approaches they even give away their personal belongings and awake that particular morning and await the guards to escort them to the front gate. Reality is nothing more than what any of us chose to perceive it to be, and in their own little corner of their own little world , that’s their reality and in a way I truly do envy them as I remain trapped in my reality.

Through the years many have gone home, having proven before the courts that they were wrongfully convicted and upon that legal exoneration they won their freedom. There’s been more than I can remember, but knowing that there have been so many is, itself, a form of hope.

About five years ago or better a long time friend of mine, Juan Melendez, known affectionately to us as “Puerto Rican Johnny” was on the floor I was on. Johnny and I had lived in the same area out on the streets and we would often talk about places and even people we both knew. Johnny would show me pictures of the house he grew up in, of his elderly mother, and talk about how when he got out he would return home and take care of his mother.

Just before Christmas back then he got word that the lower state court threw out his convictions, recognizing that the state had illegally withheld exculpatory evidence. Mucho Macho Johnny cried that night and in our own way we all shared a tear with him. In the sixteen years that he lived among us, he became our brother. Then a few weeks after Christmas the warden came up on the floor and told Johnny to get his stuff as they were releasing him that day. Johnny’s cell was down towards the end of the hall and as he passed he spoke to each of us momentarily. As Johnny approached my cell I felt only joy ~ sharing his joy ~ as he told me, “Rum and coke, esso” … remembering our promise to have a drink in the free world . And then he was gone, but a part of each one of us walked out that front gate back into the free world with him.

Hope… yet another four letter word, a mistress that can and gladly will deceive and seduce you with her elusive charms. It’s that whisper of a promise that your time there will come too, that gives a man the strength to keep that hope alive. But when hope fails then that mistress can become the Angel of death as that lost hope becomes nothing more than the desperate last act at the end of the rope. And there are few things more despairing than to watch helplessly as the guards rush into a cell in the middle of the night and can be heard cutting a man down, then moments later passing by your cell with the cold body of someone you knew and lived among for years.

Rotting Away One Day At A TimeWhile hope is a stolen luxury that brings with it a fragile strength, death continues to be a reality that cannot be denied. For too many of us now doing life on death row this condemnation is about slowly growing old and rotting away until death claims us not at the hands of an executioner, but by “natural causes.”

Although I have now been on death row almost a quarter of a century, there are many who have been here much, much longer. After the Supreme Court threw out the death penalty in Furman v. Georgia (1972) Florida was the first state to rush newly written laws into effect to allow the continued use of capital punishment. Although these new laws didn’t pass constitutional challenge until 1976 in Proffit v. Florida, many of the men still on Florida’s death row today have been here since at least 1974.

When I was charged with the capital murder case that brought me here, I was 22 years old. Recently divorced at the time, I had three young children; my youngest barely a year old. 

                                 

            Mike shortly before being incarcerated



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.

                                          

           Mike in 2009

I am not alone. Death by default that’s what it is. Too often when morally corrupt prosecutors know they cannot kill you, they will maliciously drag your case out until you simply die of old age. Under any circumstances living in solitary confinement under the stress of being condemned to death takes its toll upon the physical and mental health of even the strongest men.

Inevitably, we all grow old, and again, death is the only absolute reality. In a way I should consider myself lucky as at least I came to the row while still a young man. There are many more significantly older when they arrived and the years living in a cage were not as easy. For every man executed in the past 30 years, there’s been at least one other slowly rotting away and inevitably dying of old age.

I read recently in the past 10 years alone at least 30 men have died of “natural causes” on Florida’s death row. Some were of old age ~ others of various types of cancer… many I personally knew. With so many here now for well over 25 and even 30 years, death row is growing gray. At the front of each death row floor there is a handicapped cell intended to house the many who are already confined to wheelchairs. More than a few are now over 75 and will almost certainly slowly rot away and die in their cell as even if they lost all their appeals the governor would not sign a death warrant on them as it’s politically incorrect to put an old, physically disabled man to death ~ but it’s perfectly acceptable to, instead, let him rot away until he eventually dies.

In some cases this is actually by intent and purpose. I know at least a few here today who have lost touch with reality and if ever scheduled for execution the courts would be forced to reduce their sentence to life as it’s constitutionally prohibited to execute a person who has become legally insane. It’s also politically unacceptable to recognize their insanity and reduce their sentences to life. So that they can be transferred to a prison psychiatric unit and receive proper care. The solution is to simply ignore them ~ to deliberately let them rot away until they die in that cage. Inevitably they do… they always do.

But nobody cares. When was the last time you saw any newspaper talk about the many on death rows growing old and dying alone? Recently a national debate about the constitutionality of using lethal injection as a means of carrying out executions generated substantial media interest after Angel “Popo” Diaz was allegedly “tortured” to death by a botched execution and witnesses said it took at least 24 minutes to kill him…. 24 minutes.

But what of the many more who are slowly dying in their cells? If prolonging a man’s death for 24 minutes constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, then why can’t it also be argued that allowing a man to slowly rot away in solitary confinement for many decades until he dies is also cruel and unusual? As a presumably civilized society we are ultimately defined by the measure of humanity we show to others and yet nothing personifies that malignant evil within the heart of man than by looking at the inhumanity we so deliberately inflict upon the least of the least ~ and nothing in our contemporary society illustrates this truth better than the deliberate deprivation imposed upon the condemned ~ it’s not enough to want to take our lives, society demands that we must also suffer until we are slowly broken and then ~ for those who are lucky ~ something less than human is put to death.

From Cockroaches and Rodents to Rats and Snakes
When I first came to death row in March of 1984 this was a much different place ~ not only physically, but the mentality was different. At that time Florida’s main death row was at Florida State Prison, long infamous as the end of the line, where prisoners were warehoused when they could not be securely kept elsewhere. Physically, the wings housing death row were comparable to Third World living conditions. In the winter we froze and in the summer we boiled. With “open wings” (the interior of the wings open from the first tier all the way up to the third tier) it was noisy, as a hundred men would be yelling or watching TV or whatever. With no screens on the always broken windows, the wings were quite literally infested with cockroaches, rodents, even snakes, and birds ~ and then there were many wild cats that would come in to feed off the mice and rats.

                                              

But as bad as the physical conditions were it was a better place. In 1992 they built and opened a new building designed exclusively to house death row. Soon after the majority of the over 300 condemned were transferred to this “Northeast Unit” of the Union Correctional Institution. As I write this I can look outside the window on the catwalk and in the distance I can see the Florida State Prison ~ so close, and yet so far away.

At “FSP,” as we call it, there was a unity ~ even a “brotherhood” ~ that tied us all together. We lived in close proximity to each other and looked out for each other. If a guard came down and screwed with one of us without cause, he took on the whole wing. Although there were always a few assholes and idiots on both sides of the bars, most of us looked out for each other. Back then you knew the difference between a convict 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.

Equally so, the difference between a corrections officer (known only as an “officer”) and a guard was like night and day. An officer came in to work his eight hours and go home ~ it’s just a job and he wasn’t going to take it personally. An officer had no personal malice towards the prisoners and didn’t go out of his way to provoke anyone. If he came in to do a cell search (“shakedown”) he did it without maliciously destroying your property and didn’t have to prove his manhood by being a jerk. Although avoided as much as possible, officers were respected ~ guards were not.

A guard was commonly referred to as inbred redneck scum, the kind of guy who got the job because he couldn’t work anywhere else. A guard didn’t just work eight hours ~ he lived the job and it ate him away like a cancer until all that was left was a bitter broken man who went out of his way to make everyone else miserable. He has malice in his heart and was looked upon with nothing less than contempt, not only by prisoners, but the officers who respected their job.

In those early years a man was allowed to do his own time. In the early 80’s we had only just began to see politicians begin to campaign on promises to lock up more people and make sure prisoners did “hard time.” Although physically our environment was deplorable, we would all gladly go beck if we could have all our privileges returned. Back then we had packages sent in from family and friends four times a year with personal clothes, shoes, cosmetics, maybe even a decent watch or ring and a nice radio. We were allowed to receive “hobby craft” packages monthly with materials for painting, crocheting, and all sorts of other stuff. All of that is long gone now ~ nothing comes in from the outside world anymore and anything we might get must be bought from the prison store at significantly marked up prices; the profits used to subsidize our incarceration, as the prison system has become a virtual industry with thousands of companies now dependant upon contracts they receive to provide everything from the food we eat to the toilet paper we wipe our asses with. It’s all about politics now.

Death row has changed, in every conceivable way. No longer is a man able to do his own time and mind his own business. A new generation has taken over and even so many of the old timer “convicts” are now nothing more than inmates themselves. Because of this death row has become hard time as now not only do we live in a much more deliberately segregated building with only 14 men on each closed run, but you learn to keep to yourself as the man you call a friend today will only too quickly backstab you tomorrow. Respect means nothing in this new generation. And it’s become a much lonelier place.

Watching the World Slip AwayI see that outside world only through the very limited media I’m allowed… a small TV, which the powers that be have determines necessary to prevent against insanity ~ if I were to go insane, then they could not kill me. A small “walkman” type battery powered radio, that doesn’t pick up any stations, and a few magazines and newspapers.

In my world there are no computers, no cell phones, and none of the electronic conveniences that most people take for granted. In the past 24 years I have not touched dirt or grass as our small fenced yard is nothing more than a concrete pad between two wings. I sometimes wonder if the moon and stars still exist as I haven’t seen the night sky in so many years it becomes hard to even remember it.

The deprivation of material those material things that most people simply take for granted out there in the real world certainly pale in comparison to those things that really do matter; especially in this world ~ those things that once separated make it seem that we are helplessly watching the world slowly slipping away.

It is the nature of prison to alienate a man from those he loves. For most, with very few exceptions, as the years pass the few family and friends that once stood by slowly drift away and move on with their own lives. Through the years I can count on the fingers of a single hand the number of death row prisoners who have had family consistently stand by them. Friends tend to drift away even quicker.

That’s not to say they deliberately abandon those they love at the time they need them most. I’d like to believe that most of our families and friends never intended to abandon any of us, but simply moved on and we became less and less of their lives. I’m personally blessed with a large family but haven’t had any communication at all with most of them for many, many years. Life out there in the real world doesn’t come to a stop just because we are no longer in it and as time takes its toll the distance becomes greater and before you know it you’re no longer part of their lives. That’s just the reality of doing time. Accepting that reality doesn’t make it any easier and many in here do turn cold and bitter as they’re abandoned by those who mean the most.

Most of us learn early on not to count on anyone other than ourselves. Contrary to a popular myth the prison doesn’t provide all our needs ~ at best, it provides only the absolute minimum and even then does so in such a way that encourages ~ if not coerces ~ each prisoner to actually purchase even the basic necessities from the prison store, as with each purchase the prison makes a substantial profit.

Without a friend or two outside willing to help prisoners ~ especially those on death row ~ can become even worse than what might be imagined. At least in general population most prisoners can work a job and “hustle” for what they need through a long established barter system. Death row prisoners are not allowed to work a job and have no means in which to barter ~ our only means of survival with minimal comfort is through the compassion and generosity of those who care about us.

As family and friends tend to drift away we are forced to try and reach out to new friends and establish new ties with that outside world. But there are many who hold nothing but malice in their hearts towards prisoners ~ especially death row prisoners ~ and have exerted political pressure to pass laws that now prohibit prisoners from placing personal ads that might allow them to meet new friends, perhaps even a girlfriend who might want to visit.

Florida is unique in the country in implementing these draconian rules prohibiting prisoners from attempting to meet new friends and the result can be seen ~ more and more. Those of us who have been here the longest are increasingly isolated from the free world; effectively abandoned and left to die alone. More and more I see strong men break down and give up, unwilling to have to beg their neighbors for a simple cup of coffee or bar of soap and slowly retreating into his own world of self consuming bitterness and anger and a fate far worse than death.

When it comes down to it, that’s what doing life on death row is really all about… it’s not about living, but about dying one slow day at a time. It’s about simply existing in a solitary concrete crypt. Increasingly isolated from all that really matters, of being methodically deprived of the most basic elements that make us human ~ companionship, compassion, and hope, as hope itself is dependent upon a reason to live.

As I am increasingly isolated from all that matters, that hope and will to live continues to erode ~ I’m not doing life on death row … I’m simply waiting to make my death final.

Mike Lambrix

Mike's website: Southern Injustice

Death Watch Journal (20 days to scheduled execution)

As I write this it’s now Friday evening, September 15, 2017. About this time less than three weeks from now I will be strapped down to a gurney and by pre-planned and practiced ritual, I will be put to death as others watch, for a crime I did not commit.

Around the world many people are doing all they can to protest my scheduled execution and I cannot even reach out to them to let them know how much I appreciate all they’re doing. I hope somehow they know.

For my own part, I’m now on Day 10 of my hunger strike, and I’m feeling its effects. Although I drink plenty of water (and only water) I’m now down to 185 pounds. I was over 200 pound just a few weeks ago. The didn’t start taking my weight each day until I formally missed 21 meals, so the prison records reflect that I began at 202 pounds. But truth be told, I needed to lose some weight anyway. And other than some light-headedness and stomach cramps, I’m doing all right.

The warden came down earlier today and asked me why I’m doing this, and offered his observation that in his decades of experience, he’s never seen a hunger strike do any good. So I politely explained that it wasn’t about changing the outcome, but rather my only means of passively protesting the state’s intent to kill me for a crime that I didn’t commit. It was not an adversarial conversation but a polite exchange between me and the warden. Of course, I imposed my own unquenchable sense of humor upon him by inviting him to join me in my hunger strike, and he laughed as he declined.

But my biggest problem now is that I’m already almost halfway into this 34-day death warrant and I still haven’t been able to meet with my lawyers because of Hurricane Irma. My lawyers are in Fort Lauderdale and were forced to evacuate due to projected landfall in their area. When Irma hit Florida and made its way up to this area, it knocked out the prison’s phone system so that no phone calls could come through. And it caused “historical flooding” in the entire Northeast Florida area, making the roads to the prison impassible. Many employees couldn’t even make it to work, forcing the prison to cancel all social visits this weekend.

My lawyers requested that the execution be postponed due to the statewide emergency, but not surprisingly, Governor Scott quickly refused to even consider it. His only objective is to kill as many of us as he can as he campaigns for the 2018 U.S. Senate race, so I’m sure that he considers my lawyers’ inability to represent me as my execution draws closer as an advantage to him.

But as I’ve written before, at least I already had four separate appeals pending in various courts before my execution was rescheduled. With any luck, the U.S. Supreme Court will take an even closer look at the two appeals arguing my actual innocence that are before it now that I have an imminent execution date.

If the courts do the right thing and review my case rather than rubber-stamp it denied, then there’s a really good chance that I could finally have the readily available evidence substantiating my innocence claim (including DNA evidence) heard and then be exonerated and released, as others  have before me.

I try to focus on that positive — the truth is that if the rescheduling of my execution will compel the courts to now take a closer look at my case, and finally do the right thing, then maybe the best thing that has happened to me is that Governor Scott tried to kill me, and it could lead to my exoneration and release rather than my death.

                                                               

                                                                        
And I wouldn’t be the first one in Florida who only won release after facing down a date with death. By far, Florida leads the country in the number of men and women wrongfully convicted and condemned to death only to be judicially exonerated and released after having a death warrant signed and coming close to execution.

I guess sometimes you got to dance with the devil to get through hell… that’s  just the nature of the beast. But this time feels different, like a dark and ominous cloud hangs over me that I just can’t shake. Maybe it’s the reality of knowing that nobody has survived a death warrant under Governor Scott. Even if you do get a stay of execution, like a psychopath he continues to methodically stalk you and reschedules the execution until you’re dead, all the while categorically unwilling to even consider substantiated claims of innocence.

Or maybe it’s because for the first time I’m down here alone, nobody but the single hard who sits mostly at his desk some distance away on the other side of the locked gate, giving me an overwhelming feeling of isolation. He will make his round each 30 minutes, but for the most part I have nobody to talk to to relieve the anxiety and stress.

And nobody’s heard from my daughter yet. She lives in the part of Florida that was hit with some of the worst flooding and was forced to evacuate to an emergency shelter. But she is mentally disabled and nobody has heard from her since the hurricane passed. Hopefully, I’ll hear something soon.

And it’s the letters or cards that I haven’t received. There’s a few people that I’m hoping to hear from that haven’t yet written. Don’t get me wrong, I truly am so incredibly blessed by having a small group of friends who have stood by me through the years, and my family, too. And they are all giving so much of themselves to help me through this. But it’s those that I was hoping to hear from that apparently haven’t written that kind of brings me down as I need to know that they are all right.

I do try to focus on the positive and maintain the hope. But it’s become hard… it’s been a really hard year altogether, and I guess I was already kind of down. Years ago, I wrote an essay about the resilience of not being knocked down so hard that I can’t get back up and declared myself a “weeble.” (“When Weebles Wobble.”)
But the truth of the matter is that more and more I really don’t want to get back up. I’m tired. It’s been a long journey and I have no confidence in the courts. I do have hope, but not confidence and there is a big difference. If it wasn’t for the people in my life who encourage me even at their own sacrifice, I probably would even welcome this scheduled execution.

And that’s just the thing — although the administration of “justice” always bow down before the alter of the politics of death, love will always prevail. And I am loved. And at that thought, I am now smiling.

Death Watch Journal (Part 28)

March 2, 2017

Sometimes I wonder whether this thing called "hope" is my greatest adversary, existing only to torment me, to break me...could hope be my nemesis, capable of a conscious form of malevolence not unlike the fictional sirens depicted in Homer's "Odyssey", their seductive charm luring the passing sailors to their death, and so too does this entity of hope haunt me on countless sleepless nights as I grasp desperately upon those fragile strings of hope as I look down into that darkness of the abyss beneath me.

I remember the one scene in the movie "Shawshank Redemption", where the old and experienced convict (Morgan Freeman) sat in the prison chow hall, offering his sage advice to the new arrivals...telling them to forget about hope of freedom, as it will drive you crazy - maybe he was right.

As I write this today, it is March 2, 2017, and today marks exactly 34 years since I was arrested on these capital charges that subsequently led to me being convicted and condemned to death for a crime I did not commit.

It's been a long and hard journey and sometimes I wonder how I have managed to maintain my sanity - and again, sometimes I wonder whether I really have as perhaps I'm the only one who cannot see that I actually went nuts years ago.

Last year I yet again counted down the days to my own scheduled execution, only to receive a 'temporary stay of execution' and was removed from my "death watch cell" two days before I was to die. It wasn't the first time that I faced relatively imminent execution and I know the State of Florida will continue to use all available resources at their disposal to have me executed yet.

For most of the past year I had reason to hope that the January 2016 decision by the US Supreme Court in Hurst v Florida, 136 S.Ct. 616 (2016) (which declared that the manner in which Florida imposes a sentence of death - allowing a judge rather than the jury make the ultimate decision on death, violated long standing fundamental constitutional rights that rendered such death sentences illegal) would lead to having my own death sentences thrown out. In fact, this is the issue that the Florida Supreme Court ordered a stay of execution on.

                                                          

But on December 22, 201 - just before Christmas - the Florida Supreme Court crushed that hope when it issued it's ruling in Mark Asay v State of Florida recognizing that under Hurst v Florida there was no question Florida death sentences were imposed illegally and finding that all those sentenced to death after 2002 would be entitled to have their illegally imposed death sentences vacated - but that because it would be too much of a burden on the State to correct all these illegally imposed sentences, they would not throw out the death sentences imposed prior to 2002. My death sentence was imposed in 1984 and was affirmed on direct appeal in 1986, which meant that under Asay v State, I would not be entitled to relief under Hurst v Florida. Just that quickly, my hopes were crushed.

Although the Florida Supreme Court still has not actually issued any ruling in my own case yet, I had to accept that when they did, they would deny my appeal consistent with Asay v State, as they have numerous other similar pre-2002 capital cases in the past few months.

With my hope of being granted relief crushed, I began to mentally prepare myself for what I was sure would soon follow...the denial of relief in my case and having my previously stayed execution rescheduled.

Since that decision in Asay v State that seemingly sealed my fate, I spent the last two months letting my family and friends know that they should expect the court to soon deny my appeal, and that I would then be recheduled for execution again - and since the state and federal courts have consistently refused to even look at the readily available evidence substantiating my consistently plead claim of innocence, they should be prepared for that rescheduled execution carried out.

Clearly, I felt that there was no reason to yet again hope for any chance of proving my innocence, and mentally I prepared myself to die, and I was not alone as when I shared this news with others, while most of those closest to me stood by me that much more, a few apparently decided that they didn't want to stick around just to watch me die and I haven't heard from them since - and who could blame them?

Little by little I began going through my personal property, weeding out what I would throw away so that when I was put to death it wouldn't be a burden on my family...I was prepared to die, again.

Then out of the blue come the phone call from my lawyers the other day, letting me know that on February 22, 2017 the US Supreme Court issued it's decision in the Texas capital case of  Duane Buck v Davis, in which the court addressed the issue of whether a prisoner can seek and be granted relief on a previously denied federal appeal based upon ineffectiveness of legal counsel in that earlier appeal, by employing a procedural motion to reopen that earlier case under Federal Rule of Procedure 60 (b), and the court agreed that equitable relief under extraordinary circumstances to prevent manifest injustice would be pursued and granted under Rule 60 (b).

Suddenly hope again sprung forth - the Supreme Courts unequivocal recognition that relief from an unjust conviction or death sentence could be granted by way of Rule 60 (b) meant that my own long pending Federal appeal arguing exactly that point would now have to be granted, opening the procedural door to finally receiving a full review of all the evidence substantiating my innocence. And if allowed to be heard, I would finally be exonerated, and win my fight for my freedom.

For the next few days I felt giddy - more than just happy, I was elated, especially when I was able to share this good news with my family, as they too hung desperately to every string of hope.

But as is the nature of hope, after that initial elation ran it's course, I found myself slowly sinking back into the depths of hopelessness and despair, reminding myself that in these past 34 years again and again I allowed myself to become convinced that truth and justice would prevail, only to have that hope crushed.

This Buck v Davis case should compel the federal courts to finally address the evidence substantiating my innocence and by every right and reason I should be elated - that previously unyielding door has been cracked open, But if I've learned nothing else these past decade after decade, it is that you cannot count on our courts to do the right thing. And for that reason I will not throw myself upon the rocks as that seductive siren call of renewed hope tries yet again to suck me in.