An unusual entry

It’s unusual to say the least to include my voice here. I type up and post David’s blog but do it without any changes or edits.

But I have made an exception, as I had the privilege of going to visit David in Mayo CI 2 weeks ago. It’s quite the thing, and I’ll try to paint a picture.

We (my daughter and I) got there at 8.30 and the weather was already incredibly hot and humid. We waited in line with maybe 50 other people, all of whom were welcoming to us as “first timers” and many of whom clearly knew each other well from regular visits. Babies cried, elderly people took time to sit away from the line in the shade – and many people joked that as Brits we were great at waiting in line!

After at least an hour, we were gradually allowed in, with totally understandable high security. We finally entered the “visitation park”, a large canteen-like room with folding tables, vending machines, a small “canteen” with microwaveable fast food, a few board games – and a palpable atmosphere of every imaginable emotion – anticipation, sadness, joy, love, misery. I watched a small girl silently crying, tears streaming down her face without making a sound. I also watched a baby walk for the first time to his daddy – and the whole room erupted into applause. And we waited. And waited.

Despite repeatedly asking the guards where David was, and getting reassurances that he was on his way, nothing happened. We began to wonder if he’d had second thoughts. Began to doubt we’d recognise him and maybe he’d come in, not seen us and left. And really worried that he’d think we’d “stood him up”.

After about 2 hours, there was “count”, when everyone had to go back to their dorms. Count wasn’t complete so had to be re-done, so the whole thing took about an hour. All in all, from joining the line outside, we waited 5 hours until David appeared. I’m not going to criticise the guards, who were always courteous to this old British woman. And I’m not going to dwell on the wait (although as a smoker – which David hates – I was climbing the walls at this point!)

When David finally arrived, we of course knew him immediately! It was hugely emotional – although he told me very sternly not to cry! You have to understand that this is someone I have had in my life for over 8 years. First of all by handwritten letters (and he always complained about the smell of smoke!) Then it was typed letters, every fortnight. Then emails. Once he moved to Mayo after the resentencing, we could talk on the phone (and I’m sorry D how many times I miss your calls!) And now to meet, and hug.

I know we were both very nervous. What if we found nothing to say? What if it was just too awkward? But very soon it settled into the same easy communication we’ve had through so many mediums. As D put it “it’s so easy to vibe with you”.

If you’re a regular reader of this, maybe you need me to describe David. Open face. Amazing eye contact. Gentlemanly. Funny. Very able to  be teased. So so easy to talk to. Not someone who takes advantage (we were allowed to bring in around $20 for snacks and I watched other inmates understandably buy everything the canteen could provide. D just took a sandwich and a bottle of water, and was more concerned that we had had something).

And it went so quickly. We talked football (soccer). About his legal representation. About our great American road trip. Just stuff, the stuff you chat to a friend about. I can’t give you any major revelations. I met the same guy I’d “met” through letters, emails and latterly phone calls already. I certainly got a greater insight into where he’s living. The time flew, and after just under 1 ½ hours, time was called. And we said our goodbyes. The hardest thing is that what I wanted to say was “see you soon”. But I live 4133 miles away (yes, I looked it up!)

Finally, I’m aware that not everyone reading this will share my views on the death penalty, on rehabilitation and second chances. And I respect that – particularly for families of victims. I am not writing to explain or excuse, to challenge or minimise. I am simply writing to tell you about my friend, and the huge privilege it was to meet him face to face.

Karen Chandler

People can be overwhelming

Now that I’m in general population, I’m interacting with a lot more people; sometimes to the point where it’s overwhelming. I’m in a dorm with 84 other men, the complete opposite of solitary confinement. I get to interact with guys that’s only been in here for a couple of months so far, with guys going home in a few days, to guys that’s been in over 40 years, and everything inbetween.

General population and death row are like two different worlds. On the row, it’s as if you’re frozen in time, because everybody around you is in the same predicament, whereas in general population, there’s no telling what you’re going to get. Someone that has a few days until he gets to go home isn’t focussed on tablets or setting up the Securus app. he’s talking about his worries going back out into the free world and doing better – at least most of them are.

There’s a high turnover rate – guys come and go, so it actually feels like the days are different, especially when you interact with so many different people on a daily basis. I’m constantly learning from the guys around me, from the short timers to the lifers. I also learned from the guys on the row, but now it’s coming at me at a faster pace.

One year on

What a year it’s been! As I think about where I was a year ago, it feels like I’ll look back on this year as the year of reflection. The transition from death row to general population was such a shock to the system that i had to make the conscious effort to slow down, and to really try and figure how to proceed, figure out my new normal. I’ll probably never get over the trauma of being in solitary confinement for 30 years, and will be forever anxious in large crowds. That’s not just something you get over. It was so bad that it didn’t feel right, felt like I was doing something wrong when I was being escorted without full restraint. I felt so much lighter without handcuffs and shackles, but I’ve been carrying that extra weight for so long that it was becoming normal. It also felt good not getting the odd looks, the sad looks that death row inmates get when they get escorted. It’s a full on production to transport a death row inmate. It was good to just blend in and go through the reclassification process without having the full production.

There’s also no such thing as soft transition. I went from a single man cell to a 72 man dorm. Talk about shock to the system. I definitely had a few sleepless nights. I’m doing better now, but I also do have moments when it’s overwhelming, and I need to step back and gather my thoughts.

With all that being said, I’m very aware of the opportunity that I was given. Getting off the row didn’t always seem like it was a possibility. I’ve had many sleepless nights thinking about that as well. I’m very thankful, and even though life in prison is far from ideal, the opportunity won’t be taken for granted.

I’m still trying to figure it out and find my way, but hopefully I’ll make the best of life when it’s all said and done.

One love

David

An important update

On June 27th 2022, the judge went against the jury’s unanimous recommendation for death and chose to re-sentence me to lie in prison. I’ve been adjusting to life in general population and really haven’t had time to stop and reflect on everything. Remember, I’m coming from 20 years of solitary confinement to a wide open prison population, which includes having to adjust to every little thing.

What was normal for me for the past 20 years is now a thing of the past. It does feel good not having to be handcuffed and shackled everywhere I go, but I do miss the privacy and the ability to set my own schedule which comes with solitary confinement.

I’ll get more into it another time, but I’m mainly reaching out to say thank you to everyone that helped me through some very difficult days. I’m certain that I wouldn’t be who I am today if I was on this journey alone. Thank you.

Do prosecutors have remorse?

I often wonder if, at the end of the day – or at the end of their careers – prosecutors have remorse for the role they play in getting someone to the execution chamber? In some instances, mine included, prosecutors are assigned to specific cases because of their track record of putting people on death row. How is that any different to being a contract killer?

Prosecutors are highly respected, and lots of them move on to careers as judges or politicians. I do understand that, in a civilised world, there has to be laws, and gatekeepers to make sure the laws are being enforced, but when you give prosecutors immunity, it will always be an unfair playing field.

At a recent court proceeding, the prosecutor was going through his calendar to see when he would be able to fit my case into his busy schedule. I couldn’t help but notice how nonchalant he was about the number of death penalty cases he had lined up. It’s as if he has become desensitized, and he’s just going through the motions. The idea of target practice came to mind.

When you exhaust your appeals, you’re given an execution date, and I don’t see how it can get any more premeditated than that. What makes their premeditated murder any different from the people they convict of premeditated murder? The appeal process is basically the opportunity to beg for mercy and prove why you deserve to live.

So, do prosecutors have remorse, or are they experts at compartmentalizing? Do they only look at it as just a job? And if that’s the case, that’s a whole other set of issues.

One love.

David

No fear

‘I try not to live my life in fear, but I’m starting to feel like one of my few fears in life is becoming a reality. The fear that I would become institutionalized, and I would start to feel, and think, that this, prison life is normal. There’s nothing normal about prison life.


I recently had my 41st birthday, 21st on the other side of the fence, and thankfully even after all these years, I still receive lots of love and well wishes for my birthday. Along with well wishes, there’s words of encouragement, and a few comments about how well I’ve held up after all these years. I know that they mean well when they say that I’ve held up well, but does holding up well mean that I’ve adjusted and accepted the circumstances? Have I fully adopted to my surroundings? Also, is that a good thing or not? I’m conflicted on the idea of holding up well, because I have my days where I feel absolutely out of place, then days where I do feel like I’m holding up just fine.

Then, I also thought about what if I got out this very moment. How will I manage? I can honestly say that there’s a good chance that I will struggle mightily. I’ve been in solitary confinement for almost 20 years and no telling how much damage that’s done, mentally, until I’m put I a ”normal” setting. Maybe I’m over thinking it, but I truly fear that I will wake up one day and think that prison life is normal.

I don’t fear dying, but another fear of mines is growing old and dying in prison, but that’s a conversation for another day.”

Age is just a number?

Today I had an interesting conversation with a young man who is at the start of his journey (of 10 years).

Things didn’t get off to a particular good start because he broke two of the many unwritten convict rules. He asked what I was in for and how long I’ve been down. Major no-nos before a proper introduction.

I chalked it up to his being young and not knowing any better. Hopefully he learns from his mistakes.

Anyways, we got talking, and I did get round to telling him that I’m coming up to my 21st year. I do look younger than my age, but with him I could see the wheels turning in his head, trying to process what he just heard.

His response was, “so that means you’ve been locked up more than half your life?”

I did realise that I was at that point, but it’s a lot different when you hear someone else say it. It’s like “DAMN. I’ve really spent more than half of my life in prison.” It makes me wonder if it’s downhill from this point.

It did make me reflect on the past 20+ years. It’s hard to come up with exact moments from the last 20 that I can reminisce on. I’m not saying that nothing good has happened the last 20+ years, but when I think of the good times, I think about my time before prison. They do say that life comes to a stop once you get locked up, and there’s days when I feel like that 20 year old young man.

I think deep down, I’ll always be that young man at heart.

Now I’m hoping that the young man I met today got something from the conversation, because even though 10 years won’t equal to half of his life in prison, it’s 10 years that he might want to forget, or 10 years that he’ll use to better himself.

I don’t believe that my 20+ years are wasted years, but I’m my own biggest critic, and will forever think that I’m falling short on my own life journey.

Keeping going in prison

People often ask me what it’s like being in prison, and how I have managed to maintain, physically and mentally, over 20 plus years.

Sometimes I have to ask myself the same question.

I guess it comes down to a number of things. I guess, for me, it started with not accepting that this is it. It’s all about waking up with a purpose. I’m sure that we can all say that. I try not to overthink it – it could be something as simple as filling out a card, or sending a short note to bring a bit of joy to someone else’s day. My main motivator is the drive to be better. I’m far from perfect, and have enough flaws, so I have something I can improve upon every single day.

Having people that care about you also makes a big difference, and is very important. I have some amazing people in my life that I am very thankful for, and I wouldn’t care what the future holds if it wasn’t for them. Of course, no-one knows what the future holds, but seeing their future unfold is enough for me to get excited about the future, and I want to be around for the ups and downs.

Even though I’m in solitary confinement, I try to stay as active as possible in my tiny space. The least I do on a daily basis is pace back and forth in my cell for an hour. (To give you an idea, I can only take 4 steps before I am at the back of my cell and have to turn round). I can also attest that working out is one of the best stress relievers.

I’ve had to adjust to going without visits since covid and, in the process, I’ve realised how much of a difference having a visit to look forward to made. Having something to look forward to makes a huge difference. I still have letters, emails and cards to let me know that I’m not forgotten, so I’m managing without the visits.

I guess that it was expected of me to go to prison, because as a child I was given advice as to how to survive in prison. Now that I think about that, it was messed up and far from normal. It didn’t make sense to me back then, but it does now. The advice was to mind my business, avoid gambling, and avoid homosexual activities. Follow these rules and you stand a better chance of surviving in prison.

Everybody’s experience is different but, for me, it’s about trying to stay in a good space and make the best of today.

Keep in mind, a lot of people didn’t wake up this morning, so it would be wrong of me to take it for granted.

One love

David

When did I first realise I was black?

I recently heard a question that has stuck with me, and had me wondering if every black person has experienced that moment. The question is, do I remember the exact moment when I realised I was black?

Growing up black in the Caribbean, like I did, is much different from growing up black in the USA, and it didn’t take long for me to notice that difference. Thankfully, I came up in a pro-black environment, so I’ve always been conscious of the beauty behind my skin tone. Unlike in the US, it was black everything. Black family. Black friends. Black teachers. Black people holding political office. That was my norm, so when I heard about racism growing up, it was via history books, not as a personal experience of mine. Of course, Caribbean history, like that of every other country, is far from perfect, including the Christopher Columbus sham, but I did learn of some great men and women throughout Caribbean history, and it wasn’t one designated month of the year.

I’m dark skinned, which I quickly learnt in this society isn’t always as welcoming as the lighter shade of black. You learn that your first day at school. Children are the most honest people in the world, and the most curious as well. What do you say when you’re asked why your skin is so dark? Not in a malicious way, but complete curiosity. You also have to put up with the jokes from the children that’s trying to fit in.

Thanks to my family, my confidence was never shaken. I was constantly reminded how beautiful my dark skin is. Looking back at it, they were preparing me for the road ahead.

That confidence was at an all time high when girls started saying That my dark skin was one of the first things about me that they were attracted to. Life in the Caribbean was good. I’ve always realised that I mattered.

In the US, dark skin is not always as welcoming, at least from my experience in the Southern part of the country. Sad to say, but even some African Americans aren’t as welcoming. I was speechless when a woman that I was interested in, a Black woman, told me that I would look better if I wasn’t as dark. The confidence took a hit for a second, but that feeling was quickly replaced by disappointment.

I didn’t think that it could get any worse than that, but this is the experience that made me wonder if there’s levels to blackness. When another Black person told me I should go back to Africa, that did it. No way was I going to be speechless. In reality, this person and I could easily be related. The only difference is that my ancestors were unloaded in the Caribbean, while his were probably unloaded in the state of South Carolina. I probably didn’t say it in such a calm tone, but that was the gist of my response.

So, even though I always realised that I am black, I’m often reminded. Similar to when white people would lock their doors when I walked past their car in parking lots, cross the road to avoid walking next to me, or clutch their purses tighter if they couldn’t aoid walking next to me. Little things like that, they somehow think that we don’t notice.

In the US, I find myself making a mental checklist to not be a stereotype, and still be the confident Black man that I know I am.

One love.

David

I’d like to hear from you

If someone has a comment, wants to start a conversation, or just wants to get to know me, feel free to get in touch. The best way is by email. You need to go to jpay.com and set up an account and then contact me (David Frances x33939 in Florida)

I welcome different opinions but would appreciate if you’re respectful about expressing them.

Thank you.