My Haunted Past

This is the devastating tale about the deaths of two individuals and the guilt I’ve had to live with.

It was August 27, 1987, a Friday evening around 5 pm.  I was 19 years old.  I was on the north side of Jacksonville in an area called Ocean Way, just off the side of US 17.  I was working for Royal Lawn Care.  As we finished putting the equipment up for the day, I told the other guys, “I’ll see you Monday.” They said, “Come on, smoke a joint with us.  Have a beer!”  I said, “No, man.  I’m done with that stuff.” I had just met Linda Ann Castle a few weeks earlier.  She was 16 years old, sweet, beautiful and a Christian.  I was trying to turn my life around and get away from drugs and alcohol.  And I just knew I was going to marry her and spend my life with her.  So I jumped in my blue 1979 Buick Regal and told the guys, “Later!”  I pulled out onto US 17 heading north to Yulee Florida, about 15 miles up the road.  I was looking forward to spending the weekend with Ann.  I was cruising down US 17 doing the speed limit, when at Pecan Park Road a wrecker pulling a pick up truck pulled out in front of me.  I had to brake hard to keep from hitting him.  For the next couple of miles he was poking around about 40 mph.  Traffic was building up behind us.  We made the last corner where there was a straight away to Charlie’s Fish Camp and a bridge that was the Nassau Duval County line.  I pulled out to peek around the wrecker.  I saw my opening and I pulled out all the way pushing the accelerator to the floor.  I watched as the speedometer climbed 40, 45, 50, 55, 60, and 65.  I wasn’t pulling ahead of the wrecker because the driver sped up. I finally got around him at just over 65 mph.  I looked up and a big blue tractor-trailer world moving semi is backing out into my lane.  I swerve into the oncoming lane.  There’s a yellow 1980 or 81 Chevy caprice, I believe, with an older man and woman, and everything slowed down.  I screamed.  As the cars hit I could see the horror and terror on their faces.  I held on to the steering wheel with all my mite as the cars impacted head on at 60-65 mph.  The metal just folded over.  The caprice spun out into the ditch.  As the wrecker hit me from behind, an 80’s El Camino hit me from the front. I was trying to come out the window but I was hit two more times from behind, by the truck the wrecker was pulling and a 280Z.  The steering column had broken and was lying over near the passenger seat. The dashboard was on my knees.  I squeezed from under it and climbed out the window falling onto the asphalt.  My nose was broken and blood was pouring onto my shirt.  I stood up and looked at the twisted mangles mess that was my 79 Buick Regal.  The front tie on the driver’s side was pushed back under the floorboard.  The motor was pushed up under the passenger seat. The roof, trunk and quarter panels were buckled.  I glanced around at the other cars and twisted metal.  I looked down at the west side of US 17 at the woods, knowing the railroad tracks were maybe 100 yards on the other side.  Knowing that a mile trek down the railroad tracks would put me at home, I started up the ditch.  I hit the edge of the woods and stopped.  I looked back and thought, “No, I can’t run.” I knew there were some trailers on the east side of US 17, down the road the semi was turning on to.  So I ran back up the embankment, across 17 and down that road.  I saw a trailer and ran up and knocked on the door.  A woman answered and I could see the shocked look on her face, as she looked at me covered in blood.  I said, “I just got in a wreck. I need to call my dad.” She handed me the receiver as I gave her the number in my wallet. My dad’s voice came over the phone, “Hello?”  I said, “Dad, I’ve been in an bad wreck on 17 about a half mile from Charlie’s Fish Camp.  Hurry up and come up here!”  I heard the phone go dead.  I handed the woman the receiver back, saying, “Thank you very much.”  As I headed back to US 17 I stopped to look at my car, which had come to rest right in the middle of 17.  Moments later the police pulled up, Florida Highway Patrol.  My dad arrived right behind them.  He let down the tailgate of the Bronco and I sat down on it.  He said, looking at my car, “You said wreck, I thought you meant fender bender.  I don’t know how you walked away from this.”  The ambulances pulled up on the scene.  I told them I was okay.  I wasn’t going to the hospital.  The state trooper was asking who was driving the Buick Regal.  People pointed over at me.  He came over, pointed at my car and asked, “You were driving that?”  He sounded surprised.  I responded, “Yes.” He said, “I don’t know how you’re alive, much less walking around.” He brought the paramedics over.  I said, “Look, I’m fine.”  They told me I could have internal bleeding.  I said, “I’m fine.  Leave me alone.”

The state trooper took me and put me in the back of his car.  He shut the door and returned a few minutes later and said, “You have two choices.  You either let them take you to the hospital or I’m taking you to jail.”  He was bluffing but I didn’t know it.  So I agreed to go to the hospital.  The paramedics put me on a stretcher, strapped me down, placed me in the back of the ambulance and headed for University Hospital.

When we arrived at University hospital, I was taken into the emergency room.  Curtains were closed on certain patients.  I could hear chaos going on as the medical staff was working on one patient who was flat lining.  As that was taking place on one side of the curtain, I reached up, took the neck brace off, and threw it on the floor and said, “I’m getting out of here.”  The nurse held me down as she yelled for more medical staff.  I said, “Look, I’m okay and I’m getting gout of here.”  The doctor stood over me and said, “You may have internal bleeding and if so, it could kill you.”  And he went on to explain how two cars traveling at 60mph hitting head on can jar the internal organs, causing damage.  I kept repeating that there was nothing wrong with me. 

He said, “Fine.  You can get up and walk out of here and leave.”  I went to rise up and discovered that I couldn’t.  My back had tightened up.  I was like, “Oh s#@*!”  The doctor said, “See, you don’t realize what the impact did.” I said, “I was walking around fine 30 minutes ago.”  He said, “You were running on adrenaline.”  I said, “Fine.  I’ll sign the paper.”  I signed it and was laying there listening to the doctor call the lady’s death and I could hear the medical staff talking about me, saying we were in the same car wreck.  My heart sank.  I could see the faces of her and husband upon impact.  I still have flashbacks of that car wreck and the impact to this very day.  I went through surgery, and woke up with tubes in my nose, in a hole they cut right below my belly button, and in my penis.  I was a bad patient.  As soon as I came to, I pulled the hose out of my nose and was trying to remove the other two when a nurse came in and stopped me.  I said, “I’m getting out of here right now!”  She said, “You need to see the doctor first.”  I said, “Get him cause I’m leaving.” The doctor showed up and again, I agreed to stay and let them observe me.  The two hoses stayed in so they could monitor internal bleeding.  My stepmother, Frances, and Ann came to see me on Sunday.  On Monday I signed myself out against the doctor’s orders.  I had had enough of that hospital.  I lay in bed at the house for about a week, popping pain pills and muscle relaxants.  I started smoking weed and drinking again.  I was trying to dull the pain and the guilt I felt over those people dying.  I went up to the Lit’l Champ store several weeks after I got out of the hospital.  As I was leaving, two rough looking guys (mustaches, beards, denim vests) were walking toward me.  I was 19 years old, 6’4” 180 lbs, skinny and one guy’s name I later learned was Lee said, “Hey! You’re the guy who was in that car wreck!” I looked at him in surprise.  I said, “Yeah, that was me, “ and I continued to walk. He said, “How does it feel to have killed two people?” He partner pulled him, saying, “Leave that alone!” I screamed “M_____ F_____!  I don’t give a f___ about them and I don’t give a f____ about you!”  Lee backed up when he saw me go from non-threatening baby faced to rage!  I can still taste the rage I felt at that moment.  I ended up leaving Ann, to avoid involving her in my drug and alcohol use.  

Two years later, at that same Lit’l Champ store, I pulled in next to a white pickup truck.  I was driving my girlfriend, Tracey’s black 1988 RS Camaro.  As Tracey and I walked into the store, I looked over at the driver of the truck, and recognized Lee.  That flash of rage immediately returned and I started walking towards his truck.  I was mad and he could see it and he threw his truck in reverse and backed out.  I knew I couldn’t catch him on foot so I turned to go back to the store.  Lee pulled back in, toying with me, so I turned back towards him and again, he pulled out.  I walked back to the store and I was cussing.   Tracey said, “Alright, Badass, that’s enough.”  I yelled at her to get in the car, and I jumped in and started the car.  Lee took off and I could see where he was headed.  We were staying at my dad’s house at 716 Trinity Circle, just a block away from the store.  I pulled into the driveway and threw the car into park.  I ran into the front room of the trailer, grabbed my gun from the bedroom and ran out the back door, jumping into my 1982 Z28.  I sped out to chase Lee down.  I caught up with him.  We were on a dirt road when I lost control of my car and put it in a ditch.  I was mad as hell.  He was playing with fire and didn’t know it. 

The day of the accident, Friday, August 27, 1987, still haunts me to this very day.  I have lived and relived that moment for 23 years.  Should have….  Would have….  Could have…. I should have put that car in a ditch or hit the semi.  What if I had stayed and gotten high and had a beer with the guys?  If only I could do it over again. But, instead I’m haunted by my past.

It Is What It Is

The following article by Jacqui Lang is from an Australian magazine.  The entire story is a lie, and had anyone investigated, they would have discovered it was lie.  If anyone knows what magazine it came from, I encourage you to send an email informing Jacqui Lang about it.  Please view the article that was written in 2008.  Kryssy tells Jacqui that she flew to America in 2005 and visited me on December 2, 2010.  Obviously Jacqui didn’t investigate this at all.  Kryssy’s passport would have substantiated that she didn’t come to the U.S. in 2005.  A call to the prison would have verified that Kryssy didn’t visit the institution in 2005 and in face she didn’t even get on my visiting list until October 2006.

The true story is that we didn’t start writing until 2005, around September.  And she immediately was saying she loved me.  She had read my poetry and essays on a web site.  I told her she was in love with an idea, not me. Because she didn’t know me.  I also didn’t know she was married.  Yes, I cared about her because she’s a woman and I love women.  But I kept telling her, “Look, you need to focus on your kids, not on me.  My life is a hellish existence, and trust me you don’t want to be a part of it.  You’re better off with the life you have.” In fact at this point in 2005, I was still trying to get over a woman I had fallen in love with.  That is another story in and of itself.  But in late 2006 I gave in and said, “You want a relationship?  Fine. But I can’t make any promises.”

I only spoke with Kryssy one time and it was because I was back at the Duval County Jail at a hearing in February 2007.  She got the Chaplin there to allow us to talk.  The call lasted maybe 5 minutes.  I told her again that this wasn’t a life she wanted. But she insisted that she loved me and wanted a life with me.  If nothing else I wanted her to know what she was getting into.  I want someone to love and love me, but I feel so guilty about pulling a woman into my hell. So I always end up trying to talk them out of it.  I did have feelings for Kryssy.  I got mad at her for lying in her letters.  And I compared her to my second wife Josie who lied to me all the time.  She got mad and stopped writing for a few weeks.  She was driving my mother crazy calling her all the time.  I actually heard about this article before I saw it.  A friend of mine who’s a priest, Father Ron Peters, wrote me a letter and said, “I can’t believe you didn’t share your engagement with me, etc…”I asked for a copy of the story and you see what he sent me.

When I read it I was pissed because now she’s got me in a lie involving millions of people.  I wrote to her and told he about it and I haven’t heard back from her since.  It just amazes me that someone would write a story without investigating or contacting the other party – me!  I would have told Jacqui Lang that the story was false.  But because no one bothered to contact me, this untrue story was published and shared with thousands or maybe millions of people.

Like I said, if you know what magazine this came from, please let me know and/or send Jacqui Lang the web address to this story.  Maybe bringing this to their attention will assist in them doing better investigations into their stories.  I know, I have more drama going on in 6 square foot cage than most people in the free world I don’t know what to ay about that, except, hey, it is what it is. Thank you for your time

Legal Update

On November 18, 2010, I sat down with Linda McDermott and we had a talk.  I tried to make her understand where I’m coming from in lacking trust in lawyers because of what Harry P. Brody did to me.  Lying to me and then attempting to procedurally bar all the evidence in my case.  And she says she does understand.  I looked her in the eyes and I listened to her.  And I think I can trust her.  She seems to be a very honest and trustworthy individual.  I know she’s got a good reputation around here.  But the fact that I’m starting to trust her scares me. 

For I trusted Brody and look what he did to me.  I never would have believed in a million years that Brody would have done this to me. 

But I know I’ve got to trust, and so I’m going to try to be patient and give her the chance to do her job.  Although just writing that scares the living hell out of me because I don’t trust myself sometimes, much less anyone else.

Anyway, I’m currently working on an essay dealing with the murder of Ronald Willis, for which I’m sentenced to death.  I’m going to be including exhibits, depositions, sworn statements, FDLE Reports, etc…. So you can witness a miscarriage of justice for yourself.

Thank you again to all those following my site.  Please take care.  

Vindictive DOC Rules

I want to share a rule here in the Florida Department of Corrections (FDOC) that doesn’t restrict inmates from writing or receiving letters from pen pals, but restricts the inmates from advertising for pen pals.  The rule is under chapter 33-210:101 section (9).  If you violate this rule, not only will you do 30 days in Disciplinary Confinement (DC), but the prison administration will give you a six month mail suspension.  Cut you off from your family, friends and all loved ones, you can’t receive any cards or letters, nor can you send a card to your mother, father, daughter, son, grandparent, etc… to wish them a merry Christmas or happy birthday.  And this is not done in the name of security, because an inmate violated a law, but over an FDOC rule that is going to eventually fall in the court. Several companies are challenging this right now. 

I got caught up in this rule in 2005.  I had an ad up that had been up since 2002, over a year before they passed this moronic rule.  And in December 2005, with no warning, I received a Disciplinary Report (DR) for mail violation.  And I got 30 days DC time and 180 days mail suspension.  I immediately started a hunger strike, which lasted 3 weeks.  I managed to get them to drop the mail suspension to 60 days, and I’m still not happy about that.  It’s been 5 years and I’m still mad when I think about it.  Some of the people within these prison administrations have no compassion whatsoever for the families of the inmates.  They intentionally sever family ties.  The FDOC is notorious for this, not just for cutting off the mail.  No, some idiot rule maker decided not only will we give the prison administration the arbitrary and capricious right to suspend and sever family ties through the mail suspension, but we will allow them to sever family ties through visits also.  And not for violating a law, or even for violating a visiting rule.  You simply get two DR’s in a year and they can suspend your visitation for 6 months or a year.  So now your family is suffering because your lines of communication have been shut down.

Family ties and bonds should be encouraged because when those ties are completely severed and you have a prisoner who has absolutely no one to care, love or show compassion, then what you have done is created an animal.  For it’s not normal to cut a person off from complete and total human contact.  It’s unnatural.  And when you take away any and all hope, then what do you have left?  Now there are those who say, “You’re under the sentence of death, you deserve to be treated like an animal.” Well, not everyone who gets convicted of murder is actually guilty.  Florida has released (I believe) 24 men from death row since the death penalty was reinstated in 1974.  Secondly, inmates in general population are being subjected to this rule as well, inmates who will eventually make it back into society, so you should care.

Back in 2002 through 2004 I spent some time in Q-wing at Florida State Prison.  The prison administration was abusing the hell out of men.  They were confining us to a cell where we had nothing.  No TV, no radio, no newspapers, magazines, or books.  The only reading material was a bible.  You got recreation once every 30 days if you were lucky.  This was your worst nightmare.  And you could spend 6 months or 6 years there, it’s up to them.  I organized a hunger strike in February 2004 that brought attention to the abuse and got half of us move off of Q-wing.  We should have never been under those conditions to begin with.  I was over there because someone said I had a handcuff key.  It was a lie. 

Over there I witnessed the misuse of mace, guys being sprayed for amusement, and these were men who were doing prison sentences, who would be going back to the street.  Some were being released from Q-wing directly back to the street.  This took stupidity to a whole nother level.  There’s no way I’d want my loved ones living next door to someone who’d been abused and mistreated like that.  You have dehumanized these men, treated them in a manner worse than you would treat an animal, and then you throw them out of the cage into society.  Can someone explain this rampant stupidity?  It just boggles the mind!

I was arrested in 1985.  I had a serious drug and alcohol problem.  I was 17 years old.  I’d violated probation several times.  I was sent to a drug center in the summer of 1986, which I ran from.  All I wanted to do was get high.  I saw guys popping in and out of the jail house, and I was told,”You can go to prison and you will be out in less than a year with no probation.” So I asked for prison time.  I’d serve less than a year at Appalachee Correctional Institution (ACI). Going into the FDOC, they knew I had a drug problem, yet no treatment was administered.  In fact the whole time I was at ACI, I was stoned or drunk.  I was making prison wine called “buck,” and smoking weed like I was on the street.  I was still a druggie. There as no real effort made to rehabilitate.  So when I returned to the street I was still a druggie.  Would I have succeeded, had there been?  Well, that’ a question we’ll never know the answer to.  I hear all this talk about how we cut programs because they’re too expensive and that’s why we’ve given up on rehabilitation.  Here in the FDOC, we have over 100,000 inmates.  You have 100,000 able bodies available for slave labor, yet everything’s being contracted out rather than making the prison system be self-sufficient.  For instance, raising and growing their own food, the excess of which could be given to homeless shelters. Prison canteen.  Keefe Commissary Network is making millions of dollars off a prison canteen, which could be run by FDOC.  This would allow the money to be placed back into the FDOC to cut the budget back.  This is free labor!  If this place was run like a company, it could generate millions of dollars a year in profit.  Something is definitely wrong here.  I don’t know whether these contracts are allowing people to steal or what the deal is.  But if the FDOC were a real corporation it would be out of business.  Keefe Commissary Network was involved in illegal contracts with former secretary/current inmate James V. Crosby Jr. back in 2003-4.  One such contract sent Crosby to prison.  Why FDOC did not ban Keefe from any further contract bids is a mystery.  Keefe should have been banned from any further bidding for at least a decade.  Yet people turned a blind eye to Keefe’s corruption and allowed them back into the game.  Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?  There’s a lot of corruption and abuse inside these prison walls.

Hopefully, in the near future you will see Florida inmates back on pan pal web sites and this unconstitutional rule will be lifted.  Most guys I know are anxiously awaiting the ruling so we can get out there.  The rule doesn’t prohibit us from writing to pen pals, just from soliciting them through ads.  And I know most guys aren’t getting much mail these days.  At least, I don’t. 

Thank you very much for allowing me to share this with you.

Fear

I grew up in a very violent drug and alcohol polluted family.  Both of my grandfathers were alcoholics, as was my maternal grandmother.  I called her Big Ma.  Since my mother and father still had their desire to party and hang out, Big Ma and Granddaddy raised me during my early childhood.  Big Ma had served prison time in the Georgia State Penitentiary back in the 1930’s for killing a man.  This was common knowledge and most people feared her.  She had cut my granddaddy Herman Carver up with a butcher knife on several occasions, as well as beat him with a baseball bat.  She had her flaws, as we all do, but she was the love of my life. We lived on 3^rd and Iona in Jacksonville, Florida in a predominantly black neighborhood.  They owned several houses that they rented out. 

On May 7, 1973 I was 5 years old and I was sitting on my granddaddy’s lap as he was sitting on the couch there in the living room.  To the left of us was the bathroom door.  Big Ma had just gone in and closed the door.  Granddaddy said, “When I die, I want you to have the shot gun.” It was an old 12 gauge shot gun…. Seconds later, he made a loud noise that startled me.  I looked up into his eyes and knew something was terribly wrong.  I jumped out of his lap, screaming for Big Ma.  She came running out of the bathroom.  My memory is cloudy at this point….

Fire and Rescue showed up but it was too late.  Herman Carver died on May 7, 1973.  We attended his funeral at a little church up in Georgia, which he was buried behind.  After his death, I clung to Big Ma even harder.  I skipped kindergarten just so I could stay home and be close to her.  Over the next few years she would have several heart attacks.  One night as we were getting ready for bed, she pulled the blankets back and collapsed on the floor.  I ran to the front house screaming for help.  Her tenants came running, and the night was full of chaos with ambulances, and fire and rescue.  She survived and that’s all that mattered in my small world. 

My mother and father divorced in 1973, so I shuffled back and forth between my mom, Dad and Big Ma.  My mom began a lesbian relationship.  My dad remarried.  But he and my mom would still have some brutal fights, mostly due to alcohol.  Which causes more death, violence and misery than any other drug.  Because my mother was gay, I had a father who worried about me being gay, and therefore took a little boy who had nothing but love and compassion in his heart and tried to make that little boy as mean and tough as possible. 

I believe Big Ma had the same concerns.  But her remedy was to supply 6,7,8 year old boy with pornography.  Not just Playboy, but hard-core porn such as Hustler.  Mom would constantly take them away from me and tell Big Ma, “You shouldn’t be giving those to him.”  Big Ma would say, “He’s a boy, it’s natural.”  She would rent rooms to winos and that’s where most of the magazines came from. 

In the summer of 1976 I was 8 years old.  I spent the week with Big Ma.  I was sitting on the front porch of the front house.  One of the winos named Register was sitting out there.  I was playing with his can of Prince Albert smoking tobacco, when I accidentally spilled it.  He began yelling, “You little bastard,” and began chasing me towards the rear house that Big Ma lived in.  I screamed out for Big Ma and out the door she came.  She picked up a metal pipe and began chasing Register back up the sidewalk, cussing him and beating him all in the head.  He had knots and cuts all over his head and was bleeding like a stuck pig.  The poor old drunk let alcohol dilute his senses.  But Big Ma knocked the sense back into him.  She was no joke, tough as nails, mean as hell.  But she was my Big Ma, my love, my life, my world, my rock, yes, my everything!

On August 5, 1976 the weekend after the incident with Register, I spent the weekend with Dad and the day at the beach.  Fernandina Beach.  We were in Dad’s supped up 1964 EL Camino traveling south down US 17 in the Yulee area, headed back to Jacksonville.  Before reaching the Nassau/Duval County line, my dad’s friend Robert was coming northbound and as he saw us he blew his horn and spun his 1969 Super Bee around.  Dad pulled over to the side of the road.  Robert pulled in behind us.  I was sitting in the El Camino with my stepmother Frances, as Dad got out.  Robert met him at the back of the El Camino.  A few minutes later Dad returned.  I knew something was terribly wrong.  I could see the tears in his eyes as he started the engine, pulling out onto the asphalt, tired squealing as he was running through the gears.  At no time we were in excess of 100 miles per hour.  I kept asking what was wrong?  What’s wrong? When he finally responded, “Big Ma’s dead!”  The entire foundation of my little world fell out from under me.  I was way beyond hurt.  I was completely and totally devastated.  I never have hurt like that before or since.  And needing to blame someone, my focus went to Register, who had upset her earlier that week.  I said through sobs, “It’s Register’s fault.  I want you to get him.”  We entered the Springfield area and came up to Big Ma’s house at 3^rd and Iona.  Register, all beat and bruised from Big Ma, was sitting on the front steps.  I pointed to Dad like you would point for an attack dog and said, “Get him!”  Dad jumped out and crossed the street heading towards Register.  I was right on his heels.  Register looked at us.  I can still se it like it was yesterday.  The old man’s eyes were sad.  What I didn’t know was that he and Big Ma were lovers.  Dad threw a punch that landed on Register’s right cheek.  The punch was thrown with such force that upon impact the whole cheek caved in and blood shot out of the corner of the old man’s eye, splattering all over the steps.  His body went limp; contorting as he lay there sprawled out in a bloody mess.  I remember thinking, “What have I done?”  I felt guilty for Big Ma’s death, for had I not dumped the tobacco out, she wouldn’t have gotten worked up beating on Register and therefore wouldn’t have had the heart attack. But now I had more guilt to contend with for here was this poor old man, lying battered in a pool of blood because of my need to blame anyone other than myself. 

My dad picked me up in his arms and walked towards Big Ma’s house, as I looked back over his shoulder, unable to take my eyes off what I had done.  We entered Big Ma’s house where everyone had gathered, and my mom held me as I cried.  My world had been shaken so badly.  I’d never find peace of mind over her death.  I dreamed about her.  I’d look out the car window thinking I’d see her.  I was lost without her. 

In 1978, my mom and her lover, Dee, enrolled me in a Christian school called Amadell.  They handled grades K-12.  One day instead of attending classes, we went to the chapel to watch a movie.  The movie starts off with a couple of guys on motorcycles, which grabs every little boy’s attention.  These two bikers pull up at a church, get off their bikes enter the church and they start harassing the preacher.  They were trying to get him to join their church.  After he refuses, they go out and get on their bikes and speed on down the road.  One biker gets way ahead of the other one, and he goes over a hill….all of the sudden you hear screeching of brakes, crushing metal, etc… As the other biker pulls up over the hill slowing down, he comes to a stop and there laying in the middle of the road is his friend’s bike, the rear tire still spinning, as was the chain, and next to that was his friend’s head, which implied that it was cut off by the spinning chain. 

The living biker eventually returns to the church where he sits down and talks to the preacher that they had harassed earlier.  The biker begins to question the preacher about his friend’s soul.  As the preacher begins to explain about eternal hell, the movie begins to show the dead biker burning in hell, skin melting off the bone, as the biker screams in horror, maggots and worms coming out of his eyes, nose and skin.  The movie made a horror film look like candy land.  And here we were 6-17 years old, watching the most detestable, deplorable forms of torture that anyone could ever imagine.  The movie was designed to scare us into submission and to accept Jesus as God.  After the movie, one of teachers got up on the pulpit and explained that those who do not believe in Jesus as their savior and accept him and live honorable Christian lives should expect this punishment.  Most people would be terrified by such a thought.  But I was enraged!!  Because my first thought was of my Big Ma, my Big Ma, being tortured in God’s torture chamber!! How dare he?  The thought that the love of my life, my everything, suffering through that kind of horrific torture!  Here it is my god wants me to love him and accept him…he who would allow this evil malicious, vindictive, disgusting act of torture on Big Ma. 

I walked out of that chapel with a hate in my heart for God.  I can recall days later standing in the middle of our neighborhood street at 10321 Westmar, looking up into the sky and cussing God like a foul mouthed sailor.  I was so mad that I hated the thought of God.  The video had the opposite effect.  For I wasn’t one of those selfish kid who only thought about me-me-me.

I would study Christianity years later, after accepting Jesus as Christ my Lord and Savior, only to reject it and Jesus after studying the Biblical text and seeing the many contradictions with the New Testament.  From Jesus’ last dying words being different from the hour he’s on the cross to the many contradictions in the resurrection.  I accept the fact that there could be a creator, but I don’t accept any organized religion.  Nor do I believe that any man is worthy of holding eternal life in is hands. For man is the ultimate puppet master and is unworthy of trust.  And anyone who says man is worthy of this is a liar or a fool.  What I went through there as a child…no child should ever have to go through.  Yet religions breed fear into the hearts of our fellow man.  A fearful heart is not a productive heart.  People say, “You’re a total f@#$ up!”  Yes, that’s true. I have more faults than any ten men combined.  I’ve made more mistakes than any one man should.  About 50% I can say were a product of my environment.  The other 50% I have to say were the result of my own stupidity.  I cannot honestly look back on life and say about anything, “That was a good choice.”  And that’s a shame when you can’t look back on life and at least find one good choice that you made.  No one can judge me harder than I judge myself.  I have more regrets than you can possibly imagine.  I have more guilt, shame, humiliation and resentment towards my own foolish stupidity.  I wish I could turn back the hands of time, relive every mistake, correcting them.  Be an all around better person.  But life doesn’t work that way.  We take our mistakes, regrets, pain and guilt to our graves.  Oh, we try to deceive ourselves.  I’m not the same person… I’m a better person now that I’ve found Jesus, Allah, etc… Yes, you may have changed to become a more honorable person, but the desire to forgive yourself and change came from within.  I can honestly say the best day of my life…will be the moment it ends.  Those who read this and say yes he’s had a hard life…what I’ve told you is child’s play.  I can describe details about being molested as a child that would mortify you.  I’ve been deceived, used, manipulated to the point where my motto is, “Trust no one! Suspect everyone! For today’s friend will be tomorrow’s enemy!”  One thing has been consistent in this life and that is nothing lasts forever.  Yes, say I’m a pessimist…I say I’m a realist.  Life is what it is, a continuous cycle of never-ending disappointment and pain.  Find escape in moments of bliss.  We find happiness and pleasure through material items, love interests, etc… But eventually the pain returns.  Memories of dead loved ones, lost loves, our failures in this life, the traumas in life that we’ve been through and live with daily.  Hey, it is what it is.  You can dilute it with legal or illegal drugs, religions, placebos or whatever works for you.  What works best for me is the knowledge that I have control. I can end this life and my pain right here right now.  That’s a piss poor excuse for comfort.  But I find comfort in that.  I don’t recommend suicide.  It’s a selfish act and yes, you can say I’m selfish for finding comfort in it.  Will I ever do it?  Hopefully, not.  But like I said, I’ve never made a good choice in life.  So why should my final act be any different?

Legal Case Update

Federal Judge Timothy J. Corrigan removed Harry P. Brody as my counsel on July 8, 2010.  On July 12, he appointed Martin McClain and Linda McDermott to represent me in my Federal Habeas Corpus.  The two attorneys have great reputations.  I met with Linda McDermott on July 30 and I agreed to allow them to represent me.  But they must raise the issues that I presented in the memorandum.  And although my Federal Habeas Corpus isn’t due until late April/early May 2011, I want it filed by January 31.  I don’t like pushing deadline sand taking the chance of being time-barred.  On top of that, I have a real issue with trust after what Harry P. Brody did to me.   Please view the Florida Bar Complaint.  You can see why I will never trust again.  I admired, trusted and respected this man and he stabbed me in the back and tried to get me killed by procedurally barring every good issue and evidence that I had.  I’ll be writing a full essay on the murder case that took place on January 12, 1990, and I’ll attach depositions, sworn statements, FDLE Reports, etc… for you, the reader, to view.  And you will witness the ineffective assistance against Judge Henry E. Davis, my trial attorney, as well as witness evidence of prosecutorial misconduct against Judge Lance Day, my trial prosecutor.  A witness clearly lied to the jury, bloody clothing was hidden from the jury, and John David Hatch was given a plea agreement before the FDLE even tested the bloody clothing.

I am trying to sit back and let McClain and McDermott work on this case.  I am, however, ready at a moment’s notice to file a motion to proceed pro se if I must.  I hope it doesn’t come down to that, but the old saying, “hope for the best and expect the worst” is the way I’m living.  You have to do that in life because in all honesty, you can only depend on yourself.  At least, that’s been my experience in life.

I do hope you enjoy the essays that are posted as well as the upcoming ones.  Thank you for allowing me to share this information with you.  If you continue to follow me, you will be reading many essays on my life and events that took place.  I will also be writing about the crime that I sit on Death Row for, and will include supporting evidence and testimony that was kept from the jury.  I appreciate your time and support, and I thank you for reading.

Just A Thought

You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.  That is one of the oldest clichés around and one of the most truthful, especially when you enter my world, the world of the damned.  The simplest everyday things that you take for granted and would never even consider the thought of being deprived of are things that I miss and yearn for, such as a simple cup of ice.  I haven’t had ice in so long I’ve forgotten how cold it is.  Walking through the grass in your bare feet.  Leaning down to pet a cat or dog.  The last time I petted a dog was over 20 years ago.  The last time I petted a cat was in the summer of 2004 over at Florida State Prison.  And as I’m writing, thinking about that cute kitten brings a smile to my face.  Someone picked her up on the recreation yard and brought her back into the cell.  Three of us guys shared custody of her.  I’d take care of her from 4 am until 10 or 11 am.  I would lay on my bunk with her sitting on my chest, petting her.  I’d feed her tuna fish that I bought from the canteen. It was great, the few days that it lasted. We decided to give her to one of the nurses to take home.

In 2005, back over her eat Union Correctional Institution (UCI) I had a mouse that I named ”Little Dude.”  I’d feed him peanut butter, peanuts, cookies and crackers.  I caught him several times, I tired to pet him, but he didn’t much care for that.  In fact he bit me several times, I continued to attempt to tame him, to no avail.  I was finally moved out of that cell and left Little Dude on the wing.  But I still have fond memories of that little mouse.  He brought me hours of enjoyment and entertainment in a dark and lonely world.  There are so many things that I long for.  A simple hug, a kiss, human touch.  The desire to love and to show love.  People think they know loneliness and they really have no clue to the loneliness this place brings.  I guess there are certain degrees of loneliness that each person experiences.  But this place is like no other.  The loneliness reaches down into the bottom of your heart.  That’s really the only way to explain it.  This is a very different world from anything you may have experienced.

Life is often a daily struggle, not just day-to-day, but hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute.  Peace and tranquility can only be found for moments at a time.  You mostly dream about the past, realizing the future is lost.  For your future is a 63 square foot cage, ‘til death do you part.  You think about the loves of your life, moments of joy you found in the arms of a woman, riding your motorcycle, walking on the beach. 

I have more regret and sorrows than you can imagine.  I live them on a daily basis.  I question my own actions.  Why?  How?  And I have no answers.  Sure, some was drug-induced stupidity, that’s a given.  But even without drugs, I’ve made some poor choices.  Why???  I don’t know!  It bothers me that I don’t understand some of my own actions.  Life is so friggin’ confusing.  We go through it chasing the answers to what life is really all about.  That’s a million year old question that will never be answered.  Yet it continues to be at the forefront of our minds.

Life…what a mess!  Mine more than yours because if you’re reading this, then you’re in a better place than I am.  I don’t have the answers.  Only two people will claim they do; one’s a fool and the other’s a liar.  For we are all absolutely clueless as to what life is all about.  Yes…I just wanted to share a thought with you. 

Whatever you do don’t give up.  Fight the fight.  Find a cause and purpose for surviving.  I know how hard that can be… Oh boy!  Do I know!  But you can be the difference.  Just try.  Survival, that’s the key.  Or is it? We all have to decide for ourselves.   But if I were you, I’d try to use my life in a positive way to influence others.  AND I hope that’s what I’m doing here.

We don’t need religion or god to do this.  We just need to reach down inside ourselves and do it.  Change for the better.  Overcome the worst in ourselves.  Easier said than done, no doubt!  Peace out my friend.  Until we meet again….

Depression

I deal with depression, which at times gets pretty severe. And today, I’m having one of those moments. I feel fatigued, no motivation, and really wish today would go away.

I’m currently on 40 mg of Prozac and today it’s not doing its job. So my therapy is going to be sharing with you. I deal with suicidal thoughts. And when I see something about a suicide on the news or in the paper, it makes me question myself that much more. Why don’t I go through with it?

My last suicide attempt was September 1, 1996. My last suicidal thought was moments ago. I think about it daily, even if it’s just a fleeting thought. Without the Prozac, the fleeting thought of suicide will turn into days and weeks of dwelling on it every waking moment. A cloud of darkness appears over me and won’t leave. It’s not just that this lousy miserable cage has me like this. I’ve had these thoughts for as long as I can remember. The only difference is that I used to use drugs and alcohol to escape. I used to do LSD. Now, I never had a good trip. Every one was like a friggin’ nightmare! People would ask, “Why do you do it?” My answer was, “I enjoy life the next day.” I was glad to be alive at least for the next day or two, and glad to have survived that nightmare. It’s twisted and I know that, but my thoughts are twisted. I often tell people that I have more faults and flaws than any ten men combined and I am unable to forgive myself for a lot of what I’ve done. I often ponder over moments from the past, thinking to myself, “If only I had done this differently.” Not only would it have possibly made my life better, but also it would have spared other people the pain I inflicted on them. We’re all responsible not only for ourselves, but for those around us. For every action, there’s a reaction. So if you take positive action, it can break the chain of negativity.

And they weigh so heavily on my heart, the should have’s, would have’s and could have’s. I have more regrets and guilt than you can ever imagine. Almost every decision that I’ve made in life has been the wrong one. So what is one to do?

If I was in a game of poker, I’d fold the hand and get out of the game. And that’s the way I see this life, this mere existence that I’m surviving. Fold and cash it in. People with better hands than mine are folding. That 20-something year old golfer. That beautiful 19-year-old college student. Tony Dungy’s son. Our military men and women. What am I still doing, holding on to a hand that is far worse than these people’s hands? Do you see how my mind works? It’s not good. I don’t think it’s normal. But who the hell knows why we are the way we are? Are we products of our environment? Of our experiences? Of our decisions? Or is it destiny? A predetermined fate? I often question myself, “Why did you do this? How can you be such a friggin’ idiot all the time? Every time!”

When you can’t answer the question why, it makes you question everything you do and everything you’ve done. You're reminded of a child who touches something and their parent grabs their hand and shakes it and says, “Why did you do that?” And the child says, “I don’t know.” It is often said that children give the most truthful answers. And they often do things without knowing why. And that’s my life. I sit here asking myself over and over and over again: “Why?” I’m a walking disaster. I know this.

This is why I have said that this cage is different of reach and every individual who steps into it (Letter to a Future Death Row Inmate). Some of us experience more pain, guilt and suffering than others. We each deal with problems differently. I bottle them up, relive them and inflict more pain upon myself. I’ve been told I am my own worst enemy, and I believe that. Yes, I’m a mess, and I can’t figure out how to clean myself up. I often think of my life in terms of Murphy’s Law: anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

I don’t know why I keep holding on. I’m 42 years old, and over half these years have been spent in a cage due to my own stupidity. A cage that had become a living nightmare. Where peace, joy and tranquility can only be found for brief moments of time.

What are we to take from this life? What is life about? We’re all clueless, running around like chickens with our heads cut off. Some religious fanatic will suggest they have the answers, when deep in their hearts they doubt their own faith. They just need something to grab onto. Their faith is an empty milk jug, filled with air that they’re using as a life preserver in a thousand miles of sea. The difference between them and me is that I know it’s straight placebo effect. They make it real because it’s their only way of surviving this life. But as for me, I have my Prozac, and it’s just as good as any religious faith. Sure, Prozac has its share of suicides, but religious faiths do too. We’ve seen preachers and priests of all faiths cash in and fold their hands. So no matter what your life style, beliefs, or financial situation, we all teeter right there on the edge of suffering, heartache and pain. And we all search for ways to deal with it.

I long for the love and companionship of a woman more than anything. And this cage only reminds me of the loneliness that I endure each and every day. I also feel that having a woman in my life would be very selfish. While it would give me great joy and comfort to have someone to love and be loved by, I’d be pulling that person into a hellish existence, one filled with fear, dread and stress. So I want it, yet at the same time, I feel guilty for wanting it. I therefore find myself talking her out of it. See, with me, not only does she have to deal with the life of a death row inmate, but one who creates a lot of problems and drama. I’m what they call a writ writer, so I’m constantly filing grievances, doing hunger strikes, etc… and like I’ve been told, I’m my own worst enemy. I fight any and every battle, instead of picking and choosing winnable battles. You’re thinking right now, “If you know that, then why do you do it?” I ask myself the same question, and I haven’t come up with an answer. I continue to teeter on the edge of stupidity. What more can I say…. It hurts to say that and to know that. But I’m just calling it like it is. I try really hard to think before I react, but I still end up second-guessing every decision I make. I’m a mess, a walking disaster. So what do I do? I just try to exist and make it through today. If I’m unfortunate enough to wake up in the morning, which I’m sure I will be, then I’ll deal with that then. But for now, I deal with this moment.

I escape by keeping my mind busy and not allowing it the time to dwell in the past, or look to the future. I must stay in the moment, which is easier said than done, just as surviving a day is easier said than done. We all travel down our own roads. Some are easier to navigate than others. Like that beautiful intelligent 19-year-old student or that young golfer, both suicides who appeared to have magnificent futures ahead of them. But I didn’t walk a mile in their shoes, so who am I to judge them for folding their hands and cashing in their chips? I do know the dreadful loneliness that life brings and the dark cloud of gloom that is depression. Alas I know that convenience outweighs the life and safety of the inmates in the FDOC. For although my medical records show an inmate that is suicidal, instead of passing out medicine daily, Medical keep provides us with “keep on person” (kop) meds. So at any given time, I could have up to 90 Prozac 20 mg capsules, up to 90 Tylenol 500 mg tablets, up to 60 goldline chlorpheniramine sinus pills, and up to 120 Ranitidine (Zantac) tablets. This, in my humble opinion, is very foolish. Would I OD? No! But they don’t know what I’m thinking! Convenience always outweighs not only the safety and health of the inmates, but the security of the institution, which I’m going to bring to your attention in another entry in the near future. Thank you for spending this time with me and taking the time to learn about my world. Blissful wishes to all

Sentenced To Death

On February 7, 1990, at the age of 21, I was arrested for the armed robbery shooting death of a 38-year-old male. This case, no. 90-10067-CF, was appointed to Judge David Wiggins out of the Fourth Judicial Circuit in Duval County, Jacksonville, Florida. Since my co-defendant, John David Hatch was being represented by the Public Defender, Judge Wiggins would have to appoint me conflict-free counsel. And on February 17, 1990 Judge Wiggins appointed Henry Davis, a lawyer who had never handled a capital case. Davis failed to ask for co-counsel, hire an investigator, track down and interview witnesses or examine physical evidence, including bloody clothing of Hatch’s and mine that the sheriff’s office was in possession of and which the jury never saw because the prosecutor, Lance Day, kept it from them. On February 22, 1991, I was sentenced to death. Direct appeal was filed (see state v Clark 613 so2d 412 Fla 1992) and denied. Certiorari was denied on October 4, 1992. Capital Collateral Regional Counsel (CCRC) was appointed in 1993 to represent me in my 3.850 motion for post conviction relief. The 3.850. was filed on November 16, 1994 and was amended on November 1, 1995. Judge Wiggins issued an order on June 18, 1996, granting evidentiary hearings on four claims: two Ineffective Assistance of Counsel (IAC) claims on Davis and two claims of prosecutorial misconduct by Lance Day. Over the next couple of years, before the evidentiary hearing was held, both Davis and Day were appointed as Fourth Circuit judges. The proper remedy Judge Wiggins should have taken, according to F.S. 38.10 and FL.R. crim.P. 2.160, was to disqualify himself. Not only did he fail to do so, but Wiggins stalled this case in direct violation of Florida Supreme Court (FSC) ruling in Jones vs. state 740 so2d 520 (Fla 1999) The evidentiary hearing was stalled from Nov 1994 until Feb 2007. What made it worse was that in June 2003, I lost my CCRC representation.

Wiggins then appointed a friend, Dale G.Westling Sr., to represent me. I fought this and on March 22, 2005 went pro se, acting as my own counsel. Judge Wiggins and Westling turned my CCRC files over to the state, violating the FSC ruling in Kight v. Dugger 574 so 2d.1066 (Fla 1990) and in doing so, violating attorney-client and doctor-patient confidentiality rights. For the file contained over ten years of correspondence, doctors reports, I.Q. tests and more, all of which was post conviction material. In June 2005,Westling filed a motion to withdraw. Wiggins then appointed Christopher Anderson, who also filed a motion to withdraw two weeks later on June 28, 2005 due to the fact that he didn’t want to challenge the two sitting Judges Davis and Day.

Harry Brody (bar no. 0977860) was my last counsel at CCRC and Wiggins refused to let him keep this case. Yet on September 8, 2005 not only did Wiggins reappoint Brody, but allowed Brody to file a new 3.850, which is unheard of. It was filed in January 2006 and ruled on in May 2006. Brody would not provide me with the order. At this time I still admired and trusted Brody and therefore had no reason to suspect deception from counsel. Then at the evidentiary hearing on February 26, 2007, I questioned Brody about the witnesses and Brody responded that he was only calling two witnesses and wasn’t presenting bloody clothing or other evidence and testimony. Brody stated, “The judge no longer wants to hear those claims, but don’t worry, we will get them in on appeal.” Again, at this time, I still trusted Brody. I began filing pro se pleadings, written arguments, and a motion on the cognizable claims. It was when the state responded to a motion in April 2007 that I realized that Brody had lied to me. The witnesses and evidence should have been presented at the February 26, 2007 evidentiary hearing. I then filed a motion to take judicial review of the judicial abuse in May 2007 to the FSC (case no: sc-77553) notifying the court of counsel’s lie, the court’s failure to disqualify, and the attorney-client confidentiality violation. The Florida Supreme Court (FSC) dismissed the motion without prejudice, stating these claims could be raised on appeal.

In December 2007, I was issued a new case no:SC07-2318. I filed motions to dismiss counsel, which were denied. Brody would not raise the appealable claims in his initial brief, nor would he file a reply brief. Brody was intentionally sabotaging this case, protecting the three Judges Wiggins, Davis and Day and the record absolutely, unequivocally supports sabotage. Brody’s failure to raise and take appeal on valid legal claims shows that a conspiracy to protect these judges exists. The FSC then forced me to be represented by Brody, although according to the law, in post conviction there’s no “right” to counsel. The FSC literally tied my hands so I was unable to defend myself. One thing is certain; the FSC is not following F.S. 27.771(12) providing the court monitor counsel’s performance.

FDOC records show that Brody showed up drunk wearing an old t-shirt and cut off shorts, trying to visit his clients on death row. And the prison administration turned him away. This isn’t slander, because everything is on the record. Copies of the record can be obtained through the sunshine law/freedom of information. (If you have questions, please ask and I’ll provide the answer and support it with documentation.) Justice Barbara Pariente wrote a letter to the chair of the state senate committee on criminal appropriations urging that the disbanded CCRC Northern Regional Office be reinstated based on the unanimous views of the Justices of the FSC that the private attorney registry system in North Florida has been a failure. Justice Raoul Cantero testified to the legislative committee that the representation provided to capital defendants by registry counsel constituted “some of the worst lawyering he’s ever seen!” But this is not just poor lawyering. It’s a conspiracy to sabotage evidence and testimony, procedurally barring it from federal review in an attempt to protect these three judges for judicial favors. On April 29, 2010 the FSC denied my appeal. All of my pro se filings were stricken as unauthorized. I’ve since filed motions to proceed pro se and to discharge counsel in the United States Middle District Jacksonville Division (Case No. 3:10-cv-547-j-32). On July 8, 2010 a telephonic hearing was held and Judge Timoth J. Corrigan removed Brody as counsel and has set a Farret hearing to allow me to proceed pro se. I’m going to attempt to file my 28 USC 2254 writ of Habeas Corpus and corresponding brief. Anyone who can assist with legal advice….I’d be overjoyed to hear from. Any media outlets that would like to do an interview, you have just found a willing participant. And I’ll cover anything from my case to my life on death row. I encourage you to research this, download all of this and send it to the legislature and house appropriation committee. Thank you for your time in allowing me to share this and bring you some insight into a broken justice system.

Introduction

I wanted to write and give you some personal information about myself. My full name is Ronald Wayne Clark Jr., but my friends call me Ronnie. I was born on April 20, 1968 in Jacksonville, Florida. I’m 6’4”, 235 lbs (muscular : ) with blue eyes and brown hair. I’ve been married and divorced twice, and have no kids. The only family that I have out there is my mother, who lives in Oklahoma. Because of her financial situation, I only get to see her once or twice a year.

My father is in prison here in Florida also, serving a life sentence for murder. You can read about that in A Tale Of Guilt. We do write to each other, but I haven’t seen him since November 1996. The only other family member I’m in contact with is my cousin, and we write once or twice a month.

We have very little to look forward to in here. Mail call is five days a week, Monday through Friday, and it’s a sickening feeling when the mailman passes you by. We can also order canteen once a week, if we have money. We can have visits once a week, and we are allowed recreation twice a week, for two hours at a time.

My day begins at about 5am. I wash, brush my teeth and make my bed. I watch ABC news from 5:30 to 6 am. Breakfast usually arrives at 6 or just after. The food is bad, so I’m on the vegan diet to get away from all the processes meats. After eating, I do some reading, usually involving law, or I write while listening to the radio. On Sundays, from 8-10 am I listen to a radio show hosted by Dee Snyder (from Twisted Sister) called The House of Hair. I love heavy metal – AC/DC, Metalica, Slayer, Rat, Slaughter, Firehouse, Scorpions, etc…

Around 8am every morning I start my exercise program, which is anywhere from 2-4 hours. Then eat lunch about 12 noon. After that I may read or write. I write poetry, essays, and now I have this site to write on. I also draw and make greeting cards when there is nothing else to do. I’m not a great artist. I’ve seen guys who can just pick up a pen and the art flows out of them, but that’s not the case with me. I basically just try to find something to do to pass the time.

This cage is 9x7….63 square feet of hell and it will drive you crazy if you’re not careful. You need to check you sanity daily. Like, right now, 9 cells down the hall, some idiot is snapping his fingers and clapping his hands to music. You hear toilets flushing, lockers slamming and guys arguing over the stupidest of issues.

We eat dinner about 6 pm. We shower 3 days a week. The showers are at the end of the hall. There are 2 showers for the 14 cells on this wing. Anytime we leave the cell we are handcuffed. We are escorted to the shower. The shower door is shut and locked before the handcuffs are removed. We’re given 5-7 minutes to shower, so there is no real enjoyment in it.

I exercise every day so bathe here in my cell every day. Just soap up like you would in a shower, fill the sink with water and pour it over yourself to rinse off. You have to dry the floor afterwards, but at least you’re clean, which is your goal.

I watch some TV. On the street, I didn’t watch hardly any at all. In here, it’s something to do to pass the time. I like Survivor, Big Brother, The Amazing Race, Hell’s Kitchen, The Big Bang, and Two and a Half Men. And I’m a die-hard Miami Dolphins fan : )!!

I usually go to sleep right after mail call, between 8 and 9 pm. And then do it all over again the next day. This is more of an existence than actually living. Only a fool would call this a life. I often hope each night as I lay in the sweltering heat, trying to sleep, that I don’t wake up in t he morning. But I know I will. I’m just that unlucky. Yes, when they were passing out luck, I thought they said, “Duck,” and missed it all : ).

I really miss the beach, motorcycles, and most of all, the company of the greatest, most magnificent creature on the face of this earth, women.

My favorite food is seafood, favorite soda id Pepsi, and my favorite movie is Far and Away with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.

I have only a ninth grade education, and it’s really not even that. My educational background is as follows: I didn’t attend preschool or kindergarten. I passed first grade but failed second grade twice. I passed third, fourth and fifth, and two weeks into sixth grade at Wright Elementary School in Tulsa, OK, I was bumped up to seventh grade at Edison Junior High because of my size. Mid-way through the school year, I moved back to Florida, and attended Yulee Junior High, where I failed again. The next year I returned to Tulsa to attend Byrd Junior High. But instead of repeating seventh grade, I started ninth, which I barely passed. I attended Fernandina High School for tenth grade, but was present for very few days. I was always high. I dropped out at the age of 15 to sell drugs for my dad. So my education was poor. Because I’m serving a death sentence, I’m not able to participate in any educational programs, so I can’t get a GED. What writing skills I have, I developed in this cage over the past 20 years.

My religious beliefs…well, I’ve studied the bible, the Torah and the Quran. I am a former Christian who began following the teachings of Jesus on blind faith. I accepted him as the Son of God based on what other Christians were telling me. But every time I found a contradiction or unfulfilled prophecy, and I’d show it to the Christian Brother who led me to Christ, he would freeze like a deer caught in the headlights. The bible eventually destroyed my faith. I’d have to define myself as an agnostic now. I leave the door open for a creator, but evolution is probably more likely what happened. For everything has a beginning, so a creator would have had to evolve and would be far more complex than the universe and all life in it. That’s my belief, which most people don’t seem to agree with. But I can’t simply believe what others wish me to believe. I can only believe in what I feel to be true.

In life we have to accept people for who they are and what they believe. No matter who they are or what those beliefs are. We are all human and all have flaws, some of us more than others. I’ve made more mistakes in this life than any ten men combined. I could try to lay the blame elsewhere… a product of my environment, the result of drugs and alcohol, but in all honesty, I’m the sum total of my own stupidity. I’ve made poor decisions my whole life and when you introduce someone like me to drugs and alcohol, you have a sure-fire recipe for disaster. These days I like to think I have a grip on it. But I know I teeter on the edge of stupidity. I therefore must watch whom I associate with, and try to stick with those inclined to make good decisions. The first sign of stupidity and I step back. I cause a lot of problems and I fight the prison authority through the grievance system, some of which I will highlight on this site. I will also share legal documents from my case, as well as poetry essays, and my art. My work is occasionally controversial. I make a lot of enemies, which is really not smart. But I’ve never claimed to be smart, and my history supports that.

I deal with depression and take the antidepressant Prozac. I don’t smoke – quit on January 14, 1997. I stopped using drugs and drinking in August 1996. I got tired of them controlling me. I just wish I could have gotten a grip on it when I was out on the streets. Unfortunately, it conquered me.

I hop that you will take an interest in following me, and that I can enlighten you and give you some insight into issues that you might otherwise overlook. Maybe I can even get you to stop and smell the roses, breathe the fresh air, and look at life in a new way. Please join me on this journey.