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

had been discovered the day before. The reports all said the same thing: the bodies of three eight-year-old boys had been found mutilated in a wooded area nearby. It looked like every reporter in the world had descended upon West Memphis.
    It wasn’t just the people on TV talking about it—the whole town was abuzz. It was the conversation on everyone’s lips, and the rumors were already starting to fly. I heard the same two words countless times over the next month: “Satanists” and “sacrifice.” Each day that passed without a suspect being arrested only increased the talk, as the words cemented themselves more firmly in the minds of every gossipmonger in town.
    The very same day, Friday, May 7, I saw the first news coverage is when the police began to sniff around my door, although they later denied it and said they never considered me a suspect until several weeks down the road. Not long after the coverage began, a cop named James Sudbury and Jerry Driver’s sidekick, Jones, came knocking. I found it interesting that Driver himself didn’t show up. They came into the house and said they wanted to talk to me privately. Evidently they did not want my family to hear what they had to say. My mother, sister, and paternal grandmother watched as I led Sudbury and Jones into Michelle’s bedroom and closed the door. They sat on the edge of the bed, one on either side of me.
    This was the first time I’d ever seen Sudbury. He was potbellied, with a horrible comb-over and weak, watery eyes. He also sported the same seventies porn mustache so popular among his colleagues. He didn’t say much, and just sat quietly while Driver’s cohort asked the questions. Jones was all saccharine and lying eyes as he said things like “Something bad has happened, and we really need your help.” Instead of questioning me about the murders, he stayed on topics such as “What’s your favorite book of the Bible, and why? Have you ever read anything by Anton LaVey? Who is your favorite author?” It seemed they couldn’t decide between conducting a murder investigation and filing a book report. Of course eventually came the inevitable “Have you heard anything about devil-worshippers in the area, or any plans to sacrifice children?” I found it sickening. Instead of attempting to find out who had murdered three children, they indulged in these childish fairy tales and grab-ass games. A fine example of your tax dollars at work.
    Before leaving, they took a Polaroid picture of me. Later, I found out they showed it to nearly everyone in town, using it to plant ideas in the minds of an already frightened public. In court they denied taking the picture or ever even coming to see me that day. They had to, because Jones and Driver were from a different office and weren’t supposed to be involved in the investigation in any way. By that point in the courtroom, the blatant lies would no longer shock me because I’d seen them do it too many times.
    This visit was the first of many. They were soon coming at me every single day. They came to my parents’ house, to Domini’s trailer, and to Jason’s house. It wasn’t always the same two; there was a rotating crew of about six of them. It was the same questions, day after day. It became pretty apparent that these clowns weren’t looking for a murderer. Jerry Driver and his two cohorts, Jones and Murray, put a bug in the ear of the West Memphis police department, and they couldn’t shake it. Instead of conducting a real murder investigation and checking the forensic evidence, the police started immediately chasing stories of black-robed figures that danced around bonfires and chanted demonic incantations.
    Beginning that day, that’s all anyone talked about. The entire town was petrified because they were convinced hell had broken loose in Arkansas. Every redneck preacher in the area was preaching sermons about how we were in the “end times,” so you better get right with God or else the devil would come for you, too. You must keep in mind that this is a state in which one out of every four people can’t read above a fifth-grade level. Ignorance breeds superstition. People believed these stories and helped them grow. After being shown my picture, one man swore to the police that I had caused him to levitate. Another swore that the police told him they had found body parts under my bed. These sorts of stories passed for investigation.
    The constant harassment continued to