This Is My Kairos

When I was released to the general population, I avoided any church services or other religions activities. I could not see where God was at work in my life, and I doubted God’s love for me. At times, I doubted God’s existence all together. In my mind, God had given up on me and I had given up on God. After all I had destroyed in my life, who could blame God. Once, there was a Christian musical group who visited the prison and I could hear them singing on the yard through my window. I wanted to cry, but quickly pushed it all back down. I didn’t want to have an emotional experience while I was at the bottom causing me to call out to a God who either wasn’t there or didn’t care about me. I had already been down that road before, and I wouldn’t let that happen again. I didn’t want hope, because hope seemed to just be an avenue to disappointment.

People kept inviting me to join a fellowship group called Kairos. I wasn’t exactly sure what a fellowship group even was, but I knew I was not interested. I declined any offer to sign up for it, until the brownie showed up. There was a Kairos “walk” which is a three-day weekend event where new member are allowed into the group. Other than that, I didn’t know much more. One of the guys I was friendly with came back from the first day of the walk and handed me a brownie. Keep in mind that even the very best of prison food is still horrible, but this brownie was heaven on earth. It was so good to sit and eat this magical morsal causing me to immediately have a change of heart and decide I may, in fact, be interested in Kairos.

Still, I did not want to get tricked into getting back into Christianity. I just wanted another brownie. I started quizzing the other guys who were Kairos members about what happened during the three-day walks. My suspicion was the weekend was designed to evoke an emotional response leading to a religious experience. I was going to be prepared for any trick they would throw my way. I went from cell to cell asking questions and it didn’t take very long before I had pretty much pried almost everything that would happen each of the three days of the Kairos weekend. With my battle plan ready, I was ready to sign up for Kairos and waited for the next walk to come around.

A few months later, the chaplains put up a list with the names of the inmates who had been selected for the upcoming Kairos weekend. My name was on it. Looks out brownies, here I come! I was prepared and ready to go.

I went to the first day just looking for a break from the usual prison routine and something good to eat. I was also preparing myself to withstand their attempts to break down my walls I had spent so much time and effort building around my heart. It was great. I had a pleasant day of talking with some nice guys and we did eat some food which was a million times better than what the prison offered. That evening, I left just as dead inside as ever. Mission accomplished.

Day two was even better. The food was great and the conversation was even better. At the beginning of the day, we were assigned to tables with four inmates and three outside volunteers. Each table was a “family” named after a person from the Bible like Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. We would eat each meal together and work together on different group activities over the course of the weekend. My family was the table of Matthew, and there were two volunteers I really connected with, Bo and Mike. It was nice to have conversations about things other than the favorite prison hot topics such as what would the next meal be, how many women you slept with or how much money (ridiculous lies most of the time) you had hidden somewhere waiting for you when you got out of prison. (One of my all-time favorites was the guy who said they discovered oil in his front yard and the gas station they build there had made him a millionaire.) The talks and presentations were not anything I hadn’t heard before, but it was still nice. By the end of day two, I felt good but was still dead inside; but I felt happier than I had since coming to prison. Everything was going according to plan.

I woke up early for day three and everything seemed to go just as the previous two days until it happened. I knew about the food and activities beforehand, but there was no way to prepare for what happened on day three. It wasn’t fair. I had put so much effort into preventing Kairos from provoking an emotional response, to giving up on hope or love or happiness or… It wasn’t fair.

An older man named Jim, probably around seventy-years- old, slowly walked to the podium to read a short devotion from the Kairos book. He spoke two words, ‘Father, teach…” and then broke down and sobbed. He didn’t just cry, he did the shoulder shaking, moaning, blubbering snot-baby cry. It was uncomfortable to watch him be so overcome with emotion, and I didn’t understand why. He was just reading something someone else had written.  It wasn’t as if this were some deeply personal testimony he was sharing. He was so full of emotion that he never finished and someone else read the rest of the devotion. Kairos continued; but, for me, Kairos stopped.

I couldn’t get what had happened out of my mind. I kept asking myself, “Why would a grown man come to a prison and cry like a baby in front of a bunch of strangers?” I didn’t have an answer and was having a hard time thinking about anything else. The Kairos weekend carried on, but I couldn’t pay attention. For the most part, I sat with my head down and was unaware of my surroundings. A few guys noticed I was troubled and encouraged me to pay attention. I thought about getting up and walking out of the building because it was beginning to happen. I was beginning to ask myself questions I thought I already had the answers.

When that man cried, I had to admit something was happening in the prison gym. When I asked myself what these people were here and why that man cried, in the back of my head I kept hearing, “Because they love you.”

“Why would they love me? Don’t they know what I’ve done? Not even God can love me,” I said to myself head down and unresponsive to what was going on around me, but I knew the answer. They were here and love me because God was here and loved them. Then the next step in that thought progression came. God loved me.

That evening, each participant was given a short time to speak to go up to the podium and speak to the entire group. I hesitated at first, but knew it was something I needed to do. It was time for me to be honest about what was going on in my heart. It was time to let the walls come down; and if I said it out loud, it would be harder to deny later. I stood up and told them all how I had been feeling. I was so nervous and emotionally devastated I can’t remember all I said, but I was honest for maybe the first time in my life. It was a blur and I felt like passing out. I barely remember anything I said, but I do recall saying I had felt no one could love me because of the things I had done and all the people I had hurt. I had killed on of God’s faithful children and critically wounded a mother of five children. I was a monster, I felt like I belonged, and needed to be locked in a cage. Still, I could feel the love at Kairos, and I knew God loved me now.

I don’t know if I spoke for two minutes or two hours; but, when I was done, I was bawling my eyes out and felt drained of all strength. At some point, I realized everyone was on their feet and cheering. I couldn’t process what was going on. It was just too much for me to handle, but I knew it felt good. It felt real.

A few moments later, while others were taking their turn to speak, I prayed for the first time in a long time. “Lord, forgive me for doubting your love for me. Thank you for not giving up on me. I don’t know what happens now, so help me survive my life in prison.” My old plan to end my life was out the window, and it was time to rethink what I would so with my life. It was odd, but I had found a certain comfort in my plan to take my own life. I had begun to think of it as my release date—a date when the hardship of prison would be over. I was unsure what I was going to do now, but I realized I was going to have to trust God with the rest of my life.

Where I had just enjoyed Kairos before, the gym had become this amazing holy adventure that I never wanted to end. It was as if I could almost see angels flying around the gym and the presence of God was undeniable, it seemed I could reach out and touch the supernatural with my fingertips. God was more real at that time than I had ever known. I knew without a doubt He was real, He loved me, and I had been forgiven. Despite the fact I was still in a prison gym serving a sentence of life without parole plus thirty-five years, I was free.

On the final day of the Kairos weekend, we were led out of the gym into one of the dining halls. There we were asked to answer three questions (WHAT WERE THE THREE QUESTIONS?) and each of the inmates were presented with a cross others had prayed over for the entire weekend. When I came forward to receive my cross, one of the volunteers leaned over and whispered I my ear and said, “You may have another opportunity to share your story. Do it.” I wasn’t sure what he meant and filed it away in the back of my mind.

It didn’t take long for me to find out what he meant.

After we all were given the necklace with a cross, we were taken back to the gym; but before we got there, I could hear something. As we came closer to the gym, I could make out music playing When the Saints Go Marching In. When we opened the doors to the gym, my head exploded. The place was filled with people, and they were all standing on their feet and pounding their hands together to the beat of the song which they were singing at the top of their lungs. There was a section of seats prepared for us, but they had formed a corridor of people we had to pass through to get there. As we walked between them, they shook our hands and welcomed us into the Kairos family. It was overwhelming and I was lost in a sea of smiling faces surrounding me. To say I was at a complete loss would be the understatement of the century. It was something I had never experienced before, and I felt such a strong wave of love crash over me that I quickly burst into tears. I attempted to fight them back, but the tears would not be denied.

It was the closing night and all the Kairos members, their families, and others from the churches in the surrounding area came to see what God had done. All the inmates who were Kairos members were there as well, so the gym was packed. The sight of all the faces filled with joy and love was so unexpected and wonderful. I was overcome by it all as the powerful emotions filled me completely up. It seemed so foolish I hadn’t believed God or anyone else could possibly love me. To prove it wrong, all I had to do was look around. As much as I wanted to, there was no denying this special moment was real.

Again, the intense emotions caused everything to blur, and it was difficult to concentrate on what was going on around me. Everyone was seated and two guest speakers, the unit’s chaplain and the warden, each took a turn encouraging those who had just completed the Kairos weekend. Then just like the night before, the inmates were asked to come forward to share what they had found during the Kairos weekend. I was scared to death to stand in front of so many people and share something on such a personal level, but I knew I needed to do this. I hesitated at first and others went to the microphone before me. A few of the volunteers must have noticed and, when they caught my eye, encouraged me to go forward. I finally mustered up the courage and walked to the mic.

‘My name is Benjamin Darras, Kairos 15, table of Matthew,” I began as we all did. Then I told them the short version of my story including the crimes I committed and the crushing weight of the guilt and regret. When I told them of my secret plan I made before coming to Kairos to commit suicide after my mother died, it brought tears to the eyes of all the mothers in the audience. I told them of the love I had found and felt while at the Kairos weekend. Finally, I shared the love and acceptance I felt at that very moment. For so long, I had felt like I was a monster for the crimes I had committed; but, in truth, I had always felt like a horrible person. In my mind, all I could see was I was so messed up inside, they had to lock me away from society for the rest of my life. There was no redemption for me. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the average ordinary person being scared of me, hating my guts, or wishing I was never born. I believed all these things completely, but here were all of these people listening to me share my story with faces, not filled with fear or hate, but with love and compassion. They were crying with me. It was more that I could have ever hoped for, but here it was.

When I stepped away from the mic, the Kairos community stood to their feet and cheered, I was so shocked, that someone come up, put his arms around me and helped me to my seat. I was emotionally spent and physically exhausted, but it felt wonderful. Soon after, the ceremony was over and we went back to our buildings.

For days afterward. The memories of the Kairos weekend played over and over in my mind. I was still a bit shell shocked, and I didn’t realize how much of my day was spent lost in thought until another inmate asked me, “Did aliens abduct you at Kairos or something? What have you done with Ben?” I spent a lot of time in prayer trying to figure out how I would live my life now that my old plan had been ruined. I still worried about the prospect of the endless years and growing old in prison until some illness finally overtook me. However, even being filled with anxiety, there was a feeling of peace deep inside. I knew it would be okay somehow. Life in prison wouldn’t get any easier, but I knew God would help me find my way through it.

Over the next few months, I stayed faithful to Kairos attending every Wednesday night meetings as well as the larger monthly meetings held on the first Saturday of each month. I even started playing the guitar for the music portions of the meeting. It was nice to be able to play again and was something I thought I would never do again. Things were looking up.

Going To Parchman

 

My new home was a nightmare. I was put in a one-man cell. The small cramped space was dimly lit and the paint was peeling from every inch of the walls and ceiling. There was a brown paper sack full of trash left in one corner; and, when I picked it up, a wave of cockroaches swarmed out. The room stunk of rotten food. When the first meal was brought to my cell, the food made my stomach roll, not just from the disgusting food but from the stench filling the room as well. Sitting down to eat, I realized I had no spoon or fork to eat the disgusting food, so I was forced to use my laminated identification card as a makeshift eating utensil.

The case manager for the building came to my cell door for an interview after I had been there for a few days, and he explained I was in lock-down for an evaluation period. I asked him how long this would last, and he said the usual length was ten percent of the total sentence. I asked what ten percent of life without parle was exactly. The stunning answer was about eight years. I was dumbfounded. I was not sure how I was going to survive in these conditions for such a long period of time.

Despite by faith being rocked at the sentencing, I was still trusting in God. I continued to study the Bible which was easy because there was nothing else to do. The prison library services were suspended at Unit 32 because of the inmates were burning the books. Fires, I quickly learned, were a regular occurrence. Often, I would wake up in the middle of the night to a chorus of screaming voices, smoke filling the room and water flooding the floors. The inmates would stop up the toilets and flush them over and over, rip their mattresses apart and set all of their bedding on fire. Often time, they did it out of boredom rather than for a real complaint. Once, while I was praying during a riot, “God please make these people shut up and go to bed”, I watched a burning pillow float past my doorway and down the hallway like a ship pillaged and set ablaze by pirates. Living life in Parchman’s Unit 32 was becoming unbearable.

Eventually, it broke me.

In the back of my mind, I believed if I was good enough God would release me from prison. I would have never spoken those words out loud to another soul, but the thought was always there in a corner of my mind. When the judge sentenced me to life without parole, it had shaken my misplaced faith; but it was my first meeting with my case manager in his office which caused me to completely lose faith.

Stepping into his office, he asked me to sit down very politely with a smile. Then, he went full blown Twilight Zone on me.

He said, “I know who you are.”

I assumed he meant he had heard about my case in the news. I was wrong. As he pulled a huge wooden crucifix from a desk drawer and thrust it towards me as if I was a vampire, he said with a maniacal smile filing his face, “Your father is the devil!” He went on to describe how God had sent him a dream and was told that I was a child of the devil and that he was to never let me out of lockdown. This was the man who had the power to let me out of Unit 32 and he was obviously insane. When I was escorted back to my cell, I could feel myself sliding down in the cold grasp of depression. While I was certain the case manager was having some sort of mental breakdown, there was a whisper of doubt filling my thoughts. Maybe his dream was from God. What if I was a child of the devil and God had never and would never forgive me? The more I thought about it, the more I began to see myself as foolish for believing God, or anyone else, could ever love me.

I placed my Bible in a box and didn’t’ open it again for nearly four years. I tried to tell myself I didn’t need God, and questioned if He was even real. Had I just fooled myself into believing in a fantasy while I was at a low point? I was done with Christianity and wanted to prove to myself I could live a life of peace and happiness apart for Christianity and a God who didn’t love me. For a while, it seemed I could.

Eventually, I was released from Unit 32 and placed in the general population. Of course, this was only after the cross-wielding case manager was fired and replaced by someone else.  My search for happiness and peace in prison was a struggle and only lasted for a short time before I couldn’t deny that I was miserable. I felt like I was right back to how I felt before my arrest—struggling to just make it through the day. I could barely sleep at night and often found myself staring at the walls which seemed to press closer and closer around me. I wanted desperately to find some way out of the nightmare I was living, but there was no way out. I knew I would have to do something, because life was becoming unbearable. Life was pointless, I felt. At the time, I was working at a food processing plant doing mind-numbing, mindless work. I was doing pretty much the exact same thing every day which served no real purpose. I felt like my entire life consisted of just breathing until I died. My faith had never recovered from the sentencing combined with the miserable living conditions and this had brought me to the point of believing God could not and would not love me.

Something would have to change because I could not see myself continuing on in the state of mind I was in, so I decided to make a plan. I had always heard that to be successful, one needed a life plan and goals to achieve. I did this in the most macabre way possible. My plan was this. Since I had already caused my mother enough grief, I would pretend everything was fine and well until the day she died. When this happened, I would kill myself. I didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t imagine spending year after pointless year in prison.

From that day on, I played the role of the well-adjusted inmate making the best of a bad situation never letting my fellow inmates or staff know what I was planning to do. I smiled, laughed and joked around thought the days, but I was dead inside. No one ever suspected what was going on in my mind except one person who managed to see through the façade. One day a guy named Mark mentioned he thought I was “emotionally void” and he was exactly right. While I pretended to be happy, my smile was merely a mask, and he had seen through it. I was truly emotionally void and empty, and I wondered how long I would last.

I wondered why I had always felt so broken inside—when I had stopped feeling. I could barely remember a time when I wasn’t pretending everything on the outside was fine while life felt like a dark shadow shrouding my every step. I had never felt okay ever. I had spent so much time trying to hide who I was and how I felt, I had forgotten who I really was.

Looking back, I could distinctly remember the last time I felt okay was when I was in the second grade. I was a kid, just like everyone else. Sure, my family was poor; but, at that age, I didn’t even know it. School was a grand adventure, and I tried to outdo all the other kids. My friend Michael and I would race each other to see who could memorize the multiplication charts first. He would just narrowly edge me out most of the time, but we both blew the rest of the class away.  I had lots of friends and the teachers like me. Why did it change?

We lived in a little white ramshackle house outside of the city limits of Ada, Oklahoma. It was the first place I can remember living, and it was a magical place for young boys to be raised. At the time, I was the baby of the family and I idolized my two older brothers, Jeremy and Malan. Since there were no neighbors around, we were pretty much suck with each other for playmates so, I was included in all of their adventures for the most part. They might have wished for other kids their own age, but I thought it was fantastic. At Christmas, we would record ourselves singing Christmas songs and preform skits we would make up on a tape recorder. Without fail, we would include a reading for our Christmas list to make sure our parents heard them. Years later, my mother found one of these tapes and would play it every year during the holidays to embarrass us all. She thought it was sweet; but, after it was played every single year, we were ready for it to disappear. The family seemed really happy from my young perspective, but looking back I can now see the dysfunction I was too young to understand then.

My father, Charlie, was cool. He had long hair and was the drummer in a country-and-western band. While they were somewhat popular in the local area, his sons thought he was a superstar. Sometimes he would show up at home with something unbelievable to young boys like go-carts, a mini-bike or take us out to shoot real guns. Sometimes, he wouldn’t show up at all.

Unknown to me at the time, he was a severe alcoholic and had trouble holding down a job. He wasn’t the best husband or father either, and there were times when my mother, Debra, would tell us to be very quiet in the mornings because daddy didn’t feel well. He was most likely hung over and my mother didn’t want to anger him. A constant occurrence of my childhood was hearing them fighting behind closed doors, but not understanding what was happening. While my mother was usually the target of his wrath, there were times his three sons were the victims of his angry shouts.

I still remember so clearly the day the food burned. My mother was working nights and my dad had passed out on the couch. When the food he was cooking started to burn, Jeremy woke him up to tell him. Instead of saving the food, he screamed at all of us telling us to never bother him for anything while he was sleeping. Eventually, instead of idolizing my father, I began to be afraid of him.

One day while he was at work and the three children were at school, my mom packed up all of our belongings and secretly moved to another house inside the city limits. I don’t know if my mother actually told us we were hiding from our dad, but that was the feeling I had. Still, as young as I was, it mostly seemed exciting because we were moving into town.

It was calm for a while after that, but it didn’t last long. Quickly, he found our new phone number and the fighting started again. Even before we were unpacked, the nightly shouting matches resumed. The only difference was, now it was over the phone. One night, while sleeping on the floor of the living room because my bed wasn’t assembled yet, the phone rang and the yelling, screaming and crying began. Lying on the floor, I wanted to cry but didn’t. I thought if I pretended it wasn’t happening, the screaming would all just magically go away. Just like the old game of peek-a-boo, if I squeezed my eyes shut tight enough it, maybe it would be gone when I opened them up. I didn’t cry and tried to hold as still as I could, pretending to be asleep. Still, it didn’t go away. It became worse, so I continued to withdraw deeper within myself where it felt a little bit safer.

Of course, there were consequences. All the bottled-up emotions would rear their ugly heads time and time again throughout my life causing countless problems. Where I had once loved school, I started skipping class in the third grade. The elementary school I attended burned down, and classes were being held at the First Baptist Church of Ada a few blocks from our house until the school was repaired. I don’t know why, but I decided I didn’t want to go. While walking to school with my brother, Malan, I just turned around and snuck back into the house and hid in my room. Eventually, my mother discovered my hiding spot and attempted to force me to go to school. I exploded. I screamed myself horse; and when that didn’t work, I pulled a knife on my mother. That got her attention. She realized something was seriously wrong and made arrangements for me to see a counselor.

 The counselor was a waste of time, thought. I learned quickly that if I just agreed with whatever he said, it would seem like progress was being made. I also learned to never admit to how I really felt thinking that I would just get into more trouble. After a few months, the sessions with the counselor ended; but nothing had changed. If anything, I was worse. There would be other attempts to get me help over the years, including a few months in a lockup mental health hospital, but I was never completely honest about how I felt and never got the help I needed.

After some time, my father moved back in with us, and the fighting and drinking continued as before. This would turn into a familiar pattern for our family. Mom and dad would reconcile, there would be a time of peace, the fighting would start again, we would move away from our father, and repeat. Two more members of the family had been added, Rachel and Zachary, but it seemed the three older boys were affected the most. We understood, to some extent, exactly what was happening. Jeremy began running away from home early on after moving to Ada; and, when he was sixteen, he moved out of the house only returning for brief stays over the years. Malan avoided home as much as possible, staying with friends and finding escape in the bottle. Like Jeremy, I began running away from home at an early age, and moved in with a girlfriend’s family when I was sixteen for a few months.

Over the years, my mother did try to help me; but I would only withdraw further. I put on a false front for the world to hide how horrible I felt and how embarrassed I was of my family’s situation. I grew my hair long and acted like a mad man most of the time. In truth, I was a hurting little boy who could no longer express true feelings except anger and wanted more than anything to just have a normal family.

My withdraw into myself and my inability to connect emotionally with others only worsened by going to prison. I was in a place that encourages you to have no emotions except hate and anger. Those two emotions are just fine. I was at the point where I no longer knew who I really was. I had worn the mask for so long, I had lost the little boy from the ancient past.

Moving To Mississippi

 

In September of 1998, Sarah decided to plead guilty to her charges. A month later, she was sentenced to thirty-five years in prison. On December 7, 1998, I was brought to court and also sentenced to thirty-five years. The court process had taken two and a half years and it was such a release to finally have this stage of the court proceedings behind me.

Immediately, when I returned to the jail, I was processed by the Louisiana Department of Corrections; but, instead of being transported to the Louisiana prison system, The Mississippi authorities were there to take me to DeSoto County to face the charge of murder. I packed up all the belongings I had collected over the years, which wasn’t much, and said good-bye to the friends I had made while there including a number of the deputies.

I was nervous about finally facing the charges in Mississippi, and I wasn’t sure what the sentence would be. I knew there was the possibility of receiving a death sentence; but, with the inner freedom I had found in Jesus Christ, I could accept the lack of physical freedom or even death. I knew, in either case, the life ahead of me would be hard but I had gotten myself into all of this and deserved whatever I was given.

The DeSoto County jail was much smaller than the Louisiana jail had been and the atmosphere was vastly different. I could feel the hostility towards me, but I understood why. While I was being booked in, they had a deputy stand guard over me. Apparently, the security there was not very tight and escapes were somewhat regular. They were not going to take any chances with me. The leg chains they put on me for the road trip were left on throughout the booking process.

At the jail in Louisiana, everyone knew I was a Christian and had seen the changes in my life. That wasn’t the case any longer. While some has heard of my conversion, most couldn’t care less. The D.A. had given a press conference detailing my unexpected confession; but for the most part, I would have to prove myself all over again. It had taken quite a while for my fellow inmates to accept my faith as genuine while in Louisiana. I would have to begin from scratch in my new environment.

I was placed in a holding area with some other people waiting to be booked in. There was a woman in a cell across from us wo was flashing anyone who looked in her direction. One of the guys in the room with me told me to come and check it out. When I refused, everyone looked at me kind of funny. They asked me if I was gay and started making jokes. While it felt a little embarrassing, it was an opportunity to share my faith with them. This did not go well. After explaining how I had found God and accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior, they went nuts. For the rest of the time we were waiting, they made fun of me. I had never experienced this kind of response before. I had read about the persecution of the apostles when they began to spread the gospel, but I never thought it would happen to me. I wanted to lash out and but I realized this was not how I was to show the changes God was making in my life. I focused on the fact that Jesus has also suffered many things from others because He was different. It still hurt.

After a few hours, I was placed in a cell by myself. There were no windows, not even a mirror; and I hoped I wouldn’t be kept there for very long. The days passed uneventfully in my bleak and depressing cell, which gave me plenty of time to prepare myself mentally and spiritually for my looming court date. I had spoken with the public defender and told him of my intention to plead guilty. When he returned the next day, he told me I would receive a life sentence without the possibility of parole. I signed a paper verifying I understood exactly what I was doing. Like the first time I stepped inside the jail in Muskogee, a surreal feeling came over me as I signed my life away.

Friday, December 14, 1998, I was woken up and told I would be going to court shortly. I quickly got dressed and made myself as presentable as possible. All the other inmates being transported to the courthouse were already lined up and being loaded into vans—except me. Worry began to creep over me as I was told to stand to the side and I watched the other inmates leave together. Something was not right and I could feel the tension begin to build in the room. At that moment, I noticed older police officers and plain clothed detectives file in. Their faces were a mixture of grim frowns and angry furrows. I was led, without anyone speaking, to an unmarked car. From the bits and pieces of conversations and news articles I had seen, I had learned that Mr. Savage was a pillar of the community and a faithful Christian. These were his friends and I began to wonder if I was even going to make it to the court house. At the very best, I was expecting to be beaten and I didn’t blame them. To my relief, we drove to the court house but took un expected path. I was never told, but I believe I was driven past my victim’s family house.

Just as in Louisiana, the media was waiting for me. The deputies escorting me were extremely nervous because of the presence of the reporters and the veteran police at the courthouse. Added to this was the fact they were all told before we left the jail, I was dangerous and an escape risk. I was scared one of them might shoot me purely on accident. One deputy, young and obviously new, couldn’t keep his fingers from twitching which was resting on the holster of his gun. I tried to walk as softly and steadily as possible.

Inside, the court house had been cleared with only family and friends of the victim allowed inside. The judge came in and we all stood. The charges were read and the district attorney said he wanted to drop all the charges except for the charge of capital murder charge. When the judge asked me how I wanted to plead, I said guilty. I had done it. He went through the process of telling me exactly how long my sentence would last, forever, and that I didn’t have to plead guilty if I did not want to. He read my sentence out: life in prison at hard labor with no possibility of parole. I’m sure more was said, but everything was quickly going out of focus as the enormity of it all hit me. I had known it was coming, but it still sent me into shock. 

People always ask me how it felt to hear the judge sentence me to the rest of my life in prison at age eighteen. Oddly, it was a good moment for me in a sense. I had wanted to do this for almost two years, and it felt great to finally get it behind me. While I could not go back and undo the damage I had caused, pleading guilty was the only way I could help make the situation a bit easier. While its difficult to say I was doing something good, but it was the one thing I could do to spare the family any more pain. A trial would have just caused them to have to revisit the worst day of their lives over and over again.

Then it became the worst day of my life, not because of the sentence but because I finally had to face the victims of my crimes.

I was not expecting the family to make a statement, but I guess I should have. I thought it was something only in movies, but this was all too real. Mrs. Savage came up to the stand first. The thing I remember most about her was how pale her skin was as if all the blood had drained out of her face. I have no idea and cannot even begin to comprehend how difficult it must have been for her to face me, her husband’s killer. I felt like I was falling down a cold dark hole as she began to tell me how much I had hurt her and her family. While I had thought of how much damage I had caused for this family, I could never truly know how they felt. I had lost family members, but never as the result of a horrific violent crime. Being in the room with the family made it all very real and personal. She mentioned Mr. Savage was a Christian, and it was this fact which hurt me the most.

Next, one of Mr. Savage’s daughters took the stand. I was ashamed when I saw her because I recognized her face from the photos in the wallet I had stolen as if I had not only taken his life but has spied on a private family moment. My heart sped up and I was having trouble focusing on what was happening around me. It was too much for me to take in when the enormity of what I had done to this family was thrown directly into my face. It was more than just memories and words on court papers. It was real people’s lives I had devastated. I had taken away her father, and could never change this. Her words were biting, reflecting her anger. I prayed somehow God would take all of their pain away I had caused. I deep down hoped there would be a way they could forgive me though I didn’t deserve it, but I could see that was not going to happen.

Before I realized it, the court proceeding was over and they were trying to lead me away. I felt deflated and so exhausted that a hundred years of sleep would not help. As I was led out of the court house, a reporter asked me if I wanted to say anything to the Savage family. No words seemed adequate, and just mumbles out, “I’m sorry.” How could mere words help in this situation?

Driving away, I wondered if I had really changed from the person described during the sentencing; and if so, how much? I didn’t feel like I was the person they had been talking about in court. Before, I had killed and felt no remorse. Now, I couldn’t even lie without feeling terrible inside. I was thankful I had been arrested because, through it, I had found God. If Sarah and I had never been caught, I probably would have killed myself long ago. Now, not only was I alive, but I was really living. The life that lay ahead of me would be hard, I knew; but I had put myself in prison and knew I could trust the Lord to help me make it through it. It didn’t take much time before the doubt began to creep in.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact I had killed a Christian man loved by his family and the entire community. I hoped, beyond reason, the family could somehow forgive me, but it didn’t seem possible. I began to wonder if God really could love me. I knew what was in the Bible, but in my heart I felt unlovable. In truth, I had always felt this way. I felt like the monster the media said I was. I was a murderer and this fact would never change. “Could God really love me”, I kept asking myself. I would have never said it out loud, but my faith was shaken to the core. The sheriff told me there were reporters at the jail wanting to talk to me, but I declined. There were no words.

With court behind me, I had looked forward to being moved to the Mississippi State Prison at Parchman and finally being housed in the general population. To my disappointment, I learned I would once again be placed in a lockdown, maximum security unity—Unit 32.

Coming Clean

 One of the kitchen trustees who passed out the food to the inmates in the holding cells said he had heard I was a Christian. When I told him it was true, he asked me why I never attended the Bible study services held inside the jail. I had never heard of any Bible study classes but was interested in attending. The trustee promised to get me on the list of approved inmates to attend the services.

While studying the Bible on my own and at the class, I had come to one conclusion. It was a sin to lie about my crimes. Detectives, prosecutors, and lawyers had come many times investigating the Mississippi murder, and I had always lied to them. In my heart, I felt horrible about doing it but felt I had to deny all of it. It was what you did when you were accused of a crime. I knew it was interfering with my relationship with God, and my cherished peace was beginning to crumble. I knew I had to confess, but the fear of the consequences prevented me. The thought of being sentenced to death or spending the rest of my life behind bars was frightening. I tried to push these thoughts from my mind when they swirled around my mind, but the task was becoming increasingly difficult. I had purposely never confessed the murder to God asking Him to forgive me for it. I wasn’t sure if He would forgive me, and I knew I would have to own up to it if I was sincere in my profession of faith in Christ. Days passed with this fight taking place in my heart; and, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I fell down on my knees and asked the Lord to forgive me for the murder and for lying about it. I vowed to tell the truth from that day forward no matter the cost.

The joy and peace I had felt the first night I prayed to God flooded back into my mind, and the weight from holding the guilt of my crimes lifted from me. That night I wrote a letter to Sarah telling her I was going to confess to the murder. It was such a release to be able to write those words down and not have to worry about hiding it any longer. From that moment on, my life changed dramatically forever. I was finally free from the person I had been. There is a passage of Scripture that describes what I was experiencing. It says, “Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians :17).  I indeed felt new.

I decided to begin writing Sarah on a regular basis, and we tried to form a new relationship. Forgiveness wouldn’t come easy for either of us, but it was a step in I knew I needed to take. She had also given her life to Christ, I had heard, and we were able to begin the process of forgiving each other and moving on from our horrible past. There was still a lot of pain and hurt between us from all that had transpired. Each of us had tried to blame the other for what had happened, and we had said some pretty nasty things. I didn’t know where it would lead, but I was happy to begin working past issues out.

A few weeks after I wrote the first letter to Sarah, my public defender came to see me. Sarah had given my letter, in which I confessed, to her lawyer. To say it didn’t bother me would not be true, but it wasn’t important in the long run. I had planned to tell the Mississippi authorities myself, but I wish she would have given me the chance to do it. Of course, my lawyer was furious. When I explained I was a Christian now and told him I would no longer lie about my part in the crimes, he thought I had lost my mind. He berated me with red face and informed me I would never get out of prison. I didn’t care. I knew what I was doing was right and that was all that mattered to me.

Days later, the Mississippi district attorney for Desoto County and one of his assistants came to see me. They wanted me to take a handwriting sample to compare to the letter I had written to Sarah. I think I shocked them both when I told them I wanted to just confess. The assistant dashed outside to find a tape recorder while the other just sat there with the biggest grin on his face. They couldn’t find a tape recorder, so I just wrote out a confession giving them enough details to ensure they would know I was the one who committed the crimes. I think those two men left that afternoon as the happiest prosecutors in the country.

Back in my cell, I thanked God for helping me to confess my crimes. It was quite odd to express thanks for something that could result in my execution, but I hoped this would bring some solace to the victim’s family. I hated to think about the pain I had caused that family and the wider community. I knew the long wait for a resolution must be hard on them, and I wanted to help speed up the process if possible. As strange as it may sound, I looked forward to the day I could stand before the judge and plead guilty to murder.

Coming Back To Life

NOTE: Jonny was no longer able to keep up with posting and the login was lost. Hopefully, more will come.

Benjamin Darras at Parchman Prison 2012

While in jail, I had discovered I actually liked to read. Before my arrest, I had read at most three or four entire books by choice and a few more for school in my entire life. Now that I had plenty of free time on my hands and few entertainment choices, I was reading three to five books a week. I could read a five-hundred-page novel in a day. Reading was a way I could escape my confinement for a brief moment and lose myself in another world. The trustee who ran the jail library would come around to each dorm and holding cell every week with a list of books we could choose from. We were allowed to check out five books for the week and then turn them in for five new ones when he came around again. One week, I checked out a book titled Twice Pardoned. I thought it would be one of those true-crime books describing some horrendous crime committed and how they were arrested. It was something I could identify with, so I decided to check it out. I was disappointed when I sat down to read it that evening to discover it was a Christian testimonial book. I decided to read it anyway because another inmate said it was alright “…except for the end where it gets religious.” The story told of a man named Harold Morris who had gotten caught up in a life of partying and drugs. Driving with two friends one day, they asked him to pullover at a grocery store. Unknown to him, they were intending to rob it. Things did not go as planned and a couple of people were killed. Later, the two friends were caught and told the police Harold was the mastermind behind the whole thing. They testified against him in exchange for lighter sentences. Harold Morris was given two live sentences and sent to prison.
Then came the religious part.

During his time in prison, the book told of how he found God while incarcerated. His life dramatically changed when he fully embraced Christianity, and the impossible happened. He was released on parole after serving only seven years of his two life sentences without the possibility of parole.

I read the entire book for start to finish completely captivated. I really identified with the guy’s story. His life had been a lot like mine, and I couldn’t believe how much it was affecting me. The way he described how he felt at the time of his arrest was exactly the way I had felt—empty and alone. Happiness and peace seemed the furthest thing from the situation I now found myself in, but I wanted it desperately. I wanted what this guy had. I wanted to believe in God and believe God could love me, but the murder in Mississippi held me back. Yet, I wanted to be like Harold. It was true I wanted to be free from prison; but, more importantly, I wanted to be free of the emptiness and self-hatred I felt inside. I knew my life had amounted to absolutely zero and I could feel the black claws of depression tearing me apart.

There was an address in the back of the book for a prison ministry. I wrote asking for more information about Christianity and how and if I could be forgiven for my sins. Soon, a Bible and a Bible study correspondence course arrived in the mail. I had never taken the time to actually read the Bible before and was surprised it wasn’t the mystical mumbo-jumbo I had it expected it to be. It was filled with stories I could understand and relate to. Much to my surprise, I liked reading the Bible.

I felt it deep within as I studied and prayed. I wanted to give my life to Jesus and be forgive for my sins, but I was afraid of what the other inmates would say. I had managed to convince the warden to let me into the general population by this time and built up a reputation a “crazy youngster”. I fell in with a group of other teenage inmates and we harassed the other people locked up with us for any and all reasons or no reason at all. I figured if I was with the troublemakers, I wouldn’t be a victim of their torments. One guy we picked on constantly and made fun of him because he said he was a Christian. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go through the same petty harassment we had put him through but I wanted Christ. I waited until late in the night when all the others were asleep, and then prayed to God asking Him to forgive me for all the things I had done, for all the people I had hurt and let down, and for all the ways I had turned my back on God. I also prayed for the Holy Spirit to be given to me, and promised God I would try my best to live the way He wanted me to live.

Bells didn’t start ringing, and I didn’t speak in tongues; but I knew something had happened. Something had changed. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I had peace of mind. I felt calm inside and slept well that night. The worries which constantly plagued me for my entire life subsided even though my problem remained.

In the morning, I told no one what I had done. I was still scared I would be made fun of and always waited for everyone to go to sleep before I prayed or worked on the Bible study lessons. Despite my attempts to hide it, others began to know something was different about me. I was changing. Make no mistake about it, I still did a lot of foolish things and pretended to be a tough guy. The difference now was I felt the pangs of conscience and felt bad about the way I was acting. I made a decision to get away from the foolishness I had become entangled in trying to fit in with the other inmates. I wanted to do what was right, but I always caved into the pressure of those around me. To solve this, I wrote a note to the warden asking to be moved back into the holding cells. Later in the day, my request was granted and I was moved. There was only one other person in the cell which was my hope. Over the following weeks and months, I studied the Bible every day. Slowly, I began to understand what it was saying, and eventually I gained the courage to start telling people I was a Christian now. While nothing had changed with the punishment I was facing, the hopelessness and despair lessoned.

Guilty

     The days dragged by as I trudged my way through the court process.  There was very little to do in the cell. I listened to the radio, read novels and worried about what would come next. I had plenty of time to go over every regret in life. My life consisted of waiting for the next court hearing to arrive until early 1996, when my trial date finally came.  I was taken to the court house and the ever present reporters were there waiting.  The week before, my public defender told me he had spoken to the district attorney and my trial would be postponed.  There were some motions that had not been heard yet.  Since I believed the trial would not begin, I had called my family and told them not to come.

     Inside, I was the first person to go before the judge.  The public defender asked for the postponement as planned, but the district attorney objected and asked that jury selection begin at once.  The judge agreed.  I was shell shocked.  I would be going to trail that day, and knew I was about to get, not only the book, but the entire library thrown at me.  My public defender tried to explain to the judge he had already arranged for a postponement with the prosecution and he was not prepared to go to trial.  The D.A. denied he had agreed to anything.  The judge called all the lawyers into his chambers, and a few minutes later, the public defender came back and told me what had happened.

     According to him, he said he had been led to believe the district attorney was going to agree to a postponement.  The D.A. denied it which led to the two of them trading punches in the judges chambers.  After they were separated, the judge decided the trial would go forward. The judge also sent me a personal message.  I was to plead guilty and agree to testify against Sarah in exchange for a thirty-five year sentence.  If I refused, I would be found guilty and given the maximum sentence of ninety-nine years.  Had I any legal knowledge and not been in a state of such, I may have realized this was highly unusual.
I balked.  The enormity of the sentence scared me to my very core.  I knew I could receive a life sentence in Mississippi, but that was still distant and seemingly far away.  This was here and now and all too real.  My lawyer kept pressing me to accept it, telling me I had no chance to win in a trial.  He was right because my defense team was unprepared and not ready to go to trial.  Finally, I caved in.  The only thing appealing about the deal was the chance to testify against Sarah and pay her back for turning me in for the Mississippi murder.

     Before I accepted, I asked if I could call my mother for advice.  He left to get permission and returned a few moments later to lead me to a break room where a phone was.  I called and my mother picked up the phone.  I explained to her the situation and asked what I should do.  She still wanted to believe there was some way they would just let me go even though she knew it was impossible.   Despite everything, she still wanted to believe I was innocent. Finally, after many tears, she told me to take the deal.  In truth, there was no other option. Later that day, I stood before the judge and pled guilty.  Sentencing would take place after Sarah's trial.  I would have to wait in the parish jail until then.

Another Brick in the Wall

     One day in August of 1995, a trustee who cleaned the walkway in front of my cell told me he had seen Sarah talking with some people who had come from Mississippi.

     My heart sank.  In the back of my mind I had always suspected they would show up eventually, but it was still a shock when they actually came.  A few days later, I found out through the same trustee that Sarah had taken a lie detector test, and I knew I could look forward to new charges in the near future.  I didn't learn the full details about what was going on until my mother sent me an article from the Muskogee newspaper.  Sarah had confided to her lawyers about the Mississippi murder, and they advised her to work with the authorities if they could get her immunity from prosecution in exchange for her testimony against me.  Eventually, he spoke with the district attorney from Mississippi and secured the deal.
The night I found this out, I made plans to kill Sarah and then myself.  I didn't see the point of going on, knowing the severity of the crime in Mississippi. This was the plan. The sheriff’s deputies usually brought us to and from the court house together because reporters always waited for us outside like swarms of bees around honey.  Normally, male and female prisoners were always kept apart, but it was easier for them to keep us together and made for a good clip on the news.  The next time we were placed together, I planned to strangle her with the waist chains wrapped around us while we were locked in the back of one of the transportation vans.  Thanks to my slim and flexible wrists I could slip my hands out of the handcuffs whenever I wished and strangle Sarah before the officers would be able to stop the van and pull me off of her.

     Someone must have been looking over her, though.  From that day on, we never rode together in the van again.  I never told anyone my plans, so I know no one told on me.  Eventually, my rage towards her lessened and the plan for her death was abandoned. Still, I hated her intensely.

     Once when I saw her pass near my cell, I screamed at her through the Plexiglas until I lost my voice and bloodied my knuckles pounding on the walls.  The guards rushed to my cell to find out what was going on and found me red-faced at the door of my cell.

     The funny thing was, even with all the rage that would serge through me when I thought about her, I still had moments when I only wanted to be loved by her again. It was confusing and made the situation all the hard for me to process.