Isaac Wright - Marked for Life: One Mans Fight for Justice from the Inside

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THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to those who were intimately responsible for molding me into the man I was, the man I became, and the man that continues to evolve into a better man than yesterday The only Protector, Provider, and Mentor in my life, Isaac Wright Sr., my father. The only Nurturer in my life, Sandra B. Wright, my mother. The only Team in my life: Quentin W. Wright, Walter D. Wright, Paportia R. Wright, Sandra J. Wright-Laribo, and Steven J. Wright, my siblings. The only reason for living, Tikealla S. Wright, my daughter. The only Teacher in my life, LIFE. And the only Guardian in my life, GOD

Although this is a work of nonfiction, the names of certain individuals have been changed to protect their privacy, and dialogue has been reconstructed based on the best of Mr. Wrights recollection and on press accounts.

I WOULD LIKE TO ACKNOWLEDGE the extraordinary debt I owe to Curtis 50 Cent Jackson. His legendary vision and foresight immediately understood the importance of my story to society. His efforts and ingenuity turned my story into the inspiration of one of the most profound social justice television shows to date, ABCs For Life, and made the necessity of this book a no-brainer. Thank you, Fif, for being you.

This acknowledgment must also be extended to my friends, Andy Mascot who introduced me to 50 Cent, as well as Doug Robinson and the late Allison Greenspan, executives who were instrumental in cultivating 50s vision into the For Life seriesthe prelude to the anticipation of this incredible book.

I would also like to acknowledge the people who made writing this book an enjoyable experience among the onerous responsibilities of career and life: Tikealla S. Wright for picking up the slack when the distractions of writing this book caused me to fumble in other areas of my responsibility; Frida Baicea for keeping me healthy and fit when endless hours of focus and work turned into days isolated in a room, refusing to take a break, even to eat.

Finally, I would like to acknowledge the three I refer to as the Trinity: Steve Fisher, my agent; St. Martins Press, my publisher; and Jon Sternfeld, the heavy lifter in writing this book. Steve was the brilliant architect that brought all the pieces together. St. Martins Press saw the vision and put the full force of its expertise and resources behind ensuring the best book we could produce. Jon, my twin pen, was instrumental in bringing home an incredible product.

I must acknowledge Richard Poo Dailey and Steve Workman, lifelong friends who never said no and never let me down when the obligations of this book required me to ask them to stand in for me regarding tasks that I could not allow to take me away from writing.

A shout-out acknowledgement must go out to the people I emphatically depended on when I ran for mayor of New York City in 2021: Melody Jimenez (my campaign manager), Michael Roman (my field director/acting campaign manager), Michael Pringle (my field organizer), Sheena Li Guzman (my team leader) and Sandra J. Wright-Laribo (my communications director and personal assistant). And, a special acknowledgment to Roger English Francis, Eli Cohen, Andy Hov Moscat, and Kenneth Jordan Espiritusanto for all of your invaluable help and support.

Thank you all for your kindness and support.

Continue to follow my story and obtain updates on my journey, social justice initiatives and appearances, by following me on:

Facebook: Isaac Wright Jr

Instagram: @isaacwrightjr

Twitter: @IsaacWrightJr

When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.

JACOB RIIS,THE STONECUTTERS CREDO

Somerset County Courthouse, Somerville, New Jersey

September 4, 1996

HE WAS SQUIRMING UP ON the stand, avoiding my eyes like they were shotgun barrels. Detective James Dugan possessed the look and bearing of a military man: dirty-blond crew cut, straight-backed posture, tight-lipped expression. But the eyes. The eyes told a different story.

I didnt know what he thought when he got out of bed that morning, what was on his mind when he dressed in his crisp blue uniform or when he kissed his wife goodbye. Maybe he thought he was in the clear, that a convicted felon acting as his own lawyer couldnt do much damage. Maybe his lies about me weighed on him or maybe he buried it all deep enough that the guilt couldnt come up and bite him.

But as the momentum on my cross-examination built, as I found my rhythm, he sensed where this was going. In prison you learn to read peoples eyes quickly and decisively. Its basic survival to know friend or foe, anger or fear, impulse or plan.

Dugans eyes gave away the game.

I woke up that morning only a couple of miles from where he did, not in the relaxed comfort of my home, but in a cramped and damp cell. Not next to my wife and across the hall from my child, but alone inside hard stone walls.

Everything you were and ever will be is squashed in prison. Thats what they dont tell you, what the public doesnt understand, and what the movies dont show. Prison doesnt just take away your present, swallowing up your days, hours, and minutes. It also takes away your past toodrowns out your memories until theyre wisps of ideas, unrecognizable, like something from a dream or a story someone once told you.

And it takes away your future, until all you can see in front of you is a blank space, so dark and empty that you cant even imagine what would fill it.

I had one clear advantage over the detectives and prosecutor who set me up, the witnesses who lied about me to save themselves, and the judge who perverted justice to seal my fate: I had thought about nothing else for over 2,600 days.

My case was my lifebloodit pumped my heart, circulated the blood in my body, and ran through my veins. Everyone else had lives to live, schedules and plans and all the things that come with being free. But in prison, those things fall away; you have nothing to do but make it through the day. Over and over and over again. Its always right now and its always forever.

So around the clock, from when I opened my eyes in the morning to when I put my head down at night, I thought about them: Prosecutor Bissell, Chief Detective Thornburg, Judge Imbriani, Detectives Dugan, Racz, and Buckman. Seven-plus years after my arrest, I knew them better than they knew themselves.

They called it a post-conviction relief hearinga PCRbut it actually was more of a reckoning. These men had excised everything out of my life with near-surgical precision. And it was finally time for my answer.

In court, Dugan sat before me, boxed in, seeming so small. He was just a man; they were all just men. They had the power of the state behind them, the trust of the public, the obedience of the police force, the weight of history and institutional memory, but they didnt have my ingenuity or my will. They couldnt possibly. I was outmanned but they were outmatched.