Life After Death: The Shocking True Story of a Innocent Man on Death Row (31 page)

Someone sent me a letter that had one of the best quotes I’ve ever read. It said “What is to give light must endure burning.” It’s by a writer named Viktor Frankl. I’ve been turning that quote over and over in my head. The truth of it is absolutely awe-inspiring. In the end, I believe it’s why we all suffer. It’s the meaning we all look for behind the tragedies in our lives. The pain deepens us, burns away our impurities and petty selfishness. It makes us capable of empathy and sympathy. It makes us capable of love. The pain is the fire that allows us to rise from the ashes of what we were, and more fully realize what we can become. When you can step back and see the beauty of the process, it’s amazing beyond words.

All my life I’ve heard people say, “Why would God allow this to happen?” I think it’s because while we can see only the tragedy, God sees only the beauty. While we see misery, Divinity sees us lurching and shambling one step closer to the light. I truly do believe that one day we’ll shine as brightly as the archangels themselves.

To the person who sent me that quote—thank you. I stuck it up so that my eyes will travel over it several times a day. It’s something I’ll never forget.

Just about every time I do an interview they ask me what I miss most. When they do, a hundred things flash through my mind—the memories giving me that free-fall feeling in the pit of my stomach. I miss the rain. I miss standing beneath the sky and looking up at the moon and stars. I miss the wind. I miss cats and dogs. I miss wearing real clothes, having a real toothbrush, using a real pen, drinking iced tea, eating ice cream, and going for walks.

I’m tempted to say the thing I miss most is fruit. I haven’t had a piece of fresh fruit in about eight years, and before that I only got it once a year. The prison used to give everyone two apples and two oranges on Christmas, but then they stopped, said it was a “threat to security,” along with tea bags and dental floss. So I haven’t had any in nearly a decade now. They prevent scurvy by giving everyone a cup of watered-down orange juice for breakfast. It doesn’t have much taste, but enough vitamin C to keep your teeth from falling out.

In the end, it’s not the fruit I miss most, though if you rolled all the deprivations into one thing, it would be this: I miss being treated like a human being.

F
EBRUARY
12

This place is hell on the body. One of the reasons I cannot write letters the way I used to is that living in this cell twenty-four hours a day has destroyed my vision. I used to read three or four books a week. Now I average about one a month, if the print isn’t too small. The eye works like any other part of the body—use it or lose it. A person confined to a small space never has a chance to see anything that’s more than a couple feet away, so the first thing to go is your ability to see at a distance. Even with my glasses on, I can see maybe ten feet. Without glasses, maybe four inches—anything beyond that is color and movement.

The teeth go because dental care is practically nonexistent. Several years ago I was brutally beaten by a pack of sadistic guards, which caused nerve damage to several of my teeth. The prison gave me the choice of living with the pain or having my teeth pulled out. I’ve been in pain ever since (prison policy says no root canals, even if the guards themselves cause the damage).

Diabetes and heart disease come about from being unable to move. These cells are just big enough to take two steps forward and two steps back. Even if you work out for an hour a day, that leaves 23 hours when you are practically not moving at all. Add to that the cheapest diet you can find—plain noodles, white rice, white bread, grits, et cetera—and you’ve created a recipe for disaster. If you don’t work very hard, and aren’t very, very careful, you’ll die in here.

Last year there was a brief mention on the news about a sick prisoner who had to be put on life support after he was left lying in his own feces for several days. They eventually fired two guards for it, but only because it was mentioned on the news. Just about every guard in the prison had to pass that man’s cell on a daily basis. They all saw him. The two guards who got fired were simply scapegoats.

I don’t want to complain. No one likes a whiner, I know. Sometimes I just get so tired, though—tired of the abuse, tired of the cruelty, tired of the apathy. It wears you down to nothing. But I know that allowing myself to be sucked down into it, allowing myself to waste time dwelling on it, does nothing but create and feed more frustration. Tomorrow is a new day. I will put this one behind me and move forward into a more productive place. Today, however, what you get to read is me whining and complaining. As Billy Bob says in the movie
Bad Santa,
“Well, they can’t all be winners now, can they?”

F
EBRUARY
26

I’ve been asked by quite a few people why the prison serves breakfast at 2:30 a.m. The answer to that would be slave labor. The prison is run by what amounts to slave labor—planting crops, digging ditches, construction and maintenance—any job you can think of other than guard is done by the prisoners. They have the choice of doing whatever job the administration gives them to do, or go to the hole. They throw you in there, then drag you out every thirty days to ask if you’re ready to go to work yet. If you say no, they toss you back in. This goes on until the person’s mind or soul has been broken. So breakfast is at 2:30 a.m. because they want to have everyone out in the fields as early as possible so they can get as many hours of work out of them as they can.

It’s a brutal system. In other states prisoners get paid, even if it’s only five cents an hour. Not here, though. Here you get nothing. They still charge you if you need to see a doctor, even though many people have no money and no way of getting any. The reason other states pay prisoners to work is that in prison you have to buy everything—they don’t give you even the basic necessities, from soap and toothpaste to coffee and candy bars. So they charge you for all of it and take back the money they’ve paid you anyway.

They can also put you in the hole for giving something to another prisoner who can’t afford it. For example, say the guards decided not to feed a guy one day to teach him a lesson. If you give him a candy bar, they can give you thirty days in the hole. Give someone soap who can’t afford it—thirty days. A cup of coffee? Thirty days. It’s cruelty and madness. I once saw a man get thirty days for giving another man construction paper. The only thing you can do is keep your head down, be quiet, and try to avoid notice.

F
EBRUARY
27

I just received a letter from Amy in New Jersey, asking if I believe in God. What I think is that belief is irrelevant. Belief doesn’t play much of a role in my life. What matters to me is experience. I experience the Divine in my life on a daily basis. For me, effort is far more important than belief, and the effort I put forth is to spend every single moment of my life in the presence of the Divine.

I like to compare spirituality to riding a bicycle. You can believe with every fiber of your being that it’s possible to ride a bicycle, but until you start practicing you won’t be able to do it. Spirituality has to be about action, not belief.

One of my favorite quotes of all time comes from Oscar Wilde. When someone asked him if he believed in God, his response was “No, I believe in something much bigger.” I feel the same way. There is no old man waiting in the clouds to inflict pain on us for our failures. What there is is beyond words. Our concepts of God are tiny and insignificant compared to the reality of what Divinity is. Does that answer your question, Amy?

Speaking of such things, I gave up all cursing for Lent in an attempt to practice a more mindful way of speaking. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I’ve slipped several times, but I’m still trying. What trips me up most is dealing with the abusive guards. When they’re deliberately trying to hurt me, or when they’re harassing Lorri, I find myself cursing them under my breath and have to remind myself “No cursing!” Lorri and I are supposed to be able to see each other for three hours once a week, but this week a hateful guard deliberately took an hour of our time. The more attention the case gets, the more hateful and vindictive the guards become.

F
EBRUARY
28

I’ve never felt anything like what I’ve been feeling for the past few days. It’s like there’s a tremendous tidal wave hovering over my head. It’s just been growing and growing ever since word of Johnny Depp being a supporter and friend began to make the rounds. Johnny contacted Lorri for the first time in 1999, calling her up on the phone while she was at work one day. From that moment on, he corresponded with us both, with emotional and financial support in equal measure. He learned everything he could about the case, down to the finest details, and when he appeared on
48 Hours
his participation was startling where his knowledge of events was concerned. To be honest, it’s a little scary. It just feels so huge. I can only imagine what the energy would feel like out there. One thing I’ve discovered is that I wouldn’t want to be a celebrity for anything in the world. They have to live with far more energy than this directed at them twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I can’t even imagine how it would be to have to try to lead a normal life when there are people constantly trying to ask you questions, catch you on film, et cetera.

I know there must be a lot of support being generated out there because the level of hatred directed toward me by the guards has increased tenfold. I don’t even care. It just lets me know that good things are happening. The feeling in the air is almost the same thing I feel when a thunderstorm is coming. That’s what I pray for—rain. Enough rain to wash away the corruption, the cover-ups, the darkness, and the apathy that has stolen the past seventeen years of my life.

M
ARCH
16

The prison refused to let me see Harada Roshi. Communication between us has suddenly become a “security risk,” even though nothing has changed since the last time. I gave up trying to understand prison logic long ago—
Rolling Stone
magazine is a security risk, sodas are a security risk, salt and pepper are security risks. The list goes on and on. It’s incredibly disappointing that we didn’t get to talk. It would have been like getting a breath of fresh air to have been able to see Roshi and Chisan. Chisan is Roshi’s translator, and a female priest who does tarot readings in Japan. They carry an incredible energy with them wherever they go. It’s like love, happiness, compassion, discipline, and fun all rolled up into one current of golden light. At least Lorri got to meet them for dinner and talk about where our practice has taken us. I can’t wait for the day when we can go to Japan and visit the temple. It’s a way of life that hasn’t changed much in hundreds of years, and life in the temple is practically a world unto itself.

Roshi had no idea who Johnny Depp was when he heard about the
48 Hours
episode. That’s how I wish I could live—cut off from modern society and focused entirely on self-development. In a way I do live that way, except that my days are a dark and distorted version of monastic life.

In other news, the execution that was scheduled for tonight was not carried out. The attorney general is furious, and the guards are less than pleased. No one knows what to expect next.

A
PRIL
9

This is to the raven-haired lady I spoke to today from the Innocence Project: Thank you. Thank you for speaking to me like a human being. A lot of times they’ll bring tours through here and they come to my cell and just stare at me as if I’m some sort of exhibit in a museum. I’ve had teenage girls from a community college criminal justice class stand and watch me in the shower, and they didn’t even speak. They just stood around as if they had every right in the world to do so. You, raven-haired lady, were only the second person to ever speak to me. I was very happy to hear that you have been reading these letters. I have been slacking on the updates lately, but now I want to do a better job. In some ways I feel like I’ve been throwing messages in a bottle into the ocean, wondering if anyone is finding them. Now I know that someone is.

Not much is changing here. I’ve been moving deeper into my studies, my meditating, and my energy work. The days continue to fly past at an incredibly high rate of speed. The only thing of interest to anyone is that I think Marilyn Manson is quickly becoming my new best friend. Lorri loves him to pieces, too. He’s going to be speaking out for us on VH1 at an awards show that will air in July. He’s also painting my portrait, which I am incredibly excited about. Manson got involved to help with my case, although he has stayed behind the scenes—he thought his presence might be as hurtful as helpful in the public perception.

The air is filled with that odd, powerful energy that you only feel when the seasons are changing. It stirs up old memories of when I was young and free, and it nearly drives me mad. It was during this time of year that I experienced my very last days of freedom nearly seventeen years ago. The energy in the air makes those memories feel as if they only happened a few days ago. It hurts me somewhere deep in the core of my bones, but it’s an exquisitely beautiful kind of pain.

A
PRIL

They stopped the execution that was scheduled to take place last night. They had already taken the man to the death house, where the executions are carried out, when the Arkansas Supreme Court issued the order to stop. Now there will have to be a hearing before anyone else is put to death. That probably bought an extra year for those scheduled to be executed soon. Maybe. You can never be certain.

More than anything, I’d like to go to a park today. I want to sit in a swing, drink chocolate milk, and not think about anything in the world except the pleasure of that moment. I want to know what a normal life feels like because I can’t remember anymore. I want to drag my feet on the ground as I swing back and forth. I want to feel the fresh, spring chi on my skin. I’m very tempted to get out my Halloween decorations today because looking at them always gives me a little burst of excitement. I can’t, though, because I have a rule: No Halloween decorations before June 21. That’s the summer solstice, so after that we’re officially in the second half of the year.