Carlos Vicario (CV): In our last interview, we talked about how a person’s demeanor—expressions, posture, tone—can have life or death consequences when in court. Today, we’re going to talk about how one person’s demeanor was perceived in a particular case: yours.

Looking back to your appearances in court in 1989, the comments of judges, of the prosecutor, of the media, tell the same story: you never showed emotion. You were fifteen years old, and you appeared as cold as a block of ice. What were you thinking? How did this happen?

Efren Paredes, Jr. (EPJ): Before I entered my first court proceeding I was instructed by my trial counsel not to show any emotion. He was very emphatic that exhibiting emotion could be misperceived and used against me by judges, jurors, and the prosecutor. I had no previous experience being in a courtroom, and had no clue what I should or shouldn’t do, so I followed his advice.

CV: Let me reference your mother on this: “[Attorney] told him not to cry.” He didn’t just tell you not to look ashamed, not to look frightened, not to smile or laugh. He told you not to cry. Did you feel like crying?

EPJ: I felt like I was frozen in a nightmare. I kept reminding myself over and over, “The attorney said don’t show emotion,” each time I prepared to enter a court proceeding and as I sat through each hearing. There are no words to describe the whirlwind of emotions I was feeling, and fighting to suppress: anger, fear, frustration, confusion, sadness, powerlessness, desperation, loneliness, isolation, and at moments—hopelessness.

But I was afraid of showing emotion—all the time, I was afraid. Terrified about the prospect of allowing my feelings to be seen, because it could perhaps lead to a conviction somehow. It was exhausting to hold everything in each day, but I kept telling myself I had to do it, and my attorney continued reminding me to do so as well. When I felt myself beginning to get emotional, I’d try to distract myself—I’d start writing things down or look at papers my attorney had on the table related to my case.

Then, after a hearing, they’d take me back, and I’d lay on my bed in the cell, and cover myself with a sheet to hide my tears. The darkness under the sheet felt like my only sanctuary at the time. I was in a cell by myself for the first couple months in jail so I had no one to talk to other than my parents, who I was allowed to call once a day. I didn’t tell them how I felt. I was fifteen, but I knew I needed to be strong to help my mother remain strong—that she was struggling to cope with having me away from her and in jail. Even if I’d felt I could tell her things, the phone calls were brief, and there was an officer always sitting nearby, listening.

I’ve told you about prison conditions—how that influences a person’s mind and outlook. Jail can do that, too. I was held in the county jail the entire time I awaited trial and never spent a moment in a juvenile detention center. And for the first couple of months, it was solitary confinement. I always felt disoriented because there was no visible clock around me and the staff kept my light on 24 hours a day.

There was also no window in my cell to see outside. I could only look into the hallway to see another wall in front of me. The only way I could keep track of time was by the three meals I received each day. Besides that, I had no idea what time of the day it was. I often felt like I was alone on an island. I wasn’t allowed to attend school or use the library. Occasionally I would receive access to use the gymnasium once a week for an hour by myself. I was eventually allowed to meet with the Chaplain and his wife once a week for about a half-hour to receive spiritual counseling.

CV: I’m going to stop you here, because I want people to get this straight. You’re fifteen years old, and you have been ordered to suppress your emotions—on penalty of losing your freedom for the rest of your life—while existing under conditions of solitary confinement that have been scientifically proven to send grown men spiraling into hallucinations, depression and suicide. Conditions that cause physical damage to the human brain.

EPJ: Yeah, and guess what? Twenty-four hour light exposure also physically damages your body and your brain. I usually tried to sleep as much as possible each day. Some days, I only woke up to wash up, eat meals, take a shower, make a phone call, and do some brief letter writing.

But it was not healthy sleep. Try a few days of that, and you literally cannot think in a focused way. Some days, in court, I wasn’t only exhausted from all the effort of suppressing my emotions, it was just too much effort to keep the days and times straight. The entire thing had me so numb, sometimes, that there were moments I would mentally just drift off in court and not pay attention to what was going on. There were also times people were testifying and I couldn’t even concentrate long enough to pay attention.

Anyway, I tried to numb out as much as I could—for my mom, for myself. Partly because I was told to act that way, and partly to hurt less. At the time I didn’t understand how debilitating it can be for someone (especially a teenager) to try to deaden the pain of their painful experiences. I want to share a quote with you from Dr. Brené Brown, a research professor at University of Houston and bestselling author of “Dare to Lead,” which I believe is important to this conversation. According to Dr. Brown, “Numbing also dulls our experiences of love, joy, productivity, creativity, and empathy. We can’t selectively numb emotion. Numb the dark and you numb the light.”

So what happened was that it drained all the energy I might have had left. I couldn’t think clearly, or process information, even if I wanted to. Sometimes, I was just broken. I gave up. And that flattened all the emotion I’d been trying to suppress anyway.

CV: So that people around you perceived you—described you—as cold, heartless, ruthless, capable of anything.

EPJ: Perceived me as capable of taking the life of somebody I knew and respected.

CV: Let me ask you about that now. You’ve been accused since you were fifteen of being responsible for Rick Tetzlaff’s death; but he was a manager at the store where you were a grocery bagger, and the two of you spent a lot of time working together. How do you remember Rick?

EPJ: Thank you for asking that, because I do remember Rick. To describe him best—he was easy going and an all-around nice guy. I never once heard him talk disparagingly against another person. He seemed to try to maintain a calm attitude and avoid tension with others. During the time we worked together, Rick and I never had a single argument. I never saw him argue with anyone. All the employees—I’m not talking about managers—and the customers who shopped at the store seemed to like him.

There was one store manager who wasn’t too fond of Rick, named Matt. Despite Matt’s feelings, Rick never argued with him, even though he knew that Matt made negative comments about him behind his back to other employees and even customers. Matt seemed to be jealous of Rick and feel he was favored by the store owners. Ironically, Matt would go to prison a few years after Rick’s murder for shooting and killing his own father.

But Rick was my favorite manager. Whenever I had an issue with my work schedule or just wanted to talk, I knew I could always go talk to him. Sometimes I would walk into the office and just stand there talking to him for a few minutes. Other times we would talk when we saw each other in other areas of the store.

During our conversations, Rick told me he played soccer in college. It was something we shared in common because I had been playing the sport since the Third Grade and I had aspirations of attending college as well. He even showed me his class ring from Indiana University, which I admired and hoped to have one of my own from a university one day. I can’t describe it any better than saying that I looked up to him.

CV: How did you learn about his death?

EPJ: It was early on the morning after it happened. A police officer came to our home to tell my parents and me about Rick’s murder. The officer was interviewing everyone who worked at the store the previous evening to see if they knew about the crime, or had seen or heard anything that could be helpful to the police investigation. At the time I was not told I was a suspect in the case. I cooperated fully and answered all the officer’s questions then consistently, the same way I did three months later during my trial, and still do thirty years later. My version of the facts has never changed.

The evening before, Rick had asked me to stay a bit later to work, so I called my mother to get her permission. She told me I could work longer, but not past 9:30 pm because it was a school night. As a courtesy, for her allowing me to work a bit later, Rick offered to drop me off at home so she didn’t have to make the brief five minute drive to pick me up.

I told the officer that the prior evening Rick dropped me off at home after I punched out of work at 9:22 pm and he told me he was returning to work to wrap things up.

After the officer left, I was in shock. I couldn’t believe that someone I spoke to and spent time with the prior day had been murdered and I would never be able to see or speak to him again. It just didn’t make sense that someone would kill Rick because of a robbery. I believe Rick would have just given the robber(s) the money and not even argued with the person(s) about it. Money was not more valuable than his life.

CV: And how did you respond to that shock—at fifteen?

EPJ: I don’t remember ever attending a funeral, nor anyone in my family dying when I was young. If they did, I would have been too young to even remember. We hadn’t talked about death. So no one in my family ever discussed grief and loss with me, either before or after Rick’s death; and I didn’t know how to process his loss at the time. No one asked me how I was doing or feeling, or if I needed to talk about my feelings. I knew I felt a great deal of sadness, and I cried when thinking about Rick’s death, but I didn’t know how to express or share it.

Between the news of Rick’s death and my arrest, a week later, I remember being flooded with thoughts about also possibly being a victim had I been present when the crime occurred. When the store reopened, a few days after the crime occurred, I asked my parents to take me to the store. Then, I asked one of the store employees if they could show me where the crime occurred, so I could pay my respects to Rick.

What’s so deeply ironic is that I wasn’t even scheduled to work the day of Rick’s murder. The only reason I went to work was because Rick called me at home that afternoon, after school, and asked if I could work in place of another grocery bagger who injured himself the previous evening. If not for that, I would have never been at work that day, or been a possible suspect in the crime.

CV: So now we go back to the courtroom, and you struggling to hold back emotions that you’ve been ordered—by your own attorney—not to show, because it might get you incarcerated for the rest of your life. Did the judge or prosecutor or anyone ever ask you why you weren’t showing emotion?

EPJ: No. At no time during my pretrial hearings, trial, or sentencing did anyone ask me why I wasn’t showing emotion, or how I was doing. I think they preferred not knowing, so that it would be easier to objectify me and accept the fact that a 15-year-old was on trial in an adult courtroom who should have been tried in a juvenile court.

CV: And this played a big role in what happened next.

EPJ: The media repeatedly reported about it to the community, making it impossible to not infect a potential jury pool with their reporting. The District Court judge in my case cited a lack of emotion as one of his reasons to transfer my case to the Trial Court. The Prosecutor’s Office mentioned it during court proceedings and my sentencing judge referenced it during my sentencing hearing.

CV: Essentially, the advice you were given got you convicted. But what’s still hard to believe is that any attorney ever gave a fifteen-year-old that advice—that order.

EPJ: After my trial, I remember telling people the advice my attorney gave me to not show emotion, and those people wondering if perhaps I misunderstood him. Except, I did not misunderstand. He wrote a letter admitting to it several years later, which is available on my website. [Click here to read Efren’s attorney’s letter.] He also admitted that his advice may have contributed to my conviction, and he expressed regret for instructing me not to show emotion. This absolutely happened.

CV: What kind of a role did you get to play in your own defense, throughout your trial?

EPJ: None, other than answering my attorney’s questions. Having no previous court experience, I couldn’t offer him any defense strategy assistance because I had no idea what we were allowed or disallowed to do. I didn’t understand legal terminology. I also never saw my police reports, medical reports, or any documents related to my case until after I was convicted. I occasionally briefly saw documents sitting on the table during my trial, but never before then.

CV: You were still very young when you went to prison, and you didn’t know at that time how badly your attorney’s advice had harmed you. But eventually, you realized it.

EPJ: I felt angry, hurt—really betrayed. I also began to question whether he’d deceived me on purpose. I felt that he had to have known he’d given me poor advice, because he was one of the best defense attorneys in the area at the time. I couldn’t conceive any rational reason to interpret things any other way.

It impacted me so much that we didn’t have contact with each other for several years afterwards. I decided to try to pick up the pieces and move forward with my life. My family hired another attorney to handle my appeals, and I just took things a day at a time.

Several years later after maturing and growing deeper in my faith, I realized that it takes more energy to harbor anger and other negative emotions than it does to jettison them. Carrying that weight is exhausting. So finally I made the decision to forgive him—not to withhold the second chance he deserved. As I indicated earlier, he subsequently wrote the letter acknowledging his mistake. We have since spoken to one another and maintained contact. He is retired now and no longer practices law.

I am glad I made the decision to allow healing and reconciliation to occur and I believe it was good for both us and our families. Further, it allowed me to transition from going through the experience to growing through the experience, by finding purpose in my pain.

CV: Hey, listen, next time we’re going to talk about this personal growth business. We’ll be inviting readers to join us for Part 8 of this interview series, soon.

 

Efren Paredes, Jr. is a Michigan prisoner and subject of the new multi-channel documentary film installation, “Half Truths and Full Lies.” He is also a blogger, social justice advocate, proud father, and loving husband. You can learn more about Efren by visiting www.fb.com/Free.Efren and www.tinyurl.com/Efren1016.