Meet the Devil: The Loran Cole Story by Chris Dahl ISBN / ASIN: 147512886X

The Devil Changes Heart Now as with any good book, you must have an ending, a piece that will pull everything together full circle, a piece that will give you a complete understanding. … I came from the world you live in. I walked among you. I held jobs with you. I shopped at the same stores as you. It’s what we call society and “freedom” and even though I was a screwed up human being I enjoyed “that life” with its little creature comforts. Just as you’re sitting there reading this, all kicked back in your favorite chair with a bowl of ice cream and a soda at your side relaxing, I too enjoyed just that. But due to actions and screwed up behavior, I lost that freedom and was forced to spend my life in this cage and behind these bars—forced to live with the knowledge and the memory of “why?” I lost and no longer enjoy that freedom. My entire life prior to this was filled with insanity—madness and chaos, running form my problems and finding solutions in the bottoms of bottles or sacks of dope—or anything else that would get me high enough to forget about the problems. I did not know how to deal with things, did not know how to use my brains for anything but corruption; did not know what a man was or how to become one. I was never taught these things as I grew up, I was taught hatred and animosity, and throughout the vast part of my youth and young adulthood that is what I gave the world. Before you say I had choices, perhaps there were, but given the environment I was born into and the people raising me and teaching me, “choices” weren’t really known or an option for me. I was just trying to live and survive through it. … I came to prison with nothing—no family, no friends and no money. I had alienated everyone I ever knew—my behavior and actions pushed them away. So I had no one on my side and in my corner to help me. And what didn’t help matters was the reputation that they—the State—had given me through their overzealous prosecution and the tampering of evidence and falsifying reports—ensuring people despised me. So I’m stuck here with all that time on my hands. And with that the mind starts replaying and reliving the events of my life and the “why” I was put in this cage. The more time I thought the more I began to understand all of this. It was my own fault for not listening to what I was told. As I sat in these cages trying to piece it all together, I started to become frustrated—why? I had nothing—no comforts of any kind—no decent shoes or shorts for the “yard”—no TV, no radio or headphones. No writing or drawing paper. Pens or envelopes to write with or stamps to mail letters with … stress and tension just kept building and I started becoming disgruntled and belligerent, lashing out at the guys and guards around me instigating chaos/trouble. One day during this dark period a couple of older guys on the row pulled me to the side and asked me “What the fuck’s your problem? Are you trying to make matters worse?” And I’m not sure what prompted me but I began to explain to them “why” I was so fucked up and I was tired of doing and being “without”. After I’d finished they both looked at me and said, “Why didn’t you just ask for help?”I didn’t know anyone and asking for help was not something I was used to doing. Then they asked me what my hustle was and due to my numerous stints in prison I knew what hustling was—it was artwork and fixing things. Sure enough I started getting on my feet and having a little something. I was drawing cards, pictures, fixing radios, headphones and an occasional TV and watches. My first drawing was a clown, the Muslim brother I showed it to started laughing and gave me the nickname “Killer Clown”, not after [John Wayne] Gacy, but after the clown I drew … My first few years had ups and downs and though I wasn’t suffering I was lonely for the companionship of someone outside to talk to—someone not associated with prison—I put out some pen-pal ads seeking friendship and correspondence. And at first it was good, I mean people responded and that loneliness seemed to dissipate—I felt things were looking up for me and that I could do this. … I met a young lady out of Winter Haven—Carmen Cay—she was a college student studying psychology. I told her things I had told others prior—she started putting my ass in check and challenging me on things I’d divulged. I was too used to others just accepting, that her challenging questions wasn’t Kosher—we’d made arrangements for a visit. She applied to my list and was approved. So we set a date. As it neared I became hesitant of her truthfulness. I’d been corresponding for a couple of months and repeatedly asked for her picture—she told me that it wasn’t necessary and that I’d see her when I got there. This coyness of hers caused doubt. And as the visit neared my mind played tricks—she’s not coming—she’s ugly and huge—she’s just a bug, etc. I mean all kinds of stuff. It was Friday night and I got this card from her—all it said was Saturday and then little smiley faces and hearts. All that night I thoughtrt about that card and her. I got no sleep that night and about 7 am that Saturday I was up fully cleaned and shaven, praying this would go well. About 9 am they called me on the intercom: “Cole, ya got a visit.” My pulse started racing and heart thumping—palms sweaty—I was nervous. My very first visit while on Death Row. They came and pulled me. Took me downstairs and strip searched and told me to put on “park clothes” (orange tops and white pants) and to see the officer at the desk when I went in. When I walked in the door people had already begun visiting. I looked around to see if anyone was watching—I figured she hadn’t come in yet so I sat down by the door and just watching, so entranced I didn’t even see her come up from behind. It wasn’t until she covered my eyes and said “Guess who?” that I realized she was there. It scared the shit out of me and I fell off the stool trying to get some distance. When I got my sense and looked at her—forgive the cliché—but she looked like an angel standing there, light from behind made her shine. When I stood and took in the full sight of her, I thought “This couldn’t be.” There was no way this beautiful young girl could be here for me. She stepped in and wrapped her arms around me and whispered in my ear—and instinctively I did the same. We walked over and got a few sodas and some popcorn and when we got back to the table she took my hand in hers and looked me square in the eye and said, “You don’t have to lie to me. I care about you because of who you are—not where you are— now tell me the truth about Loran.” I’m sure what got me most was the fact that she knew I was lying because she cared for me and not where I was. As I sat and pondered my response, she gave a little squeeze on my hands and said, “The truth.” And throughout the rest of our visit I told her every little dirty deed and secret of Loran, from start to finish and when it was time to go, she stood with tears in her eyes, saying, “Thank you,” and that she’d had a good time and would be back in a few weeks. There was one big hug and kiss and she was gone. That night as I sat in my cage with her words echoing in my mind, I was confused. The woman didn’t know me from Adam and I had lied and misled her—and when I told her the truth she still cared. Why? What would prompt that? I just didn’t know. I started pushing my other friend’s letters to the side and started writing her and asking her that very thing, “Why?” The next 10 to 14 days I was impatient for a response. Oh, I had gotten letters from her since the visit but never a response to my questions. Then one day as I sat by the idiot box TV the mailman rolled by and put a letter on the door. I got up and saw it was from her and quickly tore it open—a photo dropped to the ground (it was her as a young girl of 8 or 9—she was sitting with her arms wrapped around her sister in a loving embrace) and as I looked at the letter, it said “why” emblazoned across the top and below it she listed off her reasoning and then telling me why she felt so. You see, I was raised in the church and later in life became a Buddhist. Her philosophy to life and spirituality were one and the same: “truth”: truth in every aspect. It was through her that I developed my own little life philosophy: “live each day in truth, seeking it and giving it all that I am—do and try.” And for fifteen years I’ve done my best to live by that. Now to get back to Carmen, her rationale as to “why”, to her it didn’t matter where I was or what I’d been accused of—what mattered was I was human and deserving of kindness and compassion. Her path taught her that all life was precious and sacred and that as a follower of “truth” life is supposed to be preserved and prosper—loved and nurtured to its fullest, and that upon seeing me in this situation she was compelled to show me I was still somebody. After she’d explained all that, I told her she was nuts and that no one could be that true—and that little gal stood her ground and told me “uh-huh, I’m that real.” And then she went on to point out people from my past who had been that real and tried teaching me. People who had given up everything to love and care for me; people who had stood at/by my side through the good and the bad—people that I’d taken for granted. Then she asked me, “How many friends do you have? How many people do you have in your life that you have lied to and manipulated who would still pick up the phone if you called? How many people would be there to help you?” She asked me questions I had never really thought of or put concern to. I’d always only thought about me—selfish. But here she was opening up doors within me and as I sat in my cage and pondered everything, I began to see what she was pointing out and things began to make sense. Marcy and Elaine tried to show me as I was growing up and gave up everything for me. But through my stupidity and ignorance I couldn’t see it. In this cage, years of sobriety under my belt, Carmen brought out the seeds they planted. As time went by I found myself “feeling”; Carmen just laughed, asking how it felt and after I told her how strange it was—but a good strange—we just connected. Oh I still had some issues like trying to straighten things out with my pen-pals, but it only wound up alienating them. Now folks as you’ve read this book, you know the life I had led was full of chaos and madness. I had headaches by the boatload—enough stress and tension enough to choke a mule—and constantly going back and forth to prisons and jails—not a good life, huh? But when I finally grew up to realize I had a choice—I made it for the better. Thanks to the women and the select friends I had in the past decade-plus, the love and care and compassion they gave so freely. I was inspired to become a better man, and though it’s had trials and I’ve erred some I’ve stuck to it and succeeded. So ya see folks, when I sobered up and realized what a selfish bastard I’d been and how fucked up I was and where my life was, the choice was easy and well worth the hard work and effort I’ve put into it, and today I can look in the mirror and not be ashamed of the face staring back at me. That’s an accomplishment. Epilogue: The End of the Devil Once his death warrant is signed, they will take Loran Cole, the Devil, down a hallway. Two guards will put him in a slightly larger deathwatch cell, where he will be under close scrutiny as the last of his appeals cross the governor's desk—and are denied. Then he won't be death eligible anymore; he will be at death's door. They will offer him a sedative, which he might take—or might not. Some do and some don't. He will get one last, modest meal, something the prison can get locally, nothing extravagant. He will pick at the food; hunger may elude him. Then, just after midnight, the guards will take him out of his cell. He will be led to a room with witnesses on the other side. Needles will puncture his veins, and his system will slow and then stop. Loran Cole, the Devil, will slowly pass away. If no one claims the last of his worldly possessions—the contraband pens, the scraps of paper, the sketches, and the socks he used for gloves in cold weather, whatever other detritus the Devil leaves in a six-by-nine cell—then the state will destroy even that. Another condemned man will take his cell. If no one claims the Devil’s corpse—all drained of its madness and art—then he will be buried in an open field just outside the prison. A work detail will dig a pit and throw him in. The Devil’s final resting place will be marked by a license plate punched out in the prison machine shop. On it will be his name, date of death, and prison number. The devil will be at least six feet deep and finally at peace. But we will not be at peace because his death is not the death of evil in our world. Continues...