Beyond the Verdict: Finding Hope and Solidarity After “Still Convicted”

For years, I lived in and out of a system that monetized bondage while prioritizing finality over truth. I came to understand that the system was not searching for the truth but rather for what it could prove—or, more accurately, what I could not prove: my innocence.

Without making excuses for the crimes I committed, I reflect on my first major encounter with the criminal justice system. I found myself standing before a judge who imposed incarceration for a driving charge—a “habitual offender” violation that amounted to being caught three times without a driver’s license. I was processed through a major holding facility known as Powhatan. What began as a harsh response to a driving offense quickly escalated. From Powhatan, I was transferred to Buckingham Correctional Center, a major Virginia institution that, at the time, housed the electric chair following the demolition of Spring Street in Richmond, Virginia.

I share this story to help illustrate how a man of color began a journey that resulted in spending most of his adult life locked within a system that never weighed the consequences of its “one-size-fits-all” approach. It was a system unconcerned with life’s truth and more invested in power over those it deemed insubordinate. My experience was not just about lost time—it was about systemic barriers: racism, inadequate legal defense, and a lack of resources that continues to trap so many of my brothers and sisters in cycles of injustice.

My journey from being “still convicted” to standing free “beyond conviction” serves as a reminder that while the system may be broken, our collective spirit and commitment to justice are not. After spending more than seventeen years in a system that had grown far too comfortable with my captivity, I was forced to reflect on my first introduction to what I now call “just-us.”

My Story of Redemption

As I began to realize that I was more than what “they” said I was, I also became aware of my own destructive behaviors—behaviors that were fed by monetized incarceration and reinforced through exploitation. I had been conditioned to believe this was my fate.

I was assigned to five or six different road camps—not picking tobacco, but cleaning Virginia’s highways for what amounted to twenty-seven cents an hour.

I had fully accepted this as my lot in life until I encountered a Scripture that read: “If anyone is in Christ Jesus, he is a new creation; old things have passed away, and behold, all things have become new.” That truth transformed my belief system and set me on a path of redemption through the power of a resurrected Savior.

Having fought my way out of the cycle of bondage, I now, as the Apostle Paul wrote, “fight the good fight of faith.” I do this by encouraging generations to take ownership of their lives through spiritual, emotional, and mental growth—through education, career development, and entrepreneurship.

Moving in Solidarity Together

Today, I serve as the Executive Director of Charlottesville Abundant Life Ministries—not by my own ambition, but by God’s calling. I am no longer defined as a career criminal with more than sixty charges on my record. Instead, I am a man who can lift his head high while setting an example for those who follow behind me. Though I carry the title of director, my true desire is to remain on the ground—offering and facilitating hope through new mindsets, productive choices, and positive career pathways.

As I walk alongside men, women, and their children within one of Charlottesville’s five government-designated impoverished communities, I grieve. I grieve for a system that claims reform through whitewashed walls while refusing to confront the foundation of systemic injustice.

This is why we must be Locked in Solidarity—for families who suffer from a system that views bondage as the primary means of changing hearts, controlling minds, and sustaining profit under the guise of justice.

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