By Sean M. Couch
The first thing I ever stole was a pack of Skittles from the corner store. I’d seen my parents steal many times and, at this early point in my life, believed it was okay to take what I wanted. My mother realized I’d stolen the Skittles as I ate them on the walk home, but she didn’t reprimand me for my behavior until the next time that she caught me stealing. She had told me that what I’d done was wrong which only confused me since I knew that she and my father had done it countless times, and I loved and admired my parents, so how could it be wrong? I continued to steal throughout my childhood and into early adulthood, but I never thought that it was a big deal; in fact, I took pride in my exceptional abilities as a thief. Then one night everything began to change after I accidently killed a man who had been trying to protect his property. I was sentenced to twenty-five to life in prison and suddenly all the crimes I’d previously been proud of became terrible thoughts that haunt my memories today.
Crime was something that I’d taken pride in because it was one of the few things I’d considered myself good at doing. I’d been in high-speed chases and gotten away from the police and committed robbery and beat the charge in court. I could easily steal from large chain stores like Kmart or Walmart, but I found myself unable to maintain a healthy relationship with a 
woman; my home life was made up of dysfunctional drug addicts, and I lost the only three jobs I’d ever had. My self-esteem was at benthic levels in a sea of melancholy, but stealing made me happy because nine times out of ten I succeeded.
I first stole a vehicle when I was fifteen years old, and at the age of twenty-one grand theft auto was no complicated endeavor for me; this time I even had the keys which was supposed to simplify the task further. The thought that somebody could lose their life never crossed my mind. As I pulled the truck away from the driveway and paused in the street to turn on the headlights I heard the irate voice of a man scream, “Hey, that’s my truck! I’m going to kill you!” I absolutely believed that he would try to kill me if he caught me, and I sped off down the street, unaware that he’d been able to jump into the bed of the truck as I drove away. In my haste to escape I swerved down the narrow, dimly lit street, hit the front of a parked car and lost control. As the truck flipped through the air, the owner was flung in the other direction, landing in the middle of the street. There was hardly a scratch on me. I sprang to my feet and ran, but in a short time I could hear the police closing in from every direction, and I wasn’t able to run very far before being captured.
Two San Diego Police officers stood guard over me in the hospital where I’d been taken to be checked for internal injuries, and as I lay in the bed surfing the television channels one of the officers snatched the remote from me. He said, “People who kill other people don’t get to decide what they watch on TV. You’ve been causing problems in my town for too long and I hope they put you away forever.” I was in complete disbelief at the officer’s accusations of murder. It was true that I’d been having run-ins with the law in that part of town, so I figured he was just trying to unnerve me. It wasn’t until I was transferred to the county jail and formally charged with murder that it hit me.
I spent the next two years in jail awaiting trial and contemplating the fact that life can change in the time it takes to breathe a single breath. I was convicted of murder under the “Felony Murder Rule,” which means that the district attorney was only required to prove my intentions of committing a felony and none of the conventional elements of murder in order to convict me of first-degree homicide. When I was sentenced to twenty-five to life, every foolish crime I’d committed in my life began to play on repeat in my mind, and every ounce of former pride resulted in self-loathing and shame. I refused to consider the notion that my life could be anything but chaos and misery, and why should it be? I’d killed someone and something like that just doesn’t go away.
I’m turning thirty-one soon and I’ve decided change is possible. I don’t have to live a life of crime. I can go to school and attend groups and vocational training in search of knowledge that will help me grow as a person. I can give instead of take and I can be happy if I want to be. I can make it out of here one day.
Republished from “Perspectives from the Cell Block: An Anthology of Prisoner Writings” – edited by Joan Parkin in collaboration with incarcerated people from Mule Creek State Prison.
