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Run For Innocence Fundraiser

Since 1990 there have been 94 wrongly convicted people who have been exonerated and freed from Massachusetts State Prisons.

                        –National Registry of Exonerations

The Wrongful Conviction Day rally was a huge success!  Thank you to NEIP Director Attorney Radha Natarajan and CPCS Innocence Program Director Attorney Lisa Kavanaugh for their efforts. I have been told that Senator Liz Maranda, and exoneree Sean Ellis were great motivational speakers.  My daughter, Amber, was amazing leading our family and team, standing out at the event in bold, purple shirts. Seeing the pictures, my heart was overwhelmed by all of your love and support.

Amber and Anthony Brian leading Brian’s supporters

The Wrongful Conviction event was amazing at bringing awareness to those who’ve been wrongly convicted.  Imagine being arrested, charged, convicted and sentenced to spend the rest of your natural life in prison for a horrific crime that you did not commit. You are desperate for help and for someone to listen to your story. Imagine being thrown into the legal system and completely steamrolled simply because you do not understand the system. You are taken from your family, your children, your home and locked away, alone, isolated and afraid.

CPCS Innocence Program Director Lisa Kavanaugh with Brian’s family and supporters at the Wrongful Conviction Day Rally

On November 6th, the Run for Innocence (RFI) team will be holding their annual fund raiser. Local Innocence Programs rely on generous contributions, made by people like you, to hire experts and investigators to work on cases to free the wrongly convicted. With your support, NEIP and CPCS IP can continue to help wrongly convicted people like me. In fact, the CPCS IP, led by Director Lisa Kavanaugh, has used RFI funds for experts in my case. For that we are extremely grateful.  And although our legal team is still working hard on my case, we feel strongly that it is never too early to start paying it forward.

These innocence programs bring hope and light to darkness and despair. These organizations are led by selfless, passionate attorneys and include investigators and various experts working tirelessly to prove actual innocence.

Please consider supporting the RFI fundraiser by participating in this year’s event. Donations can be made right here. If you would like to register to run or walk with “Team Brian Peixoto,” just follow the prompts to register here.

Your generous contributions will enable these programs to continue to help wrongly convicted people, like me, and give so many innocent people hope for freedom and for a better tomorrow.

Thank you to everyone for your continued love and support and together, with your help, we will all be #One Day Closer.

Brian

One Day Closer

For many years while fighting to prove my innocence, my family and I have used the phrase, “One Day Closer….”  We’ve used it to support each other when times got tough and as encouragement when spirits were low. It became our battle cry.

Understandably, this has led to questions such as, where did the phrase come from and what does it mean? With all of the recent progress in my case as well as some upcoming events, I thought it might be the right time to tell the story.

In 1997, right after my trial and conviction, I was sent to the infamous and notorious MCI Walpole Cedar Junction–at the time, the state’s only maximum-security prison. I was a young man then and very much a new jack to the prison system. Flanked by 2 prison guards, I was escorted into an 80-man cellblock at the max end of the prison. I distinctly remember the yells of the many men who were locked in tier stacked upon tier of barred cells. The pungent smell of urine and sweat filled the thick air. A cold chill went up my spine as I climbed the metal stairs and was placed in a single man cell on the third tier with only my bedroll and change of underclothes. The steel bars slammed closed behind me.

In the cell next to mine was an old timer with over 30 years in. He was an old man who looked beaten down and aged by the many years of his incarceration. That very first night, right after the last count of the day, I remember hearing the old timer say, “One day closer to wrapping-up! ” The cellblock then went dim as the tier lights clicked off and the yells dulled to eerie murmurs.

As the days went by and I struggled to adjust to the regimented routine of prison life, every night I began to look forward to final count and hearing the old timer say, “One day closer to wrapping-up.” It very much became as much a part of my routine as it was his. It meant I had survived one more day.

I had come to learn that the term “wrapping-up” was a term that meant finishing your sentence and going home. I had imagined that the old man must have had a quickly approaching wrap-up date and he was marking the days until he would be released and once again be a free man.

After many weeks I built up the courage to speak to the old timer and casually asked him when he was going home. He glared at me for a moment with distain and confusion. He then spoke, exclaiming, “I’m a lifer; I’m never going home!”

I paused. It was my turn to be confused. “Then why do I always hear you say ‘one day closer to wrapping-up’?, “ I asked.

He went on to explain: “I’m a lifer; I’m never going home. When you’re a lifer your only chance at being free comes with death. Every day that goes by is one day closer to death and my freedom.”

I was silenced by his explanation. There was nothing to be said.

One Day Closer

I spent the following days contemplating what the old timer told me. After all, I was a lifer. But I still had hope. Right? The old timer’s way of thinking was only for someone without hope. Right? I resolved myself in defiance and decided that I would never give up hope. Never! I would never stop fighting to prove my innocence. Never!!!

It was not long after that that I was moved from that cellblock and ultimately sent to a different prison. As the years passed memories of the old timer faded. Unfortunately, like memories, hope also fades.

Fast forward to 2010. I was housed at MCI Norfolk State Prison and had been incarcerated for 14 years.  My family and I had endured many years of fighting.  We met with numerous lawyers, filed appeal after appeal, and received devastating denial after denial. We were exhausted, dejected and losing hope. I decided to step away from the legal struggles for a little while and concentrate on my education rather than continue to put my family through the emotional rollercoaster of hope and disappointment. I enrolled in the Boston University Prison Education Program to work toward earning my college degree.

The College Behind Bars program was freeing and allowed me to mentally leave the confines of the concrete walls and barbed wire. Soon then after I learned about some MIT graduate students who were creating an experimental inmate blog. I decided to submit a weekly blog about my struggles as a wrongfully convicted man and my participation in the prison college program.  As an afterthought, I decided to end my blog with a catchphrase. Impulsively, and with very little thought, I vaguely remembered the old prisoner I met many years earlier, and ended my blog with the phrase: “One Day Closer….”

The blog was very popular and soon got the attention of professors and prison school department staff. Lisa, the school counselor, commented one day that she, like some other staff, had read my blog. After reading a few of my blogs Lisa asked me, “What does ‘One Day Closer’ mean?”  Surprised and off guard by her question, I avoided answering and quickly changed the subject.

Afterward, in quiet contemplation, I was surprised at how the innocent question had invoked such a troubling and uncomfortable feeling in me. I started to think about and remember the man who, so many years earlier, had first uttered the phrase and what it truly meant. I wondered why I so impulsively chose the phase, with such little thought as to what it was, I was subconsciously feeling. Had I lost hope? As I wondered if that old timer from so many years ago was finally free, I decided I wanted to tell his story. I began to write. 

Once I finished writing I decided I wanted to share the story with Lisa since it was her question that inspired the story’s creation. I left it for her to read at her convenience. I was unsure of what her reaction would be. I expected it would be similar to my feeling as I wrote it: Sadness, hopelessness, and despair.

The next day I returned to the school and Lisa came down the hall carrying a stack of stapled packets. I was trying to read her expression and felt a bit uneasy. She smiled and said, “One Day Closer,” as she handed me one of the stapled packets from her arms. I was more confused than ever. Did she not read my essay? Did she not understand what it meant? I looked down at the packet in my hands. It was a CPCS Innocence Program application. She said to me, “Fill it out. Submit it. It’s time you and your family take back that phrase and turn it into a phrase for hope instead of despair.”  We did.

Now, in 2022, it has been over 26 years that I have been incarcerated as an innocent man. But most importantly, I am represented by the CPCS Innocence Program and my hope is stronger than ever. The love of my family and friends keeps me positive and the outpouring of kindness and support from so many continues to keep us strong. We are very optimistic that good things will be happening soon!! Thanks to so many, we truly are, One Day Closer…

Plea for advocacy: COVID oversight needed

Sunday, 11/29/20 8am

It’s my 3rd day in 24 hour, solitary confinement. All I can think to myself is, where are our advocates?  Since being moved to the hole after my cellmate tested positive for COVID-19, I’ve sat in my cell in total isolation wondering, how does any of this make sense?

This year prison life has been extraordinarily more difficult than usual. Like everyone else in the free world, the people in prison are dealing with the added uncertainty and stresses associated with the pandemic. Prison has become more oppressive, restrictive and depressing and the need for advocates and prison oversight is needed more than ever.

Starting this past March, as preventative measures, the prison stopped our family members from visiting us, all religious services were canceled, educational programs were closed, and strict lockdown procedures were implemented. These restrictions have significantly added to the normal stresses, helplessness and other difficulties associated with prison life. Further, whether it has made the incarcerated any safer is very much in question.

On Friday my cellmate tested positive for COVID and was moved to a quarantine housing unit. He’s now amongst the 20% of the population who have tested positive. And as for me, even though I tested negative and have no symptoms, I was removed from the cellblock where I was housed and moved to the Restrictive Housing Unit (the new name for “the hole”) to be quarantined for 2 weeks. It should be noted, the cellblock where I was previously housed was already on lockdown status; however, my celly and I were allowed out of our cell, with 14 other men, for 1 hour a day to use the phones to call our families, use the microwaves, clean our cells, exorcise, and take showers.  We also had access to what the prison calls, “The Fresh Air Program,” where we were allowed to go outside to the prison yard for 2-3 hours a week.

What’s most confusing is, instead of performing contact tracing or being quarantined with the other 14 men who were exposed, the prison administration has chosen, in a nonsensical, knee jerk reaction, to force me (as well as the other men who’s cellmates test positive) to be moved to “the hole” under 24 hour solitary confinement in segregation. We are not allowed any recreation time out of our cells, time to exorcise, or any fresh air in the yard. It is 24 hours a day, 7 days a week in total isolation in a cell with limited sunlight and no social interaction. More worrisome is that it’s widely known amongst prisoners — and all the experts and the courts have agreed — that there are devastating, long term physical and psychological affects as a result of prolonged solitary confinement. So, while the men in this prison are desperately trying to stay healthy both physically and mentally, in a place where social distancing is impossible, with the added stresses and uncertainties of prison life during a pandemic, and while being completely isolated from our support systems, MCI-Concord’s response is to place us in solitary confinement with no recreation, no exorcise or fresh air.

We need help. We need advocates. Not only from the prison reform groups, but also the courts, the legislature, and the mental health community. The prisons are being decimated by this virus. Incarcerated  people would rather suffer in silence then report symptoms for fear of being sent to the discipline unit for quarantine. Although they are now allowed to have their property, initially they were not. Cells in solitary typically do not have electricity because people have started fires. Imagine being sick and unable to at least settle in with a book or something to watch on TV. Prison officials don’t know what to do. Correctional Staff are unsure and frustrated as well. Social distancing is logistically impossible in prison.  It is during desperate times such as these that advocates and prison oversight is needed most. The men in prison are vulnerable. Like many these days, we’re scared, unsure, worried about our families, and battling the feelings of helplessness and depression. It is time for intervention. Please help.

Socially Distant

Today is Saturday. Or is it Sunday? I’m not sure.  These days it doesn’t seem to matter. I woke today at 6:00am, the way I do every day. I stayed in my bunk until 6:30, drifting somewhere between sleep and awake. As always, I hoped this was all a bad dream. The cold cement walls, lumpy mattress and constant hum of mechanical equipment snapped me back into my dismal reality. But now there is a fresh, new hell to my reality… I am now on COVID-19 lockdown.

It’s day 29 of the lockdown. I decided that I am going to walk you through a typical day caged in a prison cell during a lockdown at a Massachusetts State Prison.    

Let me start by telling you a little about the prison where I am being held…. 

I’m currently confined in a medium security state prison with a population of about 600 inmates. When I first arrived at this facility there were twice as many inmates held here, but since then half of the cell blocks have been condemned. The entire compound is surrounded by a 30′ wall, topped with razor wire. In this prison there are both cell blocks and dormitories. The “dorms” hold about 80 men. The blocks, where I am held, hold up to 90 men, with 45, two-man cells. The blocks are 3 tiers high (I’m on the 2nd tier) with 15 cells on a tier; each tier also has 3 shower stalls. The tiers overlook and surround a small day room — what we call “the flats.” On the flats there are some tables where inmates can play cards or chess while out of their cells for recreation (“tier time”). Two guards sit at a control panel observing the inmates and electronically open and close the large, steel cell doors. Also on the flats is a bank of 7 phones, side by side, about 2 feet apart, and a microwave to heat food.

Typical cell at MCI Concord

On April 27th, 24 days into the lockdown, all inmates were issued face masks to wear during the 30 minutes we are allowed out of our cells to shower and use the phone. We were advised, however, NOT to wear our masks while in the shower. Thanks.

The global pandemic began to touch our lives within the prison on March 12th. All nonessential personnel were prohibited from entering the facility, meaning all visits with family and friends were canceled until further notice. That was especially difficult for me. My visits are my physical connection to my loved ones. Without my visits the isolation of confinement becomes unbearable. In addition to visits, all educational, religious and other programs were also canceled.

On March 25th someone finally decided that we should have access to hand sanitizer, thus dispensers were installed in the cells blocks. Then, on March 26th all of the prison guards were issued N95 masks and ordered to wear them.

It was on April 4th, very early in the morning, before I woke, a notice from the Commissioner’s Office was inconspicuously slid under my cell door. The notice simply stated, “The Department has had a number of staff and inmates who have tested positive for COVID-19…. In an effort to slow the spread of the virus and deter infection, all DOC facilities will remain locked down….” It was further explained that we would be receiving food, mail and medication in our cells and we would be allowed 30 minutes out each day, 6 men at a time, to shower, use the phones, and clean our cells. So, for the last 29 days we have been locked in our cells for 23½ hours a day. No visits; no going outside; no sunlight; no fresh air; no exercise.

Men in prison handle the isolation of being confined to a cage for 23½ hours a day in different ways. My celly — the man I am forced to occupy a cell with — chooses to sleep 17 hours a day. For some, this is preferable. Time passes quickly, you live in a dream state, and you avoid reality. Over the years, however, I’ve noticed that people like him end up spiraling into a void of misery, despair and depression. I have learned that for me, maintaining some sort of routine and keeping my mind busy helps with the psychological drudgery of the extended, extreme isolation and to combat the constant threat of depression. It’s been my experience that the more structure a man incorporates into his day while in the depths of prolonged confinement; the easier it is for him to fight off the demons that try to take hold of his mind. So, I stay busy.

My two man prison cell is a cement box, about 7 feet by 11 feet — approximately the size of your bathroom. In the cell is a metal desk bolted to the wall, a metal bunk bed, 2 footlockers (1 for each inmate to hold cloths, books, toiletries, etc.), and a stainless steel sink and toilet. There is a barred window to let in some natural light and hooks on the wall to hang my coat and a towel. Inmates are allowed to purchase some appliances such as a typewriter, a small TV and fan, and a hot-pot to heat water. Once a week I can purchase commissary such as toiletries, instant coffee and snacks.

Excerpt from the 2019 DOC inspection report of MCI Concord; all housing units are and always have been too small per the regulations.

In my cell I have the bottom bunk. This makes things easier for me to move around the cell while my celly sleeps all day in the top bunk. There’s really only enough floor space for one person at a time to move about anyways. So I wake early every morning, watch the news and make a coffee while I wait for morning count. (I drink a lot of coffee.)

There are 4 standing counts a day: 7:15am, 11:15am, 4:45pm, and 9:45pm. All inmates are required to stand by their bunk to be counted by a guard.

After count, meals are delivered to our cells by the guards in Styrofoam trays. It’s usually cold cereal for breakfast (cornflakes or puffed rice); a warm lunch (beef stew over rice or a chicken pattie); and for dinner a cold sandwich (baloney, tuna, or pb & j). I’ve had worse.

Most of my day is spent reading. I read a lot of books; but, mostly I study my legal work. I read reports, records, studies, case law, and notes from my lawyers, etc. I read it, and then I read it again, re-read it, and read it some more.

I also try to exercise everyday which can be challenging in such a small space. I do pushups, dips off my locker, and body squats. Again, it helps to fight anxiety and depression.

Finally, to occupy my time I write letters to my family, watch some TV (I like the history, science, and nature shows on PBS), and wait for my 30 minutes out of the cell.

When I think about it, my day is actually very regimented. I wake up, watch news and have coffee. They do count, then breakfast. I write a letter, more coffee, I read, they do count again. Then lunch. I exercise, read some more, coffee, watch TV, it’s count time. Dinner, mail is delivered; I read some more, watch some more TV, have a snack, last count. I go to bed, I wake up, repeat.

Something no one thinks about is using the bathroom…. All I am going to say is, being forced to have to answer the call of nature, while locked in a confined space with another man, for both men, is extremely uncomfortable, humiliating, and dehumanizing. It is an indignity that we are forced to endure every day. We have no choice.

Of course, what I look forward to most during my day is my 30 minutes out to use the phone. It is my chance to check on my family, and connect with the people I love. It’s my lifeline. It comes at a different time each day, but I’m always ready when it does. When my cell door opens, I rush down the stairs and across the flats to the phones. Time is critical. It goes by very fast. I call home and check that everyone is safe. I get a quick story about my grandson. I reassure them that I am fine. We say good bye, I love you and I miss you. It’s over. I leave a few minutes to rush up the stairs to my cell to change and run to the showers. In and out. Time’s up. Lock in.

Sometimes if I need to call my lawyers, I don’t have time to call home. I am unfairly forced to choose between speaking with my family or accessing my attorneys. Some days I have to skip the shower just to get an extra few minutes of phone time.

We receive very little information from the warden or his staff. We learn more from the television then we do from administrators. There are rumors that some of the guards have tested positive. We have heard other rumors of inmates being medically quarantined. I have not been offered a test, nor have I heard of any inmates at this facility being tested.

I watch the news every day. It’s incredibly disheartening to see what people are going through on the outside. Every day I worry about my family and the people I love. Some of my family members are on the front lines and others are in the very high risk category. I feel helpless and guilty that I’m not with them. I also see the number of deaths that continue to devastate our state and our country, the thousands who are hospitalized, and those who struggle the help them. I hear about the people who are affected financially by this tragedy. I feel for all of the families who have been touched so profoundly by this horrible virus. We, the men locked away from our families, are not so isolated that we don’t feel the same frustration, heartache and worry that everyone else is feeling. We’re just doing it locked in a cell.

I am, however, optimistic about what tomorrow will bring. Better days are coming. My daughter will graduate nursing school next month and my niece is graduating from college. I’m incredibly proud of both of them. And, my legal team has weekly meetings and continues to work on my case. Right now it’s about just getting through today, and taking things one day at a time. I continue to remind myself every day that after today, I will be One Day Closer…

A Love Story

During these difficult times I think everyone is looking for a feel-good story. That’s why during this Easter season, and while the prison and everyone else is on a Covid-19 lock down, I was thinking about a story my mother had told me many years ago. It was a love story about her parents, my Grandma and Grandpa. Growing up I was not very close with my maternal grandparents, but I always knew they loved me. And I loved them.

One day, back in 2002, during a visit with my mother in the prison’s visiting center, my mother and I were talking about some family history. At that time I had been locked away from my family for 6 years and was still desperately trying to hold on to a connection to home and my life prior to incarceration. I told my mother that as a child I remembered seeing some old black and white family photographs of my grandparents. I described the photos to my mother and she told me she would look for them to send to me. This is what mom sent me:

Brian’s mom shares the love story of her parents. “The rest is history.”
U.S. Navy sailor Edward arranged for a special delivery to his beloved Claire.

My Grandpa died on my daughter Amber’s birthday in 2007 and Grandma passed in 2008 after 61 years of marriage. I was not able to be with my family to morn their passing, but I felt the loss nonetheless. Not getting to know them better will always be one of my life’s regrets. I love and miss them.

Grandma and Grandpa’s wedding anniversary is next month in May but, I think I will always consider Easter as their special day. After all, for me Easter has always signified spring, new life, and new hope. So this Easter I will lovingly remember Grandma and Grandpa and their love story. It will make me smile. I hope it makes you smile, too.

The back of this photo reads, “What do you mean you have no money to pay the bill?”

Happy Easter to all. Please be safe.

One Day Closer…

A War of Two Worlds

I recently had an amazing visit with my two-year-old grandson and was given a beautiful gift. I would like to share how I was feeling and the impact of the time we spent together. This is how it went…


I walk into the prison’s visiting center, not knowing what to expect. It’s been a few months since I saw him last and I wonder if he’ll remember me. I spot them in the back of the room and make my way down the aisle. When I see that precious little boy his smile instantly melts my heart. He runs to me with his arms out yelling, “Papa!” I am overwhelmed with emotions. I instantly flash back to 20 years ago when his mother, my daughter, just a little girl herself, ran into my arms in a prison visiting center not much different from this one. I scoop him up, this little package of pure love, as his giggles of joy fill the room. I am transported to a place far from the misery of my incarceration. While in that moment I am set free, free to be who I am in my heart—just a simple man spending time with his grandchild.

He sits in my lap and I read to him; his tiny fingers hold my hand as we turn the pages together. He knows his colors and points them out for me. He likes red. While we are coloring I notice he’s using his left hand. I think he is going to be a lefty. Elmo is his favorite character in the Sesame Street coloring book. He pronounces it, “Melmo.” I’m in heaven.

I sing “Baby Shark,” and he shows me how he can dance. He wiggles his skinny, little bum, shaking it back and forth; he turns it up a notch when he sees that he’s making me laugh. His smiles and giggles are absolutely infectious.

I actually get lost in these moments and forget where I am as we spend the next hour singing, reading books, and coloring. He is magical. My heart is bursting with his love. He’s pure joy to be with.

“Cheeeeese!” Anthony shows Papa how to pose for the camera. Clearly he is a professional.


He points to an unseen boo boo on the back of his small hand. I ask him if he wants me to kiss it with a magic Papa kiss. He nods enthusiastically. The look of sincerity in his face tells me how serious this process truly is. I make a big production of giving multiple, magic kisses to make it better. He smiles with approval.

I ask him if he wants to take a picture with his Papa. He leads the way dragging me along, his tiny hand grasping mine, while insisting, “c’mon, Papa.” I pick him up and as we wait for the “click” I tell him, “Say cheeeese.” He’s a natural and clearly has done this before. Priceless. I will cherish it forever.

We get goodies from the vending machine. He shares his chewy fruit snacks with me, then his nimble, little fingers continue stuffing the tasty treats into his mouth. I give him sips of my soda and he scrunches up his tiny face in an adorable grimace. I can tell the bubbles tickle his nose. I can’t stop smiling. I am flooded with memories of visits with his mother, many, many years ago.

A toothless but very happy Amber is all smiles at a visit with her daddy in 1998

I’m amazed at how well behaved the little guy is. He’s so sweet, affectionate and sensitive. He has such an outgoing personality and is talkative, happy and fun to be with. How can he be so perfect? Well, his mother, my baby, was perfect, too. I’m filled with pride for his parents; they’ve created an incredible little human being. I search for some little part of me in his tiny features. I think he has my chin…

All too soon the prison guards call an end to the visit. I am holding my grandson in my arms as we say our goodbyes. He gives me a big hug and sloppy, wet kiss. I hand him back and he blows me kisses and yells, “bye Papa” as they leave through the large metal door. I’m left standing there still floating on clouds.

Then, a mere moment later, I am violently snapped back to reality. A guard escorts me into a small room to be strip searched before being returned to my cellblock–a degrading and humiliating end to every visit. It doesn’t seem real. What has happened? My mind, in a whirl, struggles to make sense of the immense change of emotions.

After I re-dress, I walk down the long hallway from the visiting center back into the depths of the prison. It’s surreal and unbearable. My heart is breaking. I walk through the check points with large, barred gates slamming behind me. My insides jump at the sound of each cold, steal mechanism locking, isolating me from the immense joy I felt only moments ago. My grandson is gone and I’m alone again. Although I’ve become accustom to the sadness and pain, I’m not calloused by it. It’s still a raw nerve. I feel deeply the loss. The emptiness is unbearable. I miss him already.

I return to my prison cell and for hours I struggle with my feelings. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, my heart and mind reconcile the contradiction of emotions. I suddenly realize what I must take away from this raging conflict in my soul. The fog lifts and it all becomes clear. Message received. I understand. I must draw strength from the pain. What better motivation is there then the unconditional love of a child? I remember what I am fighting for. It’s not only my exoneration and my freedom; it’s my family and my grandson. I must remain strong and continue to fight. Thank you for the reminder, my beautiful little boy. Papa loves you.


This is the year of dreams. I will dream of a life filled with happiness, of spending every moment I can with my family, my partner, and my precious grandson, as a free man. I must stay focused and remain positive. With life there is hope, and every day that I am alive to fight and to dream of a better tomorrow will bring me One Day Closer…

2020: The Year of Dreams

“Prison is a nightmare for those who deserve it. For those who don’t, it is a daily struggle to maintain some level of sanity. For those who suddenly learn that there is proof of their innocence yet they remain locked up, the situation is literally maddening.”

– Author, John Grisham 

Hello to everyone and Happy New Year.

The Guardians, a NY Times bestseller is the latest novel by John Grisham. This is the 40th novel for Mr. Grisham, a novelist, attorney, politician, and activist.

After a very long break, I recently felt compelled to write again. You see, I’m reading a new book (a novel) that Lisa sent me for Christmas, The Guardians, by John Grisham.  It’s about a group called “Guardian Ministries” that work on wrongful convictions. The main character, a wrongful conviction lawyer, is fighting to have his innocent client freed. Even though the lawyer and his team have uncovered evidence to prove innocence, his client remains behind bars. It is a long and difficult road to exoneration fighting a system of laws designed to put people in prison, not to let them out. As I was reading the book I came across the above quoted passage and suddenly had to stop. I read it again and then said out loud, “This is me. This is what I am feeling. He gets it.”

It is now January of 2020 and another year has passed since my wrongful conviction. It has been 24 years since I was arrested and everything I cared about was taken away. It was January of 1996 when I was put behind bars, falsely accused of a terrible crime that I did not commit. I have been fighting to prove my innocence ever since. It must also be acknowledge that it was 24 years ago this month that little Christopher needlessly lost his life. His loss is never forgotten.

Over the many, many years of my incarceration I’ve often found it difficult to express what it is like to be imprisoned as an innocent man; isolated and alone, helpless and desperate for someone to listen, someone to understand, someone to help. It’s different in prison for someone who is innocent. It’s much, much harder. Of course being confined in a prison is in of itself depressing and oppressive for all, but every day is a devastating struggle when you’re innocent. Every day. As each day passes, hope becomes an elusive concept that you struggle to hold on to. I’ve noticed, however, that the guilty seem to be able to find a psychological acceptance to their confinement and reconcile a type of peace. Perhaps it’s just easier when you know you’re guilty. I have never felt that acceptance or peace. Never. Every day that I remain locked up as an innocent man is physical and psychological torture and, like Mr. Grisham wrote, “literally maddening.”

What helps is trying to focus on all that I have and not what I’ve lost. And I do have so much. I have the love of an incredible woman who is my partner and my rock. I have a loving and supportive family who through all of this has stood by my side. I have many close friends who continue to love and support me. And I have all of you who have given me your encouragement, support and prayers. For all that I have I am very grateful. And, during the darkest of days remembering what “I have” is what gives me the strength to go on. So, I put on a brave face, tell everyone that I’m okay, and I survive another day, another year, another decade. I survive to fight.

I also have an amazing group of people working on my case, all fighting together with me to prove my innocence. And, incredibility, this year joining our legal team is a wrongful conviction clinic from a prestigious Boston law school . The professor and class of law students are now working with the rest of our team to bring me home. We are optimistic that this will be the year that we file with the court and my conviction will be overturned. Our hope is that once we present our overwhelming evidence and detail the egregious errors, the Bristol County District Attorney will not oppose our motion and take the opportunity to be a hero and right a terrible wrong. Wishful thinking?

To simply state that it is a difficult task to overturn a wrongful conviction is a monumental understatement. And, remaining locked away in prison while hoping for your conviction to be overturned is agonizing and maddening. But, there is strength and power in love, in family, in dreams, in optimism. We remain optimistic. We have hope. We have dreams. In fact, we are calling 2020 the year of dreams. So, this year, like every year, we will dream. Dream of a life where we won’t have to fight anymore. Dream of a life together, as a family. Dream of being truly free. Dream of chapter three. And our dreams are what will bring us One Day Closer…

22 years

January 2018

It’s that time of year once again that my thoughts are filled with reflection of the year past and dreams for a better future.

This month marks 22 years since young Christopher’s senseless death. It is always difficult to think of this heartbreaking loss and its effect on so many lives. It is a tragedy that must never be overshadowed. It is impossible; however, to consider that loss without acknowledging my wrongful imprisonment and being taken from my daughter and family. That tragic day, so many years ago, continues to cause so much pain and sorrow for so many.

Jen at work on Brian’s case. She keeps photos of Brian testifying at trial and after 20 years in prison at eye level so she can always see what she is fighting for.

On a much brighter note, during this time of year we like to take time to celebrate what we like to call our Jenniversary. It was three years ago this month that my lawyer, Jennifer Fitzgerald, came to us. Since then Jen has tirelessly worked on my case, with passion and tenacity, leaving no stone unturned. And every day Jen continues to bring us one day closer to the day I am exonerated and set free. Thank you, Jen.

While reflecting on this past year, I am struck by some of the overwhelming extremes between times of excitement and thankfulness and the difficult times filled with pain. It’s those extremes that often cause me and my family to struggle with being grateful over greedy, patient over frustrated, and anxious without feeling discouraged. Some of the most difficult times of this past year have been my own personal struggle-my ability to accept my circumstances without being in a constant state of resentment and anger. At times it can be crushing; and I know those feelings are often shared by my family as well. I know my family worries about me and they are often times overcome with concern over my safety and emotional stability. Even though we are confident that one day we will be successful and I will return to them, it doesn’t always make the difficult, every day journey any easier. There is still an empty hole in their hearts and in their lives. The loss is always present. There is always an empty seat at the table. Don’t be mistaken, there were many amazing and wonderful moments and developments this past year, and we have a tremendous amount to be thankful for; but, there were also some very trying times that sometimes overshadow the good…

Amber’s baby shower, August 2017
Samantha, Brenda, Scott, Anthony, Amber, Joe, Venilde, Lisa, Joyce and Mike

For example, we were all very happy that after a long, difficult battle I was reinstated in the NEADS Dog Program. I was allowed once again to train service dogs for disabled people, something that gave purpose and joy to my days. However, that happiness was short lived. Within two months DOC administrators put me in a no-win situation that would have put my safety at risk. I was forced to choose between my well-being and my continued participation in the NEADS program. With great agony, I was forced to leave the program.

This year in particular, I struggled with some difficult battles of depression (battles I did not always win.) As you can imagine, prison is a dark place filled with anguish, bitterness and pain. Being incarcerated, your thoughts are overtaken with depression, which then becomes intertwined with day to day life in prison. Isolation from family and loved ones becomes compounded with the added stresses of being immersed in a culture of violence, drug use and just plain hopelessness. You are surrounded by desperation, anger and despair. It’s a constant emotional and psychological battle.

Unfortunately, the DOC has recently compounded the feelings of isolation and pain by creating a new regulation that will prevent some of my loved ones from visiting me. The new regulation will restrict the number of family members and friends who will be allowed to visit, thus prohibiting my aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who have been visiting me for over two decades from seeing me. Imagine how it felt when we learned that as long as I remain in prison, I will never see those loved ones again. We were heartbroken.

I also struggled this year with the news of my daughter’s pregnancy. Don’t misunderstand. I was overjoyed at the news; however, I had a difficult time reconciling the incredible happiness at the gift of a grandson, with the anger and pain of what I would miss. Thoughts of my grandchild growing up in a prison visiting room, as my daughter did, were unbearable. Add to that my daughter’s very difficult pregnancy, with numerous trips to the ER and hospital stays; we were in a constant state of worry and under a tremendous amount of stress.

A little TLC from mom after wisdom teeth surgery.
Brian is not able to be by his mother’s side right now.

In addition to my daughter, the year ended with a terrible health scare for my mother. Over Christmas my mom was rushed to the ER and hospitalized for several days. I can’t describe the helplessness and fear I felt. I could not be there with my daughter or mother when they needed me. You become so much more aware of the tall fences, concrete walls and barbed wire that imprison you when you are urgently needed by the ones you love.

This past year we saw three men I know overturn their wrongful convictions and go home: Freddy Weichel, Darryl “Diamond” Williams, and Angel Hernandez. While my family and I are so very happy for these men and their families, it is extremely difficult and bittersweet to watch people you know win their freedom. I was forced to reconcile between my feelings of happiness for them as I once again returned to my prison cell and the large steel door slammed closed behind me.

On the other side of the extremes is the tremendous amount we have to be thankful for. I always remind my family, “We must choose to concentrate on what we have and not on what we don’t.” We have so much to be thankful for. In many ways, much more than others…

As I stated earlier, we still have Jen, my amazing attorney, with all of her persistence and passion. She continues to volunteer her time and work on my case without compensation. Her dedication to proving my innocence is never forgotten. It is because of her and her persistence that this year we have made amazing advances in medical research and diagnosis. Although we had hoped to file with the courts this past year, we just could never have anticipated the copious amounts of new, exculpatory medical evidence that would be discovered and require tedious review and expert examination. Most importantly, we continue to move forward and make remarkable progress.

This past year we have also added to the medical experts who, after reviewing the new medical evidence have volunteered their time and medical opinions in order to right a wrong and uncover the truth. This has been incredible and we are very thankful for all who continue to volunteer their time.

We also received some assistance from attorneys Lisa Kavanaugh and Ira Gant from the CPCS Innocence Program. They continue to offer support and remain dedicated to helping us any way they can. In addition, Attorney David Hirsch has joined our legal team and is now assisting with my case. In recent years, Mr. Hirsch was successful in overturning two wrongful convictions in cases very similar to mine. We are thankful to have him as part of our team.

Anthony Brian’s shirt reads, “My best friend is my Papa”

Most definitely what we have to be most thankful for this past year was the birth of my grandson, Anthony Brian. He is perfect. I was incredibly blessed to be able to hold him in my arms and just experience his warmth and charm. I fed him his bottle and he contently fell asleep in my arms. His perfectly formed, tiny hand firmly grasped my finger in a moment I will forever cherish. He captured my heart. I watched both his mother –my daughter, and his father look at this little person with such love and pride. No words can describe my feelings. I was so proud of them both.

It’s the extremes. It’s the jumps from joy to pain. It’s the struggles between happiness and anger. It’s the distance between patience and anxiousness. It’s grateful over greedy. At times we can’t help but to ask, what about me and my family? How much longer will we be forced to suffer because of this injustice? Lisa recently wrote, “How do you reconcile grateful and greedy when there are people working so diligently on your behalf?” The answer is you don’t. We are grateful. Grateful for all that we have; grateful for Jen and the amazing people who give so much to fight to prove my innocence. But, is it wrong for us to also be a little greedy? Are we ungrateful because we want the wait to be over? Is it greedy because after suffering for 22 years we want it to be our turn? Does it have to be grateful over greedy, or can’t we be both?

It must be understood, every day in prison as an innocent man is a very long day. Every day without a loved one because of a wrongful conviction is a day too many. We are tired. We are frustrated. We are impatient. Do you blame us?

Above all, we remain grateful and constantly remind ourselves that we have so much to be thankful for. Through the ups and downs, we continue to lean on each other as a family, with love and understanding, and anxiously wait for our turn.

One thing is for certain, each day that passes ultimately brings us one day closer…

 

 

 

 

 

 

My baby is having a baby

Greetings to all,

My family and I are celebrating some wonderful news. A few weeks ago my daughter, Amber, and her boyfriend, Anthony surprised me with a visit. They came in to the prison’s visiting room because they wanted me to be the first to hear their news. They wanted to tell me that I am going to be a grandfather. WOW! They are having a baby! I was shocked. It came as a wonderful surprise. My entire family is so excited and filled with happiness at the news. We are blessed.

Of course, my immediate reaction was of great joy and excitement. My daughter is having a baby. My heart was smiling to see the happiness on her face; on both their faces. And I was filled with love and happiness for them. I have always been proud of my daughter, what she has overcome and the woman she is today. And, I know in my heart that she will be an amazing mother.

However, later, in the quiet loneliness of my prison cell, in the dark isolation of my thoughts, some reality landed in my heart…

Best buddies

In 1996, when I was arrested and locked away in prison, I was torn from my family and accused of a horrific crime. My family and I were suddenly forced into this desperate and futile struggle, fighting an enormous, crushing criminal justice system. Suddenly I was in a fight for my life, trying desperately to prove my innocence. It was unimaginably hard on me and my family. We were in over our heads. We didn’t know what to do. I was a young, twenty-six-year-old man. And my daughter, Amber, was only four.

Those days were very difficult, but it was especially hard on Amber. It was very confusing. Her daddy was suddenly gone and she couldn’t understand why. We all did the best we could to help her understand. But how do you explain to a little girl why her daddy can’t come home with her? How do you explain that he can’t pick her up and hold her, or tuck her into bed at night, or kiss her boo-boos with magical daddy kisses anymore? How do you explain that daddy is in prison charged with first degree murder?

Whether it was the right choice or not, at first we chose not to tell her. After all, we still held on to hope that this horrible mistake would be discovered, the truth would come out, and I would be returned to Amber and my family. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened.

After years of fading hope, Brian had to tell his 8-year-old daughter that daddy was accused and convicted of a crime he did not commit.

After my trial, we continued to hold out hope that the next appeal would bring me home. However, Amber was getting older and starting to piece together what was going on. I had to attempt to help her understand. So, at eight-years-old, in the prison’s visiting room I had to explain to my daughter that daddy was accused and convicted of a crime he did not commit.

It was still very hard for Amber; we could not protect her from everything. Amber had to live with the bad things people were saying about me. After all, to the many people who read the newspapers, I was a child killer. But to Amber, I was just her daddy. At school Amber was often bullied, and she was forced to live with the stigma of having a convicted child killer as a father. Some kids were very cruel, as kids can sometimes be. Fortunately, Amber was also supported by some good, loyal friends and some wonderful teachers. For that I was grateful. Through it all, Amber did what she had to do to survive and she bravely persevered.

Vovô, Amber and Vovó

For me and my family, time was often measured in what was lost; what was missed. For example, holidays and birthdays; me not being at my sister’s wedding; missing the birth of my niece; and me not being with my family to grieve the passing of my grandparents. But for Amber it was much worse. She had to learn to grow up with her father in prison. I began measuring time by what Amber was losing; what I was missing. What I was missing became something that tortured me during my dark times of loneliness and despair. The years were ticking by. My family did an amazing job at trying to keep me in Amber’s life. Phone calls, mail and weekly visits replaced my daily presence. My family attempted to keep some normalcy in Amber’s young life and minimize my absence. At times it was a struggle. Amber’s life went on without me.

This beach brat loved the tide pools!

I would get letters from my family telling me about what was going on in Amber’s life, what I was missing. Things like, when Amber lost her first tooth and how they put it under her pillow to wait for the Tooth Fairy; enclosed was a picture of her toothless smile. Amber’s first day of school, I got a picture of her dressed in her little plaid uniform. There were days when Amber would just cry and say, “I want my daddy.” Then, I got pictures of Amber joyfully playing in the tide-pools at the beach with grandpa. I was on the phone with her when she was crying because she stepped on a bee with her barefoot.

Bare feet and bumblebees don’t mix. Ouch!

I received drawings and hand-made cards from Amber telling me, “I love you Daddy.” In the visiting room, Amber would run to me and jump into my arms. I got a picture of Amber opening gifts on Christmas morning with messy bed hair and an excited smirk on her little face. I received a letter telling me that today Amber learned to ride a big-girl bike all by herself. In the prison visiting room I read Amber books and we made drawings together. Amber was so proud when she made honor roll; she mailed me a copy of her Morton “M” from school.

The honor student

At a visit, Amber told me about her first school dance and how she had no one to dance with her during the daddy and daughter dance. Then, a boy broke her heart; but I was not there to tell her that it would be ok and that there will be other boys. I got pictures of Amber and her friends at her sweet sixteen party-she looked so happy. In the mail I got a copy of Amber’s high school diploma with pictures of her in her red robe. Everyone was there except me.

Dad is very proud of his high school graduate!

Amber sent me pictures of different gowns she wanted to wear to prom. I picked the one that covered the most skin.  Amber turned 18 and started visiting me on her own.  After a visit, a prison guard said to me that he watched my daughter grow up in the prison’s visiting center. I cried as I walked back to my cell block. During a phone call, Amber told me that she was starting college. Later this month Amber will be 26, the same age I was when they handcuffed me and took me away from her. Now, Amber is going to meetings with my legal team and involved in the fight to prove her father’s innocence.

 

“After a visit, a prison guard said to me that he watched my daughter grow up in the prison’s visiting center. I cried as I walked back to my cell block.”
– Amber turns 18

Twenty-one years have passed. It was more than just birthdays and holidays that were missed; it was her entire life. At every milestone, every memory of Amber’s childhood, her father was not there. I was not there. I was in prison for a crime I did not commit.

Now, Amber is having a child of her own. My baby is having a baby. While I do not want in any way to diminish or overshadow this very happy news, I can’t help but to think of how me not being there is going to affect her; one more very important time in her life that she will be without her father. One more part of her life that I will miss, unable to be by her side.

Amber and Anthony sent me their birth announcement for me to send to our family. She said, “I want my dad to feel included and not left out.” I’m a lucky man. They recently came to the prison to tell me they were having a boy. Once again, they wanted to make it special for me. I was told I would know the gender when I walked into the visiting room. There they were, in blue shirts. They told me that my grandson’s middle name will be Brian, after his papa. I fill up every time I think about my grandson having my name. My heart is both full and broken at the same time.

A special gender reveal for Papa Brian

Every day brings a new chance for hope. Now, my hope is that my daughter is filled with happiness; that she knows that she will always have my love and support. My hope is to hold my grandson in my arms as a free man. My hope is to not have to watch him grow up in the visiting room as his mother did. My hope is to be able to watch him play and grow and just be a happy little boy. We are all very happy and celebrating this new life. After all, with life there is hope.

My family is hopeful for a better tomorrow. After all, tomorrow will bring us One Day Closer…

 

Update: Civil Rights Lawsuit

Hi to everybody,

I wanted to give everyone a quick update on recent events regarding the civil rights lawsuit I filed against the Massachusetts Department of Correction (DOC).

As I’m sure you remember, last February (2016), prison officials here at MCI-Concord threatened me and then retaliated against me because I cooperated with the reporter from Boston Magazine, who was writing an article about my wrongful conviction. Prison officials were angry at me and decided they would punish me by removing me from the NEADS Service Dog Program. Over the course of the two years that I had been in the program, I had trained three dogs that were placed with disabled children. Well, after my punitive removal I filed a federal lawsuit against the DOC in U.S. District Court (Peixoto v. Lois Russo, et. al.)

Attorney Sonja Deyoe stepped forward and offered to represent me in the suit, pro bon. The DOC lawyer then filed a motion with the court to have my lawsuit dismissed. He argued that I do not have a Constitutional right to communicate with the media and that DOC officials did not threaten or retaliate against me for doing so and that I did not have a protected right in being in the program to begin with so I had no rights to protect in the suit. Subsequently, the court held a hearing where Sonja aggressively argued against the DOC lawyer on my behalf.

Amazingly, I am happy to announce that Sonja was successful. The court ruled in our favor and denied the DOC’s motion to dismiss the lawsuit. In the court’s decision the judge agreed with us and stated that a jury could find that “prison officials took adverse action” against me and had “the intent to retaliate,” when they removed me from the NEADS Program. Further, the judge stated that a jury could find that these prison officials acted with “intent” to threaten and intimidate me in order to discourage my communication with the media.

This is wonderful news. Sonja did an amazing job in fighting for me and my civil rights. This is an incredible David v. Goliath win. With Sonja’s help, we were able to stop omnipotent prison officials from abusing their power and from threatening and intimidating those weaker and in their care. We are hopeful that very soon the DOC will be forced to do the right thing and put me back in the NEADS Service Dog Program and to stop any further abuse against me simply for proclaiming my innocence and fighting to be freed from my wrongful imprisonment.

Thank you, Sonja.