Cyntoia Brown-Long - 15 Oct

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Copyright 2019 by Cyntoia Denise Brown

Photos courtesy of Ellenette Brown, Cyntoia Brown-Long, and Jaime Long, unless otherwise specified.

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First Atria Books hardcover edition October 2019

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Interior design by Joy OMeara

Jacket design by James Iacobelli

Front jacket photograph courtesy of Flip Holsinger

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019948672

ISBN 978-1-9821-4110-3

ISBN 978-1-9821-4112-7 (ebook)

This publication is a memoir. It reflects the authors present recollections of her experiences over a period of years. Many names and identifying characteristics of individuals have been changed. Some dialogue has been re-created from memory. Some scenes are composites of events. Events have been compressed and in some cases their chronology has been changed.

This book is dedicated to all the women, men, and especially juveniles serving time in the American prison system. You may have lost all hope and feel like your voice has been silenced and your life doesnt matter. Know theres ONE person who sees you.

You, who have shown me great and severe troubles,

Shall revive me again,

And bring me up again from the depths of the earth.

You shall increase my greatness,

And comfort me on every side.

PSALM 71:2021 (NKJV)

Introduction AUGUST 26, 2006

M y knees shook as I stood in the courtroom. Any moment now, the jury would file in. Twelve men and women had spent the last six hours debating whether I should spend the rest of my life behind bars.

Id sat in the Davidson County Courthouse holding cell, staring at the cinder blocks, reading the names of men and women etched on the walls. The metal bench pressed into my back, but I barely noticed. My mind was busy playing the same scene over and over The last five days of testimony went by in slow motion. Did that juror smile at me? I wondered. What were they thinking then? Are they on my side?

I didnt expect to walk out of that courtroom a free woman. That doesnt happen when you kill someoneespecially when youre a biracial girl who shot a white man. But I did hope for some sort of mercy.

I was sixteen years old, just a kid, when I thought Id fallen in love. In my crazy, teenaged head, we were building a future together. He wasnt a pimp selling my body to fund his lifestyle. Our arrangement was only temporary, just until we could run away to Vegas and start our life. I thought I was making Kut happy when I climbed into a middle-aged mans truck and agreed to have sex with him for $150. But when the night dissolved into a nightmare, I panicked and shot a man. It was self-defense, I reasoned. I wouldnt get in trouble.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

Maybe I would get fifteen years, I thought. Almost as long as Id been alive, but better than a life sentence. Fifteen years and I could be back in my mommys house, ready to make a fresh start.

Without warning, the courtroom door burst open. The jury strode in silently, their heads down. I stared at them desperately, hoping someone, anyone, would make eye contact with me. Only one man looked up. We locked eyes for a split second. My heart pounded as he shook his head slowly, imperceptibly, before he looked down again. Maybe he was ashamed of what he had done. Or maybe hed fought the battle for me and lost. Whatever it was, I knew right then and there I was getting a life sentence.

I stared at the jury, my chest heaving as I tried to slow my breathing. Whatever you do, dont cry, I thought. I wanted them to feel my anger.

My attorney Rich McGee leaned forward in his suit, his blue eyes boring holes through the jury. He knows it too, I thought.

Has the jury reached a verdict? the judge asked the jury foreman.

We have, Your Honor.

Tension radiated through the room. I stared the lady down, waiting for her to read the words Id dreaded for months. Why does she gotta pause like that?

We, the jury, find the defendant, Cyntoia Denise Brown

She paused again for what seemed like hours. Just do it already, I thought.

Count one, guilty, first-degree murder.

I flinched. Her words carried the weight of condemnation. I felt like shed just confirmed I was a monster, a murderer, a whore.

Count two, guilty, felony murder.

Pause.

Count three, guilty, especially aggravated robbery.

I didnt have to wait for the judge to read the sentence. I already knew. Everyone did. First-degree murder carries an automatic life sentence in the state of Tennessee.

I was still just a teenager. Id never had a drivers license, never been to prom, never voted.

God, I said, back in my cell, curled up in my yellow jumpsuit, if you let me out of here, Ill tell the whole world about you.

1 THE VIEW FROM THE OUTSIDE

W hen I was a little girl, I would do anything to make my mommy proud. We were attached at the hip, walking around as if it were the two of us against the world. I was a princess in my parents eyes, and even though Id have rather climbed trees and made mud pies, I let them doll me up in frilly dresses and clip bows in my curly black hair.

My big brother and sister, Chico and Missy, were already grown and out of the house, and Chico always complained that I was spoiled. Looking back, he was probably right. Mommy and Poppy ate up every second of having a little kid in the house again, and whatever I wanted, I got. When I begged for my own swimming pool, Poppy made sure my wish was granted. While Chico and Missy had had a whole list of chores when they were little, my only job was to load the dishwasher.

I didnt have many friends, but I didnt need them. Mommy was my only playmate, plain and simple. I spent most of my time working to keep us safe, especially from the house fires I was sure would strike as we slept at night. Ever since I heard a boy down the streets house had caught fire after he put Kool-Aid in an iron, I was terrified that my little brick one-story house would be next. I kept backpacks stuffed with extra clothes and toys, ready to grab at a moments notice, and I even held my own fire drills. Mommy and Poppy laughed, but I wasnt messing around. I wouldnt let anything hurt my family.