From the prison library he pulled volumes ranging from the poems of Langston Hughes (“They’re so simple, but they explain so much”) to thriller paperbacks by Dean Koontz and James Patterson. He settled into GED classes and shifts serving breakfast and lunch.
John didn’t take these letters seriously he threw many of them away.
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“You need a white man to show you how to act.When the opportunity comes I want to sneak in your house and hit that.” Another letter said he had a “fan club.”
John would get a lot of letters from other prisoners over the next few months, and while they were not always explicit, some certainly were. It was around this time that the letters started sliding under his cell door. His second cellmate was also a lifer, and friendly enough, but after a few days the man asked to be paired with another lifer, so John was moved again. John requested and received a new cell assignment. Something about him seemed a little off, and that night, John says he awoke and saw this man sitting at a desk, wide awake, and staring right at him. His first cellmate was an older man, black like John, who was serving a life sentence, and he didn’t say much. But he also noticed that he was one of the youngest prisoners on the block. Over the next few days, while bringing trays of food around the blocks for his new kitchen job, John would learn that he had been placed in one of the nicer units (another he saw “looked like a basement, with the lights busted out”). Once inside, he could try grimacing to look tough, as he had in his early mugshots, though he couldn’t hide his skinny frame or his high-pitched voice. Standing in a line with several dozen other men, John stripped off his navy blue scrubs, squatted, and coughed to prove he wasn’t hiding anything. This story was produced in collaboration with The Atlantic.
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