Take a moment, if you will, or let me rephrase that, if I’m worth ten seconds of your time. Close your eyes and slowly count in one second increments: one … two … three … four … five … six … seven … eight … nine … ten. Open your eyes and think about how long that took. Did it feel long? I’ve been in prison eight hundred sixty-four million of those moments in time. Now let me ask you this, what would you give for half your life? What price would you put on it?
On May 27, 1998, I was ripped away from my pregnant wife and three-year-old son. A zealous DEA agent, and would-be federal prosecutor eager to advance her career, pressured me relentlessly to become an informant – to “snitch” on others in the then illegal cannabis market. I stubbornly refused, not out of loyalty. Not out of principle or survival. Rather, not wanting to see other families destroyed by the impetuous, senseless “war on drugs.”
Mayer Assolin, Steven Lucas, and others in between, know what I’m speaking about. Even my court-appointed attorney, Kenneth McCoy, who still practices law in Houston, Texas, joined in. He used legal maneuvers to try to force me into cooperating and thus become a “rat.”; knowing full well I wasn’t caught with any drugs, money, or guns, and wasn’t a leader in the conspiracy. Again, I stood my ground by replying a “Fuck you!” to his face. Not so wise.
All three law figures (the DEA agent, the prosecutor, and the court-appointed attorney) subjected me to harsh treatment – moving me from jail to jail, cell to cell – disrupting all contact with my loved-ones. Their goal? To break me into submission. I spent Father’s Day in solitary confinement.
My thirtieth birthday passed without a call to my son or wife. Then finally Christmas of 1998 brought – like a lump of coal – a jury’s guilty verdict followed by a forty-year prison sentence. And all for what? For refusing to play ball? For not taking the witness stand against others as they took it against me, saying, “Yes, it was him. He made me do it.”
Twenty-eight years have slipped by. Ten thousand days of being shackled; caged like a wild beast. Eight hundred sixty-four million moments wishing I was home with my family.
This morning I spent one of those moments staring out the barred window of my ten-by-eight foot prison cell. A bird perched on a bare tree atop a hill, enshrouded in cold winter fog. The tree, leafless and barren. The sky, a grey haze signaling the last trace of blue on the verge of turning black. The unmoving bird representing my life: frozen, still, cold – unwilling to flap its wings to escape the moment it is experiencing.
I know I sound like a scratched, vinyl record, the needle stuck in the same groove, endlessly circling without advancing to the next lyric of the song it’s playing. But every moment I am reminded of the price I’ve paid. Crucified, like Christ on Calvary’s cross, for refusing to turn against another man. Deprived of freedom, love, affection, and all the small things that make us human. This is my penance. This is my fate. Reminds me of a song I partially wrote a couple days ago:
… the night is well spent, but these hands feel empty still
Cried night and day, behind barred windows forever sealed
Rain’s been pouring down, washing memories away,
and here I stand, lost in the rain, trying not to fade …
I keep holding on to shadows, praying someone understands,
A heart that’s bruised and beaten, yet still reaches out its hands …
Would you see me for who I am, and let some light back in?
On this island castaway, I’m still praying – let healing begin …
Christmas is around the corner. The decorations for 2025 already commenced. Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer song is already playing on the radio, “Rudolph, the red nose reindeer had a very shiny nose, if you ever saw him, you would even say it glows … ” Every beginning of December carry moments of dark reflection for me. Moments in which I look back over the years and realize half my life is gone. I came into the belly of the beast at thirty years old. I’m now fifty-seven.
And, it’s not so much what the years have stolen, it’s what I’ve lost in the process. But I won’t’ cry. I made a determinate decision. I didn’t snitch. And for that I’m still here, with closed eyes, counting, one … two … three …
Edwin Rubis is serving 40 years for a non-violent marijuana crime. He has been in prison since 1998. His outdate is 2031. You can help Edwin’s family obtain his release: https://gofund.me/25d30316d
You can send Edwin a text message [through corrlinks]: (256) 982-5828
