Blessings of Liberty In The Land of The Free

In America, land of the free, we take certain liberties for granted. Our Constitution itself explicitly declares that, “we, the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice and insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and ensure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish the Constitution for the United States of America.” Those are some pretty strong words coming from a band of revolutionary insurgents, our Constitutional forefathers. But have you ever thought about what the same group of men (sorry, women had no rights back then – that’s why they specifically said every man is created equal, not women!) might write today if they had to do it all over again? What might they write if they lived in our contemporary society?Historically speaking, this band of brethren were especially concerned with protecting the individual person against the power of government, and to “secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity.”Could they have envisioned that this “Land of Liberty” would one day evolve into a country that incarcerates more of its citizens in jails and prisons than any other country in the world? Recent studies released by the U.S. Department of Justice (Now, that’s an oxymoron – run by morons!) show that right now there are over two million men and women incarcerated today – and well over seven million citizens presently under judicially imposed restraint. That means that almost one of every 40 people in this country live under actual judicial restraint. Our constitutional forefathers knew firsthand what oppression by an unfair government was. Clearly, their intent was to protect people from the excessive use of power of government. So, what would these fine men say today upon realizing that in recent years our own Supreme Court has declared that prosecutors are legally immune from accountability even if they deliberately convict and condemn an innocent man with fabricated evidence? Think about this for a minute – here in America where “truth and justice” supposedly serve as the very foundation of our judicial system, a prosecutor is legally immune from civil accountability even if he is caught red-handed fabricating evidence and coercing false testimony with deliberate intent to send an innocent man to death row. As if that itself is not outrageous enough, this same Supreme Court then declared in Herrara v. Collins, 506 U.S. 390 (1993) that the Constitution does not prohibit the execution of an innocent person…it is constitutionally permissible to allow a state to put an innocent man to death, as long as he was given a “fair trial.”Of course, if a person is convicted and condemned to death, there is a presumption that legal representation will be provided, right? Well, actually that’s wrong. The Supreme Court has also declared that those sentenced to death are not entitled to legal counsel. See, Murray v. Giarratano, 492 U.S. 1 (1989).Most states have subsequently recognized that they cannot execute a person unless they are technically represented by a lawyer, so the states have taken it upon themselves to establish state funded quasi public defender offices to represent the condemned. But these state funded and thus state controlled offices more often provide nothing but the pretense) of representation and serve only the purpose of actually facilitating the execution. Our esteemed Constitutional forefathers also placed great value on the concept of fundamental fairness in dealing with government and thus incorporated into The Bill of Rights the right to “due process,” which traditionally prohibits the government from engaging in unfair practices – sounds like a good things to me.But then reality comes along and kicks our butt again. Under contemporary Constitutional law “due process” is defined by what process is due under definition and application of current statutory provisions.What this means is that politicians who campaign for office by promising to push for more executions can pass current laws that substantially limit the right to review of a conviction. Take for example the “great” (puke!) State of Texas, which by far executes more men and women than any other government in the free world. Because of politically inspired and manufactured procedural rules governing appellate review of a capital conviction and sentence of death, appeals based upon newly discovered evidence – even if conclusively establishing a persons factual innocence – cannot be raised any later than 30-days after the conviction becomes final.Let me put this in perspective – assume for a moment that you have been wrongfully convicted and condemned to death for a crime you know you are innocent of, but because of the incompetence of your state provided lawyer you couldn’t prove it. They now schedule your execution date. Suddenly God himself and a counsel of twelve archangels miraculously appear before the Texas Courts and declare unequivocally that you are innocent.Sorry Bubba – in Texas not even the sworn “eyewitness” testimony of God himself can stop that execution, as under present Texas law (as well as many other states) politicians have created statutory laws stripping the courts of jurisdiction to even hear new evidence once the conviction becomes “final” after initial appeal. I often smile at the unintended ignorance of people only vaguely familiar with our legal system – people who live in a fairytale world and remain conveniently clueless at how inherently corrupt our judicial system has become. Too many times I have heard (or read) these sheep say things that prove their ignorance. Most of the time they even mean well – they just don’t know any better.For 25 years now I have suffered under an injustice few people can even begin to imagine. In early 1983 I was indicted and subsequently tried and convicted and condemned to death for a double homicide I know I am innocent of, a capital case of alleged premeditated murder that I know was deliberately fabricated by a single key witness and the local state attorney’s office. (Read, www.southerninjustice.net )Several years ago evidence came to light supporting my long pled claim that this entire case – the entire theory of events – was deliberately fabricated with the intent to have me wrongfully convicted. By the states own admission, there were no eyewitnesses, no physical or forensic evidence, and no confession. The entire wholly circumstantial case was based upon my then ex girlfriends claim that I told her I killed these two people by premeditated intent; her testimony was corroborated by her own cousin’s girlfriend, Deborah Hanzel, and the state attorney’s lead investigator, Robert Daniels. In 1998 Hanzel admitted her testimony was false. Subsequently, in a letter to the judge (Circuit Court Judge R. Thomas Corbin) she explained at length how both key witness Frances Smith-Ottinger and the state attorney’s lead investigator, Robert Daniels, has coerced her to provide that false testimony. When a hearing was held on this new evidence it was revealed that in fact, at the time the case was brought, this key witness (Smith-Ottinger) and the local state attorney’s lead investigator, Robert Daniels, were actually having a secret personal relationship “of a sexual nature,” which of course they never previous disclosed. To put this into perspective, this case was out of one of the smallest rural farming communities in the south. (Glades County, Florida) The office that prosecuted this case now has the highest rate of wrongful convictions of any state attorney’s office in the entire country. (Twentieth Judicial Circuit of Florida) So far, at least five men have been wrongfully convicted and condemned to death by this office only to subsequently be exonerated and released from death row. ( Delbert Tibbs, James Richardson, Bradley Scott, John Landry, and John Ballard) After the evidence was revealed finally substantiated my long pled claim that the evidence used to convict and condemn me was deliberately fabricated – just as I always said it was, (of course, I didn’t know my ex grilfriend was sleeping with the State's lead investigator, the very person who initiated these charges against me and personally supervised the development of the circumstantial evidence used to convict me!), then suddenly the local circuit court and the state put the brakes on and have methodically obstructed progress of my case. I now remain on Florida’s death row despite the fact that the evidence has been readily available for years to prove my innocence. One of the millions incarcerated here in the “land of the free,” one of the many innocent victims of a legal system that has become so inherently corrupted by lynch mob politicians and politically corrupt judges. Thus, during this holiday season I will sit here in my cage condemned to death for a crime I am innocent of and reflect upon these “Blessings of Liberty” here in the “land of the free.” And I will ask you to say a silent prayer for the mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, wives and husbands and children of the millions of imprisoned souls who cannot be home with their loved ones and especially for those many who remain unjustly imprisoned by a system so inherently corrupt and cannot be with their loved ones. Perhaps now I will write Santa Claus a letter asking him to send me some justice, but then again, I have no chimney so I guess I’m out of luck.

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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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Facing my own execution.

Even as difficult as it is to reflect upon the memories of the many I’ve come to know that have now been put to death , it is the memory of my own imminent execution that remains the hardest of all to talk about. For many years after coming within hours of my own execution, I built up a wall around me; deliberately pushing anyone who dared to get too close away as my own emotional emptiness all but overwhelmed me. As the years passed I began to receive psychiatric care and ever increasing doses of anti-depressant drugs to get through the days – but it was the long nights of lying awake in a cold sweat afraid to fall asleep for fear of the nightmares that tormented me the most.

How do I describe my personal experience of being taken from my solitary cell, physically hand-cuffed and shackled and chained like a rabid dog, then silently paraded down the long main corridor of Florida State Prison and unceremoniously delivered to the warden’s office, and ordered to then stand before him, and as I felt my own knees tremble and grow weak beneath me, with cold and callous indifference the warden read the black-bordered “death warrant” to me; calmly advising me that the day and the hour of my own execution had now been scheduled.

How do I recount the overwhelming sense of hopelessness and abandonment as I was then slowly paraded back down that long corridor, both my body and mind now numb, until we reached the very end at the solid steel door of “Q-wing” (also known as X-wing), and then down a flight of stairs to the very bottom floor that housed the “death watch” cells – and just beyond them, the death chamber itself. I was then placed in cell #2, between Robert Teffeteller and Amos King. The three if us would then spend the next 8 weeks alone together as our lawyers fought to win a stay of execution. We remained on “death watch” as only a few feet away they executed Jeff Daugherty, and then as Ronald Woods and Leo Jones came within hours, each of us wondering if we might be next. But first Bob Teffeteller got a stay of execution – only to die later of cancer. Then Amos King and I were moved around to phase II cells immediately adjacent to the room with the electric chair. Amos won a stay of execution next only to be executed years later. I alone remained on “death watch,” as the days drew down to hours.

As required by established “execution protocol,” once I was within 24 hours of scheduled execution, the designated execution team was required to perform a “mock execution” to make sure the electric chair was functioning properly. Although separated by a steel door, I could hear their voices as they “walked” through the mock execution, and as I sat on my bunk with my feet on the concrete floor — as they repeatedly tested “Old Sparky” I could physically feel each massive surge and yet I was unable to simply lift my feet from the floor.

A few hours later I was again shackled and chained and ordered to stand before the Assistant warden, as an unknown individual meticulously measured me for the state provided “suit” they intended to use only to kill, then bury me in. Then with indescribably surreal detachment, I struggled to recall my favorite foods as another prison official impatiently waited to write down what I wanted for my “last meal,” and only then did I again sit down in the solitude of my death watch cell and silently pray that, that last meal would never come.

With growing anxiety I struggled to not count down the final hours as the hour of my own execution grew nearer. As if to meticulously taunt me, the clock on the wall above the death watch sergeant’s deck tolled increasingly louder with each eternal second, echoing again and again in the numbness of my consciousness. Desperately trying to distract myself from my own impending death, I would all but involuntarily leap to the cell bars each time the nearby phone would ring, hoping that, that would be the call to stay my execution – and with each disappointment silently begging, then cursing, the God that had seemingly abandoned me in the hour of my need, and would allow the unjustified execution of yet another innocent. In my mind, with my execution set for early the next morning, I knew that the courts would close and the judges all go home by late afternoon. I told myself they had to grant a stay by 5:00 p.m. that day, but then 5:00 p.m. passed. With each passing movement a part of me died as I confronted the growing certainty of my own inevitable fate. Although physically and mentally exhausted, I could not sleep and I methodically paced back and forth like a restless animal in a cage, deliberately counting out each step out loud in a failed effort to drown out the incessant thundering of each click of the clock on the wall.

Then, at long last, that call I had so anxiously awaited came, but then in what can only be described as the most cruelest of in humane acts imaginable, as if maliciously wanting to taunt and break me, I was told that by a 4 to 3 vote, the Florida Supreme Court had rejected my appeal, and granted only a 48 hour “temporary” stay of execution to allow my lawyers to appeal to the Federal CourtIn a brief moment of illusory reprieve, the state pulled the gun from my head and told me they’d be back to kill me later. Then just as quickly, callously cocked the gun again and told me I would now die.

This is the insidious insanity of the game of state sanctioned Russian roulette, as they uncompassionately turned back the hands of the clock that counted down my final hours – and told me to start counting it down again. Tick, tick, tick… each eternal second ticked away until another long night of restless exhaustion and anxiety of my uncertain fate slowly passed, then the hours of yet another long day with no word. On the early evening of my second scheduled execution the prison arranged for a “final visit” with my family – but no one came. Just as much as I was condemned to live alone, so too would I die alone.

As an act of unexpected compassion, I was allowed a phone call to my family, and my father answered the phone. Allowed only a moment to speak, I struggled to tell him that the state court denied my appeal, and it didn’t look like I would make it. Then I heard silence, then the phone crashed to the floor, and a moment later my teenage sister came on the line, and hysterically told me that Dad had just collapsed and she had to hang the phone up to call an ambulance. I never even got to say goodbye. As if an even greater weight had come crashing down upon me, I laid on my bunk in a fetal position facing the wall, never before, and never again feeling so completely alone and overwhelmed.

Sometime a few hours later a Federal Judge granted an “indefinite” stay of execution, and I was told that I would immediately be moved from “death watch.” Then, in the late evening of Thursday December 1, 1988 – only hours from my second scheduled execution in as many days – I climbed each step that led up from death watch and the execution chamber, and with each step I felt a great weight being lifted from me. I had confronted my own death and at least temporarily defeated it, and now felt almost glad that I was being returned to my regular solitary death row cell, among the many others that are also condemned. I was still alive – but equally so I remained condemned to a prolonged and indefinite living death.

Michael Lambrix
Florida Death Row

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