Mike's Story

Many moons ago in a life now far, far away I was born at San Francisco General Hospital in California on March 29th, 1960. I was the fourth of seven children brought into the world by my mother; by the time she was only 24. By right and reason I should not have been born as after the first three (my oldest sister Debra and my two older brothers Donald, Jr. and Jeff) my mother contracted polio and was bedridden and not to have any more children.

In those early years my father and grandfather owned a steel fabrication plant in San Rafael and we lived a comfortable middle class life in Marin County. I was too young to remember the first home I lived in, in Mill Valley and as the family grew and evolved we would move often. My first memories were of a house on Oak Spring Drive in San Anselmo and those memories were and still are unpleasant. Although faded and broken by years that have passed at times I can still remember the violent arguments that led to my parents’ divorce. Or rather remember hiding from them.

                                            

Mike and younger siblings

Then mom was gone and I remained alone with the father I feared, especially when he was drunk – and it seemed he was always drunk. About the time I began school I met my stepmother. She barely spoke English and was hired originally as a housekeeper. I was to young to recognize the seemingly sincere Mary Poppins persona she first projected that all too quickly evolved into the incarnation of evil within her that manifested itself immediately after she and my father married. By that time we were living in a large house high on a hill in Woodacre, over looking the Lagunitas Valley below. Not long after they wed we moved to a subdivision in San Rafael, on Court Street close to where the canal opened into San Francisco bay.

Soon the family began to grow even larger as my stepmother Consuelo became pregnant with her first. We moved again to a house outside of Novato but still within walking distance to Olive Elementary School. I met my first best friend there as his family has a small ranch nearby. Over the hill behind us, a short walk away, was the valley George Lucas where parts of “Star Wars” was filmed. There were good times, but there were bad times. My best friend Russell was killed in a freak accident and my oldest sister – often my only protector – ran away. By the time I was ten she was barely a teen but I understand now why she had to leave, why living on the streets off the generosity of so-called “hippies” and hanging with bikers was better than staying at “home.”

With a half brother and two half sisters the family grew to a total of ten children. From outside looking in I suppose we appeared to be an average family – at least it was the only family I knew so I thought it was average. On weekends, especially during the summers we would all pack up and drive out to my uncle’s coastal ranch (“Diamond T”) on nearby Ft Reyes, now part of the Ft. Reyes national Seashore. On long weekends and holidays we would go camping at Clear Lake, or Lake Mendocino and as evening set we’d all gather around a campfire singing songs as dad played the guitar.

But then came the early seventies and the family business was abruptly forced into bankruptcy. We moved from Novato to the sleepy hollow community of San Anselmo. My two older brothers and I joined the Boy Scouts and served as alter boys at the Catholic Church. My oldest sister, then barely 16 was committed to the Napa State Hospital, pregnant with her first child. By the time I began middle school we moved again to a small farm with an old Victorian house outside of Sebastopol in Sonoma County. By then I discovered the means to escape reality first with alcohol, then drugs.

My grandparents suffered a car accident and both died a few weeks later and my dad all but gave up even trying as he found his own escape in heavy drinking. There were no more holidays with the grandparents, outings to the ranch, or camping trips. As my stepmother took control life at “home” went from bad to worse. It wasn’t long before we again moved – this time in a caravan of travel trailers like a band of gypsies. But it was the best time of my life, as for the entire summer of 1974 we camped out at Yosemite National Park. Now barely 14, I couldn’t imagine how it could get any better. Any pretense of parental supervision was now gone and I was free to explore the park all day, every day as if it was my private playground. As a bonus, I quickly discovered a seemingly infinite supply of free beer; as campers upstream would place their beer in the icy Merced River only to be washed downstream by the rushing current… entire six packs were there for the taking and in surprising abundance. What I couldn’t drink was easily sold or traded for pot (marijuana) and the best summer of life became a long party. It was the best of times.As the summer drew to an end we packed the trailers up and began a two week exodus across America, finally reaching Florida.

For several months we lived in the two trailers and a large tent at a campground outside of Tampa. At that time I began going to a local Baptist Church for the very best of reasons – a girl I met in school belonged to the youth group and I really wanted her to belong to me. As I got more involved “Brother Jeff,” the charismatic youth director “saved” my soul and I found a new high in Jesus. After years of attending the Catholic Church this seemed so alive and fulfilling.

A few months later Dad bought a small house in the farming area southwest of Plant City known as Turkey Creek. My stepmother claimed her domain and made it clear that only her children would be allowed to live in the house. But we didn’t complain. My oldest brother Donald, Jr. joined the Army and became “career military” until that career abruptly ended when he was hit with an aerial grenade during the first Gulf War. That left my older brother and I, and arch nemesis Jeff to share the one small travel trailer while my even younger sisters Mary and Janet shared the other.

With the family reduced to living on welfare, we were all forced to skip school and work on local farms or orange groves and the income was used to feed us. If any of us dared to protest, of God forbid not work at all, the physical repercussions were immediate. But once that day’s job was complete, that pretense of parental supervision again quickly disappeared and we did as we pleased.

Not long after moving to Turkey Creek my older brother, Jeff and I and even my younger sister Mary began hanging with a “neighborhood” crowd. We never aspired to be a “gang” and never roamed the area preying upon anyone. Our thing was simply to meet almost nightly in a group, pool our money, and party. Looking back, I now realize that all of us were from similar backgrounds and in our own way became family. On the days I was allowed to go to school I would often join a crowd of others who regularly “skipped” school. On good days we would hang out and party in the woods behind Plant City High School or go swimming at nearby Mudd Lake. On bad days we would walk to the mall in Plant City and hang out. Although caught more than a few times, it didn’t really matter, as I knew nobody at home would care. When the school would impose suspensions it only meant that I didn’t have to pretend to go to school in the first place, which was even better. I never failed a grade. Somehow I attended just enough classes to absorb what was necessary to pass the tests and I made a point of always taking the important tests. Never – not even once – did a single teacher attempt to talk to me about my chronic truancy or anything. I was a lost child and they accepted that.

As the months passed my stepmother demanded more of us and we became, for all practical purposes, virtual slave labor. My protests increased and the physical beatings became more severe. A few months before my 16th birthday the fair came to Plant City for the annual Strawberry Festival and I found a job working at a game concession… and I found a new life.

By my 16th birthday I was out on the road on my own, working carnivals around Chicago. Say what you want about “carnies’” but this band of misfits were family and they made a point of looking out for each other. Most nights I would sleep in the carnival tents and spend my money on food and partying. Although it would seem to have been the last place a teenage kid should be on his own, even though I didn’t appreciate it, those on the lot knew I was a kid and seldom did I go anywhere without a watchful eye keeping me out of trouble. We worked long, hard hours and when the lights on the Midway went off we’d gather in groups – often pooling our money to rent a motel room – and party to excess.

                                         

Mike and friends

In all the years I worked on the road, not even once did I get in any kind of legal trouble. Contrary to popular myth, habitual criminals were not welcome as the show would not tolerate anyone bringing heat down on the show. From early spring into the summer we would work local carnivals in Chicago area, then with summer came the county and state fairs, which meant even longer hours, even days straight during “Midnight Madness.” From Michigan and Illinois State Fairs, we would work our way south through Arkansas and Oklahoma, then into Texas, and across to Louisiana and finally back to Florida for “winter quarters”.

Returning to Florida in late 1977 I met a girl I knew in high school when I briefly joined the high school ROTC program. Almost immediately Kathy Marie and I became inseparable. A few months later when it was time to head back up to Chicago for the new season she tagged along. By late summer she was pregnant and we made plans to return home and settle down. On October 27th, 1978 – both of us barely 18 – we were married at the Polk County Courthouse in Bartow, Florida. The next day I was on a bus and on my way to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma to report for active duty in the Army. Without a high school education and any job skills other than working carnivals, the military meant I had the opportunity to take care of my new family. But what may very well have become a “career” as it was for my brother, abruptly ended with an accident while on duty and a discharge for failure to perform my required duties. After my discharge we lost our health coverage and when our daughter was born in March 1979 at Tampa General Hospital we almost lost her when the doctor failed to do a c-section in time and our little “Niki” (Jennifer Nicole) came to life still in the womb and drowned in her own fluids. For a month she remained in a coma at the neo-natal unit of Tampa General kept alive by respirators, and tubes, and wires, but then she finally came home.

The prolonged deprivation of oxygen and physical trauma of her birth caused permanent brain damage and epilepsy. But she was our little girl and she was home and that’s all that mattered. Both of us still too young and irresponsible to be parents ourselves, and still “partying” beyond excess, bad judgment was a way of life. Within months we returned to the road, living in our car and countless motel rooms. Working carnivals and fairs was he only life we knew. As the season drew to an end Kathy Marie announced she was pregnant again and we made plans to “settle down.”Returning to Florida just after Christmas in early 1980.

I quickly blew the money we had saved to get our own place on a motorcycle – then wrecked it racing another bike on the highway. That was the last straw… Kathy Marie’s family descended upon her, insisting she leave the loser. Her mother gladly hired a divorce lawyer and formal divorce proceedings were initiated; however, before any hearing could be held, we reconciled, rented a mobile home, and I actually got a real job. Accomplishing all that I didn’t see any need to stop partying too. Soon I was supplementing my income by any means necessary as my use of alcohol and drugs substantially increased. No longer surrounded by the protective “family” of carnies, I began hanging out with a more destructive crowd.

In July 1980 our son Daniel Brian was born at Tampa General Hospital. With my irresponsibility reaching new heights, Kathy Marie began paying expenses by forging her mother’s signature on her family’s trust account. On our second anniversary, she was arrested on 24 counts of forgery, and I was arrested on outstanding traffic tickets. Her family took temporary custody of our kids. After a month I was released but she remained in jail until February, three months later. Her family refused to let me have custody until Kathy Marie was out.

Again my “partying” escalated and I began getting into trouble. With nothing to hold me back, I lived in bars and lounges selling drugs and consuming the profits. Having proven my inability to be a mature and responsible husband and father, nobody was surprised when I started cohabitating with another woman. When Kathy Marie was released from jail in February 1981 she quickly renewed the divorce proceedings and by April the divorce was final. Now accompanied by “Kitty” I returned to Chicago to work the new carnival season. Kitty was not a carnie, nor would she ever be. In June we returned to Florida, as she was pregnant. Shortly after we returned I ran across Kathy Marie. With our divorce (which I never challenged) final less than two months, she had already remarried a family friend. But by that night she left Walter – and I left Kitty – and we reconciled.

In August of 1981, while extremely impaired, an argument evolved into an act of inexcusable road rage resulting in an accident when the other vehicle hit a telephone pole. Intoxicated and in possession of illegal drugs I fled the scene only to be arrested a few days later for aggravated battery. For months I remained incarcerated until the charges were finally dropped. During that time Kathy Marie’s probation on her forgery charges was violated and she was ordered into a state “halfway” house in the Ybor City area of Tampa. In late November 1981, Kathy Marie was walking to a nearby store from that halfway house when she was abducted, then taken to a nearby lot where she was raped repeatedly by two men, then beaten and left for dead.

Again this created a wall around her that I could not penetrate. The next month, I left Florida for Utah where I intended to meet my mother for the first time since I was a child. I knew I had to get out of Florida and away from the destructive lifestyle I was living. Once in Salt Lake City I stayed with my mother and found work. But I didn’t escape my need to party and it wasn’t long before I was hanging with a new crowd but doing the same thing.

A few months later came an arrest for drunk driving – even though I wasn’t driving at the time! (It was Utah – everybody knows those Mormons are nuts!). In early March 1982 I received a telephone call from my former girlfriend Kitty telling me our son Cary Michael, Jr. (born prematurely in Michigan in late December) was in the hospital with pneumonia in Plant City, Florida and might not make it. That next day I left Utah driving nonstop to Florida in less than 48 hours. Not long after arriving back in Florida I was arrested in Plant City on an outstanding warrant for violation of probation. After a few months in the Hillsborough County Jail my probation was formally revoked and I was sentenced to state prison for two years on the original felony conviction – a single “bad check” charge, my only prior felony conviction. (It should be noted that when many members of the Congress committed the same crime – deliberately writing a check on their accounts without sufficient funds -- no action was taken against them.)

With almost nine months of time already served in the county jail, that two year prison sentence was actually less than a year. After about six months in state prison I was transferred to a state work release center, where I would work a regular “free-world” job then report back and stay at the work release center.

Once again my drinking got the best of me. Within a few days of arriving at the work release I was caught smoking a joint and “busted.” A disciplinary action was filed and I was placed on administrative probation. A few weeks later I skipped work and went out drinking with my younger brother Chuck – and again got caught. This time it was another disciplinary action and assigned extra duty in the kitchen, and instructed I had to find a new job working days, not nights.

A few days before Christmas 1982 the company I found work with held a Christmas party, which included a smorgasbord of hard liquor. By the time I was due back at the work release center I was wasted. I knew if I went back in would be my third violation and I would be returned to state prison as well as lose all my accrued “gain time” which would mean almost a year in prison. That seemed like a lot and I didn’t want to face it, so I simply did not return, which in Florida is technically considered an “escape” from state prison. A fact I conveniently failed to appreciate when I made my intoxicated decision not to return. That decision led me to relocate to LaBelle, Florida and set the stage for the case that led me to death row. And here I remain.

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The Yellow Brick Road

Outside the window a cricket sings out in its private celebration of life,
as the humid aroma of recent showers steaming off the hot concrete barely overcomes the stench of a hundred living souls compressed into an abyss of lost humanity.

Darkness, in its possessive manner, steals its way forth as I stand at the front of my cell.

Beyond the bars that separate me from the rest of the world, I can bask in the simple pleasure of watching day give way to night in my own selfish celebration that I have endured - and even survived -yet another day.
This is my evening ritual; my way of paying homage to the ability and inner strength of perseverance.

And even in this shadow of condemnation, I do find strength.

I accept that the definitive measure and molding of character is not simply the ability to survive adversity - but to overcome and even manipulate the essence of adversity into a productive entity of which I might find the strength to master.

I cannot see beyond this artificial hell in which I've been confined.

The horizon I see is nothing more than a scattered number of lights flooding the compound grounds and dancing with glittering fire upon the honed edges of razor wire that lie between the statuesque "iron curtain" perimeters.

The only sign of life in this world outside is a spotlight, as it lazily rakes its way across the grounds in an unpredictable, haphazard manner.

But even as they've confined and condemned my body, there remains a part of me that is rebelliously free; that no amount of steel and stone can confine and no man can condemn.

Within the inner self of the man I am, just as within every condemned prisoner, there's a path that leads its way off into a different horizon.

This path is landscaped and lined with the symbolic fruits of faith, hope, encouragement and perseverance; stolen moments of our humanity - and even sanity.

For each of us, we strive to maintain some recognizable, progressive forward motion, refusing to succumb to the environment, finding inner strength to keep pushing ahead one slow step at a time.

And all too often, it is a constant struggle, as this imaginative path takes its twists and turns through the highest of emotional peaks, to the lowest of emotional valleys.

For me, I call this imaginative escape from the reality of condemnation the "Yellow Brick Road", in personal reflection of the theologically symbolic nature and promise of the covenant of the rainbow; because even in the worst of storms, there's always the presence of a rainbow.

And somewhere over the rainbow is the promise of hope.

And this Yellow Brick Road is my odyssey through Oz - my exodus through hell.

And somewhere at the end of the Yellow Brick Road is my redemption.
And it is a strange road.

                                               

There's night and there's day.

With the night comes; the uncertainty and even fear of darkness; the long moments and hours of hopelessness and despair, the feeling that all has already been lost, and that to continue would be futile, the mocking echo of silence, which serves to remind me that I am alone in this concrete crypt.

Long nights of lying awake - unable to sleep as thoughts of what was and what might have been haunt me.

The demons of darkness creep stealthily in to rob me of my most prized possessions of hope, faith, and the strength of perseverance.

But then comes the new day and with it mixed confusion. Darkness, and all it holds, has again been defeated - but there is no joyous victory as the new day does little to restore the gradual erosion of those values that compel me forth.

The day brings with it the anticipation and anxiety of uncertainty; of hopelessness borne of living in an environment of forced conformity and dependence.
Life of the condemned is not life at all.

Rather, it is an existence somewhere between hell and who knows where. A constant state of forced limbo, like a puppet on a string. Having been condemned by society, we now are not allowed to live - or die. Only exist ... if being stored in a virtual warehouse devoid of emotion can be said to constitute an existence.

If life is but the struggle for mere existence and its value judged by longevity - then perhaps by cheating those disciples of death that now demand the forfeiture of my life is itself worthy of that unknown cricket's celebration of life.

I only wish I could find some justification and comfort in that argument. But, I do not; for me life is not merely a struggle for biological existence. Without the preservation of my humanity and individuality, such an existence would have no meaning, or worth. Here on death row, we do exist.

Yet through the condemnation imposed upon us, society has deprived us of the recognition of our existence -- denying our humanity.

It is not enough to condemn us.

In society's demented state of moral consciousness, we must first be stripped of our humanity before being deprived of our life. To recognize our humanity is to create a reflection of their own inherent imperfection, as well as face the truth that they are taking a human life. But to make us less than human pacifies society's guilt.

They don't kill any particular individual, but rather something less than an individual.

And so for years on end a death of the inner self is methodically inflicted upon us so very gradually that it's practically unperceivable. An erosion of all emotion, until having been subjected to the endless rigor of administrative conformity, the person within is lost in a penologically conditioned sacrificial surrender.

The strength to resist no longer remains and without realizing it - we have been subdued.

Conformance, and compliance - even the acceptance of death - become a form of adoptive security, protecting us from confronting atrocities we've suffered in the name of justice and "We The People."
But for each of us, there is a Yellow Brick Road; an escape from the reality of our condemnation; a place of solace and security.

The adversity we suffer remains and continues to plague us; continues to rob us of the humanity and individuality we so desperately cling to. But as long as we each keep sight of our own Yellow Brick Road, we will deprive our captors and executioners of the theft of our humanity and stand strong in our inner strength.

Not only to survive -- but to overcome.

Michael Lambrix

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Another Day; Another Dead

You’d think by now I’d have grown accustomed to the ritual I’ve seen played out only too many times. Since I’ve been on death row there’s been many – too many – people put to death. But it never seems to get any easier. Through these many years I have lived in close proximity to those taken out and killed. I come to know them as a friend, even a brother, as when you do live in such close proximity you can’t help but get to know that person in the next cell only too well.

Today, Arthur Rutherford was put to death, executed by the state for the crime he allegedly committed. I‘ve always known him by Dennis, and I’ll always remember him by Dennis. I’ll remember the long conversations we had around the solid concrete wall that separated our cells, often late at night when neither of us could sleep. He was a simple man, proud to be a “country boy” and what you saw was pretty what you got without any pomp or pretense. He could ramble on for hours talking about how barely an adult he went into the Marines and fought for his country in Vietnam. He’d talk of the friends that never made it home, those lost in a war that never made any sense – but it did to him as it was a simple issue... he served his country when they called him to duty, and was proud to do it.

Other times he could and would often talk for hours about his kids. Often while talking he would make small toys for his daughters out of yarn we would get in hobby-craft packages. I complimented him on a little turtle he made once and a few days later he sent me one just like it for my daughter. He did never had much money so I wouldn’t have asked but then I didn’t need to because that was just Dennis.

It’s been almost a year since the Governor had signed his death warrant and sent him back to Florida State Prison where they carry out executions, He was originally scheduled to be executed on January 21, 2005 but at the very last minute the U.S. Supreme Court granted a stay of execution to consider the question of whether the method in which lethal injection administered in Florida is unconstitutionally cruel and unusual. As I understand it, they actually had him strapped to the gurney with the needle in his arm before he was granted that stay. I watched a local television station covering the anticipated execution “live” from outside the prison on my own television. They talked with is daughters and I was surprised that they were all grown. As they stood outside the prison on that cold winter day they had to ask the television crew if their father had gotten a stay as it was already after 6:00pm – the designated time executions are carried out – and they didn’t know.
                                                             

                                    

Nobody spoke of his children huddled outside the prison waiting to hear whether their father was dead. The families of the condemned are the forgotten victims in all of this and seldom is their voice ever heard. What crime did they commit? What did they ever do to deserve that torment they are deliberately put through? Today they lost their father. Is society now somehow safer than it would have been if Dennis were simply allowed to live out the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison? What good was actually accomplished by putting Dennis to death?

Today, we as a society choose to deliberately kill a man. Although convicted of murder, that is not who he was… that is a simple tragic event, an isolated act, and not the sum of his total life. Dennis was more than that, Dennis was a simple country boy not unlike many of us, and proud of it. He was equally proud to serve his country honorably when called to duty; sacrificing so much of himself in a war most of us still can’t make sense of. He came home a troubled young man but still committed himself to being a responsible husband and father. He was a Christian and believed in the power or forgiveness even when other refused to show mercy and compassion towards him. Tonight the cellblock is much quieter than it usually is as many others around me that also actually know Dennis silently mourn the loss of a friend. In my own silence, I pray for his children who once again had to gather outside the prison and wait for what must have seemed like an eternity to learn whether their father lived or died. Tonight the lost their father and that’s something none of us should forget. When we pray for the victims, let’s remember all the victims. More writings of Mike Lambrix at http://deathrowjournals.blogspot.com/ http://www.southerninjustice.net http://doinglifeondeathrow.blogspot.com/

Bowels Of The Beast

If being imprisoned can be described as descending into the “Belly of the Beast.” Then not only being imprisoned, but condemned to death must bring one beyond that belly into the very Bowels of the Beast. Being condemned to the many years of solitary confinement under that sentence of death is itself a fate worse than death. This experience is not unlike that told in Dante’s “Inferno.” A work of classic literature that tells the story of a man who finds himself sent to hell. His only hope to escape this fate is to descend into the bowels of hell, to pass through the numerous levels, each progressively worse than the last, and only by surviving this journey might he have the hope of being free from condemnation. As bad as it might be when one first arrives, it only becomes worse as the many months and years slowly pass by. With each day, each week, each month, and each year that outside world drifts further and further away. In that solitaire world we call “death row” one is neither allowed to live or die but only exists in a state of perverted limbo, struggling not only in an inherently hostile environment but also in the seemingly elusive hope of “justice” as the very essence of your life itself slowly erodes away and is lost forever, and even death itself becomes seen as acceptable means of escape from the eternal torment of this never ending uncertainty. Upon being sentenced to death the condemned are kept in solitary confinement in segregated units designed not only to isolate the prisoner from the rest of us in the world, but even from each other. Not even one for one moment of a single day is the condemned prisoner allowed to forget that he exists now only to die, Death itself becomes the very fiber that collectively binds this morbid artificial and methodically structures environment together. As you struggle to mentally survive there are those around you that one by one descend into the inevitable psychological degradation culminating in acts of desperation as they might give up what hope might remain and waive their appeals – or simply be found hanging by a bed sheet in the silence of their own cells – as even that certainty of self inflicted death becomes more merciful than this perpetual state of uncertainty. Perhaps there are those who will say that such a prolonged and torturous existence is itself part of the punishment imposed upon those sentenced to death, that they should suffer as much as possible before they are put to a physical death. But then to respectfully paraphrase the German philosopher Nietzsche when we (individually or as a collective society) deal with monsters every day the greatest threat to us is not the monsters themselves, but of becoming the monster ourselves. If we deliberately inflict upon the condemned the same barbaric acts we condemned then for, then how are we any better? When out of malice and intent we deliberately inflict torturous acts upon another, are we not then becoming monsters ourselves? But then what of those later found to have been wrongfully convicted and condemned to death? In recent years over 125 men and women have been exonerated by the courts and released from death row; after being found to have been wrongfully convicted and condemned to death. See, www.southerninjustice.net and there can be no doubt that there are still many more innocent victims of our inherently imperfect judicial system still on death row. See, Justice Delayed Is Justice Denied with so many innocent men and women being wrongfully convicted and condemned to death, how can anyone advocate deliberately imposing prolonged suffering upon any of the condemned? Being wrongfully convicted and condemned to death is not about actually being put to death as the true injustice – the inevitable and irreparable injury – inflicted upon the innocent is that condemnation to an existence under the never relenting threat of death; of the ever increasing isolation as family and friends give up hope and are never heard from again; of the ever changing faces of lawyers who although all too often become your only contact with the world outside never the less meticulously keep their distance and even perceive your frustrations at the injustice as the manifestation of a “difficult” client and abruptly abandon your case when a better job comes along. See, Legal Representation In Capital Cases – Privilege or Pretense? It’s about the faded photographs of a life that once was and is now lost forever. It’s about laying awake on yet another sleepless night remembering the fading fragments of better times only to realize even your own children are now grown and gone and the grandchildren that are never seen. Words along cannot begin to grasp the depth of the impact upon those of us condemned and confined to the solitary existence, virtually powerless to influence the conditions of the environment – conditions of deliberate, extreme inhumane deprivation, of being subjected to the monotonously structured regime for an endless and seemingly eternal period of time constantly reminded that you are virtually warehoused only until the time of your own death – an intentionally inflicted death at the hands of those who today feed you. Recently there has been renewed questions of whether the means and methods of carrying out the actual execution of the condemned constitutes an act of cruel and unusual punishment given the numerous incidents of botched executions where the condemned prisoner obviously suffered a prolonged and painful death. Challenges to the use of the electric chair after numerous malfunctions resulting in the prisoner quite literally bursting into flames as witnesses watched in horror led to most states doing away with their electric chair and adopting the alternate of lethal injection as a more “humane” way to put a man to death. The recent execution of Angel Diaz in Florida on December 13, 2006 proved beyond any doubt that no matter what form of actual execution is adopted inevitably “mistakes” will happen and what was supposed to a “humane” and meticulously planned execution becomes as act of prolonged physical torture as the condemned helplessly struggles in pain. No matter what form of execution we choose, we simply cannot eliminate the inevitable element of human error. The bigger question we have yet to ask is whether the long-term confinement while condemned to death is itself an infliction of cruel and unusual punishment that makes the death penalty constitutionally intolerable. As the ever increasingly complexity of appellate review in capital cases results in the average length of a condemned prisoners stay on death row now easily exceeding a full decade – there are now many prisoners condemned to death for over 30 continuous years – can we as a civilized society continue to ignore that the very nature of being condemned to death, that prolonged uncertainty of the fate that awaits, is itself “cruel and unusual” punishment violative of even the most basic notions of a presumably civilized society, making the death penalty itself constitutionally intolerable? As a presumably civilized society we impose constitutional prohibition against governmental actions that “shock the conscious,” a term that is itself measured as a matter of constitutional law as being found to be offensive to “the evolving standards of decency of a civilized society.” When we stand before the rest if the world and hold ourselves out as a model of social and civil rights, how is it that we now remain alone in the western world in practicing capital punishment? Condemning any man, especially an innocent man, to death brings with it a fate far worse than death itself – being condemned to the Bowels of the Beast, to exist quite literally in a cage under objectively inhumane conditions for many years, even decades constantly reminded that you are condemned to death. It is that existence itself that makes even death by whatever means might claim you a mercy killing, not an act of judicially imposed punishment. Although it is only too easy to discount the claims of a condemned man and brush aside any concerns of conscience over this barbarically inflicted “punishment, “ this position, that it is the prolonged confinement under sentence of death itself that is a fate worse than death has been widely recognized by noted jurists – even Supreme Court Justices – and scholars alike through the years. See, Coleman v. Balkcom, 451 U.S. 949, 952 (1981) (Stevens, J. concurring) (recognizing that the mental pain suffered by a condemned prisoner awaiting execution “is a significant for form of punishment (that) may well be comparable to the consequences of the ultimate step itself – the actual execution.”); Furman V. Georgia, 408 U.S. 238, 288-89 (1972)(Brennan, J. concurring)(“we know that the mental pain is an inseparable part of our practice of punishing criminals by death, for the prospect of pending execution exacts a frightful toll during the inevitable long wait between the imposition of sentence and the actual infliction of death.”) Those most familiar with the prolonged confinement of prisoners on death row — the wardens of the prisons themselves – have also publicly expressed their belief that the many years under sentence of death is itself a fate worse than that of death. The former warden of San Quentin wrote (see, Duffy and Hirshberg, Eighty Eight Men and Two Woman 254 (1962) that “One night on dearth row is too long and the length of time spent there by (some inmates) constitutes cruelty that defies the imagination. It has always been a source of wonder to me that they didn’t go stark, raving mad.” More recently, the former warden of Florida’s death row, Dennis O’Neil has now become an opponent to the death penalty. See, “His Turn for Turning the Other Cheek,” St, Petersburg Times, November 23, 2006. Many of the lower court judges have equally recognized that the prolonged wait of that uncertain fate shocks the conscience of any civilized man. See, People v. Anderson, 493 P. 2d 580, 6 cal. 3d 628, 649 (Cal, 1972) (“The cruelty of capital punishment lies not only in the execution itself, but also in the dehumanizing effects of the lengthy imprisonment prior to the execution during which the judicially and administrative procedures essential to due process of, are carried out. Penologists and medical experts agree that the protracted process of carrying out a verdict of death is often so degrading and brutalizing to the human spirit as to constitute psychological torture.”); see also, Suffolk County District Attorney v. Watson, 411 N.E. 2d 1274 (Mass. 1980)(providing vivid and detailed description of the type of psychological pain and torture that a condemned man experiences while awaiting execution, in arguing why capital punishment is unconstitutional under the Massachusetts Constitution because “it will be carried out only after agonizing months and years of uncertainty.”); Hopkinson v. State, 632 P. 2d 79, 209-11 (Rose, Chief Justice)(recognizing “the dehumanizing effects of long term imprisonment pending execution”) We are a constitutional democracy and it is our Constitution itself that, as recognized by our Supreme Court, Estelle v. Gamble, 429 U.S. 97, 102 (1976) embodies “broad and idealistic concepts of dignity, civilized standards, humanity and decency” against which forms of punishment imposed by the state must be measured. This Constitutional prohibition against the infliction of cruel and unusual punishment “expresses the revulsion of civilized man against barbarous acts – the ‘cry of horror’ against man’s inhumanity to his fellow man,” Robinson v. California, 370 U.S. 660, 676 (1962)(Douglas, J. concurring). Supreme Court Justice Antonio Scalia, himself a zealous advocate of the death penalty, (see, The Greater Evil) has recognized that our contemporary constitutional prohibition against the infliction of cruel and unusual punishment is based on English Law, see Harmelin v. Michigan, 501 U.S. 957, 966 (1991)”there is no doubt that Section 10 of the English Bill of Rights of 1689 ‘is the antecedent’ of the cruel and unusual punishments clause of our Eighth Amendment”) Today that origin of prohibition under the English Bill of Rights of 1689 is defined by the Privy Council, which is the highest appellate court for the commonwealth nations, presided over by members of England’s “House of Lords.” In addressing the question of whether the execution of a prisoner after a prolonged period of time offends basic notions of humane treatment in Pratt & Morgan v. Attorney General of Jamerica (Nov. 2, 1993) the Privy Council concluded that “there is an instinctive revulsion against the prospect of executing a man after he has been held under sentence of death for many years, What gives rise to this instinctive revulsion? The answer can only be our own humanity; we regard it as an inhumane act to keep a man facing the agony of execution over a long, extended period of time.” With such a broad consensus on the issue of whether the prolonged period of time under sentence of death constitutes an infliction of cruel and unusual punishment, why are we now the only country in the world that will keep a man in solitary confinement for decades under sentence of death, yet refuse to even address the question of whether this protracted uncertainty of one’s fate is itself a fate far worse than the infliction of death itself? It is the humanity within each of us that ultimately defines us as a “civilized” nation. Rather than focus so much on the question of whether capital punishment is itself cruel and unusual punishment, isn’t it time that we started to both publicly and judicially address the question of whether the inevitable long period of time between imposition of sentence to the finality of appellate review – a period of time now often surpassing 20, even 30 years – is itself a fate far worse than death itself and whether that prolonged solitary confinement of condemned man is what truly makes the contemporary imposition of a sentence of death constitutionally intolerable.

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A Day in the Life Under Death by Mike

What a pathetic sight I must be as I attempt to squint here at the very edge of my steel bunk seemingly transfixed by the way the slivers if sunlight slowly steal their way across my cold concrete floor on a journey that will soon enough lead up to my evening ritual. With a cup of coffee in my one hand I sip at the bitter taste as I patiently wait for that moment when the distant descending sun will stretch these slivers of light their fullest length allowing me to then see the sun itself as there, so far beyond the three sets of bars that separate me from that narrow dusty window I can look outside across the barren field where the infamous “Raiford Rock” once stood for more years than anyone I know can even remember, but now an empty field where not even weeds will grow as if even the hope of life itself has long been abandoned.At a distance beyond that condemned piece of ground I can see a row of tall Grandfather Oak trees running along a road that leads to the front gate of Union Correctional Institution on the main prison compound. Just beyond those stately trees stands the simple brick structure of the prison chapel with its traditional towering white steeples reaching towards the heavens.Soon the sun will set beyond that distant horizon directly behind this chapel and that horizon will ever so very slowly explode into a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors of fiery reds, pastel oranges, and accents of yellow before slowly surrendering into darker groups as far as I can see in either direction and but for a brief second that fading light will perfectly silhouette that distant chapel cradled in the branches of those trees as a portrait of tranquility trapped between the two worlds of night and day.It is at that moment of each day that each day itself is defined for me, that moment of comfort and private communion that renews my physical strengths if but only by the knowledge that I’ve survived yet another day. Soon that stealthy light will be consumed and swallowed by the distant horizon and I will rise from where I now squint and face yet another of what has already been far to many long and cold nights in my solitaire cage relentlessly haunted by the demons of what once was and what might have been – and even more by the thoughts of what may very will never be.Just as my hopes and dreams live with the light of each day, my fears and regrets come with the cold loneliness of each night as when the small world around me grows silent I am reminded of just how alone and abandoned I truly am. As the many years have slowly passed too often sleep would never come, perhaps my way of holding on to today for fear of having to confront yet another tomorrow, until I finally surrendered to a dependency on antidepressant tranquilizers that each night induced an involuntary sleep as without that temporary refuge of unconsciousness one day would become the next and too quickly overwhelm me.It has been a long and difficult journey. A few photos hang on my wall to remind me of the generation that has now passed me by. There’s the photo of me taken just before my arrest in early 1983, a young man with a whole life still ahead. A photo of my now long divorced ex-wife holding our daughter on the day we brought her home from the hospital,

now faded and tattered at the edges; and then, the more recent photo of me holding my grandson in the death row visiting park. My children were so young when I was first imprisoned – and now I am a grandfather: a generation has passed.Each day has a beginning and an end and yet it is the end of the day that I look to, to define my beginning. As each day begins I will awake from the sound of the chow cart coming through the steel door and moving down the wing towards my cell. Reluctantly I will stretch and then half stagger towards the combination sink and toilet a short step away. The cold water brings me to life as I blindly reach to the wall for my towel. As I dry off, I incoherently voice a vile thought towards this new day and then walk the few steps to the front of my cell to receive the tray of bland, cold food I’ve actually become accustomed to.My cell has no table or chair and to eat I must precariously balance the plastic food try on my lap while sitting on the steel footlocker that holds all of my worldly possessions. We are allowed only a plastic spoon to eat with but then eating cold oatmeal or grits with a plastic spoon is not that difficult and few foods we are served would require more than that.After I eat my breakfast I will turn my small black and white T.V. on and listen to the morning news as I read through old newspapers or magazines that are passed down the line and shared. Although we are allowed to receive magazine subscriptions, few of us can afford to so what any of us receive are most often shared and passed down the cellblock.The magazines not only keep me informed on what’s happening in the real world but also provide pictures of the rapidly changing world beyond us in full color. It’s funny how you never really think about it, but in my world the system methodically attempts to deny us any color. The walls around me are cold and gray – not really gray as they are actually a light tone of beige with brown trim and the bars flat black. But in my mind I still see only grey… cold, cold, colorless gray.The state provides a T.V. donated by various religious organizations – but prison rules prohibit color televisions and allow only a small black and white one, as well as a small “walkman” type radio. Reception on both is often, at best, bad but it brings in the sound of the real world even if the colors are prohibited. I smile when I think of that as at times a particular song will play on the radio and someone will holler out, and as others quickly tune into that station a number of men will simultaneously break out singing along; because all radios must be operated with headphones, the song itself is not heard – only the broken voices of the men; each singing along but not necessarily in tune. In stolen moments like that we each in our solitaire cell become one.The hours pass by mid-morning the cellblock begins to come alive. Down the hall I can hear a couple of guys calling out chess moves and I momentarily follow the game. Closer to me tow others exchange trivial conversation around a concrete wall that separates them and at the far end I can hear one of the “bugs,” those of us so-called because we – or I should say he – has lost touch with reality and will spend the day talking and yelling to himself, or imaginary others.As the morning passes and noon approaches I again hear the metallic clang of the food cart and wash my hands to eat. Soon enough the cart is at my cell and I silently accept my tray, most often some form of mystery meat or breaded “fish” complimented with half cooked rice and watery beans. Whether or not the particular food served that day is different from the day before remains debatable. as the bland food all tastes the same, if one can tell the taste at all.Then the long afternoon passes and if it is not my floors day to go to the outdoor recreation yard -- an enclosed concrete pad with high fences topped by shiny razor wire – I will pass the day reading a book if I have a book worth reading, or writing a letter. If we go out to “rec” we are allowed two hours each time, but no more than a maximum of four hours each week, to play basketball or volleyball, or just to talk to other guys on the floor without the concrete and bars separating us.By late afternoon the guards change shifts and as the new shift comes on we prepare to shave and shower. As simple as showering may be, it becomes a humiliating and even painful experience in this world as each time we leave our cells we must first be handcuffed behind the back and then escorted to a small shower cell at the very front of the wing. Once securely locked in that shower cell the handcuffs are removed and a quick shower is taken before the guards replace the cuffs and escort us back, one at a time. Cheap plastic disposable razors are passed out just before we shower and collected and counted immediately after.As evening approaches it is time to eat again, yet it’s just another meal very much the same as that fed at lunch. There is little variety in the food we eat as the menu repeats itself weekly – for years at a time. If I happen to forget what day it is, I’m quickly reminded by what we are served at breakfast. I eat what I can but even after so many years I’m unable to eat most of what is served. That which I do not eat I feed to my cellmate Johnny Coe Mode, that being the toilet and believe me, he eats well and is apparently even grateful, as he’s never complained. My time with my ritualistic sunsets varies and is at times broken by the evening meal. For now I am fortunate that I am in a cell with this view as most of the cells look out over the concrete rec yard and to the adjacent wing beyond. But even then I would look out if for no other reason than to watch the birds on the yard.We all engage in our rituals this time of day as the cellblock becomes abnormally quiet while we anxiously await the days mail run, each of us hoping to get a letter from someone we love. And after the mail runs it remains silent – the few who got mail quietly read that cherished letter while those who did not retreat into a depressed silence that can last for hours –even days. Even as uplifting as it is to receive even one letter, it’s the despair of not receiving any at all that overwhelms you.The evening turns to night and most of us withdraw to watch television, the electronic pacifier that helps us maintain our relative sanity as God forbid that we should lose touch with reality and become mentally incompetent as if deemed to be incompetent we cannot be executed. The televisions are not a luxury provided for our comfort but a necessity provided to maintain our sanity so that we can ultimately be executed.That tranquility of my evening ritual marks my day, both beginning and end. Another day has run its monotonous course and my cage has become my refuge as I even become accustomed to this small, solitary world. My world is deliberately structured to methodically institutionalize me and intellectually I know that. I accept that the deliberate degradation and humiliation are intended to ever so slowly erode away my identity and even humanity so that by the time I do reach that fate that awaits me I am reduced to something inhumane and unworthy of comparison. By breaking me completely when the time comes to face that fate I am programmed to surrender passively, even welcoming my fate as a means of finally escaping a fate even worse than death itself… the fate of slowly rotting away in solitaire confinement as that fate stalks you relentlessly.This was my day today and will be my day again for all of my tomorrows. In my own mind I chase the ghosts of the past to acquire the strength to survive the future, as the only life I know is the life I once had. In the world I’ve been condemned to I am neither allowed to live or die and it’s that existence without the ability to exist that is my worse fate of all.

Michael Lambrix

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In the Shadow of Death

As I sit here quietly at my improvised desk using a steel foot locker as my stool while slowly sipping from a well-worn plastic cup of barely lukewarm coffee, the silence of the still early morning is unexpectedly broken by the sound of a small bird chirping outside. I turn to look outside through the dusty glazed window but my view is obstructed by the walls of steel bars and wire mesh that deliberately separate me from that world beyond. Hidden from sight that small bird continues to sweetly serenade me and momentarily I am able to forget just where I really am. Welcome to my world - Florida’s death row. Recently I “celebrated” my 25th consecutive birthday here in my solitary cage, isolated and effectively abandoned by the world beyond those fences. I am but one of so many thousands of others who have been not simply sentenced to death, but maliciously condemned to a fate far worse than death: to a virtual hell few could even begin to imagine as we each slowly waste away in a cold concrete crypt come up inevitably overwhelmed by the ever-eternal isolation of solitary confinement not merely for years, but for decade after decade after decade, all the while awaiting the uncertainty of our fate. Once upon a time I was a young man with my whole life still before me. But now I look back and that life is long gone. My then young children are now all grown and I am now a grandfather many times over. As I look in my small, plastic mirror and I confront an image of a man slowly showing the signs of age. Many others have been here much longer than even I, some now almost 35 years. Like myself, these were once young men who have slowly succumbed to the inevitable ravages of age and the relentless degradation of the body and soul. Death row is becoming a geriatric ward where with increased regularity death by natural causes and old age claim us one at a time. In recent months many more have passed on… Charles Globe, Burley Gillian, William Elledge all passed away of "natural causes" while William ("Bill") Coday cut his stay short by self-inflicted injury. Many more are battling terminal illnesses, with cancer and diabetes becoming increasingly common. But that's only the obvious physical consequences of living and dying on death row… it's the psychological trauma that truly takes its toll. Someone once asked me where I find the strength to survive being condemned to death and continuously kept in isolated solitary confinement for so long – and I laughed. It would be only too easy to say that I find my strength in the hope and the fate that might sustain me, but I know I’d be lying. The simple truth is that I have survived only because I don’t have a choice - the alternative would be to surrender myself to an unjustified fate and sacrificing the hope that I so desperately cling to that “justice” might yet prevail. But I know too that for all the physical ailments that afflict those around me, it is my own mental degradation that I fear the most as if I ever did give up my illusory "hope", has only to many here have already done, then I have surrendered myself to a living death that I cannot hope to survive. Being condemned to death in America isn’t about facing a state-sanctioned execution as much as it is about the malice and vengeance that our society unmercifully imposes upon us under the pretence of “justice”. It is not enough to kill our bodies and consume our flesh – but they must break our very will to live and maliciously reduce us to something less than human. This entire humane existence we call "death row" is meticulously designed to methodically break each of us psychologically and maliciously reduce us to something less than human before they ritualistically sacrifice our body to state-sanctioned death at the hands of a hooded executioner. Being condemned to death is not about waiting to die, but about awakening each morning and struggling each day, every day for the strength and will to want to live despite that ever-growing part of you that wants to welcome death. It’s about surviving each day, every day, one slow day at a time, knowing – and never for a moment being allowed to forget – that you are warehoused here waiting to die, all too often even in spite of being wrongfully convicted and condemned to death for a crime you know you did not commit. It’s about the faded photographs of a life that once was – and the lost dreams of a life that will never be. It’s about struggling to find the strength to stay positive when writing to family and friends, never daring for a moment to show just how much of a toll this place takes of you for fear that your own negativity may drive them away, yet inevitably they do all drift away and loneliness and abandonment become only too familiar. As the many years pass, it then becomes about desperately clinging to the fading memories of family and friends who have inevitably drifted away rarely ever to be heard from again, and the anxiety each of us knows only too well each night when they bring the mail as we anxiously await at our cell door silently praying that our name will be called and a letter from a loved one might just come our way – and the overwhelming sense of despair as days become weeks, and weeks become months without any mail at all, and then knowing that we are not only condemned to live alone, but to die alone. I’ve now sipped my last drop of coffee and the bird is long gone… yet another life passing through the cold and lonely shadow of death that entombs me.

Michael Lambrix

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