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

It’s the same sort of light found in the ceilings of office buildings, hospitals, and public schools. The only difference is that mine is in the wall instead of overhead. About two feet over from the toilet is the shower, which consists of a spout on the wall with a button underneath. When you push the button, the water comes on for about thirty seconds. There’s no way to adjust the temperature of the water; you must accept whatever comes out. There is a drain in the floor, which barely works. I have a small brown plastic rosary hanging on my shower button. I’ve loved holding a rosary all my life. Just running the beads through my fingers calms me.
    Nanny gave me my first rosary on my fifteenth birthday. She took me to a small bookstore and allowed me to pick out the one I wanted. I chose a long turquoise strand of beads with a thin, sleek, silver crucifix. I always carried it in a small pocket of my leather motorcycle jacket. It was the first of many, though I no longer have any idea what happened to it.
    The cell door is made of solid steel. It has a plexiglass window so the guards can play Peeping Tom, and a small letterbox-type opening heavily bolted from the outside that the guards open to slide your food inside. This door ensures that there will be no fresh air circulating or communication between prisoners. It took a while to get used to because I had been behind old-fashioned bars for nine years at Tucker Max.
    The window is a four-inch-wide slit through which I have a panoramic view of a concrete wall and chain-link fence. The most exciting things I ever glimpse are the flocks of pigeons and sparrows that come here to roost.
    My television is inside a steel box suspended high up in a corner of the cell. It picks up three channels, but there’s not much that comes on that I’m interested in watching. I have two addictions when it comes to television: David Letterman and professional wrestling. David Letterman is someone I’ve only recently discovered, but I’ve indulged in pro wrestling all my life. It’s a tradition in my house. My grandfather and father both watch, and when my son comes to visit once a year, we compare notes, too. I grew up watching it and as a child often had tag team matches with other neighborhood kids. We all argued over who got to be Jerry Lawler. Jerry “The King” Lawler was a huge deal in the Memphis area. He was
the
wrestler. For a while he was so well-known you’d see him on various commercials for local places, and he had his own talk show, which aired every Sunday morning.
    My loyalty to
The Jerry Lawler Show
once outraged and embarrassed my grandmother. A woman from a local church used to make rounds through the neighborhood with a purse full of bubble gum. She would stop at houses and try to lure the kids into coming to church on Sunday. If you promised to come she would give you gum. When she arrived at our house she chatted amiably with my grandmother for a few moments before turning to me and asking, “Do you want to come to church with me on Sunday?” The gleam in her eye spoke volumes. It said, “You know you can’t resist bubble gum. You may as well sell me your soul.” Thus, she was quite shocked when I responded, “Absolutely not.” The smile on her face turned into a puzzled frown as she asked, “Why not?” I looked at her as if she’d lost her mind and said, “Because I’d miss
The Jerry Lawler Show
.”
    My grandmother was mortified. I had just proved myself to be a heathen of the highest order. She gaped at me in disbelief. In her view I had just chosen Jerry Lawler over Jesus, which made her look bad. After the shock wore off she promised the woman, as she ushered her from the house, that I would indeed be in church on Sunday. Not only did I miss
The Jerry Lawler Show
, but I didn’t get a piece of gum.
    At any rate, that’s the nickel tour of my cell. The only other things in here are two big plastic boxes in which I keep everything I own. They’re filled with small packs of Tylenol, packs of mustard, bars of soap, books, extra paper, and various other odds and ends I’ve collected over the years.
    The best fortune I can wish for you is that you never have to see the inside of such a place for yourself. This is a hell, void of anything that makes life worthwhile.
    *  *  *
    O nce I was looking through a magazine and I came across a piece about an art show opening in New York. The artist was a female photographer who had been badly