Jason in Texas writes often, has a big heart, and has connected us with others on the inside who need adopting. Jason is one of the fortunate ones in that he has access to his own funds for commissary, and wants to reimburse us for the cost of sending him e-mail and books. (Jpay charges 49¢ per page for an e-mail.)
TDCJ (Texas Department of Criminal Justice), where Jason is, offers a service called “e-comm,” that allows friends and family from the outside to purchase commissary-like items that do not count against the inmates’ spend limit for commissary ($85 every two weeks). There is also a spend limit for e-comm, which is $50 per calendar quarter, per inmate. Because e-comm is through a different provider than commissary, they carry different items, so inmates can have a little variety.
We are sending Jason some books that he can read and pass on to others. See our sidebar for a long list of prison book programs.
Please comment or send us an email if you know other angels on the inside that we can spotlight.
Treat people as if they were who they ought to be, and you may contribute to their becoming all they are capable of being. – German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Most of the adoptee names we receive come from inmates. Ron, an inmate in TDCJ, is one of our own adoptees who we first told about the idea for our organization.
“Adopt An Inmate,” that sounds cool. Thank God that my mom is putting money on my books for me, but there are a lot of good guys in here that have been left behind by their families that would love to be adopted.
Due to recent scrutiny of American jurisprudence, specifically, an astonishing number of death row exonerations, there has been renewed debate regarding use of the death penalty. Some argue that the death penalty should be abolished because too many innocent people have been convicted, some seek to end its practice because it is biased against the poor and people of color, some are against it because it is âcruel and unusual,â and some adamantly argue that it should be continued even if the state must illegally obtain the drugs which make executions âlegalâ under the eighth amendment. None on either side of the debate satisfactorily explains where governments obtain the authority to administer death.
[Chorus]
Lost in a battle that I canât win
I donât know when Iâll see my family again
No mail, oh well
Iâll just sit in my cell
And think about how close
I am to going to Hell
Adopt an Inmate seeks to remind the world that inmates are human. It is not our contention that all, or even most, inmates are innocent. But that, in the words of Bryan Stevenson, âEach of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.â
The Voices From Within project gives inmates the chance to use their own stories, to change someone else’s story. Human beings who have made terrible mistakes, can better serve their communities when their voices can be heard.
You can be the good that happens, you see what I’m saying? You can be the good – if I could – oh, Jesus, Lord, please, if this could be, if I could right now be, if the question is maybe if something good happens, and that’s me, for you, right now, come, listen … I’m asking you, a favor, I’m asking you for a little help, here.
I’m asking you for a little bit of redemption – here, alright? I’m saying, if this could be the good, then maybe you can help me. Can you save me a bit? I’m trying to save you. And in respect for that, maybe we can make a deal, ’cause if I can do something, if this could help you, then I could be the good for you, right? And you could be the good for me. Because if I do that, if, then maybe, the bad could kinda be offset, if I’m the good for you, right? Work with me, work with me here, that’s all I’m saying.
Here we highlight the Lady Lifers Chorus. Pennsylvania leads the country in the number of lifers that were sentenced as juveniles – nearly 500 – who will never see the outside of a prison.
The nine women in this chorus have each served 27 to 40 years, for a combined total of  293 years.Â
Beginning at 05:46, the ladies state their inmate number, time served to date, name, and place of birth, ending with the words, “this is not my home.”
Be an angel, send a letter.
To address the envelope: write the inmateâs name and number on the top line, followed by the name and address of the facility. Clearly write your name and address in the upper left hand corner of the envelope.Â
Inmate Name & Number
SCI Muncy
P.O. Box 180 Muncy, PAÂ 17756
It was a beautiful, warm, spring day in 1973. A few puffy white clouds dotted the otherwise blue sky over Tucson as my Dad guided our car to Old Tucson, the site of many a Hollywood-produced western. It was here that I had learned about facades. The false-fronted buildings which served to disguise the lack of substance behind most of the town’s establishments.
Forty-one years later, handcuffed to a fellow inmate, I traveled from the downtown Austin, Texas courthouse to the Del Valle jail facility in a Sheriff’s bus. I had just signed a plea agreement sentencing me to an eight year prison term. The otherwise overcast Autumn sky was broken up occasionally with beams of sunlight. After waiting sixteen months for my day in court, I finally saw the inside of a criminal courtroom. I made my way into that courtroom (the first I had ever seen personally) by a route known only to inmates and court officials. To juries and spectators, the labyrinths, holding cells, visitation rooms and lobbies which exist behind the veneer of the courtrooms are unknown.
I struggled not to slip out of a bench seat unadorned with seat belts and thought of my recent journey and transformation: from naive and ignorant idealist, to shocked, dismayed, and convicted felon. In my wildest dreams I would never have imagined such an outcome. I tried to convince myself that I had done the best thing, even though I had pleaded for others in similar circumstances never to give into prosecutors’ bullying tactics.
I struggled against the centrifugal force which threatened to push me against my partner as the bus turned right onto Bill Price Road. A similar struggle against an inner voice was taking place at the same time.
“Hypocrite!” it accused. My body won its battle and my partner was saved from discomfort. My psyche wasn’t so fortunate. I had done that which I had counseled against. Twenty-plus felony counts – potentially multiple life terms – traded for a plea. Innocence traded for guilt. Not even my own paid attorney had any confidence in the system. My newfound acquaintances, some far less naive than I, tried to warn me, but I had, until this day, opted for idealism instead. As the bus pulled into the facility and the massive gate slid away, my head hung low and I thought of the stark contrast between the dark wood hues of the courtroom and the dirty cinder block and steel rooms behind its walls.
The similarity of the facades built for Ford or Huston’s cinema works and the burnt orange carpet and mahogany veneers of the courtroom hit me. Each facade hides a certain lack of substance, a fantasy that is important to preserve in the mind of the casual observer. Perhaps the fantasy that our cities, counties and federal court systems mete out justice, is just as important for its participants as it is for those who only indirectly participate in its activities.
Consider the fantasy created around the plea bargain, which represents over 90% of all federal convictions and a similarly high percentage of state convictions. Those convicted are directed to state under oath that the “sole reason” they are accepting a plea agreement is that they are guilty – not that they are avoiding the threat of much more dire sentences should they fight their cases through to trial. Whether or not the defendant is truly guilty, everyone in the courtroom is internally aware that a preposterous lie is being told.
What would be the purpose of threatening someone with an extreme sentence and then drafting a much lower alternative if the lesser sentence was not an incentive itself? By forcing the defendant to deny the obvious (lie under oath), those in charge – judges, prosecutors and defense attorneys alike, are condoning a fundamental corruption of the truth. If they are willing to look past lies like these on a daily basis, what else are they willing to tolerate?
I stepped off the bus and into the chilly, drab afternoon, dragging my partner toward the jail. Six months into his stay here, he was reset for a fifth time. I wondered how long he would have to wait for some semblance of justice. A day earlier I might have encouraged him to fight to the bitter end. Today I wouldn’t be so bold. Today I am unconvinced there is anything like justice; that justice is merely a facade. Tomorrow I may change my mind again. Tomorrow, maybe the mass-incarcerated who know what’s behind the facade will work together and draw back the curtains. Who else but us and our families really know?
