Reflections..By Hank Skinner

[badkarma3]

From: "Al and Mary" <alandmary@n...>
Date: Fri Apr 26, 2002 7:24 pm
Subject: Reflections by Hank Skinner

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[Note: The following was written by Hank Skinner earlier this month -- and he?s now asking that it be made public. More "News From the Hell Hole" by Hank will be posted soon]

Albert and Mary Maggard are two of the best people God ever breathed a breath into. We?ve argued like cats and dogs, Albert and I. I?ve called him everything but a white man. I?ve been so ashamed of myself I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Mary works tirelessly for me, virtually night and day. I love her more than words could describe and worry myself to death about her. She?s had knee replacement surgery and suffers a lot of pain. But she runs her legs off for me and this cause. There?s no way on earth I will ever repay her for 1/10th of what she?s done for me. I wonder if I am even worth it and think probably not.

I?ve got two of the best lawyers in this world. Steven Losch went to jail on account of this case. He didn?t quit. He did some praying, got his strength up, found some help in Doug Robinson and jumped right back in there. Doug is a great guy, too. This man has an aura about him that is beyond belief. When he comes here to see me, between him and Steven I stay pumped up for a week. In the meantime I cuss and rail at them because nothing is happening fast enough. They can?t understand it?s not them I am mad at. I?ve been here 8 years for a crime I did not commit. I know I?m slipping, losing a piece of myself each day and I hope they get me out of here before there?s nothing left.

Looking at the execution list I see that Jose´ Santellan is scheduled for execution April 10th. Today is April 4th, my birthday. I?m 40, born 04/04/62. Jose´ is 40 too, born 03/08/62, about one month before me. Jose?s number is 999140, mine is 999143. He got to death row one month before me. He actually did what I was falsely convicted of - killed his girlfriend. He did some strange things, too. Took her body to a motel and slept with it. I know it sounds sick, but it?s hard to understand. Because of this he is reviled by many. Jose? was having a nervous breakdown. He told me he loved her so much that, when she left him, he lost his mind. When he went crazy and had the breakdown he was in denial and delusional. He just could not bring himself to admit she was dead, much less that he had killed her. He kept convincing himself he?d seen her move, that she was going to wake up any minute and he could take her on to the hospital to recover or, that he?d wake up and discover that it?d just all been a bad dream. He was convinced that if he did not wait until she woke up before he let anyone else touch her, it would change the eventual outcome and she?d remain dead forever.

When I first met Jose´ it was because of our mutual friend, Joe Gonzalez. Joe was from Amarillo and I knew him briefly out in the world, had worked a few roofing jobs with him. Jose´ and I did not get along. I knew about his case and was repulsed by it. Joe explained to me about it, though. But the die was cast and Jose´ and I were going to fight.

Joe saw all this. He was going to be executed in a few days. I sat out on the yard talking to him about the old days, the good times, back in the early ?80s when the oil field was doing good. He told me, "Hank, I?ve never asked you for anything, right?" I said, "That?s right, Joe. You?re always giving me stuff I don?t need, never asking for nothing." He said, "I want you to promise me two things." I thought, "Oh, shit, here it comes, some death wish." Joe said, "Promise me that you?ll stay down and fight your case to the end, don?t do what I"m doing." (He?d dropped his appeals). I said, "Hell, that?s easy. I?m going to do that anyway." He said, "Good. Now, promise me that you?ll squash this shit with Jose´ and be his friend." I said, "Joe, I don?t think Jose´ is going for that." He said, "Yeah, he is. I already shot him a kite and he answered, gave me his word. Now you give me yours." I said, "O.K. Joe. I give you my word." Two days later I was with Joe on the yard, September 16, 1996. We got into it with this racist guard and he went up there and trashed our cells. When I got back to my cell I discovered this guard had poured pepper juice and coffee all over my legal records. I threw a fit, just cussing. They moved me from G-15 to J-21, where Jose´ was. Two days later they killed Joe Gonzalez. Man, that tore me up. I sure missed him. I was in this dark, cold corner on 1 Row, in a management cell. I got a kite. It was from Jose´. He said, "Hank, I?m a man of my word. This

thing between us is forgotten. If you need anything, just let me know. Respects, Jose´."

All these years I?ve been friends with Jose´. This Mexican is solid as a rock, firme es todo. When the Pope sent me the rosary, it was Jose´ who taught me how to pray it, gave me his rosary book. He told me, "I?m a Mexican, born in the church, I know this thing forward and backward. Here, you keep it and learn, now." This rosary hangs over my bed, at the head of it, with my gold cross Mary gave me. Just like I?ve done the cross over the years, I?ve nearly rubbed this rosary into pieces, worrying those beads. In six days they are going to kill my friend. Mary was here to see me on the 3rd, yesterday. While she was gone to get food, the guards brought Jose´ past, going up a few cages, to his visit. I told him I was praying for him. He smiled, as always, and said, "You know how, eh?" For the rest of the visit with Mary I wasn?t exactly all there. I didn?t mention Joe or Jose´ but I was thinking about them. Still am. Joe used his death to give me one of the best friends I?ve had here. Jose´ never asked for much, he?d sometimes spend half the night running line with the guys next door, for me. I?d give him a few shots of coffee or a 10 cent nutty bar we?d got from over there, then I?d climb the day room bars and stand up there for my whole hour, talking to him. Since he started shaving his head we nicknamed him Kojak ?cause he resembles Telly Savalas and loves Tootsie Pops. Six days. This will be another birthday I?ll never forget. I don?t know how much more of this I can take. They?ve killed about 160 - 170 guys since I?ve been here. So many of them I knew. Some I was friends with. Some I was pretty close to. A few I was real tight with. Can you imagine living with death for 8 years, watching 160 - 170 people die, knowing that, with each one, they are one more closer to you?

When you get an execution list in, the first thing you do is study the numbers. Oh, you look at the names too, to see how many of your friends are on there or, guys that you know. Why the numbers? To see how close they are to your number. Out in the world, when you?re talking to people who believe in manifest destiny (There?s no such thing. God gave men a free will) they?ll tell you, "When your number is up, that?s it, you die." These are people who believe like, if you have Cancer and the doctor cures you, then you?ll step out of the hospital and get run over by a garbage truck or something. "When your number is up"... it has literal meaning here.

I?m telling you all these things for the same reasons I always have. Because somehow, I know in my heart that if people knew what was truly going on here they?d want to stop it. There?s never a day goes by that I?m not in awe of the death row experience.

There?s never a day goes by that we don?t miss group recreation. See, when you get initiated into this club, you quickly come to understand that the only true empathy you?ll ever get is from your fellow convict here because he?s the only one who can really understand what this is and what it?s like. One of my greatest frustrations comes from the knowledge that, no matter how long I talk out in that visiting room or on this paper, I can never N-E-V-E-R gain true understanding from any of you out there. You just have no life experiences to compare it with. Death is unique. This kind of death, by far. I?m always weirded-out when I read the TDCJ-ID web site or the news stories about the executions of guys I knew here. It somehow doesn?t do them justice; it?s not talking about the guy I knew. For them and you all, this guy is forever encapsulated in this one terrible thing he did (or was wrongly accused of) and they?ve got some photo of him with a scowl or sneer on his face, looking like evil incarnate. You out there think what I used to when I was out there myself and read this stuff in the paper ? "Boy, look at that mean, evil looking, s.o.b. there! And there?s no doubt he killed and did everything (and more) he?s accused of!" How easy it is to hate.

Now I?m on the other side of this experience and ashamed of those things I used to think.

You know, murder is a terrible thing. I did not commit the crime I?m here for and would never dream of

doing such a thing. When I was accused of it, I was in shock because I couldn?t understand how anybody could do such a thing as kill a person, I could not understand how anyone could think I did it.

The morning after the murders in my case, while I was sitting there reeling, trying to come to grips with the fact that the people I loved most in this world were dead and gone, that I?d never see them again, I learned that the cops thought I?d killed them! I was still suffering the effects of this codeine poisoning. I couldn?t think, I couldn?t talk right. My eyes kept trying to roll back in my head and close on me. But I?m sitting there hearing these cops telling me I did this. First they?re suggesting that I know what happened, like I could help them catch who did it. I wanted to help them. But we weren?t on the same page. See, I knew I didn?t do it and so I thought they knew it too and just wanted me to help them find who did. But that wasn?t it at all. When it finally dawned on me that they actually thought I did it, I felt my sanity ripping down the middle. I never said anything, I just sat there dumbfounded listening to what they were suggesting. I told them I wanted to call my lawyer. They wouldn?t let me. The detective told me the lawyer?s home number was long distance and he couldn?t dial long distance on this phone on his desk.

I had enough sense left to understand that something was very wrong here. I didn?t understand what was going on, but this evil, scary feeling was there. I knew I needed help, but I didn?t know how to get it. I was still in shock. I?ve never been so scared in my life. I woke up later laying on a steel bunk. I could smell the fear and taste evil all around me. Fear from within, my own. Evil from without, coming to get me. No escape.

These feelings only continued and intensified each and every step of the way. I couldn?t even imagine having done something like this and stupidly I believed that others would know that, if I couldn?t even imagine it, I surely could not have done it. How wrong I was. How ignorant and naive. I actually believed that, at any moment (all along the way) they?re going to find out who really did this and tell me, "Damn, Hank, We?re sorry." Well it?s not happened yet. 8 ½ years.

They took me over to the court house to a hearing. I worked for a local defense lawyer off and on for 7 ½ years before the crime happened. I know all these people on a first name basis. My friends. The Chief Jailer, now the District Judge?s Bailiff and Court Officer, is also a preacher. He married my wife and me. All these town people are on the flights of stairs coming up to the court room. They?re all looking at me like they want to kill. Two of them spit on me. All the clerks and secretaries come out into the halls to stare and gawk. The judge looks down at me hatefully. He?s never talked to me like this before. His tone is short and clipped. I remark that I?ll never get a fair trial in this circus atmosphere. Someone in the gallery says, "Oh yeah, we?re gonna give you a fair trial with a jury and everything. Then we?re gonna kill you." My lawyer tells me "Do not say anything. Do not show any emotion. They?re just hecklers. Ignore them." I didn?t see them well coming in because I was focused on the bench. When the hearing is over the deputies grab me to take me back. I turn to face the gallery and see the court room is packed. Death draws many spectators. Maybe 200 or so people, all angry looking, glaring at me with scowls on their faces. I see many people I recognize. I want to shout out, "You?ve got it all wrong! I did not do this. Why are you looking at me like that?" But I know it?d be wasted breath. These people?s minds are made up. They?re all 100% sure I?m guilty of whatever it is I?m accused of. I later learn that some of them don?t even know what I?m accused of. They just came to participate in the consensual validation, condemnation and hate of the crowd. Soon as I get back to the jail, I?m sick, vomiting into the toilet of the holding cell. My lawyer comes over to see me, says he believes I did it but he?s going to do his best for me anyway......

We go to a lot of hearings over the course of the following year. It?s about the same every time. Two or three times I see people I know, I try to tell them I didn?t do it. They sneer at me and say with venomous

derision and contempt, with the utmost hatred, "We know what you did! We know what you are! You?re gonna burn in Hell!" and other hateful things. One of them just stares and stares at me, mouths the words, "Fuck you" and turns away.

My lawyer is selling me out. He used to be District Attorney and this guy who?s D. A. now, who?s prosecuting me, used to be his Assistant D. A. My lawyer got run out of office for stealing public funds. The only comfort I get from it is in noticing that these people hate him as much as they do me, it seems. I tell him, "Let?s get the evidence tested." He doesn?t. Every time I tell him I?m innocent, he just laughs. I want to get rid of this lawyer, but he?s already told me the judge said that he?s the only lawyer in town with capital crimes experience and he will not dismiss him for any reason, period.

The sheriff brings his buddies up into the jail late at night. They have me in a glass fronted cell right by the control picket. It has tinted glass. You can?t see in but they can sit in there and see out, see me in my cell. The jailer who?s in there hates the sheriff, so she turns on the intercom to my cell, so I can hear what the sheriff is saying. Lord, what lies. He?s telling this guy and his wife how he had a premonition, woke up out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Heard on the radio a murder had occurred, hears my address. He just knew I?d done it. Rushed over there to prove it and he cracked the case single-handed and arrested me at a neighbor?s house.

Then it?s on to the trial. I got to sit there for a week listening to the D.A. twist every fact into a lie. Making incorrect assumptions about "what this evidence shows" and telling one lie after another. Not one piece of evidence was presented to definitively show that I?d killed anyone, because of course I didn?t do it. The murder weapons have someone else?s hair, blood and prints on them (prints on a trash bag they were found in). The jury was out 2 hours and convicted me anyway.

On to the punishment phase. During this part of the trial I spent most of my time sitting there with my mouth hanging wide open in shock as people paraded on to and off of the witness stand telling one lie after another, most of it made up out of thin air. Unbelievable things. Then this "Doctor Death" guy comes on and having never laid eyes on me, never having examined me, proceeds to tell the jury that I am a dangerous psychopath, I have no emotions, I revel in evil and causing others pain, I do not learn from my mistakes, I live on impulse and on and on and on. He ends up saying he can predict with accuracy that I will kill again. (I want to scream, "You idiot, I didn?t do it the first time! What the Hell do you mean, "again"?!) But my lawyers have warned me, "Don?t say anything. Don?t show any emotion." I?m numb. I can?t believe this is really happening. To borrow an acquaintance?s words, "I was traumatized beyond comprehension".

I came to death row with some serious resentments against the society which would call what I was subjected to a "trial." Witch hunt, maybe. Fair trial, no way in Hell. They take my picture. When I get my I.D. at the Ellis Unit some weeks later I realize that those guys? photos I saw in the paper when I was out there, the ones that had been executed -- they weren?t evil. They were hurting. They were traumatized, just like me. Now I realize that someone out there will look at this photo some day and say to themselves, "Boy, look at that mean, evil looking s.o.b. there! I?ll bet he did everything they say and more!" God help us all.

Hank Skinner