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

the victims. My lawyers were not permitted to ask him directly, “Did you murder those children?” in the presence of the jury. Why? Because, they were told, he wasn’t the one on trial here, I was. It wasn’t really a trial. More like a formality to get out of the way before the guilty verdict. The parents and family members of the victims didn’t speak or act out in any way in the courtroom, though they spoke often and volubly outside for the cameras. I’d watch them on the news later in my cell. My parents, Jack, and Michelle, as well as friends of our family, sat watching every day. When I looked back at them from my seat at the defense table, they would stare back at me helplessly. I believe they wanted to do something for me, to help with my defense, though they simply did not know what to do and hardly understood the proceedings unfolding in front of their eyes. After listening and paying attention for a short period of time, I stopped trying—it was too painful to register the blatant “railroading,” a term everyone started using early on. Jason’s attorneys were very strict about our communicating; they did not permit him to come near me or speak to me, though we made eye contact once in a while.
    It would be redundant to go over every detail, because the murder case and the trials have been documented at length in four documentaries and several books—in fact, you can read more about the proceedings at damienechols.com, wm3.org, freewestmemphis3.org, or at my publisher’s website. Many of the details that came to light during the trial I wasn’t informed about until much later, and much of the evidence (or lack thereof) that finally established my innocence was not found or introduced until many years after this time.
    Jason and I were both found guilty on March 18, 1994. Ironically, it was the longest trial in the history of the Arkansas criminal justice system. I didn’t need to call a psychic hotline to see that coming, but it was still a complete shock. Perhaps it’s human nature to clutch at any little bit of hope you can conjure up. I did, all the way to the very last second. It’s devastating, even when you see it coming a mile away. As the verdict was read, I heard Domini start sobbing and run from the courtroom. I couldn’t turn around to look because my legs would have buckled. I was determined not to let them know how badly they were hurting me. I refused to give them that satisfaction. I would not cry, I would not faint, and I would not show weakness. I had to hold myself up by placing my hands on the table, but I tried to make it look casual. Inside, I started to die. There was no safe place in all the world for me. My stomach was filled with ice water. Hearing Domini was the final straw. Something in me broke. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men would never be able to put me back together again.
    I did not sleep. A trustee—a prisoner who works for the jail—was stationed immediately outside my cell to watch over me that night to make sure I didn’t harm myself.
    The following day I was sentenced to death, Jason to life without parole plus forty years. After the reading of the sentence, I was immediately rushed out of the courtroom and into a waiting car. As I walked through the crowd outside, someone screamed, “You’re going to die!” Someone else screamed, “No you’re not!” The car door slammed, and we pulled out of the parking lot. I was on my way to Death Row.

Twenty-two
    T o get from the Craighead County Courthouse to Tucker Max took about three hours. That’s an eternity to a man who doesn’t know what kind of situation he’s walking into. Everyone in jail has horror stories to tell about prison. A lot of people think jail and prison are the same place, and that they know what the penitentiary is like because they were once picked up for being drunk. Jail is preschool. Prison is for those earning a Ph.D. in brutality.
    My mind was numb and I couldn’t think. I know now this was a combination of shock and post-traumatic stress disorder—the same thing experienced by soldiers who have been in a firefight. I shivered uncontrollably, though I didn’t feel the cold outside. My life was over. That’s the closest thing to a thought I could formulate. My execution date was set for May 5. That was a couple of months away. The attorneys had told me, “Don’t worry about that, your first execution date means nothing. Everyone gets one of those,