There is a class of persons to whom,
by all spiritual affinity,
I am bought and sold –
for them I will go to prison if need be.
– Emerson
In December of 2019, I signed the plea agreement at a hearing. I had hoped to engage the victim’s family in restorative justice dialogue, but it wasn’t to be. The father and brother did speak at the hearing, sharing their sorrow. After over 14 years of being able to process events, I stood without displaying emotion to accept the words – to be present in their grief. Their closure was the most important thing. The father did write me a letter, which was given to me. Much like he expressed that day, I will not reveal what he wrote, but in closing he did indicate that no further interaction was necessary.
I don’t know how to say sorry in a way that would resonate for them. What power do such simple words have when weighed against a life that was taken, a daughter lost? I was characterized as changing stories over time about what happened, but the deeper truth is that I expressed from a very early stage what I knew in those moments. I gave everything that resulted in the case being closed in 2007 – when the warrant for my arrest was issued.
In 2010, I tried to resolve the case, signing papers for the Interstate on Detainers Act. As I was told by the D.A. in 2019, “We received the paperwork, but instead of bringing you here [to Florida], we pulled the detainer” because I was already serving a life sentence.
The mother, who was killed by a car in 2018, spent over 14 years of her life thinking I got away with murder, because authorities in Florida didn’t want to extradite me. Those same authorities vilified me for the mental health issues that have plagued my life – the central underlying reasons why no premeditation was involved.
With the plea agreement signed, I remained a little over a month longer before beginning the journey back to Texas. The events were somewhat similar, but in reverse. The same crew of guys dressed me out (same pants and pullover), then added the chain with cuffs. It was still dark outside when we reached the airport. With time to spare before catching a non-stop flight on United, one of the sheriffs took orders, went to the American Bakery (what I believe the place was called), then came back with a bag of food and a tray of large coffees. I would have been perfectly happy to stay right there forever sipping hot coffee (it had been over four months!), and eating the hot bacon, egg and cheese croissant. All the days of avoiding or trading slop on trays for boiled eggs or bananas faded away. Not even the memories of chicken salads and supreme pizzas on select Wednesdays stood a chance! Something to consider: I never drank coffee until I was I incarcerated in 2005. And my only exposure to coffee came from freeze dried products. In that airport, the morning of January 29, 2020, I drank a freshly made cup of coffee for the first time in my life.
Nothing could kill my mood after that. The flight was comfortable and quick, just a couple hours before arriving back in Houston. Then shortly before midday, I was walking into a cell at Byrd Unit, reliving a process I’d undergone before, but from a different perspective. The last time I’d been housed with others. In 2020, I was alone.
I was also hungry! While in Florida, I lost at least 20 pounds. The ability to be more active, coupled with irregular and not so good meals took a toll. I was smaller and lighter, but I did not feel healthier. So, for the duration of my stay at Byrd, I didn’t miss a meal! The thing about being in Huntsville, or Region 1 specifically, is that close proximity to senior administrators meant units ran efficiently and were fed quite well. That still remains true.
The tradeoff would dawn on me in the coming days, when I couldn’t send my family or friends messages, and I couldn’t call Dad on Saturday. Grounding myself to accept transitioning back into the reality of administrative segregation in a Texas prison wasn’t pleasant. I knew had I stayed in Florida, I wouldn’t endure the same treatment in their prisons, but it had been nearly ten years, and TDCJ policy suggested I’d be able to return to population soon.
Like most years, I listened to the Super Bowl. At Byrd, without a radio, meant receiving updates from neighbors through vents. Sometimes I played chess with the neighbor on my right. The guy on the other side was an amazing artist and I acquired some beautiful cut-out cards from him. Time passed quickly, as it usually does, and then the day arrived to catch chain back to Michael Unit.
I won’t say I enjoyed it. Chained and hunched in a bus, at least I managed to take a nap. When I woke up, the sky was dark gray and rain was pounding down, blurring all I might see. Michael Unit seemed to appear out of a fog, reminding me of the disaster zone I’d left and was being forced to return to.
That visceral reminder became reality when I walked into 12-Building again, smelling the smoke and foulness. For years, the culture of rule enforcement and consequences had deteriorated. No longer ran efficiently, the majority of guards were Native Africans and chaos reigned.
All of that was made worse when Covid-19 entered on the scene.
I would stay in one cell for over nine months, watching as men grew critically ill. The quarantine measures were cruel and inadequate, so men stopped telling anyone they were sick. When the pandemic was in full force, especially after a State of Disaster was declared in March of 2020 by Governor Abbot, life became a dismal day-by-day survival for everyone.
Many turned to drugs, adding to the general misery. Because monitoring efforts were virtually nonexistent, drug infused paper products flooded in. Smoke and the partly sweet stench from K2 became as normal as the sun rising and setting.
I was fortunate to live among a group of guys who cared. Ironically, two of them were also considered escape risks. We had never before been housed in such close proximity, definitely not linked by a pipe chase or where we could directly interact.
Through holes, we ran extra cords so that when the power was blown (by someone smoking) on a specific row, we could feed it to the other. It was either that or suffer hours without power in the heat. Talking, sharing food, and general group support served as our tiny shelter amidst the broader storm of no visits, significantly reduced food, and limited health care. Just considering food: Moore was a grill master who turned our meager rations into flavorful wonders we could imagine – much like a starving family might eat dirt – were nutritious.
All of which was a further extension of the deteriorated culture exhibited as of late 2016, when the mental health program was introduced. Years and years of deprivations and destruction left most walls gray or black. All the ductwork was (and still is) lined with soot. Cleaning was irregular or nonexistent (and is still an issue). Problems are easy to suppress when paperwork gets avoided. Few cases were written, limiting any suggestion that “things just aren’t right.” The outer world had their struggles, sheltering in homes perhaps, but still intrinsically linked through technology, with ready access to nature. Behind these walls and doors, all of the normal prison operating procedures were either suspended, critically modified, or outright failed, and no true relief was offered.
In 2021, TDCJ introduced video visits, but denied them to anyone in solitary housing. Continued forced separation ultimately spurred me to acquire a cell phone. It wasn’t a “want” to be connected to family and friends, it was a vital need, and I willfully broke rules to reach that goal – like a starving man stealing food. My foundational fear wasn’t an irrational one, either. My father and step-mother were bedridden for months. No one died, but many critical emergencies existed, and I was able to be present with those I loved as they recovered.
I did lose a friend in 2021. Jose had completed GRAD and was in population on the Wynne Unit. We stayed connected, playing correspondence chess and sharing about life. Then he killed himself. I’ve wrote his eulogy, but I still carry grief from his loss. I’ve often thought, had I been near, like when his father died, I could have calmed Jose’s mind. Obviously, letters weren’t enough. That visceral truth made the phone ever more important to me, and played a significant role in how I was able to be actively “there” for my brother when he was released from prison in April 2021. Sadly, the phone was found during a shakedown in October – I received a case and was disciplined, but accepted the consequences. That caused me to wonder about selective enforcement, especially when other states issued Tracphones to inmates or provided necessary relief efforts.
When stimulus checks hit the system, the drug issue exploded to epidemic proportions, and remained that way for years – especially on Michael Unit. Reports indicate that Michael (except for specific medical units) had the highest death rate through 2023. Attorney Molly Petchenik from the Texas Civil Rights Project filed a report with the Department of Justice, Solitary Confinement in Texas: A crisis With No End, published in December of 2023. I can explain how the influence of culture, heightened effects from drugs, and heat contributed, because I lived through it all.
By the end of 2021, too many people had died in the mental health program, and bodies required paperwork that evidently couldn’t be suppressed. Starting in 2022, mass shipping removed that program from this unit, reverting 12-Building to all restrictive housing. Paint was slapped on walls. Some cleaning was done. Programs were actually initiated. Luckily, I was accepted into the faith-based program. For the first time in my incarcerated life, I was able to go through classes aimed at rehabilitation.
That experience was amazing. Going to Florida invigorated my belief that I could offer meaning into the lives of others. No more hugs, back slaps or handshakes, but I encouraged a group to connect the way Jose taught me, so we could collectively discuss classwork. Mando was first, then Joker, and finally, Pancho agreed to join us.
Mando was (and still is) highly emotional, quick to anger. A dancer in a group when he was younger, he loved Latin hip-hop, having once opened for Little Suzie. With success came a certain status, and not being a bad looking guy, he enjoyed many women. Which was how he ended up with five kids! At the core of his pain was an inability to forgive himself for taking himself away from his children.
“I loved being a dad,” he said. “My kids would come over and we’d eat cereal and watch cartoons. Or I’d take them shopping, spoiling them, of course.”
Working in the hospitality industry in hotels paid well, and Mando built a quality life. I learned about his mother’s failed businesses, struggles with family, and how he got the name Mando-man.
“So, I was in this street gang and I was in their territory. I’d have to walk home and they attacked me all the time!” He loved cookies and munched a couple before continuing. “One day at school, I was carrying the bat bag from the practice area, and all these kids ran up to attack me. I dropped the bag, grabbed a bat, and fended them off until the coach came on the scene.”
His vivid descriptions were funny and cinematic. That event caused his friends to start calling him “Batman.”
“Why didn’t you just keep it?” I asked.
He groaned. “Are you serious? Hell no, it was embarrassing. I told them to change it to Mando-man, and it stuck.”
Much like his fascination with comics. From an early age, his nose got “stuck” in the pages of stories filling comic books. A passion he maintained. Eventually, he had five or more guys who allowed him to write free book places in their names. Comic books were coming in from everywhere!
Joker had a sad, broken past, full of abuse and drug use, causing him to suffer from schizophrenia. We got through Voyager, and he shared some core trauma (abandoned by his father). But sadly, his intensive needs were beyond what our group could provide. A conflict eventually arose and he left the group. He was shipped to the mental health program on another unit and I hope he received the care he needed.
Pancho was (and still is) the old man. At least the oldest in our group, at 60. Mando was late-40s. I was 42. Anyhow, Pancho was leery at first about being connected. He’d accepted charges for another, and the consequences left his dog dead. Then his brother died. Not receiving the proper medication for his bipolar struggles caused all sorts of instability, and I listened to his rants for hours each day. He can tell you himself all the times he “went off” on me, but that was okay. The wounded boy in an older man mattered. I convinced Pancho that he could trust me to stand with him through his struggles. That took time, of course. Over a year, to be exact. But he learned to breathe and meditate. He learned how to better express himself and solve problems. Most of all he recognized that he did not have to do it all alone. Recently, he was shipped to a program at Polunsky where he’ll receive appropriate care until he finally goes home.
Dopey, or Joe, joined our group later on. He was one of Mando’s “homeboys,” so their shared memories of San Antonio filled the airways often. Dopey also became our grill master, turning out some amazing fried rice dishes. His time being short, we helped him with coursework and a parole packet. He eventually left to G-5, then made parole and went home.
The last of our group was Busdriver, Roman. He was special! When meeting new people he’d ask, “You know why they call me the Busdriver? Because I take fools to school!”
Ah, man, he had the whole Nazarene look down, refusing to cut his hair or beard. Roman had so many drug and women related stories in his mind, he could talk for hours non-stop. Eventually, it would be just him and I. Blind in one eye (wearing an eye patch) and limited vision in the other, he still managed his life well enough. How he let an ant bite him on his balls is beyond me, though!
“How could you not feel it crawling up your leg?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I noticed it when it bit me, though. And I really noticed the swelling!”
The story became more hilarious as he described going to medical and getting in an argument with a male nurse. Finally, Roman pulled his twig and berries out and said, “Look at it!”
Running line with him required epic-level patience. His vision was horrible, so I always wondered how he managed to “see” the mice and roaches when he instigated riots among them.
Yep, you read that right.
“Daniel, Daniel!” He called me.
I sat my book down and went to the door. “What’s up, Roman?”
“Can you see the crossover door over here?”
I told him I could. Soon enough, I got to witness him throwing food by the door, near a rusted-out spot in the doorframe. Almost immediately, huge roaches flooded out and attacked the bread. And when a mouse ran over intending to steal the food, roaches attacked it! The mouse darted off with a few roaches clinging to it, and I could only shake my head. THAT was high quality entertainment for him. It was funny, but I did mention he was special, right?
After 30 years of drugs and gangs, he was committed to change. Both his parents were in their 90s and he worried about them all the time. When we received phone access on our tablets, his worries were significantly reduced. Last year, he was shipped to Coffield. I’ve kept track of him. He will be discharging and going home in less than a month.
Other conflicts did arise, like when I was wrongly moved out of the program and kept out for over a month.
Me versus three Nigerian sergeants. “I move every week in this area because of the program. Moving me out of this area is a mistake. Please go talk to the lieutenant.”
“I don’t control that,” one sergeant said. “They gave us a list. We do moves.”
“Right, I understand that.”
“They can take you out of programs anytime,” another sergeant suggested.
“Not without a reason,” I stressed. “Only disciplinary action would cause that, and I’m not being moved for that reason.”
If you’ve ever experienced when records would skip, stuck on repeat. That is what I endured for several hours as I tried to convince three different sergeants that they actually HAD the authority to help me resolve a problem. They, however, refused… so I was moved.
Coincidentally, I landed on the other side of the pod near some guys I knew, able to sit through the last lesson (on communication) in the life skills class. I also sat through their graduation the following week, and five movies! My guys over in the faith-based pod were jealous, but hey, there had to be some sort of reward for enduring idiocy, right?
All week, I was vocal about moving “back.” I even talked to a lieutenant and she assured me the issue would get fixed, but déja-stupid-vu was on display when one of the three sergeants from the previous week showed up with a list.
“You are moving,” he told me.
“Okay. Where am I going?”
He scanned the list with a finger. “E27-Cell”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said “We just went through this last week! I’m supposed to be in the…”
You know when you are talking to a person and their eyes glaze, and they get a distant expression? It was infuriating to be ignored!
“Look,” he told me, “Just pack up. Be ready. I will check on the problem.”
No need to ask if he did. The answer is self-evident! He did suggest “I forgot,” and that when in the main hallway, “You can talk to the lieutenant about it all.”
As expected, though, the lieutenant was suspiciously missing, and I ended up back in a cell I hadn’t been in for over six months.
Do you ever get the sense that you’re not where you want to be, but exactly where you’re needed? That was my experience during the whole time I was out of the program. Basically, I took the program with me, connecting with men in need.
Insane – yes, that was the name he went by – was definitely struggling. The last time I was his neighbor, I’d learned his story and we shared family photos. When I moved into E-27 that second time, Insane’s voice immediately poured from the crack in the back wall.
“Man, I’ve been praying for help with all this and…”
Now, I’m a Buddhist practitioner, but I also have a mystical affinity with all spiritual paths, especially Christianity. I’m drawn to suffering, desiring to help. Insane knew that from past conversations, so he expressed feeling suicidal. He had stopped using drugs, mostly, which was great. His hang up, or core trauma, related to memories of why he was in restrictive housing.
It was unusual for me to not immediately clean a cell, but it was apparent he needed to be heard. He explained, “I have not had anyone to really talk to.”
“What about your family?” He was close with his sister, but even more so with some nieces.
“I call them, but don’t want to bother them with my troubles.”
Ahh, pride. What else is a family for if one can’t lean on them in hard times? I didn’t question him, though. He carried grief from killing his cellie in population. During my first stay as his neighbor, Insane told the story:
“I was living with this Mexican guy and he was always getting high. I didn’t care about that. I cared when he stood at the cell door and jacked off!”
Insane told the guy to not do that while he was in the cell. Then, another day, the guy, of course high, went to playing with himself and Insane jammed him up.
“Say, man, I thought I told you not to do that with me in here?”
The guy got mouthy, mentioned something about, “If we have a problem, I’ll get my homeboys,” and that flipped a switch in Insane’s brain.
“Your homeboys, huh?” Insane said.
As the guy kept running his mouth, Insane plugged his hot pot up, mixing in water and petroleum jelly. He set a razor blade to the side on the table. When the water was ready, he unplugged the pot and turned to the guy.
“Here’s your homeboy!” Insane dashed the guy in the face. As the guy reached up to scrape at his eyes, yelling, Insane grabbed the razor and slit the guy’s throat. It all happened very quickly. When I first met Insane, he candidly admitted it wasn’t necessary.
“I’ve been locked up a long time,” he told me. “When I first came in, you had to fight and be quick to attack before a problem got bigger.”
So, he was conditioned by the experiences prison had forced upon him, and when in a situation that triggered those memories, he reacted.
“I should’ve thought more about it,” he admitted, expressing remorse.
Insane had been in population doing good, able to see his family, touch them. He’d been at peace with all the time locked up, something he had lost.
We discussed it all. Talked about legacy. Leaned on the blessings in his life, and considered ways he could still move forward. There was some fear about what the system would do to him. Mostly, he was hoping his chances of holding his family members were not ruined forever.
By the end of that week, I’d been able to talk to then-Lieutenant Hyatt, coordinating a move back to the faith-based program. When I left, Insane was in a much better place. He started explaining things more deeply to his sister and found she was not only receptive, but highly supportive. Fear of rejection lives in all of us, I think.
I graduated from all the classes and the faith-based program as a whole. Our graduation party was fairly epic with everyone getting a large pizza and enough cheesecake to kill a horse. Movies and great food made the interruptions, distractions, and frustrations worth it. Something Mando missed – he left before then, to Ellis, on his way to population.
Now, I’m adrift waiting to be transferred to a program. My hope to transition to population back in 2020 never died. I’m still working on it. As I do, one day at a time, I value each person I can be present for. I’m not perfect. I don’t know all the answers, but as long as I remain open to possibilities, I firmly believe a way will present itself.
My support group continues to be amazing. I’m fortunate to have living parents. I am now able to call and stay connected often thanks to the introduction of tablets. As vital as those family and friends are to my overall wellbeing, my greatest transformation has come from walking with and living among the many broken men in jails and prisons. Their stories are alive in my mind, softening my heart to the connections among us – all the ways we share in this existence.
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