I think Byron Case is wrongfully convicted. The State of Missouri believes otherwise. They believe his case is resolved. I believe otherwise. In the near term at least, probably even the medium term, they will prevail. Beyond that, we'll just have to see.
In the meantime, Byron occasionally breaks free of his mental confinement by writing. He has his own blog, The Pariah's Syntax, subtitled Unbound Notes From An Innocent Man. His posts are understandably infrequent, given that he has no access to a computer. He must relay his work through parties on the other side of the proudly lethal electric fence that surrounds the Crossroads Correctional Institute.
If you wish to get a sense of life in prison from someone lucid and inside, you could do worse than visit his site every now and then. It's not about overt brutalization. It's more about a mundane loss of freedom, one in which prisoner control is more important than cruelty or kindness.
On ocassion, I will reproduce one of Byron's posts here as a reminder to myself of work to be done. Now is a particularly good time for me to do so, to rely on Byron's writing, since I am remiss in my own. (It seems my plan to calculate wrongful conviction rates based on judge-jury agreement data has become consuming.) To buy myself some time, I now present another behind-the-bars essay penciled by Byron Case.This one is titled ...
On one side you find the prison guards. Their job is to ensure the safety and security of the institution by enforcing policy. On the opposite side are the inmates, whose efforts at living in relative comfort while serving their sentences are frequently at odds with those policies. The struggle is endless; the battles are a never-ending back-and-forth.
The guards perform routine random cell searches, with every inmate here at Crossroads guaranteed a minimum of two chances to have their footlockers and loose property rifled through — once by the day shift, once by the evening. Depending on the guards' moods, the search experience can be measured on a scale that runs from relief, as when it's brief and nothing's left horribly out of place, and a nightmare, as when the guards leave the place looking like they turned it upside-down and shook it. Certain guards are notorious for preferring the invert-and-agitate method. They are not exactly liked.
It's the "nuisance contraband" that is most often found and confiscated in these random searches: empty cracker boxes, excess newspapers, improvised ashtrays. Last week, a huge poster of a basketball player was pulled down from a neighbor's wall; the week before, someone was forced to part with an empty 5-gallon sealing compound bucket. From some cells come more impressive items, often handmade.
One man in my wing is a craft-master. He makes hardcover address books, rocking-chair picture frames, and dreamcatchers, among other things. The dreamcatchers are his most popular creation, which he makes from the thread of clothing scraps and what I suspect are melted plastic coathangers. His methods are proprietary. The results look like something you'd be able to buy from a catalog. Naturally, the guards know what he's up to and visit him frequently, big plastic trash bag in hand. No matter how many times they take his supplies and half-finished projects, he does not abandon his hobby. It's hard not to admire that dedication a little.
Across from me there used to reside a waifish slip of a man who welcomed the occasional, ahem, gentlemen caller into his cell. "Melissa," he called himself. Asked to step out for a search of his cell one afternoon, he waited patiently while two guards picked through his things. No more than a few minutes later, one of the two came out with a wad of something fuschia in his gloved hand, which he tossed into the trash bag. Melissa lost it. Whatever they'd taken was obviously a prized possession, something he cared enough about to face off with the guards over. "Nuh-uh," he shouted again and again. "That's mine." Heads turned; the commotion was impossible to ignore. He stood arguing with them for over twenty minutes, apparently never able to finagle the return of the confiscated item. It was several hours later when I overheard what the fuss had been about: the guards had taken his last pair of thong underwear.
Being no angel, I've certainly had my share of things confiscated; though, nothing so precious as a handcrafted object nor salacious as a pair of exotic smallclothes. For awhile, cardboard, wood glue, and paint were easily gotten, and I availed myself of that fact. With enough of these three components I could build small shelving units and miniature cabinets — some with cutout designs in the doors — that looked like they might've been part of the actual design of the place, to the untrained eye. Space being at a premium here, a cubby in which to store cassette tapes or toiletries came in handy. Best of all, the guards didn't seem to care these constructs were contraband made out of illicitly obtained supplies; they left them alone. Some were able to keep their shelves for a couple of years. Then, all at once, they disappeared, a sudden adherence to the letter of policy enacted. The sources for the supplies vanished at around the same time. No one I know has dared dabble in cardboard carpentry since.
A few other things I've lost in searches, some of which I was sorry to lose:
- One three-dimensional paper Mini Cooper (yellow)
- One decorative wax paper votive shade (German street carnival scene)
- Seven wire twist-ties (black)
- Two highlighter markers (one yellow, one blue)
- Two packages ramen soup (beef flavor) that were later returned with an apology
- Five decorative pencils cups (made from oatmeal canisters)
- My expectations of personal privacy
