Becca, my girlfriend’s roommate, sprung it on me the day before I was going to drive back home to Texas.

I’ll pay your gas if you drive me to Alabama, she blurted out while me and her roommate got in some last minute canoodling.

My girlfriend knew what Becca was up to and she promptly filled in the blanks. Going to Alabama meant going to the state prison, to death row. How could I say no? When I asked her if she drove stick shift, Becca offered me the straightest face I’d ever see her make. Yes, she said emphatically, I can. Her bags were already packed. I knew a little about her Alabama death row pen pal, but the knowledge was stowed behind too many bottles of the Shiner Bock I’d been living off of back in Austin.

Becca found him in the back of some liberal-minded magazine, the part where they used to feature personal ads. A sense of commitment to the downtrodden and abused made her answer. But something else had sprouted. Bryan, the inmate, wrote wildly entertaining stories, then backed them up with wildly passionate odes, and so, his letters zoomed into Becca’s heart. It began to thump the familiar cadence of love whenever a letter from her prison baby arrived.

Austin was a different kind of Texas than I had previously gotten to know. It had a metropolitan sway, a verifiable scene to get caught up in. At night I parked the truck off of Sixth Street, mapped out my location so when I drunkenly readied for home, I’d be able to drive myself there. Ridiculously dangerous, and immature, but true.

Even still, loneliness, an increased alcohol intake and a new to me pickup collaborated, and like that, my first cross country road trip came to life. I needed the experience. So I drove the twenty-three hours to see the girl, through a snowstorm mostly, amped up on road coffee and white crosses. Before leaving, I’d even secured a few days off from the busboy job a friend of the family gave me.

Real experience had eluded me since I’d finished a get-your-shit-together summer working on my godfather’s ranch five years before. Now, Becca, offered it up in spades.

We split the next morning, after hugging my girlfriend goodbye, and chugging the home made fresh ground coffee, we tucked our bags behind the bench seat of the blue pickup, and hopped in. I’d stacked a bunch of wooden packaging pallets in the back, to keep the rear end heavy enough to travel through the storm. They banged around until we got to the highway.

Becca and I were pals before I ever met my girlfriend. Some days we’d sit on the bench outside of the gourmet goods store, and talk in strange accents. She was fun in ways I never dreamed of, completely unselfconscious in a sea of awkward puerility. And yet she also retained a total awareness of self. She studied dance. She listened to advanced classical music and silly Midwestern punk bands with the same concentration. Naturally I was drawn to her. Those very qualities were what made me say yes to the proposition in the first place. That, and her offer to pay for gas.

Once we hit the highway, the two of us kept talking, and the tapes I’d set aside for our trip never did make it to the deck.

We flicked our cigarettes out of the windows. We spilled Mountain Dew on each other, and laughed out loud until we couldn’t laugh anymore. Suddenly, we had driven eight hours. She said she’d take over once it got dark. In retrospect, neither of us had really clocked the trip, and I suspect she said that hoping I’d just keep going until we got to Alabama, because it turns out, Becca couldn’t drive stick shift at all. After gassing up I switched to the passenger seat. Becca grabbed the stick shift like she’d probably seen her Dad do. She never let on that she didn’t know how. But when she completely ignored the clutch, and the truck popped forward, and stalled out immediately, like a teenage boy in the hold of his first bedroom visitor, it was pretty obvious.

My Dad had refused to teach us to drive, correctly predicting my brother and I would make the bizarre requirement to learn on stick. Dad had long since given up on stick shift vehicles preferring the blissful ease of automatic transmission. An old classmate of his, down on his luck after years of boozing, turned out to be my driving teacher, and Dad would laugh at the prospect him teaching me. The blind leading the blind, he said. Becca exacted that driving instructor’s revenge upon me.

We were somewhere in Tennessee. Night was approaching. The gas station doubled as a truck stop, with the trucks parking at the north end and a long parking lot that angled downward, to the south.After about an hour of facing the truck downward, getting Becca back behind the wheel,delivering a rudimentary course in the five gear locations of the shift box, we were on our way. My stubbornness was showing. I wanted to watch the country go by. I’d never been to Alabama. And soon we would move deep into repressed poverty of the state. Thankfully, the State Prison of Alabama in Atmore wasn’t our first stop.

Becca arranged for accommodations, and gave me directions. I pictured a Motel 6, a Travelodge, a Best Western in the near future. Becca arranged something else.

I took over driving, knowing Becca’s concept of the gear ratios would splinter soon as we entered stop and go traffic. We were on the other side of the tracks, literally, having crossed an unmarked trestle as the neighborhood became a shambled mess of shanties and too small plots of grass.

I don’t think that Atmore had any neighborhoods that looked and felt and breathed with the warmth of a different, economically more structured South, but if it did, we did not see them. Beccabooked us a room through the inmate network. Here it is, she said, looking out the window at what looked to me like a shack to store old lawnmowers, a little bigger, but by not much.

Our host was named Amanda, or Brenda, or Linda. She was as big around as she was tall, freckled, strangely delicate, and kind. Her house was two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room. And everything on that street seemed like it had lived there since long before I’d been born. Paint chipped off of each house. Rusted cars sat on wood and cinder blocks in each yard, and the grass grew weedy and high.

Our host showed us to our room, and having been through the ritual enough times already, let us be.

I have never slept in a bed that drooped on springs as creaky as that before or since. Each time one of us squirmed the other let out a quick laugh, but we clung to our sides of the mattresses like our lives depended on it. Before we finally fell to sleep Becca whispered the particulars of Bryan’s case. They each were on the last of their appeals, she said quietly. Then she announced that Bryan was innocent. As she said it her head came up so she could see into my eyes, the springs barking like over active hound dogs underneath of us. Her eyes burned fiercely, having told too many other over privileged snot noses the story of her death row inmate. I read the fury of her eyes, and quickly stifled that same reaction. Yeah, right he’s innocent, I thought to myself. But I also noticed she did not mention Ed’s innocence, immediately understanding her stance on that situation. Ed and Bryan had befriended a white girl, who may or not have been a prostitute. They got loaded, hung out for a little bit, but when the girl got mouthy, Ed took her for a walk, and when he came back alone, Bryan let it go.

A week later, the two transient men were picked up for the woman’s murder. Neither had money for an attorney. At the end of the trial, both received guilty verdicts. Bryan was unwilling to rat out his best friend. Ed was unwilling to cop to a crime where there was no material evidence. The lack of material evidence, however, made much less difference than the color of their skin, versus that of the dead woman’s.

Good night, Becca said, exhausted from the drive, from the information she just outlined.

The Atmore prison had towers. The towers had gunmen. When I parked the truck in the lot, the gunmen watched us, their weapons ready. I kissed Becca goodbye and started to make my escape. She tugged my wrist. You can’t go, she said, you have to come in and visit with Ed so he can get out of his cell.

It was an irritating favor to ask at the last minute, but I couldn’t deny the urgency splashed across her face. I looked back at the closest tower guard, sunglasses hiding sharpshooter eyes. Do it for the experience, I told myself.

Death row inmates don’t get to have regular visitor hours with the rest of the crew. They spend most of their time in their cells. Their prison community consists solely of other death row inmates.

In Alabama, the inmates wore white. As we made our way to the visitor’s area- a large glass wall encased room that resembled a public school cafeteria – the inmates appeared from behind a sliding steel door. Under the harsh purple neon light, their uniform lack of pallor from having little to do with sunlight was grotesque. Bryan and Ed were black. The vampiric lighting didn’t give them that ghoulish glow.

Becca grabbed a corner table, and we crowded around it. When you meet killers it’s unnerving how natural they are. How regular. How absolutely normal and likable they seem. A few years later a drinking pal of mine, a man I sometimes turned to for advice, revealed he was, for all intents and purposes, a murderer on the lam. We were sitting at the bar when he became a little wistful and announced he hadn’t been back to Florida to see his family for many years. Why, I kept asking- two drinks, three drinks later. By the fourth round, he could contain himself no more, and shrugged. I killed a guy, he said. He looked at me the same way Becca had the night before. I knew it was true.

Bryan was affable, and I quickly found the same charm Becca swooned over. He regaled us with tales of what each inmate was in for. See that one, he said pointing to a guy who looked like a car salesman, or a chaplain. He killed his wife for the insurance money. That kid, he said pointing to a stringy teenager pockmarked by acne with a black shock of hair, he killed his ex girlfriend, strangled her in her sleep.

Ed was opposite of Bryan. Reserved, quiet. A do-er not a thinker. Lost in naivete ( or the knowledge that I could get out of there) I asked Ed was what he did for fun. He played along, and talked about basketball. He could shoot hoops an hour a day, followed the NBA religiously.

I hated basketball. But I didn’t tell that to Ed. Instead, I asked him about his teams, mentioned I came from Maryland, and we talked about Len Bias, the Celtics and Michael Jordan. I’d gone to a sports camp as a teenager at UNC, and I told Ed about Michael Jordan visiting his alma mater after being drafted by the Bulls. He didn’t exactly light up the way Bryan and Becca did at sight of each other, but the story made him easier to be around. He told me what his day to day life was like, and I, in turn, told him about bussing tables for assholes, and spending afternoons in bookstores dreaming of something better.

Yeah, he said, I know what you mean, man. I dream of something better every night.

Becca and Bryan’s ministrations could have disgusted me. And after a few hours, I’d run out of things to talk with Ed about, and I knew I was going to leave. They knew it, too. But they still went through a few more hand jives underneath the table.

Becca got up and hugged me. Have a safe trip, she said. I was stunned. I assumed she would leave with me. No, she was staying to the end of visitation, and was going to spend the night, and come back the next day, too.

Ed shook my hand. A guard led him away. Bryan spoke up then.

Ed can only hang out when he gets a visitor. No visitor- it’s back to his cell.

He was trying to guilt me into staying, but it didn’t work. I wanted out of there. Another guard escorted me to the gate, and then I was walking on the pavement of the lot staring at the armed tower guard staring back at me. In the truck I grabbed a warm beer and guzzled it.

Then I was out driving down highway 65, past Negro Lake, past Satsuma, Saraland, and Mobile, where I picked up the I-10 and headed west to Texas, where I still felt I belonged, where dining tables waited for me to bus them.

Eventually, I found out the truth. There’s no escape from death row. I was subject to my own demonic possession, in regards to drugs and crime and jail stays. Summer of 2000, I cleaned up. A year or so later, as the chemical fog lifted, I remembered that drive to Alabama, to death row. After a couple of months learning how to explore the internet, I discovered what happened to the two men who shared their lives with me for four hours one lonesome spring day in 1992.

After that last appeal was exhausted, Ed was executed in 1996. Bryan three years later. Every time I think about them, now, I realize, had they been white, they’d likely both still be alive. In prison probably, but alive.

I saw Becca again right after moving out to Los Angeles about seven years ago. We watched a movie projected on the side of a cemetery mausoleum, oddly enough. When I asked her about that trip she brushed it off, immediately changing the subject. I had only brought it up in order to thank her for giving me an indelible experience. Maybe a cemetery doubling as a movie theater was the wrong spot.

 

TAGS: , , , , , , , , , , ,

HANK CHERRY, As I live and breath on earth as it is in print, in person, and on webpage! Slake Magazine, Los Angeles Review of Books, Artillery, Poydras Review, The Hammer Museum, The Louisiana Review, Southwestern American Literature, Juice, Cadillac Cicatrix, Offbeat Magazine, Desire 82, Hollywood neighborhood of Los Angeles. Twitter Facebook

28 responses to “Escape from Death Row”

  1. Ducky Wilson says:

    Wow, I bet that was a heavy experience. An even heavier experience for Bryan, if he really was innocent, and he may have been. My feelings on the death penalty vacillate for reasons such as this. Some kids are just in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong “friend.” Though Bryan should have aided his defense and told what happened, though who knows if he would have been believed. A black man in Alabama? Racism is, unfortunately, very alive in this country. Add classism to the list and it’s a recipe for disaster for some young kid such as Bryan.

    Love the way you wove his story into yours.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      Ducky,

      Thanks for coming over and lengthening the discussion. Another friend of mine was murdered and raped, and it was a pretty public case. The killer went free for a long time, then was caught through DNA.

      She was anti death penalty, and a lot of her friends were, too. Until she died. But like you said it’s not as cut and dried as anyone would like it to be.

      Bryan was a gifted talker, and writer. Something could have been learned from him.

  2. Hank Cherry says:

    Ducky,

    Thanks for coming over and lengthening the discussion. Another friend of mine was murdered and raped, and it was a pretty public case. The killer went free for a long time, then was caught through DNA.

    She was anti death penalty, and a lot of her friends were, too. Until she died. But like you said it’s not as cut and dried as anyone would like it to be.

    Bryan was a gifted talker, and writer. Something could have been learned from him.

  3. Excellent piece Josh. You are truly talented. However, regardless of race, they killed a human being and paid the ultimate price. Justice was served. May God show mercy on their souls.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      I do not support the death penalty. In this case one of the men I met that day most likely was innocent. Accessory after the fact for sure, but not responsible for taking a life.

      And I’ll never forget the difference in how they dealt with the topic. One seemed comfortable to some degree with it, the other definitely was not comfortable with any degree of it. And that has stuck with me.

  4. Victoria Patterson says:

    I appreciate your understated prose–what a sad and mesmerizing piece. Crazy that you’d meet up with Becca again at the cemetery movie deal.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      I know, seeing her at Hollywood Forever was strange. I think that was the same year we went and suddenly all of the field was full of Junebugs, crawling from the earth, and ready to make life happen.

      After that year, everyone seemed to be going to the cemetery screenings.

      Thanks for reading Victoria, and hope to see you soon.

  5. tyler hurwitz says:

    A+

    • Hank Cherry says:

      You know, I was just talking about you today, with your Pop. Like the news.

      I was an Antiochian when this happened, well, just ended being an Antiochian, so there’s a link for you to gnaw on.

      Thanks for coming by and reading.

  6. Simon Smithson says:

    Wow, Cherry. We’re the richer for your presence. This was at once solemn and forlorn; similar to the four pieces Ronlyn Domingue has on this site of her death row experiences, which are well worth the read.

    Strong piece. Sad piece.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      Simon,

      Rich rich rich. Thanks man, I’m gonna check out Ronlyn’s stuff tonight. I’ll never forget teying to explain to myself that I didn’t want to go in, especially afterward… Some days a bad hamburger reminds me of it.

      Thanks for reading… And thanks for the compliment.

  7. Susan Halpin says:

    I read this without knowing that it was non-fiction. After I read the other comments I figured it out pretty quickly. My first thought – that Hank never was a people pleaser. I would have stayed all week just to keep everyone happy. Although I am not one of your literary friends, I enjoy your work and the way that you can transport me so quickly into your world. I am off to read “Related” works by Henry Cherry.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      related works, ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho!

      Just so you know, these nervous breakdown pieces have all been memoir sort of things. No fiction. Unless my brain ails me, and memory has reconvened a different past. But I don’t think so.

      Thanks for checking in Susan!

  8. Laura Recchi says:

    Great story, even better telling.

    My uncle investigates death row cases. He has done it privately and for the state. As a result, my aunt has taken it up as a cause and became close with a few people on death row over the years. One guy wrote some decent R&B lyrics, and another wrote long, heart-wrenching letters about life on the inside that she turned into a blog for a short time. It’s incredible how totally normal they seemed, and how easy it is to believe they’re innocent, or at least forgivable.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      Normal is the word. Humans adapt to strange situations with the greatest of ease.

      Now, for the Bootleg tomorrow night!

      thanks for reading and adding in your own connection. That kind of thing makes writing so much more fun. Interaction!

  9. Helen Hataway says:

    Mr. Cherry,
    Fabulous piece, incredible how our system allows guilt by association to trump beyond a reasonable doubt.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      Skin color, guilt by association. Legal issues are as easily swayed as a kid’s attention span.

      Thanks for reading and commenting Helen!

  10. Ronlyn Domingue says:

    I’m behind on my TNB reading and just caught up with this one. (I saw in the comments that Simon gave my series a nod.)

    Likeable and normal. Check. That’s what got me when I first met Feltus, the man on death row I coached through writing his autobiography. Had he not been in prison, in chains, he would have seemed like any other man.

    One detail in your piece that struck me was the laxity in the visitation rules. Unless it’s changed, in LA, you have to be on a list for a particular inmate. Also, more than one person could visit with one inmate. One of the last times I saw Feltus, two nuns were meeting with another man a few stalls down from me.

    Race and class are big issues. Had Feltus been white and of means, he probably would have gone to prison but not received the death penalty.

    I understand completely why this experience stayed with you. Good work.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      Ronlyn,

      This happened about twenty or more years ago. And I think, when my pal arranged the thing to happen, she told the inmates my info, having given me some mumbo jumbo about me needing to give it to her just to drive onto the prison property. They could have had a list – which is true for my friend in Federal Prison- you can’t visit unless you’re on the list. Maybe they put my name on the list, maybe there wasn’t a list in Alabama in the early 1990’s. I definitely think we could have both visited with Bryan, but Bryan wanted Ed to have a visitor. Their bond was rock solid. In a lot of ways, they died for each other, for some unbelievably strange and childish oath the made along the way of getting to where they got. But it was their oath, and I respect that.

      It was so different than any other time I’d been in a prison complex, and maybe that’s because it was my first time, other than some collegiate hijinks that landed me in a county jail for a few hours.

      Thanks for taking the time to read another person’s reflections from Death Row visits.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      I meant to respond to this earlier. Yes, laxity for certain. Those were different times, and also, that was a state prison in Alabama. Now, with the advent of internet, prisoners can run whole cross country empires from their jail cells, which I think plays a big part in the lists of who can and can not visit particular inmates. So when I visit my pal in Federal prison, it’s much more intense. In Federal prison, they move you around a great deal, and each time I go somewhere else to see him I’m shocked that the prisons all look the same, they have the same lay out too for the most part.

      And yeah, perhaps I didn’t get across the reason for me seeing Ed, was that Bryan wanted Ed to have a visitor. I could have sat there with Bryan and Becca, but that wouldn’t have served their purpose or their fugitive hands. And Ed hardly had any visitors.

      Thanks for coming by and reading, and telling a little bit about your own situation with death row.

  11. Very strong piece, sir. We’ll talk prison reform over a beer sometime, it being a subject close to my heart. The post-Ohio vault no doubt will continue to deliver solid stories.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      Did I ever tell you about the time I went to jail in Springfield for stealing a pair of Carhartt pants?

      Running through to parking lot of Meijers trying to escape. Dean’s loans really came in handy.

      Thanks for coming by the corral.

  12. Meg Worden says:

    This writing is rich and vulnerable and beautifully sad, Hank. Thank you. I think death row is truly heartbreaking. The sad fact is that there are no affluent white people there. In fact there isn’t anyone, regardless of race that could afford competent counsel, waiting on death row. It’s a sad fact that our justice system is unjust in appalling ways, that the death penalty does nothing to deter crime and only encapsulates fear and suppression, and put ‘tough on crime’ candidates in office.
    It also does nothing for victims, only promising them some retribution (that often comes 10-15 years after the crime) that arrives in the form of another death. So sad.
    I heard Sister Helen Prejean (the nun portrayed by Susan Sarandon in Dead Man Walking) speak live once, I’ll never forget her grace and her fervor.
    It’s a worthy subject. A big thing indeed when humans begin to decide which humans deserve to die.

    Fantastic piece.

    • Hank Cherry says:

      “In fact there isn’t anyone, regardless of race that could afford competent counsel waiting on death row.”

      You said it all in one simple sentence.

      One thing that seems so blindly ignorant is that people who are all about reducing the state’s involvement in individuals lives (read conservatives) seem so dead set (couldn’t resist) on having the state interfere in matters of death- abortion and the death penalty.

      Meg, thanks for coming by!

      • Meg Worden says:

        So true, Hank. It’s frightening how easily people are let to believe in things that are outrageously ineffective and, in fact, counterproductive on every level.

        I couldn’t help but dig up some statistics for us.

        Here is one (one of many) I find particularly interesting:

        As the number of death sentences and executions in the United States per year declines, so too does the murder rate. The highest crime rate in the U.S. is in the southern region which also boasts the highest number of executions – nearly 80% of all executions in the U.S. *1 In 2004, of the States that do not use the death penalty, only Alaska and Michigan had average murder rates, the rest had significantly lower rates. The highest murder rates were in Louisiana (by far the highest at 12.7 per 100,000 people), Maryland, and New Mexico, all of them use the death penalty. *2

        *1 Deterrence News and Developments, Death Penalty Information Center
        *2 Nationwide Murder Rates, Death Penalty Information Center

        There is a really comprehensive list of facts here – http://www.deadmanwalkingupdate.org/dmw_stats.html#042, including crazy facts about how many more blacks and latinos on death row than whites, the execution of innocents (this happens ALL THE TIME), the obscene guidelines for who can be chosen to represent the accused in a capitol case and where we rank as a country in the number of our citizens we execute – (number 4!!)
        We are only behind China, Iran and Saudi Arabia.

        It’s uncivilized.

        Anyway, thanks again for writing a powerful piece.
        Cheers,
        Meg

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *