by Damon West
I dove into my answer by telling him that, on a more spiritual plane, I lost my way. I got “out of my lane,” to borrow a prison term. My ego and pride were enormous, and despite all my good qualities, I’d lost my moral compass along the way. “My fall was as great and as far as one can be struck down.”
I then asked the warden if he believed in God.
“Absolutely,” he replied.
I told him that I did as well, and that I truly believed God had a greater purpose for me. “I’m not talking about some religious jailhouse-come-lately conversion crap. That stuff disgusts me.”
I told him the last thing he’d ever see was me beating people over the head with a Bible and quoting scripture. “That’s not my thing. Besides, you’d find me to be disingenuous if I did so.”
I further explained I was cognizant that my idea of God was not universally shared by everyone. What I was talking about was a realization I’d come to, a spiritual awakening of sorts. “It’s taken me years to understand two things. One, that the world doesn’t revolve around me, and two, I don’t control anything besides myself.”
He nodded.
“Prison has humbled me, Warden.” I looked at the other two members of the committee. “Long ago, I quit looking at my life sentence as a punishment. Instead, I choose to view it as my opportunity.”
Today, I told him, I had an opportunity to work on myself mentally, physically, and spiritually. Mind, body, and soul. Never again would I be given this kind of time to work on myself. “The person I want to be when I get out must be born in here.”
I concluded by telling him that one day this experience would be my gift to others. For now, though, it was incumbent upon me to make this prison a better place. “I truly believe I can change the environment around me for the better, no matter where I am. This, Warden, is my training ground.”
The room was silent. The warden finally spoke, saying he heard a lot of stories from a lot of inmates and I wasn’t the first one to spout this stuff off. He noted that I was also a smooth talker, evident from my past life working around politicians. Had he not watched me walk the walk, he would have thought I was full of crap, a con man, just like the politicians. “However, you’re one of the inmates I truly believe will follow through on it.”
He cautioned me to not make him look stupid. “Be that ‘one,’ West.”
He clapped his hands together. “You’re dismissed. Go pack your stuff and move to the dorms. Congratulations on the promotion.”
Standing and putting my arms customarily behind my back, I maintained eye contact and said, “Thank you for the opportunity, Warden. You will not regret this decision.”
I left the meeting room, barely able to contain my excitement.
As I write about the events from today’s vantage, I am still overwhelmed by my good fortune. To be selected by the warden for this opportunity was a gift. I had not only earned the respect of the inmates I served time with, but also one of the wardens who ran the place. It goes back to the spiritual principles (unselfishness, honesty, purity, and love) I have learned in recovery. It has given me character, which is who I am when no one but God is watching. Apparently, it wasn’t only God watching; the warden has watched me through cameras, recorded phone calls, his own staff, and even his snitches. The dude really is all-knowing.
The other side of the coin is that this opportunity is going to be like walking through a minefield daily. The warden was very direct about his warnings and his expectations. I am being sent to Unit Supply to clean the place up and eliminate the rampant theft. I will be shutting down the black market for thousands of dollars’ worth of stolen goods inmates sell on the pods. In other words, I will be taking food out of people’s mouths if I perform my job duties properly. The feeling of entitlement that I sometimes suffer from and a lack of conscience and responsibility which, thankfully, I do not suffer from, are the hallmarks of many in the inmate population.
This job is going to cause me to change some of my behaviors as well. The stuff the warden brought up about subverting the rules in here when it comes to commissary, or when I buy stolen food out of the chow hall, must end today. The target on my back is going to be huge. Plenty of men will be looking for ways to get me into trouble to have me removed from my position. These are changes I need to make anyway, because these behaviors are not consistent with good character and living a true program of recovery. Moreover, if these behaviors become habits in here, then I will surely take them with me once I’m released. A person on parole for the rest of his life is the last person who needs to be subverting rules.
As I prepare to call my family to share the day’s good news, I am torn about telling them about the potential for danger that accompanies my new job. For the greater part of my existence in here, I have tried to leave the complaints and difficulties out of our dialogues. They have been through enough, and no one put me here but me. Emotionally and financially, they are able to help, but navigating this place is not something they can physically help me do. Outside of seeing me with a few black eyes and busted lips, they have no clue about the violence inherent in this institution.
Our visit this weekend will be my opportunity to relate to them all the intricacies of my new job. I will relate to them Ray’s diagram of the Serenity Prayer, about the things I can and cannot control. The things not on my line are the things God will deal with.
Moreover, I know without a doubt the warden is listening to my calls. At visitation, we are guaranteed a modicum of privacy.
CHAPTER 19
Bench Warrant
Prison Diary
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Dallas County Jail – South Tower
Back where it all began. Dallas County Jail. A bench warrant, begrudgingly issued by Judge Mike Snipes, is the reason why TDCJ has temporarily relinquished control of me.
Last July, I sent a copy of my pro se writ of habeas corpus to our longtime family friend, Walter Umphrey. He is the founder of the huge plaintiffs’ firm, the Provost Umphrey Law Firm, in Beaumont, Texas. He is also a philanthropist, whose generosity has helped countless people. I hoped Mr. Umphrey would provide an honest assessment of my novice attempt at a last-ditch appeal to get out of prison. Accompanying my writ was a note asking if he could please have one of his lawyers review my work and tell me how badly the Court of Criminal Appeals would hand my butt to me at trial. His response was more than I ever could have imagined, setting off a chain of events that has led me back into the custody of Dallas County.
SEVERAL MONTHS AFTER I MAILED Mr. Umphrey the writ, my father brought the good news to me at visitation. “Walter had one of his lawyers review your writ. He said, ‘Tell Damon he did an exceptional job for a guy who’s never been to law school. His writing was especially impressive. Tell him to come see me when he gets out of prison. I may have a job for him.’”
I was caught completely off guard. A compliment like that from Mr. Umphrey was huge, an offer of a job unprecedented.
“Walter thinks that, despite how well you did with your writ,” my father went on, “your chances of success are slim.”
“Damon, Walter said pro se litigants rarely win,” my mom chimed in. “It’s not that your arguments weren’t good…”
“Genie,” my father said, “I was getting to all that.” This exchange amused me because, although my father is a very intelligent man, I knew my mother’s grasp of the legalese was greater, given that we cut our teeth together on the law when we put this writ together months prior.
“Here’s the really unbelievable part,” my father said. “Walter has an attorney friend who owes him a favor. He will get him to represent you on your writ.”
My mother jumped in again. “Damon, this is a God thing. There’s no other explanation for it. You’ve been saying how outmatched you were going into this. Now, out of nowhere, Walter is delivering the best attorney to yo
u. Prayers answered. A miracle.”
She was correct. What Walter did was level the playing field. The lawyer he secured to represent me in my post-conviction fight was the legendary Chip B. Lewis. A proven brawler in criminal defense, Chip represented many high-profile clients, including Robert Durst, who walked on a murder charge after chopping up a body and tossing it in Galveston Bay. Chip was so well known that all the guys I spoke to out of Houston, Chip’s headquarters, told me to pack my bags because Chip always wins.
In December, Chip called the prison and spoke with me on a legal call. He did not say much, preferring in-person, “privileged” communication. He was very private, almost to the point of being frustrating because I could never get answers to my questions. A few months later, he came to visit me in person. This time he opened up more and divulged our strategy for attacking the writ.
He told me that, although he came away thoroughly impressed by my work product, we were going to scrap my writ and replace it with a new one. The new writ was going to attack the “outrageous” sentence. He said the fatal flaw in my writ was that I was trying to have my entire conviction overturned, a common mistake when you are preparing a writ from inside prison. Position determines perspective. Still, he said he was able to use elements of my writ to build our new one. He said one of the best things that came out of my writ was the affidavit in response to my writ from Ed, my lawyer at trial. Saying some pretty telling things, Ed opened up some serious questions into whether or not his defense of me was competent.
Chip’s colleague, Alicia O’Neill, would author the new writ. Alicia previously worked in the Writs Division of Harris County, so she knew a thing or two about post-conviction law. She visited me in prison and eventually delivered a finished product. It was clear she had put a ton of research into it, and the law supporting it was going to be difficult for Dallas County to defend.
Her writ led to an evidentiary hearing being ordered by the Court of Criminal Appeals, a huge and necessary step towards relief. An evidentiary hearing is meant to make the trial record more complete, usually very specific in scope. This one was ordered to get testimony from Ed, my trial counsel, concerning his defense of me during the sentencing phase of my trial.
While it was exciting to be granted another opportunity to fight my case, the realities of being bench-warranted back for a hearing were much less glamorous. First of all, it took months before Dallas County requested me back. When they did, I was sent on an odyssey that was both frustrating and exhaustive. Prison bus ride to Huntsville, which stopped at a half-dozen units, and lasted all day and into the night. Sack lunches every meal. Being handcuffed to another man. Fights on the bus. The impossibility of sleep once we arrived at the Byrd Unit, the Huntsville transfer facility. After a few hours there, I would be transported to the Walls Unit, the Huntsville facility where everyone leaves from when they exit prison. I left out the front door, shackled and shoved into a van from Dallas County.
After another four hours on the road, I was processed into Dallas County Jail, through the same door I entered a little over five years ago when I was arrested. Thankfully, processing did not take twenty-four hours like last time. They got another mugshot and fingerprints. Then I was whisked away down the tunnels to the South Tower jail, where I waited for weeks to go to my hearing. The hearing was a one-sided grilling of Ed Sigel. Chip had him on the stand for hours. I sat at the table, handcuffed, listening to Ed say some of the most outrageous things. The DA’s office eventually gave up on trying to save him during cross-examination. When Karen Lambert, my co-counsel from my trial, took the stand and affirmed everything we were alleging about Ed’s lack of effectiveness during punishment, the prosecutors threw in the towel. The only time I have ever seen a more one-sided hearing was my own trial, where I was, of course, guilty as hell.
Now that my evidentiary hearing was over, I was left wondering how in the world Ed Sigel was still practicing law. I heard one of the prosecution’s lawyers in the hearing asking the same question. If this hearing was any guide, I was cautiously optimistic about my chances of finding relief in the Court of Criminal Appeals. Not to get too far ahead of this thing, but I would gladly sign for twenty-five years in exchange for getting rid of the life sentence. I was not asking to walk out of prison, only to be sentenced with something more commensurate to my crimes.
This time in county has been the hardest time I have ever done. Uprooted from prison a few weeks after my housing and job promotion, I find myself longing to be back on the Stiles Unit, where I had the freedom to move around. The routine and life I have grown accustomed to makes doing this stagnant time in county jail very difficult. Not only am I bored to death, it is an exercise in humility navigating the youngsters here who know nothing about respect. They have never been to prison, have never been taught the consequences of their behaviors, and know nothing of real violence. They will learn. Oh, yes, prison will teach them.
CHAPTER 20
The Secret to Life
Prison Diary
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Prisons are a necessity in a civilized society. They serve as both a place of punishment and a deterrent for crime. By design, they are meant to be oppressive; otherwise, it would not be a punishment. Every man I have encountered in prison wants out.
ACTS
The very sight of guard towers and barbed wire fences sends chills down most people’s spines. Until recently, I had not considered there were people who were trying to get into prison. Then I met the men from the ACTS community. ACTS is an acronym for Adoration, Community, Theology, and Service. They are a group from the Catholic church who come into the prison for a four-day retreat of food, fellowship, and fun. The food part is how they lure in the sixty-six inmate-retreatants. With gumbo, spaghetti, bread pudding, pizza, ice cream, and doughnuts in tow, they attract men like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Three hundred to four hundred people apply for a coveted spot in the retreat.
A few hours ago, we completed Prison ACTS 4. I say “we,” because I was fortunate enough to be one of the sixty-six men selected for the retreat. Looking around the gymnasium at the other retreatants, I saw men of every faith, race, ethnicity, and criminal background. There were Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, and even pagans. Murderers, rapists, robbers, child molesters, arsonists, and thieves (like me) were allowed to be part of the fellowship and share in the spiritual glow for four days and three nights. It was like we all escaped from prison and went to Heaven. They lured these men in by their stomachs and came away with their souls.
There was not a dry eye in the room by Saturday night, when I witnessed the single greatest act of humility I have ever seen. Amazing because, in here, crying is perceived as weakness. It’s hard to enforce that code when everyone is doing it. Because of this thing called the “River Rule”—what happens on this side of the river stays on this side of the river—I cannot divulge what these men from the free world did to win the souls of some of the biggest, baddest, and most hardened criminals in the joint.
These volunteers from the outside were a combination of Catholics, Christians, Jews, and other religions. They each shared a love of God, humility, and a desire to serve us—the unwanted, undesirable, the hated, the cursed, the wicked, the shameful, the guilty. It was a force of love so powerful I am brought to tears as I write these words. These men left behind their families, their jobs, and their normal lives for four days to come inside the Stiles Unit and love us. They even hugged every one of us as we walked into the gym. I couldn’t believe the emotion involved in that simple exchange of human affection. One inmate was afraid of the hugs at first because he had not been held in twenty-two years. A few of us had to stand with him, to give him the courage to be held, to be loved, to know that no matter what he had done in his past, hope and love could penetrate his calcified heart. This made me say a prayer of thanks for all the support and visits I received from family and friends. Most do not experience that
in here.
It was especially moving to me because so many of these ACTS men were from the same area of Texas as me. They either knew my father, my mother, or watched me play football in high school. Many were practically family because of their proximity to my life. Two of the guys were even cousins of mine. After the first day, the word got out that I was in the retreat and these men brought me greetings from so many in our Southeast Texas community who wanted me to know they were praying for me and thinking about me. For four days, I got to hear how the lives of so many friends had turned out. I heard about marriages, births, divorces, deaths, and every event that made up a human life in the free world.
The greatest gift I received from these men, however, was the sacred knowledge of the true secret to life. It was more like confirmation, for I had been learning this principle since I attended the Kairos retreats and getting into recovery. The secret to life is simply to serve others and practice humility in all of your endeavors. That’s it. It’s only one sentence long. Yet it is the most important information you can feed into your mind and soul. Without this principle, you’re not truly living.
A few hours after the retreat was finished, I ran from the gymnasium to my building on the dorms. Stepping into the pod, I sought out the phone and called home. “Mom!” I said excitedly. “I just had the best time in prison.”
My poor mother. Having me for a son, she has probably heard just about everything a mother could hear. Yet she didn’t even skip a beat. “Okay, Damon, tell me about your good time in prison.”
I launched into a recap of the four days, and told her all about the food, the fellowship, and the fun. My mother is an especially spiritual person, so I focused much of our conversation on that aspect. It brings her peace to know I am in such a good place spiritually. Being Catholic herself, she had many questions about the retreat. I told her that it did not feel especially heavy on the Catholicism; rather, it was more generally focused on the principle of serving others and helping lost, hopeless, and desperate souls, of which prison has many.