Jamie Scott's Tragic Journey Through Cruelty

The words mouthed by famed British philosopher Bertrand Russell in 1927 echo in my mind today: "Fear is the parent of cruelty."
How fearful must the Mississippi criminal justice establishment be to heap upon Jaimie Scott and her family the cruelty she suffers.
Last year Anthony Papa summarized the tragic story of Jamie and her sister Gladys who have endured a decade and a half of incarceration for a crime they didn't commit, a crime from which they did not profit, a crime that did not result in injury to anyone, a crime that netted its real perpetrators less than $20, a crime that brought its actual perpetrators a 10-month jail sentence in exchange for testimony implicating the Scott sisters. Since then, the confessed perpetrators have recanted their testimony against the sisters, but they remain behind bars.
Incarceration under such circumstances seems as cruel as it can get, but even worse is now upon us.
Since March 15, Jamie has been hospitalized with a life-threatening infection, a complication of kidney failure.
How fearful must Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour be to refuse a compassionate pardon for Jamie, who has no other criminal history and is now bound (both figuratively and literally) to a prison bed.
Today, I'm proud to join bloggers from around the country, to raise our voices in support of Jamie and Gladys Scott. Today is the perfect time to learn more about the Scott sisters. Take just a minute to look at this CNN video:

You can find a great deal of information online; here are some links to get you started:

• Free the Scott Sisters Blog
• Newsweek
• Mississippi Prison Watch

Most importantly, take action by

• Calling Governor Barbour at 1-877-405-0733 or 601-359-3150
  
• Joining the Scott Sisters' Facebook group
• Share your outrage with others

What was being wrongfully in prison at 17 years of age really like?

The Guilty Verdict

Editor’s note: Jeffrey Deskovic was charged and subsequently convicted at age 17 for a rape and murder he’d not committed. The NCCJR blog is proud to serialize Mr. Deskovic’s account of his horrifying journey through the depths of injustice to eventual exoneration, sixteen years later. What follows appeared previously in The Westchester Guardian and with permission is appears here in slightly edited form. It is but the first installment.

I was stunned when the jury returned the verdict of, “Guilty.” ­The courtroom began spinning and time stood still, and I felt, that I was in Fantasyland. As my lawyer went with Assistant District Attorney George Bolen and Judge Colabella into his chambers, my family, seated directly behind me, wanted me to sit with them, doubtless to provide support, comfort, and to help me deal with the shock and disbelief that was on my face. One of the court officers asked Judge Colabella if it was all right for me to sit a mere four steps from where I was seated. Giving short shrift to the question, and looking annoyed at even having been asked, he said, “No” without even considering it and continued to his chambers.

Given that there were court officers all around who had sidearms, I don’t see what there was to fear from such a request being allowed. Shortly afterward, when the Judge and the attorneys re-entered, I scarcely heard the words from Colabella, “­The defendant is remanded to the County Jail for sentencing,” even though I am sure he spoke in a normal tone. I was escorted into a room with a brown door with bars, not much bigger than a closet, with only a bench.

I sat in shock and disbelief. A court officer walked by and sensed that I was going through something mentally. Yet, there was nothing he could do. He paused as he walked by, unsure of what to do, or even what his superiors would allow. I asked him, “What will happen to me now?” He told me that I would be taken downstairs and searched because it was a different department. He wanted to know if there was anything that I wanted to give to my family. I quickly decided that I wanted my family to have my wallet, tie clip, and watch, as mementos to remember me by. I was silently bidding them farewell, unsure if I would ever see them again.

Next time: “The County Jail.”