by Grace Mead
Well, I’m off to dinner.
Love,
Matt
Matt thought his mother too naïve to think it unusual he’d already been assigned to the library and hoped the letter came off as reassuring and genuine—he worried it was transparent.
But, after his last conversation with Luther, Matt realized he’d never heard any other prisoner talk about family visits, probably because, after a few years, they ceased. His mother, at least, would be in contact until the day one of them died, and he would do his best not to punish her for that.
Chapter 23
As winter gave way to spring and then a summer heat that imitated hell, Matt fell into a routine working in the library and on his three cases. Relentless stress turned to monotony and even as fanatical as he was about his responsibilities on the outside, in prison, with nothing else to do, his focus on the details of the cases bordered on obsession.
When not dwelling on the cases, he wrote letters; he also read and reread those he’d received from his Mom, Lisa and Eric.
Eric responded to the suggestion he open a gym:
A—
Hope all is well and you’re staying safe. I’ve been considering your recommendation to invest in a gym. I think I’d have to go to a gym—at least once—before I invested in one. I did recently think about going to the gym for at least thirty seconds.
If I went to the gym, I would be paying money to do work and I usually prefer it the other way around. You’re getting paid to work, even if it’s only four cents an hour. Right now I just eat less—which means I spend less money and have more free time to have more fun. Seems like a win–win. And I don’t do athleisure.
I’m imaging you pronouncing that word athleyzure because someone once told you that was the refined way to pronounce leisure. But I don’t hang out with the Roozvelts discussing such things, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in athleyzure or pronouncing it that way. I don’t avoid athleisure because I’m a snob, but because I’m vain and I don’t wear pajamas in public. Remember the 1980s: our poor sartorial choices live on forever in pictures. As for not pronouncing leisure the preferred way, I don’t care if people initially think me dumb as a result. They’ll figure it out eventually.
Try to stay cool in the heat.
Take care,
M
That summer, he also received a pensive letter from his mother:
Dear Matt,
You know I’ve enjoyed our casual letters back and forth for months now, but I wanted to write a separate one about some things that have been bothering me ever since your trial.
I’m worried that because some of those jurors said they were influenced by you being gay, you’ll somehow hold that against God. I don’t usually talk about religion with you, but I really don’t want you to reject any possible comfort right now.
For those jurors to say you being gay would affect their decision about whether you’d lie or commit murder was sinful. Throughout the Gospel, Jesus ministers to tax collectors, prostitutes and lepers, healing despite what many said were their sins. He does so with compassion, not judgment.
When Jesus does show anger in the Gospels, it’s almost always toward the scribes and Pharisees—religious leaders who berated others for not following their view of religion and judged others for breaking rules like not working on the Sabbath. He also speaks of the importance of humility, including humility in prayer, and chastises the scribes and Pharisees for condemning others based on their rigid interpretations of the Torah. He is far more critical of those who use religion as an excuse to collect money for themselves than those who collect money for the government.
When Jesus talks about the importance of measuring people by their deeds over the course of a lifetime, rather than just their words, he says to those religious leaders who had rejected John the Baptist, “[T]ruly I tell you the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.”
Even if being gay were a sin—and I’m not saying it is—I can’t believe God, Jesus or the Holy Spirit would ever believe it a reason for one human being to judge another. On the cross, Jesus told one of the criminals he would be with him in Paradise that day, and if Paradise remained open to that criminal, then surely those who may commit a sin that harms no one don’t deserve punishment for it in this life or the next.
I’m still struggling with lots of issues—including, thanks to you, why Mahatma Gandhi isn’t in hell and what the Bible says about being gay. I don’t worry so much about those because they’re not as important—we all sin. I think the Gospels say those not raised as Christians will likely be measured by their deeds. Those of us raised as Christians can and should always repent.
I struggle more with what the Gospel is clear about. I have to forgive those men who attacked you, forgive Joey Buckner and forgive those jurors. And I’m angry with all of them every day you spend in there, which I need to work on. And that’s hard, but I do get some peace when I pray every night.
I hope you don’t mind a letter like this every now and again. I just want to keep your mind and your heart open to the comfort that God can give you in as much privacy as you need, even if you pray with your heart and don’t make a sound or even move your lips. It can still quiet your mind and soul.
Love,
Mom
Matt blinked away tears in his bunk. Didn’t she understand he had to focus on survival? How could he have time for a God who—according to many—had no space for him? And if he studied the Bible he might decide that it definitively said being gay was sinful. What would he do with that? How could that possibly help? How was he supposed to have the confidence and the trust—and yes, the faith—to believe in a God that so many said judged him as sinful for being? It threatened to undermine him further, not offer support. He just couldn’t do it.
On a Friday after dinner, two of the larger inmates grabbed Matt from his bunk and frog-marched him into the bathroom at the back of the barracks.
Parnell waited there, his brow furrowed in anger and his lips drawn back in a feral expression. “You need to tell me what the fuck this is right now,” he said, thrusting papers at Matt, who scanned a letter from Parnell’s lawyer.
“We discussed this.” Matt’s hands shook, as he scanned the page; thanks to his training, it required little thought. “The trial judge denied your motion for a new trial, but we expected that.”
“This means you lost, you son of a bitch!” Parnell bellowed. His dark face turned purple.
“This means we lost the first round, which we expected to lose,” Matt said.
“You’re my fucking lawyer and you’re within my control. That means you never fucking expect to lose,” Parnell shouted.
“Of course we fucking expect to lose!” Matt shouted back, fear spawning anger. “As your lawyer, I have to accurately assess your prospects for success at each stage of the case. Your outside lawyer had to argue to the judge he’d committed a legal error to preserve the arguments for appeal so we can present them to a different court. That appellate court functions as his boss. The trial judge isn’t going to just come out and admit he’s wrong. Is your outside lawyer telling you anything different?”
“No,” Parnell said, shaking his head but with wide eyes and dilated pupils still hot with fury. “But he’s only working for money. He ain’t working to save his ass the way you are. I’m going to fucking let some of these guys run a train on you all night long.”
Matt felt the blood drain from his face, but his anger short-circuited good sense. “That’s not going to change a goddamned thing and you know it. Why the fuck wouldn’t I be working as hard as I could for you?” Matt asked.
“I dunno. I jus’ know we lost.” Parnell forced the words out of a clenched jaw.
“We didn’t lose. We lost the opening motion.”
“What happens next?”
“We file a brief with the appellate court, the judge’s bosses. The appellate court doesn’t have the same vested inte
rest in finding that the judge ruled correctly during the trial. They won’t be trying to cover their own asses. The appellate court’s also bound by Louisiana State Supreme Court precedent ruling that the instruction was in error. Now, the argument isn’t certain, but that’s always been our best shot. And this opinion doesn’t change that.”
“It don’t?” Parnell asked as his face relaxed slightly, his anger blunted.
“No, it doesn’t. Courts almost never grant re-hearings because the trial judge would have to admit he did something wrong. Judges are people, too, and most don’t like to admit they’re wrong.”
“Jus’ like you don’t want to admit you were wrong when you wrote that damn brief to the judge?” Parnell asked.
“No,” Matt said. “Not like me. I told you we had to make this motion as a procedural formality and there was almost no chance the judge would grant a new hearing. You know that.”
“Yeah, you did,” Parnell said. “I ain’t gonna have anything done to you tonight, but we gonna talk again tomorrow night after I get my outside lawyer on the phone. You not safe yet. And you ain’t gonna work on any other cases ’cept my appeal. You got that? Forget that law-firm idea you had.”
“What about the case for Bill?”
“You can work on that case, too. You gonna work on my case and Bill’s case. Nothin’ else. And I’m still thinking about havin’ a train run on your ass tomorrow night.” He raised a colossal right fist and shook it with menace. “You got that, you fucker?”
Matt resisted the urge to flinch with all his might, hoping that strength respected strength. “Yes, I got that,” he said.
Matt lay awake all night. As soon as he arrived at the library in the morning, he sent Parnell’s attorney an email asking for the written opinion. He received a copy by midmorning and spent the rest of the day scrutinizing it; the judge hadn’t protected himself completely and he considered ways to undermine the opinion on appeal, even going so far as to draft the introduction for Parnell’s appellate brief.
Matt neglected his library work that day, but Luther didn’t ask any questions about his failure to attend to his usual chores. Matt assumed the veteran prisoner had learned of the opinion, and of Parnell’s reaction.
When Matt returned to Building 2 that afternoon, Parnell had him marched back to the bathroom. “I talked to my lawyer and he said you was right; this was just a formality,” Parnell said.
“I looked at the opinion more closely this afternoon, if you want to talk about it,” Matt said.
“Go ahead.”
“You remember I told you our best argument was that the attempted murder instruction was legally erroneous, right?” Matt said, cocking his head to the side.
“Yeah, that’s the argument this judge already rejected. Twice, if I’m countin’ right.”
“And do you remember there were also two problems with that argument that I explained to you?”
“Go over ’em again.”
“The first problem is that your trial lawyer objected to the instruction but didn’t state the objection as precisely as possible. I was concerned that might be interpreted as a waiver, which would make it much harder to raise on appeal. The second problem is the trial judge could find that the instruction didn’t matter because the proof of your guilt was overwhelming. The good thing about this opinion is that the prosecution made both of those arguments to the judge, but the judge didn’t adopt either of them. The judge just said the instruction was legally correct, which is wrong. That helps because the trial judge is in the best position to make factual findings about what happened in the trial, such as whether the argument was waived and whether the evidence against you was overwhelming. That means this opinion really is a formality and we can argue to the appellate court the trial judge didn’t find either waiver or harmless error.”
“I’m gonna check that with my outside lawyer.”
“You should.” Having his interpretation of the opinion double-checked was the least of his fears.
“You okay for now, bitch. But you best produce results soon.”
After Parnell blew out of the bathroom, Matt suddenly felt nauseated. He spent the next half-hour vomiting, well aware doing so left him bent over the toilet.
Chapter 24
As fall approached, Matt’s powerlessness and anger overwhelmed him; he’d filed Parnell’s brief with the appellate court and could do no more. He stewed over the letter from his mother about religion which lingered and generated accusations more damning than those expressed by her or the jurors: Why hadn’t he just turned the other cheek? Did it matter that Joey was in danger? Would turning the other cheek have earned forgiveness for being unable to police his attraction to other men?
Mired in such thoughts, he had signed up for what Reggie had described as a “sucker’s bet”—the rodeo held in October in the prison stadium that seated 7500 members of the general public.
The first Sunday in October arrived, and, on the grounds outside, the convicts sold food to the public that none of the sellers could have afforded on their paltry wage. It ranged from crawfish, which you could find outside of Tiger Stadium, to fried Coke, made of frozen Coca-Cola-flavored batter deep-fried and topped with syrup, cinnamon sugar and a cherry, a caloric poison for members of the same public that had populated the convicts’ juries.
The warden, for rodeo days, insisted the prisoners wear black-and-white striped shirts that evoked stereotypes, which he thought made for better marketing and showmanship. Prisoners also sold crafts, from carved chess sets to oil paintings of the flowers cultivated on the prison’s grounds. One prisoner sold canary-yellow balloons, and his doleful face lit up whenever he sold one to a child.
Some prisoners took the opportunity to see family and friends outside the more restricted visiting areas. An inmate carried his son—who must have still been in kindergarten—in his arms, and each of the child’s giggles prompted a broad smile. Matt hadn’t told his mom or anyone else he was participating; he was ashamed of risking his life and health; and he suspected the scene inside the arena wouldn’t be as cheerful.
As the start time approached, the public trickled into the seats. Warden Paxon opened the ceremony by entering behind two sable 2000-pound Percheron draft horses pulling a rickety wooden cart. He was followed by a white inmate riding a bay toting an American flag, an African-American inmate on liver-spotted pinto bearing a Confederate battle flag, and a monkey on a collie. The crowd laughed at the tail-end of the procession.
The rodeo entrants then, also under the Warden’s instructions and in front of the crowd’s watchful eyes, walked into the square dirt arena, formed a circle and held hands as a prayer was said, including an invocation to watch over their spiritual well-being as well as their health and safety.
Following the prayer and the clearing of the dirt arena, electric shocks launched six angry bulls out of shoots, each with a convict atop, in an event unique to the Angola rodeo called the Bust Out. The convicts’ only opportunity to prepare was at the school of hard knocks; those who’d participated in the event in earlier years had learned a few things about staying on. A convict was thrown immediately in front of a shoot and the angry bull leapt toward him, grasping him in his horns and shaking him furiously.
The crowd cheered. Convict clowns distracted the bull and lured it away and the event continued for another few seconds, until all convicts save one had been thrown from their bulls. The crowd cheered again.
The prisoners then watched silently as paramedics tended to the gored prisoner at the side of the arena, while the crowd noise subsided to disinterested chatter. He was carried off on a stretcher without delaying the festivities and without the crowd noticing.
The afternoon progressed through a series of events, some of which could only be found at the prison rodeo. In wild cow milking, teams of convicts chased cows around the arena trying to milk them and the first team to secure enough milk won. Even in the more traditional events, like bull riding, untrained conv
icts wearing what the guards called “nigger-rigged” safety equipment reduced them to grotesque spectacles.
Matt had signed up for only one event—convict poker. He joined three other inmates sitting around a poker table made of cheap plastic, surrounded by chairs of the same material. Over their striped shirts Matt and the other players wore bulletproof vests, and on their heads they wore hockey helmets.
A bull was released—incented by cattle prod—and convict clowns in white with red suspenders and neon-orange trimmings lured it toward the table. The 2000-pound animal bucked around the table for tens of seconds and the first player peeled away, running toward the side of the arena and to relative safety. Matt found he didn’t care if he lived, died or was injured. Tired, he stayed seated.
The bull sprinted back toward the table and lunged at a clown on the opposite side, upending the table and tossing one of the two other remaining players to the ground. The third bolted and the bull chased him toward the side of the arena. Matt—already the winner by default—remained seated. The player reached safety some fifteen seconds later, and—only then—did the bull, the clowns and the crowd notice that Matt had remained seated instead of escaping to safety to claim his prize.
The bull turned back but the clowns were so surprised that they didn’t goad it toward or away from him. For a full sixty seconds, Matt stared at the bull from his lone seat in the middle of the arena—daring, asking and even begging it to hurt or kill him. But the bull ignored him and wandered around the sides of the arena. The crowd—boisterous half a minute ago at the sight of the convict fleeing—fell silent.
Part IV
Chapter 25
Over the next year and a half, Matt ground out days at the pace of a glacier—he repressed any hint of rising expectations about his appeal and his life sentence froze his melancholy.