In Arkansas, eight men are scheduled to die by lethal injection this month. Here is one of their stories.
Even before Rob moved in, I'd already heard he was a bit... off.
Sitting here in this dark, cramped cage, unable to sleep, haunted by these reminders of what brought me here, I can't help but hate myself for what I did.
A cut means more inside than it does on the street, and that's especially true in solitary—where some guys haven't seen their own reflection in a month.
I got to the point where I easily made $16,000 each month.
Together you get your financial house in order, finalize his will, take baths, and cry.
He came at me with a knife screaming "Kill me!" and "I'm going to kill you." I shot him once in the stomach, but stopped there.
A Texas prosecutor revisits the domestic abuse case he'll never forget.
The exam room was set up so the inmate sat between me and the bright red panic button.
Trying to maintain contact with my loved ones turns into a maze of skipped meals, smuggled cell phones, and a whole lot of pain.
I'm no regular cop hater: I was crippled in the line of duty, with the boot they cut off me at the hospital to prove it.
Frequent urine tests, controversial scanners, and false positives make for a dark scene.