A Bunk, Desk, and Toilet

Here is a free portion of my new book.

The 292nd Dallas Criminal District Judge Pat McDowell's gavel pounded the table with so much ferocious power and authority that I felt I had been suckered, punched in the stomach, and had the wind knocked out of me. The mood in the courtroom was a deep fog for me. I was alone. My trial attorney told my Mama that she didn't need to be there for the sentencing of the two remaining charges. I was arrested on January 20th, 1994. Mama bonded me out of jail in March 1994, three months later. I stayed out on bond for 1 1/2 years. Today is January 13th, 1996. How could I have been free for a year and a half, working every day, and now be sentenced to prison? The pronouncement of my sentence had me bent over in shock and fear.

Earlier that week, Mama took me shopping at Levine's department store on Buckner Boulevard in the old Pleasant Grove shopping center behind Kroger's grocery store next to Pancho's Mexican restaurant. I remember Pancho's Mexican restaurant had all-you-can-eat buffets, which became a favorite of Mama and Big Mama when we went shopping in Pleasant Grove. All you had to do at Pancho's Mexican restaurant was raise the flag, and the food would keep coming.

Anna M Henderson

Mama spent my last day of freedom at Levine's department store looking for a nice suit and shoes for me to wear at trial. My suit was cream in color. Mama picked out a white linen shirt and a peanut butter-colored tie. My shoes were peanut butter colored. I didn't have slip-on loafers but designer shoes with laces. My trial attorney convinced Mama that how I dressed in the courtroom influenced the judge and jury in a positive manner.

I disagreed with my trial attorney's assumption about how a person's courtroom attire influenced the judge and jury. I didn't believe that a person's dress carried any weight of evidence of a not guilty or guilty verdict. When you are young and black in America's courtroom, it doesn't matter if you have on a wrinkled black and white striped county jail suit or a Tom Ford designer suit; if you are black and you are sitting at the defense table, in the juror's mind, you are guilty of something.

I will admit that before I had the wind knocked out of me and saw my life flash before me, I thought I looked good in my suit. My trial attorney even commented during his opening to the jurors how well-dressed I was compared to him. My trial attorney dressed like he was in the 1970s disco era. He wore a polyester suit. The white shirt he wore with his suit was so dingy that there were yellow sweat stains around his collar. And he always smelt like cigarettes.

After hearing the sentence, I couldn't even shed a tear. I was so numb. The people in the courtroom may have mistaken the look on my face for a lack of remorse, but it was shock and fear. Additionally, I was on Paxil, Trazadone, and Prozac as part of my treatment for mental health illness.

Society and the media, such as TV, always narrate this story of an angry black male. The narrative surrounding black males in the media is often skewed and misleading. News reports, films, and various forms of entertainment frequently depict black men as overly aggressive, uncaring, and devoid of emotional depth. This portrayal is not only inaccurate but also harmful, reinforcing negative stereotypes that fail to capture the complexity of their experiences and identities.

In many cinematic and musical representations, black men are cast as brutal, hardened figures who exhibit little to no vulnerability. This image perpetuates the idea that they are emotionless and indifferent to the world around them. However, when one takes the time to engage in genuine conversation with these individuals, a different reality emerges—one rich with emotion, sensitivity, and depth.

While it is true that some may present a tough exterior, this is often a defense mechanism developed in response to a world that has repeatedly shown indifference or hostility. For many black men, maintaining this hardened façade is a way to protect themselves from those who may feign concern while harboring ulterior motives. Beneath the surface is a profound emotional landscape; many have deep-seated desires to express their feelings, yet societal norms and expectations frequently stifle this need.

There have been countless moments when I've yearned to express my emotions, to allow the tears to flow freely, yet felt constrained by the fear of not being accepted or understood. This internal struggle is a testament to the complexities of navigating personal and societal pressures, revealing a more nuanced truth about the emotional lives of black men that often goes unheard.

The same world that tells us black men are angry and aggressive never provided space for men to be vulnerable and transparent. People say,' Just be a man", but what does that mean to the young man who has never seen a man. We, as men, live in a toxic world that exploits men's insecurities. We live in a culture as men. If we tell people our wounds or deepest secrets, people will question our masculinity. I want to tell society that we, as men, are none of those angry or aggressive things. We are none of those things, societal narrates for us.

I often find myself grappling with fear, a feeling I hesitate to express because I'm uncertain about how you might perceive me. For much of my life, I've yearned to open my heart to love, but I've never truly witnessed what a genuinely healthy relationship looks like or what it means to encounter a real man. Many women face the same struggle, growing up without a clear example of authentic masculinity.

What if you knew I'm somewhat clumsily navigating this entire "manhood" journey? The reality is that I'm neither filled with anger nor am I excessively tough or overly gentle. I am simply HUMAN, just like you. At my core, I desire a sense of safety—an assurance that the things I share won't be turned against me in moments of conflict.

Men crave a space to express themselves without fear of being judged or subject to scorekeeping regarding their shortcomings. We long for a nurturing environment where vulnerability is met with understanding. Each day, I put on an outward facade, masking my insecurities with a smile and donning a metaphorical cape full of holes while trying to embody the superhero image of Superman. The truth is, beneath that surface, I am trying my best to navigate this complex world.

"To be honest, I wasn't angry. I was scared. I was terrified. I didn't know who I was, so how could I introduce Korey to prison? I had been convicted on three counts of aggravated robbery that occurred in January of 1994. At 18 years old, foolishness became felonies. This was my first time getting in trouble with the criminal system. I have never been on juvenile or adult probation."

I had pleaded not guilty to one count of aggravated robbery. I was found guilty by jury trial. The jury sentenced me to 40 years aggravated. Under the ineffective assistance of my trial counsel, James O'Bryant, he erroneously advised me to plead guilty to the two remaining aggravated robbery charges. My trial counsel erroneously told me that since I already had 40 years, the trial judge would give me 40 years on the other two remaining aggravated robbery charges.

I had bonded out of Dallas County jail a year and a half earlier. I was desperate to find and hire an attorney. To remain on bond, one of the court's requirements is that a person on bond must have a hired attorney on record to stay on bond. You cannot be on bond and maintain a court-appointed attorney. I was referred to my trial attorney by the bail bondsman. I met attorney James O'Bryant at a downtown office building where various people rented office space. His office was in downtown Dallas on Commerce Street, not too far from the county jail. Mama and I made an appointment and arrived at his office Friday evening after she got off work.

We arrived at the office. There needed to be a secretary or receptionist. We just knocked on the door, and Mr. O'Bryant yelled for us to come in. He was on the phone smoking a cigarette and waved for us to come in. He hung up his call and introduced himself. Mr. O'Bryant had trash everywhere. His desk was cluttered with papers. Mama looked at me with a look of uncertainty in her eyes. I should have trusted Mama's instincts. Mamas are always right when it comes to judging people's character. I overlooked Mama's questioning look. I moved some papers out of a chair for Mama to sit down. Mama sat down begrudgingly, put her purse on her lap, and rolled her eyes at me. We listened while O'Bryant talked and asked me questions. Mr. O'Bryant talked a good lawyer's talk, promising me I would get probation.

Mr. O'Bryant said he would represent me on all three aggravated robbery charges for $2500. Mama and I agreed on the terms and set up a payment plan. Mama pulled her checkbook out of her purse and wrote Mr. O'Bryant a check for $1000 as a retainer fee. We shook hands, and as Mama and I were getting up to leave, O'Bryant asked me a question. If I would have thought about his question, would have snatched that check from O'Bryant's hands, grabbed Mama's arm, and ran out of his office.

O'Bryant, my newly hired attorney, asked if I could drive him up the street to the liquor store located in front of the county jail so he could cash a check. Mama inquired, "Mr. O'Bryant, are you saying you don't have a bank account to deposit my check?" He replied, "No, ma'am. I often use the liquor store across from the courthouse to cash my clients' checks. They know me very well there. It will only take a minute—I’ll go in and be right back out."

In the throes of youth and desperation, clarity often eludes us. I found myself in a moment of bewilderment when O'Bryant, my attorney, posed a question that lingered in my mind: How could he not even have a car to drive himself? As I grappled with this unsettling thought, a wave of realization crashed over me: I was placing my future in the hands of someone who seemed unprepared.

With a sense of urgency weighing heavily on my chest, I understood that time was running out. I needed to secure a new attorney to represent me by Monday. The past three months confined within the cold, stark walls of the county jail had already taken their toll, and the idea of losing my freedom yet again sent a shiver down my spine. I felt desperate to forge a path toward my liberation, knowing I had to act swiftly to avoid the haunting specter of incarceration once more.

But back to the day of the trial. It was a clear winter day in January of 1996. My attorney notified my Mama that the trial was beginning on Monday. Mama sent my sister Carmen to where I lived with a friend, where the day of the court had come. The trial date had been set and postponed for a year and a half. I arrived at Lew Sterrett courthouse and got on the floor. On the elevator was a middle-aged white lady. I politely asked her what floor she was going to. She said the 6th floor. I said I'm going to the same floor. We both rode the elevator in silence. I'm nervous, scared. The day I had dreaded had finally arrived.

Looking back at the irony of that elevator ride with the middle-aged white woman, I didn't know until trial that she was the victim of one of the robberies. As the getaway driver, I never saw the victims. I listened at trial as she spoke about her fears that day, and one of the men responsible, who was now sitting at the defense table, was just thirty minutes ago alone with her on an elevator. She didn't know one of the men who robbed her was out on bond.

Counsel was aware that I was an outpatient receiving treatment for my diagnosed Bipolar mental disorder, and my doctor, Marjorie Bruhn, was with the Mental Health and Mental Retardation (MHMR) in Dallas. Dr. Bruhn, as my treating physician, was willing and wanting to testify on my behalf at the sentencing phase of my trial.

Dr. Korey - Let me know what you think