200 Letters

by Amy Watkins

  He didn’t dismiss the charges as I had hoped. He didn’t finalize our divorce as I had hoped…but he didn’t send me back to jail, so at least one prayer was answered.

  “Did you see the look Tracy gave you?” Mr. Taylor asked after we walked out of the courtroom, “She’s cold.”

  “Yeah, I think my mother and her friend were harassing Tracy. Maybe that’s why she is so mad. You think I should explain and apologize to her?” I asked.

  “I don’t think that’ll do any good. You guys have been separated for two years already and she is still trying to hurt you. That’s not you or your mom’s fault, that’s just who Tracy is. I’ve seen women like her before, she’s vengeful.”

  “I wish Judge Wilcox could see that.”

  “I think Judge Wilcox has seen more dead-beat dads then he has corrupt moms. That’s why he’s hard on you. But it does seem like he’s starting to come around.” Mr. Taylor and I watched as Tracy and her lawyer walked out of the court room and passed us.

  “Mmm, she’s plotting something with her attorney. Just continue to make payments and get this divorce finalized, ASAP. That’s my professional advice,” he shook my hand before handing me an itemized bill and departing.

  Each hearing put me further in debt with him. I would have to pay another eight thousand dollars for him to even request the divorce hearing. I knew I couldn’t afford it.

  I don’t know why, but on the way home, I tortured myself with all the coulda-shoulda-wouldas. I could have gotten with Angela when we first met nine years ago. She was the one for me. If only I had been patient enough to wait for her or confident enough to ask her out. I should have never trusted Naomi or Caroline. I shouldn’t have let them in. I should have never given them access to my phone, my email account, my bank account, or my life. Life would be better if I had never messed with Tracy in the first place. She was never the one for me. She was just someone who was there. A trap that I fell for.

  The following week, I called my attorney hoping we could get things moving with the divorce. I tried to negotiate his fee and Mr. Taylor accepted a five-thousand-dollar retainer, instead. Angela offered to help but I refused. She had already done so much for me, so I felt guilty accepting more from her.

  “Babe, we are in this together,” she cupped my cheek. “I know you are going to get back on your feet. After this test you will be stronger than you ever were before. You will surpass me. I see it. And I think Naomi, Tracy, and Caroline see it too. That’s why they are doing all this shit. They trying to take what is destined for you. You are destined for greatness and the Devil is working hard to try to stop you. But that’s not why I’m with you. I’m with you because I love you and I know you love me.”

  “I know,” I kissed her cheek. “This is something I have to do. Just me…and God.”

  She understood.

  Child support was still garnishing the maximum from each paycheck, but I decreased the amount of extra money I gave. I worked every overtime hour I could and it still took me four months to save enough. I walked into Mr. Taylor’s office, delivering the check personally with a big smile on my face.

  When I got back home, I could tell Angela had been crying.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She held up a large envelope, “I got this from your mom. It’s filled with hate and harassment, and there’s a letter and a summons for you, attached. Naomi says that she doesn’t know where you live so she sent me the summons knowing that I’d be able to get it to you. It is a summons for a paternity test because Caroline is suing you for child support.”

  I took both letters from Angela. I placed Naomi’s unopened letter in a binder that had copies of all the hate mail they sent me. The three-inch binder was overflowing. It hurt to know they were so vindictive. I kept the binder as evidence just in case I needed it for future court cases or if Angela decided to sue Naomi and Caroline for harassment. Then I read over the court summons. I wasn’t sure if it was another scam or not. It looked official, but Caroline was a very creative schemer. She could have written it up herself and sent it as a scare tactic. I called the county court to validate the summons, which they did. I needed to be in Kentucky in two weeks to take a paternity test.

  Angela stood next to me, biting her nails and looking upset as I talked to the clerk. When I got off the phone, she went off.

  “I’m so sick of this shit,” she fussed with tears rolling down her face. “I mean, God, what is wrong with me? Why do I always have to go through this shit? I’m so tired. Ethan, you and me? This is the best relationship I have ever been in. We don’t fight. We don’t yell. We talk and work things out. We just mesh so well and I love you so much. It’s like you’re my soul mate, I can feel it. But why the fuck would God give me the man of my dreams and he’s attached to all this drama. He’s in all these fucked up situations. Where is God? Why isn’t He here? If I’m really supposed to be with you, why is all this shit happening? Why are you not divorced yet? Why did you conceive a child with this crazy…argh” She was exceedingly upset. I could tell she wanted to yell, cuss, and fight, but she held back.

  “Babe, I don’t think Trinity’s my child. I think Caroline is just trying to fuck with me.”

  “If she didn’t think it was your child, she wouldn’t demand a paternity test. She’d try to hide that shit. She’d just sit back, happily collecting the money you’ve been sending every month instead of summoning you to court to prove that you are the father.”

  “It was only one night.”

  “It only takes one night! That’s all it takes to ruin your destiny. I am so mad at you for sleeping with her. You didn’t just ruin your destiny, you ruined mine too. Now I have to deal with this shit, too. Or not, I could just walk away. I wish I could talk to someone, but I know everyone would tell me to walk away. Is that what God wants? Is that what’s best for me? I wish God would just come down and tell me to stick with you or tell me to leave. Was I wrong? Am I wrong for being with you? For staying with you? For giving so much? Did I ruin my destiny with my choices, too? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

  Destiny? Did I really ruin our destiny? Is it even possible for me to ruin destiny? If God wills it, it should come to pass no matter what…right? Wrong. I reflected on some Bible stories and I thought of King Saul.

  King Saul was anointed. He was destined to be a great and wonderful king, but he ruined his destiny with his poor choices, with his lack of faith, and with his disobedience. God left Saul and chose David instead; but David made his mistakes too. However, he lived out his destiny. They were both sinners. So why did God allow Saul to lose his destiny but David got to live out his? What was the difference between Saul and David?

  Saul lost his faith and frequently took matters into his own hands. Saul did not ask for forgiveness or repent. Saul was prideful. He built a statue in his own honor instead of giving God praise. He was jealous, angry, vindictive, and unforgiving. But David had great faith, even through the hard times. He had the opportunity to take matters into his own hands but he relied on God’s judgement, instead of his own. David genuinely repented, begged for forgiveness, and accepted his punishments. David worshiped God wholeheartedly.

  I walked over to Angela and held her close. I kissed her tears. “I am so sorry,” I whispered in her ear. Then I guided us both to our knees and I started to pray, “Heavenly Father, You are a great almighty all-powerful God. You are righteous and You know what is best for us. I come to you humbly, praying for forgiveness and mercy. Please help us. Please protect us. In Jesus’s name we pray Amen.”

  I started to stand up, but Angela held me down with her, “And Lord, please forgive me for my sins as well. Amen.” She smiled at me and continued, “You know, your sins are not greater than mine. I have a history. I have slept with people I had no business sleeping with. Only difference is…”

  I finished her sentence, “The person I slept with is crazy,�
�.

  She laughed, “No, I wasn’t going to say that. My consequences weren’t as bad. I’m blessed for that but I shouldn’t look down on you because your consequences were worse. It’s like we were both speeding in a car. It’s wrong and it puts us at risk. What if I only got a ticket but you got into a bad car accident. It would be wrong for me to look down on you because you were speeding. We both committed the same sin with the same risk; the outcome was just different. When we sin, we put ourselves at risk because all sin has consequences. Sometimes we are spared, and other times our decisions have a grave impact on the rest of our life. And even though we are suffering for our sins, I know God is still there. He is wise and He allows things to happen for a reason. I’m sorry for saying you ruined our destiny. It’s not that it’s ruined; it’s just…”

  I snickered, “More challenging.”

  Angela sighed, “Yeah. I don’t have a problem with you having children with someone else. I just don’t want it to be her. She’s not a good person and I know she is going to continue to make our life hell.”

  “Yep, I know. But you are my soulmate, and I will do everything I can to protect you.”

  Chapter 23 – Mr. Key

  Letter 198:

  Dear Ethan,

  I was so glad when I heard they let you out. You didn’t belong here, anyway. I got the card you sent for my birthday. Thanks. I really appreciate it. Nice to get mail other than the usual appeal denial. I know I should have written you sooner, but things have been rough.

  I have been praying for you and your lady friend. I hope that you are doing well and will continue to do well in the future. I know you always wanted to know why I was in here and I never told you.

  I was nineteen years old and just starting out at life. I was having fun rebelling from my strict overbearing Bible-toting father and hanging out drinking and smoking weed with my friends. I was a big Bill Murray fan and Stripes had just come out. My friends did not share my love for Mr. Murray, so after I drank a few beers with them, I went to the movies by myself. On the way home, I was pulled over by two police officers. They put a gun to my head and told me that James Barnes had just been stabbed to death.

  Barnes was someone I went to high school with. We played basketball together and were cool until my high school sweetheart cheated on me with him. We had been rivals ever since. Apparently, one of James’s friends told the police about our rivalry, making me a person of interest in his murder. They wanted to take me down to the station for questioning. I feared for my life, so I listened and cooperated with everything they said. They searched me and my car without a warrant and found some leather gloves and my pocketknife.

  They arrested me and took me to the station. They kept me in an interrogation room for over eighteen hours where they took turns verbally and physically assaulting me. They wouldn’t let me get anything to eat or drink. I was not allowed to make phone calls, not even to my parents. When I asked for a lawyer, they told me they had called one and he was busy. I didn’t even get bathroom breaks and when one of the officers punched me in the gut, I accidentally urinated on myself.

  They ridiculed me and said that if I hadn’t committed the crime, I would not have peed myself. They repeatedly showed me pictures of James’s mutilated body and told me that witnesses had named me at the scene of the crime. They told me a knife was used to kill him and leather gloves were worn. They told me that ballistics matched my knife to the crime scene. Of course, they were lying but I didn’t know that. I didn’t know my rights.

  I continued to tell them I was innocent despite their lies and then they started to accuse my family of the crime. “Well if it wasn’t you, then maybe it was a family member. Your mom? One of your sisters? No, your dad! It was his car we found the knife and gloves in, so maybe he killed James for you.”

  They threatened to arrest and interrogate my family members if I did not confess. They threatened that my father would lose his job as the pastor of his church if he got arrested. They threatened to bring my mom and my younger sister in for the same kind of violent, abusive questioning as me if I did not confess. I genuinely feared for my family’s safety.

  They started to feed me scenarios saying things like, “We know you were drinking, maybe you blacked out and did this.”

  They bribed me, “If you confess, your sentence will be lighter. Right now, they will charge you with first degree murder but with a confession they will charge you with a lesser crime, manslaughter. Shoot, manslaughter and it’s your first offense? You could go home in a few days if you say that.”

  And in the nineteenth hour of my interrogation I confessed to a crime that I did not commit. I knew it was wrong, but I just wanted them to stop. I wanted to go home, and I didn’t want my family getting hurt.

  That was all it took for them to give me a life sentence. It didn’t matter that I recanted my story a few hours later. It did not matter that the man at the ticket booth confirmed that I was at the movie theatre when the murder occurred. It did not matter that I showed them my ticket stubs and a receipt for popcorn and a soda. It didn’t matter that there was no DNA or ballistic evidence tying me to the crime. It didn’t matter that the interrogation was filled with lies and misconduct. It didn’t matter that my confession was fed to me, word for word, and was filled with discrepancies. All that mattered was that I was Black and I had a rivalry with the victim. They made the rest fit. The cops, detectives, and the DA all gave themselves pats on the back, thinking they had done a good job solving yet another crime. But all while I sat in jail, the real killer remained free and able to kill again.

  And so, I was convicted and spent thirty-three years in federal prison for a crime that I did not commit. I started to get sick around year twenty-seven; but as you know, health care in the prison system is poor. My condition worsened, and by the time I was diagnosed with colon cancer, it was already stage four.

  They let me out on parole in 2015—a compassionate release. I got a stipend from social security, five hundred a month I was supposed to live on. I was set up in a halfway house with other older washed up criminals. I didn’t have much, but I had my freedom and I was thankful to God that He allowed me the opportunity to live as a free man before He brought me home. I enjoyed every minute of it. I was only expected to live for six months after my release from prison, but I was still breathing three years later. It was truly a blessing.

  I even reconciled with my dad. He really hurt me and it was hard being a preacher’s kid. There was a lot of pressure on him to have the perfect obedient family, so he was harsh with me and my siblings. I really wanted to please him. I really wanted him to be proud of me. Then I went to jail. He didn’t visit me once while I was inside. It hurt. When I got out, I went to see him first thing. The man that I held such a grudge against was now a frail, old man. I expected scolding and harshness when I went to him, but when I walked into the nursing home, his face lit up with joy and pride.

  My father really loved me. He said he didn’t visit me because it hurt too much seeing me locked up for a crime he knew I didn’t commit. It was just too much of a burden for him to bear. His faith was tested a lot during my stint in prison, and instead of addressing it, he remained in denial for years. When I met him in that nursing home, the pain, regret, joy, and love all poured out at once, and we sat there crying and healing.

  Then the unthinkable happened. My halfway house was shut down because of sanitation problems. I was moved to a different house, but I forgot to change my address with the post office or the courts. Between my failing health, keeping up with all my doctor appointments, and catching up with my old friends and family members, it just slipped my mind. Before I knew it, I was back in jail on a parole violation. When the cops slapped those cuffs on my wrists, I prayed for death. I tried to kill myself, but you know cameras are everywhere in jail. I wasn’t successful. I was placed on suicide watch for a few months and the day after I was allowed to go back into the general population,
I saw you. A young, lost and angry soul who did not look like he was meant to be in jail, either.

  I knew that I wasn’t going to ever be free again, but the same didn’t have to happen to you. After our first conversation, I decided to start running a Bible study. That gave me the opportunity to mentor and introduce some hopeless people to our Savior. It gave me purpose and a drive to press on.

  My worst mistake was lying to the cops that day in 1981. During my incarceration, I read of Christians in other parts of the world who had been tortured for years and never lied about the truth of Jesus Christ. I didn’t last even nineteen hours and I have spent the rest of my life feeling guilty about that one lie.

  Mentoring you and the other boys has been my biggest accomplishment and I am grateful that I was given that opportunity.

  I told Slim not to mail this letter off until after I passed, so I know that I am no longer here if you are reading it. But don’t worry about me, I’m up in heaven hanging out with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. No more pain. No more persecution.

  Live your life to the fullest. Enjoy every minute of your freedom. Forgive. Love. Learn from your mistakes. Teach, and know that there is a God who loves and cares for you. Know that there is always hope and purpose.

  May love and grace accompany you always,

  Key

  Chapter 24 – Ethan

  Keyon Moses Price, aka Mr. Key, had a beautiful funeral held in a small Baptist Church in Northern Virginia where his father used to be the pastor before his death six months earlier. Mr. Key’s mother was still alive and she looked just like Mr. Key. She sat in the front row, sobbing, as the new pastor, Mr. Key’s cousin, gave the eulogy.

  Angela came with me and she held my hand throughout the funeral. I didn’t want to cry, so in moments when I felt a tear might escape my eye, I gripped her hand tighter. She smiled and patted my arm as if she knew exactly what I was doing. It was comforting having her there.