Life After Death: The Shocking True Story of a Innocent Man on Death Row

stumbled over my own feet because I hadn’t walked any great distance without chains on them in eighteen years. Again, it was Lorri who helped me, saved me. I couldn’t truly appreciate the wonders of the city that first time because the surroundings were so unbelievably different from what I’d ever known. Only after a couple of months had passed and I returned to the city could I begin to take it all in. People still recognize me on the street. They shake hands, they hug me, some want to take pictures. I thank them all. And I’m grateful to them. After all, it was the fact that they care that saved my life.
    I did speak to my mother on the phone once after my release. It was a difficult conversation to say the least. I’ve asked my mother and my sister not to talk to the press about me and my life, though they haven’t respected my wishes. They’ve given false information and salacious interviews, and they appear to enjoy the attention it brings them. I haven’t had contact with them because every conversation I’ve had becomes public knowledge immediately.
    Jason came to visit me in New York a couple of times in the fall. It’s hard to describe our friendship—it’s a struggle to find the connection and the common ground now. We are navigating the world in very different ways, and I think of him as I always have: he is a good kid. There is a moment at the end of
Paradise Lost
when Jason’s lawyer asks him if he thinks I’m guilty. Jason responds that he doesn’t know—maybe. I haven’t seen the film for myself and I didn’t think of it over the years, but I think of it more often now. It’s a moment that is emblematic of the betrayal, pain, and deceit we were all subjected to—everyone involved in the case.
    *  *  *
    S undance, late January 2012. Even I had heard of it, inside the prison walls. Now I would see it for myself. Our documentary,
West of Memphis
, would be premiering there. Lorri and I had both been producers on it, and we would see people’s reactions firsthand. We would also be meeting some members of two of the victims’ families.
    When we arrived we were met by Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh, both producers of the film. Lorri and I hadn’t seen them in over a month and had missed them a great deal. As soon as I heard those New Zealand accents, the feel of “home” washed over me again. They have been with me every step of the way since my release, helping me. Thinking of them now makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst with love.
    To say that Sundance was overwhelming would be a huge understatement. It’s not something I can write about, even now. I just haven’t had enough time to digest the experience. I’m still turning it over and over, examining it from every angle.
    I met members of two of the victims’ families—John Mark Byers and Pam Hobbs and some of her family. They were there to promote the film alongside the rest of us. It was indescribable, sitting down to dinner with them all. The Hobbs family gave me a black pocket watch and chain, engraved with the words “Time starts now” and the date of my release from prison.
    My son, Seth, came to Sundance. He was eighteen when we sat down together to talk outside a courtroom or prison. We’re slowly, tentatively, trying to create a bond. We don’t know each other, but we’re learning. When we talk on the phone, I have the entirely new and foreign feeling of being a father. It’s something I’m gradually becoming accustomed to, though I can’t say I know what I’m doing when Domini calls to tell me about some new parenting problem and asks me to get involved. There will be more to tell, I’m sure, as time passes. I want to have a relationship with him.
    Our film was one of nine chosen to be shown in other parts of the country. In January, I also went to Nashville as part of the Sundance tour. Returning was an unexpected hell for me. I hadn’t been back to the South since my release. I had severe panic attacks; the fear that I would never get out of there made it hard to breathe and impossible to sleep. My temperature rose to above 103 degrees, and Lorri nearly called an ambulance. I don’t like looking back at it.
    The memory from Sundance that I hold dearest is a snowball fight. One night I went outside with Lorri, Peter Jackson, and Fran Walsh. It was the first time I’d touched snow in almost twenty years. It was perfect. It was pure and unblemished, and as white as the moon. And then we