The death sentence imposed on me for the kidnapping, rape and murder of Linda Mae Craig mandated an automatic review of my case on appeal before the State Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. Any prisoner sentenced to death in Pennsylvania is assured of two things: a first-time appeal before the state’s highest court and a court-appointed attorney to represent him on appeal.
I think it became clear early on that my trial attorney, Sam Stretton, was not going to stay on for the appeals. Appeals cost money and my family had scraped together all they could to pay him to represent me in the two trials that I had faced in 1982. Sam would have had to represent me at his own expense and I could not reasonably expect him to do this, so it was best for all concerned if I had someone else present my case on appeal. The state pays attorneys picked by the local court to handle such appeals from a list of lawyers in the area. All I could hope for was that I would be assigned a lawyer who was competent and who would listen to me when I tried to convince him or her that I was actually innocent.
It wasn’t until December 1983 that I met the first appellate attorney who was to represent me for my direct appeal against my conviction for the murder of Mrs Craig. His name was Mr Joseph Bullen.
I was in my first full year at Huntingdon when I met him. The previous months of being forced to live in silence meant that I had to fight hard not to succumb to the anger I felt each day at being denied the right just to voice my thoughts in my own cell. I had also been beaten by the guards for talking out loud and I felt humiliated at being deprived of the right to communicate with others. I would just sit in my cell and watch those guards and wonder how they had become so cold. It was clear that, having spent many years abusing other human beings, all they could do now was keep a routine. It was as if they had to make sure that they were being as cruel and petty as possible at every opportunity. I got a kick in the legs when I was being moved from my cell and I got a slap if I looked too hard at a guard.
I was being affected deeply by this daily ritual of petty abuse and it was beginning to make me bitter. I always seemed to have to be on my guard against the next little trick they might pull. The thought of living like this for years on end, as well as trying to fight the death penalty, was draining me and I really wanted a ray of hope to come from this new attorney.
Yet my initial meeting with the man appointed by the courts to represent me on appeal was so unlike what I had expected. One afternoon I was told that I had a visitor. I was taken out of my cell and brought in handcuffs to one of the two small ‘attorney’s booths’ located at the rear of the prison’s main visiting room. It was my first official attorney visit and I was anxious to meet my new lawyer. The room was just five feet square, divided down the middle by a screen and glass barrier that ran down from the ceiling to the floor. All Death Row prisoners had to use these two rooms for all their visits, regardless of who they were seeing, as we were allowed no physical contact.
So I was sitting there in this empty room, waiting for whoever was going to come through the small outside visitors’ door, when in marched this balding, portly middle-aged man in a dark green suit. Before he had even sat down, though, he started by referring to a letter he had written to me prior to the visit. In that letter, he said, he had explained that he had not chosen to take on my case but had been appointed by the judge – and before we got any further he wanted to make this point very clear. When I in turn began to introduce myself he interrupted me immediately: ‘Hold off saying anything. There are three very important things you must know.’
I willed myself to sit still but I looked him hard in the face as it became clear that this man was here to make some points that I was not going to like. The first thing he wanted me to know, he began, was that it was a waste of time for both of us if I was going to keep trying to convince him that I was innocent. Having reviewed the case file and the whole transcript from my court records, it was his opinion that the state had presented a fair case against me and I was guilty. He said all this without even flinching as he stared me right in my face.
I bit hard on my lip to keep quiet as he moved deftly on to point number two.
He was a high-ranking official in the Army reserves, he continued; he had always been a supporter of the death penalty and his only concern was that executions were carried out within the rule of law. He would therefore see to it that my appeals were all presented according to law.
I was not really sure what he meant by that bit about it all being ‘according to law’, but then again I was still feeling angry over his first point – that he had basically just called me a rapist and a murderer to my face.
Mr Bullen then surprised me by saying that his third point was that he had been appointed by the trial judge, Judge Robert Kelly (for whom, he quickly added, he had considerable personal respect), and so, despite his own views, he was meeting me now in his official capacity as my new attorney to discuss any ‘issues’ that I may wish to discuss with him relating to the appeal for which he had already filed.
It took a long few moments for my pulse to slow down enough for me to say anything. I was stung by his directness. And if it wasn’t such a serious moment, I think I would have burst out laughing at this impressively rehearsed performance. Instead, a feeling of stubbornness welled up inside me as I replied, ‘Thank you for hearing my side of things before you make up your mind about what you file on my behalf.’
Then, before he could say anything, I added: ‘Your letter says that you have already filed my appeal, so if you know I am guilty and you have read the files, why have you come here?’
His only response to my question was to ask another question: ‘Well, is there anything you can tell me that is going to change my mind about what I have read in the case files and trial transcripts?’
He looked at me just willing me to come out firing at him a whole list of things that had been improperly handled legally. He was braced for me to tell him what laws or rules had not been followed during my trial and he so wanted me to tell him how wrong he had been about my guilt. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I just began:
‘Here’s something I can tell you all about that’s not in your case files or in the trial transcripts. I am twenty-two years old. There is only one other guy on Death Row who’s younger than me right now, so mostly it’s all older men in here.’
An unsure look came over Mr Bullen’s face. What did all this have to do with my telling him something hugely important that was not in the records? But he allowed me to go on, comfortable in the expectation that he would be ready for whatever I had to say.
I continued: ‘So I am like this sort of young “eye candy” to every pervert in here who sees all of this blond hair on my head and how young-looking I am, you know? And then, when I go to the shower I have to make sure to keep my boxer shorts on while we all wash up together in this huge room that they march us into six at a time for our five-minute shower.’
Nothing. As I stood talking to him from my side of the room, Mr Bullen just sat looking up at me from his chair, blank-faced, waiting to see where I was going with all this. I went on: ‘I really wonder if you know what it’s like to have men touch themselves openly while they are looking at you, and you are unable to do anything about it . . . because, first of all, they are all maniac murderers who will kill you if they can. Then, of course, there are also a dozen guards standing nearby holding clubs who will beat your head in if you do anything they decide is “aggressive”.’
Mr Bullen folded his arms comfortably across his chest. It was his little gesture of confidence, as if to show that if I intended to appeal to him by describing how horrible prison conditions were, then he was going to enjoy my failure.
But as he sat there, arms folded, all ready and waiting for what he thought was going to be a litany of complaints, I also relaxed and grew more comfortable in the contest in which we now found ourselves engaged.
‘So, anyway, last month I was sitting at the metal desk bolted to the wall in my cell. I was writing a letter and minding my own business when the inmate trustee who sweeps up the cell block came by. He used his broom to push a note under my door that another prisoner had asked him to give to me. When I picked up this folded-up bit of paper I had no idea what it was at first. After having checked that no guard was around, I opened it up and saw on it a handwritten note.
‘“Dear Nit,” it began, followed by some words I could hardly read. It took me a moment to decipher the spelling and realise what the author of the note was after. He wanted me to write sex letters for him to masturbate to. In exchange he offered me twenty dollars a week, which he promised would be paid into my prison account by one of his family members from the outside.’
Mr Bullen sat rigid, with distaste at the obvious homosexual references but also drawn, despite himself, by the sick retelling of what life was really like in this place.
Despite the lack of space, I tried pacing up and down on my side of the room before continuing: ‘When I first read the note I got really angry and I wanted to shout out from my cell at this sick pervert and say just what I thought of his note. I wanted others to know what he was like, too, but then I also knew that the guards would just beat my head in for yelling, so I didn’t. What was particularly frustrating to me was that I got that note on a Friday afternoon, so I would have to wait until Monday morning to have a chance to talk to anybody about it out in the exercise yard. You see, Mr Bullen, we are only allowed out on weekdays for our thirty minutes of exercise in these dog kennel-like cages behind the Death Row building – although I wouldn’t put a full-sized animal in a cage like the ones they make us use.’
Throughout all this Mr Bullen just continued to sit with his arms folded, letting me go on. He was sure I was complaining now.
I picked up momentum as I went on: ‘I was really angry that this moron prisoner who sent me the note couldn’t even spell my name correctly, or that he thought that just because I am so young he could approach me with this homosexual bullshit. I couldn’t wait to go out into those cages that Monday and tell someone what this guy had done.’
When I got to this point, I sat down directly in front of Mr Bullen and finished with the following lines, delivered in a quick monotone, introspective and a bit deflated-sounding:
‘And you know what, Mr Bullen? I end up getting placed in the end cage right next to Stevie Lloyd! Man, out of all the guys I live with in here I get stuck in the cage right next to crazy-ass Stevie Lloyd! You know who he is, don’t ya?’
Mr Bullen shook his head, ‘No.’
‘Stevie Lloyd is in here because he has this fixation with stealing horses. Stevie loves horses and he goes on and on about all sorts of horses and what he’d like to do to them if you’d let him. Also, he always talks about himself as Stevie and, you know, Mr Bullen, when someone refers to themself in the third person it can really be annoying. It can be especially bad, Mr Bullen, when they also have a cleft palette and they spray spittle from their mouth every time they say a word that begins with the letter “S”.’
A little stunned at this new turn in my story, Mr Bullen was clearly not at all sure what, if anything, this had to do with my appeal and he was looking at me curiously.
‘Now, with Stevie in particular, it’s difficult to handle because he has missing and rotten teeth in the front of his mouth so his spittle can be real nasty when he gets you. Everyone who can, tries to stay a few feet back when Stevie talks.’ I saw Mr Bullen flinch. I was starting to annoy him now with my smartass tone of voice, but I was also beginning to feel empowered by his finally starting to show painful responses to what I was saying.
Quickly I moved in for the big finish: ‘But I took my chances, Mr Bullen, and I just walked over to the fence separating our two cages and said: “Yo, Stevie, come here and listen to this, man!”
‘“Stevie is busy.”
‘“Yeah well, get your ass un-busy and come over here real quick!”
‘“What you got for Stevie?”
‘“Man, listen. I was sitting there Friday when that worker ‘Flat-top’ comes by and shoves a note under my door. It was a note from ‘Big Deek’, ya know?”
‘“Yeah, yeah, Stevie know.”
‘“So, I am trying to read through all his misspelled words in the note and it soon turns out that this sick fucker wants me to write him sex letters! Now Stevie, I know you know I’m not gay and that sick bastard has a lot of nerve to ask me to write him stuff like this. It’s wrong! Stevie, what kind of shit is that, where this guy thinks he can ask me to write him some dirty shit so he can masturbate to it and I am not supposed to get angry or try to hurt him, just because he’s a lifer? The sicko had the nerve to tell me he would have his sister send $20 a week to my account if I went along with this scheme of his, too!”’
A short silence, then with bewilderment on my face I revealed to Mr Bullen what Stevie had told me: ‘“Stevie got the same note.”
‘That stopped me. “Really, you got the same note from Big Deek asking you to write him sex letters?”
‘He repeated: “Stevie got same note, too. Stevie got offered $25 a week.”
‘Mr Bullen, when Stevie stopped me cold by telling me how he got the same offer but better to write sex letters, do you know what I said? I said: “That’s fucking bullshit, Stevie, you got all those pockmarks on your face and you got those nasty teeth. How the hell did you get offered more money than me, when I am much better looking than you?”
‘Stevie was stung by my outburst, Mr Bullen, and he said that he had been offered more money than me because he had a good reputation for writing letters as he’d written some for another prisoner which had made the man really think that it was a woman writing them. Stevie said that he always made sure that when he wrote sex letters for money to another prisoner, he used the guy’s name when he described having an orgasm. Also that just because I had nice blond hair and a cute ass, it did not mean he was ugly and he really did not want to talk to me any further.’
Then, working up to my theme, I continued: ‘You know what Stevie Lloyd taught me that day, Mr Bullen? Stevie taught me that even someone who murders other human beings or has an obvious mental disorder like Stevie Lloyd is just as valuable in prison as someone like me who has a really nice full head of blond hair and a firm young ass!’
I drew a breath before delivering my final flurry. I knew Mr Bullen would be angry now and I wanted to get it all in before he had had enough.
‘As a matter of fact, after Stevie told me that he had been offered more money than me for writing sex letters, I admit that I felt angered. I felt slighted that I was not given the better offer simply because I was much better looking than him. Then I realised that maybe Stevie should be writing my appeals out for me, because at least I know he cares enough about me that he is willing to use my actual name when describing how he would fuck me the way you are!’
I was into high-energy shouting mode by this time. Joe Bullen jumped to his feet as I ended my performance and began cramming the legal papers neatly stacked on the counter into a thick leather case he had pulled out from under the table. He was red-faced, trying to get out of the room as quickly as he could, but I just smiled and laughed at him. Then I really let him have it. ‘Come on, Joe, it’s not like we can’t still be friends, buddy!’
Mr Bullen stopped cramming papers into his case long enough to stare at me before saying, ‘I hope they fuckin’ fry your sick ass.’
My jaw tightened in anger at what he said, but my eyes were clear of the feelings that I could barely contain. I gave a taunting salute and began a mock march.
Having gotten all of his papers into the case and snapped the flap shut, Mr Bullen just stopped long enough to say, in a very official-sounding voice, ‘I feel sorry for you, Nick Yarris, you really are making your parents so proud!’
At this I lost all composure. I wanted to get in my retort before he left the room. I was also in mid breath, which made me end up sounding a bit off key as I shouted: ‘Hey, you used my first name! Does that mean that when you write me your next letter telling me how you lost my appeal, you will also include some sex stuff that I can sell to “Deek the Freak” for $20!’
The door closed as the last of my words beat out the snap of the lock. I sat there listening through the walls as Mr Bullen’s footsteps faded from the outer room.
In the fifteen minutes it took for officers to come and bring me back to my prison cell, I sat there in that empty room and laughed my ass off at the pig-headed way Bullen had acted. Then I cried at how I had just dashed all the hopes my family had pinned on my new lawyer.
And then I laughed again at my own will to fight for myself, knowing that I was going to face a pointless end. And then, finally, I cried some more as I realised that, while I sat there laughing today, whatever pleasure I had gotten from taunting that man I was going to pay for many times over.