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

conversation with two other gentlemen who had come aboard at the last stop. One guy was young, about nineteen or twenty years old; the other guy looked to be about fifty, but it was difficult to tell because of the layers of fat and road dirt. The young guy had long black hair and was wearing a leather jacket with a picture of Madonna airbrushed on the back. He spoke in a soft, quiet voice and chain-smoked clove cigarettes every time the bus made a stop. The old guy had a loud, obnoxious voice, greasy, gray hair, and was dressed in cutoff sweatpants and a filthy teal-colored shirt. They were traveling together, and both set out to convince me that I should join them in working at a carnival that traveled from state to state. They spoke nonstop about the glories and riches I could acquire if I chose to undertake this noble profession. I thanked them but declined the offer on the grounds that I was holding out for a more lucrative deal in the porn industry. Somewhere between Oregon and Missouri they departed the scene, and I continued my journey alone.
    The longest layover was in St. Louis, where I spent six hours. I left the bus station to go exploring and stumbled upon an extraordinary number of dubious individuals. An old black man who looked like a fugitive from the intensive care unit tried to sell me drugs before I was more than ten feet away from the station. This was a neighborhood in which one definitely didn’t want to be caught after dark, and since night was rapidly approaching I soon beat a hasty retreat to the station. I spent the remainder of the time talking to a guy from Germany who had come to the United States in search of his father.
    We crossed the Arkansas state line somewhere between two and three a.m., but I still had trouble believing I was there. A part of me was certain the place no longer existed, that it had disappeared once I left. I looked out the window into the darkness beyond and kept thinking,
I’m back, I’m back, I’m back,
projecting it out into the night. It was a Saturday morning, and everyone else on the bus was asleep. I couldn’t sit still. Every landmark I recognized pushed me to a new level of excitement. When we passed the cemetery where my grandfather was buried, it took all my self-control not to tell the bus driver, “I need off
now
! Let me out
here
!”
    We pulled into the bus station just as the sun was rising. No one else stirred; I was the only one getting off. I got off the bus, retrieved my suitcase, and looked around. Everything I could see looked exactly the same as when I’d left.

Fourteen
    I was stopped by a cop less than ten minutes after getting off the bus in West Memphis. There was no one to pick me up, so I was going to have to walk while carrying my luggage. The closest person I knew was Domini, and she lived about three miles away. I thought that perhaps I could leave my suitcase there while searching for a place to stay, so that’s where I’d started off to.
    As I crossed the street from the bus station, a cop car pulled around the corner. I was greeted with flashing blue lights and a blaring siren. I have no idea what I did to arouse his suspicion, but he pulled up next to me and rolled down the window. Behind the wheel was an insolent slob with a stomach so huge he could barely squeeze into the front seat. With a voice somewhere between a hare-lipped drone and an obnoxious whine, he began to ask, “What’s your name? Where are you going? Why are you dressed like that?”
    I had broken no laws and was doing nothing wrong. He was harassing me simply because he could. The only reason he eventually left me alone is that he got a call on his radio. If not for that, there’s no telling where the situation would have gone.
    Walking three miles with a large, heavy suitcase took forever. I had to stop every so often to rub my hands, which were quickly developing blisters. The day was rapidly growing hot, the morning turning into a fine example of the brutal Arkansas summer. When I reached the apartment complex where Domini lived, I was exhausted and covered in sweat.
    I had an odd sensation as I made my way between the buildings. It was a complex mixture of thoughts and feelings, one of which was amazement (and perhaps pleasure) at how nothing had changed. When I had gone there to see Domini in the past, I was always struck by how different the place was from Lakeshore, and as an outsider returning home, it was surreally familiar. I was