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AMY GOODMAN: This is Democracy Now!, democracynow.org, The War and Peace Report. I’m Amy Goodman.
In this holiday special, we turn now to the case of Ohio death row prisoner Keith LaMar. He’s featured in an incredible new animated short film called The Injustice of Justice, illustrated by the artist Molly Crabapple. The film recently won the grand prize for the best animated short film at the Golden State Film Festival. This is The Injustice of Justice.
KEITH LAMAR: My name is Keith LaMar. I’m a poet, author and musician. For the past 31 years, I’ve been in solitary confinement, buried under the never-ending agony of sensory deprivation. On January the 13th, 2027, the state of Ohio intends to kill me. I’m innocent. Thousands of people around the country and the world have rallied around my cause, joining me in my demand for justice. Here’s my story.
When I was 19 years old and selling drugs, a group of would-be robbers in search of money forced their way into my apartment. A shootout ensued, and, regrettably, I took someone’s life and was myself shot twice in the legs. Facing a long prison sentence and on the advice of counsel, I pled guilty to murder and was sentenced to serve 18 years to life. Determined to redeem myself and make good on my potential, I completed my GED, enrolled in college and became a voracious reader in an attempt to repair myself to society.
I was in the fourth year of my sentence when, in 1993, a riot erupted inside the prison. Apparently, a group of Muslim prisoners on religious grounds refused to submit to mandatory tuberculosis testing and were given an ultimatum: Take the test or else. Amid rumors of a forced inoculation, the Muslims took over the prison in protest, releasing some 400 prisoners from their cells and setting into motion an 11-day standoff that would also reclaim the lives of one guard and nine prisoners.
I was on the recreation yard when it all began. A guard came running out of the building with blood streaming down his face, followed by a masked prisoner who was carrying a weapon and yelling, “We taking over!” Against my better judgment, I went inside to check on my personal belongings. A fatal mistake. It was complete chaos. When I made it to my assigned location, I discovered that it was being used as a holding area for hostages, both guards and prisoners. I was thereafter approached by a masked prisoner, who gave me the option to either participate or leave. I chose to leave.
Hundreds of us gathered on the yard, waiting as the National Guard and Highway Patrol took up watch outside the perimeter fence. Later, when dead bodies were dumped into the yard, they stood by and did nothing. It was as if I was trapped inside a nightmare.
Around 2 a.m. the following morning, we were rounded up and herded into the gymnasium, where we were stripped naked and then violently forced in random groups of 10 into cells meant for one person. Stressed and stretched to the limit, a fight broke out over food. Tragically, I stood back and watched as a man named Dennis Weaver was held down by three prisoners and choked to death. It was a cowardly thing to do. And I can now see and admit that. But at the time, I was worried about my own life. When I was later questioned by authorities, I claimed to have been asleep. It was my way of telling them that I didn’t want to be involved.
But it was too late. Because I had gone into the hostage area without wearing a mask, my name would be mentioned among the vast array of potential subjects. Even though the state concedes that I was never affiliated with any of the gangs said to have presided over the riot, the fact that I was already serving time for murder would play big part in their decision to indict me.
Ultimately, I was charged with nine counts of aggravated murder. I couldn’t believe it. Mind you, it was never expected that I would actually demand a trial. “He copped out once. He’ll cop out again” was the prevailing belief. In fact, no sooner than I was indicted, I was offered a deal: “Plead guilty, and we’ll run the time concurrent with the time you’re already serving.” In other words, I would have gotten off easier had I actually killed someone.
But why me? Why was I singled out for this undeserved retribution? It’s a good question, one that I’ve spent the better part of three decades trying to explain. Here’s what I can tell you. When the riot came to an end, overzealous officials rushed into the prison without first securing the massive crime scene, rendering inadmissible some 22,000 pieces of evidence. So there was absolutely no evidence to link anyone to crimes. This meant the state had to rely solely on the uncorroborated testimony of jailhouse informants, the most unreliable witnesses of all.
What to do? Well, the first thing the state did was enlist the help and expertise of the Hamilton County Prosecutor’s Office. This was not a random selection. Hamilton County has the dubious distinction of convicting and executing more than half of all death row prisoners in the United States. And how have they been so successful? The answer is simple and deadly: through the impaneling of all-white juries, the use of paid jailhouse informants and the intentional withholding of exculpatory evidence. I have now in my possession the statement of an actual perpetrator who admitted to murdering someone for whom I was sentenced to death. And this is only the tip of the iceberg. They withheld so much more.
It’s over three decades later now, and I’m still in solitary confinement being tortured because I refused to plead guilty to something I didn’t do. I’m innocent. Look, we kid ourselves when we speak of justice. Until we have a process that holds everyone equally accountable for their actions, this system will remain what it has always been: a punishment system. And as we all know, those who don’t have the capital get the punishment.
AMY GOODMAN: That’s the new award-winning short film The Injustice of Justice, illustrated by the renowned artist Molly Crabapple.
Coming up, we speak to Keith LaMar on death row in the Ohio Correctional Penitentiary, where he’s been held for over 30 years, much of it in solitary confinement.
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AMY GOODMAN: The late, great Randy Weston, performing for Democracy Now! in 2012.
