April 28
FLORIDA: Flower child on death row In 1976, Sunny Jacobs and her children got caught up in a shootout in which 2 state troopers were killed. She and her boyfriend were blamed and sentenced to the electric chair. Here she describes life in solitary and a 16-year battle to prove her innocence Saturday April 28, 2007 When Sunny Jacobs and Jesse Tafero met in Miami in 1973, she was a flower child, he a drifter. It was only later Sunny discovered that, as a juvenile, Jesse had been jailed for 7 years for robbery. The pair went to live with her parents in North Carolina. Jesse would go on mysterious trips, see other women. Sunny let it happen: they were soul mates. Mostly, they were broke. When Sunny became pregnant, Jesse promised to get regular work. He came up with a plan to buy damaged guns, repair them and sell them on for a profit. Sunny was to buy them because he had a record. She felt nervous about this: "Guns were not a 'peace and love' kind of thing. But it was legal for me to buy them, and it was something he could do." Despite her misgivings, in February 1976 Sunny found herself - together with her son, Eric, and Tina, the new baby - in Florida, driving through the night with Jesse and his unsavoury friend Walter Rhodes. They pulled into a rest area off the interstate and settled in to sleep until it got light. The next morning they were woken by two highway patrolmen, who found a gun on the floor at Rhodes' feet. The trooper confiscated the gun and ordered both men out of the car. A scuffle began. The troopers wrestled Jesse over the hood of the police car. Sunny and the children froze as the trooper waved his gun, shouting, "The next one to move is a dead motherfucker!" There was a blast of gunfire. The troopers were on the ground. Rhodes, gun in hand, bundled Sunny and the children into the police car. Handing the gun to Jesse, he drove to a parking lot, where he hijacked a Cadillac, again forcing them into the back, this time with the car's terrified owner. Soon after, they crashed into a police roadblock. "The car was rocking from the impact of the bullets. Even after the car stopped, the barrage of bullets continued and I wondered if they didn't know there were hostages in the car." Rhodes was taken to a waiting ambulance with a gunshot wound. Jesse, gun still stuck in the waist-band of his trousers, was handcuffed and, instead of being rescued, Sunny and the kids were taken to the police station. All were given gunshot tests. The only one who had fired a gun - the tests showed - was Rhodes. Jesse's trial came first, in May 1976. It lasted 4 days. Rhodes testified against him. This, coupled with a complete lack of any presentation of defence, meant Jesse was convicted and sentenced to death in short order. But I was a mother, a hippy and a vegetarian. Surely they couldn't believe that I would kill anyone? We would go to court and I would tell them and it would be OK. At my trial, in July 1976, Rhodes was the state's key witness. He agreed to accept three life sentences to avoid the electric chair in exchange for his testimony in court against Jesse and me. My attorney put up a very poor defence to the charges against me. And, in the second week of the trial, the prosecution announced another witness: Brenda Isham. I had no idea who she was. It turned out that she had been in the same holding cell as me for one night when she was brought in on drugs charges. She was claiming that I had told her that I did it and I was glad and would do it again. I had never spoken to her. The jury deliberated for nine hours before reaching their verdict. One by one they stood and affirmed their decision. "Guilty." "Guilty." "Guilty." Twelve of them. Guilty, on two counts of murder and one of kidnapping. They came for me early on the day I was to be sentenced. I had no idea what they would do with me. Neither did my attorney. Before we went into court he handed me an envelope. "To Sunny, With Love." It was from Jesse! Sunny, I love you with all my heart and soul. Keep your strength and spirit my precious woman, I love you more each day. I'm with you as always. Forever you and me. Love and kisses, Jesse There was a Polaroid photograph of Jesse inside with "I Love You" written across the white part at the bottom. He had his right hand raised in a fist with the thumbs-up sign. He was smiling, sending me strength with his eyes. The jury recommended life. The judge still had the final say. Once again, the bailiff called my name and I rose. As the judge's deep voice began to fill the room, I pressed the photograph to my chest. "...and you shall be sentenced to die in the electric chair by having a current of 2,200 volts pass through your body until you shall be determined to be dead." No one knew what death row would be like for me, because I was the only woman in the state of Florida under a sentence of death. Since there was no death row for women, I hoped they would take me to the men's death row, where Jesse was. But that wasn't to be. We arrived at the women's prison in Ocala in the early hours of the morning. The first step in the process of commitment was to be fingerprinted and have my mugshots taken by a dried-up-looking old man who turned out to be one of the women inmates. From that moment on, I would be known as Female Offender 4015. I was issued with white cotton pyjamas, underpants and bras, a towel, washcloth and rubber shower shoes. The underpants were a size too large. The inmate said she would try to do better next week. I didn't really care. I didn't expect to be there very long. A guard escorted me past the dormitories and over a hill. There was only one building on the other side: the isolation wing. Tightly girdled by two separate fences topped with massive tangles of barbed wire, it was separated from the rest of the compound by 50 yards of empty space. Inside, it was a dungeon. We made our way to the very last cell at the end of the corridor. She opened it with a large key on a large ring full of keys. There were no words spoken. What would one say that could possibly suit the occasion? "Enjoy your stay! Welcome to death row!" Day 1, death row, August 20 1976 I move my eyes, slowly, seeking the comfort of something familiar. To my left is a bed - a rusted metal skeleton bolted to the wall, covered by a thin, striped mattress. I can reach out and touch both walls by rocking slightly to each side. I noticed a window in the wall above the bed. I had to kneel on the bed to look through it. A cruel joke - the window looks out on to another wall. A wailing fills the space. My body starts to rock forward and back and the sound builds into a moan that cannot be contained. I sit at its centre, feeling myself falling away into oblivion. Taking small steps, placing one foot directly in front of the other, I paced off the length of the concrete floor. Six steps. It was six steps from the door to the toilet. I turned back towards the door again. 6 steps. Back and forth - to the door, to the toilet - I began to pace, hands balled into fists. My children! When will I see them? How long will it take for the court to find out they made a mistake? The daily routine: breakfast at some ungodly hour - footsteps, tray slides in through slot in door. Footsteps. Tray is taken away. Lunch and dinner come and go in the same way, and then the long period that I call night. And I pace. And I cry. And I beg and argue and rationalise with the God I am not sure exists. The walls get closer together and threaten to smother me in my own fear and anger. Happy birthday to me. I am 29 years old. My hair begins to come out when I comb it. I save it and put it in a piece of paper. Maybe I could have a wig made from it later on. Crazy thing to think about, vanity. But in some cases it is good because it keeps your mind focused on your pride in living and on the future. The precious first letter from my beloved Jesse since he was sent to death row has arrived! It has taken four months to get approved. September 21 1976 My Dearest Sunny, I love you. As you can see I finally can write to you. I've been worried about you. Boy, I love you Mama; I'm just sitting here on my bunk smiling, thinking about you. We're some pair. It's you and me forever honey. I write Eric and Christina every week. I presume you're in a one-man cell like me, can you see outside? I hear you can't smoke, what's the story? ...We are allowed AM/FM radios. I just got the Sony Matrix so I can do what we call 'Juke-in,' short for 'Juke boxing,' I hope you can have one. Let me know and I'll get you one. Music makes a difference. If you have any kind of problems, you make sure to let me know. You are my main concern. Put your family and mom on your visiting list, no one else, understand? I'll explain at another time. I'll be in close touch. I'll be writing probably every day. You do the same. You're my woman forever. Know in your heart that we are going to make it out alright. I love you with all my heart, Sunny, my beautiful wife. I'll close for tonight with thoughts of you. Jesse I created a routine for myself. It helped to overcome the feeling of being detached, of free-floating in the absence of a time structure. I would sleep until the smell and sounds of breakfast alerted my senses. Bursting awake, I would quickly wash my face and smooth my hair and wait by the door with my face pressed sideways to the 5in x 5in square of safety glass criss-crossed with wire, waiting for the first sighting of the breakfast cart and the guard. Sometimes they would let it sit there in the office for a long time, so it was cold and congealed. I did sit-ups and push-ups and squats. Then I would run in place on my blanket folded in quarters. After exercise, I would eat and then go back to sleep. Yoga filled the next part of my day. Before and after yoga, I would pray and meditate. Lunch was another marker in the passage of timelessness. Then I would write or draw or do maths problems in my head or think about my children, Jesse, my family, and cry. I tried to familiarise myself with the language of the law books but I couldn't really concentrate on what they were saying. What's taking so long? When will I receive some news? October 1976 My Dearest Jesse I'm grateful for this pen and paper puny way of telling you over and over again how I feel, but I want to crumple it up and run and tell you I love you. The children feel it too. Tina is still little and is all surrounded with love but Eric is older and has to deal with the hardest parts now when we're not there. I am desperate to be with him... I think my family will be able to visit soon! I love you. Sunny Orf and Hysmith. Two prisoners who felt they couldn't just keep quiet after Rhodes confessed to them. They said, in their sworn statements as reported in the media, that Rhodes said he shot the policemen and had to save himself by lying. They quoted Mr Orf as saying that Rhodes told him, "Hey, man, I had to, no way in the world I thought they would get the chair. If I had of [thought that], I would not have done it, but I had to keep from getting the chair myself." Thank you, Great Spirit! Thank you, Universe! I am going home to my children! Jesse and I will be together again soon! Orf and Hysmith were not the only ones who heard Rhodes's statement that day. A guard said that he heard Rhodes bragging about how he killed the policemen. But the officer's statement was not revealed until years later. Our letters were full of planning and dreaming and believing. Our families were overjoyed. A hearing would surely follow and we would be released. But no hearing took place. The prosecutor in our case, Michael Satz, was now district attorney. He sent his assistant from the trial, Walter LaGraves, and Rhodes's former defence attorney, Ralph Ray, who was now a prosecutor working for Satz, to talk to Rhodes. Rhodes took back his confession, saying he "didn't really mean it". It was a devastating disappointment. I had been trying to understand the legal process that had been used to put us here, and had requested a copy of the PSI report used for sentencing. Normally one did not see a pre-sentencing investigation, even though it is part of the public record. I found a paper stamped CONFIDENTIAL which turned out to be Rhodes's polygraph test report. It should have been given to the defence before the trial to impeach his testimony. At the trial he said that I either handed a gun to Jesse or fired it and then handed it to Jesse, but in the polygraph report they said he wasn't sure if I had done anything at all! My appeals attorney had no knowledge of it, but the prosecutor, now DA, made light of it, saying it would not have made any difference to the outcome. March 28 1977 My Dearest Jesse, It's been pretty chilly at night lately. I hope you are warm enough since it's damp down there. I guess it's like here - the ground is right under the floor and with the cold and cement, it does get a bit damp but I guess I'm used to it and I wear my 'flip flops' and a sweatshirt and socks when it's cold. I'm okay - very adaptable. I hope you have hot dreams and I hope I'm what heats them up - and you. Good night with all my love and kisses and hugs and licks and small bites and little noises. Love and kisses, Sunny After filing a civil suit about my conditions, I was moved to another cell in the hospital wing. A converted storage cupboard, it was better because I could now see other people even if I couldn't talk to them. But I wasn't there for long. One night, about 10, the door opened and the superintendent walked in, wearing a casual shirt and a pair of shorts. "Get it all, Jacobs. You're being transported tonight." August 1977, Broward Correctional Institution BCI is located at the edge of the Everglades swampland. There are no street lights and the glow from the grid of greenish crime lights that surround it make it look like a UFO. The room was far larger than the other two cells I had occupied in my life on death row. And I had my own washing facilities - a toilet and a shower in a separate bathroom! The walls were the usual white, the door a heavy metal affair, like the one in my first cell, but this one didn't have a slot in it for the food tray. I guessed they would have to open the cage to feed the lions here. September 1980 Jesse's attorneys were preparing for a hearing on his appeal. And then, at last, there was the hearing on new evidence in my case from the 1977 PSI report. It was held in the Broward County courthouse. I had not seen Jesse in three years. They brought him through the side door. He was wearing his prison uniform, handcuffed and shackled. I soaked up the sight of him. My Jesse! But he looked so aggravated - not tough-guy aggravated but bone-deep aggravated. I could see that he had been working out by the way his arms and chest filled out his uniform. But his face was drawn and tight. My heart was so full I felt I would cry. After they got him settled in a chair along the side wall, he smiled and winked at me and our eyes locked. It was the last time Jesse and I would ever see each other. Ultimately, the judge said it didn't make any difference that Rhodes said he wasn't really sure I had done anything. I couldn't imagine how it didn't make a difference since it was quite the opposite of his trial testimony. Rhodes had confessed to the murders twice more since the Orf and Hysmith incident. Each time, the district attorney's chief investigator would make the trip to visit Rhodes, and each time Rhodes would return to his original testimony. So, even though Rhodes had confessed twice and had contradicted his trial testimony during a polygraph interview, the undeniable proof of his guilt, and our innocence, would remain obscured for another 14 years. March 1981 Footsteps. More than one person... the tapping of women's heels. I am up on tippy toes, face pressed to window, turning away to exhale so as not to fog up my view. There they are! It is Mrs V, the superintendent, and 2 men. One is a guard. The other is wearing a dark business suit. He is definitely official. He must be from Tallahassee, the state capital, and main office of the Department of Corrections. Maybe an inspector. Why are they coming to see me? I haven't sent in any complaints lately. Must be important for Mrs V to come herself. "Sonia, there has been some news concerning your appeal." All ears and eyes, my total attention is fixed on the words as I watch them tumble in slow motion from her mouth. They are like bubbles that pop in the air between us. My sentence had been changed from death to life, but the conviction remained. This meant that I would no longer have to spend the rest of my life in isolation. The sword of impending execution would be removed from over my head, but it also meant I would not be going home. "The state has 14 days in which to appeal the court's decision to change your sentence," Mrs Villacorta went on to say. "After that, you will be moved to Reception and Orientation." My parents are ecstatic. My dad had been at the Florida Supreme Court hearing. He said that the panel of judges was appalled when my attorney said he wasn't prepared to address the fact that his client could be facing a death sentence. They wanted to know if he was court-appointed or privately retained in order to ascertain the state's responsibility for such an unacceptable lack of preparation. So now we could proceed to the next step in the process. Five years to get to the first appeal. Five years of isolation. Five years. I had a major transition to make. After the first three days in R&O, I lost my voice. I wasn't used to talking and my vocal cords had atrophied. It came back after a few days, but it was never the same. I had a different voice - one that sounded like my mother's voice, deeper and more gravelly. Another Christmas season passed and another year began with no change in our situation. I didn't count the days and months, but I did keep track of the years. I was 27 when this began and I was now 38 years old. Eric was now 20 and Tina was an 11-year-old. I didn't see much of either of them now with both of them living so far away. In 1987, a brilliant young attorney called John Evans was working on my case and tracked down Brenda Isham. She had made a good, clean life for herself in Wyoming. Brenda was so filled with remorse that she was willing to make a taped statement, give a deposition to a court reporter, anything to make up for what she had done. The only thing she wouldn't do was return to Florida to testify in court. We were stuck - until one day Brenda called to say that she would come to Florida. She told my lawyers that some men had shown up at her ailing father's house to tell him that he should convince his daughter not to get involved any further in my case on my behalf. That was what changed her mind. So Brenda Isham came to testify in federal court. I had all my hopes up, although I knew from past experience that hope was dangerous. After the usual fanfare, the judge called for the witness to be brought into the courtroom. Brenda took the stand and cried the whole time, telling the judge how and why she had lied. She literally shrank back into her chair when the former prosecutor, now DA, approached her. And then, to my horror and everyone's astonishment, she had a heart attack, right there on the witness stand. The judge called for a nurse. The nurse called for an ambulance. The judge called for a recess. The paramedics came and took Brenda away, and the hearing was over. In mid-April 1990, Jesse's death warrant was signed. His execution was scheduled for May 5, only 3 weeks away! The wheels went into motion on all sides - plans for last-minute appeals, plans to safeguard the children. I was trying to keep my thoughts positive. Jesse's letters are short. I understand. He does not want them to know what he is thinking or feeling. His lawyers, a coalition of pro bono attorneys, were filing appeal after appeal. They were all denied. The Pope in Rome had issued a plea for Jesse's life. The bishop in northern Florida had issued his own plea. The media was hot on the story. There were protesters and revellers. It was a circus. Jesse's death was reported in the local newspapers: 3 JOLTS USED TO EXECUTE KILLER Saturday May 5 1990. The execution of Jesse Tafero in the big chair at Florida state prison went awry Friday morning. Flames and smoke rose from his head as the headset conducting the killer current to his body caught fire. Tafero's execution coincided with the first march of the first national movement against the death penalty, and national pilgrimage for the abolition of the death penalty. Members gathered outside the prison as it lay shrouded in fog early Friday. 'No execution is normal,' said Sister Helen Prejean of New Orleans, who led a march to Atlanta today. Prejean stood in a field opposite the prison with a small group of protesters, holding a vigil as the execution proceeded. Tafero, his brown eyes piercing and angry, had these last words before the executioners fixed the faulty headset to his skull: 'Well, I'd like to say that the death penalty, as applied in the States, is very arbitrary and capricious. I think it's very unfair. I think it's time that everyone wakes up to see that the same laws that can go against crime can go against you tomorrow.' He never received my April 26 letter. It was returned to me marked DECEASED. Just before the execution, I received a letter from my childhood friend Micki, who now produced and directed documentary films. It felt good to reconnect to an older, purer part of my past. Over a series of letters and visits, we renewed our friendship. As Micki's visits continued in late 1990, we were fast approaching the time to submit my federal habeas corpus. It was, for all practical purposes, my last chance. If we did not prevail on it, I would most likely spend the rest of my life in prison. Habeas corpus is only for the purpose of arguing the legal issues - the process, not the facts. It is not permitted to present new evidence in a habeas corpus. You couldn't even argue innocence based on new facts any more, because technically the time for that had passed. I tried to explain to Micki how the recantations of Walter Rhodes and the confession of perjury by Brenda Isham could be deemed "harmless error". She determined to find a way to help. After spending weeks reading about my case and talking to my attorneys, she came up with a brilliant visual way to present all the facts - including the independent eyewitness testimony of two truck drivers, one of whose statements had not been brought out at trial - making it clear that neither Jesse nor I could have done the shooting. The brilliance of Micki's solution was that the presentation of new facts was so inextricably intertwined in the legal arguments that it couldn't be rejected as untimely new evidence. In February 1992, with only one dissenting vote, the federal appeals court overturned my case. This time, both the sentence and my convictions were quashed. This was it! We had won! I was a free woman again! But not exactly. You see, the state had the right to appeal. And they did. The state lost their appeal to reinstate my sentence and conviction. But they still had the right to take me back to trial again, even though there was hardly any basis left on which to do so. After so much time, it would be difficult to locate witnesses, and difficult for either side to present their case properly. From a political perspective, they could not and would not concede that a mistake had been made. If that were the case, I would be entitled to sue the state of Florida for compensation. Two bail applications were refused. At the third, Jos Quion, who would lead the defence team should there be a new trial, openly accused Michael Satz, now Broward state attorney, of "blatant conflict of interest". We filed a motion asking the judge to remove Satz's office from any new trial, and appoint outside prosecutors. Bail was again denied, but a new hearing did begin to have Satz removed from my case. After several days in court, Jos introduced what came to be the coup de grce - the previously undisclosed statement of a guard who had heard Walter Rhodes's confession. It had been buried for 10 years and had only recently been delivered up in a box of papers. Micki had found it. If Jesse's attorneys had been made aware of the guard's statement, they could have used it to save his life. Satz denied any prior knowledge of the guard's statement, but he did offer a deal. If I said that Rhodes didn't do anything, then I would be freed that night. I knew that they might not make another offer, and a new trial could take a long time, but I wouldn't lie. If I said Rhodes didn't do it, it would be like saying Jesse did. I told them to take me back to prison. The next day, Friday, I went to work as usual. I did my work as usual. But I was waiting for a sign I had been praying for, a call, a message. None came. I was in the bosses' office showing my supervisors how to use a program on the new computer system. It was almost 4pm. I would soon be recalled to my cell. The phone rang. The supervisor answered. "Sonia, you're going out to court." I could feel myself hyperventilating. No one gets called to court at 4pm on a Friday unless they are being released, because the jails don't like to keep us "convicts" over the weekend. As I turn the corner, I see the van waiting. I begin to run. There are inmates lining the walkway. The word has spread and they are coming out to say goodbye. Someone is going home. People gather to participate in the miracle. They are clapping, and some are crying, as we pass by. We reach the rear gate. 2 uniformed officers from the Broward Sheriff's Office are waiting for me. We are on the way. I can see the prison through the dust behind the van. I know I will not see it again. We go up to the courtroom. My attorneys are there and explain that they have offered me a plea of convenience. What this means is that I am not allowed to say anything during the proceeding. Also, I have to allow them to read an adjudication of guilt of a lesser degree into the record to prevent me from being able to sue for false imprisonment later. In effect, I am to sit there in silence while they cover their arses. It's all about money and not taking responsibility. I will end up as a convicted felon with a charge of second degree still on the books. But I will be a free woman. Clean break. Free to go. I could be with my children again. I could be with my granddaughter. I would be free. I am thinking about it. I am 45 years old. I am a grandmother. I am tired of fighting. We enter the courtroom and this time I really am set free! I am led to the front of the courtroom, feeling like a helium balloon, grinning my face off! Freedom is right on the other side of the glass doors in front of me. I step out. (source: The Guardian----Sunny Jacobs, 2007. This is an edited extract from Stolen Time: One Woman's Inspiring Story As An Innocent Condemned To Death, by Sunny Jacobs, to be published next week in hardback by Doubleday at 14.99. To order a copy for 13.99, including UK mainland p&p, go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop or call 0870 836 0875.