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“This book shows vividly how, even in the face of the greatest adversity, compassion and a warm-hearted concern for others bring peace and inner strength. The Buddhist on Death Row is a true source of joy.”
—HIS HOLINESS THE DALAI LAMA
“I’m a friend of Jarvis Masters, so I know the truth of this book, but I want to hail its power. I believe it will encourage many people to examine their own lives and their unrealized potential for awareness, generosity, commitment, and courage.”
—REBECCA SOLNIT, author of Men Explain Things to Me
“This book celebrates a liberation not gained by guns and gangs, prison breaks and murder, but by sitting with one’s breath and believing in the perfection of the universe and all who strive and suffer within it. The Buddhist on Death Row is a deeply useful reminder that we can all be free regardless of where we are placed.”
—ALICE WALKER, author of The Color Purple
“This profound, gorgeous book displays the miraculous human capacity to find redemption, and even joy, no matter who or where we are. Jarvis Masters’s story proves that we are all united by our suffering and by our potential to help others who suffer.”
—HELEN PREJEAN, author of Dead Man Walking
“I’m grateful to be Jarvis Masters’s teacher in part because he has taught me so much. I have rarely encountered anyone who expresses the essence of Buddhism in a clearer, more moving way than he does, and I deeply admire how David Sheff has captured that hard-won wisdom in this book.”
—PEMA CHÖDRÖN, Buddhist teacher and author of When Things Fall Apart
“This is a beautiful, profoundly spiritual book, and a page turner. Jarvis Jay Masters’ transformation from an unloved child of violence and poverty to Buddhist teacher on Death Row, is thrilling. Reading it changed me, threw the lights on, opened and gentled my heart. I’m going to give it to everyone I know.”
—ANNE LAMOTT
“An inspiring book about how meaning can be found even in—perhaps especially in—adversity. It’s a study of Buddhism, of criminal justice, of the ways people connect with each other, and it’s written with deep feeling and verve.”
—ANDREW SOLOMON
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © David Sheff 2020
David Sheff asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008395452
Version 2020-07-13
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008395438
For Pamela Krasney, who inspired us with her moral courage as she fought for criminal justice reform and an end to the death penalty. Pamela made the world a better place for her family, friends, and countless others.
Cage an eagle and it will bite at the
wires, be they of iron or of gold.
—HENRIK IBSEN
Contents
Cover
Praise
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Introduction
Part One
The First Noble Truth: Suffering
1. Born Useless
2. Breathing, Sitting
3. Scars
Part Two
The Second Noble Truth: The Cause of Suffering
4. Condemned
5. Awakening
6. Taking Refuge
7. The Only Way Out
8. Karma
9. Kill the Buddha
Part Three
The Third Noble Truth: The End of Suffering
10. Connection
11. Forgiveness
12. Another Way
13. Warrior
14. Compassion
15. Walking on the Grass
16. Presence
17. The Sound of Life
Part Four
The Fourth Noble Truth: The Path
18. Hope
19. Letting Go
20. Enlightenment
Epilogue: Living With an Open Heart
Postscript
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
Some of the names and details in this book have been changed at the request of participants concerned about their privacy or, in some cases, their safety.
Introduction
Isit in a molded plastic chair on one side of a small table opposite a man named Jarvis Jay Masters. I tell him I’m considering writing a book about him and ask what he thinks of the idea. I emphasize that if I go forward, I’ll report what I find, both the good and the bad.
“I can’t be painted worse than I’ve been painted,” Masters says, and I guess that’s true for someone convicted of murder.
“I mean,” he adds, “look where we are.”
Where we are is in a closet-sized cage among a dozen similar cages in a visitation hall reserved for the condemned at San Quentin State Prison.
I follow Masters’s gaze as it sweeps the other cages in which convicted killers sit with family members or attorneys. Ramón Bojórquez Salcido, convicted of murdering seven people, including his wife and daughters, sits with his lawyer in a cage opposite ours. Nearby, Richard Allen Davis, who raped and killed a twelve-year-old girl, munches Doritos. In the cage on the end, near a bookshelf lined with board games and Bibles, Scott Peterson, convicted of murdering his eight-months-pregnant wife and their unborn child, sits with his sister.
Peterson looks relaxed and fit, but some prisoners appear tense, agitated, or sullen. And then there are guys—diminutive, bespectacled, innocuous—who look like tellers or, in one case, John Oliver. Their looks deceive, Masters says. Over the years, he’s been surprised when he’s learned about the crimes committed by the meekest and politest of his death row neighbors. “Some of them have perfect manners, place their napkins on their laps, but half of Iowa is missing.”
In 2006, my friend Pamela Krasney, an activist devoted to prison reform and other social justice causes, told me about a death row inmate who, she claimed, had been wrongly convicted of murder. He was unlike anyone she’d ever known—more conscious, wise, and empathetic “in spite of his past.” She corrected herself. “Because of his past.”
Introduced by Masters’s friend, the famed Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön, Pamela had been visiting Masters regularly for years. She belonged to a group of supporters devoted to proving his innocence. They called themselves Jarvistas.
Pamela told me that Masters had written a book, numerous articles, and a poem for which he’d won a PEN award. He’d converted to Buddhism and studied with an eminent Tibetan lama, Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche, who proclaimed him a bodhisattva, “one who works to end suffering in a place drowning in suffering.” Indeed, Pamela claimed that Masters had become a force for good in San Quentin, teaching Buddhism to inmates and even thwarting violence.
Encouraged by Pamela, I arranged a visit to death row, arriving at the former Bay of Skulls on a fogless morning, a steel wind blowing in through the Golden Gate. White sailboats floated like lotus petals on the bay. Tugboats pushed barges, hydrofoil ferries glided by, and the Richmond—San Rafael Bridge glistened. After my identity was verified, I passed through a metal detector and, as instructed, followed a painted yellow line along a rocky embankment. Overhead, armed guards watched from a tower that looked like a lighthouse.
Masters was housed in the ominously named Adjustment Center, the solitary-housing unit—“the hole”—once described by a San Quentin administrator as a “contained, enclosed unit for the vicious, violent, insane—men society doesn’t want to exist.” He’d been in the AC for two decades.
I was led to a chair that faced a smeared glass partition. After several minutes, a door opened on the other side, and a guard escorted Masters in. He was tall and clean shaven, with neatly buzzed hair. Reading glasses hung around his neck.
When he was unshackled, Masters sat, and we picked up cracked handsets. His voice was muffled, as if we were talking through tin-can telephones.
Masters had clear brown eyes, a sweet tenor voice, and a quiet charisma that the glass couldn’t obstruct. We talked about Pamela, Pema, writing, the news, and a recent lockdown after a stabbing. I asked questions about guards, inmates, and his Buddhist practice. Masters was articulate, thoughtful, and funny. After an hour and a half, a guard signaled that the visit was over. He led Masters away, and I left the cellblock, emerging into the cold bay air.
I ruminated about the meeting. Masters seemed open and earnest. I glimpsed what his friends described as something indefinably special about him, but charm does not equal innocence. We’ve read about vicious yet charismatic murderer: Truman Capote’s Perry Smith (Capote even grew fond of his accomplice, the far more pitiless Richard Hickock), Sister Helen Prejean’s Elmo Patrick Sonnier and Robert Lee Willie, and Norman Mailer’s Gary Gilmore (as Mailer portrayed him, Gilmore was callous and remorseless but had a keen mind, wit, and allure).
Was Masters a killer? His friends swore that he wasn’t. Had he been framed, as his lawyers argued? Or was he a skilled manipulator, a con artist taking advantage of trusting, good-hearted people like Pamela and Pema?
Even if Masters was innocent, I didn’t know what to think about the claims that he was, as his supporters described him, an enlightened Buddhist practitioner who had changed and saved lives. There are Buddhists in many prisons. For that matter, there are born-again inmates of every faith. There are prison writers, poets, and others who’ve been singled out as unique. Was Masters truly different? I refrained from judging him either kindly or harshly. But he continued to intrigue me.
In the years that followed, Pamela kept me abreast of events in Masters’s life. In 2007, after twenty-two years, he was released from solitary confinement and moved to a less restrictive death row cell-block. The following year he married in a ceremony presided over by Pema Chödrön. In 2009, Pamela asked me to provide a blurb for the second book Masters wrote. She also told me about the ongoing appeals process. There was no question in her mind that he’d be exonerated; it was only a matter of time.
Then, in 2015, Pamela died of a rare blood disease. Pema conducted a Buddhist funeral, during which she read a letter from Jarvis. The memorial was held in Mill Valley, California, across the county from San Quentin. As Pema read Masters’s eulogy, I thought of him in his death row cell a few miles away. I also thought of Pamela’s deep connection with and devotion to Jarvis and recalled her claims that he inspired and helped countless people inside San Quentin and beyond its walls. Soon after I left the memorial, I decided to investigate her claims.
I spoke to people in San Quentin and some on the outside. Pema told me she’d read Masters’s book, wrote to him, and then visited. They developed a close friendship. She admired his ability to bear weight that would crush most people and the joy he exuded in a joyless place. His interpretations of Buddhist teachings inspired her, and his insights helped her achieve a deeper understanding of Buddhist concepts she thought she knew.
I read letters from others who’d also read his books and were inspired to write him about hardships they faced: abusive relationships, losses of loved ones, illness, and depression. Several wrote about suicide attempts. Masters responded to all those letters, and their authors wrote back to thank him for the solace, guidance, and hope he’d given them.
There were letters from “troubled” teenagers who had been given his book by counselors or teachers. High school teachers who had assigned Masters’s book in their classes sent packets of letters from students he’d inspired. A librarian in Watts said that his book was stolen more than any other on her shelves.
More remarkably, I was able to confirm that Masters had defended prisoners who were vulnerable to attack because they were gay, were suspected of informing on other inmates, or had otherwise run afoul of prison’s cruel norms. Even more extraordinary, he averted potential attacks by prisoners on correctional officers (COs). I spoke to people, including a guard, who said Masters had prevented their suicides. The CO told me that his young son was gravely ill, that he and his wife were fighting constantly, he was drinking heavily, and he loathed his job. The guard admitted he treated inmates like scum, which was how he viewed them. He confessed he had planned to kill himself.
One early morning, Masters called out to the officer, who was walking the tier. Jarvis said he’d noticed that the man seemed stressed and down and wanted to make sure he was doing all right. The guard wasn’t one to open up about his personal life to anyone, least of all a con, but “something about Masters” caused him to confide in him about his son and problems at home. The conversation led to months of predawn talks at Masters’s cell door, during which Jarvis helped the guard face his son’s illness, support his wife, and enter a program to stop drinking. The officer no longer thought about taking his own life; instead, he embraced the life he had.
The CO said that his job became meaningful when Masters helped him realize he could help people who desperately needed it; he no longer saw it as herding cattle but as an opportunity to treat the suffering with compassion. His attitude transformed because “Masters showed me that most of the cons just were dealt a raw hand. They’re just people, some more fucked-up than others, some no more fucked-up than people on the outside. They all had miserable lives—and they all have souls.”
These and similar stories convinced me to go forward with this book.
In the four years since then, I’ve made more than 150 trips to death row and recorded more than 100 hours of conversation. I’ve also spoken with Masters for untold hours by phone. I supplemented our conversations with his writings—his books, letters, journals, and short stories—but I mostly relied on Masters’s own memories and prison stories. He spoke candidly, but he was cautious when it came to guards, and he was protective of other inmates. However, he was unsparingly candid about his own life. He spoke extensively about the violence in his past, and he teared up when he talked about his victims.
I struggled to determine if I could rely on Masters’s recollections of events, including some that had taken place more than fifty years ago. Many of the people described in this book are dead or locked away and unable or unwilling to talk to me. (Some couldn’t be dissuaded of their belief that I was police.) Unsurprisingly, few guards and inmates agreed to talk, and of those who did, most spoke under the condition that they wouldn’t be identifiable. In the end, I found that Masters’s stories that could be independently verified proved to be accurate.
Over our hundreds of hours together, Jarvis and I talked about many subjects, but most of our conversations wended, by way of curves, spirals, and trapdoors, to questions of being: if and how people can change their nature and how we can find relief from pain and meaning in our lives.
As I pieced together Masters’s journey, I saw how he found the answers to these questions through meditation and Buddhism.
I’m not a Buddhist, but as I learned how his faith helped him, I discovered how its tenets and practices can help others—believers and nonbelievers alike. I learned that people can change and how but also that transformation comes in fits and starts. The journey forward isn’t linear but cyclical, and it’s hard. I learned something else that was even more profound: that the process and goal are different from what many of us expect. Instead of working to change our true nature, we must find it. Instead of running from suffering, we must embrace it.
Masters never claimed to have seen a light or been born again. He dismisses those who speak of him as a teacher. He cringed when I told him that people described him as enlightened. “I don’t even know what that word means,” he objected, and he emphasized that he’s “the last person” who should be considered a spokesperson for Buddhism, admitting that his form of the faith is ramshackle and geared toward the particular challenges presented by life on death row. However, as Masters surmounted internal and external obstacles, he gained insights into issues many of us struggle with, and over time I learned why people said he inspired them.
Set in a place of unremitting violence, insanity, confusion, and rage, Masters’s story traverses the haunted caverns and tributaries of loneliness, despair, trauma, and other suffering—terrain we all know too well—and arrives at healing, meaning, and wisdom. Again and again, I have felt deeply Masters’s power to inspire, and I hope I can share some of that power in the pages that follow.
Part One
The First Noble Truth
Suffering
Hurt people hurt people.
—“Warlock,” former Crips shot-caller,
in a GRIP (Guiding Rage into Power)
class at San Quentin State Prison
1
Born Useless
In the spring of 1986, Melody Ermachild ventured inside the imposing brick-and-stone edifice of San Quentin State Prison to meet her new client, Jarvis Jay Masters, a twenty-four-year-old African American kid from Harbor City, California. Masters had arrived at San Quentin five years earlier after being convicted of thirteen counts of armed robbery and sentenced to twenty years in prison. He’d subsequently been charged with conspiring to kill a prison guard and making the knife used in the murder. He had been moved to the Adjustment Center—solitary confinement—and was now on trial. If he was found guilty, he could be put to death.
Masters wore a navy blue knit cap pulled down to his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and barely acknowledged her. She explained that she was a criminal investigator hired by his legal team to write a social history of his life. If he was convicted, they hoped her report would help his lawyers convince the judge and jury that he should be spared the death penalty. To prepare the report, she would need to interview him, his family, his foster parents, and others who’d known him.
When she mentioned his family, Masters broke his silence. “Keep them out of it,” he growled. His eyes, cold and blank until then, were blazing. “They have nothing to say about me.”
He said no more during that meeting, and he kept his sullen silence throughout a dozen more visits during which Melody reviewed the case against him and tried to get him to open up.
One morning, Melody showed up in the visiting booth on crutches. She’d been rock climbing and had fallen, rupturing her Achilles tendon.
As usual, she pulled out files and notebooks. Also as usual, Masters regarded her with disdainful silence.
Suddenly Melody snapped, “Do you think this is a joke?”
He was startled.
“They want to kill you!” she said, her voice rising.
She had never blown up at a client before, and she immediately apologized.
“It’s not just my leg,” she explained. In her distress, she set aside her usual professional demeanor and poured out the reasons for her despondency. “I had a baby when I was a teenager, and I was forced to put him up for adoption,” she said. “I never got over it. After twenty years, I just heard from my son and we met.”
Jarvis stared.
“It was wonderful meeting him, just what I’d always wanted, but it stirred up a lot. I’ve been spending a lot of time crying.”
After a pause, she added, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood. My father died when I was little. My mother was depressed, and she would”—Melody stopped and inhaled—“she would beat us. Later I got pregnant, and they threw me out. I found a home for pregnant girls, where the baby was born. I thought about killing myself. Many times.”
Jarvis spoke for the first time. “That is some fucked-up shit.”
His perfect summation made her smile.
Their eyes met briefly; then he looked away.
Jarvis was less hostile after that. Sometimes he arrived in the visiting room as taciturn as ever, but other times he was less guarded. He began to consider her questions seriously and answer them honestly. They talked about the case and his past, though the conversations sometimes stirred up painful memories and he would shut down. Ultimately, though, he agreed to let her interview his family.
Melody flew to Los Angeles to meet his mother, Cynthia Campbell, whom Jarvis hadn’t seen for seven years, since the day of his arrest that landed him in San Quentin in 1981. After he was implicated in a string of armed robberies, police issued an APB for him, and Jarvis hid out at one friend’s house after another, no place more than a couple of nights. One afternoon he was at his sister’s apartment. A police scanner was on, and he heard them coming. But there wasn’t time to run. A voice from a bullhorn told him to come outside with his hands up.
An officer pinned Jarvis down on the hood of a squad car and cuffed his hands behind his back. Cynthia, who’d been staying downstairs at the apartment of Jarvis’s other sister, ran outside. Sobbing and screaming, she attacked an officer, punching and clawing him. Jarvis watched the police wrestle her to the ground.
When Melody met Cynthia in her shabby living room, she seemed frail and sad. There were remnants of beauty in her face but it showed the pall of decades of addiction. Cynthia’s honesty surprised Melody. In a raspy smoker’s voice, she said she’d become a mother at sixteen. She’d had eight children in all. She admitted, “I left Jarvis feeling like he was a motherless child, but I couldn’t do any better.”
Before she left, Melody asked Cynthia if she’d consider visiting Jarvis—“I think it would do him good”—and Cynthia agreed to come.