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TESTIMONY OF HIS FRIEND MUENDA - WITNESS OF THE TORTURE
DEATH ROW --Livingstone, Texas. The day was cinco de mayo. The Chicano
holyday commemorating the great Mexican Hero, General Zaragosa....
The early noon celebration meal had not long been consumed and a
couple of
prisoners were telling 'what-a-meal' sarcastic jokes ....Some were
engrossed
in dime-store novels; others were enjoying the radio....Even those
who are
said to have "flown over the cuckoo's nest from having lived too
long under
bleak conditions were quiet, laid back ... Then the intercoom beeped,
and
the call came.
"Twenty-seven cell!" Pause. "Gary Graham! Twenty-seven cell!" No
answer.
"Graham! Graham!" Still no answer.
Thinking that he might have in earplugs beneath his radio headphones
to
muffle the unpleasant cacophony of the prison, which is common practice
of
prisoners, a few of us yelled out to Gary to get his attention,.
By the time
he answered, it was too late. The intercom was off and the black
female
officer in the control picket was on the telephone with the fron
office
shot-callers. The conversation was brief, and not fifteen minutes
after she
had hung up rank entered the pod..... A captain and a sergeant tailgated
by
two peons marched with solemn expressions, ignoring the calls of
the other
prisoners ...to NOT have a grievance is a sign of heaven given up
on life,
and no further objections to being treated like dirt.
>From my location, I could clearly see the officers gathered in front
of
Shaka's cell... I had no clue, none of us did, that the Supreme
Court had
refused to hear Shaka's appeals and he was now facing a June 22
execution
date. The prison guards had come to move him to another part of
the prison
called "Death Watch". When his name was firt called out on
the intercom I,
like others, assumed he had a visit. But just the night before he
had sent
me a written message informing me that he had reason to believe
that the
Supreme Court had ruled favorably in his case. He classified it
as " a
people's victory', and indicated that he'd soon be returning to
Harris
County on bench warrant.
I saw Shaka going through the standard procedure required of prisoners
before exiting a cell (i.e. handing over shoes, socks, jumper and
underwear
to be searched for contraband).
"Shaka!" I called out, remembering that I had a book of his and he
had two
of mine.
"Yeah?" He answered rather dryly and dejectedly. Not at all the voice
and
the spirit of a man who's just won a major victory. But still I
did not
think at that time --"bad news."
"I have your book !! Ask one of them officers to come and get it.
" He was
obviously standing away from the cell door because his voice did
not carry
that well...I did hear him say something about "don't worry about
it." A not
surprising answer given that is customary of prisoners to give away
personal
possessions upon having their sentence reversed. But I wanted and
needed my
books, being that he had two that I much value and rarely let out
of my
possession. I grow suspicious sensing that he had made no effort
to solicit
this small favor from either of the guards. Even more so when he
did not
come out of his cell after having gone through the shakedown routine.
No
doubt he was cooperating with the guards initially because he ,
at that
time, was unaware of the court ruling....They told him just before
they got
ready to handcuff him. At which point he ceased being cooperative
.... His
defensive and puglistic instincts took over.
When the guards left to go an assamble an abstraction team (a squad
of
beat'em up boys) I hollered back at him.
"Look, Shaka!! I'm getting bad vibes man, what's up?".
"They're trying to move me. Say I got a date for June 22nd", he
said. I
could hear the disappointment in his voice, but still alive was
hope ....
"WHAT!" Came my shock reaction. I wasn't asking a question. I had
heard him
clearly. I just couldn't believe it. "Man, that's bull". Preposterous!
A
straight political-juidicial conspiracy!". I was livid. I had just
read
James Hirsch's book "Hurricane" and I analoguzed the plights of
the two men.
Despite overwhelming evidence of Hurricane's innocence, for nearly
two
decades he couldn't get a single judge in the whole state of New
York to
look at the facts in his case. This, frankly, is the complete synopsys
of
Shaka's situation in Texas. And he, like Hurricane, has maintained
his
innocence since day one.
I was feeling a sickness developing in my stomach. This was
especially hard
for me because of our long-term friendship and joint organizing
efforts.
Shaka, who was still Gary Graham when I met him sometime in 1985,
was in no
ways different from any other new-comer. His interest extended no
further
than surviving the daily madness of prison.... Young, slim, yet
sturdy and
well formed, he was an energetic young man who exterded most of
his energy
in the recreation yard. At this time, I had not long acquired my
GED and,
with the assistance of Clarence Bradley, organized preparation classes
for
other prisoners wishing to obtain theirs. Shaka did not attend
classes so I
got with him after classes. And as fate would have it, he was the
very first
young brother that I took under my wing with a conscious objective
to
politicize..... Our studies and discussions about black history
were an
evolutionary experience that led to a new perspective on capital
punishment
and race.
With "DEATH ROW PRO", after having wrote the organizational by laws
and met
with the other collegues for them to approve it, I nominated the
young Gary
Graham for president. The other three members concurred unanimously.
But we
were all young and green and did not expect, and therefore wasn't
prepared
for, the administration to crack down on us the way it did.
The blacklash
was quick, consisting stepped shake.downs, harassments and our eventual
dispersion. We were, for a while, completely discouraged, but would
later
resurface to be part of an organized effort that would attract international
attention: The Endeavor Project.
The Project lasted for a while, secured a place in the historical
chronicles
of the Texas Prisoners Movement....Then, for some, the project's
newspaper
had become too Graham-centered. But my loyalt lie with my friends,
so I
stayed on with Endeavor. Besides, being close to Shaka, I understood
his
desperation.... His lawyer, a typical sell-out, had filed a despicably
feeble brief in the state court and refused to assert Shaka's claim
of
innocence. Instead, he appealed to the Court for a lesser sentence.
The
inference being: he's guilty, but doesn't deserve to die.
I reminisced on our friendship, the good times and the bad times,
until I
heard the loud click of the gate lock and looked up to see the goons
coming.
They were in full riot gear, with tear gas masks and all. Their
numbers were
five. Thus were the yellow sequential numbers designating their
black
helmets. And in that order they marched in near lockstep behind
the captain
...The two peons now joined by a petite female officer with a tape
recorder.
The abstraction team marched within a foot of Shaka's cell door and
formed a
perfect singlew file line. The first man with the clear plexiglas
shield and
standing ready to go in stood 6ft. - 6ins. and weighed more than
300 lbs.
Number two stood about 6ft. - 4ins. X 300 lbs. Number three was
relatively
equal in height, weight etc to n. 2. Number 4 and 5 stood about
6ft. - 3
ins. and about 260 pounds. Together they were more than one thousand
ponds
of man flesh. The biggest team I'd ever seen before assembled. A
statement,
no doubt, was being made.
The Captain said something quite briefly to Shaka through the window
of the
cell door then donned his gas mask. He had, presumably, given Shaka
one last
and final chance to surrender. The Seargent turned towards the video
recorder, stared directly into into, and very coincisely summarized
the
situation. Having done that, he, too, donned his mask, and Shaka
was
suddendly breathing gas....
They waited five...ten...fifteen...perhaps twenty minutes. Still
no
surrender. Suddendly frustrated and out of patience, the captain
bolted out
of the pod walking at a brisk pace. Ane no sooner had he disappeared,
he
reappered with a stronger can of gas in hand: pepper spray. And,
without
another warning, he sprayed. Looked. Waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes.
Then
floating gas particles slithered their way through vent ducts and
into eyes,
up nostrils .... Fifteen minutes. Coughing, strangled words. Then
the bean
slot was popped open: Shaka was coming out.
The captain stepped aside and a peon stepped forward, barking orders
like a
platoon sergeant taking an enemy camp. Each individual word of his
command
was not always clear, but the tone was....His voice was clearly
that of a
victor's.
Shaka exited the cell: his steps were unsteady, like a dazed fighter.
The
gas had taken his toll. Drool hung grossly from his nose,
ran over his lips
and chin .....Hand cuffed and naked , except for his shorts ....His
eyes
were red, runny and puffy. They escorted him grossly, in hands-on
fashion.....The cuffs were never removed, and hands were never taken
off of
him. He was escorted toward and pass my cell.... Into the shower
immediatly
next to me. They ran water over his face and body, brought him back
out,
then marched him away.
Going by he mumbled something to me, but I could only make out the
one word
"write".
"I will", was my muffled reply. I never removed the towel I had
held to my
mouth and nose to fight off the gas. Feeling now unwell, I sat on
the cool
concrete floor of the cell. The stare of one of the guards, whose
eyes threw
deadly daggers into Shaka, was fixed indelibly in my mind.
They were peculiar eyes: the eyes that lynch black men. The eys that
burn
black churches. The eyes that kill little black babies. The were
the eyes --
the windows --through which we can see all that is wrong in America!
AND THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES.
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