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

that time I had other things on my mind. I was in my first real relationship.

Ten
    M y sister could not sing to save her life, but that never stopped her from trying. The problem was that every song sounded the same as the last one when it came from her mouth. My mother said it was because she was hard of hearing, but I have my doubts. I’m more inclined to believe it was simply a lack of talent, but no mother wants to tell her daughter she sounds like a bag of cats being beaten with a stick. Michelle was allowed to join the school choir only because the policy was to refuse no one who signed up.
    The choir director had thought it a good idea to hold the first concert less than two weeks after the beginning of the school year. My sister put on her best dress and my mother prepared to drive her to the gymnasium and stay to watch the show. Normally I had no interest in extracurricular activities, especially if it was a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls caterwauling their way through “Amazing Grace,” but that night something compelled me. At the very last minute I decided to go along.
    When we pulled into the parking lot, my mother, sister, and Jack all hustled inside to take their places. I stayed outside for a while longer, dragging my feet and exchanging words with people I recognized. There’s something very odd about being on a school campus at night. It doesn’t feel the way it usually does. It’s an entirely different place, and there’s a crackle of excitement in the air. I was feeling this more than thinking it as I finally made my way to the gym.
    I could hear the piano playing and people singing as I approached the building. There was a greasy yellow light shining through the front windows that suddenly made me feel as though winter had arrived, even with the temperature close to eighty degrees. When I pulled the front door open and stepped into the foyer, the click of my boot heels on the hard tile only increased the winter feeling.
    Ten feet in front of me were two large wooden doors that covered the entryway into the main part of the gym. There was a girl standing with her eye pressed to the crack between the doors, looking in. Her back was to me. When she heard me enter she let the door slip closed and turned to ask, “Would you like a program, sir?” She grinned at me like she knew something amusing I didn’t. Not a smile, a grin.
    I’ve thought about it since, and there’s a difference. A person smiles when they’re happy. A smile indicates warmth and friendliness. A grin is a whole different animal. A grin implies pleasure. A person who grins is usually someone who is being pleased, even if it’s your misfortune that pleases them. My grandmother used to say that when I grinned you could see the devil dancing in my eyes. That’s what I saw that night—the devil dancing. It wasn’t a waltz, either. More like a mosh pit.
    The girl had skin as white as my own and shoulder-length hair that was just as black as mine, with no help from dye. (Over the years many sources have erroneously stated that I dyed my hair black. That is indeed its natural color.) She was wearing a pair of slacks that were so tight many would call them vulgar, and a low-cut blouse one could only say matched the slacks. She had a handful of programs for the choir concert, and I refused the one she offered.
    I never went in to see the choir that night. Instead I stayed out in the lobby with this girl who reeked of sex. It emanated from her like static electricity and was present in every gesture—the way she stood too close and looked up at me, the way she hooked her arm through mine, and cocked her hip to the side as she talked. She didn’t seem to be able to control it, like a cat in heat. It wasn’t me that brought out this behavior—it was any man. I spent the evening entertaining her, and the sound of her laughter twice brought someone to the door to cast us a warning glance.
    Her name was Deanna, and she informed me that if I’d bothered to look back I would have seen her in at least three of my classes. I didn’t understand how I could have sat in the same room with her for almost two weeks and never even registered her presence. We had lunch together every day after that night. We sat alone at our own table at first, and gradually a small but loyal group of people formed around us—other couples, two younger guys who had started trying to dress like me, and a large gentleman by the name of Joey, who