Chronicles from Parchman #4: Mississippi Just Us
In this work of autofiction, author L. Patri imagines a conversation with the judge who oversees his criminal case as he seeks to overturn his death row conviction.
This is the fourth installment in the “Chronicles from Parchman” series, a monthly column by the talented and prolific writer, L. Patri, who has been incarcerated on Parchman’s Death Row for over thirty years.
After serving decades on death row for crimes they are innocent of committing, two men were recently released on a cold, bleak, rainy morning in late December. They will be home for Christmas. They will share in the love and warmth of family and friends, enjoying real food that you must chew before swallowing and does not taste like drywall plaster. One releasee said in a recent interview that a third man will soon follow these two men, as newly freed. Exonerated! He said: “The man that helped to free me will soon be freed as well, because of new age thinking and action. Many people are at fault for the time I spent on death row, and many people are to thank for getting me out of there. One man in particular helped me be where I am now, a man who continues to live on death row today. Let’s let him be free.”
Upon hearing the words, the state prosecutor, at five feet six inches and weighing 320 pounds, rushed out of his office and down four flights of stairs, and sprinted across the road’s intersection like he was Bo Jackson for the Oakland Raiders, taking the courthouse steps three or two at a time, sweating like a mule in a canning factory, soaking his tan-and-beige, too-large plaid suit. He barged through the door, past court clerks, and burst into the judge’s chamber, breathing in hard, deep gulps of air, with a panicked secretary close on his heels. The following conversation ensued between the prosecutor and the judge:
“Your honor, sir.” Breathing hard, bent over with his hands on his knees, he looked up at the judge and repeated, “Your honor, sir. I was watching TV and this negro death row prisoner you’re about to award money to is saying…” The prosecutor took huge gasps of air to catch his breath, barely pausing between words. His chest heaved like he was lifting weights, and his voice was whispery.
“Lawd, boy! What in the world? Well, speak up man! What’s this about?”
The DA stood up straight. “Your honor. That negro told the nation that some colored boy who helped to free him will be freed soon, also. He’s saying new action and thinking gonna do it too. He said now he’s able to help more and worry less and learn new ways to read, analyze, and apply things in their case filings.”
As if speaking to a mentally slow child, the judge said, “Well, Jim. He does have a solid case, I admit and all, but why in hell you whining at me, boy? What you expectin’ me to do?”
“Your honor, sir. Now that you put it that way, sir, can’t you just deny this negro, and we can kill him? He gon’ set all our nigras free with edumacation!”
“Boy, ain’t you done killed enough people? I suggest, Jim, that you learn some better edumacation and take your fat, sweaty ass out of my chambers. Thank you.”
Jim, red-faced and in a huff, turned on his heels and stormed out of the office like a petulant child.
Ring-ring.
The judge answered, “Hello?”
The secretary said, “Mr. Patri calling from death row, sir. Shall I put him through?”
The judge answered, “Yes. Hello, this is Judge G speaking.”
“Well. Hello, my Justice G. Word came to me about the DA racing towards your office as if his ass caught fire. So I decided to give you a little ring and chitchat.”
The judge cut in. “I fail to see your humor.”
“I do believe you and I do have this special relationship, and I do believe we have some things to discuss. Do you mind, my good sir?”
The judge said, “I have the time, Mr. P. What is it you want?”
“Well, you see. I have been informed that I should be nice to you and all because I should have respect for the titled position you hold inside the state’s highest court. But I think you really should sit down and listen to what I have to say. Just keep your mouth closed for a while, okay?
“Now. While I do agree that your position should be respected, I am just a little bit shaky in the fact that you deserve any such thing. But I will try my best, okay, and if I can’t, I would expect you of all people to understand why and not hold any grudges against po’ole little me, you understand.
“You see. When I began my journey inside the state court, your predecessors who controlled my case were people that I understood. Those two were beyond any rationale when it came to a Black man accused of killing a white woman in Mississippi in 1994. True, they should have been enlightened in that era, but hey. When you’re old and white and stuck in a racist tradition of the Deep South, you only see one way. See, even I can understand that illogical thinking. I don’t respect it, but I do understand it. Different era and shit, as though it makes it better. But you, my dear sir–”
“What about me?”
“You held this position in 2015–2020, and you think those same illogical thoughts. So you come upon the highest court in our state and you follow those two in lockstep. You continue their unjust streamlining of my case, where you make things up or leave facts out, or just out-and-out lie to suit your agenda and try to get me executed. That–”
—You have one minute remaining—
“— that I do not understand.”
“Really? What’s not to understand?”
“What is your reasoning, sir?”
“My own.”
“Why do you hate me to the point that you refuse to uphold and honor the office of your esteemed court?”
—Thank you for using Global Tel Link—
The line went dead.
Ring-ring.
The judge answered, “Hello?”
The secretary said, “Mr. Patri calling from death row, sir. Shall I put him through?”
The judge answered, “Yes. Hello, this is Judge G speaking.”
“As I was saying, it can’t all be about my skin color, can it? Is it because I won’t just give in and give up and let Mississippi murder me out of hand?”
“Well, you are rather uppity for a colored. I have to admit that.”
“Really, sir? I would like to understand you better. And maybe then I will have more respect for you, if possible, sir.”
“Not needed, bud. But thanks, anyway.”
“Hmm. Anyhoo. I know you have read my filings in your court, and I know that if I was white, like the death row guy y’all reversed and remanded in 2017 for a new trial, you would have done me as you did him, because his case was built on the very same issues. We both had a state agent claim, where prosecutors used a letter that was not authenticated and a witness that police used to elicit information from, both of which were used at trial. I showed you those very same things in my case.”
The line went dead.
Ring-ring.
The judge answered, “Hello?”
The secretary said, “Mr. Patri calling from death row, sir. Shall I put him through?”
The judge answered, “Okay, what is it now, Mr. Patri?”
“Well, sir, as I was saying. But even more than this white man whose case was reversed, sir. I showed you fact affidavits where the key ‘witness’ in my case was having sexual affairs with the three detectives who led the investigations, and you just turned your head the other way. Why? Because that alone, sir, should have been enough to overturn my case. So, is race that simple to you?”
The judge responded, “Mr. Patri. In case you haven’t noticed: yes, it is simple. Simple as, say, black and white. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The scent of bullshit began to sift through the line.
“Hmm, well you wanna know what is black and white? The ink words printed on those documents I gave you from a handwriting expert that told you that the key witness against me could not have written the note that supposedly incriminates me. Even the trial judge and prosecutor agreed the handwriting was not the same. And this is dated on the same day that she was in a video interview with officers, joking around and removing her own handcuffs. So I guess you missed that part of the interrogation video, right?
“Even that didn’t make you rule for me. So tell me. What can I possibly give you—”
The line went dead.
Ring-ring.
The judge answered, “What?”
The secretary said, “Mr. Patri calling from death row, sir. Shall I put him through?”
The judge answered, “I can’t think of anything at this moment. Are you done, Mr. Patri? I am rather busy.”
“Really? We showed you where the prosecutor’s investigators are on file plotting with my jailhouse snitch and his lawyer, who, as you know, was also my lawyer at the same time.”
“We have decided that issue.”
“I showed you how they got around the jailhouse snitch lying about the .22 pistol, when he first claimed the gun I used was a .357, and you ignored that. Then I showed you where the DA investigator tried to submit a gunshot residue form to the crime lab in 1994, February, eighteen days before my trial, and we both know the crime took place in 1992. You looked away.”
“We have decided that issue as well.”
“I showed you, and you even admitted, that the jailhouse snitch’s mother—”
—You have one minute remaining—
“The jailhouse snitch’s mother could not have posted his bond, but you excused that away, saying prosecutors have not been shown to have known this.”
“They have not. And you are only speaking about a mere difference of weeks. So he can say she wasn’t out?”
“What? Even a goddamn juror in my case tells you in a sworn affidavit that she found me guilty solely because my prints were on the cash register, a piece of so-called evidence that you know is false, because at my trial you said my prints were not found on a cash register or anything else for that matter, yet you quote some garbage state statute about jurors not being able to talk against their verdicts.”
“That’s a civil issue. It’s no longer criminal. Look, Mr. Patri, I am—”
—Thank you for using Global Tel Link—
The line went dead.
Ring-ring.
The judge answered, “What now?”
The secretary said, “Mr. Patri calling from death row, sir. Shall I put him through?”
The judge answered, “Mr. Patri, is there any more you need to say? If so, talk faster.”
“Are you serious? I just don’t understand, sir. All of these things are violations. You are my presiding judge who could have granted my discovery motions rather than denying them four times. And then you backhand-slapped the fuck out of me with your 2020 ruling when you made this sarcastic ass remark on page 47 at 131:
“Undeterred, Patri filed another motions for discovery. This court found that Patri had been given access to some of this information, while other information simply cannot be located and may not exist. We find that Patri’s fourth request for discovery should be denied. This has been answered repeatedly.
“Okay, Mr. G. Simple question. How in the hell do you know what can simply ‘not be located’ and what ‘doesn’t exist’? I showed you where a detective spoke and took three statements each from two white women—that’s six statements, sir! And you made it look like it was only one statement. So you didn’t have to admit that it’s impossible for someone to lose six statements, right? You just would not, you refuse to do right by any means. I mean, you are just unreal, sir! I can go on and on about what I’ve put before you and you simply ignored it, making excuses for state prosecutors.”
The judge said, “Now you wait just one goddamn minute. The court has decided these issues again and again—”
The line went dead.
Ring-ring.
The judge answered, “Goddamnit, what now?”
The secretary said, “Mr. Patri calling from death row, sir. Shall I put him through?”
The judge answered, “Again and again, Mr. Patri, goddamnit. Repeatedly. And you still refuse to catch on. You have been denied, and I do not need to explain my actions to the likes of you.”
“What the fuck? Short of me putting a rope around my neck and hanging myself, which I’ve already tried, I see nothing else I can do or say that will make you pay attention. How anyone can see the things you’ve done against me and still have respect for you is beyond my thinking.”
The judge said, his voice stricken with venom, “You damn niggers have never been shit in our great state except as slaves. And that is all you will ever become. You are there and you will remain there until—”
The sound of smirk clicked over the line.
“— until we kill your black ass, negro.”
“So. This is why people of color use the phrase Mississippi Just Us, because when we have to deal with you and your kind, it’s just us in Mississippi because there is no justice.”
“Hmm.”
“What has four eyes and still can’t see? Yep, and you can see the people nodding their heads in agreement, murmuring ‘sho right.’ Even in this saying, your self-righteous blind ass take that looking-away-and-ignoring-can’t-see shit to heart when it comes to you doing what is right, fair, and just by people of color. Okay, okay. I am sure I will get another chance to highlight—”
The line went dead.
Mr. Patri looked at the phone and put it back to his ear. “Hello? Hello? Well. Ain’t this some shit. This motherfucker just hung up in my face. What the fuck? Well, I will be a goddamned monkey’s uncle. Damn.”