The Room Is Ready, But He’s Still Gone

Author: Anon 30097

I talked to my son twice a day, every day, for 20 months. We did video visits once a week. The only time we didn’t speak was if he was in confinement or on the mental health unit at the county jail.

Then he got transferred to Jackson three weeks ago, and the communication stopped.

I haven’t heard from him since except for one brief call through someone else’s phone. A few minutes. That’s all I got.

Every day on the news, another person murdered in Georgia prisons. And my son is in there somewhere, and I haven’t heard his voice in three weeks.

I keep my ringer on. I check the TPM website every day, hoping to see a tentative release date appear. I just go to work, then come home to my dogs and plants. I cry and pray a lot. I can’t talk to anyone about it because I don’t feel like anyone I’m close to would understand.

I’m trapped. I can’t call Jackson because it might hurt him — I’ve heard stories from other mothers that if I contact them, it makes his time harder. It puts a target on my son. The officers might put him on a unit to be attacked or send him to another camp where there are more problems. I can’t hear from him because he has no access. I just have to sit with the fear and the silence.

It’s hard to pass his room to get to mine. It’s a constant reminder. His clothes waiting in the closet. The bedding he chose during our video visits. The space I made for him that’s just sitting empty while he’s in Jackson with the mold and the roaches and the silence.

I asked him how he wanted it. I let him pick out the color of his bedding. I showed him his room during those video visits, and he seemed happy with it and looking forward to it. But that was back when I could still see him once a week. Now he’s at Jackson, and I don’t know if he even remembers what that room looks like, or if he’s still able to hold onto that hope.

My son isn’t guilty of what he was charged with. He was over-sentenced for something he wasn’t even part of.

A “friend” of his was mad at his parents and told my son he was giving him some of their things. We were homeless at the time, living motel to motel, so my son said okay and went and got the items. The boy then faked a kidnapping and robbery. When it was found out that he was lying, they dropped the charges down and got all the property back. The boy who initiated all of this didn’t get any punishment. My son was sent to prison.

Then while he was in county jail, he was on the phone with a different “friend.” The person asked for directions to someone’s house. There was no conversation about why he wanted the directions. That other person is said to have gone with a group of people and shot up the house. My son didn’t tell him to do anything. He didn’t know what happened until he was charged with eight counts of aggravated assault.

My son was in jail. He didn’t have any part in it.

The driver who was there and involved received probation. My son got 15 years, do 4.

He gave someone directions while he was locked in a jail cell, and he got 15 years. The person who drove the shooters got probation.

He took a plea because the alternative was possibly losing at trial and getting 20 years for each count — essentially life. They also threatened gang charges, which would have been another 20 years per charge. My son has never been in a gang. The other people aren’t in any gang either. The public defender pushed the plea by telling him he was eligible for parole already and would be released as soon as he got to prison. That’s not true. The parole board has complete discretion about who is paroled and who isn’t.

I didn’t want him to take the plea, but I wouldn’t be the one doing the time inside of prison, so I left the choice to him. I told him I would support him no matter what he chose. It felt like an impossible case either way.

I went to all of my son’s court dates. Sentencing was really hard. I couldn’t show any emotion though because I didn’t want him to see that I was hurting. I had to hold it all in. I kept my face steady while they gave him 15 years for something he didn’t do.

For 20 months, we were fighting it together. He was able to advocate for a different public defender, but he still got a lot of time.

During those 20 months at county jail, he’d be sent to confinement for simple stuff — not making his bed, not moving fast enough. He wouldn’t start arguing with the guards, but if they were disrespectful, he would be disrespectful back. In confinement, they only fed the inmates something called a loaf. After a while, being in confinement got to be too much mentally, and he would go to the mental health unit. He’d go there until one time an officer said he was faking and if he went to that unit again, she would make his time hard.

He stopped going to the mental health unit after that. There wasn’t much support offered there, but it was an actual tray and at least more eyes on him if he was feeling suicidal. He gave that up because of that officer’s threat.

I would try to either call or go up to the jail when I heard he was struggling, but they always said I needed to speak to inmate services. They have never answered the phone or called me back. It was very frustrating. There was nothing I could do to help him. I’m his mother, and I was completely shut out — no way to reach anyone, no way to help him when he needed it most.

He was okay at times. He became a Muslim and seemed to be happier. That was until they took his Qur’an and stopped giving him halal trays for his religious diet. He filed a few grievances but was told he had to prove he was Muslim. I emailed the DOJ, a Muslim advocacy group called CAIR, and the jail. He ended up getting transferred to Jackson before anything could be done. Essentially, they got away with violating his religious rights. His spirit was down when they did that.

He found something that was helping him — having that faith — and then they took his Qur’an and stopped the halal trays. He tried to fight it through grievances, I reached out to the DOJ and CAIR, and then he got transferred before anyone could do anything about it. They just got away with it.

When he first got to Jackson, I heard from him once through someone else’s call for a few minutes. He was put in a Muslim dorm, which is what he wanted. But they only get fed twice on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. The trays have mold on them, and the food is small portions. I put money on his commissary twice. He has placed orders, but they still don’t call his name for commissary — so he can’t even get the food I’m trying to send him. There is mold and roaches. A lot of the guys not on his dorm have machete-type weapons because they are in fear of someone hurting them. He also said that sometimes three days go by where he doesn’t see an officer at all.

That was three weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since. Three weeks of not knowing. Not knowing if he’s safe, if he’s eating, if he’s okay.

In that one brief call, I asked how he was and told him I loved him. I asked about the conditions and reminded him to stay out of politics, keep his head down, and just do his time so that he can come home. The same advice so many mothers have to give — don’t stand up for yourself, don’t fight back, just make yourself small and try to survive.

I’m really holding on, praying he will be paroled any day. But I’ve researched the process, and I’ve hit another impossible situation. The parole board might ask my apartment if he can live there. My son can’t apply to be on the lease while he’s locked up. And if the leasing office says no — or if the parole board doesn’t approve the housing — they won’t parole him at all. When I talked to the leasing agent about it, she just said he has to apply.

I’m trying to plan for him to come home to me, to have that safe place to decompress, but the system might not even let that happen because of an apartment application he can’t fill out from inside.

He’s going to need a lot of support mentally when he gets out. He will be living with me when he comes home so he doesn’t have to worry about surviving and day-to-day expenses. He will have time to decompress. The room is ready. I’m ready. But he can’t apply from inside, and without that application, the parole board might not let him come home — even though I have space for him, even though I want him there, even though he needs somewhere safe to land.

I am on depression medication and tried therapy, but I haven’t found a therapist that is relatable just yet. I just go to work, then come home to my dogs and plants. Just trying to make it through each day — work, home, wait, worry.

I wish people were more empathetic. I wish people knew just how bad the conditions are in the jails and the prisons, how the people incarcerated are treated, and would advocate more for them. People shouldn’t be defined by a bad choice or by the friends they choose. Not everyone in prison is guilty. Some just know that the system is broken and a plea was just a better choice than fighting a losing battle.

This could happen to anyone.

If I could say something to my son right now, even though I can’t reach him, I would tell him that I love him and I can’t wait until he comes home.