To Live and Die on Death Row

A typical day for me is pretty much the same as every other day I spend in here, a mirror image of the next.

 

 

One of the first things you notice about prison is how loud it can be. And prison is loud. After I wake up and get out of bed, I will make my way to the sink and toilet to wash up, listening to the sounds of many different things going on all at the same time. Like this morning, I was awoken by my neighbor talking, who was having to yell to the guy in the dayroom which is 15-feet from my cell, just so he can have a conversation with the man in the dayroom, while my other neighbor is talking loud just so his other neighbor can hear him at the same time. There are guys downstairs having their own conversations. Top that off with the guard who is yelling to the picket officer, who is on the phone deaf to him, as he is yelling over and over, “Shower. Shower door. Open the fucking shower door”, to the point he gets angry and takes the food slot bar and starts beating it on the bars to get the woman in the pickets attention to open the shower door so he can pull the man out of there – who has likely been stuck in there for 45-minutes to an hour – so he can take him to his cell. Then there is another guard with an SSI – Support Service Inmate (Trustee) – coming through the front door of the pod yelling, “Ice water. Turn your light on if you want ice water”, and all this is going on as the guy down the run about four cells from me is singing the theme song to the old western TV show, “Raw Hide”, at the top of his lungs. I admit, I have heard him sing it before, and he does sing it pretty damn good; he knows all the words, and I like the song, it brings back memories. 

 

 

This is what a typical day sounds like for me as I’m standing at my sink, taking a morning piss as I have the sink water running so I can wash my face and brush my teeth. I keep ear plugs in all day, so I just jam them in a little deeper trying to drown out everything. This then reminds me to buy about 20 new packs of ear plugs when I get off commissary restriction; the newer they are, the better they work to help drown out all the racket I wake up to and have to hear throughout the day. Granted, not every day is like this, but for the most part it is the “same old, same old”. Guys just living a life the best they can talking and doing what they can to stay sane.

 

 

Here at Polunsky Unit, in Livingston, Texas, which houses Texas Death Row, the day actually starts at 5:30a.m. when the shift changes. This is when a guard will get the recreation and shower sheet and go on each section, stopping at each cell and asking if the man is going to rec and shower. While he’s doing this, another guard is doing a security check by inspecting the dayrooms and outside rec yards as well as the showers, looking for anything someone may have foolishly forgotten or hidden. Here is where the first real sounds of the day start coming from, as gates are being opened allowing each guard to enter the sections and dayrooms, when doors start slamming. Let me tell you, the sound of steel slamming on steel with such a force that it causes the surrounding bars to rattle and shake. It is loud. Then, if that isn’t enough to stir you, you’ll soon be awoken by the guard who is coming by to wake you up to make sure you are still alive and to ask if you’re going to rec or not. That, along with the door slamming, starts a new sound of angry guys yelling to the guard slamming the door, “Stop slamming the goddam gates, you sorry m***** f*****”. This happens several times on different sections. I will say, for the most part, the guards here at 12-Building, where Death Row and Administrative Segregation are housed, are pretty respectful and don’t go out of their way to intentionally do things to piss guys off, but they do unconsciously slam a door (or ten), not really giving it that much thought. They usually stop when asked, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

 

As soon as the guards get done setting up rec, it is now count-time and you can be sure it will bring another round of door slamming and the cell lights being turned on for count, which never fails to result in someone getting out of bed yelling to the picket officer “Turn out the light”, and when that doesn’t work, it turns into, “Turn the lights out, you stupid fuck”. But this is something they know has to happen, so they are just wasting their breath. The light will not be turned out until the guards do their count. So, it is just more noise added to the start of the day.

 

 

After count, the guards will then start pulling the first round of rec out which, if everything goes well, starts right at 6:00a.m. or shortly after and that leads to more door slamming. Then, once the dayrooms are full, guys in them start to talk/yell, start their workouts, making bets on upcoming games. Then passing stuff starts, books, magazines, newspapers, food or whatever is passed. Now guys are being woken up and, usually by 6.15a.m., it is in full swing. The start of the day kicks off with a bang and it is loud. The only escape one can get is through one’s radio, by putting their headphones on and turning up the volume to drown out the noise. Or jam those cheap foam earplugs in as deep as you can force them. I have been wearing them for so long I don’t even have any earwax in my ears!

 

 

For me on a personal level, if I go to rec first round, I go out there and start my workout, hit the pull-up bar and run back and forth in a 30-foot section going as fast as I am able and doing it for as long as I can.

 

 

If I am in my cell, same thing, after I get cleaned up and clean my cell, I start my workout and do all kinds of things from push-ups to running in place and yoga. After that I will take a wash and wash my clothes and either wait around for my turn to rec or start writing letters to friends, family, and my attorneys.

 

 

That is the start of a typical day for me, but it doesn’t end there. Since this is prison, everything is set on a time limit, meaning they try their best to do everything at a certain time. Each inmate gets two hours of rec out of his cell five days a week – Monday, Thursday and Friday – having to spend the other 22-hours a day locked in their cell, and on weekends there is no rec at all. I personally have grown to love the weekends. Granted I don’t like being in my cell 24-hours a day, but I like the peacefulness that the weekends give, very little door slamming, no one is in the dayroom yelling to the next man just to be heard and everyone seems to know the weekends are just a time to chill the hell out, relax, take it easy, sleep all day if you want. Rest, which is just what I do. I rest and nap the whole weekend away while listening to NPR and writing letters or getting caught up on reading. I like the peace the weekends bring. After the showers, things can get pretty quiet in here to the point one can hear all kinds of little sounds that one can’t hear during the weekdays.

 

 

As I was saying, everything is set on a set time. Breakfast is at 3:30a.m. and that can get pretty loud, as the guards are yelling, “Chow time! Chow time! If you want to eat, have your light on”. Some will wake a man up if he is still sleeping, while others pass him right on by. So, if your ass is hungry, you better be up with your light on. If not, there is a good chance they will pass you right on by and wake you up as they are picking the trays up asking, “Where is your tray?” They’ll wake you up asking you if you have a tray but won’t wake you up to give you one. Since I like breakfast, I am up and ready.

 

 

Lunch is supposed to start at 10:30a.m. Same thing, the guards will yell out, “Chow time!” and wake you up if you are asleep. For some reason I have never understood, they do not have to wake you up at breakfast, but they do at lunch and supper. They have to write down everything, whether you ate or not, went to rec, showered. Everything that has to do with an offender is written down.

 

 

Supper is supposed to start around 3:30pm to 4:00p.m., with the guards yelling out, “Chow time”. It is always the same every day, but since this is prison, anything can happen in a blink of an eye, to put everything on hold. A fight could break out in General Population where they need all available staff to help out, or an inmate could do something to a guard, or another inmate. Anything can bring things to a complete stop. When that happens, it slows everything down. Lunch may not be served until noon or 1:00p.m. Guys in the dayroom or shower could get trapped in there for hours at a time, because if something like an assault, or the threatening of an officer, stabbing, fire, or someone tries to kill themselves or actually does, then there is paperwork to be done and that will drag things along at a slow place.

 

 

This is pretty much a typical day here on Death Row, 12-Building, Polunsky Unit. Very rarely does it change. The one thing you can count on for sure to change is the rules. TDCJ is good about that, what is a rule today, won’t be next year, or what isn’t a rule today will be tomorrow. You can never tell with these ranking officers.

 

 

Prison is a very strange place, but Death Row isn’t like General Population, they are two very different beasts. Things here on Death Row do run pretty smoothly I have to admit, we do have some pretty decent guards working here who don’t go out of their way to really mess with us, but of course, there are always one or two who seem to think it is their duty to make our already miserable lives even more miserable. And believe me, they do a good job of it too. But I have to be honest, the guards that work with us are decent folk. The problems mostly start when we get new high-ranking officers, such as the Major or Wardens. They all want to come with their own special way of doing things, I guess to show everyone, “I’m running things now”. So, when we get these kinds of jackasses, then things really can get a little hectic around here, because these new ranks seem to go after the guards for not doing their jobs and that in turn leads to the guards having to tighten up on us, which is very understandable to me. This is prison, there are rules, and for the most part the guards who work with us just let us live our lives. That is until a new jackass wants to come and do things “their way”. Trying to fix things that aren’t broken. It is always funny, and absolutely never fails, after a few weeks of the bullshit the new rank causes, things go right back to the way they have always been. I am always telling these guys, “Man, how many times have you been through this? It won’t last, just keep doing what you do and don’t sweat it”. But some of the guys get so stressed about things, wondering, “Why is this new Warden enforcing all these petty rules, when they never did before?” 1.) There are rules. 2.) This is prison. I always remind guys, “Man, you do realize we are in prison, right?” They don’t like that, but I have to bring some of them back to reality now and then. Me, on a personal level, I try and stay well within the rules. I keep my cell in order. I do the best I can, and it helps me to remain stress-free. I have been to prison before, not something I am proud of, but what I can say, we here on Death Row have it far better than those out there in General Population do. It can be rough out there, they don’t enforce half the rules back here with us as they do with those in GP. Many guys have never been to jail or prison before, so this is all they know. To me, Death Row is vastly different than General Population, and I always know and tell these cats I am here with, “Believe me, it could be a lot worse”. 

 

 

Being under a sentence of Death… Here on Death Row, it is different. I really can’t explain it. But I know the difference, as do a few others here. But as with everything, everyone perceives and receives things differently. What bothers one man may not bother me. What the next man views as fucked up or wrong, I see it differently. Does it suck? Hell yeah, it sucks, I hate it. I hate being locked up 22-hours a day then 24-hours for the remaining two days a week. This is a miserable way to live. It is a very lonely life. I just do all I can to stay busy and keep my mind from thinking too much about the negative things that surround me. I just take it one day at a time and there are some days that are better than others.

I arrived here on Texas Death Row in July 1994. After intake I was taken before Captain West to be strip-searched and questioned. Two big guards told him just where each and every tattoo and scar was on my body, and after all that I was told to get dressed, was handcuffed behind my back, and escorted to the worst cell block the Old Ellis One Unit had to offer for Death Row offenders. 

 

 

I can recall Captain West asking me about my history while at the Harris County Jail awaiting trial and me telling him it was “good”. He then told me, after holding up a sheet of paper, “Not according to this note I received from the jail. You seem to like to fight inmates and guards alike. So, I tell you what, I am going to put you on J-21 for now, and see how that works. You may fit right in there”. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about “fitting in”, but before I even walked into the cell block, I was standing outside the gate in the hallway waiting to be taken in and I could see water coming from off of Two Row, coming down so hard and fast that it looked like a waterfall. When I looked past the water, there was a lot of smoke from where someone had lit something on fire, and it was billowing out in big white clouds of smoke towards the end of the wing. 

 

 

The guard who turns keys in the hallway let us in. As we stepped in, they took me to One Row 6-Cell, and as I walked in between the wire mesh fence and the cell, I looked all the way toward the end of the run and saw this white leg hanging out of a pan hole food slot. The guards escorting me laughed and said, “Looks like Casmo done jacked the food slot”. 

 

 

So, as we were walking through the water, we came to 6-Cell and there was a sheet hanging across the bars from the inside of the cell. I was thinking I would be getting a cellie. The guy in 6-Cell, whose name I later learned was Bobby West, was beating on his wall yelling, “Dusty, Dusty, check this shit out.” So, I now knew my cellie has a name: Dusty. He yanked down the sheet to reveal he isn’t a very big guy, about my size, but skinny. The guards were yelling to the picket to call Captain West because someone was already living in One Row 6-Cell. They pulled on my arm, leading me away from that cell and Dusty. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I was thinking, “I am fixing to have a problem right away if they are thinking of putting me in a cell handcuffed while someone who isn’t handcuffed is already in there and they close the door to take the cuffs off”. Now I could hear him talking-yelling. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but there were several cuss words, so I was already thinking they were directed at me or the guards or both.

 

 

As we then stood by the picket, in all the water, a call came in and they told my escort, “Take him to Two Row 6-Cell”. So, up to Two Row we went, as all the water was no longer coming down as fast as it had been. We made our way upstairs and I could now tell all the water was coming from Three Row. Someone had flooded their cell. We passed a few guys who were standing at their cell doors or lying in bed, and it was loud. The smell of that burning newspaper was making its way to me now, a smell I can’t stand. When we came to 6-Cell, the door was already standing open. One of the guards walked in and checked it out, finding a box cutter and telling me, “You don’t need this”. Me, thinking, “Well, actually I do.”

 

 

They put me in the cell, rolled the door shut, and opened the food slot so I could be un-cuffed. After taking the cuffs off, they told me they would be back with a mattress and sheets. As soon as they left, it started getting quiet, to the point that all I could hear was the last drops of the water falling from off Three Row to One Row. That is when my neighbor in 5-Cell started knocking on my wall saying, “Hey, 6-Cell, what’s your name?” I told him, “6-Cell.” I heard my other neighbor laugh at that, and then 5-Cell’s voice was in the back of my cell. He was calling me back there to where this one-inch hole was punched through the wall. I stepped back and leaned forward slowly, not knowing what to expect. I had never in all my time been in a cell with a hole in it like this, so I was weary about what to expect. I’m not a fool. I looked and saw this eyeball looking back at me, and then his mouth came up to the hole so he could talk through it. He introduced himself as Noble Mays. 

 

 

We started talking a bit and he was offering me coffee and smokes, which I told him I would pay him back for, but he told me, “Don’t worry about it.” He slid me some smokes and I started playing with this knob in the back of my cell, not knowing what the hell it was for, or if it even worked. That is when my neighbor in 7-Cell called me and I went up to the front of the bars, which had this thick wire mesh on it, so no one can even reach out. He started asking me questions but always leading them off with letting me know about himself first. “I’m Li’l Chili Red. What’s your name, 6-Cell?” I told him my name and then he told me he was from Houston, and I told him I was too. Then I heard guys asking him to ask me, “Does he need anything?”, and before I could tell him “No”, he yelled out, “He ain’t got shit!” Then it was like the whole cell block came alive. I heard guys say to Chili Red, “Tell him I will send him some writing supplies”. Another, “I’ll send him some soups and corn chips”. Someone else said they would send me some hygiene, while a guy two cells down in 8-Cell told Chili Red, “Come pick this up for him” and it was a can of Bugler and two boxes of matches. Another guy was yelling to the guard to get me some cleaning supplies. I hadn’t even been on Death Row for a good hour and guys were helping me out, and before three hours rolled around, I had everything I could want. I even had a pair of these big ass headphones I couldn’t use. I was thanking everyone and said I would send the headphones back and started yelling, “Bossman! Look out, Bossman!” It was “Bossman” who had brought most of this stuff to me, so he could take the headphones back. Chili Red tells me, “No, man. Keep those so you can listen to the radio and T.V. with them.” I thought, Yeah, that would be nice if I had a radio. I had noticed there were T.V.’s all along the wall, but no sound. So, Chili Red told me that knob I was playing with is a dial that I can listen to the radio and hear the T.V. All I had to do was plug them in the wall. I hadn’t noticed the headphone jack on the wall. When I did, like magic they worked and were loud. Some other guys yelled up at me, “Hey, they ain’t your Bossman. They is officers”. I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, but soon I learned to call them “officer” instead of Boss/Bossman. Something I never did while in prison before. 

 

 

Not long after, Noble was banging on my wall again to get my attention. He was about the most talkative guy I ever met. I got to talking to him and told him, “I got sentenced to death.” He laughed and said, “Me too.” I was a bit taken aback and more so when he told me everyone on this cell block was sentenced to death. Then he told me about the other 7-Cell blocks that were full of guys sentenced to death. I had no idea. We were talking close to 500 men who were there with me and all were sentenced to death.

 

 

I got to know Noble pretty good, as well as Chili Red, and a few other guys, like one of my best friends who has remained the same since the day I met him to this day, Brian Davis (BD). They were telling me everything I needed to know about DR and how everything was. First thing I learned quickly was that it was pretty damn friendly, and I wasn’t used to the mixing of the races I was witnessing. Where I came from, you didn’t mix unless you had to, but it wasn’t like that here. Everyone got along. 

 

 

A couple of months into it, I was talking to Mays and he told me he was moving to J-13. I didn’t know what for, and he didn’t tell me, maybe thinking I already knew. I told him, “Alright, man, I will catch you later.” I thought nothing of it until I was in my cell pacing the floor and Chili Red called to me and said, “Look, there’s Noble!” I was looking out my cell door thinking he would be walking up the stairs, which I could see. I asked Chili, “Where? I don’t see him”. I liked Noble and wanted to say hi. That was when Chili said, “He’s on T.V.” I looked at the T.V. that was directly in front of me and I saw these two guys carrying a big black bag down the stairs. I asked Chili, “Where? Did I miss him?” He said, “No, man, that’s him in the body bag!” I was stunned. I just talked to him three days ago, and now Chili was telling me that it’s Noble in that body bag? I couldn’t believe it. I started asking him questions and he assured me that it was Noble. They’d just executed him. 

 

 

Back then, they didn’t place us on “Deathwatch”, as they do now the moment you get a date or when they get the paperwork. Nowadays, one can sit on Deathwatch for an entire year if your date is that far off, watching those around you going to the Walls Unit and then into the death chamber to be legally murdered. That is what the Death Certificate says for “cause of death”: “Homicide.” 

 

 

Homicide means murder. Back then they would only take one to Deathwatch three days before their date. So, I had just spoken to this man, not three days before I witnessed him being carried out the back door, or side door, and down a small flight of steps and loaded into the waiting car. 

 

 

Noble Mays, the first man whom I ever spoke to, who gave me a helping hand, was the first person I knew personally to be executed – killed – murdered. I have to admit, it hit me pretty hard. It caused me to realize this was all for real, because until then, everything had been so mind distracting. I had rec, radios, commissary, and right before me was a 26-inch color T.V. that I could watch weekdays from 6:00a.m. until 10:30p.m. and weekends until midnight. 

 

 

Seeing someone I had personally met and known, who had broken bread with me, carried out in a body bag, was a punch in the gut. Up until this time I had been stuck on stupid. I had just let each day roll into the next, not caring about anything. But witnessing that man being carried down those small steps did something to me. It made me want to fight, but not like I always did (though I was more than willing to do that too), but to fight by learning the law. At that point, I could read and write at the third-grade level, if that, having failed the first-grade twice, failing the second-grade twice, and the third-grade twice again. I felt that I was, in a word, stupid. I had to have guys help me write letters. I remember this black guy named Daugh who used to write with a few other guys for this monthly Death Row newsletter called Endeavor. I was asked if I wanted to be put in the pen pal section. I thought, “What the hell does that mean?” I tell you I was S-T-U-P-I-D. Daugh explained it to me and asked me to write a pen pal ad if I wanted to. I didn’t tell him no, and a few days later he reminded me about it, telling me that I needed to write it because they had a deadline. I admitted to him that I couldn’t read or write very well. I recall that he got real quiet for a bit and said he would write it for me, but for me to tell him what to say. So, I told him and he was the first one, a killer, to even take an interest in my lack of reading and writing. Next, Gary Graham helped me out. He gave me his old dictionary. I have always hated dictionaries. I couldn’t even begin to spell some words to even look them up. I would throw down the dictionary in frustration. Then someone else gave me a different kind of dictionary and books that I couldn’t even read. I went to the work program where I met David Lewis, who helped me out, telling me the whole Hobbit story, making them the first books I ever ‘spot read’. Then there was Bobby West, Donny Miller, Billy Joe Woods, and David Earl Gibbs (who I got into a fight with and who taught me an important lesson about fighting south paws). We became good friends. Pony Boy, Jazz, Casper, Jerry Hole, McHill, and so many others who all helped me to learn to read and write, whose teaching I still use today. All but one of those I mention has been executed and all of those I mention count as friends. 

 

 

The count would continue to grow. Out of the 459 men who have been executed, excuse me, men and a few women, I have known most in some way – be it big or small, or just in passing – speaking a few words to each of them, almost every one of them. I have met guys who have since been executed, who were some of the best guys I’ve ever known. I have met some that I really didn’t care for, some I liked, some I didn’t like too much, but none that I wanted to see killed. 

 

 

I have known two, out of all those men, to be two out of three of the most dangerous men I have ever crossed paths with. One was a big black cat named Arnold who killed another Death Row inmate, while the other was the Rail Road Killer. With Arnold, I could just see danger in him. With the Rail Road Killer, I could feel the danger in that small man. When I looked into his eyes, they were dark. The other is a man I knew in this world: Crazy Robert. Each one of these guys is as deadly as the other. But I knew many of these men who have been executed. Some I called friends, some not. But to sit here and realize I talked and personally knew all but about ten of them, is a sobering thing. 

 

 

I have known guys such as Donny Miller, Red Kitchen, Bobby West, and Dusty – the guy I first saw when they tried to put me in his cell. All good guys who showed me love. Bobby Hines, aka Bob Dylan, for some reason I could never figure out why we called him Bob Dylan, because he neither looked like the singer and he damn sure couldn’t sing from the way I heard him butcher a few songs. To Gary Graham, a man who was innocent of his crime, where one witness testified he was the man she saw run by her car on that fatal night, while ten others or literally seven to ten others, all described the man to be a six-foot or bigger, where Gary Graham was as short as me and skinny. There are so many others who I can’t recall, but whose faces and voices I can still hear, who are all dead. Who all in their own way became a part of my life and will remain so until my dying day. Many I called friends. All of whom the courts have said weren’t worth spit, but it is these men who helped me, who have stood out over the years. There are some I miss more than others. Donny Miller, who I crossed paths with out in the world as a child when I stole these little nuts off his truck and put them on my bike, he also knew my uncle. Bobby Hines would have given you the shirt off his back. There are so many more, each having their own special story, that I carry with me on a personal level. All DEAD. 

 

 

It is odd that I can’t recall a name, but I can remember where I was when we met, what cells we lived in, or on what row they lived, and conversations I had with each one. I can see their faces and hear their voices… For the most part, but no name. Some are a little more blurry than others. Those I only knew in passing, sometimes I can only see the color of their skin, and sometimes not even that. But those who hit me the hardest, those I remember very well. 

 

 

I think back to every time I told someone about how I couldn’t read and write, but at a third-grade level. Or when I would just tell the story of how I was in school, or think back on the times I spent running the streets. I see that illiterate young child/teen/man that couldn’t read and write, and I think of those who helped me learn. I owe that to a few people and the one who made me realize that I didn’t want to stay stupid. Noble Mays is the one who caused me to take a chance on telling someone that I couldn’t read and write. The first man I ever spoke to in here, the first man to ever offer me anything, the first man I saw being carried out of these walls in a body bag. His legalized murder woke something up in me. Fear? The will to fight? The desire to learn how to fight with pen and paper, instead of my fists? I don’t know, but it did move me. 

 

 

I think about all my executed friends. Then I think about all their loved ones, my loved ones, and I think of all the pain that has been caused due to these murders – the pain of suffering and the pain of loss shared on both sides. I wonder: Is it all worth it? Is it worth it to cause all this pain? To kill a man who may have killed someone over $20? Or, in some cases, far less than that? To spend millions, literally millions, to kill a man or woman when that money could have been better spent somewhere else? 

 

 

459 people have been executed since I arrived here. That’s over a million dollars for each person executed, 459 million dollars better used for teachers and many other things. But Texas would rather carry out executions on men and women who are not the same person they were when they committed their crimes, men and women who really have changed. I knew some of them. I saw the good in them. I saw the respectful way they spoke to guards. I saw something the prosecution told the jury could never happen: change. Change in a person from the way they were in a past life. I miss many of them. I am sure that I will see many more executed. I assume I will miss many more, but these days I refuse to allow myself to get close to anyone here as I once did. I have those I am close to, and seeing them go, if they have to, will not be a good feeling. I have grown somewhat callous to executions. I have seen so many guys leave and not come back. 

 

 

You want to bring change? Let the condemned men and women go speak to those in General Population before they are about to be killed. Let them tell their story, and then let those who heard their stories learn of their execution. Let that sink in. Then maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But maybe, just maybe, that would be the perfect wake up call. But until there is some kind of positive and serious change, then I am at 459 and counting.