The last sentence: How I became pen pals with an inmate on death row

The first letter he sent was three pages long and penned in elegantly looped handwriting. It consisted of the usual formalities one expects when getting to know someone via written communication: a brief first glimpse into his life, an account of his daily routines and a list of some of his favourite hobbies. Yet entwined within our amicable introductions were two sentences that stood out starkly from the rest.

“If it wasn’t for this place, I would be dead. Death row saved my life.”

This man feared for his life so greatly growing up that he found salvation in the place built to kill him. It’s an astonishing concept in our modern world. While these were some of the first words Jay* wrote to me, I didn’t know whether they might also be his last. That’s just one complication that comes with having a pen pal on death row; your correspondence, however pleasant, is always plagued by a haunting sense of finality.

Jay is incarcerated on death row in the US. I began writing to him through an organisation called Human Writes in August. Founded in February 2000, the group seeks to provide friendship and support to prisoners on death row through the act of letter writing. There are approximately 1,100-1,200 members who are currently signed up as “Pen Pals” to prisoners. The organisation operates in each US state that has the death penalty through a series of state coordinators, who become the writer’s main point of contact throughout the process. Patrons of the charity include the Channel 4 News presenter Jon Snow, and Clive Stafford Smith, a British lawyer who specialises in working against the death penalty in the US.

Death row in California's San Quentin prison

Show all 8

On the organisation’s website, Jon Snow writes: “As a journalist who has lived and worked in the United States, the horror of death row is one of the issues that never leaves you. The thread of humanity that Human Writes manages to sustain with men and women on death row is a profound contribution to keep alive the hope of life.”

Other organisations that offer similar services include LifeLines, Write a Prisoner and Prison Inmates. The world of prison pen pals is an elusive and close-knit community operating primarily through social media and online forums. I had come across the stereotypical perceptions people hold of this world before I signed up. They are typically of lonely widows who write to male prisoners as a way of restoring an era of forgotten lust, or curious students in the middle of an anti-establishment crisis. But in reality, there isn’t really one type of person who does it. While I struggle to pinpoint my exact reasons behind writing, a repressed desire to engage with a prisoner certainly wasn’t one of them.

It was a normal Tuesday evening in mid-August when I experienced my first stirrings of curiosity about becoming a pen pal. Piled into our sitting room with the pet rabbit, my housemates and I had just finished watching an episode of the BBC’s documentary series Life on Death Row. The series markets itself as a “human” look at death row, exploring the experiences of both prisoners and those whose lives have been inadvertently shaped by the death penalty. According to figures provided by the Broadcasters’ Audience Research Board, 1,088,000 people watched the programme live and within seven days of broadcast, beating the first episode of Billie JD Porter’s documentary Prostitution: What’s the Harm?

Since the documentary, landmark programmes such as Netflix’s Making a Murderer and Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes have heightened society’s fascination with true crime, with series one of Making a Murderer attracting 19.3 million viewers just 35 days after its release. “Writing to Steven Avery” is a popular Reddit thread where fans can swap tips and anecdotes about how to correspond with the infamous prisoner, who has cultivated an almost celebrity-like following since the launch of the show.

As the credits rolled, an intense house discussion ensued. How much sympathy should we have for people on death row?

“They’re killers!” said one of my friends between mouthfuls of cheesy pasta. “Just imagine if that was your mum, brother and sister who they had killed.”

Strangely out of character, I found myself chipping in with a counter argument. “But imagine if that was your relative who had committed the crime. It’s not always black and white.”

The debate soon transitioned into more familiar territory over whose turn it was to wash up the dishes. But in bed that night, my mind couldn’t stop playing over what I’d seen. I began to research more about the death penalty in the US and what I discovered was bleak. More than 2,800 people are currently condemned to death in the United States. A typical death row cell measures only 6x9 feet, and is fitted out with the bare essentials including a toilet and sink, a desk mounted on a wall and a bed. Inmates are locked into their cells 23 hours a day; between showering, exercise, routine checks, and the occasional visitor, prisoners receive only an hour outside of the four walls. In this stifling atmosphere, it’s commonplace for inmates to completely lose track of time; the methodical ticking of a clock merely becomes an apparatus to measure the days, rather than a means to structure their daily existence.

open image in gallery

While there are no direct figures online, according to the Sister Helen website, one of the organisations that offers pen pal services, “people in prison, especially those on death row, have little or no contact with people on the outside”. As someone who has been plagued with existential dread since the death of my first hamster, I couldn’t bear the idea of such an isolating existence, confined in an institution that functions essentially as a waiting room for death. Or as Caycie D Bradford terms it in her book Waiting to Die, Dying to Live, inside “a graveyard behind high walls far from the eye of the public”.

There’s also the possibility of innocence that overshadows all death penalty cases. Since 1973, more than 160 people have been released from death row with evidence of their innocence. Henry McCollum, a mentally disabled teenager who was accused of raping and killing an 11-year-old girl, spent 30 years on death row before he was exonerated through DNA evidence. As of March 2017, 24 of the men and women wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death since the 1970s had waited 20 or more years to be exonerated.

The more I researched, the more I developed a growing urge to understand the human stories behind the narratives. A letter seemed like the perfect starting point.

The Human Writes website strongly discourages anyone from signing up if they are simply seeking excitement or “a quick thrill”. The purpose of having a pen pal on death row is, first and foremost, friendship. There is no formula for the pen pal allocation process. The organisation writes to prisoners to introduce themselves, and ask if they want a pen friend. If they say yes, they are put on a waiting list and assigned to a new member who the state coordinator thinks may be the best fit.

“We use anything prisoners or writers tell us – age, religion, interests and language,” says one of the state coordinators. “But we have lots of good friendships when they have nothing in common.”

Most organisations send their new writers an introduction pack, containing the latest newsletter, writing guidelines and advice on optional counselling and support – there is the very real possibility that your pen pal may be executed during your correspondence. All letters that are sent are opened in the mailroom and checked for contraband. There are strict rules and regulations about what you can and cannot write; cards with glitter and 3D material are strictly prohibited, you are only allowed to send up to 15 pages of written material and strictly no newspapers and magazines unless by subscription. It was my first introduction to a life governed by regimented regulations. Since 2004, this has been Jay’s reality.

The question I get asked the most from curious acquaintances is: what do you possibly find to talk about? It is true that Jay and I occupy completely different realms of existence. I grew up in a sleepy town on the border of Wales, he in the barren and unforgiving American backstreets. I could go to a shop and buy whatever I fancied for supper. He could only consume what was pushed through a metal slot. My biggest criminal offence was being reprimanded by a police officer for wielding a bottle of WKD in the street. He was sentenced to death.

open image in gallery

Originally, I struggled. I asked the sort of things I would ask someone whose life I was desperately trying to understand, but also trying not to invade. What’s your favourite food, I remember hazily penning at my desk after a long day at work. At the time, it seemed a perfectly valid question. When I received the reply, I realised Jay had not been able to choose his own food for over 10 years.

I cursed myself for my insensitivity. Yet at the same time, Jay was more than happy to discuss his previous penchant for curry, although as long as “it ain’t too spicy”. I realised when no one has asked you a personal question in such a long time, you will be more than happy to respond, regardless of the question’s implication. In fact, the reality for his palette is bland, tasteless food pushed through a metal slot at three regimented times a day; 5am, 10.30am, and 4pm. He told me that one day he hopes to taste curry again.

But after overcoming the initial stumbling blocks, the physical act of writing has become one of the easiest parts of the process. Quite often, we discuss the changing seasons – how the trees drift from lurid green into calming amber, how the barren plateaus of Welsh countryside turn closer to a muddy brown than the frosty scenes sold in the postcards.

The process of writing to someone on death row often merges closer to the role of a storyteller. This world is completely inaccessible for Jay, so it is up to me to paint it for him. For many prisoners, the hourly glimpse of concrete in the exercise yard is the only measure they have of the passing of the seasons. The weight of my responsibility can sometimes feel stifling.

Often, his situation means he is able to offer unique perspectives on life that perhaps others could not reach. “Life is too short to hold grudges of any kind,” he wrote to me in one letter after I had told him about a petty argument with one of my housemates. “True friends are really hard to come by.” Hearing these words spoken by somebody who has so little left in life can provide you an immense sense of perspective.

While the disparity in our situations makes it almost impossible for me to put myself in his shoes, I’ve learnt conversation does not always have to be about deploying direct empathy. It can be vacuous, colloquial and casual but still simultaneously substantial for both participants. While we occasionally touch on his crime, I prefer to keep the topics mundane. It’s the stories of the hair straighteners being left on, and of our pet rabbit having his first taste of banana, that he finds most captivating.

In terms of receiving the letters, at first it was thrilling. Letter writing is one of the few pastimes that retains the outdated experience of anticipation, particularly if it’s from someone you don’t know. The carefully crafted exchange of words between two people can, on occasions, feel intensely powerful.

However, letter writing is also a powerful exposure of vulnerability between both the sender and the receiver. My anticipation soon quickly translated into a consolidated understanding of Jay’s need for friendship, and our communication settled into a methodical monthly repertoire. In the past two months, I have started using an online application to write to Jay, which allows death row inmates to set up their own email address and talk to people on the outside via paid “stamps”.

This means I now write around a couple of times a month. While this may seem like a lot, the organisations make writers aware on signing up that your pen pal can become very distressed if you suddenly stop writing to them.

Jay has no family or friends he corresponds with. I am his only point of contact outside the four walls of the prison. There were few life options on offer, and it became increasingly difficult to stay out of trouble with the law. This is sadly not an unfamiliar story for inmates on death row. According to the Equal Justice Initiative, 95 per cent of convicts on death row in the US come from underprivileged backgrounds. While I did indulge my curiosity by reading extracts of his case online prior to sending my first letter, I no longer define our friendship through his crime. He is not just a prisoner, but also a person. He knows about current affairs, including Donald Trump and Brexit. Occasionally, he enjoys a game of chess with acquaintances in the games room.

“You asked me if I have any friends at home I am in contact with, well the answer to that is no – that stopped years ago. I know it’s bad, but what can I do about it? I’ve just learnt to deal with it and accept it, because whining about it ain’t gonna change anything. I guess that’s why I try to stay busy, to keep my mind off things because it will wear down a person if they let it, especially in a place like this, because it’s already depressing enough. Do you know what I mean?”

Of course, I didn’t know what he meant. But nonetheless, I signed off the letter with my usual phrase: “keep smiling. It’s easy for me to say.”

My writing isn’t something everyone understands. I remember one occasion where I was on a third date with a boy in east London. Over a bottle of pinot noir, the conversation turned to how one of my pastimes included writing to someone on death row. After a few fascinated questions, he soon lost interest, and our back and forth repertoire turned as cold as the limp artisan pizza between us.

I can’t answer for why the hundreds of other members of similar organisations choose to become pen pals to prisoners on death row. A friend of mine, who is a law student at a London university, has started to write as preparation for a secondment in Texas where she will spend time working alongside top lawyers on death row cases. Another acquaintance has been doing it for over two years as a way to “fight the corrupt system”. I continue to write, as I know that despite the BBC documentary title, people on death row are not living a “life”, at least not in the conventional sense of the word.

While the idea of death by lethal injection is harrowing in itself, it is often the mental and emotional trauma in the lead up to a prisoner’s execution that proves the most destructive. Death row prisoners in the US typically spend more than a decade waiting for execution. According to the Death Penalty Information Centre, a death row inmate waited an average of 178 months (roughly 15 years) between sentencing and execution in 2010. It is not unknown for prisoners to be on death row for over 20 years.

The lingering agony of awaiting a death sentence is often termed a “death before dying” due to the loneliness and anxiety it can breed. In Reflections on the Guillotine, Albert Camus wrote: “As a general rule, a man is undone by waiting for capital punishment well before he dies. Two deaths are inflicted on him, the first being worse than the second.”

The psychological effects of a lifetime of confinement are so pronounced that it led definition not only in literature, but in legal terms too. Over the last two decades, a number of regional and international courts have found that prolonged incarceration on death row, known as “death row phenomenon”, constitutes cruel, inhuman, or degrading punishment. Jacqueline Macalesher, the project manager at Penal Reform, wrote in a 2012 report:

“Death row has been characterised as a living hell. Not only do inmates spend an enormous amount of time anticipating their own execution, they do so in horrific conditions, which are often much worse than those for the rest of the prison population.”

The simple act of receiving a letter can serve as a vital lifeline for many prisoners. Clemency Wells is head of media at Reprieve, a nonprofit organisation of international lawyers and investigators that supports those facing execution.

“One thing we know from our work is that people facing extreme human rights abuses find the idea that other people, like Reprieve supporters, care about and are fighting for them gives them strength in the darkest times,” said Wells.

And on reading various extracts of Jay’s letters, my reasons feel confirmed.

“I received your letter today which is a real joy to me, I was really happy to hear back from you it’s actually put a smile on my face, even though I truly understand how busy your job has you.’’

I am not oblivious to the other side of the process, which dawns on me as I sign off each correspondence. In the United States, the death penalty is used almost exclusively for murder crimes. There is no denying many death row inmates have committed awful acts. My mind often flits back to the conversation on that warm dusk evening in the sitting room to wonder if I would I think differently if a member of my family or close friend had their life cut short by another.

I think there are important lessons that everyone can learn from the process of being a pen pal. The first is one of the most basic staples of our modern anthropological understanding, nature versus nurture. Nobody is born a criminal, but for many prisoners, their upbringing was so terrible that death row becomes a distorted form of life support.

The second lesson is to do with my own self-understanding. While on the one hand I craft a narrative to Jay, on the other he paints one back to me; a story of my own privilege, and the freedom I have to determine the happiness of somebody else’s life. Ultimately, it’s a narrative of two seemingly opposite people who have embarked on an alliance that impacts both of their lives in an intensely powerful way.

Death row might have saved his life, and I am aware I am not going to save his. But I hope that with each sealed envelope, I am slowly restoring a lost sense of humanity to somebody who so desperately needs it.

*Names changed to protect identity