O.J. PAROLED — CHARLES NORMAN WASN’T

08/14/17

Since the two parole hearings, May 25, 2017, and July 19, 2017, much has happened. The parole investigator, Z.C. Rowan, a parole official for over 40 years, met with me in April, reviewed my case, and recommended a July 4, 2017, parole release date; however, with the political tampering and conflicts of interest of corrupt politicians who have been fixated on a personal vendetta against me for years, multiple false statements by assistant state attorney Kimberly Hindman, negatively influenced the three parole commissioners.

Ignoring volumes of mitigating factors and powerful testimonials from responsible citizens who have known me for decades, the commissioners refused to release me on a well-deserved parole. There is much to share about these two hearings, which I will do in later filings to you. We have transcripts of both hearings if you’d like to read everything.

Attorney Bill Sheppard presented a powerful summation of the record in support of my parole, but as he said, the decision was predetermined. Jack Murphy, my friend for almost 40 years, delivered an impassioned plea for my release, but his dynamic words fell on deaf ears.

Much has happened in the past couple of weeks, on several fronts, which I will summarize.

In November, 2016, the doctor discovered blood in a urine sample for my physical. I made several “day trips” to the Lake Butler RMC prison hospital for more tests. A new private medical provider, Centurion, goes all out on testing and follow-up. Dr. Mark Abramson, a urologist from Jacksonville Memorial Hospital, arranged for a  CT scan, a cystoscopy, and X-rays, which turned up two kidney stones. On Friday, August 11, 2017, I was outfitted in handcuffs, a waist chain, and leg irons, then transported in a prison van to Jacksonville Memorial Hospital for an ultrasound surgery. They call it surgery because they gave me general anesthesia. One whiff from the mask, and I was gone. When I woke up, it was over.

I was impressed by the kindness and professionalism of the doctors, nurses and technicians at Jacksonville Memorial Hospital. After the ultrasound, three nurses kept me company for an hour, monitoring my vitals, until I recovered. Another nurse, Mary, brought me a much-appreciated hot meal of beef tips and gravy over rice and green beans, something unavailable in prison “chow.”

The trip along Interstate 10 from the Columbia Annex C.I. near Lake City, to Jacksonville and back, was harrowing for someone who has taken only a few fast rides in heavy traffic in the past 39 years. It gave me a new appreciation for the effort and sacrifices my dear wife, Libby, makes every weekend when she drives from Jacksonville to visit me.

I did a lot of rubbernecking when we got off I-95 onto University Boulevard, still amazed at the traffic congestion, the dozens of fast food places, car lots, stores, and other businesses. We got to the hospital late, all the “corrections” parking spaces were filled, and we had to park a long distance from the wing we were going to. Don’t try this at home — walking a couple blocks wearing leg irons — large handcuffs with a longer chain — rubbing raw your ankles and Achilles tendons. I realized I was only a mile or two from Libby’s downtown office, which made me wistful, sad that I should have been out of prison already, working at the “Prisoners of Christ” program, and seeing her every day, rather than being chained up like a condemned man.

Dr. Abramson told me I might experience pain if and when the (hopefully) broken up kidney stones tried to pass. He wasn’t kidding. I was all right Friday and Saturday, but Sunday night, for hours, I experienced excruciating pain from my right kidney. After finally dozing off, I woke up Monday morning feeling much better.

The highlight of my week was Saturday, August 12, 2017, when my dear friends, the Smigiel family, came to visit from South Florida. Gary has been a trusted friend and supporter for over 34 years. Marcela has done a wonderful job of raising four children and bringing them to visit me since the early 1990’s. Adrianna and Daniella, their youngest daughters, have grown up visiting me in prison. It is amazing how quickly they’ve grown from darling little girls to beautiful, special young women. I pray that before too much longer we will no longer have to visit together inside these prison fences.

Out of the clear blue, my first cousin, Sue Jones, contacted us by e-mail a couple of weeks ago. Her mother, mu Aunt Frankie Lee Hatchell, was my father’s older sister. After my father’s death in 1985, Aunt Frankie  visited me in prison at Zephyrhills C.I. She and her younger sister, my Aunt Eloise, burst into tears when they saw me enter the visiting area. I had not seen them since my childhood, but they rushed to me and hugged me.

“You’re the spitting image of our father as a young man,” Aunt Frankie said, embracing me.

I’d spent little time with my Norman relatives growing up, but after we reconnected, Frankie, Eloise and I became much closer. They are all gone now, and to hear from my cousin, Sue, touched me.

One more incident of note that happened  Saturday afternoon at the Orange Park Mall, south of Jacksonville: sixteen years ago when I was at the Columbia C.I. Main Unit, Libby registered our first e-mail address — freecharlie2001@yahoo.com. That was followed by our web site, www.freecharlienow.com, and the blog charlienorman.blogspot.com  several years later. Thousands of people in over 100 countries have visited those sites.

Saturday afternoon, Libby made a purchase at one of the stores at the mall and got into a conversation with the sales clerk. She suggested that Libby register her e-mail address to receive sales notices and coupons, so Libby filled out the form with the freecharlie e-mail. The clerk what the “freecharlie” meant, was it a certain name. Libby told her it did mean something, but it was too much to explain. She asked if it referred to Charles Norman. Flabbergasted, Libby said it did.

The clerk said, “I’ve been following Charles on the Internet, and so have many of my friends. He has been in prison too long, and should be released.”

After they talked some more, Libby left the store, elated, amazed at what had just happened a totally random contact of familiarity and support.  That’s the power of the Internet.

We have a hard battle before us, and need all the help and support we can get. If you have any ideas or suggestions, please share them.

Meanwhile, we will continue to pray, have faith, and persevere. Thanks for being on our side.

Charlie

 

Adrianna, Daniella, Charlie, Marcela, and Gary

Rylie “Poison Ivy” Norman Has A Birthday

Dateline July 15, 2017

My nephew, Tim, my brother, Dan’s, son, sent me a photo of his and Kristin’s little girl, Rylie, dressed as “Poison Ivy” at Hallowe’en, 2016. I couldn’t resist the impulse, so as a much-needed break from legal research and praying for good results at my final parole hearing in Tallahassee on July 19, I spent a couple of days with my colored pencils. This is the result.

I’m writing this on Saturday night, July 15,  before the Wednesday hearing, so by the time my handwritten message makes it through the prison mailroom, through the postal service, and to my wife, Libby’s, computer and onto the Internet, the hearing will be history.

Talking on the telephone an hour ago with my mother in Tampa, she told me that my brother, Dan, had gone to baby Rylie’s first birthday party this afternoon. My mother does a lot of praying for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and I asked her to pray for freedom for me next Wednesday.

She said, “Son, I can’t go to your hearing, and I don’t have any money to help you with, but I pray day and night for the Lord to let you and Libby be together.”

We talked about relatives in Texas who have been out of touch, and Mama mentioned her first cousin, Letha (Smith) Miles, daughter of Aunt Stella, older sister of my grandfather, Floyd Walker, Sr., and Letha’s younger sister, Iva.

“I miss Letha so much. I need to call her. She was my cousin and also best friend when we were teenagers. I spent every summer with them. One summer Letha and I got jobs at the “Candy Corner” store, but we got fired.”

My mother burst out laughing at the remembrance, as if it were yesterday. I’d never heard that story  ̶  my mother has a thousand I’ve never heard, and I’m always asking her about those times. Now I asked her why she and Letha got fired.

“We went down to wave at the soldiers on the troop trains. We stayed too long and didn’t get back in time, so we got fired.”

My mother was born August 23, 1929. During WWII, she was between thirteen and sixteen, or so. I could visualize two young girls joining others waving goodbye to the troops, Texas boys heading off to battle in distant lands, and thought of the many who didn’t come home.

Baby Rylie Norman celebrated her first birthday. Her great-grandmother will celebrate her 88^th in five weeks.

I thank God that my mother remains healthy and strong, and able to fill in blank spaces in our family history. I pray that Rylie will be telling stories to her children and grandchildren in the decades to come.

Charlie

REQUEST FOR THIS WEDNESDAY, JULY 19

Charlie's follow-up parole hearing is this Wednesday, July 19, in Tallahassee. Although I was unable to give Charlie the "good news" for our 3rd wedding anniversary on May 24, miracles are still possible, and the parole commissioners may give us a good release date this Wednesday. At least, that is what we are praying for.

And we are asking you for your prayers, good thoughts, and best wishes for this coming hearing, if you are so inclined. We know we wouldn't have made it this far, still sane and intact, if it had not been for your stalwart, steady support. So, one more time, please...

God bless and keep you,

Libby and Charlie

COLORED PENCILS OFFER RELIEF FROM LEGAL WORK

For the past several months I’ve been very busy doing legal research for parole hearings. In April, the parole examiner recommended a July 4, 2017, parole release date, but in spite of the best efforts of legendary lawyer, William J. Sheppard, the commissioners postponed their decision.

Meanwhile, as an effective meditation method and way to release the stress of prison life, I took some time to create three new colored pencil drawings (above). The little boy is Ayden, six years old, the grandson of my dear friends, Dan and Stephanie. The portrait of the lady is from a magazine photo.

Portraits of people are one of the most difficult subjects for artists, and many artists can’t do portraits. If you can master portrait drawings and paintings, landscapes and still-lifes are easy. I like challenges.

The flowers are zinnias, one of my favorite garden flowers. Upon my release, I intend to focus on my large acrylic paintings for sale, and the colored pencil drawings are good practice. I hope you like them.

Charlie

A New Poem-Memoir from Charlie

                               Stirs the Eggs, Scrambled

                                                A Poem by Charles Patrick Norman

Early morning: the sun not yet shining.

Still dark. Breakfast.

My father sits across from me

      at  the small square kitchen table

      covered with a red-and-white-checked

      oil cloth, spooning hot grits

      onto his plate — white, steaming,

      swirls of orange sharp cheddar cheese

      stirred into eddies with the melted butter,

      a shake of salt, then pepper.

He takes two buttermilk biscuits from the

      small round pan, hot from the oven,

      breaks each one open with his fork,

      dabs soft churned butter onto each one,

      sets the biscuits next to the grits,

      then scoops a spoon of molasses,

      from the little jar, dips one biscuit into

      the thick brown sweetness,

      bites, chews, and smiles at me.

He spoons hot buttered cheese grits

      onto my plate. I take two biscuits

      from the pan and copy him,

      move for move, as my mother turns

      from the hot stove two feet away,

      black cast-iron skillet handle wrapped

      with a striped dish towel, and slides

      two fried eggs, soft, over easy,

      with the spatula, onto my father’s

      plate of grits.

He stirs the yellow yolks into the grits,

      dabs a biscuit into the mix

      and eats, pleased.

She turns back to the gas stove,

      blue flames flowing from the burner,

      grasps two brown eggs from

      the bowl in one hand.

      With practiced ease she cracks

      the eggs against the skillet edge,

      drops the yolks and whites

      into the bubbling bacon grease,

      stirs the eggs, scrambled —

      I do not yet like runny eggs

      like my father does,

      but one day I will,

      perhaps in homage to him,

      or yearning to return to that time

      when there were but the three of us

      in that little white house

      on the hill, happy, content, alive,

      before he kissed Mama goodbye,

      squeezed my shoulder,

      and drove to work,

      one more time.