My plan worked until we pulled into a gas station to fill up.
I hadn’t gassed up a car for twenty-five years. There had been some changes. The gas pumps I’d once used no longer existed. They’d been replaced by something that looked like a cross between a computer and an electronic billboard. There were flashing digital numbers, glaring ads, and what seemed like no focus to the design. I looked close, trying to decipher where to put the money or how to free the nozzle.
One of the cops laughed with me. “I guess they’ve changed a bit, huh?”
No kidding. I was going to need my mother to gas up the car till I got the hang of it.
I also saw the other people at the gas station staring at me—still handcuffed in the cop car—just another bad guy getting what he deserved, I imagined them thinking. They only saw the worn-out jail clothes, the shackles, and the funny prison haircut. They didn’t know I was on my way to a very public exoneration and sweet freedom.
They would know soon enough.
Throughout the ride I was handled the same way any other inmate would have been. But when we pulled in to the new jail in Williamson County, everything changed. I got very special treatment. The cops cleared out the entire booking area for me. All the drunks, hookers, and other unfortunate souls waiting for their jailhouse check-in were herded into glass-enclosed tanks, where they watched me being processed into—and then right back out of—jail.
The entire event was videotaped by a sheriff’s deputy—probably so the powers that be in Williamson County could prove I had been treated fairly. A young woman jailer handling my paperwork asked me a series of unanswerable questions.
“What is your occupation?”
What was I supposed to say—“professional prisoner”? I looked to the sergeant accompanying me. He shrugged.
“What is your address?”
I didn’t have one. The sergeant shrugged again. I finally gave the address of the Michael Unit—a place I never wanted to see again.
It was an odd sensation. I was being set free but possessed none of the grounding elements that are part of a normal life. I had no job, no home, no phone number, and no plans for the future. I was simply bobbing along between prison and the free world—at this point, not truly belonging in either place.
Eventually, I was led into a small room between the jail and the courtrooms. The clothes Mom had bought for me were delivered in a small, neat stack, pressed and gently folded. I yanked off my crummy jailhouse blues and began dressing. I slid into my brand-new free-world clothes. By the time I pulled the underwear and pants on, I was in emotional trouble.
This was a possibility that had worried me. I didn’t want to become so overwhelmed that I wept openly or collapsed in a heap or embarrassed myself in public. I hadn’t expected that a new set of clothes would trigger my first big fight to control myself.
But I was completely unprepared for the softness, the comfort, and the fit of clothes that had been designed to look good and feel good. It had been so long since I had felt soft fabric against my skin, since I had worn a shirt with buttons. It seemed like a lifetime since I had last pulled on pants that fit—and felt as smooth as silk. These were not wildly expensive clothes by any means. My mother had picked them up at the last minute at Kohl’s, a department store I hadn’t even heard of.
For me, these new clothes were a revelation—but then, I’d spent the past twenty-five years wearing clothes designed to further my punishment. The prison uniforms were meant to strip a person of individuality, to take away the smallest comforts, to crush any bit of personal pride that hadn’t been destroyed during a trial or a plea deal or a crime or a conviction.
I got a catch in my throat when I thought about the last time I had worn khaki pants and a button-down shirt. Who was that guy? That kid? That man who’d had no gray hair or laugh lines? And that was certainly an ironic phrase in my case—I hadn’t laughed nearly enough in the past twenty-five years.
The last time I had seen myself dressed like this, Chris and I were dancing to Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles. On TV we were watching Denzel Washington on St. Elsewhere, back when he was not yet a big movie star. I remembered dressing something like this when I saw what had then been the brand-new hit movie—the now timeworn Top Gun. Culturally, I had missed so much that I didn’t even know what I had missed.
I was like some kind of modern Rip Van Winkle—a man who fell off the face of the earth in 1987 and groggily reappeared nearly twenty-five years later. I had a lot of catching up to do, and getting through this first day was a big step.
Finally dressed, I was ushered into a small hallway somewhere behind the judge’s bench. The area soon filled with the people who had fought selflessly every step of the way to get me here. John Raley wrapped me in a massive bear hug. Nina Morrison and her unforgettable smile enveloped me, too. Barry Scheck was waiting there to introduce himself—this time, in person—and to lead yet another lucky Innocence Project success story back into the real world.
I looked up and saw the tall, lean figure of my original attorney Bill Allison walking toward me. If he had not preserved the record, if he had not handed my case to Barry Scheck, if he had not cared—I might still be in prison. I hugged him.
I owed him.
I owed them all. I owed them my very life.
When we finally walked into the courtroom, I was stunned at how packed it was. Standing room only! Was I that great a curiosity?
My family was sitting in the front row—beaming. There, as always, were my long-suffering mother and father, who had been through so much, who had done so much, for so long—for me. My sister Vicky and her husband, Mike, were there, too. So were my uncle Ron and aunt Jackie and their son, my cousin Greg. I walked over and embraced them all, trying not to cry before anything had even happened.
It was hard.
I took my seat at a table in the front with Barry, John, and Nina. The bailiff called the court to order, and Judge Harle began to speak. I wish I could say that his words were moving and meaningful and I would never forget them. But I don’t remember a thing—not a word, not a sentiment, not a syllable. Once again, I was in a courtroom—and in shock.
Barry Scheck, on the other hand, was in his element. He guided me through the performance like a generous and experienced ringmaster, at every point making sure his half-trained circus act didn’t misstep during the big show.
The hearing ended when the judge issued an order that I be released on personal recognizance. I do remember hearing the gavel pound and knowing that in that instant my prison life had come to a close.
I could breathe.
Barry addressed the throngs of recorders, cameras, microphones, and media members straining to get what they needed for their stories, blog posts, articles, and editorials. Apparently those people packing the courtroom were all covering my case—a big change from the last time I’d been in a Williamson County courtroom. The other startling difference was that, this time, they were friendly. After Barry answered their questions, I took a few. And I actually saw people tear up in sympathy. It was the beginning of my understanding that the real world had been waiting for me—that life out here was going to be okay.
I did notice—with amusement—that every time I smiled or moved, it unleashed a torrent of shutter clicks. My every word and expression was being examined under a massive moving, whirring, and jostling microscope. It was intimidating, but this kind of pressure was nothing compared to the perils of prison. It took more than a bunch of reporters to scare me.
My legal team had told me just to speak from my heart, which helped me find my words. I simply tried to tell the people writing about my life what I felt at that moment, what this day meant to me and to my family. More than anything, I wanted what had happened to me to mean something, to make a difference. I remember finishing up by saying that all the colors seemed extra bright and the women were real
good looking.
Everyone laughed. I was still trying not to cry.
John Raley pushed me through the crowd like the University of Oklahoma lineman he’d once been. Just before we stepped through the courthouse doors, he whispered, “When you step outside, breathe freedom, Michael.” We left the building, and I turned my face up to the sun—a free man in the free world, finally.
It was a perfect fall day—sunny, cool, and beautiful. It reminded me of the gorgeous fall days I had once taken for granted—the days I would from now on treasure like the precious and priceless gifts they were.
We piled into my brother-in-law’s truck and were pulling out of the parking lot when I saw Barry walking toward us, holding a woman by the arm. She was crying.
She had been on my jury.
She was a former high school teacher, who for twenty-five years had told her students how she’d done her civic duty and sent me to prison. Now she knew that everything she had believed for so many years was wrong. This poor soul was standing outside our truck, tear streaked and aching with remorse. My lawyers were eager to get me out of there, and frankly, I was ready to get on with my life, too. Still, I felt I couldn’t just leave her. I knew too well what it was to hurt all alone. I reached out the window and did the only thing I could at that moment. I cupped her cheek in my hand and tried to reassure her that it was okay—that I understood, that it wasn’t her fault.
It was time we all began putting our pain behind us.
When we drove out of the lot, someone yelled for me to look up at the courthouse. There, lining the railing was a row of uniformed cops and courthouse employees—all waving and applauding me.
Gerry Goldstein—a San Antonio attorney and friend of Barry’s—was dumbstruck. He said he’d never seen anything like it in his life—cops applauding a defendant. God knows, it was a much different send-off than I got the last time I left a Williamson County courtroom.
Our whole team reassembled at a secluded restaurant where the Innocence Project had reserved a private dining room. This wasn’t just for me—it was for them as well—people like Diana Faust who wrote all of the early briefs asking for relief in my case. Because of all the overtime hours, all the pressure, and all the hard work this group had put in to get to this day, they needed to celebrate, too. And they deserved it. There were people there I’d never even met or heard of but whose hard work had helped set me free.
The wine was really flowing, and the food was incredible. I ordered trout. It was the first time in twenty-five years I had eaten fish that hadn’t been smashed into a square and tasted like chicken. It was the first time in twenty-five years I shared a table with people who had never stabbed anyone—so I was finally able to use a knife and a fork. Good-bye, cruel spork.
The silverware felt wonderfully heavy and solid in my hands. The sound of my knife and fork clinking on the plate was impressive. After years of eating off plastic trays with a plastic utensil, the look and feel of the silver, china, and crystal seemed wildly luxurious. I’d gone from pauper to prince in one day.
I wiped my hands on the linen napkin much more than I needed to. For me, simply having a napkin was a novelty. If I wanted or needed a napkin in the prison chow hall, I had to bring toilet paper from my cell.
But the real kicker was having someone serve me dinner—having another person carefully place my full plate in front of me, smile at me, make sure my glass was filled, and fuss over whether or not I liked the food. For me, this was absolutely mind-boggling. “Prison dining” (insert derisive laughter here) is eating every single meal in the world’s worst cafeteria. The cooks don’t care, the kitchen workers hate their jobs, and the food is the absolute cheapest and most poorly prepared possible. This experience was like a preview of heaven—the very best meal I’d ever had.
There were speeches and laughter, the reliving of tight moments and maddening delays. Barry told long, hilarious stories that always came back to make a powerful point. The other attorneys at the table made a series of long-winded toasts and then laughed uproariously at their tendency to make long-winded toasts. The Innocence Project had a cameraman tape me promising to never, ever, ever tell another lawyer joke—a vow that’s been easy to keep. Lawyers, these lawyers, had saved my life.
Restaurant workers peeked in at us and whispered to one another when they recognized me as the man they’d seen on TV.
My mother was as happy as I had ever seen her—ever. She was talking about all the things she wanted to help me catch up on, and she mentioned casually how eager I was to swim—saying that I’d been an avid scuba diver and couldn’t wait to get back in the water.
I had suffered quite a dry spell. The only water I’d dived into for decades was the crowded communal prison shower.
Instantly, one of the Innocence Project angels whipped out her phone and called the hotel where we would be spending the night to make sure they had a pool. They did, in the basement—just waiting for me.
I got the impression that if there hadn’t been a pool, we would’ve stayed somewhere else. I don’t know if they were just trying to fulfill an exoneree’s wishes or were simply crazy. Either way, I felt honored, unworthy, and deeply touched. After so many years in the company of some of society’s worst, these people were a gift from God. They made me feel human again, loved again—alive again.
The Innocence Project had reserved rooms for me—and my parents—at the posh InterContinental hotel in Austin. Some of the attorneys who helped me were staying there, too. That night I learned how to use a key card to open the door to my room—a first for me. When I looked inside, I was stunned. Just the night before I had been in a cell with cracked concrete walls. Now I stood in the entryway to what seemed like the most beautiful room I’d ever seen. There was a marble floor in the bathroom, a king-size bed, a gigantic flat-screen TV, and—best of all—absolute and utter privacy. It made me dizzy.
But what thrilled me most that night was my chance to finally get back in the water. Sadly, I had no bathing suit. Someone whispered to me that I could just wear my boxers—from a distance, they said, no one would notice. Brilliant.
I donned the luxurious white terry-cloth hotel robe and the slippers conveniently waiting in my closet and walked alone to the elevator, not quite sure if it was truly acceptable to march around the hotel dressed like this. I felt terribly out of place in my robe, but I appeared to be the only one who saw it that way. People smiled at me in the elevator.
When the doors to the pool area opened, a couple entered and called me by name. The man shook my hand and congratulated me. His wife hugged my neck and wished me well. They were complete strangers, but they’d seen me on TV. After so many years of being the bogey man, I had suddenly become everyone’s best friend. It was jarring—but good.
At poolside, I found my mom; Nina—still smiling; Rachel Pecker, a kind Innocence Project intern; and Angela Amel, the warmhearted Innocence Project specialist who helped exonerees get resettled. They had been waiting for me. This formidable female phalanx had my back—they gave me maternal love and ferocious protection, understanding and caring friendship, even legal advice. They were there to make sure my first swim was as good as it could be. I don’t know that I will ever again feel so sheltered, so lucky, or so loved.
For them, this may have been simply my inaugural swim. For me, it was more like a baptism—a rebirth back into the free world.
I plunged in, and my body instantly remembered what I had always loved about the water—the weightlessness, the way I could glide great distances, the feeling of floating—the utter peace.
I was swimming.
I was flying.
I was free.
John Raley and Barry Scheck soon appeared poolside. John told me his firm had a tradition of celebrating every legal success by sitting in a hot tub and drinking cold beer. An ice bucket with beer bottles sprouting from it like a glass bouquet material
ized. John and I got in the hot tub while everyone else gathered around, swapping stories old and new. Barry regaled us with the amazing details of cases past and present—and future. His delivery, even after a few drinks—even after I had a few drinks—was mesmerizing.
When hotel management finally came and told us—with regret—that the pool was closed, we wrapped up and headed back upstairs.
To my astonishment, I found in my room an ice bucket—complete with a champagne bottle and elegant glass flutes. Who had ordered it? Who had put it there? It was hard to wrap my head around the obvious fact that someone had done that for me.
Preparing for bed, I walked into the bathroom. The difference between the sumptuous carpet and the bathroom’s smooth marble floor registered on my bare feet. Moving from the carpet to the marble thrilled me so much that I performed a little two-step dance, going back and forth, back and forth.
Later, I tried to set the newfangled alarm clock—then gave up and called the front desk, asking for a wake-up call.
Then, with great joy, I sank into the bed—deep into the pile of pillows, between the pressed, cool white sheets, savoring the luxurious cushioned mattress. I turned the light off and just lay there—feeling as though I was reclining on a cloud, savoring the profound comfort and the incredible silence.
For the first time in twenty-five years, I quickly fell fast asleep. Smiling.
Of course, I woke up at 3:30 A.M., rested and ready for breakfast.
My body clock was going to need a reset after so many years of eating, working, and sleeping on a prison schedule that seemed to arbitrarily set the first meal of the day for the middle of the night. And that was just one of the many adjustments I would be making from that moment on.
When we left the hotel, I received another round of applause from the bellhops, the waiters, the people behind the desk, and the guests checking in and out. This stuff was going to be hard to get used to.
Getting Life Page 21