Here Comes the Sun

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            It was 1976 and a young folk singer stood with his acoustic guitar at the front of the Vassar College chapel. I was 17 and getting ready for my senior year in high school. We waited. There was the song, that one song we waited for the troubadour to begin. Every word was etched in our collective mind’s eye; eight teens – four young men trying to figure out what manhood really was all about, and four equally young women. He struck the first chord and we knew, we were there with each word.

            “A long, long time ago

            I can still remember

            How the music made me smile

            And I knew if I had the chance

            I could make those people dance

            And maybe they’d be happy for awhile”

            Dreams and ambitions at 17. I wanted the world. At 6, I told my father I wanted to write a book. At 15, I sat in awe as I read a simple book on Constitutional Law and understood how a semi-illiterate man with a pen and paper could change the law. “Dear Supreme Court. My name is Gideon and I was denied counsel.” I wanted to understand law, and God, and beauty. I knew I could do anything I wanted. I knew I had my entire adult life ahead of me.

            “But February made me shiver

            With every paper I delivered

            Bad news on the doorstep

            I couldn’t take one more step”

            You want to see someone completely broken? Arrest a middle-class, middle-aged white guy with a house, two cars, and the picture-perfect family. Lift him out of everything he knows, everything he believes in, and close the cell door. Yeah, and the guy is already on edge. He feels like shit already. He’s eaten up with guilt, drinking five or six scotches every night to sleep. Eyes bloodshot, the left one twitches uncontrollably. Running, the one activity he always felt freed him, now was a struggle. Bloated and depressed he fears death and life. He can’t go on, but he can’t quit. He listens to her breathing at night hoping, praying that in those breathes lies his redemption. But it isn’t to be.

            “I can’t remember if I cried

            When I read about his widowed bride

            But something touched me deep inside

            The day the music would die”

            Sentencing and I was numb. Two years, twenty, two hundred, it didn’t matter. I was out of tears, out of hope. I sat in the holding cell with my hands holding my face. Some reason, I heard in my broken soul, music. I hummed “Be Thou My Vision” – I’m not even sure why; I softly sang John Prine’s “Angel from Montgomery” and Loggins & Messina’s “Danny’s Song.” Over and over I told myself it will all be alright; this is temporary; until thirty days later … and the papers and as broken as I had felt before, I now felt worse. I wrote; she cried; I prayed; the order came in; it was over.

            “Did you write the book of love

            And do you have faith in God above

            If the Bible tells you so?

            Now do you believe in rock and roll

            Can music save your mortal soul”

            It’s receiving and anything I’d seen before pales in comparison. I try each day to just get through. I talk every morning in the darkness to “Michael” my painted card angel sent by a friend to protect me. I am in a rundown, filthy cell with a psychotic, mentally-handicapped gangbanger beginning 76 years for a double homicide. I am who I am, nothing is different about who I am or how I interact with people which confounds and confuses inmates and officers alike. This man can kill me; I don’t care. I read the Bible daily, I write. I hear nothing from God. Later, I’ll agree with Pastor Rick Warren that “feeling God” is just an emotion. God “is” real; God “is” always there, even when in our worst moments we believe we have been abandoned and left for dead.

            There is an incident and my “cellmate” threatens to “tear my throat open and watch me gurgle on the blood.” “Go ahead,” I tell him. Am I crazy? Do I have a death wish? Or, am I tired of the brokenness, the hopelessness? He backs down (amazing!). Moments later he tells me something I will hear more than once:

            “You think you’re better than us.” I respond, “I don’t think I’m better than anyone but I know I’m better than this.” I am better than this. Fuck the judge, and the system that destroys, and my self-delusion and criminal behavior, and the broken promises and broken dreams … I am better than this.

            “I was a lonely teenage broncin buck

            With a pink carnation

            And a pick-up truck

            But I knew I was out of luck

            The day the music would die”

            Running was again freeing, liberating, exhilarating. I run and I hear the music and I keep coming back to that night in 1976 and that young folk singer and singing along.

            “I met a girl who sang the blues

            And I asked her for some happy news

            But she just smiled and turned away

            And the three men I admired most

            The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

            They caught the last train for the coast

            The day the music would die.”

            17 and my life all ahead of me; 55 and more alive than ever. I knew he wrote the song about Buddy Holly dying in a plane crash, during a blizzard, on the way to a concert. But it also was about my crash, my broken dreams, my American dream fractured and bleeding and imprisoned and … resurrected. The music didn’t die. It was always there; it was, it is, it will be.

            I often think of Viktor Frankl, holocaust survivor, gentle man who told the world there is meaning to be found in suffering, or as CS Lewis put it, “Pain is God’s megaphone.” The music, like spring, always returns, always blossoms. I run and hear a new song, one of hope and thanksgiving:

            “Little darling

            It’s been a long, cold lonely winter

            Little darling

            It feels like years since it’s been clear

            Here comes the sun

            Here comes the sun

            And I said

            It’s alright”

Legally Speaking

I spend hours each week in the prison law library, every Monday to Thursday evening, 6:30 to 8:30 pm; writing, typing, researching the law to help other inmates with a variety of legal issues. From divorce to name changes to complicated legal arguments on constitutional law involving evidence, convictions, and prisoner rights, I run a solo underground law practice. I am the prison’s legal aid clinic. I try not to say “no” to anyone posing a legal question. I’ll show any man at least the courtesy and respect to hear them tell of their legal concerns.



As I’ve written before, the law library here doesn’t amount to much. Outdated books line the shelves (the set of Virginia Codes hasn’t been updated since 1998). There is only one research computer, with CD case and statue information, that is only updated semi-annually. Four antiquated “Selectric” typewriters are spread around the room, a mere 10 ft by 10 ft block room that has seating for a maximum of five inmates.


In truth, the library fails to comply with the minimum required by the United States Constitution for inmate access to the courts.


Many inmates, already uneducated, abandoned and discouraged by their circumstances, bemoan the law. They have no confidence in the American judicial system, a system that far too often is made up of incompetent attorneys and judges, and a prosecution bias to get revenge rather than find justice.


For me, however, the challenge of taking on “the bastards” under these conditions keeps me going night in and night out. I have a few “cards up my sleeve” that keep me going.


First, to almost every man here, I am “lawyer Larry”. Guys know I bust my butt to help them. Their confidence in me keeps me going.


Second, my cousin is an amazing researcher. Any case I need, any statute, study or legal article I can think of gets mailed in to me. Thanks to her and her husband I have a more update law library in my footlocker than the prison provides.


Third, I know how to type. Even on the old Selectrics. I can kick out almost 70 words a minute.


Fourth, they can throw me in prison, but they can’t take away all I learned as an undergraduate, in law school and practicing law and working in business. I know what cases say, I know what statutes mean.


And finally, I give a damn. Too often, guys get short-changed by both court appointed and hired lawyers who are too busy, too lazy, or too stupid to bother to properly prepare their cases for trial. They quickly agree to plea deals without adequately investigating the case or the ramifications of the plea.


With all that, I’m kept busy by the law. Here’s a legal primer on issues every inmate brings up.


I. Conditional Pardons. The Governor has the power to alter any criminal sentence as he sees fit. Inmates may apply every two years if turned down. The request goes through the office of the Secretary of the Commonwealth. You don’t have to be innocent to get a pardon. The Governor can convert your prison term to supervised probation if he wants.


II. Habeas Corpus. Under the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, a defendant has a right to “effective assistance of counsel”. Inmates file Petitions for Writs of “Hab” to get their convictions set aside and force the state to retry them.


It’s a difficult process. There are significant time limitations that trap many unsophisticated inmates. The law also presumes (1) that your attorney was effective [there are cases where lawyers were drunk or asleep during the trial and the courts held counsel was effective]; and (2) that the underlying trial, conviction and sentence were properly entered.


It’s a difficult process. Most lawyers don’t understand it, yet each day inmates representing themselves do legal battle with all the power the Virginia Attorney General’s office can muster. That any inmate can succeed under these conditions is amazing. That so many do is remarkable.


III. §1983 claims. Inmates are entitled to certain basic rights. The Constitution applies even in prison. Bad health care, corrupt officers, religious discrimination, censorship, all those issues are addressed by inmate suits under federal law. As I’ve previously written, this year DOC has taken a beating in Federal Court on a number of issues.


The bureaucracy of DOC is astounding. They pick fights and push issues that bear little rational relationship to their stated purpose, namely to house and rehabilitate incarcerated prisoners.


You would think a criminal justice institution would understand and properly apply the law. Sadly, that is not the case. §1983 suits continue to flourish and taxpayers continue to spend millions a year in legal fees and expenses to defend DOC in inmate suits seeking Constitutional protection.


Inmates file hundreds, even thousands of grievances, writs for legal redress, even crazy suits (one sought to have his social security number removed and be declared an unincorporated person; “they can’t imprison an unincorporated person”) in an attempt to either “get justice” or “stick it to the man”.


Legally speaking, men desperate for justice, men who feel the system isn’t fair, will try anything to be heard. So much money being wasted because the system is broken and corrupt; so much work for a lawyer.

All Around Like Heron

A guy came up to me at the law library asking if I’d take a look at his “paperwork” and see if there were any options he had to get his sentence reduced. As I do with anyone who asks, I said “sure”. He then said, “Your name is all around the yard like heron”.



I didn’t know quite what he meant so I asked my friend Ty – the law library aide – exactly what he was talking about. “Heron, you know ‘heroin’. In the projects everyone knows where to score heroin. In here, everyone knows who to turn to for help.”


He then said this: “You’re a righteous man. The guys here respect you because you care and you try. It’s not about a hustle to you.”


I thought a great deal about Ty’s comments. The strange thing is, in here I am who I am. I’m still the same outgoing guy I was before my arrest. I talk to anybody; white, black, Hispanic, gangbangers, gay, it doesn’t matter. Most guys in prison keep to themselves. They say little, if anything. I’ve always engaged people. Just me being me. As my friend Paul (a/k/a “hippohead” – guy must have the biggest head on record!) said, “Only you could act this way in prison”.


The “helping” issue is a little different. Years ago, when I was in private practice, I was a damn good lawyer. I outworked my opponent, out hustled them. I viewed law practice as hand to hand combat. I wanted to win, whether it was the right result or not.


When I met my wife in college, I was young and idealistic. I told her I wanted to defend the oppressed and argue great questions of constitutional law. Then came law school, marriage, law practice. I wanted to win; I didn’t care who got hurt. The win was all that mattered.


I changed. I took the job at Farm Bureau and was damn good at that too. I evaluated cases for the company. I made recommendations when to fight and when to settle. I can honestly say my opinions were always correct, if correct means calling a case within a few dollars of what a jury would do.


I told my wife how much a life was worth. So much of my job was about that. How much was a 7 year-old girl worth who died in a car accident? How much is a 45 year-old homemaker’s life worth?


I got involved in community service, working with my church and the local Meals on Wheels group. I like to think I did it to “give back”. Thinking about it recently, I’m afraid I did it to compensate, to balance out the fact that I put winning ahead of what’s right.


Self-reflection is a scary thing. You look in the mirror one day and see “the real you”, at least the you you’ve become and you realize you could have, should have done better. I realized after my arrest I’d been after all the wrong things. I wanted so badly to be loved and appreciated, I was willing to lie and steal. I realized I was so hell-bent on success; I’d sold out my values.


So I lost everything. The woman I loved never loved me. My kids turned from me. My own church abandoned me. Friends left me. Almost every dollar I earned, every possession I owned, was given up. Then, I found my idealism again.


I help guys in here. But, I tell them the truth. I won’t file suite for a guy just to file. If he’s guilty, I work toward a fair sentence. Remorseful? I use a pardon. I’m researching and briefing significant points of Constitutional Law. It’s funny sometimes how God works. Our lives come full circle.


I recently found out a friend from church was in the last few days of her life. She has fought cancer courageously for a number of years. This beautiful woman is now confined to her bed, with only days remaining. Friends have been sitting with her so her husband could continue holding his college classes. My ex-wife has been with her a number of days.


I wrote my youngest son earlier this week and told him to see, understand and love the compassion he is witnessing from his mom. “Be gentle and kind”, I urged him. It means more than all the power, prestige, and wealth in the world.


My morning devotional the other day included a verse from 1 John – “The world is passing away . . . but the one that does the will of God lives forever”.


I may be wrong, but I think God’s will is ultimately that we love, we forgive, we be kind and compassionate. Hard to believe it took prison for me to realize that.


Ty told me something else the other day. He told me a group of guys had prayed for me. Two months ago, I helped a guy win a new appeal when I argued his lawyer provided ineffective assistance of counsel. We filed a Bar complaint and learned last week the attorney had been disbarred (11 complaints; 3 from inmates. The attorney admitted he suffered from depression which led him to not prepare his cases).


The other two inmates are also housed here. I’ve filed papers for them to get appeals granted. Given the Bar’s action, their appeals will be granted. At least they will get a fair shot at proving their innocence.


Perhaps these cases would have worked out that way without me. I’m not smart enough to know the answer to that. I only know that the idealism I felt as a young man is back.


It really is weird to count you blessings when you’re in a tough spot. For all my stupid stories about prison, this experience really does suck. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I was still with my wife and kids, sleeping in my bed, watching the sunset from my deck. But, I’m doing better than I ever expected in here. And, I got guys praying for me and comparing my presence here to heroin in the ‘hood. All in all, not as bad as I thought.