Nervously, I readied myself for the two and a half hour voyage. I was
apprehensive about meeting the man who had murdered my son, Jim. But also about
simply going to a prison which housed the ‘worst of the worst’…
When Jim asked me to spare this man’s life, I knew that in doing so, came an
obligation: to Jim, to myself, to society, and to the jury whom we’d convinced
to allow him to live. I took that obligation seriously. Few believe that Life
without parole means a lifetime in prison. I hear the question “what if he’s
let out?” over and over from those who’d have preferred to see him die for
his deed. So, in case of the remote possibility, I wish to create in this
person, who the DA called ‘evil’ … ‘worst of the worst’, a
gentleness… a knowledge of the person he’d killed and who’d not wanted him
killed in return. So, I offer myself. And, I offer him the opportunity to earn
the forgiveness Jim so readily gave him.
I also owe it to him. It is something inside which tells me that when you
prevent someone’s death, he somehow becomes your responsibility… at least in
part. His actions somehow reflect how well you played your role in his life.
Maybe, I’ve something to prove. To you. To myself. And, to him. Or, just
maybe, it is not me who wishes to prove these things, but some other more
powerful force… I don’t know, but something makes me both test and embrace
Jim’s theory, indeed, his philosophy. Jim always believed that good can
overcome evil, that if you lived by this basic rule, all things can be made
right, and people can do bad things and still be good people, and that even most
of ‘the worst of the worst’ can change when given the opportunity and
encouragement to do so.
So, dressed according to the rules of the prison, my husband and I made the
journey.
At the end of the long winding road, we parked in what was marked “visitor
parking” … the only evidence there was a prison near was the tall fence with
spiral barbed wire atop. Through a gate, we came to the small “reception
building” … inside we signed our names and his and his number to a visitors
pass and put it into a box with many others. We sat down to wait while they
processed our passes through their computer system and finally called our names.
A wooden box was offered up to place jewelry, money (single dollars and coins,
only), belts, shoes into. I asked the guard if I should put my wedding band in
there also. His response was “you’ve three chances to make it through
there” pointing to the same metal detector we go through at airports and
courthouses, only far more sensitive… I made it through with only one try. On
the other side, I was given my box. I put my shoes and watch back on and walked
down the short corridor ahead, my pass and my ID at the ready. At another desk,
another officer took my pass and my ID and made some notes on a pad, then
stamped my hand with something I couldn’t read and told me to wait over there
– another waiting room – for the bus.
Finally, Ray joined me there and we were told to board bus two. Filled, the
driver asked if anyone was going to level 3. No answers. “Level 4?” Many
hands were raised. The bus made it’s way to the farthest reaches of the
prison, deep within the hills. We came off the bus and followed others who’d
made this journey before. Into another building that was just a building. If not
for those high fences with the coils and coils of wire atop, it could have been
any one-story office building in California. Indeed, I noticed, the grounds were
kept quite lovely. Inside, another guard awaited the arrival of visitors, and
one by one we handed him our passes and ID’s and returned to a chair to wait
our turn. Again, we were handed boxes for our meager belongings. Again, our
shoes and jewelry came off. Through the metal detector, our hands went under a
light that read the invisible ink. Back together, the guard told us to go to
wait outside a red door until it opened, seemingly of it’s own accord. Through
that door, we held our passes and ID’s for the perusal of the guard behind a
glass window… and with a slight noise, another door opened… and did this
routine yet again before coming to a door which led to a circular staircase that
led down to a huge room that looked like a cafeteria.
The room held tables and chairs and noise and children and adults all talking at
once. A single guard was in the room, near a row of vending machines, watching.
We handed our passes through another glass window where more guards looked on.
And, we found a table to wait for our visit. It had taken us over an hour to
come this far. Half hour later, we saw him enter the noisy room.
It turned out, he was as nervous as I. So, we mostly stayed to neutral topics.
He asked about our family and we about his mother. He explained prison life as
best he could. He’d just come through his first year review and had done well.
This was a man whom both the DDA and his attorney had told us would likely
remain in the “SHU” (solitary housing unit) for most (if not all) of his
incarceration, because his (adverse) behavior would warrant him being housed
separately, segregated from the less ‘worst of the worst’. When he’d
arrived at this maximum security prison, he’d been automatically placed in the
SHU. Only good behavior can bring one out of the SHU. Within 4 months, he’d
been put with the level 4 population. Level 4 holds the highest level of
security, the least amount of ‘perks’. Beyond that is the SHU and “the
hole”. He explained that they were a part of level 4, with higher than
‘normal’ level 4 security and with only necessities. If you had to go back
to either the SHU or the hole, you were kept there for increasingly longer
periods. He shook his head; saying “I don’t want to go back there.” He
told us that at this point he cannot earn more privileges than he has already
earned (with good behavior) but that he could lose them and that he didn’t
want to. He said “I don’t want to have to visit people through glass.” He
said “we have rules… we know the rules. If we follow the rules, there’s no
trouble.”
He explained that the guards were just there in case of disturbance and
otherwise didn’t treat them either badly or well. They were simply there, like
a part of the scenery… unless something warranted them to do something more,
to become the enemy.
He began to talk about other prisons … this one is “good” … that one is
really “bad” and so on… I interrupted to ask what he meant by a “bad
prison”. “By that do you mean the guards are mean to the prisoners?” He
said “oh, no. I mean the prisoners are ones you don’t want to get a
reputation for being near.” He explained, “You go to Yard with a set group
of people, no matter which prison you’re in. Some people – rapists, child
molesters, moles – you don’t want to go to yard with because then people
figure you’re like them. It’s bad. And, some people just automatically draw
trouble. You want to stay away from that.” I asked about gangs and his
response was “gangs are everywhere”.
When the sound came that it was time for visitors to depart, we’d barely
scratched the surface of questions I had for him. He thanked us for coming. He
said he was sorry we hadn’t gotten around to too many questions. I said we’d
be back again, that we’d have a chance to get beyond our nervousness and get
to know one another. He seemed pleased that we’d come again.
But, our visit with Daniel wasn’t the significant part of this voyage for me.
It had been the wait.
As we waited for him to come, I’d had the opportunity to glance around the
room … at other prisoners held in Level 4 … the ‘worst of the worst’. I
wondered about their stories, their crimes.
I’ve often said that, at least, I have something those other mothers do not: a
son whom I know with certainty would never be where their sons are. Whom I know
would never do that which their son did. My son cared and loved his fellow man
beyond my own comprehension. This last, at least, remains true. Will always
remain true.
The faces about me were just people. If not for the guards who watched, the high
level of security, it could have been a cafeteria or food court anywhere. I saw
no evil. I saw only ordinary people. No one caused me to hold any degree of
fear.
And, as I watched, I remembered a time when Jim was hooked on Methanphetamine
(speed) and had sometimes displayed a sudden inexplicable rage that frightened
me. Indeed, we’d temporarily institutionalized him to get him off speed. They
didn’t keep him but for a few days because he “wasn’t a danger to himself
or others”… Thankfully, and by the grace of some power greater than either
of us, he wasn’t so addicted that he ever displayed such irrational rage
again, that he ever returned to the angry, wild person I did not know.
Looking at these young men and their families, I realized for the first time,
that other mother could be me. As I watched, I remembered Jim’s simple
explanation so long ago to Jenni, when she asked why he helped homeless persons:
“that could be me”.
I left there, humbled.
Lynne M. Marien
Article Copy Right
Lynne Marien
6th June 2001
