Life After Death: The Shocking True Story of a Innocent Man on Death Row

by Damien Echols

  You must understand my mother to be able to really understand why she did this. If you don’t know her you could easily mistake her action for the concern of a caring parent. In reality it was the action of a drama queen. My mother loves to create drama, as I’ve already said. She still does. These days, anytime a reporter comes around she can’t keep her mouth shut and goes into her “poor mother” routine, complete with copious tears. I’ve seen it too many times.

  I continued on to my room and listened to the radio for a few minutes, knowing she had set an unalterable chain of events in motion. I don’t know if she called Driver for advice, but within a very short time, someone knocked on the door and I opened it to discover a police officer. He asked if I would talk to him, so we took a seat in the living room. I couldn’t believe the difference between the police in Oregon and the police in Arkansas. The guy was well groomed and fit, very polite, and spoke proper English. He treated me like a human being, and I may have even liked the guy under other circumstances. The upshot of communications between my mother and the police—and possibly others—was that it was decided I should be taken to the psychiatric unit of St. Anthony’s Hospital in Portland, nearby. The cop left, and I got in the car with my parents.

  I sat at the hospital, waiting to see a doctor and wondering why the hell this was happening to me. My parents had been utterly convinced by strangers that their son was suicidal and mentally unstable, and their solution was to lock me up. My mother has made more than her fair share of stupid mistakes, but I believe this one was the most ridiculous. My relationship with my father also changed that night.

  It’s been so many years that I can now no longer even remember exactly what he said, but it was something along the lines of “You need to straighten up and fly right. I’m tired of you moping around all the time, blah, blah, blah.” He followed it up with some kind of threat. He was trying to be a hard-ass because I refused to speak to either him or my mother. I had nothing to say to them, not after doing this to me. I listened to his whole angry spiel without saying anything, but every word he spoke changed the way I saw him.

  In that moment, I saw my father not as a man but as a boy. He was a child who had never lived up to a single responsibility in his life, and he had failed me in every way conceivable. He had abandoned me, left me to live in poverty and squalor with a hateful, religious zealot of a stepfather and a mother who wouldn’t raise a hand to protect us from his tyranny. I saw him as weak, knowing he wouldn’t have survived the despair of a life like the one he had left me to. I didn’t want to hear anything else from him. With absolute contempt I spat the words, “I’d eat you alive.” During my trial the prosecutor tried to say that I meant those words literally—that I was a cannibal, lacking nothing but a bone to put through my nose. Of course I meant nothing of the sort. What I meant was that I realized I was stronger than my father, that I had survived a life he had crumbled beneath the weight of and abandoned years earlier. I had survived without him, and he was doing me no great favor by being back in my life now. I was disgusted by his childishness.

  When I finally saw a doctor, he admitted me and I was given a room. The psychiatric ward was nothing like the hospital in Little Rock; it was more like an asylum. There were no group therapy sessions, no interaction with staff, no scheduled routines, no anything. The patients spent all their time wandering the hallways, looking out the windows at the city below or whispering among themselves.

  My parents came to see me the next day, and my mother behaved in her typical fashion—as if all would now be forgiven and we’d go back to being friends. Not this time. I was fed up with her. I told her that if she didn’t check me out of this place immediately, I never wanted to see her again. Her only response was, “If that’s what you want,” and they left. It was too much to ask that they stay away, and they returned the next day.

  I was taken into a doctor’s office and found my parents sitting on a couch inside. I was in no mood to make friends and behaved rudely. The doctor finally asked me, “What is it you want?” Perhaps this is a question only a medical doctor has the intelligence to ask, because my mother and father certainly never did. I no longer trusted my parents and could see just one option—“I want to go home.” I didn’t mean the apartment in Oregon. When I said “home,” I meant Arkansas. I didn’t believe there was a chance in hell of it happening, so I was stunned when my parents agreed to it. As I sat there, the doctor—who had been in communication with Jerry Driver and was aware that I had been “institutionalized” prior to this—actually called Driver to tell him I would be returning to Arkansas. Arrangements were made for me to be discharged the next morning, and I would take a bus back down South.

  There wasn’t much sleep for me that night. I went to bed but mostly just tossed and turned. I kept trying to form a plan of what I would do once I got to Arkansas, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. I didn’t even have a place to go once I got there, but I didn’t care. I knew it would all come together in time. All that mattered now was that I would soon be back home. The month I’d been gone seemed like years.

  At daybreak I showered, dressed, and ate breakfast. A security guard led me downstairs and out the front door, where I saw my mother and father standing on the sidewalk next to a cab. My suitcase was sitting at their feet. My father handed me a bus ticket and the money left over from my last paycheck. I hugged him good-bye, but his body was stiff and rigid, as if he was reluctant to touch me. He didn’t say much. Same with my mother. I put my suitcase in the cab and climbed aboard for the trip to the bus station. I was nervous, I was excited, and I was on my own at the age of seventeen.

  I’d never been on a bus before, so the experience was a little surreal. I had been waiting in the station about fifteen minutes when the intercom announced that everyone should board now. My suitcase was placed in a storage compartment and I took an anonymous seat in the middle of a row.

  As I watched the bus fill rapidly, I noticed the passengers all seemed to have quite a bit in common. They were all unshaven and appeared to be in need of a bath; most were ill-tempered and barked at anyone who got too close to them. Somehow all the dregs of society had found their way onto a single bus. It was the smelly, grouchy Greyhound from hell.

  I put on my fiercest facial expression in hopes of scaring away anyone who might be tempted to sit next to me. It seemed to work. No one had the inclination to sit next to a scowling creature with unbrushed hair and dressed in black leather.

  The entire magickal voyage lasted for five enchanting days. We stopped mostly at gas stations and convenience stores for people to buy supplies, then we’d be off again. I survived on a steady diet of chips and soda, with an occasional sandwich. Sometimes we’d stop at a McDonald’s for breakfast, but I never went in. I stuck close to the bus in a constant state of anxiety that it would leave without me.

  On the second or third day I was reluctantly pulled into a conversation with two other gentlemen who had come aboard at the last stop. One guy was young, about nineteen or twenty years old; the other guy looked to be about fifty, but it was difficult to tell because of the layers of fat and road dirt. The young guy had long black hair and was wearing a leather jacket with a picture of Madonna airbrushed on the back. He spoke in a soft, quiet voice and chain-smoked clove cigarettes every time the bus made a stop. The old guy had a loud, obnoxious voice, greasy, gray hair, and was dressed in cutoff sweatpants and a filthy teal-colored shirt. They were traveling together, and both set out to convince me that I should join them in working at a carnival that traveled from state to state. They spoke nonstop about the glories and riches I could acquire if I chose to undertake this noble profession. I thanked them but declined the offer on the grounds that I was holding out for a more lucrative deal in the porn industry. Somewhere between Oregon and Missouri they departed the scene, and I continued my journey alone.

  The longest layover was in St. Louis, where I spent six hours. I left the bus station to go exploring and stumbled upon
an extraordinary number of dubious individuals. An old black man who looked like a fugitive from the intensive care unit tried to sell me drugs before I was more than ten feet away from the station. This was a neighborhood in which one definitely didn’t want to be caught after dark, and since night was rapidly approaching I soon beat a hasty retreat to the station. I spent the remainder of the time talking to a guy from Germany who had come to the United States in search of his father.

  We crossed the Arkansas state line somewhere between two and three a.m., but I still had trouble believing I was there. A part of me was certain the place no longer existed, that it had disappeared once I left. I looked out the window into the darkness beyond and kept thinking, I’m back, I’m back, I’m back, projecting it out into the night. It was a Saturday morning, and everyone else on the bus was asleep. I couldn’t sit still. Every landmark I recognized pushed me to a new level of excitement. When we passed the cemetery where my grandfather was buried, it took all my self-control not to tell the bus driver, “I need off now! Let me out here!”

  We pulled into the bus station just as the sun was rising. No one else stirred; I was the only one getting off. I got off the bus, retrieved my suitcase, and looked around. Everything I could see looked exactly the same as when I’d left.

  Fourteen

  I was stopped by a cop less than ten minutes after getting off the bus in West Memphis. There was no one to pick me up, so I was going to have to walk while carrying my luggage. The closest person I knew was Domini, and she lived about three miles away. I thought that perhaps I could leave my suitcase there while searching for a place to stay, so that’s where I’d started off to.

  As I crossed the street from the bus station, a cop car pulled around the corner. I was greeted with flashing blue lights and a blaring siren. I have no idea what I did to arouse his suspicion, but he pulled up next to me and rolled down the window. Behind the wheel was an insolent slob with a stomach so huge he could barely squeeze into the front seat. With a voice somewhere between a hare-lipped drone and an obnoxious whine, he began to ask, “What’s your name? Where are you going? Why are you dressed like that?”

  I had broken no laws and was doing nothing wrong. He was harassing me simply because he could. The only reason he eventually left me alone is that he got a call on his radio. If not for that, there’s no telling where the situation would have gone.

  Walking three miles with a large, heavy suitcase took forever. I had to stop every so often to rub my hands, which were quickly developing blisters. The day was rapidly growing hot, the morning turning into a fine example of the brutal Arkansas summer. When I reached the apartment complex where Domini lived, I was exhausted and covered in sweat.

  I had an odd sensation as I made my way between the buildings. It was a complex mixture of thoughts and feelings, one of which was amazement (and perhaps pleasure) at how nothing had changed. When I had gone there to see Domini in the past, I was always struck by how different the place was from Lakeshore, and as an outsider returning home, it was surreally familiar. I was sleep-deprived and hungry, and I couldn’t decide which was more dreamlike—the time I’d spent in Oregon or being back there now.

  My feelings about West Memphis and Arkansas in general have always been something of a paradox. The people there have often been cruel and hateful toward me, and I’ve been so lonely there that I thought the ennui would kill me. I didn’t fit into the social scenes, and there aren’t many opportunities to be had there, but it’s been my home. The place itself is alive with a kind of magick that can cause my heart to feel like it’s bursting. There is a scent in the air I can’t describe. I wish everyone who reads this could feel it just once. You would remember it forever.

  When I stepped in front of Domini’s apartment, she was on the second floor looking out an open window. She glanced down and saw me, looked shocked for a second, then disappeared back into her room. A few seconds later the front door opened and Domini ran out. All she said was “Hi” when she hugged me. She felt familiar to me in her own way, but there was no power or passion to it like there was with Deanna.

  The word I associate with Domini is just “pleasant.” Hugging Domini was pleasant. I told her I was back for good and asked if I could leave my luggage there until I figured out what I was going to do with it. She helped me get it inside and out of the way, then said she’d come with me to Lakeshore. My next step would be to let Jason know that I was back.

  As Domini and I walked the mile or so to Lakeshore, I told her all about being sent to the hospital, the return of my father, and the great Oregon adventure. She was explaining that she would let me stay with her if it wasn’t for her aunt and uncle’s objections when a cop stopped me for the second time that day. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet. He pulled up next to us, got out of his car, and struck a pose like some sort of obese superhero. This one asked all the same questions the first one did, and I had to go through the same routine.

  As a child, I was taught in school that living in America automatically entitles you to certain freedoms, yet the older I’ve gotten the more I’ve come to know the harsh reality. These cops could stop me anytime and anywhere, and make demands of me that left me no choice but to comply. Even though I was doing nothing wrong I was forced to tell them where I was going, where I was from, and any other personal information they demanded of me, all because they didn’t like the way I looked. The only freedom I had was to obey or go to jail. They never taught me that in school.

  When this cop finally released us, we continued on to Lakeshore. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed that dilapidated hellhole until I saw it again. That trailer park was a magickal place. I still miss it now, even though the Lakeshore I knew is gone. The scummy green water and the dead fish smell in the air said “home” to me like nothing else.

  As Jason’s trailer came into view, I wanted to break into a run. I knew he’d still be sleeping, so I slapped the window next to where his head would be. He peeked out the window, looking irritated and half asleep, then realized who it was and quickly ran to open the front door. He was highly excited and ushered us inside, where he was the only one home. Once we were all seated I had to explain again where I’d been and what had happened. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Jason since he’d left Deanna and me in the abandoned trailer that afternoon, so the whole thing had been a mystery to him.

  He told us how he’d knocked on my door one day to discover a whole different family inside, and none of them had ever even heard of me. It was as if I had disappeared from the face of the earth without a trace, and he was certain he’d never see me again. When I told him about Oregon he just shook his head and said, “I would have never come back.” I’d have said the same thing myself before I had the actual experience.

  We discussed the fact that I didn’t know for certain where I was going to stay yet and how great it would be if I could stay with him. We both knew his mother would never agree to it, but later that day he tried to convince her anyway. As we expected, the idea was met with much hostility.

  My only real option was Brian. I made the trip to his house accompanied by both Jason and Domini. He started laughing the moment he opened the door and saw who it was. We all sat on the patio and I explained for the third and final time where I’d been. Brian was more amazed than I expected him to be, because he had thought I was still around and had simply dropped out of sight for a while. He found the entire story to be very amusing and laughed as if my misfortunes were the epitome of stupidity and hilarity. He asked questions when he wanted me to clarify certain points, all the while staring at me like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Brian had a plan that was both simple and ingenious—I would stay with him, but we would tell no one. As long as his mother didn’t know I was living in the house, she could not object to it. I was impressed with his logic. After much pleading and cajoling, we persuaded his brother to drive to Domini’s and pick up my suitcase.

  The weekend was a flurry of
excitement because I was so happy to be back and around the people I knew. We talked about what I’d missed, drove around Memphis like old times, got reacquainted with people I’d forgotten about, and generally enjoyed ourselves. I slept on Brian’s floor Saturday and Sunday night, and on Monday morning I went with him to school.

  Attempting to reenroll in school turned out to be one more thing on a long list of disappointments. The principal informed me that I needed a parent present to sign me up because I was not yet eighteen years old. I explained that this would be impossible as both of my parents were now living on the other side of the country. He suggested that I consider getting a GED instead. I found the idea to be distasteful, but I could see that I was making no progress in pleading my case. Dejected, I returned to Brian’s house, where I ordered a pizza and watched television for the rest of the day.

  When Brian returned home from school, I told him what had happened and we put our heads together to form a solution. In the end, the conclusion we came to was to see if the school would allow his mother to enroll me. She didn’t know I was actually staying with them, but we did get along well. We never had a chance to test this plan, and school would soon be the least of my worries. The very next day would find me back in jail.

  Tuesday morning, Brian got up and followed his usual routine of preparing for school. I was jealous that he got to go and I did not. I loved going to school; I just didn’t like doing the work. I always thought school was more fun than a carnival. Everyone I knew was going to be there, so the day would be impossibly boring for me during school hours.