Visiting Robby

I said to a friend on Wednesday that I expected him to have a deep voice and a Southern accent, because in his letters he sometimes uses the word “y’all.” Robby was born in Baltimore but raised in rural Maryland and North Carolina. We’ve been writing each other for a long time, neither of us can remember how long but at least six years, before we both turned 50 a month apart.

Robby is on death row in Raleigh, North Carolina. We were connected by a nun who arranges pen pals for death row inmates in North Carolina who have no infractions on their record. She chose North Carolina because it had such a bad record for racial injustice in the criminal justice system. Not only has at least one person been released from NC’s death row since I’ve been writing Robby, there has been an unofficial moratorium on executions in the state since 2007, when the state’s medical board ruled that participating in executions violated doctors’ medical code of ethics. In other words, doctors (required by law to be present for an execution to take place) refused to participate in this barbaric practice. The harm to the souls of those who participate in executions was movingly portrayed in the film Just Mercy, (now streaming free on multiple platforms in the wake of the George Floyd murder).

When I was assigned Robby, I expected that the letters would be full of platitudes and perhaps even protestations of innocence. However, what I got was a well-written letter from an articulate man. He shared his memories of life on a family farm, the stories of his mother’s battle and eventual death from cancer before he was imprisoned. He answered my questions about his life. Finding out I was a poet, he sent poems by a fellow inmate. I learned about his friend Timmy, who he seems to take care of like a big brother, an important friendship for staving off the isolation of prison.

Robby, a Native American man, is guilty. The crime that he helped plan is heinous. He was not present at the scene when the crime was committed, but he is certainly culpable. The two white people (one his girlfriend at the time) who actually committed the crime were sentenced to life in prison. Only Robby received the death penalty. I do not know the details, nor do I need to. He has a pro bono lawyer working on getting his sentence commuted. Even to move to a different prison block would be a vast improvement for Robby. On death row things are 100% punitive. There are not enrichment programs beyond church services and an occasional religious retreat. Inmates are not able to work in any capacity, so cannot earn money. It became clear to me very early on that writing me was Robby’s job, how he could get food packages and a little cash to use to buy sports shoes, stamps, paper, and other items from the commissary. I can also send him books, and only books, and only from Amazon. Once I included a box of plain envelopes in the order, but they were confiscated. I learned my lesson. Once Robby wrote that they were having pizza delivered from a chain restaurant and it would be the first time in six years he would have pizza. He missed the last opportunity because he was sick. Prison is well known as a place of boredom and punishment, but those two things dominate on NC’s death row.

There are some blessings during this time of Covid-19, and the ability to meet with Robby for a 15-minute video visit is one of them. A week ago I got a letter from him saying that since in-person visits weren’t possible, they were arranging video visits. He gave me, as always, meticulous instruction for what I’d need to do to participate. This included an email address and phone number for the visits office. I’m glad I phoned because what needed to be included in the email request was detailed and specific. Given my experience with the NC prison system, the most surprising thing is that this service was free. I should mention it was only possible because I’m already approved on Robby’s visitor list. I had to get on that list last year to be able to continue sending him food packages and monetary gifts for his birthday and Christmas. To do so, I had to submit a copy of my driver’s license and other personal information I would rather not have given to the corrections department. But today it was worth it.

Today I spoke to my friend Robby, who was wearing a mask, for the first time. His voice is not particularly deep, but Boy Howdy does he ever have a Southern accent. And I could see him smiling behind the mask.

We talked about the things we talk about in our letters– my health and treatment, his health. The one thing that breaks up life on death row are medical appointments, which are often hard won. He is waiting for carpal tunnel surgery, which has been delayed by the pandemic as inessential. I have gotten the feeling over the years that doctors have been his best advocate, at times his only advocate, and have treated him not as a prisoner first but as a person.

He had also sent me a white handkerchief with an image of a wolf for my June birthday (above). Occasionally over the years he’s sent me bookmarks or special cards. This piece was made at the prison, and I thought it might be silkscreen, though I was pretty sure that wasn’t an option in his cell block. I asked him about it, and he said the guy had done it by hand with an ink pen, and he’d known right away that I would like it. Because of Robby’s heritage, the artist added feathers and an arrowhead. It’s a precious gift, mostly because I know Robby has so little, that he liked the image and asked for it specifically, and that he gave it so generously to me.

We talked about the protests for George Floyd and particularly about Minnesota. We talked about the outlawing of the confederate flag by NASCAR– a bold and difficult act that’s been the subject of battles in North Carolina for over a century. I told him a story he can repeat when he gets back and that made him laugh. We talked about our hopes for sweeping change. I said that if I was not in this cancer battle, I’d be putting more active effort into prison reform and specifically anti-death penalty legislation. I said I needed to find a way to connect with that effort at this moment, as people are “choosing their lanes” for reform.

But for now, this is what I’ve done. I’ve written to and been a friend of sorts to Robby. I’ve been consistent, and though my letters are less frequent than before my cancer diagnosis, they are long and detailed and include, when possible, pictures.

When we started writing, he sent me a photo of himself he’d had taken at the prison. He was a youngish man, long black hair and a white t-shirt. Clean-shaven, muscled, and not giving anything away to the camera. Today, he had short hair (got it cut yesterday specifically for the phone visit so as not to look too shabby) and the unfortunate mask. He is a slender, 56-year-old man, the age I’ll turn in two weeks. I would have liked to see his whole smile, not just the smile of his cheeks and eyes. I’m glad, though, that he got to see my smile. And I got to hear his voice, something I’d thought would probably never happen. And now I’m just wondering how long they’ll be having these visits, and when I can schedule the next one.