sherri13
06-19-2002, 12:06 PM
LIFELINE LETTERS ON DEATH ROW
Over 3000 people are currently on America's death row. Some have spent
half their lives there, staring the possibility of death in the face
every day. But for members of the League of Life, who provide penfriends
for death rowers, the reasons these men and women were jailed and the
fate that awaits them doesn't make them any less human. Caroline Foulkes
reports.
Frank's story
Every 3 weeks or so, Frank sits down in his lounge to write a letter.
They are letters composed with care. Frank always makes a rough draft
first, checking each word before he commits it, in black ink, to a sheet
of A4, blue -lined paper, the 'fs and js' of his curly, sloping hand
scraping the bottom of the line below.
He folds the paper, addresses the envelope, posts it.
Then he goes about his daily life. A reply, written in a flat, round
hand, usually arrives in the following 3 weeks.
But one day Frank knows there might not be a reply.
His letter will be returned, with the word 'Deceased' stamped on the
front. And then he will mourn for a man he has never met.
Frank is writing to Jim, a prisoner on Death Row in a Florida jail.
The 77-year-old widower from Northants has been corresponding with the
44-year -old inmate for 11 months.
'Why did I want to do this? Perhaps because I thought somebody out there
could do with a friend,' he says.
'I'd heard a lot about about the death row procedure and felt that maybe
I could help someone a bit.'
Frank, who worked on the buses for 36 years, became Jim's penfriend after
getting in touch with the League of Life, a group which finds penfriends
for death rowers.
He says he found writing the 1st letter hard.
'It was very difficult to word. I felt as if I was walking on eggshells.
So I just told him who I was and what I did and how I spend my days.
'When I got Jim's reply, it was obvious he felt as apprehensive as me -
neither of us knew what the other was going to be like.'
'But something in that first letter shone through.' The friendship grew
over time. Frank has never asked what Jim did to end up on death row. He
says it isn't really relevant.
Today he says he and Jim are 'dead thick buddies,' as they say.
They share a sense of humour. They cheer each other up.
'I know it might sound a bit odd, but I get a warm glow from writing to
Jim, in as much as I can help someone who is in difficult circumstances,
offer them friendship in their loneliness.
'I hope he feels the same. I hope that I help him as much as he helps
me.'
Frank and Jim have never spoken. Frank has a photo of Jim, though. A
piece of paper which makes the man behind the words seem somehow more
real.
He was hoping to visit, but as time wears on, it seems less likely. Frank
isn't getting any younger. Jim's last appeal failed on legal grounds.
'I have envisaged it,' says Frank softly, 'the day when my letter is
returned.
'I can't say I don't expect it. 'It's only to be expected, under the
circumstances.'
Jim's story
Some days it gets so hot in Jim's room, he has to lie down on the floor.
In the heat and humidity of a Florida summer, the sweat clusters on his
shaven head like crystal beads, staining his orange top and white
trousers 3 shades darker than they should be.
The building wasn't made to withstand the heat, and there is no air
conditioning.
Trees, which would offer some sparse shelter from the intensity of the
sun, are not permitted. They would constitute a security risk.
Jim has lived in this room for the last 22 years.
A 6ft by 9ft concrete box, with a door of steel bars.
He is in there almost all day, every day. He gets let out for a few hours
exercise each week. Every 2nd day he gets to take a shower. The prison
authorities have recently placed wire across the grilles of the death row
cells. They say it aids security. They don't say how.
It makes the heat inside the cells much worse, restricting the airflow.
It makes 'hanging on the door', the prison version of gossiping with a
neighbour over the fence, impossible. It also means prisoners cannot
shake the hand of the visiting chaplain, come to offer prayer and
comfort.
The only real human touch they get is during visits. Jim's prison permits
contact visits, which means they are not conducted between a barrier of
glass or wire mesh, with the help of a microphone. It is a privilege that
can be withdrawn. The punishment of not being able to put your arms
around your loved ones can last for up to 2 years. But even the promise
of a contact visit can be a slim one.
Visitors meet prisoners in the visitors park, a large room with thirty
cheap -looking white tables. Each prisoner who has a visitor is allocated
a table. When all the tables are full the rest are turned away.
Throughout the visits, prisoners are asked to muster - line up and be
counted.
Jim's final appeal has been turned down. It is not the 1st time he has
had a death warrant served on him. In 1990 the Governor of Florida signed
the death warrants of several prisoners whose appeals had not been
completed.
Jim spent some time on deathwatch, waiting to be put in the electric
chair, until there was a reprieve. But no one thought to tell Jim. He was
left on deathwatch until someone noticed there had been an oversight.
It isn't himself he is concerned for though. He cares more about the
effect it has on his friends and family, particularly his elderly mother.
'It's the uncertainty of the situation that gets to me,' he says.
'Not knowing when a warrant will be signed. The uncertainty of the
situation is what makes it so difficult to handle, both for me and my
loved ones.'
He says that the worst thing is the feeling of being totally alone.
'The sense of despair, hopelessness and loneliness a prisoner feels is
indescribable. Even when surrounded by hundreds of other prisoners, the
loneliness prevails.
'The most important part of my day is the evening, when I receive mail.
Receiving letters from my penfriends, knowing there are really people on
the outside who really do care about me, that takes away some of the
loneliness. Each morning I wake up and look forward to the special time I
spend reading their letters and writing to my friends.
'In my mind, I'm able to escape this prison cell and spend a few precious
hours with the people who have befriended me. Without them I don't
honestly think I would have been able to stay sane for the 20 years I've
spent in this cell.'
Fact File--
The League of Life UK branch was formed in August 1997 by Ron Pigram,
following requests by prisoners in the USA for penpals.
The service has since been extended to offenders in the Philippines,
Thailand and the West Indies.
There are around 3,700 men and women on death row in the USA, confined
throughout the 38 states that have the death penalty. Execution methods
vary from state to state, but the most common method is lethal injection.
Other methods include the electric chair, gas chamber, hanging and firing
squad.
Execution in the Phillippines is by lethal injection, the West Indies by
hanging and Thailand by machine gun.
Since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977 there have been 768
executions carried out in America, up to April 2002. In that time 100 men
were released from death row after being found to be innocent. The 100th
was released in April this year after spending ten years on death row.
[my note---The death penalty in America was re-legalized in 1976;
executions resumed in 1977...to date, there have been 782 executions
carried out in America] The league, which also has members in Holland,
France, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Denmark and Russia, has provided
penfriends for 3452 offenders in the USA, 507 in Thailand, 23 in the
Philippines and 78 in the West Indies.
For more information contact The League of Life, 7 Hall Farm Road,
Benfleet, Essex SS7 5JD or telephone 01268 755800. (source: Birmingham Post)
Over 3000 people are currently on America's death row. Some have spent
half their lives there, staring the possibility of death in the face
every day. But for members of the League of Life, who provide penfriends
for death rowers, the reasons these men and women were jailed and the
fate that awaits them doesn't make them any less human. Caroline Foulkes
reports.
Frank's story
Every 3 weeks or so, Frank sits down in his lounge to write a letter.
They are letters composed with care. Frank always makes a rough draft
first, checking each word before he commits it, in black ink, to a sheet
of A4, blue -lined paper, the 'fs and js' of his curly, sloping hand
scraping the bottom of the line below.
He folds the paper, addresses the envelope, posts it.
Then he goes about his daily life. A reply, written in a flat, round
hand, usually arrives in the following 3 weeks.
But one day Frank knows there might not be a reply.
His letter will be returned, with the word 'Deceased' stamped on the
front. And then he will mourn for a man he has never met.
Frank is writing to Jim, a prisoner on Death Row in a Florida jail.
The 77-year-old widower from Northants has been corresponding with the
44-year -old inmate for 11 months.
'Why did I want to do this? Perhaps because I thought somebody out there
could do with a friend,' he says.
'I'd heard a lot about about the death row procedure and felt that maybe
I could help someone a bit.'
Frank, who worked on the buses for 36 years, became Jim's penfriend after
getting in touch with the League of Life, a group which finds penfriends
for death rowers.
He says he found writing the 1st letter hard.
'It was very difficult to word. I felt as if I was walking on eggshells.
So I just told him who I was and what I did and how I spend my days.
'When I got Jim's reply, it was obvious he felt as apprehensive as me -
neither of us knew what the other was going to be like.'
'But something in that first letter shone through.' The friendship grew
over time. Frank has never asked what Jim did to end up on death row. He
says it isn't really relevant.
Today he says he and Jim are 'dead thick buddies,' as they say.
They share a sense of humour. They cheer each other up.
'I know it might sound a bit odd, but I get a warm glow from writing to
Jim, in as much as I can help someone who is in difficult circumstances,
offer them friendship in their loneliness.
'I hope he feels the same. I hope that I help him as much as he helps
me.'
Frank and Jim have never spoken. Frank has a photo of Jim, though. A
piece of paper which makes the man behind the words seem somehow more
real.
He was hoping to visit, but as time wears on, it seems less likely. Frank
isn't getting any younger. Jim's last appeal failed on legal grounds.
'I have envisaged it,' says Frank softly, 'the day when my letter is
returned.
'I can't say I don't expect it. 'It's only to be expected, under the
circumstances.'
Jim's story
Some days it gets so hot in Jim's room, he has to lie down on the floor.
In the heat and humidity of a Florida summer, the sweat clusters on his
shaven head like crystal beads, staining his orange top and white
trousers 3 shades darker than they should be.
The building wasn't made to withstand the heat, and there is no air
conditioning.
Trees, which would offer some sparse shelter from the intensity of the
sun, are not permitted. They would constitute a security risk.
Jim has lived in this room for the last 22 years.
A 6ft by 9ft concrete box, with a door of steel bars.
He is in there almost all day, every day. He gets let out for a few hours
exercise each week. Every 2nd day he gets to take a shower. The prison
authorities have recently placed wire across the grilles of the death row
cells. They say it aids security. They don't say how.
It makes the heat inside the cells much worse, restricting the airflow.
It makes 'hanging on the door', the prison version of gossiping with a
neighbour over the fence, impossible. It also means prisoners cannot
shake the hand of the visiting chaplain, come to offer prayer and
comfort.
The only real human touch they get is during visits. Jim's prison permits
contact visits, which means they are not conducted between a barrier of
glass or wire mesh, with the help of a microphone. It is a privilege that
can be withdrawn. The punishment of not being able to put your arms
around your loved ones can last for up to 2 years. But even the promise
of a contact visit can be a slim one.
Visitors meet prisoners in the visitors park, a large room with thirty
cheap -looking white tables. Each prisoner who has a visitor is allocated
a table. When all the tables are full the rest are turned away.
Throughout the visits, prisoners are asked to muster - line up and be
counted.
Jim's final appeal has been turned down. It is not the 1st time he has
had a death warrant served on him. In 1990 the Governor of Florida signed
the death warrants of several prisoners whose appeals had not been
completed.
Jim spent some time on deathwatch, waiting to be put in the electric
chair, until there was a reprieve. But no one thought to tell Jim. He was
left on deathwatch until someone noticed there had been an oversight.
It isn't himself he is concerned for though. He cares more about the
effect it has on his friends and family, particularly his elderly mother.
'It's the uncertainty of the situation that gets to me,' he says.
'Not knowing when a warrant will be signed. The uncertainty of the
situation is what makes it so difficult to handle, both for me and my
loved ones.'
He says that the worst thing is the feeling of being totally alone.
'The sense of despair, hopelessness and loneliness a prisoner feels is
indescribable. Even when surrounded by hundreds of other prisoners, the
loneliness prevails.
'The most important part of my day is the evening, when I receive mail.
Receiving letters from my penfriends, knowing there are really people on
the outside who really do care about me, that takes away some of the
loneliness. Each morning I wake up and look forward to the special time I
spend reading their letters and writing to my friends.
'In my mind, I'm able to escape this prison cell and spend a few precious
hours with the people who have befriended me. Without them I don't
honestly think I would have been able to stay sane for the 20 years I've
spent in this cell.'
Fact File--
The League of Life UK branch was formed in August 1997 by Ron Pigram,
following requests by prisoners in the USA for penpals.
The service has since been extended to offenders in the Philippines,
Thailand and the West Indies.
There are around 3,700 men and women on death row in the USA, confined
throughout the 38 states that have the death penalty. Execution methods
vary from state to state, but the most common method is lethal injection.
Other methods include the electric chair, gas chamber, hanging and firing
squad.
Execution in the Phillippines is by lethal injection, the West Indies by
hanging and Thailand by machine gun.
Since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977 there have been 768
executions carried out in America, up to April 2002. In that time 100 men
were released from death row after being found to be innocent. The 100th
was released in April this year after spending ten years on death row.
[my note---The death penalty in America was re-legalized in 1976;
executions resumed in 1977...to date, there have been 782 executions
carried out in America] The league, which also has members in Holland,
France, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Denmark and Russia, has provided
penfriends for 3452 offenders in the USA, 507 in Thailand, 23 in the
Philippines and 78 in the West Indies.
For more information contact The League of Life, 7 Hall Farm Road,
Benfleet, Essex SS7 5JD or telephone 01268 755800. (source: Birmingham Post)