“We, the jury, find the defendant, Cameron Bronson, guilty of the charges of armed robbery, grand theft auto, and second degree murder, as accused in the indictment.”
And the gavel slammed.
I was only 18 years old, and I was looking at life behind bars. I wish I could’ve said it was undeserved, but the accusations were true. I robbed the bank, I stole the car, and I killed the cop that came after me for it. I had no intention of harming him, but he chased me down, and when you’re on the run with thousands of dollars of stolen money, you’ll do anything to avoid being caught. Well, at least I would, and I did. I didn’t care about the money. But a month prior my mother was diagnosed with stage II colon cancer and needed urgent surgical care. We’re not a wealthy family, and uncovered emergency operations aren’t exactly affordable, so I reduced myself to getting money in anyway that I could: selling drugs, robbing convenience stores, mugging strangers, anything to get my hands on a little extra green. This time I went too far, but I had to finish what I started. This wasn’t the end for me, and I swore it wouldn’t be the end for mom.
I was escorted out of the courtroom and loaded into the back of the transport van. I was given a vibrant orange jumpsuit and an identification number - I was inmate R-10111. That’s all I was now. I wasn’t Cameron anymore, just a series of letters and numbers.
My first day in jail I spent pacing around my cell assuring myself I’d somehow find my way out. Later that day I was called out, I had my first visitor: my dad.
“You got two minutes,” uttered the guard.
“Dad…” I began to say.
“You really screwed up this time, Cameron.”
“I know,” I replied.
“You killed a cop,” dad muttered, the disappointment streaming from his gleaming eyes in the form of sobs.
“I know,” I whimpered again, joining him in tears. “But I’m gonna do it, okay?” I said with a sniffle. “I’m gonna get out of here and we’re gonna find the money for mom.”
“Cam, do you have any idea how much your mother’s surgery will cost? Fifty-thousand dollars. Fifty.”
“I know, but trust me I-”
“Time’s up,” the guard said walking in, interrupting the moment.
“It’ll happen. Mom’s counting on me,” I whispered to my dad.
Before leaving, my dad leaned in to hug me goodbye, an offer which I gladly reciprocated. As we embraced I felt him discreetly slide something into my back pocket. After returning to my cell I immediately checked my jumpsuit pocket to see what my dad had given me. It was a small switchblade knife.
Thanks dad. I knew exactly what to do with it.
Over the next few days I began carving a small hole in the corner of my cell, carefully constructing it behind my bed to keep it unnoticeable. Unfortunately, the knife could only handle so much scraping before it began to dull, and after a week, I was making no progress. I was stuck - literally, until I devised a plan. Every day from then on I collected the apples from my lunch and used the remaining strength of the knife to sever the peels. I placed these peels inside my toilet, submerged my knife inside and let it soak overnight. Nasty, but successful nonetheless; the acid from the peels had deteriorated the dull point of the knife, sharpening the blade and renewing its quality. After repeating the process a few times, the hole became larger and larger until it eventually reached the other side of the wall, connecting to a narrow shaft filtered with pipes. I squeezed my  body through the hole and used the pipes as steps, slowly descending until my impromptu staircase led me to an air duct, from which I ended up in the control room. Only one problem: there was a guard sitting vacantly on a computer adjacent to the exit. I knew there was no way of getting past him undetected. I pulled out my knife and stealthily crept toward him. Standing behind the guard with my weapon in hand, I had to make a decision - was I really capable of taking another life? My heart was pounding, and I questioned if it was all really worth it. How many lives would I destroy for the sake of saving one? Hesitatingly, I released my grasp of the knife, dropping it to the ground and alerting the guard who then drew his weapon. I put my hands on my head and surrendered.
I’m sorry, mom.