Infinite Hope

by Anthony Graves

  Beyond the fence, a car dealership buzzed with people checking out prospective new wheels. Farther down the street was the town square and courthouse where I had testified in front of the grand jury. My eyes wandered north of the jail, to a side street dotted with modest houses. Though it wasn’t recreation in the conventional sense, my time outside was cathartic. Like a snowed-in businessman peering at pictures of sunny shores, I feasted on a dream born out of those houses. I knew the stories about the murders were running wild in the local newspapers, but I didn’t care about it that much. I longed to be home, my home—back to the familiar places and faces I cared about.

  But I was far, far from home now. There was no basketball or handball court in the rec yard, or even a chair to sit on. We had only a blanket and the potential conversation of fellow inmates. It wasn’t long before Scotty Burns, my old acquaintance from home, approached me.

  “What’s up, Anthony?” he asked. “So how do you like this jail?”

  I let out a derisive laugh. “Man, this ain’t a jail. This is a fucking kennel!”

  Scotty laughed in agreement. We exchanged war stories on fighting off the now-notorious mosquitoes. Like the fish in old men’s tall tales, the mosquitoes in ours seemed to grow larger with each telling.

  Scotty then grew serious. “Man, why did that dude put you in this shit?”

  I looked at him with a blank stare. If I hadn’t been able to answer that question in my mind after all these weeks, I certainly couldn’t explain it to him now.

  “I don’t know, Scotty,” I said. “But this is fucked up.” I had welcomed the opportunity to escape those walls just a few minutes before; now, I was back inside.

  “When you came in here, they moved everyone around so they could put you in that cell across from Carter,” he told me. “I heard y’all talking when you first came in. That’s why I hollered at you about the speakers in the cells.”

  I had told Scotty before that I didn’t care about the speakers, and my answer remained the same. I just wanted everybody to hear the truth.

  “Scotty, why you in here anyway, man?”

  “Aw, man! I had a shootout with some dudes, and now they’re trying to give me an attempted murder case!” Scotty had been involved in a shooting near College Station. He told me that they’d had him in Caldwell awaiting trial for almost a year. I wondered if it might be that long before I saw a trial. Surrounded by guys with dire legal problems, I heard about many struggles with the system, but rarely did I consider the duration of their battles. I had spent my first weeks in jail believing my innocence would save me, but now I had to seriously start to question when.

  My inability to answer Scotty’s question gnawed at me. I just knew there had to be some procedure in place to protect a person from being arrested on the strength of a single lie. I also wondered about Carter and what had been going on in his head. Of all the people in the world, why did he choose me?

  “I even have alibi witnesses,” I told Scotty. “People who know good and well where I was.”

  “You know these Rangers been asking me questions about you,” he said. “They pulled a bunch of us out and asked if you and Carter talked about anything.”

  I was confused and angered by this, though not surprised. I hadn’t said much to Carter, and Scotty had told the police as much.

  An hour later, we were herded back into our cells. I lay flat on my bunk, thinking about what Scotty had said.

  “Say, Angel, Scotty told me that the Rangers were pulling people out to see if they heard Carter and me talking about anything,” I told him.

  “Yeah, man, these damn laws are trying to get anything on you,” he advised. “So be careful in here.”

  What Angel didn’t say was as important as what he had said. He didn’t mention being pulled out himself, yet he somehow knew that it had been going on. The thought of Angel being a plant to extract information from me was too much. Maybe they just hadn’t gotten around to pulling him yet, I reasoned. Looking back, this thought was foolish. Angel had been my cellmate, certainly the person in closest proximity to me and probably the one I felt most comfortable around. Angel would have been the first to field questions. I tried to quiet my mind, but falling asleep in jail was hard. Aside from the bugs that scarcely took a night off, the heat caused my body to stick to the cell’s poor excuse for a mattress. My mind raced with thoughts about my case. My body felt at once restless and exhausted. Too often, my arms and legs failed to sync up with my brain. It was only after hours of struggle that I fell asleep that night.

  Two days later, the jailer was at our cell.

  “Get dressed, Angel,” he said. “I’m taking you over to the house.” Someone wanted to talk to him. I tried not to make too much of it. After all, officers had talked to plenty of people. When Angel returned, though, his expression gave me some pause.

  “Angel, is everything OK?” I pressed.

  “Man, those were the Texas Rangers out there. They called me over and started asking me lots of questions about you. I told them you hadn’t told me anything and that I don’t know anything.” The Rangers had asked Angel whether he believed that I had killed the family in Somerville.

  This would be something to discuss with my lawyer, if I ever got one. I was talking with Mom every day about it, and I knew Roy would come through, but in the meantime I had to sit and wait for it to actually happen.

  “I told them that you said you didn’t do it and that I believe you,” Angel said, his words less than reassuring in that moment. “I don’t want anything to do with this shit. I’ve got enough problems of my own.”

  Something in Angel had changed. The easy comfort with which we’d initially conversed had disappeared. Maybe he was starting to feel the pressure from his own situation, as DA Sebesta appeared to be moving his prosecution forward. Angel now wanted to know more about my case, and as a result, the cell felt small.

  “What exactly happened to those people?” he asked. He demanded details on how and why they were killed. I remembered from our early conversations that Angel already knew all about the crime. He knew the particulars of how the children had been stabbed, how their bodies were doused with gasoline.

  “Carter doesn’t know me, Angel,” I told him, trying to set him at ease. “All I know is that he’s married to a cousin of mine.” I explained again, for what seemed like the hundredth time, that Robert Carter couldn’t provide even the simplest details about my life, like where I lived or what they called me on the streets.

  Angel only nodded impassively, as if my answer wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  The Rangers weren’t done pulling inmates from their cells. Later that night, they had conversations with several more men. They’d held me for a couple of weeks now without credible evidence, and they needed something to keep the game going. I was worried. Robert Carter had lied on me for what seemed like no reason at all. What was going to stop someone else from doing the same? I had come to Caldwell with trust in the system and in my fellow man. By that night, the days of looking over my shoulder had gotten the best of me. I was suspicious of everyone, doubtful whether there was anyone in Burleson County I could trust.

  SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 1992:

  BOND HEARING, INDICTMENT, AND GOING TO COURT WITH DICK DEGUERIN, THE MOST RESPECTED ATTORNEY IN ALL OF TEXAS

  THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT with it all the familiar noises in the jail where I now spent all my time. Inmates began their usual routine of out-talking one another. A trusty brought food and other items from door to door. I sat up in my bed, relieved to part from the mattress I’d fought through most of the night. A jailer approached my cell with news.

  “Graves, you’ve got an attorney visit,” he told me.

  My heart leapt. It seemed the first truly good news I’d received in the short but awful time since my arrest and replenished my reserves with remarkable speed. I hopped down from the bunk and dressed quickly. The jailer took me to a small room out front, sparsely furnished with a table a
nd a couple of chairs.

  A short man who looked to be in his fifties sat before me. He had a composed demeanor, as if he had sat in that same room waiting to speak to an accused murderer many times before. One leg was crossed over the other at the knee, a well-polished black dress boot dangling in controlled suspension.

  “Anthony?” he asked. “My name is Dick DeGuerin. I’ve been hired by a friend of yours to represent you.”

  “How are you?” I asked, unsure how to begin.

  “I’m doing fine, Anthony,” he said. “The better question is, how are you doing?”

  “To be honest, I’m not too good,” I told him. “I’m sitting in a jail for a crime I don’t know anything about.”

  “That’s the reason I’m here, Anthony.” He struck me as sincere. By that point, I’d encountered enough people who didn’t believe in my innocence that I was able to spot one who did. He was also prepared, with papers and what seemed like a plan. As we reviewed my case, his questions were precise, eliciting from me answers that seemed to build a narrative. I was far from an expert on defense lawyers, but our conversation told me he knew his way around the court system. He confirmed my thoughts on the case as our time came to a close.

  “Son, they don’t have anything on you. I want to ask them about this polygraph test that you took because they don’t have anything about it in their files.” I nodded as he spoke. He was in the zone, learning and uncovering what I thought were the oddest parts of the state’s investigations. I didn’t want to disrupt his flow.

  “I’ll get back with you next week,” he said. “We can go over a few more details then.” He gave me his card and an open invitation to call if I had any problems. I wondered to myself what he might be able to do about the mosquitoes.

  DeGuerin left me with one bit of parting advice.

  “Make sure you don’t speak to anyone about the case because these damn Rangers play by their own rules. They’ll probably have someone in this jail to try to get you to tell them something.” Indeed, they already had.

  I didn’t know at the time that Dick DeGuerin was one of the most respected attorneys in all of Texas. He would go on to represent several high-profile clients, winning dismissals and acquittals at startling rates. I just knew that he believed in me, and in one sentence he had perfectly described the little game the Rangers were playing with me. I saw for the first time how all the things that didn’t seem quite right were really a part of the state’s attempt to make a case out of thin air.

  I returned to my cell on a wave of optimism.

  “Say, Angel! I got a lawyer and he seems good. Dick DeGuerin’s his name.”

  “What?” Angel said, unable to conceal his surprise. “He’s one of the best in Texas, maybe even the world. You’ll be well represented.”

  I needed to call my mom. A jailer passed me the familiar phone through my cell door. It rang just once before she picked up.

  “Momma, you must have gotten in touch with Roy Allen. My attorney came up here to see me today.”

  She told me that she had talked to Roy and that he’d assured her that he would find a good attorney.

  “Give him the news and tell him thanks,” I said. “From what I can tell, it seems like he picked a good one.” It had been a while since I had good news to report. Mom could hardly contain her excitement. Her mood eased, and she had stories to tell about my kids and the family. She would always make sure to tell me about my sons, like when she had last seen them or talked to them.

  Momma also kept me up on what my brothers and sisters were doing, how shocked everyone was about my situation, and how supportive they all were. I appreciated her words, but they made me miss home all the more.

  Dick DeGuerin made good on his promise to visit me a week later. We met in that same front room and Dick got straight to the point.

  “Anthony, I want you to know that I’ve filed a motion for a speedy hearing. We need to find out what they think they have on you.” His tone was reassuring. I had gathered during these first weeks in Caldwell that the state was stalling, putting me in a position to fail.

  “I don’t think they have shit,” he continued. “We’re going to push them to take us to trial.” He radiated confidence. I would come to learn that he was not only known for winning at trial, but for using his reputation for aggressiveness as leverage against the state in pretrial proceedings. I sat quietly as he outlined his strategy.

  “I’ve talked to the prosecutor about the results of the polygraph test you took down in Houston. He claims he doesn’t know anything about it. Did you know they gave one to Carter too?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I told him.

  “Well, Carter failed his. They have the results of his test. Somehow, they don’t have the results of yours. Sebesta maintains that he didn’t even know you had taken it.”

  I was stunned.

  “Look, Anthony, I know they’re full of shit,” he said. “Do you remember who the polygraph operator was?” I filed through my thoughts and remembered the big black man who had administered the test. I remembered how he’d sat where I couldn’t see his expression and how I’d heard him tearing small bits of paper while the machine did its business. I mentioned the name of the person I thought it was.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Dick responded. The look in his eyes told me that he didn’t think too highly of the ranger, to say the least.

  Dick was insistent. It might have taken me a few weeks to piece it all together, but he didn’t share my naïveté. Whatever ideals I’d associated with the American justice system as being the best in the world, Dick had seen enough of the system to know its warts. He sniffed out bullshit like one of the hounds the jailers used to track down escaped inmates.

  The Rangers had taken my clothes the day I was arrested. After hearing what Dick had said about the missing polygraph results, I had a sneaking suspicion my clothes had gone missing as well. I explained to Dick that on the day of my arrest, the Rangers had wanted to conduct some analysis on what I was wearing. I’d given them everything they asked for, right down to my tennis shoes. Dick hadn’t seen them. He’d explored my case file and had no knowledge of any such tests. He assured me that he would look into it.

  In jail, the days passed slowly. I read books that I pulled out of the jail library, mostly westerns and also the Bible. No one was able to send me any type of reading material at that point, so I just read what I could get my hands on. I had not been a reader back home, so this new habit, born of necessity, took some time to develop. But once it did, I read voraciously and discovered a new part of myself that loved books.

  When I wasn’t reading, my days in jail were consumed by the occasional visit to the rec yard and conversations with fellow inmates. The conversation was mostly about sports, women, money, and street life.

  Before being locked up, my days had been filled with just living life the best I understood it at the time. Sometimes clumsily, other times with not enough purpose, but always with an understanding that if I stayed out of trouble, life would be good to me in return. And it had: I worked, played sports, spent time with family, flirted with women, and tried to find myself and a place in the world that felt right for me. I didn’t live a big life. But now, I missed everything about it.

  In jail, I had almost zero freedom to decide anything for myself. It was no longer up to me when I could shower, go outside, take a walk, turn the lights on or off, visit friends, go to the store, change jobs, choose my own meals, or enjoy any other basic freedom that comes with being alive in America. They took everything but what I held inside—the part of me that I now protected like a priceless jewel, because if this was stolen too, the way I saw it, the State of Texas might as well kill me now.

  Reduced to that, I mostly thought about my case day after day, even though there wasn’t much I could do about it. I’d been in jail for close to a month and I hadn’t even been arraigned at a bond hearing yet. A couple more weeks passed before that happened, finally, on October 7.
>
  That morning, Dick came to the jail prior to the courtroom proceeding.

  “I need to prepare you for what might happen, Anthony. Don’t expect to get a bond today.”

  “Why is that?” I asked. In our last meeting, Dick had exposed holes in the state’s case. I was concerned by his change of tone. Dick was pragmatic, though, seeing all the angles. He knew enough to know that the law wasn’t all that mattered.

  “Well, it’s an election year, Anthony. There’s no way the judge will take a chance on letting you make bond, in case the papers make a big deal out of it.”

  Dick was right. The worst thing a newspaper can print about a judge is a headline proclaiming “Suspected Killer Out of Jail.” Of course, he had a plan. He explained that we might get bond by moving my case to another court. I was happy to have him on my side.

  My mother had brought a dark suit to jail for me to wear during my court appearance. It fit a little looser, no doubt a consequence of my lack of appetite for what passed as food at Caldwell. I looped a tie into a double Windsor and pulled the knot tight to the button on my neck. It felt good to be out of the orange jumpsuit.

  As I entered the courtroom, I immediately spotted my mother, other members of my family, and Yolanda, whom I hadn’t seen since the morning after the murders. They sat on wooden benches in the back of the room. Yolanda shared my mother’s tense expression. This was all so nerve-wracking for me, and I knew it had to be just as hard on my loved ones, who had even less information than the scraps I was given to help them process this nightmare. While we had shared plenty of phone calls early on in my incarceration, this was my first time actually seeing her since my arrest, and that was emotional for me, not only because of my feelings for her but because she was the one person in the world who’d known exactly where I was the entire night of the murders. She’d been in bed beside me. It hadn’t taken long for our communication to dry up after my arrest, though, as her father had put an end to our calls after receiving a $3,000 phone bill, and she was moving on with her life, anyway. That day everyone was there in court for me, though, and I was happy to see them.