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

valiant the effort, a single person cannot lift all this darkness. So many needed her that there just wasn’t enough of her to go around. She would have had to live here twenty-four hours a day and give up sleeping in order to talk to everyone. One candle cannot illuminate the entire universe, and not many people are interested in the job.
    One other person the guards couldn’t seem to dissuade, no matter how much effort they put into the enterprise, was a priest of the Roman Catholic Church named Father Charles. He was unlike any priest I’ve ever known, before or since.
    Father Charles always arrived at the prison, as he did everywhere else, on his motorcycle. He loved that thing and rode it everywhere. It’s odd to see a man in a priest’s collar sitting atop such a machine, and sometimes the mind finds it difficult to accept such a sight until it grows accustomed.
    The first thing you noticed about Father Charles’s appearance was a bald head. His skull was shaved as slick as Kojak’s or Mr. Clean’s, and the light reflected off it as he crossed the barracks. Framing his mouth and chin was a Fu Manchu mustache and goatee, which seemed to be a perfect complement to the bald head. The only thing about his appearance that was traditional was his black suit and white collar.
    It wasn’t only his appearance that deviated from the norm, as he had all sorts of interesting quirks and habits, one of which was that he brewed and bottled his own beer in his garage. After much practice he believed he’d stumbled upon the perfect recipe, and was quite proud of it. Also in his garage was a giant pet boa constrictor, which he confided to me he’d once watched swallow a chicken whole. He said this with awe in his voice, as if amazed by the intricacies of God’s creatures. In his spare time he played violin and was accomplished enough to tackle the works of Paganini.
    Father Charles was one of the most gentle and intelligent people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. His eyes were alight with life, and even the non-Catholics on Death Row loved and wanted to talk to him. He was a very enlightened individual, and often told me to think of God more like “the Force” in the
Star Wars
movies. I don’t believe his approach was always popular with the bishop, but it appealed to me.
    Over the years I had gradually drifted away from the Catholic Church, because the experiences I’d been through had left me bitter. I blamed Christianity in general as being a huge part of the reason I was sitting on Death Row for a crime I didn’t commit. It was Christians who had labeled me “satanic” and condemned me to death. It was hard for me to get past that, so I sought a new home in Zen Buddhism to help me deal with the anger and resentment. More than likely it saved my life, by preventing all the negativity from eating me alive. Some Christians would have frowned on my interest in Buddhism. Father Charles did not. He thought it was great.
    It was Father Charles who lured me back into attending Mass in the small prison chapel as a complement to my Buddhist training. It’s the beauty of the Catholic Church that has always caused me to fall in love with it. It still does. I later learned that I wasn’t the only one to embrace both practices. Jesuit priests at certain churches have started teaching Buddhist meditation techniques to their congregations as a valid approach to dealing with life situations. Interestingly enough, I had wanted nothing more than to become a Jesuit priest in my youth. It was the whole celibacy thing I couldn’t handle.
    Unfortunately, Father Charles was eventually transferred to another parish. He didn’t want to leave, and we didn’t want him to, but the decision was in someone else’s hands. Now, years later, people on Death Row still write to him, and he to them. People respect him and the advice that he gives. No one since has been capable of taking his place.
    *  *  *
    I have the shape of a dead man on the wall of my cell. It was left behind by the last occupant. He stood against the wall and traced around himself with a pencil, then shaded it in. It looks like a very faint shadow, and it’s barely noticeable until you see it. It took me nearly a week to notice it for the first time, but once you see it you can’t un-see it. I find myself lying on my bunk and looking at it several times a day. It just seems to draw the eyes like a magnet. God only knows what possessed him to do such