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

it meant, but he refused to accept that answer. When he was finished with this, I was left in a jail cell for a few more weeks.
    I knew what to expect this time, but that didn’t make the ordeal any less horrendous. The endless days in a cage, the fights that erupt all around you, the inedible gruel, the humiliating orange clothes, and the way the jailers treat you like scum—it all comes together to create an incredible mental pressure that’s maddening. You feel defeated and hopeless. What made it even worse was that this time I knew I had done nothing wrong. I was being punished at the whim of an obsessive, delusional, power-hungry liar. I just couldn’t figure out why this clown had become obsessed with me.
    After my time in jail, I was once again sent back to Charter of Maumelle. Jerry Driver took me himself, as he had obtained a court order for my institutionalization. He’d given me the same two options as before: either go to the hospital or wait in jail for months until a trial. It was the equivalent of a plea deal—and again I was caught between a rock and a hard place. In the absence of my parents, Driver arranged for my father’s sister Pat to give her consent, sign the paperwork, and offer answers to the questions posed at the hospital all over again. I was chained and shackled for the entire trip. When we arrived, the other patients were quite disturbed by the sight of me. Some later confided that they had believed I must be a madman of the highest order to require all the restraints. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when mental patients question your sanity.
    Luckily, I had to spend only two weeks at the hospital this time. During my first conversation with the doctor she said, “I have no idea why they brought you back here, because I see no reason for it.” It would have taken too long to explain Driver’s fixation, so I just shrugged as if to say, “I don’t know why you’re asking me, I only live here.” I was kept there for two weeks just for the sake of following procedure, and then I was discharged. On my last day, I said good-bye to all the other patients, some of whom I really liked. There’s always a huge emotional scene anytime someone is released.
    I walked to the front desk and standing there was none other than Jack Echols. Driver had contacted him while I was hospitalized, told him where to pick me up, and said that I was his responsibility since he had legally adopted me. If I had had a choice I would have checked myself back into the hospital. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice. I would now be living with Jack Echols again. I was caught in an endless cycle of hell.

Fifteen
    T he guards brought another tour in today. That happens every month or so. Sometimes they bring in a group of teenagers they want to scare into submission. The kids stand around shuffling their feet as the guards tell them that if they continue living the way they are now, then sooner or later they’ll wind up here. They always say that Death Row is the worst. They tell the tourists that in this barracks are the people who would murder their children and rape their grandmothers. In truth, the people who commit the most heinous crimes aren’t on Death Row. They’re out in the general prison population with much lighter sentences. Most of the people on Death Row are here for no other reason than that their case got more publicity than others. The difference between a man receiving a prison sentence and a man receiving a death sentence could be decided by nothing more than a slow news day.
    The tours aren’t always just kids. Sometimes they bring in church groups, or people taking certain college courses. One thing they have in common is that they all know my name. I’ll often hear them ask the guards, “Where’s Damien Echols?” The guards point me out, then the people in the group gather in a circle and whisper as they stare at me. They do it without any trace of self-consciousness, as if I am an animal that has no idea what’s going on. As if I don’t have the slightest trace of humanity. Most haven’t a clue as to how socially inept their own actions are. My family has been here visiting me when a tour comes through, and they’ll stand around staring at my family and me as if we were put there for their entertainment. It would probably be humiliating if my feelings weren’t buried under a mountain of disgust.
    I have always lived in my head, but once I was locked in a cell