FINDING MY VOICE

BY AARON

To be honest, I thought my fate was set. That no matter how hard I fought, no matter how many people chose to care or not, I was doomed to die in prison. In 2011, when the judge said, "Life without the possibility of parole," I was shocked. My attorney had led me to believe that 25 years to life was the most I could receive. I remember being escorted in my wheelchair, rolling back into the holding pens directly behind the courtroom. One of the black court officers looked at the speechless, shocked expression on my face and, with a smug expression, said, "What did you expect?" He said it with such a detached nonchalance that it felt like a slap. Until then, I thought of him as one of the cooler, more down-to-earth court officers who frequented my trail and now my sentencing. I just looked at him silently, trying to wrap my mind around my new reality, because in that moment, I hated him. I hated him because in that moment, he represented the entire "injustice" system that just told me they wanted me to die in prison.

Most people outside the walls and razor-wired fencing have no idea what goes on inside prison. The way racist guards speak to you like you're less than human. (It's worse when it's a black officer talking to you crazy.) The garbage they call food that you're forced to eat if you don't have money for commissary. (Which most guys don't.) The flashlights in your face at night when guards are doing counts, or the sounds of toilets flushing to wake you up every morning. The hopeless feeling of dread when confronted with the thought of your child (or in most cases, children) being raised by someone other than yourself. Wondering if they are okay and if they even remember you anymore. The loneliness and despair that mentally sets in after hearing that someone you knew couldn't take it anymore and committed suicide. Now imagine all this while also being a paraplegic. This is my reality.

If you think my injury meant that the harshest parts of prison life weren't applied to me, well, that couldn't be farther from the truth. In one of the first clashes I had with correction officers, which came less than a month after being transferred to another facility, I had gotten caught saving my pain medications. The spinal cord injury I sustained after getting shot five times left me with severe nerve pains in my lower extremities. At night these pains, for some reason, intensified. So I would try to save most of my meds for this reason. To have something to combat those "night pains," because if I didn't, it was extremely difficult to go to sleep. It was against the rules to attempt to self-medicate, but I had to try, and, unfortunately, I got caught.

I was cuffed and escorted by four white correction officers into an empty room with only a flimsy green mattress on the floor. There wasn't a bed or a toilet. Nothing but a dirty, flimsy green mattress. One officer positioned himself in front of me, two took positions on either side of me, the last one right behind me. The officer in front of me told me to get out of my chair and to get on the green mattress. I refused, told them straight up, "No. I can't get down there by myself. And you not about to put me down there." He answered by punching me in my face. Before I could shake off my surprise, they ambushed me, the guard behind me put me in a chokehold, the other three grabbed my limbs, and they threw me on that mattress. They took my chair so I couldn't get back up, and they left me there, on that mattress, laying on that floor. For two and a half days.

Never in my life had I felt more helpless. I felt weak, exposed, and marooned in that cell. Miles away from everything I've ever loved. The cell was cold. A short-sleeved green button shirt and thin green pants was all I had for clothes. I felt violated. Humiliated. Irate. They came to feed me, and I threw the tray of food at them, so they placed the next meal by the door, out of my reach, said if I wanted to eat it, I would have to drag myself over there to get it. I thought about screaming for help, but I pushed that notion out of my mind. I kept saying to myself, "Don't do it. That's what they want you to do." It was the hardest thing I ever had to experience. That cell became my dungeon. Mentally I knew they were trying to break me, and I had to be stronger than them.

When it came time for shifts to change, the officers on duty told the ones coming in that I was "on the burn", so it became like a tag team wrestling match. These new officers didn't know me. I had done nothing to these men, but because another officer tells them I'm "no good," they just "tagged in" to perpetuate the indignity. It didn't make any sense, but by the way they carried on, this was obviously just a regular day at work for them. When the nurses came to give me my meds, I told them I needed my chair, that I wouldn't take my meds without getting my chair. They just looked at me on the floor and said, "Well, I guess he's refusing then...". I can't lie. I grew a hate for those white ladies that bothers me to this day. How can a nurse, looking at my situation, violate me too? Later on, I found out that one of the nurses that weekend was related to one of the officers.

I probably would've stayed in that cell longer if it weren't for a Haitian nurse that came in to check on me on the morning of the third day. By that time, I was almost completely out of it. I was weak, I hadn't eaten or taken any of my medication in almost three days, my body was in so much pain. Unable to use the bathroom, and due to my paralysis, I had urinated and defecated on myself. Embarrassed beyond concern, I was a complete mess when that nurse found me. I remember her waking me up, me looking up into her questioning face, "Excuse sir, what is your name?" I guess she must have seen the way my legs were just lying there askew and knew I couldn't walk. "You can't walk, right? Where is your wheelchair?" All I had enough energy to do was point outside the door. She left the cell, and for a second, I thought she wouldn't come back. I thought that if she reported what she saw, they wouldn't allow her to come back.

But that's not what happened.

She came back with a Sergeant and two other nurses from another part of the prison. All of a sudden, everyone was helpful. They had looked at my medical charts and seen that my paralysis was legit. I could sense a nervousness in the new guards that had come in with the shift change that morning. They moved me to a single cell in the infirmary. This one had a bed, a private area with a toilet and shower. With the one Haitian charge nurse calling the shots, the three nurses stripped me down and got me cleaned up. Quietly, so that only she and the other nurses could hear, I thanked them. Over and over, I thanked them. Now that I think about it and reflect, I don't think I've ever left my chair out of my sight since then. I never want to feel abandoned like that ever again. 

“I vividly recall so many moments where I felt extremely happy for myself, but at the same time feeling complete dejection towards the justice system, and society as a whole. It's a feeling I still carry with me today when I think of all the good people I left behind.”

Later on, I ended up speaking to a Lieutenant who basically told me to forget about what happened. In return, I wouldn't get sent to solitary confinement for the medication they'd found. I already knew what time it was. I know degeneracy when I see it. The message was clear: Everyone was corruptible here. I had to get down with the program if I wanted to make it out. But damn, I had so much time. Literally forever. Why should I care, right? I had let everyone down. There so much doubt and depression dying to just creep into my soul and kill me. And trust me, there were some tough nights. Because you can attempt to masquerade like "Life without the possibility of parole" doesn't echo in your brain all day, and that you're so strong. But when you're alone, that mask comes off, and you're faced with that reality every night. Knowing without a doubt that, barring some miracle, some divine intervention, I'm gonna die here.

Then my miracle came.

Her name is D.P. She is an attorney at an advocacy organization. A bold, highly intelligent, and beautiful woman both inside and out, she took over my case and in 2019 got my conviction overturned; I was awarded a new trial. I don't know, mentally, where I'd be were it not for D.P. and every soul that has assisted her over the years. Words can't express my gratitude for this woman. Recently, I read about Bryan Stevenson and his work in his book Just Mercy, and I wondered who would write about D.P.'s work. I pictured myself on top of a mountain, screaming her name to the masses.

The day that I received my copy of the appellate court's decision, along with a letter from D.P. explaining what was about to happen with me, was one of the best days of my life. After reading it, I sat in my cell and quietly cried. I cried for all the nights I had wanted to cry but didn't, worried that someone would hear me and take it for weakness. I cried for my mother, who had died almost exactly three years prior to the date of my reversal, who for years implored me to keep faith in God that this day would come, but never made it herself to see. It took three weeks for the paperwork to go through in order for my transfer to be complete.

At no time during those three weeks did I allow that letter and copy of the decision out of my sight. I took it with me everywhere I went and showed it to anyone that heard the news and wanted to see it for themselves. My best friend advised me against this because he felt that, by showing off my good fortune, I was inviting the negative energy of those jealous of me. I disagreed. What he and most people failed to realize is that my story needed to be told behind those walls. All around a maximum facility prison, there is an air of hopelessness that dissipates when the news spreads of someone getting another chance. Guys get excited, they get motivated, they start going to the law library more, and start writing and calling their attorneys. They see hope where, just minutes ago, there wasn't any.

In those three weeks, I also experienced a bit of survivor's remorse. Every day before I was transferred for my new trial, I was constantly faced with the fact that most of my closest comrades still incarcerated would never get the opportunity I was given. I took down information from a select few in order to keep in touch, but I almost felt guilty because of my good fortune. Like, why only me? Yeah, I've experienced bad in prison, but I've also met some of the most genuine individuals I've ever met in my life. I vividly recall so many moments where I felt extremely happy for myself, but at the same time feeling complete dejection towards the justice system and society as a whole. It's a feeling I still carry with me today when I think of all the good people I left behind.

I'll be the last person to claim to have all the answers. But, there are certain things that I now know to be true. And I swear these truths resonate in my soul. One is that this opportunity comes with a great responsibility. A responsibility to show the world that a man is not the worst thing he's ever done. That given the proper circumstances and chance for advancement, I too can contribute something positive to my community. I hope to one day use my story as a way to warn the next generation of young men and young women so that hopefully they don't ever have to experience this feeling of incessant oppression.

I also know that my journey hasn't reached perfection. That this is just the beginning of another chapter. Yet, where I once lived in total misery and despondency, I now look at life with an optimistic and encouraging perspective. And coming from where I've come from, that's the most important thing. It's about knowing that this isn't the "end-all-be-all" of me. That if I just take some time to find my voice, I will be heard.