IN 2006, I got here home from a hospital operation to search out a get-well card, signed by all 40 of the death-row inmates of an American state. That card will need to have cost something to those that have so little: the sacrifice of small pleasures, reminiscent of coffee. It will need to have taken some signing; for — with lives so tightly controlled, and association limited — it took some time to flow into. One man, Rocky, was executed two weeks later by paralysing, agonising, drugs which can be banned to be used on animals.
Only one among the signatories was known to me: Twin, a penfriend of the past 28 years. By then, he had been on death row for greater than 20 years; now, he’s within the important prison, with no likelihood of parole until he’s 88. But this, a minimum of, provides some outlets: legal knowledge; and opportunities to mentor younger inmates informally, or referee basketball matches — and, as ever, he prays for others.
OUR correspondence was a slow affair initially. The charity LifeLines gives volunteers the name of the subsequent person on their list. I wrote, and heard nothing for six months, but was advised to proceed with cards — of wildlife, birds, and flowers. Then I got a stilted but not unfriendly letter: he had received all of the cards and was deciding whether to put in writing back. We continued to correspond every month, knowing that some letters never got through, owing to petty changes within the countless rules.
After ten years, we had, for a transient period, occasional short phone conversations. The man, whose writing was laboured (education had not figured much in his youth), was articulate, humorous, and patient. I sent him small amounts of cash, to cover basics; sometimes a book, direct from the publisher. More recently, I used to be in a position to email him. I wrote on my friendships, work, and travel. He wrote about prison life: rules (in case of a fireplace, wet your towel and lie by the crack under your cell door); and his family.
When his death sentence was overturned, I discovered online what he had never complained of: the horrors of his childhood, and the incontrovertible fact that, within the drug-driven frenzy of his crime, he had ushered a small child out of harm’s way — a baby who was later called to testify against him.
His aunt, who had three nephews in prison, kept faithful contact, and we occasionally spoke, until she died. Later, after hearing from him just once in greater than a 12 months, as his depression had taken over, I learned of his daughter — who had a serious illness — and his inability to see her; and of the death of his brother in prison. I had a transient exchange of letters together with his sister, who had renewed contact with him: “He’s done some mistakes, but he’s an excellent man.”
At Twin’s request, I wrote for a time to the 24-year-old who shared his cell, and, although a Roman Catholic, kept Ramadan with him, sacrificially: as a non-Muslim, there was no end-of-fast meal for him; so that they shared the one.
THERE were other penfriends, in numerous states. Two decided that I used to be not for them — one among the few rights that death-row inmates retain is making such selections. One was suddenly executed, dying with dignity, declaring his innocence. Another — now a friend of seven years, and the primary white man amongst my penfriends — has been on death row for 48 years.
In the early days, unusually, he got books to check for his school exams; locked in as all the time, the invigilator sitting outside, while the opposite men kept remarkably quiet, he got good results. He reads, discusses movies, poetry, politics, and the incontrovertible fact that — since his state is “clearing out the old ones” with the last of its stock of medicine — his time may come soon.
When they got here recently for an additional old-timer, he fought; so the guards pepper-sprayed him, after which washed down his subdued body within the communal showers. Meanwhile, after eight months of attempts, I actually have permission to video-call him — except that the system is now changing.
MANY inmates are mentally ailing, while some have learning disabilities, and lots of don’t have any one who keeps involved. All emails and videocalls are charged: American prisons are an industry. Some guards are decent, if overworked; and a few enjoy exercising petty power, to delay or disrupt.
LifeLines, founded in Cambridge in 1988 and now global, is the oldest of the organisations linking penfriends with prisoners on death row. A latest member is assigned the person at the highest of the waiting-list. Once you’re writing, you normally proceed for so long as the penfriend wants, sometimes making a selection to be there on the execution.
Why do it? In my case, it was a response to the horror that I felt, as a youngster, hearing of the execution of a young man, James Hanratty; and this was followed by years of living through the Troubles and realising that, had legal executions still been possible, the impact in Northern Ireland, and in mainland Britain and Ireland, would have been still more destructive.
Then there’s the haunting requirement of the scriptures that we visit prisoners — something that shouldn’t be physically possible for everybody; but, today, there are alternative routes of recognising the humanity of others, whatever they might have done, each to others and to themselves. Usually, there was against the law that caused suffering, which requires acknowledgement, and which the penfriend, who’s so rather more than their worst self, generally respects.
WHAT happens? We humanise one another. People change; and the charity’s magazine shows that some inmates are talented sketchers, poets, and writers. Human creativity can flourish anywhere, nonetheless basic the equipment. I actually have gained friendships, and a partner in prayer. Common interests could also be limited, but we’re sure by faith and friendship. There are glimpses of resurrection — the knowledge that nobody is outside the love and style of God; that the Jesus of that first Easter morning can walk through every situation, and be invited into every life. Nothing can separate us from the love of God; and nothing can justify the taking of life from a fellow human being.
The kindness that I experienced shouldn’t be unique. On one other death row — perhaps multiple — a latest arrival receives a “welcome bag” from the opposite inmates, of anything they will contribute: toothpaste, chocolate, soap. The only strategy to repay kindness is to pass it on.
Rosemary Power is a member of the Iona Community. Her most up-to-date publications are Image and Vision: Reflecting with the Book of Kells (Veritas, 2022) and The Gift of Stillness: Iona pilgrim paths (Wild Goose 2024).
