[Editor's note: This story first ran online in December, 2011. This is the updated version that appears in the March/April 2012 issue of the magazine.]
"THIS IS A COLLECT CALL from a correctional institution," says the robotic female voice at the other end of the line. After a moment of confusion, I realize it must be Felix Garcia, whom I'd visited several weeks earlier in a northern Florida prison. He's serving a life sentence on a robbery-murder charge for which his own brother now admits to framing him.
Felix is deaf, which is why he's using a TTY operator. I'd sent him a card for his 50th birthday, a picture of flowers and some lame words of encouragement. Now he's calling to thank me and to plead for help. Four of his fellow deaf inmates have tried to commit suicide, he explains; one somehow managed to swallow a razor blade. It sounds like Felix is thinking about doing the same. "Please," the voice intones, "will you phone my lawyers? I can't get through to them."
Felix lost most of his hearing when he was still a kid. For most of his three decades behind bars, starting at age 19, he—like most deaf prisoners in America—has been housed in the general population with few services for his disability. He's been raped, targeted by other prisoners, and ignored or taunted, he says, by guards who think he's faking. Last year, he tried to hang himself.
"Felix," I plead awkwardly. "You are not going to kill yourself."
"I won't do it,'' he says finally. "I have Jesus."
I repeat: "Do not kill yourself."
"Yes, sir." The call cuts off.
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