Doing Life on Death Row: 2013

Friday, 15 November 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part 4: Between Life and Death

By Michael Lambrix written for the Minutes Before Six website

In the classic novel A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens begins his fictional story with the words: “It was the best of times and the worst of times,” and those words could apply as equally to that first year I spent on Florida’s Death Row. I suppose it would be a bit of a stretch to suggest that my first year as a condemned man was the best of times by any measure. But everything is relative and what I soon discovered after coming to The Row is that even in the worst of times it is the importance of holding on to hope not only when you have reason to, but even more importantly, when that reason is taken from you.

Charles Dickens wrote his story around the French Revolution, which I doubt many would have thought of as the best of times. It was a dark day in history, when death came to many, and yet for those who survived, it brought hope. And it wasn’t that much different on The Row. That first year the stench of death was always around us, yet in the very midst of the darkness and despair, there was hope and it was that hope that gave each of us the strength to survive another day.

I came to The Row in early 1984, at a time in which Florida only too proudly claimed the record not only for the largest number of people condemned to death, but, the most executed.

This is the dark side of the Sunshine State. Its zeal to kill is only exceeded by its indifference towards sending the innocent to Death Row. When the U.S. Supreme Court overturned the death penalty in the 1972 landmark decision of Furman vs. Georgia by a marginal vote, the Court allowed the states to rewrite their death penalty statutes with the misplaced presumption that if the states would establish statutory provisions that “genuinely narrowed” the class of individuals eligible for the death penalty through the adoption of aggravating and mitigating circumstances applicable to each case, then the imposition of the death penalty would not be unconstitutionally arbitrary.

Florida was the first state to quickly adopt new laws that complied with the Supreme Court’s criteria before most other death penalty states could adopt new laws of their own. By 1973, Florida was already sending men to their new Death Row – as I write this today (February 2013) one man a few cells down from me (Gary Alvord) has now been here on Florida’s death row for 40 years as of this year. (Admin note: Gary Alvord died of natural causes after this essay was submitted).

But adopting new death penalty statutes was not enough. In the years before I came, Florida quickly became the poster child for state-sanctioned death, with its Death Row growing by dozens every year. And the politicians running for elected office shamelessly exploited the public’s unquenchable thirst for vengeance, fanatically promising to put those condemned to a quick death.

By the time I came along, Florida was intoxicated by its politically driven blood lust and as I joined the ranks of the condemned, the cold machinery of death had already been cranked up and killing the condemned became a statewide obsession.

John Spenkelink was the first one to be involuntarily executed after the new death penalty was re-instated. Although some might argue that Gary Gilmore (in Utah), upon which the book and then movie The Executioner’s Song was the first one after Furman v Georgia, Gilmore was a “voluntary” execution – he effectively used the death penalty to commit suicide and made no meaningful attempt to challenge his death sentence.

Florida was determined to be the first state to carry out an execution upon someone who was not willing to voluntarily die, and in May 1979 they succeeded in putting John Spenkelink to death. Texas wouldn’t carry out its first post-Furman execution for a number of years after that, and by the early 1980’s a diabolically perverse competition arose between the states to see who could kill the most condemned prisoners – and at least in those early years, Florida easily won.

Florida carried out its next execution in November 1983 when they put Robert Sullivan to death. Within just a few more months, Florida killed Anthony Antone in January 1984, ignoring the fact that Antone did not commit any act of murder himself, and evidence that he did not participate in the act of murder – the co-defendant who was convicted of that killing actually was sentenced to life.

I came to The Row that last week of March 1984 and quickly learned of the ritual of death. In the first year following my arrival, Florida executed nine men. Florida was perversely proud of “Ole Sparky,” its handmade electric chair, and each execution brought on a spectacle not unlike that of a circus – a contemporary lynching in the old town square, with the crowds gathered outside the prison, openly cheering, drowning out the smaller segregated group of those who opposed the state taking a life. And the media would come from around the state to cover the event.

Inside the prison, this ritual brought on another layer of despair, as the prison officials seemed to go to great lengths to make sure that each of us knew they were killing one of us.

For reasons I cannot be sure of, the State of Florida was not allowed to use the public power source to electrocute its condemned. I have been told that the electric company would not allow it, but I’ve also been told that it was a “security precaution. The state didn’t want to risk not being able to carry out an intended execution if someone simply cut the power off. Where the truth actually lies, only they know. But what I do know is that each time Florida carried out an execution, they would crank up the huge generator just outside the prison office near the wing of the prison where executions took place, and the whole prison would be taken off the public electrical source, and temporarily switched over to generator power.

Within a few weeks of my arrival to Death Row, Florida focused its attention on Arthur Goode, scheduled to be executed on April 5, 1984. I didn’t know Goode, as he had already been moved to Q-Wing Death Watch a few weeks before I came to The Row, but this was the first execution actually carried out since I arrived, so that first experience remains branded upon me.

Back then the executions were carried out around sunrise of the scheduled day, but the ritual would begin long before they got around to actually killing the condemned man. Although we typically would be fed breakfast (in our cells) early every day, on execution days it would come at least an hour earlier, often as early as 5:00 a.m. as they had to first feed us then collect the food trays and get them back to the kitchen up front before they locked down the whole prison during the execution itself.

Feeding us before they carried out the execution also made sure we didn’t try to sleep through it. Because it would still be dark outside, each of us would have our own cell light on at the time, which back then was a crude single incandescent light bulb hanging down by two wired from the ceiling of the cell.

At some point between passing out the breakfast trays and picking them back up, all the lights would momentarily go off, leaving us in darkness. In the distance we could hear that generator come to life and then the cell lights would flicker just a bit before coming back on. We knew what this meant as other than the periodical test of the generator during the afternoon a few times a month, when they switched over to generator power in the early morning hours we knew that it meant whoever was on death watch did not get a last minute’s stay of execution and they were now preparing to put him to death.

We would not be allowed to escape our own involuntary participation in this ritual of death, and most of us on The Row would turn on our small black and white TV’s, tuning in the Jacksonville stations to watch the live coverage from outside the prison, each hoping that a last minute stay of execution would come and each of us would continue to watch in collective silence until the TV would show someone emerging from the rear of Q-Wing and waving a white towel, which meant that they had carried out the execution. That was the pre-arranged signal.

Barely a month after Arthur Goode was put to death, Florida killed Aubrey Adams and it was this second execution since my arrival that had an even greater impact, not only on me, but on others around me. The execution of Adams was a reality check for many of us who held on to the hope that our own wrongful convictions would be corrected, and truth and justice would be allowed to prevail.

It’s one thing to execute someone who has confessed to a heinous murder, but it’s another thing entirely to put someone to death who may very well be innocent. Out there in the real world this is a never-ending source of intellectual debate, but in here it really hits home as for those of us who have maintained our innocence and have only our hope to cling to. The execution of someone who has substantial evidence of actual innocence undermines our own ability to keep that hope alive, and it drives home a truth that each of us try desperately to avoid…the politics of death that drive each execution do not care whether you’re innocent or not, and only the hopelessly naïve would think that each man put to death was guilty. Our judicial process is not that perfect and inherently lacks the moral character or professional integrity to admit to its own mistakes.

The execution of Aubrey Adams illustrated this truth and for the first time it caused me to question “the system.” Until that time, I remained blinded by my own disillusion, telling myself that our legal system would correct its own mistakes, and as a society we would never allow an innocent person to be put to death for a crime they didn’t commit. Looking back, I can now only smile at just how incredibly green I was, as the execution of Aubrey Adams and others that followed forced me to accept the reality that they will put the innocent to death, and even worse, as a society we really don’t even care.

A month after Aubrey Adams, Florida put Carl Shriner to death, and the month following that they killed David Washington. It seemed that each month since I came to The Row they killed another one, and that dark cloud of death hung heavy over us condemned. But then that cycle was broken – no executions were carried out in August of 1984 and it seemed that the Courts were becoming increasingly concerned about the lack of adequate legal representation made available to those facing imminent execution.

But such an inconvenience as the lack of qualified lawyers to represent the condemned would not be enough to deter Florida’s ritualistic lynchings, and although nobody died in August 1984, Florida made up for this lapse by killing both Earnest Dobbert and James Dupree Henry in September of 1984.

That dark blanket of death hung heavy and it seemed that if they were not actually killing one of us on the next wing over, they were counting down to that next execution. But this pace of executions could not be sustained as Florida continued to refuse to establish any meaningful process for the timely appointment of qualified lawyers, instead relying upon a small group of committed volunteers who labored continuously to find lawyers willing to represent the condemned – and few, very few, were willing.

By the latter half of 1984 the Florida Supreme Court finally began to take a stand against the arbitrary and dysfunctional system of recruiting volunteer lawyers only at the last minute and began to issue stays of execution to send a long overdue message that unless Florida established a means in which to provide competent legal representation to the condemned before their death warrant was signed, the Court would not allow executions to proceed and this unconscionable machinery of death would grind to a halt.

Almost immediately, the pace of executions dropped by at least half. In early November of 1984 Florida put Timothy Palmes (who we knew as “Milkman”) to death, then it wasn’t until the end of January of 1985 that the next was killed.

That execution of James Raulerson hit especially close to home for me, as from the time I came to The Row. J.D., as I knew him, was my cell neighbor. He was the first person I actually knew on The Row that had been killed. J.D. had been convicted of robbery and the murder of a police officer in Jacksonville, although there was no intent to kill anyone. Like the majority of cases in which the death penalty is imposed, J.D. was convicted under Florida’s felony murder law, which allowed a person to be convicted of capital murder for the death of anyone if it was the result of the commission of another crime…no intent to kill is necessary.

In J.D. Raulerson’s case, he and his cousin had decided to rob a restaurant and were still inside when the police came and surrounded the place. A gunfight ensued and a police officer was killed. J.D. consistently insisted that he never shot at the police, and that the officer died by “friendly fire” – another cop’s bullet hit him in the heat of combat.

But it didn’t matter. Under Florida law someone died during the robbery – and J.D.’s own cousin was shot and killed during that gunfight, and that made J.D. legally culpable for both the death of the police officer and his own cousin’s death – even though there was no question that the police had shot his cousin. When it came time for the State of Florida to execute J.D. on that cold winter morning of January 30, 1985, hundreds of police officers gathered outside the prison gleefully cheering on his death while wearing custom made t-shirts that said “burn, baby, burn.”

That was the first time that I saw just how low we can go as a society, and why, despite pretense, we really have not evolved beyond that image of the old west lynch mobs. That’s just what it was that day, only it wasn’t ignorant villagers intoxicated by their blood-lust and joyfully cheering on the death of another human being; it was those representing law enforcement that created this circus atmosphere.

Within that first year that I was on The Row, Florida put nine men to death. But for each one they executed, at least two more men came to The Row, and the ranks of the condemned continued to grow. It didn’t take long before I was no longer one of the new guys and became part of the greater whole.

By 1985 the pace of executions dropped dramatically as politicians struggled to find a solution to the problem of the condemned having no reliable means of securing legal representation. Florida was determined to lead the country in executions, and soon it was the politicians themselves advocating for the first-ever state funded agency established exclusively to provide post-conviction legal representation to the condemned. The argument in favor of establishing this proposed agency was simple; by providing state-funded lawyers, the Courts would allow executions to continue.

With this cloud of death hanging over all of us, it was only too easy to abandon all hope and accept our fate. But even there in that shadow of death, there was reason to hold on. The particular tier I was housed on that first year housed a total of 16 condemned prisoners, as although each tier had 17 cells at that time, an “inmate runner” occupied the first cell on each death row tier. It was his job to pass out meals, then collect the food trays, and distribute cleaning supplies each day.

Of the nine men put to death that first year, I only personally know one, and during that same period of time on my floor alone there were five men who would walk off death row and back into the real world.

That’s what hope is all about: finding reason to sustain the strength within. Although each execution brought home the reality that I was condemned to die and death was a very real possibility, I found my own strength sustained by the hope that came when another man won his freedom.

It’s easy to assume that every person sentenced to death has to be guilty, but our legal system is plagued with the imperfections inherent to all men. In Florida’s over-zealous push to lead the country in bringing back the death penalty, the legal system itself became corrupted by prosecutors who openly competed with each other to convict and condemn as many as they could, and by any means necessary. It didn’t take long before Florida lead the country (at times) in both the number of men and women sentenced to death, and in number of executions. And with this political corruption of the process came another distinction. To this day Florida continues to lead the country in the number of wrongfully convicted (innocent) men and women sentenced to death.

Not long after I came to Death Row, the Courts began to vacate a number of these wrongful convictions. Although it would still take a few more years before they would walk free, on that tier I was housed on that first year, one out of every three men I housed among would be exonerated and released from prison. My neighbor, Louie Virango won a new trial and pled out to a lesser charge that resulted in him being set free. Joseph Green Brown was exonerated by new evidence after coming within hours of execution, and Juan Ramos walked out of a courtroom in Miami after it was revealed that the bite mark evidence used to convict and condemn him for a crime he consistently pled innocence of was not what the state had led the jury to believe it was.

A few cells down the other way towards the back of that tier were Larry Troy and Bama Brown, convicted and condemned to death for allegedly killing another prisoner at The Rock (Union Correctional Institution). Their convictions were based primarily upon the testimony of another inmate, and there was evidence to suggest that inmate actually committed the murder. Years after sending them to The Row, this inmate tried to extort money from the girlfriend of one of the condemned men – if she would pay him thousands of dollars, he would tell the truth.

Instead of being manipulated, she went to the state police and told them of the attempt to extort her. They worked with her to secretly take communications between her and the prisoner, then arrested him for perjury in a capital case and attempted extortion. Soon after, both Larry Troy and Bama Brown were exonerated of the murder they were wrongfully convicted of and condemned to death for.

Many more would be put to death, and many more would walk free, and I struggled constantly to find that balance between the reality that was Death Row and that hope that sustained my strength. It was more than just a tug-o’-war between opposing sides. No matter which way I might be pulled at a particular moment, even when I clung desperately to that elusive wisp of hope brought about by relief another man won, I still awoke each morning in my own concrete cage and each night I struggled to sleep through the never-ending nightmare that was my own condemnation.

Michael Lambrix 482053

Union Correctional Institute

7819 NW 228th Street (P3226)

Raiford, FL 32026-4400

Please check out my website http://www.southerninjustice.net

Friday, 9 August 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part III: Shaking the Bush, Boss

By Michael Lambrix (written for Minutes Before Six )

Alcatraz of the South Part I can be read HERE

Alcatraz of the South Part II can be read HERE

There should be a book on how to do time, maybe something entitled “Death Row for Dummies.” But there isn’t. Instead, each of us thrown down this Rabbit and survive by learning the ropes from those who were already there. By the time I came to Florida’s Death Row in March 1984 there were already well over 150 men there, housed on the two designated “Death Row” wings known as “R wing” and “S wing.”

Learning how to do time is something they never teach you in school although considering that the United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world, with at least every one out of ten Americans destined to do time at some time in their lives, perhaps our public schools should be required to teach our children how to do time…and perhaps if our children learned that the chances of them growing up to become a convicted felon is substantially higher than many other fates, then many would not cross that line and commit a crime.

Looking back now, I can see that doing time is a lot like learning to swim. I can remember how I first learned to swim…my cousin Jim simply threw me into the pool while yelling “swim!” and although I momentarily struggled to keep my head above water, it took but a moment to began to dog paddle towards the edge of the pool, and no sooner did I climb out of the pool, when Jim threw me right back in. Before the day was over, I had all but mastered the art of swimming and have loved water sports ever since.

Once we are thrown into prison, it’s sink or swim time. Most adapt to this new environment even if it means dog paddling towards the edge at first only to be thrown right back in. And then there are those who slowly sink to the bottom.

I’d like to think I was one of those who quickly learned to adapt to this hell few could even begin to imagine; that from the moment I was thrown in, I kept my head above the water line. But I know that the reality of it is that I had help from those around me, those also already condemned to death.

I can still remember how my first cell neighbor, J.D., explained how things really work on Death Row. He was a naturally gifted story teller who often put things into context by borrowing from popular movies such as the one all prisoners are familiar with – “Cool Hard Luke” starring Paul Newman (1967).

If ever there was a classic prison movie, that was it. Some would argue that the brutality of “Shawshank Redemption” or the inevitable reality of “The Green Mile” might illustrate life on Death Row, but for those actually familiar with life in prison, “Cool Hard Luke” provides the best metaphor… “Shaking the Bush Boss.”

In the movie, the convict (Cool Hard Luke) is a stereotypical loser determined to be free by any means necessary. It is set at a prison work camp in the 1930’s, and Luke has a reputation for trouble, which the hard core warden is only too aware of.

At one point, Luke is sent out on a road crew and assigned to the “chain gang.” He tells the guard that he has to use the bathroom and the guard points to a bush a hundred feet or so off the road, but makes it clear to Luke that when he does his business behind the bush, he’d better keep shaking that bush as if the bush stops shaking the guard will assume Luke is trying to escape again and will start shooting.

Luke walks over to the bush and out of the sight of the trigger-happy guard, Luke quickly ties one end of a long string to the lower branch of that bush, then slowly unravels that string while backing up away, all the while periodically yelling out, “Shaking the bush, boss.” As far as the guard can see, the bush is still shaking and by the time he realizes Luke has tied a string to the bush and is already on the run, Luke is out of range of the guard’s gun and makes his escape.

That’s the quintessential rule in doing time – whether it’s the other convicts or the guards, it’s about making them see what you want them to see, and it’s an art form that quickly separates those who sink or swim, especially in the micro-community of Death Row.

Doing time is mostly about your own ability to mentally adapt to the new environment. It’s all about learning to “shake the bush” by learning the infinite number of little things that allow you to do your time in a relatively uneventful way. As a general rule, in just about any prison, you can get anything you want or need if you learn how to shake the bush.

One thing you learn to appreciate quickly is just how incredibly resourceful prisoners can be. Although prison officials make it their business to limit what we can have and control what we get, for every rule or means they use to prevent its introduction, any self-respecting “convict” can thing of countless ways to get around the guards and no matter how many times they might come in to do cell searches, before they’re even off the wing we will already have back what they thought they took.

Before I came to Death Row I had already done time both in several county jails as well as state prison. I already know the fundamental rules of doing time such as the Golden Rules of always minding your own business, never make a bet (or go into debt) you cannot cover, and never snitch out another convict.

But it’s the little things that make the biggest difference, such as making a simple cup of coffee, or trying to beat the relentless heat of a Florida summer.

Through the years a number of people have asked me why I wear my watch on my right arm when I’m obviously right handed. To those in the real world, there’s that unwritten rule that watches are to be worn on your left wrist, so when they see someone wearing their watch on their right arm, there’s a presumption that maybe I just don’t know. It’s at that moment I just partially smile and then explain that all watches have their stems (used to set the watch time, etc.) on the right side, so if you wear it on your left wrist, that stem is facing towards your hand. That’s pretty convenient in the real world if you’ve got to adjust the time – but in my world, that will quickly destroy a good watch.

Anytime those on Death Row are removed from our cells, even if only to go to the shower cell or the rec yard, we are always handcuffed before the cell door is opened. The handcuffs are obviously always placed on our wrists, just below where we wear our watch. If we wear our watch on our left arm, then the watch stem will be right where the handcuffs are, and the handcuffs will inevitably catch on and rip the stem right out of the watch. For that reason, you quickly learn to only wear your watch on your right arm so that the stem faces upwards away from the handcuffs. That’s something nobody will teach you in school!

I cannot imagine starting my day without a good cup of coffee, although I supposed calling a cup of coffee “good” is a relative term, as the best I can hope for is a cup of cheap instant coffee. But a cup of Joe is a cup of Joe. For as long as I’ve been on the Row, we have always been able to purchase coffee from the “canteen” (prison store). On the Row we are allowed to buy our basics and snacks once a week, and they are then delivered to us, providing we have the money in our account.

Some might say that prisoners don’t deserve to be able to purchase coffee, food and snacks, and if they had it their way we would have nothing. But canteen sales are important to the prison system itself as they provide a cheap incentive to all prisoners to follow the rules – if you get caught breaking the rules you lose your privileges (canteen, visits, T.V., radio, etc.) for a period of time. Additionally, the prison system makes millions of dollars each year in profits from the sales of these items, which reduces the overall cost of incarceration otherwise place upon the taxpayers.

For me, coffee is pretty much my only “vice,” as I don’t drink, or smoke or gamble, or do drugs and they won’t let me run around with wild women, so that pretty much leaves only my coffee. But although I can purchase all the coffee I might care to drink, being able to actually make it is a whole other story.

At least in Florida’s prisons, there are no coffee pots or access to hot water. If we are lucky, the water available in the sinks in our cells might be warm, but not at all hot enough to make a good cup of instant coffee.

Officially, prison officials claim that Death Row cannot have access to hot water as it may be used as a weapon. In the too many years I have been on the row, I have never, not even once, seen a Death Row inmate throw hot water on a guard. But prison rules don’t always make sense. All too often, some administrator in a distant office who has never actually worked inside a prison (much less on Death Row) makes up these rules and then force-feeds them down the line. But although hot water is not available on Death Row, I still manage to have my hot cup of coffee at least five times a day.

Shaking the Bush – from the outside, looking in, it might appear that I’m just drinking my cup of coffee, as I’m doing even as I’m writing this today and for those unfamiliar with how things really work they may even assume I’m enjoying a cup of at best “warm” coffee. But that’s just what we want them to see. If they don’t already know, they don’t need to know.

What I’m saying is not a revelation or in any way betraying some sort of secret. Many of us have been “caught” making hot water many times. Most of the guards couldn’t care less and even if you do slip-up and get caught at best they’d only confiscate our “bugs” and then we get another.

Anyone on the row quickly learns how to make a “bug” which is simply a homemade immersion heater used around the world to boil water. As long as there’s a source of electricity available, there’s a way to heat hot water. All it takes is a piece of electrical cord salvaged from an old radio or whatever, then attach each wire to some form of thin steel plate-separated by a space between the two plates will boil the water.

But as simple as this might be, we all have our horror stories on “bugs gone bad” and some carry the scars to prove it, too. One of the more endearing experiences is still shared with newcomers today. Many years ago one of the guys made a small “bug” to boil water and it wasn’t working. Assuming it was a corroded wire he quickly broke it down, taking the two plates apart, rushing to get it done before the next guard made his round. For reasons no one can explain, this guy then quickly took the wire and bit down on the end to strip the plastic – and his immediate screams were probably heard over the next county…he had forgot to unplug his “bug” before he tried to strip the electrical wire with his teeth! (Talk about a bad hair day!)

Even as much as we all felt for “Dez,” we enjoyed kicking him about that for many years to come. He obviously survived that ordeal with nothing more than a burnt mouth (and maybe even a melted filling or two!), but it was a lesson learned and I never heard of another sticking a bug in his mouth without first making sure it was unplugged.

Hot water is also essential to cooking and many of us on the row learn how to cook our own meals. If there’s one truth that will never change, it’s that the food they serve us is by any definition, not meant for human consumption. But with a little work, some hot water and the imagination and resourcefulness of the prisoners, many of the meals made in our cells would rival that of most free-world restaurants.

Myself, I’m not such a good cook but I’ve known many on the Row who are. I doubt too many can imagine a group of “cold-blooded killers” on death row gathered around on the rec yard sharing recipes and cooking tips, but that’s how it is. And it’s amazing how we can salvage what can be salvaged from what they feed us, such as beans and potatoes, then using the spices that come with the ramen-type soups they sell, make something they can brag about.

Some of the best meals I have ever eaten have been here on the Row, and many of the guys take great pride in their perfected recipes. One of the guys who taught me how to make burritos refused to tell me for many years what his secret ingredient was. Rather, he taught me how to make the burritos, but would then give me a small amount of his “secret” spice mix from time to time, just enough each time to make a batch of burritos.

Many of us familiar with this particular spice mix wanted the recipe and spent too much time trying to figure out what it could be. We knew that some spices could be bought from kitchen workers, but this spice mix was more than just the chili powder, or black pepper, or garlic salt often smuggled out of the kitchen and sold to us. We all tried mixing the various spice packs from the ramen-type soups they sold, but just couldn’t quite make our own like he did.

Through the years this particular spice mix became almost legendary – it’s secret ingredient almost mythical. But then the secret was out and word quickly spread that it was something none of us thought of mixing with the other commonly used spices – it was simply crushed pork rinds mixed with both the “ramen”-type soup spice packs and a generous amount of chili pepper. Soon, everyone was using it to spice his food and within months we all grew tired of it. Like the mythical unicorn, it’s true magic was in the myth itself, the magic of the unknown and once the secret was out somehow that spice mix wasn’t quite as good as we moved on to another way of creating our favorite foods.

Making a good cup of coffee, or a meal that is actually edible are only a few of the many things you must learn when doing time. Many of these well-known-“secrets” cannot be written about for fear of losing them forever. But what it all comes down to is learning how to do the time without the time doing you. Although something as simple as a good cup of coffee or a hot meal you can actually enjoy may seem trivial, it’s these little things that get you through the day.

But whether it’s being able to make a cup of hot coffee or a good meal, or whatever else one might do in that concrete cage to get through the day, what remains the common denominator is the one thing that will always separate the convicts from the inmates – learning how to project the image you want others to see so that you can do your own thing without drawing attention to yourself, or stepping on someone else’s toes.

One of the lessons I had to learn the hard way in those early years was to keep my mouth shut, and it’s something that most prisoners go through. In this weird world that we live in, there’s always going to be somebody around you who will want to push your buttons, whether it’s a guard or another inmate. They thrive off of your response and they count on their ability to force you to respond.

In fairness, most of the guards working on Death Row are just doing their jobs and they don’t make it personal. Many go by a common saying – “eight and the gate!” They do their eight-hour shift then hit the gate.

But there will always be those who have no business having that power over others, as it’s their nature to abuse. All the convicts know which guards are alright and which ones are trouble. When a new guy comes to the Row, he’s quickly told which ones to steer clear of.

Yet no matter how many times we may be told to avoid a particular guard, that guard will always find someone to provoke – and on my early years, too often that was me, as I simply did not have the ability to keep my mouth shut. And I wasn’t alone. But now I can laugh at myself when a new guy comes to the Row and we tell him to avoid certain guards only to then see that some guard plays him out of the pocket (prison slang for provoking someone) as no matter how often any of us might be told that someone will try to provoke him just for their own amusement, perhaps one of the hardest lessons to learn when doing time is to keep your mouth shut when someone is looking for trouble.

It’s all part of shaking the bush. Learning to survive in this manmade hell is largely dependent upon your own ability to do your time your way and not become a puppet for others. No matter what each day may bring, it’s all still only one day at a time and those that master the ability to take it one day at a time without letting yesterday drag you down or worry about what tomorrow may yet bring will find the strength to overcome.

Learning how to “shake the bush” is not simply about how to enjoy a good cup of coffee, or make a meal that is edible. Rather, it’s about learning that no matter what the physical deprivations might be, it’s still your own mental state of mind that will decide whether you sink or swim. Like myself, most of us were thrown into the world we call Death Row without knowing what to expect, or how to cope with the never-ending nightmare of being condemned to death. But the steel and stone are only just that and in the long run, it’s the psychological elements that will break you down inside. Learn how to cope with those elements and each of us will find the strength to survive.

When I look back, I know I was blessed to be around those such as J.D.,who took the time to teach me how to get through each day without letting it all drag me down. I was taught how to do my time without letting that time take its toll on me. Because of that, I developed the ability to deal with what the many years yet to come would hold, and my journey through the Bowels of this Beast known as Death Row would be one I could survive.

Written by Michael Lambrix for MinutesBeforeSix: http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.gr/2013/08/alcatraz-of-south-part-iii-shaking-bush.html?spref=fb

Please check out my website http://www.southerninjustice.net

Wednesday, 19 June 2013

Billy

By Michael Lambrix (written for Minutes Before Six )

The first thing you’ve got to understand is that Billy’s biggest fault was that he just couldn’t turn a friend down when asked no matter what the consequences might be and for that, Billy had to die. It’s just that simple and such naïve concepts as truth or fairness have nothing to do with it, as if they did, Billy’s life would be spared. But in this cold and cruel world we have so deliberately created, only death could purge this intolerable fault from our midst…Billy had to die.

The real irony in all of this is that in taking Billy’s life, the State of Florida will have done something Billy never did; the State of Florida will have made a conscious decision to kill, which, for those of us who actually knew Billy, knew that perhaps Billy’s most admirable trait was that despite the tragic history of his tortured life, that’s one line Billy chose not to cross, period.

When the State of Florida carried out the state-sanctioned “execution” of William (Billy) Van Poyck, it killed a man who has never killed. But under the rule of law, Billy was convicted and condemned to death for the murder of Florida prison guard Fred Griffis in a botched escape attempt in 1987. Billy participated in the event and that made him criminally culpable under Florida’s “felony murder” rule of law that demands that anyone who knowingly participated in a criminal act that results in the death of another is guilty of capital murder even if they do not commit the act resulting in death themselves.

In Billy’s case, the crime was an attempt to break a friend free from a prison transport van. Billy and another friend, Frank Valdes, had both been released from prison months earlier, but their friend (James O’Brien) remained inside and was scheduled for medical transport when Billy and Frank jumped the van as it parked at the doctor’s office. Things quickly got crazy and within that eternal microsecond of chaos, Frank Valdes shot and killed FDOC officer Fred Griffis. They then quickly fled the scene leaving O’Brien in the van.

Both Billy and Frank Valdes stood trial in the southeast Florida rural community of Martin County, and the guards from the local maximum security prison (Martin Correctional) showed up in force so the jury – many of whom knew or were related to prison employees – would know with absolute certainty what was expected of them. The jury found both Billy and Frank guilty of capital murder of a law enforcement officer and had no problem recommending both be put to death.

When Billy’s case received its required review on “direct appeal,” the Florida Supreme Court recognized that Billy did not kill officer Griffis, nor was there any evidence of a preformed intent to kill, nor prior knowledge that anyone would be killed, and the Florida Supreme Court vacated Billy’s conviction of “premeditated” murder. But in a twist that could only come from the distorted “ends justify the means” logic our politically corrupted courts have now become infamous for, the Florida Supreme Court turned around and said, “kill him anyways” as under Florida’s “felony murder” law, it doesn’t matter whether Billy intended anyone die as all that really mattered is that he participated in attempting to free O’Brien from the prison van with Frank Valdes, and although it was clear that Frank shot and killed Officer Griffis, Billy had to pay too.

Even in subsequent appeals, it’s almost certain that Billy would have had his death sentence reduced to life, if not for another event involving Frank Valdes. In July 1999 a rabid pack of prison guards at Florida State Prison went into Frank Valdes’ cell on the infamous “X-wing” and brutally beat Frank to death. I was a couple cells down from Frank and we all know it was just a matter of time, as the courts later recognized in Valdes v Crosby, 450 f.3d.1276 (11th cir. 2006), in the months proceeding the murder of Frank, these pack of prison guards were given free rein to target and brutally assault any prisoner they pleased with the blessing of Warden James Crosby – who himself would subsequently be sent to Federal prison.

As one of the few death-sentenced prisoners who had spent a considerable amount of time on “X-wing” and as a result became personally acquainted with both Billy and Frank Valdes, I knew that it was only too common for the guards to invent reasons to enter their solitary cells and under the pretense of doing a cell search, they would physically assault Billy and Frank, and openly promise both that they would not live long enough to be put to death by the state and that was a promise we all knew they would keep.

Months after beating Frank Valdes to death a guard jury indicted two of the guards for murder, and they eventually stood trial in Bradford County, which has only one industry…the seven local prisons that provide the backbone of this rural northeast Florida community centered around Starke. Every juror admitted to knowing or being related to prison employees and it didn’t surprise anyone that after hearing all the evidence, including other prison employees on testimony detailing the murder of Frank Valdes, the jury still turned around and found all the guards “not guilty.” When asked later how they could acquit the prison guards given the overwhelming evidence, members of the jury could only stutter an implausible explanation, that they had no doubt the guards killed Frank – but they just didn’t know which one of the guards inflicted the fatal blow actually resulting in death and so they found all of them “not guilty”…who says justice has to make any sense?

All of that left Billy in a really bad way. After the guards murdered his co-defendant Frank, the governor’s office ordered Billy transferred to a Virginia prison for his own safety and from there Billy continued to pursue his appeals. Having come to know Billy pretty well through the years prior to his transfer, I never expected to see him again as it seemed certain that Billy’s death sentence would be reduced to life given both the Florida Supreme Court’s own recognition that Billy did not kill anyone, and the evidence that showed Billy did not intend anyone to be killed, as well as the overwhelming evidence of Billy’s tragic life history that his sentencing jury was never allowed to hear.

But that’s not how justice works here in American – someone has to pay and with Frank Valdes now already dead, that only left Billy. To hell with the evidence as only the hopelessly disillusioned would still believe that the inconvenience of truth had anything to do with the administration of “justice,” especially down here in the deep South, where the genetically predisposition towards a good old fashioned lynching is the only way to respond to a crime that upsets the community and so his fate was sealed – Billy had to die, as “justice” demanded no less, especially when Governor Rick Scott is preparing to run for re-election and desperately needs the political support of the prison guards in the upcoming election and although Governor Scott has spent the last three years screwing prison guards out of all he could, by throwing Billy to the wolves, they would now gladly line up to vote for his re-election next November, and he knew it.

Perhaps the greater tragedy in the sacrificial murder of William Van Poyck is that few actually came to know Billy for the person he is and as too many all but openly celebrate his state-sanctioned lynching, they will only know the grossly distorted “facts” of his crime. As with all those condemned to death, our society does not want to know anything about the person they have decided to kill – the less they know, the better, as God forbid “we, the people” should recognize any measure of humanity within those condemned by our own hand.

But I did know Billy as the person and not the perception of the alleged crime and so I am not at all surprised to see that ultimately Billy must die because he could not and would not turn his back on a friend. And when his close friend James O’Brien remained in prison with little hope of ever seeing the real world again, and the opportunity presented itself to give his friend that chance, Billy went along as only a true friend would.

Those of us who actually knew Billy came to realize that Billy just wasn’t cut from the same cloth as most prisoners. Only a few years older than me, Billy was already doing seriously hard time before I even made it into my first year of high school. Back then, doing time meant surviving in the jungle that most maximum security prisons were before this new generation of politically ambitious prison administrators invented the concept of mass confinement of any and all inmates who dared to show any inclination of violence or anything less than absolute submission.

Billy came of age doing hard time in some of the worst prisons our society created, back when violence and death were served as cold and predictable as the cockroach infested grits each morning in the prison chow hall. It wasn’t enough to be physically strong to survive, as strength meant nothing when another crept up behind you and drove the blade of a homemade knife deep down into your flesh. It didn’t matter how big you were, and physically, Billy wasn’t that big of a guy and some might have described him as even small in stature. But as they say down here in the South, it’s not the size of the dog but the size of the heart in the dog and Billy had a lot of heart and even against the odds, would stand his ground against anyone if he knew he was right, and all too often Billy would put his own life on the line to stand up for those who couldn’t. That’s just the kind of person he was.

I’ve know a lot of convicts through the too many years I’ve spent in prison – and a lot more who only too quickly will call themselves “convicts” even though they are not worthy. Billy was old school, and he earned his stripes the hard way. In this world we live in, prison can break the best of them and anyone who tries to tell you it can’t is full of – well, you know. It takes someone with incredible inner-strength, and courage to rise above this cesspool of humanity and remain their own man despite the forces perpetually pushing at you from all sides.

I doubt there would be any words to describe that intangible essence of the inner self that provides that measure of strength within that allows the very few to maintain their own sense of self when others all around them slowly become part of that environment. But anyone who has done hard time will recognize that unique quality and respect of the man who can master it.

It is that measure of the man within that best describes just who Billy was as a person. Billy was a truly gifted writer who often found his means of detaching and compartmentalizing the trauma of his life experience by writing stories about his experiences. One of Billy’s stories, “Death by Dominoes” was posted here on Minutes Before Six. This particular story is a reflection of not only the horrific experiences Billy endured while doing time, but also how he found the strength to rise above it, and despite the probable consequences of intervening in behalf of another prisoner who Billy felt might not be able to stand up for himself, Billy put his own life on the line to do the right thing while the vast majority of inmates around him crawled up under their bunks and did nothing.

But “Death By Dominoes” is only one of countless stories that collectively create the colorful tapestry that is Billy, and there are many of us in prison today who could share similar stories of Billy’s character.

I first came to know Billy not long after he was sentenced to death. Back then, any prisoner who assaulted or killed a prison guard would automatically be kept in a concrete box of a cell on Florida State Prison’s infamous “Q-wing” (later relabeled as “X-wing”). Nobody has really done hard time until you’ve done time on Q-wing and even a short stay on one of those 24 crypts often broke the prisoner forever.

I had been sent to Q-wing after being charged with the infraction of “other assault” for beating a “runner” down with a food tray after the runner got it in his head that I might be his new romantic interest. I wasn’t proud of what I did, but it had to be done, as I had to live in this cesspool and any sign of weakness would result in a fate even for worse than death.

They moved me up to 3 West, with Billy two crypts away – and I deliberately call these cages “crypts” as that is exactly what they are. Unlike regular confinement cells that are “open” (a wall of steel bars) at the front so you can see outside the cell and communicate with your neighbors, each crypt on Q-wing was fully enclosed by thick concrete walls and a solid steel door that when shut – and often it stayed shut – closed out all light, isolating the prisoner just as if he was cast down into a crypt.

Within each crypt was a concrete slab that was the “bunk” and it was not uncommon at all for them to refuse to provide even one of the rodent-infested, generously urinated prison “mattresses,” leaving the prisoner within to sleep on the cold concrete, with the water deliberately shut off and the only means to urinate was to all but blindly feel for that hole in the center of the floor, then remove whatever you stuffed down into it to keep the rats and roaches from coming into the crypt, and remembering to again stuff that newspaper or whatever back in when done.

Few people could possibly imagine the uncompromised hell that Q-wing was, by deliberate design and intent. Its purpose was to unofficially retaliate against those who had dared to assault or kill a prison guard, and the physical conditions was only a small part of it, as it was unwritten policy that the guards assigned to Q-wing, each handpicked by the warden, were all but strongly encouraged to physically abuse the prisoners housed on Q-wing, and they only too often gleefully obliged the warden’s wishes.

I had already known who Billy was, as there aren’t too many secrets in this small world we live in, and we had mutual friends. Billy was easy to get along with and it wasn’t long before we were “talking” for hours – and I mean that’s only in the most abnormal way as it wasn’t easy to talk to anyone on Q-wing. But once you adjusted, it was possible, and we did.

The first thing that caught my attention was Billy’s completely unexpected sense of humor, which was second only to never-ending drive to fight the fight. Where most who find themselves cast down into the depths of hell that Q-wing truly is, would either lay down on their slab of concrete and roll up into a ball in a futile attempt to shut reality out, or simple go mad until the guards get the psych shirts to tranquilize them into a state of mortal numbness, Billy did neither, instead finding his strength in standing his ground by using his knowledge of law to challenge his confinement. But for Billy, being who he was, it wasn’t enough for him to only fight his own fight, but to take on that fight for those around him regardless of the all but certain consequences of his actions.

That was one of the bonds that created a sense of communion between me and Billy that lasted the better part of 20 years – our mutual unquenchable thirst to use our knowledge of law to fight the fight not only for ourselves, but to help those around us and with all respect, I must bow down to Billy’s obviously superior ability and uncompromised tenacity.

It wasn’t long after my relatively short stay on Q-wing when Billy won the law suit he filed on behalf of all those on Q-wing and it forced the prison to finally release these prisoners from their long term Q-wing confinement, and Billy, Frank Valdes, and Thomas Knight were transferred to the regular death-row confinement wings, where they would be in open-front cells and be allowed the privileges extended to death row, such as use of a T.V., radio, buying “canteen” each week, receiving regular “contact” visits and going to rec yard. It was a big victory, but not without consequence, and as the years passed it would become common for Billy, Frank and Knight to be targeted for fabricated disciplinary actions and returned to Q-wing for shorter stays under the pretense of imposing discipline.

Within a few years of Billy’s victory in that lawsuit, our paths once again crossed as both me and Billy began contributing to and became instrumental in the growth of what eventually evolved into Florida’s top prisoner newsletter, known as “Florida Prison Legal Perspectives,” which provided prisoners throughout Florida the means with which to stay informed on changes in prison rules, changes in law relevant to both challenging convictions and parole, and a general information platform on what was going on around the State’s prisons. For years both me and Billy served on the Board of Advisors for FPLP and it thrived, despite prison officials deliberate targeting of the handful of prisoners whose names were associated with FPLP, and even as a number of prisoners who were willing to contribute to FPLP died under suspicious circumstances, such as Enrique Diaz, Billy never backed down from the greater cause and stood his ground to fight the fight on behalf of all prisoners.

During the same period of time a small handful of us on Florida’s Death Row decided it was time to challenge the “totality of conditions,” and despite receiving no assistance from lawyers, we initiated a comprehensive federal lawsuit with Billy contributing countless hours handwriting legal memorandums, and many sleepless nights spent talking about what had to be done, and thanks to the relentless work, we got that case to the Federal Court.

The thing is, we already knew we couldn’t win. We already knew that none of the typical legal organizations such as the ACLU, NAACP, or others were willing to help Florida’s Death Row prisoners as they often did in the other states because they knew the politically corrupted courts in Florida would be hostile to any such action. We went into this project knowing that we were passing into a gale force wind, and there would be hell to pay. But with Billy at the helm, we pushed forward.

We put every ounce of our strength into that lawsuit and the state threw their best lawyers at us. Each of us willing to put our names to it were targeted by both the guards and other Death Row inmates who would do as the guards asked of them (all the while calling themselves “convicts”), but we didn’t sacrifice a single inch of ground and slowly that iceberg itself gave way.

Because of our excellent legal work, our small group of determined souls forced the Federal Court to deny the State’s motion to dismiss/motion for summary judgment (Lambrix/Teffeteller v Duggar, Case No. 89-840-J-as, US Dist Ct and the Federal Court ordered the case into pretrial discovery and suddenly there we were (me, Billy, Robert Teffeteller and Amos King) celebrating the David over Goliath victory. We had won and it was good.

As a result of the Florida prison system now facing a very real threat of being found in violation of laws governing basic living conditions on Florida’s Death Row, and possibly even having Florida State Prison itself condemned and forced to close due to the deplorable conditions, suddenly they took us seriously and began not only re-constructing the Death Row wings at Florida State Prison, but announcing they would build a brand new “modern” Death Row unit at the cost of almost 20 million dollars!

By December 1992 Florida opened its new “modern” Death Row unit at nearby Union Correctional, which had 336 single man confinement cells exclusively for Death Row and the majority of Florida’s Death Row were then transferred to the new unit where we actually had a clean environment to live in that was not infested by rodents and cockroaches, and although still unbearably hot in the summer, it had a heating system that kept us from freezing.

But Billy would not be transferred – he would never set foot in this new unit, and was kept at Florida State Prison until late 1999 when he was transferred to Virginia after guards killed Frank Valdes. Billy would be returned to Florida in 2008 and again at Florida State Prison. Not long after that I was moved back to Florida State Prison under the pretense of “security” reasons, and was able to get a cell next to Billy up until the summer of 2012, when because of my physical disability (disabled veteran) I was moved back to the main death row unit of Union Correctional.

Billy knew his days were numbered as both the State and Federal Courts summarily denied his last appeals, and yet true to his character, Billy was not broken or gave into despair. Instead, he stood his ground and took the punches, never giving an inch.

Perhaps ultimately that is what really angered those who wanted Billy dead the most – no matter how much hell they put Billy through, they could never break him, not even once. Many of the guards came to hold great respect for Billy and would come to his cell to ask legal advice or just talk and Billy never showed any anger or bitterness towards them, not even when one sergeant who previously worked Q-wing and took part in a particularly violent assault upon Billy was temporarily assigned to the Death Row wing. Billy treated him as if it never happened.

It is the nature of the beast that prison will inevitably break the majority of those who are caught in its grasp. But then there are those few who possess supernatural inner-strength and will never be broken, instead remaining who they are consistently and standing their ground unconditionally. Billy was by no means a perfect man, and by society’s standards, Billy probably was an “outlaw” as it’s the only life he ever knew. But for those of us who actually knew Billy for the person he was, by his strength and sense of character, he inspired us. For the even fewer who could call Billy a friend, we were truly blessed by his generous spirit that touched each of our lives. The world that I continue to live in is a small, small world, but it is a better world because of Billy’s willingness to put himself in the line of fire to make it a better place.

In closing, I dedicate a song to Billy that I know will make him smile, as well as all those who have been blessed by knowing Billy…Billy the Kid by Billy Dean.

Michael Lambrix #482053
Union Correctional Institution
7819 NW 228th Street (P3226)
Raiford, FL 32026-4400
USA

http://minutesbeforesix.blogspot.gr/2013/06/billy.html

Please check out my website http://www.southerninjustice.net

Saturday, 11 May 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part II: Descending Down into the Bowels of the Beast

Second Part of Michael's Series Alcatraz of the South that he writes for the Minutes Before Six website

ADMIN NOTE One of our regular writers Bill Van Poyck has had a death warrant signed with a scheduled execution date of 12 June 2013. Many avenues are being worked on and his attorneys are filing briefs for a stay of execution. We are not giving up hope that Bill's sentence can be commuted to a life sentence where he could be released for time served (26 years), getting him off death row. Please sign the petition on Bill's website HERE and spread the word. Thank You

By Michael Lambrix

Part 1 can be read HERE

The solid steel door was now all that separated me from that one single step that would lead me down into another world few could even imagine in their own worst nightmare. I couldn’t help but think of Alice in Wonderland, and how with just one unfortunate step, she fell down that rabbit hole into a surreal world where nothing was as it might seem to be. But my rabbit hole would cast me down into the very bowels of the greater beast that is our prison system, a hell that even the most hardened convicts feared.

This door heading on to the wing that houses Florida’s Death Row was all but identical to the others I passed as I was escorted down that seemingly never-ending main corridor of Florida State Prison. By the looks of that plain door, nothing gave so much as a hint of the misery and deprivation of the lost souls housed therein. And yet there was that intangible feeling, that presence that hung into the air that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise and as I stood silently awaiting the guard within to open the door, a sense of fear overcame me. Had I looked in a mirror at that moment, I have no doubt I would have seen the fear upon my face.

Anyone who stood in my shoes at that very moment and said they were not scared was either a fool or a liar. But I also knew that in this prison world the only thing worse than showing fear would be to admit being scared.

I didn’t know what to expect and from all the stories I had already heard, I knew it wasn’t good. Finally, the face of a guard appeared at that small window and the sound of the big brass key being inserted into the lock was quickly followed by that door now swinging outward. As the door was opened, a gust of cold air blew outward. It was late March of 1984 and not especially cold, but that single unexpected gust made me shiver.

Obediently I stepped across that threshold on to the Death Row wing, almost expecting to be sucked down into the depths of hell as I did, but the concrete floor beneath my feet remained solid even if the strength of my own legs beneath me didn’t. Just as quickly that door now behind me crashed shut with what seemed to be a thunderous sound, and the lock turned and I was trapped within, with nowhere to run even if I might had wanted to.

As with all the wings at Florida State Prison, when entering from the main corridor, one finds himself standing on the “quarter-deck” of the second floor. The quarter-decks are the officer’s station, its walls lined with bulletin boards, including a large one with the names, prison inmate number and race of each inmate housed on the wing. To the left of where I stood, just inside that door, was the sergeant’s desk and to the far side of that were three small rooms – a small storage closet, a small bathroom, and then another smaller closet used to store cleaning supplies.

To my immediate right there were concrete steps leading to the third floor cell blocks and down to the first floor cell blocks. On the wall next to the door I had just walked through was a “fire escape plan”- a diagram of each floor that showed the layout of the wing. Since I was left standing there while the sergeant and two officers were doing something else at the desk, I took a few minutes to examine the layout.

All three floors were laid out the same, with a quarterdeck area from which the cellblocks extended. In the very middle of each floor, running in length from the quarterdeck all the way back to the very end of the wing was what was called a “pipe alley” where all the plumbing and electrical outlets ran. This pipe alley also served to separate the north side from the south side, with each tier of six by nine foot solitary cells backed up against that pipe alley facing outward.

Each tier had both an inner and outer catwalk, with the very narrow inner catwalk providing access to each of the cells, and the much wider outer catwalk used by the guards when they made their periodical cell checks. Each tier had 17 cells, each virtually identical, measuring six foot by nine foot with a steel bunk securely affixed to one side and a combination of stainless steel sink/toilet affixed to the back wall. Towards the ceiling on the back wall was a single vent measuring not more than a cubic foot, although wider than it was tall.

Each of these 102 cells on the wing was a concrete crypt, with three sides and the floor and ceiling solid concrete. Only the front of each cell open by way of a wall of steel bars spaced precisely four inches apart, as was the sliding cell door itself, with the exception of a “bean flap” on each door, which is a cutaway section with a steel plate about six inches wide where the food trays were passed in (which is why it is traditionally called a “bean flap”).

As I stood there examining the wing layout, I couldn’t help but notice the loud noises coming from each side of the quarterdeck, obviously coming from the cellblock area. It wasn’t just prisoners taking but I could hear their T.V.s and radios, many radios.

The sergeant stood up from the desk and walked across the quarterdeck, motioning at me to follow. Along the one wall next to the center door leading into the pipe alley was a single, long wooden bench and the sergeant sat down and instructed me to sit, too. I remained in the handcuffs and leg shackles and I shuffled over to the bench and sat as instructed.

Without any malice or animosity in his voice, the sergeant began by telling me I needed to know how things work. He began by looking at me and telling me point blank that he’s not there to judge me and as long as I don’t give them a problem, they won’t give me a problem. That seemed fair enough – but as time went by I would learn that although this philosophy was generally true, there were still other guards who thought it was part of their job to antagonize Death Row prisoners and go out of their way to make us as miserable as possible. But fortunately, these few were the exception to the general rule.

It quickly became clear that the sergeant had given this same introductory speech only too many times before. I was told that I was the fourth condemned prisoner that week alone. The class of 1984 would prove to be one of the busiest years for the Florida courts in sentencing prisoners to death.

Much of what the sergeant told me I already knew – Death Row was not a regular prison and we would not be allowed to move around like those in the general inmate population (“gen-pop”) do. In gen-pop, each prisoner is required to work at an assigned job whether it is in the kitchen, mowing the lawns, or maintaining the facility. When not working, most gen-pop inmates could play sports, or go to the prison chapel, or just hang out with their chosen group of other inmates.

But not Death Row, as we were special. Under the politically motivated pretense of “security,” all death-sentenced prisoners in Florida are kept in continuous solitary confinement for as long as they might remain under that sentence of death. Incredibly, they say that this confinement status is for our own protection, as if allowing us to mingle and move around other prisoners might get us killed, which is kind of ironic, considering that the state sent us to death row to kill us.

But logic has nothing to do with this, and it becomes only too clear that the continuous solitary confinement of all Death Row prisoners has nothing to do with any legitimate “security” concerns. Rather, it is intended to serve the State’s greater purpose of breaking the condemned man both physically and psychologically in a methodical process towards what they hope will be our execution.

The sergeant continued in an almost monotone, instructing me on what was expected of me. Once assigned to a cell, it was my responsibility to keep it clean. If a guard told me to “cuff up,” I was to immediately comply, without question. I already knew that the common prison term “cuff up” meant that the guard intended to place me in handcuffs, but until then I did not know that anytime any death-sentenced prisoner left his assigned cell, he must be first handcuffed, unless he had medical problems verified by the prison doctor. This meant that we had to be handcuffed behind the back whenever we left our cells.

But then again, we didn’t leave our cells that much. In Florida, all death-sentenced prisoners are prohibited from eating meals in the prison chow hall, or going to the prison gym or chapel. All meals were brought to the individual cells and the only regular departures from your cell would be to shower three times a week and go to the recreation yard built just for death row – a relatively small concrete pad enclosed on all sides by twelve foot high security fencing topped by razor wire. A few hundred feet away was a guard tower where the watchful eye of a trained marksman waited ready to shoot anyone stupid enough to try to scale that fence.

Otherwise, the only time I would leave my assigned cell would be if I had a medical appointment at the clinic up front, or if I had either a legal or a family visit.

I was surprised to learn that even on Death Row, I would be allowed visits with family or friends each weekend for up to six hours at a time, per day. And that although death-sentenced prisoners were kept in restraints (even when walking the few feet from the assigned cell to the shower cell, the only two exceptions were when we went to the recreation yard and when we had social visits.

For all the negatives I could speak of regarding Florida’s Death Row, the one positive was social visits from family and friends. Unlike many other Death Rows, (such as Texas) that permit only non-contact visits through a thick plate of glass, Florida allows its condemned prisoners to have regular contact visits with family members or other friends as long as they are approved to visit, a relatively easy process that requires a criminal background check by prison officials to make sure the visitor is not a wanted outlaw.

I would come to learn that the Death Row visiting park is seen as “sacred ground” by prisoners. No matter what problem you might have with another death-sentenced prisoner, you do not make it an issue during a visit. We all knew only too well that there were many politicians and prison officials who did not want death-sentenced prisoners to have visits at all, much less regular contact visits and if given any excuse, they would quickly push to take these visits away. For that reason, there was an understanding among all death-sentenced prisoners that the visiting park was holy and God help the idiot who might get stupid and give them a reason to take our visits.

But even as the sergeant explained how I would be allowed to have visits with family and friends each weekend, I already knew that I would have few, if any, visits. In those first few years I had no visits at all, and the vast majority of death-sentenced prisoners had just as few, if any, as a big part of being condemned to die is being removed from that world out there.

The sergeant then explained that the laundry workers came to wing once a week to change out the state clothing each inmate was provided. At the time, the designated uniform for all Death Row inmates was a pair of dark blue denim-type pants with nothing but an apricot colored t-shirt. The state would not provide death-sentenced prisoners any type of shoes, but at that time we could have family and friends send us shoes and clothing as well as various basic hygiene products (soap, toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, etc.), but of course, that was dependent upon each prisoner having someone willing to send a care package. If not, many did without.

With the introductory speech complete, the sergeant told me to follow him and we were joined by the other two officers as we went to the nearby concrete staircase, and then descended down into the bowels of that beast. Upon reaching that lower level quarterdeck, I noticed that, unlike that second floor quarterdeck that also served as the officers’ station, the lower level had nothing but an enclosed area that appeared to be an office at the one end, which I later learned was for the classification officer assigned to the Death Row wing.

As with that second floor, to each far side of this quarterdeck were steel bar gates leading into the catwalks. The sergeant said that I would be housed in “1-south-6”, which meant that my assigned Death Row cell was on the first floor, south side, cell six, and I was led toward that south side gate that led into the cellblock area.

The closer I got towards the actual cells, the louder the sound of various radios and T.V.’s became, and above those electronic noises were the voices of unseen prisoners conversing with each other, often yelling to be heard above others.

We entered that gate and took the first few steps only to have the sergeant stop at two side-by-side empty cells, which he explained were the shower cells where three times a week on the evening shift I would be escorted, then locked within, to take a 5 minutes shower. He then proceeded further down the tier and came to the first cell housing another inmate. Still wearing both the handcuffs and leg shackles, I slowly shuffled by that first cell, then another and another, each housing an inmate. The first five inmates paid me no mind at all, with only the Columbian in cell five looking up at me to inspect his neighbor.

There were no loud screams of “fresh meat” or the derogatory calls that Hollywood movies typically exaggerate as a new guy enters into a prison cellblock that first time. Just that quickly, we reached cell number six, and the cell door was already open and I entered into my new home. Almost immediately the cell door rolled shut with a loud metallic clang and the sergeant first told me to back up to the cell door, then he reached through the open bean flap and removed the handcuffs, then reached down to my legs and removed the leg shackles and without another word, they walked away.

Although the noise continued all around me, I felt an overwhelming silence within as I stood there those first few moments in that cold concrete crypt that was my new cage. It had been a long day, a very, very long day and I was both physically and mentally exhausted. For more than ten continuous hours I had been kept restrained and both my hands and feet tingled almost painfully as the blood finally was able to circulate in each. I looked around and my new cell was nothing more than an empty concrete box with the exception of a steel bunk along the one wall, and a rolled-up prison “mattress” (if it can be called that) with a bedroll consisting of a rough wool “horse blanket” and two bed sheets – all of which had seen better days.

There was not table or chair and the height of the bunk made it uncomfortable to sit upon as a metal rail ran its length that cut into my thigh, so I sat on the toilet. I learned quickly that the toilet was the only seat in the house.

I was just sitting down to untie my shoelaces so I could pull off my shoes and try to rub some life back into my too-long shackled feet, I heard a voice nearby calling out, “Hey, new guy – cell six,” then, “Hey, what’s your name?” It took me a long moment to realize that the voice was calling me – I was “cell six,” I was the “new guy,” and I responded, “I’m Mike. Who are you?”

With those simple words, a long conversation began. Although I was exhausted, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep right away, anyway. It was already late afternoon and I assumed they would be bringing dinner soon. I stood up and took the few steps to the front of my cell so I could try to see who was calling me, and as I did, I noticed an arm reaching around that concrete wall from the adjacent cell and didn’t know what to make of that.

At the time, each cell had only a single incandescent light bulb that hung down from the ceiling in the upper front corner of the cell, and it was barely enough light to see by. But in that dim light, I noticed that the arm extending outward towards my cell held what appeared to be a Popsicle stick, and at the very end of that stick was a small fragment of a mirror. My new neighbor was “spooking” me, prison slang for checking me out, but not necessarily in a bad way…just curious.

“Hey,” the voice called out. “My name is J.D.” I would learn that his full name was James D. Raulerson, and he would soon become my new friend and mentor, making my transition to the life under a sentence of death somewhat tolerable.

With introductions quickly behind us, J.D. offered me a cup of coffee and as I accepted, a few minutes later he again reached around the wall towards my side, and I reached out and took that steaming cup of coffee from him, expressing my gratitude as it had been at least a year since I had a good cup of coffee. No sooner did I take that cup of coffee, there was J.D.’s hand reaching out again, this time with a pack of cookies, which he insisted I take and I really didn’t offer much opposition as I hadn’t eaten all day.

That night was not shower night and once the guards brought our dinner then returned to collect the empty trays, I found that other than the once-nightly “master count,” we didn’t see a lot of the guards other than an occasional cell check as one walked by in the outer catwalk, essentially paying no mind to any of us.

I would spend the next hours leaning up against that concrete wall that divided my cell from J.D.’s and we talked around the wall. Others also hollered out, wanting to know who the new guy was, but each time even before I could answer, J.D. would yell back, “His name is Mike”. As the evening progressed, guys I didn’t even know were passing various items from cell to cell towards me. I quickly learned that Death Row really was different from the gen-pop. When I first came to the row, there was camaraderie among the guys and for the most part, we looked out for each other.

None of these guys knew me and only J.D. was close enough to actually have a conversation with me over all the other noise. But that first evening I received “care packages” from others around me with food and snacks and basics that we all used, such as toothpaste and deodorant and someone even sent me a state coat and an extra blanket, which I soon learned was most important as once it got dark outside, the temperature quickly dropped and that extra blanket kept me warm that first night and many nights after.

Most of the snacks and other items sent to me came without any note or means of identifying who sent it. Nobody asked for anything in return – back then, we all called it “looking out.” My first night on Death Row was nothing like I had expected it to be, although my expectations themselves had been vague. I really hadn’t known what to expect. I only knew that what I found was not at all what I had thought it might be.

Sometime after midnight the T.V.s and radios on the wing slowly faded out and even the guys talking to others died down and the wing went to sleep. I bid J.D. a good night and threw the sheets and blankets on the already worn-out mattress, and lay back, and as I lay there thinking about my new environment, I too drifted off into a deep sleep and my first day came to its end.

Next: Part III Shaking the Bush, Boss,

Michael Lambrix

Michael Lambrix #482053
Union Correctional Institution
7819 NW 228th Street (P3226)
Raiford, FL 32026-4400
USA

Monday, 6 May 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part 1

Alcatraz of the South Part 1

By Michael Lambrix, written for Minutes Before Six website

The funny thing about not having a future is that you tend to spend way too much time thinking about the past and all those distorted memories of the life you might have once had. It doesn’t take too much to think back to those better days and when you’ve spent as much time in a solitary cell as I have over the past three decades, your attempt to hold on to those past memories too often begin to blend into the world you’re now trapped in and the present becomes one with that past in the strongest of ways.

Most recently, it was a simple question posed by a friend, asking me what it was like when I first came to Florida’s death row so long ago. She wanted me to tell her how I felt that first day and what my initial impressions were. I suppose that was a simple enough question but how does one look back through the many years and describe that first moment when the world he once knew ceased to exist and as if awakening to a nightmare, he steps into a virtual man-made hell that few could even begin to imagine?

As I struggle with a way to answer that simple question, my thoughts drift back to a time in my early teens when living in the San Francisco Bay area where I was born and raised. A friend’s father had just bought a new boat and we all begged to go along as he took that cabin cruiser out that very first time.

We began our trip early that morning at a marina in San Rafael, not too far from where San Quentin State Prison looked out over the bay, just a short distance from the Richmond Bridge that joined Marin and Alameda countries. Side by side with my friend, I stood proudly at the bow of the boat, our knuckles clenched tightly to that stainless steel rail as the water broke beneath us. We skirted southward around the bay towards that narrow passage between the sparsely populated hills of Tiburon and Larkspur, and the infamous and ironically named Angel Island where Japanese Americans were involuntarily interned during the World War II, and then towards the mouth of Richardson Bay where the funky houseboats around Sausalito then lay anchor and our captain, oh captain, proudly leaned down on his horns.

We then swung southward again, crossing the bay in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge with those twin engines gunned as we fought the current that had swept many a lesser boat out to the sea and back up into the bay along the bunks of what was once Crissy Field at the Presidio, past the stuffy St. Francis Yacht Club, on towards Fisherman’s Wharf and the Ferry Terminal.

By then it was approaching mid-morning and, as is so common on those early days, thick banks of drifting fog rolled in across the bay just as we turned in towards Alcatraz Island. At that time I had heard many stories about that island, but had never seen it up close before. The boat had slowed to barely a crawl, inching its way towards that bellowing foghorn and we remained on point, straining to see through those drifting bunks of seemingly impenetrable fog and then suddenly, there it was directly in front of us, the towering castle-like monstrosity that is Alcatraz, rising from the depths of the sea.

As we slowly flanked the island, everyone on the boat was silent, each of us looking up towards that abandoned monument of human misery and with the sun still rising over the distant hills behind the island, that late morning light cast strange shadows from the broken windows of that fortress-like cellblock that topped the island so as that one could almost see the faceless figures of those long forgotten convicts who once made that infamous Rock what it was. Now, I imagines, their tortured souls stood a silent vigil perhaps also looking out towards a life they once had.

We had all heard the stories of the depravation and the desperation of the men condemned to that island hell and how the federal government had closed and all but abandoned the island after a daring and fateful midnight escape that proved the seemingly inescapable prison had its weaknesses after all.

The stories told around our scout campfires hinted that those desperate convicts may had made it off the island, but they didn’t leave the water alive, and there in the dead of the night out on the bay, the tortured souls of these ghosts still cry out as they were forever condemned to drift in endless circles around Alcatraz, never to set foot on dry land again.

But for all the stories that I might had heard, and even when I think back to that morning when I first saw for myself that soulless steel and stone miscreation floating in the bay between those thick banks of ghostly fog, never once, not even in my worst childhood nightmare could I have imagined how my own destiny would one day closely parallel that of those lost souls, and I too would go on to become one of those faceless figures standing in the shadows of the shattered windows of an only too similar cold concrete and steel monstrosity maliciously designed to methodically break the will of even the strongest of men.

It had been about ten years, almost to the day, since that prophetic boat trip when that plain windowless white van pulled up to the heavy steel gates at the backside of Florida State Prison to deliver its human cargo. I sat alone, shackled and chained in a cage in the back, as I was the cargo. Only the day before I had been sentenced to death. That was March 22, 1984, and although seemingly so long ago, I can still remember it as if that was yesterday.

My journey into this man-made hell had begun many hours before we finally approached the gates leading into this beast known as Florida State Prison and I already knew only too well that FSP wasn’t just any prison – it was the end of the line and it was here that I had been delivered to die. Only those condemned to death come straight to FSP as all others commonly graduate to this prison after screwing up at other institutions and proving they cannot be housed anywhere else. For that reason, FSP had come to be known as the Alcatraz of the South, where convicts only came when they couldn’t be sent anywhere else. There wasn’t a prisoner in the south who didn’t fear the place or know its reputation for violence and death was by no means an exaggeration.

There I sat in that van, in the heart of what was known as the “Iron Triangle,” that area of northwest Florida around the town of Starke, where at least six state prisons formed the backbone of an industry imprisoning society’s outcasts. Just across the way and yet in another county altogether stood “The Rock of Raiford,” made famous in a few Humphrey Bogart movies.

As I now know, the local industry dates back to 1913 when Florida built a few temporary stockades on 18,000 acres of land they had purchased at $5.00 an acre. At that time, it was called the State Prison Farm and was intended to accommodate only those prisoners the state could not sell to private businesses, which was the practice even after slavery was abolished.

By 1919 hundreds of both male and female convicts worked together to farm about 4,000 acres of crops and run a shoe factory that put out about 10 pairs of shoes a day. The state hired a superintendent and about 40 guards who were paid $35.00 a month plus room and board.

But in 1923 then-Governor Hardee put a stop to the time honored practice of selling state prisoners for labor. For the first time, all convicted felons in Florida had to be sent to a state prison. By 1928, the infamous “Rock” known as Raiford State Prison was built near the original stockades, and a license tag factory put them to work. Once the construction of state prisons began, it never stopped. Soon more buildings were constructed to house even more prisoners and on and on it grew. By the 1950’s Florida decided it was time to have their own maximum-security prison, where convicts who couldn’t be housed anywhere else could be warehoused and a death house could be built.

Florida State Prison was born the same year I was – 1960. Originally considered an extension of “The Rock,” it was commonly called “The East Unit.” But the unlucky convicts who called it home knew it for what it was – “The Alcatraz of the South.” By the time I arrived, FSP had already earned its reputation as a hell beyond comprehension.

As I now look back to that early Spring day of March 1984, I can’t help but think of the classic Dante’s “Inferno” and how the imaginary friend journeyed down with the condemned man through those nine rings of hell. As much as I might wish I had my own imaginary guide to accompany me down and down, I already knew that it would be my fate to make this journey alone, even though I too was about to descend into an “inferno” beyond the comprehension. To be able to now merge the man I am today with that much younger man that first entered the man-made hell is all that I might hope for as I now tell my tale.

I can imagine myself sitting in that van so long ago, waiting for those gates to swing open and suck me inside. As I strained to see over the guards’ shoulders and out that front window into that great beyond, all I can see was a barren and seemingly lifeless landscape enclosed by first one and then another tall steel fence topped off with rows of ribboned razor wire and between this gauntlet of impenetrable fences were stacked rows of this same razor wire.

The heavy gate slowly slid open allowing the van to finally enter. Above us was a concrete gun tower and below us, a pit where a guard would walk beneath the vehicle to be sure nothing or no one was attached to the undercarriage. They called this the Sally port. The driver got out, and only then could I finally see that to my far right there were blue clad prisoners walking around a grass field and playing softball or working out on weights. That didn’t look too bad. Only later was I informed that those guys were “general population” prisoners and that inviting rec yard was only for them, not for the Death Row.

FSP was a virtual warehouse of solitary cells where most were intended to first psychologically, and then physically, slowly rot away. Only a small group of FSP were “population” inmates, and only because they were needed to cook, and clean and whatever else actual work had to be done.

I stretched forward as far as I could to get a better look, towards a small concrete area enclosed by yet another tall fence topped off with razor wire; Death Row. An even shorter wing sticking out the end of the building next to the Death Row wing was Q-wing. The bottom floor, right through the second window, was home to Old Sparky.

A few minutes later the van cleared the security check and we drove into the compound, straight down a narrow ribbon of asphalt toward the far end. As we did so, I made a mental note that the prison lay as straight as a ruler, with six almost virtually identical “wings,” each three stories high, extending outward from that backbone somewhat like a centipede lying on its back with its legs stretched straight outward. Only as the van approached the far end did the building structure change as a loading dock area, that I later knew to be the kitchen, break the uniformity.

Just beyond that was a circular drive at the base of a long concrete ramp that ascends up into the building itself, which was the only means into or out of this building that I could see. But every prisoner who has ever had the misfortune of doing time at FSP knows this ramp. Although the prison is stacked three stories high, it is actually the second floor that is the main floor of the entire prison. For that reason, unlike Dante’s “Inferno,” one does not descend into the depths of this hell, but must actually climb up this mini-mountain of a ramp, slowly shuffling along in chains and shackles that make the climb all that much more difficult, and then, and only then, do you enter the prison through a polished tile hallway that leads towards what has always been known as “Times Square,” where the four corners of this world cross within.

Slowly I shuffled, and following the directions of my keeper, we moved up this hall towards a wall of steel bars with electric gates to each side.

Upon reaching that first set of gates, I arrived at Times Square and stood patiently as we awaited the control room on the far side to open the gate so we could enter. As I would learn, all new inmates arriving at FSP are first placed in a steel “holding cage” in front of the control room there at Times Square, and so too was I.

There I was to wait to be processed in and brought down to the Medical Infirmary for a cursory check-up before being brought to the wing where I would be housed. Whether it was callous indifference, or the product of malicious intent, inmates first arriving, including myself, would wait in that small cage often for hours, all the while remaining handcuffed behind the back with both waist chains and leg irons (shackled). Even as those hours slowly passed, I knew better than to complain. FSP had a long history of instantaneous “hands-on” discipline and not even someone as new and naïve as I was then would be stupid enough to provoke the guards.

Finally towards the late afternoon my time came, and I was pulled from the Times Square cage and thrown a bedroll that I was expected to pick up and carry even though I remained handcuffed and chained behind the back. I obediently crouched down and grabbed the bedroll and then with a guard at each side. I was led to yet another wall of steel bars, awaiting the gate leading into the main hall that runs from one end of the building to the other to open. And then it did, and I again entered, metaphorically descending into another ring of this hell.

Conveniently, I would get the full tour, as Death Row was housed only on the wings at the farthest end of the hall, through a series of more gates, for all practical purposes, an isolated area that was itself a prison within a prison.

Stepping through those Time Square gates and into that long hall to my immediate right was a double set of steel doors with a small square window into the prison chapel. I quickly looked through that little window and was surprised to find a cavernous space that actually did look very much like a free-world church, complete with polished pews of stained wood divided neatly by a path of red carpet leading up to an altar accented by a wood cross and illuminated by the soft light of what appeared to be candles. Unfortunately, in the three decades I have spent on Florida’s Death Row, not even once has a death-sentenced prisoner ever been allowed to attend a church service.

Walking farther, just a short way up the hall we come to yet another wall of bars with an electronic gate to each side. To my right is the prison gym, enclosed and securely separated by two steel doors and another small glass window, deliberately too small for anyone to get through if a riot broke out. As I looked through that window, I could see the vast space within, open all the way from the first floor below us to the ceiling far above, with a full wood floored basketball court, and what appeared to be a stage where the notorious “boxing ring” once was, now replaced by sets of steel weights and benches. But again that gym is off limits to Death Row.

Directly opposite the gym was first what to be an open dining room, one of two identical dining rooms, but this one had been converted into the “Administrative Confinement Visiting Park” (ACVP), which is prison label for the Death Row visiting area, where if family and friends are willing, they could come each weekend for up to a 6 hour “contact” visit in a relatively relaxed environment. But few death-sentenced prisoners actually get regular visits and for the most part, it remained empty.

Immediately adjacent to the ACVP was the “population” dining hall that at that time remained in use. As I would quickly come to know, Death Row were never allowed to eat in the prison dining hall – Death Row was a continuous confinement status, and all meals are served and eaten in the cell. I would learn I was lucky, in a way, not to have access to these areas. This prison has more killings that the rest of Florida’s prisons combined and most of these killings happen in either the dining hall or the gym. As the years passed, I would come to know many condemned prisoners who caught their cases by killing other inmates either in the dining hall or gym, although a few took place on the wings.

Again, we waited momentarily for the gate to open and then walked through. Each of the 13 housing wings along this main hall are sealed off by the solid steel doors and locked from both sides. That way, even if something happened on one wing, it is isolated from the other wings.

Walking up that hall, the first solid steel door to my left had a large “W” painted above the door. Back then, “W-wing” was a “max psyche” wing where prisoners who could not be broken anywhere else were sent there, and once you went in, you either came out broken or dead. It would be years later, after too many died under the pretense of being administered “psychiatric care,” that the State would close that wing down and today W-wing is not even acknowledged by the FDOC. But for those who did time at FSP up until the eighties, each has many stories of the horrors that took place on W-wing.

In relatively quick succession we silently passed the three housing wings on the right side known as “J”, “K” and “L” wings, which at that time I first came to Florida State Prison were where the population prisoners were housed three tiers high with 17 single man cells to each side of each floor, all the way up to the roof of the third floor, giving the impression of a large open space surrounded by the cells housing over a hundred population prisoners on each of the three wings. Unlike the wings housing Death Row, each of the cells on these wings was built on the outside wall so that within each cell the inmate had his very own window. (Too often over the many, too many, years that followed, I wished that I had access to a window so that I could feel the air coming in from outside.)

To my left where three wings used to house those in “closed custody” – a common confinement status similar to other states’ “segregated confinement,” where those who committed serious disciplinary infractions would be kept for what could be long periods of time, isolated in single man cells with very few privileges and under conditions that arguably made even Death Row seem like a good place to be. See, “The Harsh Prison Treatment at Starke”, Miami Herald, May 26, 1991, by Human Rights Watch prison project director Joanna Weschler (Admin note - Michael refers to this article and we have been unable to locate it online however we have found the report it appears this article is based on - Prison Conditions in the United States by Human Rights Watch. The director of this report was Joanna Weschler.)

Finally, we came to the last of these steel bar walls and its set of electric gates and the end of that long main hall could now be seen. This time we didn’t wait too long and I was quickly guided into this area known as “Corridor E,” which segregated the last five wings.

To my right was “N” and “P” wing, which were used to house even more “closed management” inmates when I first arrived to FSP in 1984, but by 1992 the growing number of Florida’s Death Row would be expanded to both of these wings. To my left was “S” and “R” wing, which in 1984 were both exclusively Death Row.

The segregated confinement wings behind the gate in “Corridor E” are all designed so that the cells are inside the middle of the wing, facing out so that these prisoners cannot have any direct access to a window. Each of the three floors has 2 sides, each side with 17 cells of about 6’ x 9’ and subtracting the area for the bunk and sink/toilet combo, each cell had an open area of, at best, 24 square feet – and in that small space the condemned would be warehoused for not only years, but decades.

The guard motioned me to the nearest wing, labeled with the letter “S” above the solid steel door. As we waited for the guards within to open the lock on their side, I realized there was another wing beyond these last four: Q-wing. That single steel door at the very end of this hall leads to where prisoners are executed. I couldn’t help but look. It appeared to be just another door not at all unlike the 12 other doors leading into housing areas along the main hall. There appeared to be nothing that indicated what might lie beyond that plain door.

But as the years would pass, I would find out that appearances could be quite deceiving. Through that otherwise normal looking door was where the Florida death house was. When walking through that door, one could be forgiven for thinking it was just another wing. And unless you really knew, it would appear to be just another wing. But through that door, if you take a quick right turn you’ll see a set of stairs that lead down to the first level, just as the stairs do on each of the wings. Only when you actually reach that lower level do you realize that it’s not at all like all the other wings.

Thank you for allowing me to share my introductory tour with you and I hope that you will join me in future segments of this series. In the following segment I will walk through that “S” wing door and on to Death Row.

Please check out my website http://www.southerninjustice.net

Michael Lambrix #482053
Union Correctional Institution
7819 NW 228th Street (P3226)
Raiford, FL 32026-4400
USA

Doing Life on Death Row

Wednesday, 2 December 2015

Clemency denied and execution date set for Mike Lambrix!!

Friday, 15 November 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part 4: Between Life and Death

Friday, 9 August 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part III: Shaking the Bush, Boss

Wednesday, 19 June 2013

Billy

Saturday, 11 May 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part II: Descending Down into the Bowels of the Beast

Monday, 6 May 2013

Alcatraz of the South Part 1

Innocent and Executed - Please Read

MIKE'S LETTERS FROM DEATH WATCH

To Live and Die on Death Row

Mike's Book

Who is Mike?

Mike's Story

Michael Lambrix

Mike's Essays

Links to Mike's site and blog

Mike and daughter Jennifer

Blog Archive