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MAN, ONE VOICE:
REALITY
After three and one-half years fighting my
case in the county jail I was found guilty and sentenced to death. In
less than 10 days after the jury decided I should die, the time had come
to be transferred to prison. I knew the process. I'd seen it happen to
many guys. They come to get you late at night and put you in a small,
cold holding cell. You wait there for hours until the van comes early
the next morning to take you away. I was ready. On the evening that I was due to leave, I
received my last visit. It was Suni, an old friend. I explained to her
that I would be leaving for San Quentin soon. As we continued to talk,
tears began to slowly trickle down her cheeks. She pleaded with me to
take care of myself, to not get into trouble, and to pray. I told her
that the only thing I could promise was that I'd survive. There was a
worried look etched on her beautiful face as she listened to my words.
But, l was confident that I'd be OK, even if I had to defend myself
against the hard core convicts I'd heard about. At 6' 5" and When the visit was over, Suni told me she
would be back the next day. She had no idea I'd be gone. She was still
crying when she left, and her shoulders slumped forward as if she was
out of breath. Watching her walk away, I could feel a tight knot forming
in my gut. 11:30 PM. That's when I was awakened by a
voice calling my name over the intercom. "Thomas! Roll your shit
up, you're going to prison," the voice shouted. The fight of my
life had begun. I jumped out of bed and began throwing a
few possessions into my legal folders. I gave most of my stuff to my
homeboy, Baby Bull: toothpaste, deodorant, lotion, stamps, envelopes and
food items, l asked him to check up on my son from time to time. He
assured me that he would. I said, "So long." I left the unit and was put into a holding
cell. Thoughts raced through my mind as I sat on the steel bench
contemplating what Death Row would be like. I came up with no clear
picture. Two hours later, the holding cell door
opened. Ten officers stood there clearly ready to do battle. I was
instructed to exit the cell, place my hands high on the wall, and spread
my legs. I did exactly that. One of the officers patted me down, then
told me to take off every piece of clothing and not to move. I shed my
clothes. The ten cops ogled me as if I were an animal in the zoo. I'd
been through hundreds of strip-searches, but for the first time,
standing there butt-naked I felt humiliated. "You know the routine," one of
the cops said. I raised my arms in the air, wiggled my fingers, ran my
hands through my hair, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, I lifted my
scrotum, turned around and showed them the bottoms of my feet. Then I
bent over, spread my cheeks and coughed. I remember the intense anger I
felt. After the search, I was given a new set of
jail clothes. Then, they put me in waist chains, handcuffs connected
close together in the front and with two pad locks in back. Next came
the leg irons on my ankles, a set of large reinforced handcuffs with a
foot and a half of chain between them. Finally, they placed a Taser belt
around my waist. A bald cop showed me a small remote control device. He
said that if he pressed the button, the belt would automatically shoot
fifty thousand volts of electricity through my body for twelve seconds,
and there was no way he could stop it. "You'll definitely do the
funky chicken," he joked. His grin made me nervous and I thought he
would probably press it just to see me flopping around on the ground.
Several cops escorted me to a waiting van. Inside, I was chained to a
metal fixture on the back of the seat. The chain on my ankles was
fastened to a bar on the floor. This is how my long journey from The trip took nearly 9 hours. We arrived at
San Quentin around 10:15 AM. Crossing the The van pulled up in front of the R&R
(Receiving and Release) building. Inside, they removed the shock belt
and chains. I was again given a full body cavity search. A guard handed
me an ugly prison jumpsuit, then led me to be photographed,
fingerprinted, and assigned a prison number. He stuck me in a small cell
to wait for escorts. Death Row prisoners don't go anywhere without
escorts. Later, I would learn that any Death Row prisoner seen without
an escort could be shot for attempting escape. It wasn't long before two guards came to
get me. I was handcuffed and taken to a three story pale white building
with a large black steel door. A sign over the door read, "The
Adjustment Center." The An old guard with a Santa Clause beard
opened the door. He directed me to a holding cage where I was
strip-searched again. Afterwards, I was given a pair of boxer shorts,
T-shirt, socks and a thick prison rule book. Then, I was handcuffed and
taken to a cell at the end of a long tier. It was small, dank, and had
two steel doors. The inner door was barred. The outer door was of solid
steel. As I walked into the dark cell, the old guard spoke. It was a
monologue that l figured he had recited hundreds of times. "Welcome
to Death Row. There's two things you need to learn quick, son. The
first, there's absolutely no warning shots in this building or on the
yards. Second, the gunmen will not hesitate to kill you." He
removed the cuffs, closed the door, and left. I listened to his
footsteps until silence engulfed the air. I turn on the light. It's dim. Trash is
everywhere. I kick as much of it as I can underneath the door. Then, I
use a dirty bar of soap and a torn sheet to clean the cell. When I'm
finished, I sit on the bunk, a concrete slab, and try to make sense of
the worst situation in my life. This is even worse than the nine bullets
pumped into me on the streets. I am cold. I am hungry. I am isolated.
The guy in the next cell can't hear me. I can't hear him. These cells
with two doors are for solitary confinement. They are meant to deprive. Suddenly, I feel the hard thud of my
heartbeat. I can hear a voice in my head that I realize is my own
thought. It is as if my mind is blaring at me from a large speaker. I am
alone. This is when the picture of death row becomes clear to me. No
matter how many other men are around me, I will have to face my fate,
alone. When I came out of my thoughts, I'd lost
track of time. There was no clock on the wall, no way for me to know
whether it was night or day, rainy or sunny outside. I had no one to
talk to so I let my thoughts drift until they became fragmented and
faded, until they no longer moved on their own accord and I had to force
them along. The only property I had brought with me was
a few stamps and envelopes. I decided to write a letter, but needed
paper and a pen. When a guard opened the outer door to see if I was
still alive, l asked him for the time and a pen and paper. He glared at
me, looked around the cell, then slammed the door without saying a word.
I thought, "This is how it is. This is how they introduce you to
madness." It seemed as if hours had passed when the
door opened again, but it may have been no more than several minutes. A
different guard walked up to the bars and handed me about 20 sheets of
typing paper and a pencil that had been broken in half. Before I could
ask him for the time, he also walked out and slammed the door without
saying a word. I lay on the concrete slab and tried to
write, but my mind went completely blank. The words wouldn't come. I
stared at the paper for a long time. Since Suni was the last person to
see me, I decided to write to her. When I finally put the pencil down,
the letter was 14 pages long. I was surprised that there was so much
within me. I stuffed the letter into an envelope and
then tried to sleep. I couldn't. I felt restless, on edge, the way you
feel when you sense danger is coming. I didn't know at that moment, but
this is how every day on Death Row feels. My first night in San Quentin
was a long one. The next morning, the steel door opened. A
guard stepped up to the bars with a tray of food and a Dixie Cup with
juice in it. He told me that I had less than 15 minutes to eat and pack
my things, because I was being moved. He didn't say where and I didn't
ask. During the night, the hunger pangs had disappeared, so I wasn't in
the mood to eat. I drank the juice and crammed my belongings into a
pillowcase. I kept the Dixie Cup so I would have something to drink
water from. When the guard came back I was cuffed and escorted up three
flights of stairs to the third tier. I immediately noticed a difference. All the
cells had only barred doors. The cells were also larger than the little
concrete box where I had just spent the night, and I could hear other
inmates talking to each other. Within 10 days, I was given physical and
psychological evaluations and cleared for a yard exercise program. The contact with other prisoners proved to
be a valuable resource. I began to study my environment. I knew that if
I were going to survive, I would have to know how things worked. I
started listening to, and observing, the veteran prisoners, the way they
interacted with each other and with the guards. In less than two months
I was learning and understanding the politics of Death Row. Even more
importantly, I was starting to lay down some basic rules for myself I
was starting to accept responsibility for myself. Without even realizing
it, I was taking the crucial first steps towards changing my life and
redefining how I live this reality.
I hope that anyone hearing my words
is actually listening to what I'm about to say. I SPEAK TO YOU FROM DEATH ROW. I’m within
the walls of This is neither a sad story nor an attempt
to cry on your shoulder. No way! I simply want to express this reality
and shed some light on this dark life. I've been on Death Row for over six years,
and I’ve seen a lot of things. No, I'm no angel and I don't even
pretend to be. But, I’m no monster either! Death Row is a living hell. It is another
world within this world. I’ve been accused and convicted of
murder. But, does this mean that I really did it? That I'm guilty? Of
course not. But, as surely as if I were guilty, I've been stripped of my
freedom and locked in a dark world of mind manipulation and depravation.
Daily, I experience psychological, mental and emotional torture, all at
the hands of prison officials. I’m not alone in this place, but all of
the inmates have their own ways of dealing with the situation. As the
direct result of the way prisoners are treated, most of us only know one
way to respond—with violence, to themselves or to others. I've known a couple of guys who have
committed suicide. I've known guys who have been executed. I’ve also
known guys who just simply "died." In one particular case, I
saw officers stand by and watch a man die. They did nothing to help him,
not even call for medical assistance. We inmates tried to assist. I know
this to be true, because I was there and I saw exactly what the officers
saw. In my opinion, one would have to be
stronger than most to take his own life. Some may argue that only a weak
individual will commit suicide. I disagree, because it takes a lot of
strength to set your mind on hurting yourself, let alone killing
yourself. At this time, I sit locked in a cage
smaller than the average apartment bathroom for at least 19 1/2 hours a
day. When I’m allowed to go outside, I’m locked inside a small
outdoor cage. If it rains, the officers don't care. I have to stay
locked in that little cage in the rain until they decide it's time for
me to come back inside. We are treated worse than animals. Because
we are always handcuffed with our hands behind our back and our feet are
often shackled everywhere we go, correctional officers tend to treat us
very badly. They often disrespect us, antagonize us, degrade us, and
attempt to dehumanize us. They have made our access to the media
illegal and off limits so we cannot exposé them for their inhumane
treatment and their violations of what few rights we have left.
Correctional officers also block, obstruct, and/or delay our access to
the courts and our attorneys whenever they want. That, in itself, is
against the law. So, what can you expect to happen when
you're constantly being kicked when you're already down? How much
picking and prodding can you stand before you're backed into a corner
with nowhere to turn? You cannot telephone anyone because your every
communication is monitored. If you write something they don't like,
chances are that your letter will not reach its destination. If you are
told anything at all about your missing letter, it is only that,
"It's been lost." You are now hundreds or thousands of miles
away from your closest family member, friend, or loved one, and you are
dealing with the fact that these people want to kill you, literally!
What do you do? Most of us will not do what you think
you would do because we do not see from your viewpoint, just as you do
not see from ours. You cannot take in hundreds of men from all over the
United States, lock them up, treat them badly, provoke, antagonize,
disrespect and dehumanize them, and then expect them to "bow and
obey" like well-trained animals. The correctional officers here agitate and
abuse grown men, and treat them like children. They continue to poke at
the wounded, the emotionally unbalanced and unstable. They think it is
humorous, amusing, even funny. The game changes if a man who has done all
he can do to better his situation and who has been wounded while
fighting for his life, finally strikes back. The prison officials run
straight to the media to talk to you, the public, and tell you about the
big bad animals in the cage. They will be quick to tell you that the
"good officer" was simply doing his everyday happy little job,
minding his own sweet business, and doing all he could not to upset the
animals in the cage; but that the animals' nature and instinct took over
and the "poor innocent correctional officer" was attacked.
Then society turns against us. That is not right. As I write this, F m sitting in solitary
confinement. I've not been given any explanation as to why I'm here.
I've been in solitary since December 9, 2005. I've not received a write
up for any rule violations. Further, I've not been found guilty of any
rule violation since I was brought to prison more than 6 years ago. The prison officials have taken all my
personal property and legal documents. By the prison's own rule, before
doing this to me they must first demonstrate that I've shown "a
propensity for violence" at a formal hearing for a rule violation.
They have not done this. What is really happening here? I'm being punished because another inmate, This unjust punishment does not appear to
be racially motivated, because the Department of Corrections officials
use the black supervisors to treat us this way. When we ask them,
"Why are we being treated like this?" they say that they're
doing as they are told, and pass the buck on to "the man." Recently, a black supervisor gave me an
opportunity to point out to him violations by officials, including
himself. I explained that I have been in solitary confinement for
several months and I've not received a write up for any alleged
rule violations. This official admitted to me that I've been wronged,
yet I still sit here in solitary confinement. Obviously, I'm being charged with
something, since I was taken from Death Row General Population and
placed in solitary confinement without any of my property and without a
write up. By the prison's own rule, I cannot be punished without a
hearing — and I cannot have a hearing without a write up. This is just one of the many stories that you, the public, are not being told. I'm telling you these things now, hoping that you will help me, help all of us. We need your help. Are you listening? THIS IS WHAT IS BOTHERTNG ME! By
Correll Thomas
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