Copyright © 2015 Herbert Murray.

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Inspiring Voices

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ISBN: 978-1-4624-1093-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-1094-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922421

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 01/26/2015

CONTENTS

The Nightmare

My Upbringing

The Connection

The Courts

The Indictment

The Wade And Bail Reduction Hearing

The Trial

The Second Trial

Sing Sing

The Auburn Correctional Facility

The Eastern Correction Facility

Attica Correctional Facility

Second Time In Auburn

Oneida Correctional Facility

First Parole Board Appearance

Fishkill Correctional Facility

Second Parole Board Appearance (1996)

Third And Fourth Parole Board Appearances

Fifth And Sixth Parole Board Appearances

Otisville Correctional Facility

Freedom At Last

Welcome Home

The Job Search

The Physical Transition

The Mental Transition

It is the character of growth that we should learn from pleasant and unpleasant experiences.

—Nelson Mandela

November 1997

THE NIGHTMARE

It all started on June 27, 1979, when approximately seven detectives banged on my door, guns drawn. When my common-law wife, Jackie, answered the door, they burst in, yelling, Where is Herbert Murray? When I came into the room, they grabbed me, threw me against the wall, put a gun to my head, and told me I was under arrest for murder. In the background, I could hear my thirteen-month-old daughter, Taneé, crying like crazy. Those detectives didn’t have any regard for our lives—not my daughter’s, Jackie’s, or mine. It was the scariest thing I have ever experienced in my life. When I asked them what they were talking about, they told me to Shut up.

I was taken to the Eighty-eighth Precinct, located on DeKalb and Classon Avenues. They took me to the interrogation room, where they questioned me about a murder that took place two weeks before on June 13, 1979. Can you imagine how confused I was? I was being charged for a murder I had no clue about. It seemed absolutely crazy. They were putting so much pressure on me that I couldn’t even think.

I had to think about two Wednesdays ago. When the detectives asked me where I was on June 13, I told them I was with a housing police officer and four others: Vincent Brown, Ronnie Cook, Junior Washington, and Andrew Lambus. When I told him I was with a police officer, the detective left the room and came back about ten minutes later. He came over to me, smacked me in the face, and told me never to lie about a fellow police officer. That made me more confused. If I wasn’t with the housing officer and the other four guys, then it had to be the other Wednesday when I went to the bank and withdrew $40 so that I could purchase a bike a friend was selling. The detectives didn’t want to believe anything I had to say. The only thing they were concerned with was finding evidence to use against me when I went to court.

After they questioned me, they called in the assistant district attorney (ADA) to question me about the murder. I believe his name was Gallo. He gave me a little more information about what was going on. Gallo first asked me the same questions the detectives asked me. Then he asked me if I knew Joseph Hartman.

Wow, Joseph Hartman!

I knew him as Jo Jo. We grew up together. He knew my whole family, and I knew his. We went to public school together. Jo Jo was a little older than me; he was in the same age group as my brother. When I was sixteen, Jo Jo and I and four others were arrested for a small-time robbery on school grounds. The court gave each of us five years’ probation. That crime took place in 1974 but played a big role in why I was being charged with murder. At that time, none of this made any sense. I was twenty-one years old, but mentally I may have been on a third-grade level. I couldn’t read or write. I was so scared and confused I didn’t know what to do.

ADA Gallo said Jo Jo supposedly claimed I was with him on the day of the murder. I told the ADA that if Jo Jo told him that, he was a liar. ADA Gallo was confusing me even more. I was sure he was trying to intimidate me so I would cooperate with him. He was trying to get me to incriminate myself, so he could use everything I said against me in court. He was a smooth guy. The only thing he was concerned with was getting a conviction when he took me in front of the judge.

As I mentioned before, I had to remember what I was doing two Wednesdays before. When I told ADA Gallo about the two stories, he tried to use it against me. He kept telling me I was lying, but I stuck to my story. Finally, he charged me with murder in the second degree. The detectives took me to central booking where I was fingerprinted. They took my picture and did the paperwork so I could appear in court the next day. The detectives then took me to the Brooklyn House of Detention where I was locked up for a murder I did not commit.

As soon as I got the opportunity, I called my friend, the housing police officer. He told me no detective called him and verified I was with him and the others on June 13, 1979. I was furious!

Let me back up little. ADA Gallo told me this was a drug-related murder. Jo Jo and I were allegedly looking for drugs and ran into a guy named Marty, who was selling us drugs. I guess Marty said Jo Jo didn’t have enough money, and Jo Jo told Marty he would be back. A half hour later, Jo Jo and I allegedly came back to buy the drugs. I later learned Jo Jo was hanging out with my brother that day. After the murder, someone identified Jo Jo at the scene of the crime. This witness said he knew Jo Jo and gave a description of the other person he saw with him that day.

But I had stopped hanging out with Jo Jo back in 1974 after we were arrested as teenagers.

MY UPBRINGING

I grew up in one the roughest neighborhoods in New York City—Fort Greene, Brooklyn. My mother had seven boys and five girls. Hamilton was my mother’s married name, and Murray was my mother’s maiden name. Carolyn, Barbara, Debra, Michael, Anthony, and Jerome were Hamiltons. Calvin, Darlene, Steve, Cathy, Joseph, and I were Murrays. Everyone in the neighborhood knew my family, especially my brothers, because they were all fighters.

My mother was a very strong woman. To raise seven boys and five girls, she had to be. I remember my mother in the kitchen all day long. Everything was going, all the eyes on the stove burning and gospel music playing. She would be singing one minute and yelling at us the next. Everyone had to be home by the time the streetlights came on. If you weren’t home by then, you wouldn’t eat for the night. Yes, we all tried sneaking in the kitchen when we thought Mama was sleeping. Her room was right below the kitchen, and the floors were squeaky, so she heard everything that went on in there. She got out of her bed to enforce the no-kitchen rule, it was that important.

My mother didn’t take mess from any of us. Everybody was scared of her, because she was a no-nonsense person. She didn’t play games. She would pick up the closest thing to her and bust you in the head with it. I remember one day when I spoke back to Mama. I guess I was trying her because I thought I was grown. She picked up a broom and knocked me upside my head. That was the last time I spoke back to Mama in that tone. Mama was really hard on me, because she thought I was the slick one who got away with a lot.

My brother Steve and I looked so much alike growing up that Mama used to mistake him for me. Steve used to take my beatings, because I switched beds with him when I knew Mama was going to come after me when I did something wrong. Sure enough, Mama would try to sneak up those stairs. I always knew when she was coming, because I heard those squeaky stairs. I immediately hid in the bathroom. The next thing I heard was Steve crying, because Mama had beaten him instead of me. Steve and I laugh about that all the time now.

My mother was a beautiful woman and my role model. Even if she hadn’t been my mother, I would have picked her as one by a long shot. She was both mother and father to me, and I learned a lot from her.

She taught all of us how to cook, iron, wash clothes, and clean. Cleaning wasn’t just my sisters’ chore. The boys cleaned whatever Mama told us to clean. We washed dishes, went to the Laundromat, and ironed our clothes for school. But the worst chore was picking up the welfare food. No one wanted to pick up that food because it was embarrassing. The whole neighborhood would know you were on welfare. But when it was time to pick up the food, we hooked the cart like we were going to the Laundromat. We really thought people didn’t know we were going to pick up the welfare food.

Yes, Mama taught me well. I didn’t understand it growing up. But I certainly understand her teachings now. She was a determined, hardworking, strong woman. I never saw Mama look weak or cry in any situation. She was something else. Mama saw I had that same strength, because I never gave up. I didn’t get into the drugs so many guys my age were involved in at that time.

Heroin, aka dope, had infested my community. People were going in and out of prison because they had to lie, cheat, or steal in order to take care of their habit. People were dying left and right because they had overdosed. People became homeless because they were strung out on heroin. I thank God that I was able to come out of the situation that I saw trapping many black teenagers. I’m not saying I’d escaped entirely, because I was still affected by the community.

Still, I didn’t have a sense of direction, and I definitely felt trapped. In fact, I remember trying to enlist in the US Army, but they rejected me because I had a criminal record. That was about two years after I was arrested with Jo Jo and those four other individuals. I recall the recruiting officers telling me that if I went back to the courts and tried to get my record expunged, he would allow me to join the army. But I never did go to ask the judge.

Some say that people don’t become a product of their environment, but I’m a living witness to the truth of it. Our community had a high crime rate. Gangs ran the streets where I came from, and it was very poor neighborhood. I survived while many of those I grew up with are now gone, either dead or in prison. It’s really amazing how many young black men waste their lives not knowing how to escape their environment.

The educational system didn’t really help because the teachers were from the middle class. Their values were different from ours. They really didn’t understand our situation of being poor. Yes, we were very emotional, angry, and hungry and felt really deprived. How in the world can a person who came from a different world understand what I was going through as a poor, young black man?

Maybe that was the reason why a teacher punched me in the chest. He just didn’t understand why I was so angry. I didn’t really understand why until I became an adult. So how in the world could someone else understand me? It’s a very hurtful experience growing up in a poor family with a mother running the household on her own. Sometimes I sit and think about my past and reflect on the things Mama told me. Being kids, we were hardheaded. We thought we had all the answers, but we didn’t know anything.

My father was never around. I really didn’t know him. I remember one time when I played hooky from school and my mother saw me. I think I was in the sixth grade at that time. Anyway, Mama wanted my father to come over to kick my behind because she was getting older and weaker and wanted a man to discipline me.

Now, mind you, my father had never played a role in my life. He taught me nothing. I barely knew him. He was a total stranger to me. On this particular day after I got caught playing hooky, he came over. I don’t exactly remember what kind of device he used—either a stick or belt—but yeah, he kicked my behind. I was so mad I ran out of the house. I was mad at the world. I was about ten years old, but my mind was like a six-year-old.

I rebelled so much that I got kicked out of public school when I was in the sixth grade. I remember my teacher, the principal, and my mother all got together and spoke about transferring me to an all boys’ school. My mother gave them permission to tear my behind up when I got into trouble. After a while I started doing well at this school. My grades went up, and I became part of the basketball team; I went on field trips, and I felt the love from all my teachers. Most of the teachers were black, so there was a sense that they were more concerned about the kids as opposed to the public school I got kicked out of.

I did very well at this boys’ school. I graduated there with honors. I went on to Eastern District High School. Most of my friends who graduated the year before me were at Eastern District. They were trying to get me to play hooky, smoke weed, and go to hooky parties. But I didn’t want to get with that, because I wanted to play basketball. My mother was proud of me because I was doing so well in school.

Then my whole life came tumbling down when my mother died. All of a sudden I started hanging out with my former friends. I started playing hooky, I started smoking weed, I started going to the hooky parties. I didn’t care about my grades. I didn’t care about playing basketball. I really didn’t even care about myself at that point.

My first encounter with the law was when I was arrested for fighting on the train. When the police came to break up the fight, the person I was fighting wanted to press charges against me.