by Mateo Hoke
I remember once waking up at four or five in the morning and Nikko had been up all night. He had taken apart all these electronic devices. He was twelve or thirteen and he had this crazed look on his face. Very driven, very focused. I asked, “Nikko, what are you doing?” and he said, “I’m taking these apart and then I’m going to put them back together,” and he had like five different devices taken apart. Everything had changed, like his facial expression, and that was a clear indication that the medication was not working properly and I should have done something right then, but I didn’t.
There wasn’t a light switch that went on and off. He would be on different medications and his body chemistry was constantly changing, so it wasn’t always the same symptoms. It was a slow process. By the time I realized that he was in crisis, and he realized that he was in crisis, it would definitely be a crisis.
After the diagnosis he kind of felt that he was defective, I guess. That he was broken and he was carrying around a big shame and a big embarrassment. He didn’t want anyone to know. He was treated as damaged goods by the medical staff, by the school, by everybody.
HIS INNOCENCE WAS GONE
I was fighting to keep him out of the special ed school. The school board was pushing and pushing to put him in. I felt his behavior would escalate if he went into that type of environment. He finally went in there in fifth grade, and he was there until he went to the first juvenile detention center. Then they wouldn’t take him back.
He would get suspended all the time. At thirteen or fourteen he would fight with the bus driver. I think the bus driver just didn’t like him and would single him out and embarrass him in front of the other kids, and Nikko would just react. I couldn’t get him stable for a long period of time. The doctors that we were dealing with told me to get him in the court system and once I got him before a judge, a judge could order him into a facility, the best that money could buy. And the only way he could get there was if a judge ordered him. But getting him in the system was the worst thing you could possibly do.
My husband, Freddy, and I kept calling the police anytime anything would happen. Looking back, Nikko was hitting puberty, and I had just given birth to Nicole and was pregnant with Jackie, so, you know, there was a lot going on. One night Nikko and I got in an argument over the remote control, and it just spiraled. And it got physical. I was as much to blame as Nikko.
Nikko would decide he didn’t want to take his medication, and so I would call the police. And we got him into the system. But once Nikko was in the system, it felt like he was taken out of our hands. I tried to stop it, but there was no stopping it. Nikko had to go to court regularly because he was in trouble for school truancy and domestic violence.
We went to court for over a year because the judge was monitoring Nikko’s progress. He put all these crap programs into our home that weren’t doing anything. These people would come to meet with Nikko at home, and I felt they weren’t qualified for anything. I wanted to get him into a program called the Sheriffs Youth Ranch. It’s a very long process, but the program is supposed to be very good. I was on the last step of getting Nikko in that program. We were in court and before the judge sentenced Nikko, I said, “Please don’t sentence him. I almost have him in the youth ranch. I’ve been working on this for the past eight months.” The judge took a recess and called the youth ranch, and no one answered. He came back and said, “I don’t believe you, I think you’re lying to me,” and sentenced Nikko to the juvenile detention center.
There’s not just one thing that happened. We got Nikko into the system, and then it just took on a life of its own. The judge wanted to see progress. I don’t know what kind of progress they were expecting. I was confused. Nikko was confused. We couldn’t all get on the same page, and it went downhill from there.
It was a nightmare. The first time Nikko was supposed to spend six months, he was there for eight. He was one of the youngest kids and the only white kid, and it was a horror. He was sent to Thompson Academy, and there was a lot of abuse.50 Later there was a lawsuit. It’s all documented. Nikko has never been the same since. Never. I didn’t know who he was. I lost Nikko then. His innocence was gone. You could see that he’d been through something horrific. He was just . . . different. He was sad and angry.
The years after were difficult. He went to another facility. In and out of other institutions. They were basically preparing him for prison. And it’s not like he did anything really terrible, it was more just that he was in the system. I was looking for help and doing it wrong. The system absolutely made him worse. The system failed him time and time and time again.
Nikko’s medical costs were covered by social security as a child. But when he turned eighteen the social security stopped because he became an adult. We had to start the process of getting him covered all over again. He lost access to his medication and doctors, and he started to self-medicate with oxycodone. He became addicted to it.
Nikko was desperate to stop. But we were turned away from every detox rehab there was—from West Palm Beach to Miami. We even tried to get him into a mental health facility, into a crisis unit, and we couldn’t even do that. We were literally turned away. There were no beds. We were in the middle of an epidemic of oxycodone. At that time Broward County was the only county in the United States that didn’t have a cap on how many pills you could get in a month, so there were people coming from all across the country into Broward County to all the pill mills.51 There was a pill mill on every corner. It was a huge epidemic—between Broward and Palm Beach County eight people were dying every day due to oxycodone.
Nikko needed a lot of money to support his habit. He would want to take the family car to go and pick up drugs, and I wouldn’t let him. So there was a lot of turmoil in the house and that’s what the girls remember. Mommy and Daddy fighting with Nikko. I didn’t know who he was. Nikko didn’t know who he was. His addiction had control and it came to the point where I sat Nikko down one day and I told him that he had to leave. We both started crying. It’s one of the hardest things that I ever had to do. I have two younger children, and Nikko’s addiction was in control—Nikko wasn’t.
The robberies happened right around Nikko’s birthday. He had just turned nineteen. It happened at the end of November 2011. Nikko robbed a Pizza Hut and a CVS. They were armed robberies, but there were no bullets in the gun. At CVS he waited in line and when it was his turn he robbed the store. I don’t know what he got. Whatever it was, it was under a hundred dollars. I believe the Pizza Hut robbery was in the early afternoon, when it had just opened. There was no one in the store, and it was pretty pathetic the way the whole thing went down, but that too was under a hundred dollars. His codefendant was the getaway driver. He was older, and his family had some money, and so as soon as they were arrested his family was able to obtain a lawyer. Shortly after that the prosecution made a deal and I think the codefendant did two or three years. Then he got out and ended up fatally overdosing.
Nikko called from jail and the first thing I asked him was, “Did you do it?” He said yes and that was it. Nikko has always been that honest. If he did it, he’ll absolutely tell me that he did it. And he’s prepared to take the consequences.
NOBODY ACKNOWLEDGED WHAT HE SAID
Nikko was in jail for a year, basically awaiting trial, and he had a public defender. The lawyer brought him into court a week early and was forcing him to plead guilty. By this time Nikko had been in jail a year with no medication, and he wasn’t doing well. He was getting very sick. I walked into court and that lawyer was standing over Nikko, sticking his finger in his face. When I realized what was happening I just looked at Nikko, I shook my head, and I put my hands out, saying, “No, don’t plead guilty.” And the public defender looked at the bailiff and gestured, and the bailiff took me out of the courtroom. And Nikko pleaded guilty. The lawyer’s reasoning was, “You don’t want to piss this judge off.” He said, “You have to plead guilt
y.”
When Nikko was arrested, Glen wrote Nikko a letter in prison apologizing for rejecting him. And Nikko ended up reading that letter to the judge in court. Nikko hadn’t been sentenced yet. While reading that letter, Nikko said that he suffered with bipolar disorder. It was the first time that he ever said it out loud. And it went completely unnoticed. I remember looking at Nikko when he said that, feeling two different emotions so strongly. The first emotion was pride—that he was able to stand up and hold his head up high and say in public, “Yes, I do suffer with bipolar.” And the second emotion was empathy. It was such a hard thing for Nikko to do and so painful for him to say, and the fact that it wasn’t acknowledged broke my heart. Nobody acknowledged what he said—not his lawyer, not the judge, nobody. And I remember looking around and thinking, “Maybe they didn’t hear him.” But it was such a huge moment, and I just looked at Nikko and mouthed the words “I love you. I’m proud of you.”
Nikko was sentenced to ten years mandatory minimum sentence in August 2012. His public defender did absolutely nothing to prevent this. It felt as though he was working for the prosecution. I walked out of the courtroom and said a few words to the attorney. They were not kind. And I grabbed Nicole’s and Jackie’s hands and walked down what felt like the longest hall in my life, and as soon as we turned the corner I dropped to my knees. They just gave out and I started crying.
NIKKO JUST SHUT DOWN
As soon as Nikko went to prison I filled out paperwork for visitation for me, Freddy, and our two girls. So I was awaiting this paperwork to come back clear—they do a background check. I hadn’t heard from Nikko for a month, so I ended up calling the prison and found out that Nikko was in administrative confinement. So that means that something happened. I found out that he had gotten a tattoo, and because of that he was put on a disciplinary squad. Something happened on the disciplinary squad with an officer. To this day I don’t know what it was, but I know Nikko.
In February 2014, he was found in the solitary confinement cell unresponsive. Nikko just shut down, stopped eating, stopped talking, stopped moving. He was just lying there waiting to die. There was an advisor at the National Alliance on Mental Illness that I would call obsessively, like a lunatic. He made a phone call to check on Nikko. And that’s how I found out that Nikko was in the crisis unit and had been there for several months, and that he had been found in a catatonic state in solitary confinement. That day was horrific. I thought a catatonic state was something from the fifties. I didn’t even realize that a human being could go into a catatonic state these days.
The prison doctors diagnosed him with schizophrenia. Now I know that Nikko doesn’t have schizophrenia because this is something that the doctors and I were looking for when he was younger. I’ve read everything there is to read on solitary confinement and what happens to the brain, how it will shut down, and how you’ll start hallucinating. The human brain is just not designed for this type of isolation. So it will mimic the same effects as schizophrenia, but that doesn’t mean you have schizophrenia. It means that you’re basically being tortured. Really, the prison doctors were seeing Nikko react to isolation. He’s not schizophrenic, but they’re medicating him like he is. And these are serious medications. They’re not medicating him for the conditions he has, they’ve misdiagnosed him and are torturing him even more with the wrong medications. It’s like they’re punishing him for having symptoms of isolation.
A VERY, VERY SHORT TIME TO GET NIKKO BACK
The first time I was allowed to visit was 2015, and that was because he was found to be forty pounds underweight and near death. The first visit was horrible. Nikko had already been in solitary for two and a half years. He spent sixteen days in general population, and the rest of the time he’d been in isolation. He was at Union Correctional, which is about six hours from where I live.
I remember being nervous, thinking that Nikko was going to be horrified, that I looked so stupid, that I looked so old. I was worried that I was going to upset him. I’m shaking. I’m scared. The visit happened to be on death row, which was, in itself, very upsetting. I didn’t know why I was visiting my son on death row.
So the guards walked me in and told me that I could buy Nikko food. All I brought was $25, and I spent every cent of it on anything they had. They filled this box with the food and then they put it into a phone booth type of thing. I guess they opened the door to this phone booth thing, and there was an inmate standing there. They started to remove his shackles. I thought to myself for a split second, Oh, they’re putting the wrong inmate in the room. Nikko is supposed to go there. Should I say something? And then I realized that it was Nikko.
Nikko—he didn’t know who I was. His bones were protruding. He could barely stand up. Three guards had escorted him from his cellblock to the visiting area in death row. He could barely walk. And they’re having a hard time getting the shackles off him because he’s having a hard time keeping his balance. He’s blinking his eyes like the light’s affecting them. He looked like a Holocaust victim. That’s all I thought, that he looked like a Holocaust victim. It looked like rigor mortis had started to set in around his eyes, his cheekbones—everything was set back. And he had that daunted look, like a beaten dog. He’s blinking and looking around. I stand up and I’m waving my arms and I’m saying, “Nikko! Nikko it’s me! It’s Mom.” He looks and he kind of says yes, but doesn’t really say anything and keeps looking around. And I realize he doesn’t know who I am.
Nikko didn’t know I was there. He couldn’t make eye contact. He was in and out of consciousness. I kept trying to get his attention. It’s a two-hour, no-contact visit so I can’t touch him. Just the sound of my voice would hurt him, and asking him to look at me and give me eye contact was painful for him. I could see how painful it was. I could see that he would literally come in and out of consciousness.
So they unshackle him and he’s scared. He’s very scared. And I knew that I had a very, very short time to get Nikko back. And that literally everything was depending on this visit. I can’t touch him, and there is a dirty piece of glass in between us with those little holes—that metal plate with holes poked in it—and I needed to get Nikko to focus on me. I needed to make eye contact with him, and I needed him to remember who I was. I shouted: “Nikko! Nikko!” I kept calling his name to get him to look at me, trying to get his eyes to, you know, look up to eye level because he couldn’t do that—his head was hanging. I was talking very fast and very loud about everything—his childhood, his sisters, the animals in the house. I was doing everything—I’m calling him names, things that I used to call him when he was younger, and I’m not showing fear.
I remember just being very matter of fact about everything and speaking with a lot of force. I remember thinking that he needs to use my strength. And I just keep talking. It’s probably twenty minutes into it, and as I’m talking—whatever I’m saying—I would stop and say, “Nikko! Look at me! Nikko, look at me!” And then I’d continue talking. But I’d keep saying it, “Nikko, look at me. Nikko put your eyes on me. Look at me! Give me your eyes. Nikko, look at me.”
Very slowly he picked up his head and then he picked up his eyes and moved them across the room until they came to me. I said, “Nikko!” As soon as his eyes met mine I said, “Nikko!” And he said, “Mom? You’re here.” And I said, “Yes. Nikko, I’m here! I’m right here, Nikko.” And his eyes would start falling, and I said, “Nikko, keep your eyes on me. Keep your eyes on me!” And he said, “Mom, you’re here.” I said, “Yes, I’m here.” And I just sat back, and I made him keep his eyes on me and I just smiled, and I let him kind of process the whole thing. And then he smiled.
He knew who I was. I wouldn’t let him take his eyes off me, no matter what. I kept talking, and I could see that the more I spoke, and the more I kept his eyes on me—you could literally see the color come back into his face, you could start to see facial expressions. And it was like breathing life into hi
m. They had taken the shackles off his arms—so he could move his arms. I guess he must have hit the box of food with his arms because I wouldn’t let him take his eyes off me. And he looked down. And of course I screamed, “Nikko, look at me! Nikko!” And he looked up and he said, “Is this for me?” And I said, “Of course it is.” And he had to keep his eyes on me, but he’s literally shoving this food into his mouth. I was scared he was going to eat the wrappers and choke.
I was just talking, letting him know that I was there. And he’s just shoving this food in his face. You know when children are really hungry and they get one of their favorite meals? They’ll sit there, bounce and swing their legs and hum, and they’re just so happy while they eat. And that’s exactly what was happening with Nikko. I’m there, and he’s eating, and it feels good. And he says, “Mom, I don’t know if they told you, but I stopped eating.” And I said, “Yes, Nikko, they told me. Why? Why did you stop eating?”
Then it was like everything stopped. Nikko stopped bouncing and humming and there was just this blanket of shame. And his head just went down and his eyes went off. And I said, “No, no! Nikko! Look at me! Pick up your head and put your eyes back on me! It’s okay.” Then I started explaining to him what happens to human beings when they are in severe isolation, that they start to hear voices. Then I went through the basics of what happens to any human brain in this situation. And he picks his eyes up at me and you could see him feeling relief. He just sat back, looking at me, and he’s drinking in every word that I’m saying. And you know, I was telling him, “Nikko, you’re not crazy. Everything that’s happening—hearing voices, the hallucinations, and every single thing is normal. Because this situation that you’re in is not normal.”