softheart
06-17-2003, 11:41 AM
ILLINOIS:
Twice a day, the heavy steel lock on Andre Jones' cell slips open and he's
free to slide back the bars and walk, unshackled, into the cafeteria at
the Menard Correctional Center.
But Jones never leaves. He waits fearfully for the lock to click closed
again, preferring to eat packaged snacks in the safety of his closed cell.
Like roughly 160 other inmates who were on Illinois' death row, Jones'
life was spared when former Gov. George Ryan commuted his death sentence
in January. Now, Jones and the other inmates face the new reality of life
in the general prison population.
It is a far different world from a condemned unit and the certainty of a
date with execution: a place where increased freedom of movement brings
greater danger; where the camaraderie among the condemned is shattered;
where creature comforts such as almost-daily showers and easy access to
telephones are gone.
Inmates like Jones, who are out of appeals, almost certainly will live the
rest of their years behind bars, in a droning daily routine that some call
execution on the installment plan. Those with appeals remaining can
continue to fight for reduced sentences or new trials, but say their
ability to do so has been hampered since they left death row.
"I'm glad I'm not getting executed; I'm not stupid," Jones, 46, said at
the prison on the Mississippi River in southern Illinois. "But then I come
here and there's nothing to do. There's nothing. This is reality for me.
I'm going to be here until I die."
On death row, life was highly structured and isolated, but the condemned
enjoyed certain privileges, such as access to a phone whenever it was
needed, daily visits to the prison yard and a cell to themselves. The
routine was designed to make death row more secure, but it also provided
comforts unique to the condemned.
More important than that, they received increased attention from activists
and attorneys to try to overcome their convictions or at least work toward
lighter sentences. They had ready access to state-funded investigators to
examine their cases and a sort of celebrity among those devoted to
abolishing the death penalty.
That is gone now, and the former death row inmates are just like any other
prisoners, thrown into the mix with men convicted of myriad offenses.
"We're applying the same firm, fair and consistent policies that we've
applied to all general population inmates" to the inmates coming off of
death row, said Illinois Department of Corrections spokesman Brian
Fairchild. Interviews with several of the former death row inmates reveal
that although many are thankful for the governor's commutation and
relieved to have their execution dates lifted, still others would prefer
the certainty of condemnation to their new lives. "I'm 42 years old and
I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life in prison," he said. "I liked
the finality of execution. People will say it's crazy, but you can't
understand if you're not in my shoes."
Like Kliner, inmates who hold on to the hope that they will one day be
released from prison say their fight through the legal system--for reduced
sentences or new trials--now has added obstacles.
Meetings with attorneys are more difficult to arrange and the number of
phone calls to investigators, lawyers, journalists and family members has
been severely curtailed.
Appolon Beaudouin Jr., an investigator with the state appellate defender's
office who worked on dozens of death row cases, said some of the formerly
condemned inmates worry about a lack of urgency over their cases now that
execution is no longer an issue.
"They have the same legal issues except for the issue of them dying. That
seemed to make everything different," Beaudouin said. "What I get from
them is they can't get to a phone. There's no communication."
James Westray, 32, who is serving life at Menard for the 1998 murder of
Elizabeth Opatt during a robbery outside Johnston City, Ill., believes a
state-funded investigator might be able to find evidence that a
co-defendant was the triggerman.
"I wasn't anticipating the problems I would have here that I didn't [have]
on death row," Westray said. On death row, he said, "You're considered
more of a priority."
Even before Ryan announced the blanket commutation, a number of Death Row
inmates fought against having their sentences commuted because they
believed it would sap resources and attention and decrease their chances
of getting new trials or reduced sentences.
Now in the general population, many of the men who fought hard on death
row to have their cases heard are giving up, Kliner said.
"We're trying to motivate each other to keep working on our cases," he
said.
Their work is interrupted by adjustments to unfamiliar rules governing
general population inmates.
Westray, who was not a problem inmate on death row and has not had any
disciplinary infractions since moving to the general population, was
recently classified a Level-E inmate, the highest risk for escape. He was
told his status had changed because before he was sent to Death Row, he
was accused of trying to escape.
Now Westray cannot have any contact with visitors, under general
population rules. He must see all visitors, including his attorney,
through a thick plastic screen, he said.
On Death Row, he was shackled to a chair during visitations, but his two
young daughters could at least touch him, he said.
"I'm sure they aren't going to understand why they have to see their
father behind Plexiglas," he said.
That change in his situation weakens his resolve and makes working his
case that much harder, he said. "I just can't handle it all myself," he
said.
If fighting death defined life on death row, monotony and danger are the
daily fare in the general population.
"It's the same thing every day, and it goes on and on," Kliner said.
There are the two trips a day to the cafeteria, to the yard a few times a
week, perhaps a weekly visit to the library, a weekly hot shower, constant
television and a few phone calls."The only advantage you have to life in
population is you are around people," said Christopher Davis, 32, who was
convicted of the 1997 slaying of off-duty Chicago Police Officer Gregory
Young.
On death row, inmates are shackled whenever they leave their cellblock,
and they rarely have contact with each other. In general population, there
is considerably more mixing and freedom of movement. But even that has a
downside.
"There is a lot of danger," said Davis, who is imprisoned at Stateville.
On the condemned unit, fights weren't unheard of, but they were rare, and
inmates had a certain closeness born of their common circumstance. Life in
the general population is much more likely to be punctuated by violence.
And for someone like Andre Jones, already fearful, even paranoid, of
dealing with others, the change has made life hard to bear.
He appears haunted, his wide-open eyes flashing as he pulls at the long
tufts of gray and black hair that grow in unkempt funnels from his head.
"There's so many things you have to be on guard about," Jones said. "I try
to stay to myself. I think that's best."
At 47, he has spent half of his life in prison for the 1979 murders of
East St. Louis cleaning store owner Samuel Nersesian and mail carrier
Debra Brown.
Jones seems to have lost hope for anything other than being moved to
another facility, where he believes he can get mental treatment and,
perhaps, a slightly improved life.
"I believe I'm wise enough to try to keep the little sanity I have left,"
Jones said. "But to me, the way my life is now, without anything, just let
me die in peace."
(source: Chicago Tribune)
Twice a day, the heavy steel lock on Andre Jones' cell slips open and he's
free to slide back the bars and walk, unshackled, into the cafeteria at
the Menard Correctional Center.
But Jones never leaves. He waits fearfully for the lock to click closed
again, preferring to eat packaged snacks in the safety of his closed cell.
Like roughly 160 other inmates who were on Illinois' death row, Jones'
life was spared when former Gov. George Ryan commuted his death sentence
in January. Now, Jones and the other inmates face the new reality of life
in the general prison population.
It is a far different world from a condemned unit and the certainty of a
date with execution: a place where increased freedom of movement brings
greater danger; where the camaraderie among the condemned is shattered;
where creature comforts such as almost-daily showers and easy access to
telephones are gone.
Inmates like Jones, who are out of appeals, almost certainly will live the
rest of their years behind bars, in a droning daily routine that some call
execution on the installment plan. Those with appeals remaining can
continue to fight for reduced sentences or new trials, but say their
ability to do so has been hampered since they left death row.
"I'm glad I'm not getting executed; I'm not stupid," Jones, 46, said at
the prison on the Mississippi River in southern Illinois. "But then I come
here and there's nothing to do. There's nothing. This is reality for me.
I'm going to be here until I die."
On death row, life was highly structured and isolated, but the condemned
enjoyed certain privileges, such as access to a phone whenever it was
needed, daily visits to the prison yard and a cell to themselves. The
routine was designed to make death row more secure, but it also provided
comforts unique to the condemned.
More important than that, they received increased attention from activists
and attorneys to try to overcome their convictions or at least work toward
lighter sentences. They had ready access to state-funded investigators to
examine their cases and a sort of celebrity among those devoted to
abolishing the death penalty.
That is gone now, and the former death row inmates are just like any other
prisoners, thrown into the mix with men convicted of myriad offenses.
"We're applying the same firm, fair and consistent policies that we've
applied to all general population inmates" to the inmates coming off of
death row, said Illinois Department of Corrections spokesman Brian
Fairchild. Interviews with several of the former death row inmates reveal
that although many are thankful for the governor's commutation and
relieved to have their execution dates lifted, still others would prefer
the certainty of condemnation to their new lives. "I'm 42 years old and
I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life in prison," he said. "I liked
the finality of execution. People will say it's crazy, but you can't
understand if you're not in my shoes."
Like Kliner, inmates who hold on to the hope that they will one day be
released from prison say their fight through the legal system--for reduced
sentences or new trials--now has added obstacles.
Meetings with attorneys are more difficult to arrange and the number of
phone calls to investigators, lawyers, journalists and family members has
been severely curtailed.
Appolon Beaudouin Jr., an investigator with the state appellate defender's
office who worked on dozens of death row cases, said some of the formerly
condemned inmates worry about a lack of urgency over their cases now that
execution is no longer an issue.
"They have the same legal issues except for the issue of them dying. That
seemed to make everything different," Beaudouin said. "What I get from
them is they can't get to a phone. There's no communication."
James Westray, 32, who is serving life at Menard for the 1998 murder of
Elizabeth Opatt during a robbery outside Johnston City, Ill., believes a
state-funded investigator might be able to find evidence that a
co-defendant was the triggerman.
"I wasn't anticipating the problems I would have here that I didn't [have]
on death row," Westray said. On death row, he said, "You're considered
more of a priority."
Even before Ryan announced the blanket commutation, a number of Death Row
inmates fought against having their sentences commuted because they
believed it would sap resources and attention and decrease their chances
of getting new trials or reduced sentences.
Now in the general population, many of the men who fought hard on death
row to have their cases heard are giving up, Kliner said.
"We're trying to motivate each other to keep working on our cases," he
said.
Their work is interrupted by adjustments to unfamiliar rules governing
general population inmates.
Westray, who was not a problem inmate on death row and has not had any
disciplinary infractions since moving to the general population, was
recently classified a Level-E inmate, the highest risk for escape. He was
told his status had changed because before he was sent to Death Row, he
was accused of trying to escape.
Now Westray cannot have any contact with visitors, under general
population rules. He must see all visitors, including his attorney,
through a thick plastic screen, he said.
On Death Row, he was shackled to a chair during visitations, but his two
young daughters could at least touch him, he said.
"I'm sure they aren't going to understand why they have to see their
father behind Plexiglas," he said.
That change in his situation weakens his resolve and makes working his
case that much harder, he said. "I just can't handle it all myself," he
said.
If fighting death defined life on death row, monotony and danger are the
daily fare in the general population.
"It's the same thing every day, and it goes on and on," Kliner said.
There are the two trips a day to the cafeteria, to the yard a few times a
week, perhaps a weekly visit to the library, a weekly hot shower, constant
television and a few phone calls."The only advantage you have to life in
population is you are around people," said Christopher Davis, 32, who was
convicted of the 1997 slaying of off-duty Chicago Police Officer Gregory
Young.
On death row, inmates are shackled whenever they leave their cellblock,
and they rarely have contact with each other. In general population, there
is considerably more mixing and freedom of movement. But even that has a
downside.
"There is a lot of danger," said Davis, who is imprisoned at Stateville.
On the condemned unit, fights weren't unheard of, but they were rare, and
inmates had a certain closeness born of their common circumstance. Life in
the general population is much more likely to be punctuated by violence.
And for someone like Andre Jones, already fearful, even paranoid, of
dealing with others, the change has made life hard to bear.
He appears haunted, his wide-open eyes flashing as he pulls at the long
tufts of gray and black hair that grow in unkempt funnels from his head.
"There's so many things you have to be on guard about," Jones said. "I try
to stay to myself. I think that's best."
At 47, he has spent half of his life in prison for the 1979 murders of
East St. Louis cleaning store owner Samuel Nersesian and mail carrier
Debra Brown.
Jones seems to have lost hope for anything other than being moved to
another facility, where he believes he can get mental treatment and,
perhaps, a slightly improved life.
"I believe I'm wise enough to try to keep the little sanity I have left,"
Jones said. "But to me, the way my life is now, without anything, just let
me die in peace."
(source: Chicago Tribune)