Friday, September 27, 2013

Legitimizing Death: The Effect of the Anti-Death Penalty Campaign on Long-Term Sentencing

By Arthur Longworth

In 1972 the US Supreme Court struck down capital punishment in a case called Furman v. Georgia - a ruling that became known as the “Death is Different" decision. It was dubbed this because of what Justice Potter Stewart wrote in the decision:

"The penalty of death differs from all other forms of criminal punishment, not in degree but in kind. It is unique in its rejection of rehabilitation […] as a basic purpose of criminal justice."

More than six hundred prisoners on death rows in the thirty-nine states that had death penalty statutes at the time received a reprieve, and opponents of capital punishment celebrated. But death penalty opponents were not aware of the political firestorm that would follow, nor of the effect it would have on prisoners in the future. We (that is, us prisoners) wonder if they are still unaware.

Prior to Furman, a life sentence in our state meant that a prisoner was reviewed after 13 years, 4 months. The crime he committed and the circumstances of his life leading up to his incarceration were weighed against what he had done while in prison. It was possible that he might never be released from prison, On the other hand, if his actions were commendable enough, he would be instructed on what else he needed to accomplish in order to be considered tor release at some point in the future.

After Furman, however, in the subsequent vacuum of a court-imposed moratorium on capital punishment, and uncertainty about whether it would ever he allowed again, our state enacted a Life without Parole (LWOP) statute. The intent was to create a different sentence than a traditional life sentence for those the state would otherwise have put to death - a sentence that would share more in common with execution than incarceration. And our state wasn’t alone; we were part of a nationwide backlash against Furman. Today, Forty-nine states, as well as the federal system, have some form of LWOP.

Toward the end of the l970`s, though, many states - including our own - managed to reinstate capital punishment by adopting procedural safeguards set forth by the Supreme Court. But LWOP wasn’t taken back. Neither was it fitted with the same safeguards. It`s a mandatory sentence, which means that in non-capital cases it`s neither handed down by a judge nor given by a jury. Instead of taking over for execution, LWOP became another sentence altogether - one with much less protection against its misapplication.

The problem with adding LWOP to our state sentencing system was that it infected the system with an insidious type of inflation. Use of the sentence quickly expanded beyond those who faced the death penalty; it was extended to include individuals who, prior lo its enactment, were viewed as reformable - as well as the mentally ill, the mentally and physically handicapped, and (shame on society for this) juveniles. This expansion changed the template (or. what is known in legal circles as the "going rate") for all sentences, especially long-term ones. It made "de facto" LWOP sentences common (that is, sentences that aren`t actually LWOP. but are so long that they may as well be). You can trace the course of this inflation through the states sentencing guidelines - a lengthening and harshening of sentences every year since LWOP was appended to the system. And when you look at crime data and read old cases in law books, you realize this isn`t because people are worse nowadays. In most instances, they were worse in the past. It’s simply that LWOP is a hard act to follow, once you start giving that sentence to people, every other sentence seems inadequate. You lose sight of what the incarceration system was instituted for; the original intent of corrections; the potential, proper utilization, and possibility of prison. There literally becomes no sentence that is long enough.

This doesn`t aid the cause of death penalty opponents either. Attorneys might find the alternative of LWOP useful in convincing a jury in a particular case to abdicate to it rather than choose execution, but overall the use of LWOP and de facto LWOP sentences only feeds the societal demand for capital punishment. When so many non-capital offenders are sentenced to die in prison, LWOP no longer seems a just or reasonable alternative for someone society is angry enough to want to execute.

Death in Prison sentences have changed what incarceration is for. The more than six hundred prisoners on death rows across the country at the time of Furman served an average of eighteen years before they were released. That’s inconceivable compared to the way it is now. Today, very few prisoners sentenced to die in prison ever faced the death penalty. In fact, most LWOP`s are non-homicides. And it`s been this way for so long now it seems natural, as if our criminal justice system and prisons are supposed to be used this way, the way it has always been.

But it isn’t. There isn`t a precedent for this in any other country today. Neither is there one at any other time in the history of our own country. One in every eleven prisoners in America today is sentenced to life. That is not what prison as an institution was founded to do.

Prison is no longer used to reform individuals - it`s a warehouse. But even that description isn`t accurate because a warehouse doesn’t harm what it stores, and the same can`t be said about prison. Even among those with manageable sentences, prison has become where hopelessness, failure, and recidivism is cultivated. Using prison to throw men (and women) away forever - many of whom were sent here as young people and who have long since reformed themselves - robs resources from the effort to reform those who need it, and to help the young people outside prison whose lives aren`t so nice, There are many young people in our state who don`t have access to u meaningful education, or even a place to live, because this is what’s being done instead. These are the young people who pour in here every week off chain buses, and they will continue to do so as long as this is what prison is used for.

A prison system should guide the reform of its young prisoners through hope and education. One that instead subjects them to indignity and humiliation, long-term solitary confinement, labor exploitation, medical neglect, debt they can’t ever pay off, and alienation from their families and communities, isn`t justice for anyone. Whether people outside prison realize it or not. it`s not justice for them either.

Of the sixteen and a half thousand prisoners in our state, over two thousand are sentenced to die behind these walls. That’s the true size of death row.

Remember Justice Potter Stewart’s words?

"The penalty of death differs from all other forms of criminal punishment, not in degree but in kind. It is unique in its rejection of rehabilitation [...] as a basic purpose of criminal justice."

Death was different in l972, Justice Stewart - but it isn’t anymore.

I’m 48 years old and have been in prison for about 30 years with a Life Without Parole sentence.  I instruct a university Spanish language course for University Behind Bars, a non-profit prison education program. The Prison Diary of Arthur Longworth is available through University Beyond Bars. 

This article featuring Art appeared on the front page of The Seattle Times in 2012. Concurrently, NPR did a related story on the Liz Jones Show.

Arthur Longworth 299180 C-238
Monroe Correctional Complex – WSR
P.O. Box 777
Monroe, WA 98272

Art Update

Please visit the Minutes Before Six Art Page to see new work by Ronnie Clark

Monday, September 23, 2013

Poetry by Jeff Freeman

English Lessons
By Jeff H. Freeman

Come in the form
Of subject/verb agreement
And subordinate clauses,
Compound sentences and proper
Punctuation for college students.
These usually come early on
In the course for the cohort.
Soon thereafter they’ll
Transition to topic sentences
And thesis statements-
Sentence coherence and paragraph
Transitions all unfolding
To form a substantive piece of composition.
Then they'll learn the truth
About logical-and ill-logical-fallacies,
How to use They Say, /Say
Arguments and rhetoric
To get their points across.
Later on they’ll be asked
To do a researched paper,
With MLA/APA works cited,
And an annotated bibliography.
ln between these lessons,
They'|| learn about other writers,
About academia and lessons
That’ll apply to their own lives.

Life Beyond…
By Jeff H. Freeman

A few times I thought
I found life for myself
In somebody else.
That was the times
I knew life as fleeting
Moments of simple joy,
As gems of elusive
Happiness I dreamed
I would find
To complete myself.
Yet, I was empty;
I spent my all
On the false dreams,
Pretentions and assumptions
Of somebody else.
Even still, I know now
All cannot be lost
Because yesterday I saw
the prettiest rainbow
meant especially for me.
It was bright and right
And made my heart alight
And smile within.
That same day, I also
Spoke to God’s angel
Who told me
I was somebody special,
Who told me
Life was more than a cloudy day,
More than what other’s may
About me on those days,
More than what I
Can do to enrich others
To show them who I am,
Even more than what I myself
May think I am
On days when I am not
Feeling so well,
And more than the life
I sometimes can’t seem
To see because of me.
Life, they say, is more
Than us,
Is more than today,
And more about tomorrow.
Life is beyond.
We should keep on living for that.

Inspiration After Death
By Jeff H. Freeman

Being that there’s limitation,
I find her life in a picture.
I often remove it from my album,
Look at it on difficult days.
I often recall the best of times
And try to move on in my life.
Once I feel our connection,
That she is near,
I am then inspired
To keep on living.

Chow Line
Jeff H. Freeman

They line up
At the dorm door, fifteenMinutes before "chow call."

An apparent anxiousness moves
across their faces
when the other side is called.

I sat upstairs,
A second-tier vantage point
And watch it all play out.

They gave up,
Front to back,
Waiting for the pavlovian call.

To cue their charge.
Wild how it all stages--
Programmed, on point.

They hear the call
And charge the doors,
Heel to heel, they move
Out as if going someplace
They've never been before,
A place that will offer

Them a permanent escape
From the absxxx isolation they know,
The meaningless they feel.

One by one they return,
One by one, conversing,

Bemoaning the ensuing night.

Another Line
By Jeff H. Freeman

I can’t stand the wait
It’s wait for this, wait
For that, with hurry-up in between.
I stand in the flux of lines
Every day to see my life unwind –
In the canteen line, clothes line,
Chow line, medical line, every line.

Last night I saw the headline –
Trump reapproves Keystone Pipeline.
Surely a line has to be drawn somewhere.
Now I know how it is
When distressed people call out
To reach their local hotline,

Though sometimes these lines get crossed.

Nobody Will Tell You
By Jeff H. Freeman

This is what it is like
To be locked away in prison
Behind fences, bars and walls,
All bound up for over a generation.
At first, you don’t know
What to expect from the experience,
It’s affects and subtle soul-shattering impact.

People cringe when I tell them
The rawness of my experience,
The real life-altering events I witness
And contend with almost daily.
I mean, nobody will tell you
I saw Noland get assaulted
With a No.5 padlock, watched
Nike and Doughboy get shanked
And bleed and bleed and bleed.
Oh, the blood from fights, too.
Coming about over trivial things -
A debt, a TV program, or somebody’s
“Boy” or “state lover” -
Just to name a few

Nobody will tell you
This is what you would come to prison
To see all play out in living color,
With regularity and indifference
And out of the public eye.

Oh, the trauma, I will tell you.
Nobody will tell you this much
It wouldn’t be right for rightness.
It wouldn't be just for justice.

Nobody will tell you about the threats,
The intimidations and bullying, the mental
Wrangling one must endure to overcome.
The struggle and avoid further pain,
Heartache and crushing oppression.
Oh - the depression.
Nobody will tell you these things.

Society would die to know
The truths of these things.
Still, I will tell you -
They are real, they are real
And I fight against them,
I struggle against them,
I contend with them mightily,
Because they are trying to steal
My life away from me.
Nobody hasn’t told you this much -
The struggle.
For this is what prison
Is like for me, for Damon,
For the Mikes and likes.

This is where we go to prison,
Nobody could dare tell you
The truths of these things.
It just wouldn’t be right for rightness.
It wouldn’t be just for justice.

Nobody will tell you these things.

By Jeff H. Freeman

Day after day the condition plays on.
Plays on in monotonous meter, leaving
Nothing except more of the same.  When night comes,
Even my sleep seems deprived of its pulse,
Passing on from dream to dream,
It’s hard to settle on what has struck me more,
That I am still here, and you are there,

Or that there’s still a meaningful rhythm somewhere else.

Life, Unlived 
By Jeff H. Freeman

A generation went away today,
Gone with the time it robbed
From the young dreamer’s life,
Now caught in the madness of emotion
Swirling round in his now old head.

Folks say it’s not so bad - I don’t know,
As bad is all I’ve known, you know.
Can’t you see how time can change you,
How good folks fade away, go away
To leave another generation behind.

I remember sad times, people striving
And dying and trying to find their way,
Wondering if time would be their friend,
If their break would come some day.

Can‘t you see the clock ticking, the hands
of time swing wildly against time?
Folks are pulling away, living lives
On the run, scared to face the day.

I can’t say no more how I feel -
That time has since passed us now,
A generation has wasted away, gone.
Now there is only a dying ember,

A hope that’s settled on sadness.

Over The Moon
by Jeff H. Freeman

I see her again, clearly;
though she is not here.
I am sitting in the corner
chair in my room.  It is Saturday.

Every thought becomes lucid: of her,
of our Saturdays together. The smiles.
The laughter. The carefree walks,
hands joined together, perfectly content.

For close to thirty years no
I’ve been chasing this past
picture of a life gone by, resurrecting
scenes of total bliss, dreaming

of happier times through sadness,
watching days turn into months,
years into frightful; realities
of seeing how life turned away.

I picture her now, at work, at play –
Everyday.  I see her smiles,  The slight
Dimples.  The sound of her laughter as
it sails across her unique voice.

She is an older woman now,
more vibrant, more fuller, uniquely richer
in the way she shares her time.
I see her yawn, and I yawn, too.

I look out my window and see
the moon passing above the roof’s edge.
I see it pass over the gabled end
and wonder if she sees it, too.

Sheets and Knots
by Jeff H. Freeman

I wake up with the grey shirt
still knotted around my eyes.  Somewhere
nearby I hear blather.  Prison talk.
I don’t say anything. I feel
numb, frustrated, spent.  I sit
up on the edge of my bunk-bed
stare out at the grey walls before me.
Below me a guy making his bed,
whipping his sheets around, tying knots.
When I look at him, he clutches
his left knew, rubs it, then says something.
He regathers the sheet, pulls it tight
and tucks it in the corners.  He winces.
Behind me, I hear a guy say, “Hey sheets!”
Then sheets says, “My knee, man, my knee!”
I say, “What did you do, Sheets?”
“I banged it against the rail,” he says.
“Hit it, eh?” I say, as he
shimmies his pillowcase over his stiff pillow

and hurls it upon his cold sheets

by Jeff H. Freeman

It’s time to ride the river,
The New River above the house that runs
Through craggy mountains, then snakes
Across the open meadow and flows
Northward in divers country –
In defiance of earth’s gravity
To unwind and let go of everything
Bound up in my life’s narrative.

People come, and then people go,
When seasons and weather permit
Down the stretches where rapids run
Freely and favorably for all adventurers
Seeking to find their better selves
In eddies, in currents, in each other.

Welcome to The Rock
by Jeff H. Freeman

Is the loathed greeting 
By the guards at the prison
Where I have spent the past twenty-nine years of my life.

It could have been said,
Welcome to hell on earth
Or some other disdainful thing,
For it wouldn’t have changed the mood.

Here I was unmoored
With really no real rock around,
Fighting with sadness and madness
With truly no in-between ground.

They line you up, then strip you down,
Tear through your bags,
And make you feel like the clown,
All the while you stand to be a man,

Broken, dejected, and blue,
Sad at the state that becomes you.
They look at your neck
When they tell you what to do.

They say, stand here, not there,
Unlike anything you ever knew
Before any of this happened to you –
Long before this stone was unturned,
Way before this rock was revealed.

by Jeff H. Freeman

I come to bended knee
And turn over one leaf.  Then another,
Then another from this Capture
Cabbage that presents a rosette look.
Somewhere amongst the  pale green leaves
There’s a hungry pest residing incognito.
I peer down into the center
Sanctum of this future mission meal
And recognize the round chameleon
Sucker locked onto its gorgeous stem.
Moving now, it crawls sluggishly –
Perhaps drunken by the elixir from this plant’s heart.
Resolute, though, it clings delicately to the new
Growth that proposes to become its expected head –
Sucking, nibbling, and voraciously determined,
A cabbage looper inches its way
Across the middle, working vigorously
To save its life from the inside out.

Hummingbirds in April
By Jeff H. Freeman

One cannot help being stunned
By their especial grace

And Straw-like enamel beaks
Like ancient Roman dirks.

For they mostly fly solo,
As if some time ago

They were somehow left out
Of the wing-flight kingdom

The bright hues draw them.
Their tiny five-hour energy

Bodies dart in and out
In dizzying little spurts,

Furtively dashing around
The red-bottom feeder bowls,

Wings modulating at lightening speed
To help them stay afloat

When the soft winds buffet them,
Their yellow-green bodies hovering

Majestically above the pink flowers.
They come and go in spring,

Mostly when the bluejays are gone
And the shiny red sugar-water saucers

Are hanging so invitingly
From the pretty pink dogwoods.

by Jeff H. Freeman

Sparkling dew drops on a blade
Of grass,
Silver as mercury.
It's not your art until you make it;
Not poignant, I learned, until you
See the meaning in it.

Yesterday I crossed a river,
Shallow from shore to shore,
And watched the scurrying minnows
Chase their lives away.

I saw their stunning colors
Shoot through the crystal waters;
Watched their thin bodies dart
Around and over grey rocks.

I saw geese fly upriver,
Then watched them trade places
And make art in the sky.
With every step, I felt
How amazing it was to be created,
How glorious it was to be alive.

Jeff H. Freeman

The prisoner felt nothing
As he wondered outside his circle,
His eyes gazing up into the blue sky.

And no one else in the courtyard
Even noticed the hawk,
Of if they did, no one mentioned it

That afternoon as they sat at a picnic table
Out by the corner fences
Talking about old times under the hot sun.

Jeff Freeman 0136517
Sampson Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 1109
Clinton, NC 28329

I am Jeff Freeman; and, before the world casted any other perception, I have always enjoyed writing poems and creating pieces of life through fictional stories.

I'm 49-years old, 5'8'', and 165 lbs. I have hazel eyes, salt 'n pepper hair :-) , and am endeavoring to “stay in the groove”.

When I'm not working my day job as a Carpentry Assistant, I enjoy jogging, light weight training, and other aerobic exercises. I also truly love the outdoor life-hiking, canoeing, camping, etc. As well, I love good humor and letting go and having fun and letting life become rich & meaningful.

Of course, I've made a few mistakes in my life – most while I was very young. But I try not to let these define me nor keep me from living my best life now and seeing the sun instead of the clouds. Look forward to sharing with all of you and the community of Minutes Before Six (mb6). Do feel free to contact me at the address listed above. I would be grateful to share with you and answer any of your questions – honestly and openly.

Friday, September 20, 2013

Set Me Free

The Right Way To Say Goodbye
By Jeff C.

"I saw a man who seemed mad simply because others could not hear his music."--William Van Poyck, "Death by Dominoes"

I wasn't emotionally prepared to speak. But I had to. Five years ago I spoke in front of a crowd I was beginning to loathe because I couldn't let people who didn't know my friend speak about him.

I didn't know what to say. How do you give a eulogy for a friend who wanted to die--who wanted the state to kill him? So I rambled.

I met Nate at work and even though he had OCD, personal tics, and social awkwardness issues to an almost debilitating degree, I took to him like a little brother I always wanted.

If you only ever saw him in large groups actively pacing the perimeter as if unable to step inwards to join the conversation or if you only ever saw his frail, wiry nerdiness accentuated by his aversion to group eye contact you missed out on who he was. Nate was smart, thoughtful, humorous, and extremely likeable.

But it's hard not to like a kid who would take 35 minutes to describe every detail of a 22-minute South Park episode with such excitement that it's contagious. It's hard not to like a guy whose favorite character was Butters--though I teased him that he was Tweak and could only aspire to be a Butters. (He would softly bump his knuckles together in front of his chest, even when no one was looking, and I never could figure out if it was an affectation in homage of Butters or just a happy coincidence.)

It's hard not to respect a kid who, after being manipulated into killing a person, couldn't handle the overwhelming guilt and turned himself in after a week, never mentioning to the police who it was that mentally screwed him into thinking it was the only way he could ever be loved. It's hard not to be in awe of a guy who, at his sentencing, told the judge that he wouldn't do the full 25 years because he'd kill himself first...and then, on the fifth anniversary of the murder, followed through with it. (This was after attempts with pills and once swallowing a razor no discernable result, he told me years later, wondering if it was still in him.)

Nate was my sounding board--our backs were to each other in our office and often, while composing a line, an idea, or a paper, I would swivel around and sort of brainstorm with him and he's sort of help me figure out what my intent was. I failed him as a sounding board--when he gave me a 75-page essay arguing that guys who have life sentences should be able to request that the state execute them, I could only make it through a few pages of it and gave it back to him because it was so depressing to read.

I failed him as a friend, too. I let some petty piss-ant prison argument fester and I stubbornly held out for an apology that I felt I deserved. It wasn't until after he hanged himself 20 feet from me outside of our office that his real friend told me that Nate had told him that he was the only one who never turned his back on him.

At Nate's memorial service--the first one I'd ever been to in my life--I was mad at myself for being such a pig-headed fool. And I was mad at the parade of fools speaking who admitted they didn't know him. This all contributed to making a fool out of myself by talking about Nate for what I was later told was an 18-minute ramble. But I simply couldn't have people who didn't know him talk about him in vague, meaningless ways. I had to talk even though I, myself, didn't know the right way to say goodbye.

A couple of months later, when going through the archive files in the warehouse where he killed himself, we found his glasses that he'd taken off, folded up, and put away in the boxes of old accounts payable. When I gave those glasses to the guard to (hopefully) give to his family I realized, as I got choked up about it that I was still fucked up because of Nate's suicide. Because he never gave himself a chance to feel different. Changed. Better.

I no longer felt like it was my fault--as I did that first day before I'd learned the significance of the date he chose. I mostly no longer cringed when seeing flashes of South Park. But I still missed him. I still regretted the smallness of my behavior towards him over being called a word and letting that heated word ruin a friendship. I still felt like I'd let my pathetic need to have the upper hand--the "power"--in that relationship destroy not only the friendship but damage a suffering young man's confidence.

Nate's suicide changed me. Certainly he was my closest, most intimate, experience with death. And he was my first friend who had died. But it took nearly five years for me to realize how much Nate's suicide fully affected me. How much it corrected that prison mentality of never showing your vulnerabilities. And needing power. But what made me realize I'd truly changed wasn't my friend's suicide five years ago, but the judicial murder of another friend five weeks ago.

"'As I've become older, and hopefully wiser, I've come to believe that our relationships are the most important things in life. Particularly friends and family. I mean real, true friends--the kind you'll die for."--William Van Poyck, "The Elephant's Tail"

I wasn't mentally prepared to write that letter. But I wanted to--I needed to--even though I didn't know what to say. How do you say goodbye to a friend who is about to be executed?

What's weird is that until I was told that Bill Van Poyck had had is death warrant signed I didn't even know he was on Death Row. I should have, I suppose. I'm aware that I'm in the minority on this website as a writer who has a tangible release date. But I can be incredibly naive sometimes.

I don't get to read every posting here on MB6, just whichever ones my sister prints off and mails in to me. But there have been two pieces that have moved me so deeply that I simply had to send word to the authors, telling them how much their writing touched me.

"The Ring," by Christi Buchanan, brought tears to my eyes when I first read it. Incredibly powerful, it is the story of her having to give up her newborn son for adoption after being arrested. Except it's so much more than that--my friend Steve Bartholomew and I mused about the dramatic difference between prison here and there, where there seems to be such a sense of community and caring; the only thing even remotely comparable is our educational University Beyond Bars, where we come together regardless of prison politics to help each other out. But not as dramatically as in "The Ring."

"Death by Dominoes" is the best piece of prison writing I have ever read ("The Ring" is the best non-fiction piece). And I tell this to all of my friends when I make them read it. So I simply had to also tell its author, Bill Van Poyck, as much. I sort of felt like I was writing a fan letter when I told him what I loved about the story, when I urged him to try to get it published in some magazine like Harper's or The New Yorker, and of course when I asked him how much of it was true.

He told me it was about 85 percent true, but also that it was a combination of a few different incidents. He told me about his attempts, to no avail (then), of getting it published. And he thanked me for my letter and for giving positive feedback and being "most effusive."

A few months later some fellow prisoners and I were talking and I was handed a submission request for a short story anthology on Prison Noir edited by Joyce Carol Oates. I asked for an extra copy, thinking of my fellow writers on MB6, and was met with reluctance. I was asked for who it was for, because the prisoner with the notice didn't want further competition. I mocked him, asking him if he'd like to run in a race with nobody else in it--"If there's a prize, sure." I, of course, sent the info to my fellow MB6ers anyway.

Then last month I got a message from MB6's editor saying that one of the three pieces Bill submitted had been chosen to be a part of the Prison Noir anthology. I was elated--hoping it was "Death by Dominoes" (it ended up being one I've not yet read).

But then, in the next paragraph, came the news that Florida's Governor Scott signed Bill's death warrant and that he would be executed on June 12th.

This was how I found out that Bill was on Death Row. I doubt that anyone, besides me, had ever had a conversation with him without knowing he was on Death Row, without having that fact loom oppressively over every sentence.

It's not easy, going from finding out that someone's on Death Row and due to be executed in a few weeks, to writing about it to him. I didn't know the right way to say goodbye.

Thankfully, I had the Prison Noir good news to talk about mostly. But I did manage to work up to talking about, as best as I could, his execution.

Mostly, though, I took the letter as a second chance--this time I was able to say goodbye to a friend. At Nate's eulogy even almost 20 minutes of trying to explain how quietly awesome he was wasn't enough for me; internally that eulogy came too late and not to the right person. With Bill I refused to make that same mistake.

My friend and editor, Dina, had encouraged me to write Bill and she answered my questions about how to write someone about to be executed. But much of my own need to write Bill stemmed from my regret regarding Nate. To be sure, Bill and I hadn't yet grown close and I had never shunned him because of some slight, but I saw something unique and admirable in Bill just like I saw in Nate.

This insight was confirmed after I read Bill's final letter to me, which he wrote 5 days before he was executed, but which I didn't get until 7 days after he'd said his last words. Which were, apparently, "Set me free."

It's hard not to respect a man who faced his own death with...well, with such courage and a positive attitude. It's hard not to like a man who thanked me for my friendship and for passing along the Prison Noir anthology info, who genuinely seemed to have spiritual (not religious) strength and peace, and it's hard not to be thankful to have known him--even only a little bit.

It's hard not to be changed by such an experience.

It's also hard not to be motivated by my friend Dina's advice to take this and use it as a fuel to fight the practice of judicial murder. I sort of feel like I'm a bit late to this fight--especially considering that I've been writing for a year for a Death Row site.

Or at least that's how it's publically perceived. A friend of mine was perusing the Internet, on a place called Morbid Reality, and she saw a posting there, as if in hushed tones, that spoke of a website written by Death Row prisoners. Which is the truly morbid part, though--that many of the writers on Minutes Before Six are on Death Row, or that we still have a Death Row?

"McFarlane did not answer for a long time. 'I had big dreams once. But it's been too many years since I was a kid. Enough long years can wear a man down to nothing, and burn your dreams down even more.'"--William Van Poyck, "The Elephant's Tail"

In preparation for this piece I didn't feel intellectually prepared to write about judicial murder--or the death penalty, if you prefer to sugar-coat it--so I dove into a plethora of academic research about it.

But all those intellectual debates rang out about as hollow as someone speaking at a eulogy who didn't even know the deceased. At least it feels that way right now, with the acrid taste of Bill's murder still so fresh.

In all that research I did, I came across arguments that the death penalty isn't a deterrent. I read that the media manipulates us into thinking evil monsters (and not a broken system) are to blame. But it was actually an argument for the death penalty that stuck with me the most. Ernest van den Haag argued that:

Life imprisonment also becomes undeserved over time. A person who committed a murder when twenty years old and is executed within five years--far too long and cruel a delay, in my opinion--is, when executed, still the same person who committed the murder for which he is punished. His identity changes little in five years. However, a person who committed a murder when he was twenty years old and is kept in prison when sixty years old is no longer the same person who committed the crime for which he is still being punished. The sexagenarian is unlikely to have much in common with the twenty-year-old for whose act he is being punished; his legal identity no longer reflects reality. Personality and actual identity are not that continuous. In effect, we punish an innocent sexagenarian who does not deserve punishment instead of a guilty twenty-year-old who did. This spectacle should offend our moral sensibilities more than the deserved execution of the twenty-year-old. Those who deserve the death penalty should be executed while they still deserve it, not kept in prison when they no longer deserve punishment. [Ernest van den Haag, "Refuting Reiman and Nathanson," Philosophy and Public Affairs 14 (Spring 1985), Princeton University Press]

What's odd to me is van den Haag's inability to see that by this very reasoning there shouldn't be any death penalty. Because if a person ages out of being the same, guilty person over time, they why should we want to avoid giving them the chance to become a new person?

Maybe this struck me so clearly not because of the speciousness of the argument, but because it reminded me of the correlation to Bill's letter which said, in part, "After 40+ years in adult prison (plus 3-4 in juvy) I'm weary of this existence & a big part of me is ready to move on."

In the Supreme Court case Gregg v. Georgia [428 U.S. 153 (1976)], the majority opinion, written by Mr. Justice Steward, with Justices Powell and Stevens concurring, wrote that, "[t]he death penalty is said to serve two principal purposes: retribution and deterrence of capital crimes by prospective offenders."

Jeffrey H. Reiman, in "Justice, Civilization, and the Death Penalty," [Philosophy and Public Affairs 14 (Spring 1985), Princeton University Press], states that "[t]he available research by no means clearly indicates that the death penalty reduces the incidence of homicide more than life imprisonment does."

So, if the death penalty isn't an actual deterrent, then is it really just about vengeance? Or rather, are we, as a society, just about vengeance?

I hope to have kids someday soon and I'm proud of the fact that our country seems to be moving in the direction of non-discrimination in regards to gay marriage. But what about the death penalty--what does it say about us that we still have this as part of our society? What does it say that presidential candidates like Texas Republican Governor Rick Perry gets applause when saying no, he's never lost any sleep over all the executions he presided over in his state? Why is America still aligned with countries like Iran, North Korea, and Russia and not Western Europe in this issue? What do I tell my kids when they ask about this? What should we tell ourselves--that we either want this, as a society, or accept it?

I, of course, don't have answers to these questions--just as I didn't know how to write Bill and apologize, on behalf of society, for this mess. But Bill, before thanking me again and encouraging me with my writing endeavors, said something that is a type of an answer to all this:

If I'm gone on the 12th [of June], as I expect will be the case, I'll be free literally & metaphorically. I am at peace with it. Given I've been a fighter & rebel all my life it seems odd for me to take that position, but my spiritual strength (not religious) allows me to have that peace. And, the idea of finally being free of chains & shackles and prison bars is very appealing.

From this I think it's doubtful that Bill is the same person who committed the crime for which he was executed. I know this spectacle doesn't offend everyone's moral sensibilities, but it does mine.

"Seventeen years inside is akin to a century elsewhere. They're long, bitter years that can dull the soul and anneal the spirit, sealing up your heart as sure and tight as the sewn-up lips of a carnival shrunken head. If you let it."--William Van Poyck, "Death by Dominoes"

Most people aren't empathetically prepared to imagine what it would be like to be on Death Row. I'm certainly not. But I have thought about it. Quite a bit. Likely more than most. But that's because I came inches away from being on Death Row.

But for the grace of bad aim, I would be the eighth man on Death Row in Washington State. Or maybe it'd still be seven because they might have executed me by now if I'd've hit that policeman.

Thankfully, though, there's not a scratch on him. Because if I had actually hurt or killed a person I'd have suicidal guilt like Nate or be ready to move on like Bill.

But that van den Haag line ("Personality and actual identity are not that continuous.") keeps echoing in my mind. I'm 40 now and I can't get into the mind of the 23-year-old I was. Not only can I not rework the (lack of) thinking that got me to rob a bank and then get in a reactionary shoot-out with the police, but I can't identify with the unthinking idiot that I was.

Yeah, by far, the stupidest person I ever met was the person that I once was. But it's more than maturity or an ability to think rationally that's changed. Everything's changed. I don't want the things I used to want and I don't care about all those petty things I used to care about.

I certainly wouldn't sacrifice a friendship over something as ridiculous as being called a bitch--no matter what the "convict code" says about being supposedly punked out. And that was just five years ago. The kid I was 17 years ago is entirely beyond my grasp.

Thankfully, though, I'm not overwhelmed with unending guilt that can only be assuaged by my suicide. Thankfully my aim was worse than my intent. I am no longer the me I used to be. But neither was Bill. Or Nate. Or many hundreds on Death Row who we're regularly murdering, not to deter immoral actions, but to perpetuate them.

After being so late to abolish chattel slavery compared to the rest of the world, you'd think that America would look to countries that have low incarceration rates, low recidivism rates, and low murder rates instead of blindly lynching along in our repugnant ways. But we don't. Yet I expect (and hope) my kids' generation will look at our flimsy reasons to justify judicial murder like we do towards the reasoning we once had for the three-fifths compromise.

I'm certainly not innocent in all this. During 9/11 I proclaimed that I was glad that the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, had been executed "so I don't have to hear his opinion about this." But think of how disturbing that thought really is: I'd rather a person that I've never actually heard a word from be killed for my convenience, than have to be bothered to roll my eyes at his presumed supportive comments about a national tragedy.

I don't think that way anymore. And I hope that we all grow out of that selfish mentality. That feeling that my feelings are more important than another person's life.

But maybe I can't logic anyone to be against judicial murder. Maybe they have to have an experience to change them. But I hope that the readers of Minutes Before Six gain that experience and, even if only slightly, become different. Changed. Better.

--July 2013

Admin note:  "Death By Dominoes" took second prize in the fiction division of the 2012-2013 PEN Prison Writing Awards. Unfortunately, Bill was executed before the news reached him.

Jeff C.

By Jeremiah Bourgeois

Recently, another MB6 writer, Jeff Conner, allowed me to read a letter sent to him by a death row prisoner, Bill Van Poyck. Bill had just lost his final appeal, and he felt that the last ditch legal maneuvers by his lawyer were nothing more than a Hail Mary; the odds of success so long that he considered them laughable. What struck me about the letter was the fact that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the State of Florida was going to kill him. Very soon. And he had come to terms with his fate.

After I read his words, I exchanged a solemn look with Jeff, and then I walked away.

Over the years, I have said to people, I'm going to die in prison. Yet in retrospect, I cannot say with certainty that I truly believed that this was going to be my fate. Although a sentence of life without parole results in most prisoners dying behind bars, this other death penalty is not always meted out. Executive clemency, while extremely rare, can be granted in exceptional cases.

As one of the youngest people to receive a sentence of life without parole in this country, and the second youngest to receive this sentence in this State, I have always known that my case was, indeed, exceptional. After my appeals were exhausted, I knew, deep down, that I had a legitimate shot at receiving a sentence commutation. Yet after reading Bill's letter, I now wonder if my declarations about dying imprisoned were, if not hyperbole, then simply a way for me to psychologically prepare myself in case a future clemency petition was denied. I wonder.

As for Bill, I have no doubt about what he felt on the matter of his fate. Dismissing the last ditch efforts of his attorneys was not some sort of protective mind trickery. He did not say that he was at peace with being executed to have an affect. He was a clear eyed realist. He knew his days were, literally, numbered. There was little his lawyers could do. He had no options left.

The U.S. Supreme Court's invalidation of mandatory life without parole sentences for juveniles has given me plenty of options. Looking at my own situation with clear eyes, I see that my days are probably numbered too. Six attorneys are doing everything in their power to ensure that I am ultimately freed. Relief could come from the courts, the legislature, or the Governor. I may get to, finally, say goodbye to this life. And I am ready to go home.

Bill Van Poyck was ready to say goodbye to this life too. He was executed on June 12, 2013.

Jeremiah Bourgeois 708897
Washington State Reformatory Unit
P.O. Box 777
Monroe, WA 98272-0777

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