Letter From A Texas Prison Inmate

I want to introduce you to a young man who has spent the last 14 plus years as an inmate in the Texas prison system.  His name is Andrew Papke, now age 31, serving a 40 year prison sentence as a result of his decision to drive after drinking alcohol.  He was 19 years old at the time.  Two Austin Texas teenagers lost their lives on a June night in 1996 as a result of Andrew's decision to drive drunk that summer evening.  He was charged with two counts of intoxication manslaughter.  Andrew accepted responsibility for his actions, entered a guilty plea, and received the maximum punishment allowed by Texas law...a 20 year prison sentence on each count.  The judge "stacked" the sentences, meaning that Andrew has to serve the first sentence before the second sentence begins.  He also enhanced the sentence by upgrading the charges to "aggravated", ruling that Andrew's vehicle was a "deadly weapon".  That insured Andrew would have to serve a minimum of 50% of each sentence...20 years minimum before he would have the possibility of being released from prison on parole.  This past year Andrew came up for a parole hearing on the first sentence that he is still serving.  He was denied parole on that sentence, even though it would not have released him from prison, as he still has to serve 50% of the second 20 year sentence that he received.  Andrew's next possible parole hearing was set off for two years, now meaning he will have to serve a minimum of 22 years before any possibility of walking past the guard towers and razor wire topped chain link fences of the Texas prison in Gatesville Texas that he calls "home".

Let me clarify something before I go any further.  The purpose of this portion of this web site is NOT to solicit sympathy for Andrew Papke.  Because of Andrew's decision to drive drunk there are two families who were robbed of their loved ones.  Those families will grieve their loss for the rest of their lives.  But the grief of drunk driving fatalities doesn't end there.  Andrew's family is grieving as well.  Although his mom or dad or brother or wife didn't make the choice to drive after drinking that night, they also live daily with the everlasting pain that fateful night brought about.  Just as the victim families feel a sadness and indescribable pain when their loved one is not with them to celebrate Christmas or other holidays, Andrew's family also experiences that sadness.  Many would be quick to point out that at least Andrew's family can visit him in prison, while the families of the two teenagers that died that night will never have the opportunity to look into their loved one's eyes again, or hear their voice again.  I will be the first to acknowledge that fact.

But there is another side of Andrew, the person he is today after well more than a decade of incarceration, that I also want to acknowledge.  The stated purpose of incarceration is for an offender to not only make atonement for their offense, but also to hopefully be rehabilitated so they can be returned into society to be a productive person, rather than a lifelong drain on a prison system operated by our tax dollars.  Most prison guards and administration will be the first to concede that an inmate's attitude, and the choices they make once they are a part of the prison population, will be crucial in determining the probability of their successful rehabilitation. 

Like all inmates who first enter the prison system, Andrew had to make choices.  He could have chosen to be rebellious, insubordinate and join a prison gang.  Or he could choose to accept his fate and punishment for what it was, pay his "debt to society" without being disruptive, and make use of his time to better himself.  He chose the latter.  He chose to continue his education and his family made it possible for him to take college correspondence courses that did not come at taxpayer's expense.  He volunteered to participate in the Victim Offender Mediation/Dialogue program run by the Texas Dept. of Criminal Justice.  (Initiated during the Nineties by victims of violent crime, VOM/D is based on the notion of "restorative justice:" that healing and rehabilitation are best achieved through direct personal accountability, not systematic retribution.) 

The article about Andrew's participation in the Victim Offender Mediation/ Dialogue program is how I first learned of his case.  We corresponded for over five years before I finally met him at the Hughes Unit prison facility in Gatesville, Texas.  I must admit that at first I was skeptical of Andrew's true motives and the remorse he professed for his victims and their families.  But then I looked again at his sentence.  Here is young man who, due to the terms and conditions of his sentence, must serve 20 years minimum before he could ever be released from prison.  He didn't need to put on "an act" for anyone.  It wouldn't matter.  He was YEARS away from being at a point where he might benefit from trying to "con" someone.  20 years minimum is just that.  Then I finally got to look into his eyes, even though it was through a window as we spoke on telephone handsets.  I found him to be the same person as the one he had portrayed himself to be through years of writing.

Those of you reading this will form your own opinion of Andrew Papke.  Some reading this will feel that Andrew, like all inmates, are the scum of the earth simply by their virtue of being a prison inmate, and are not deserving of a second chance in life after "doing their time".  Thankfully Jesus Christ didn't share the viewpoint that all people are beyond redemption and salvation.  Some of you will share my opinion that Andrew was a careless 19-year-old whose decision in 1996 to drive drunk resulted in tragic consequences that can never be undone, and for which he is paying a severe penalty, again acknowledging that his punishment pales in comparison to the lifelong grief of the families of the two teens who died in that horrific crash. 

The purpose of Andrew's story being placed on this website is not to debate his sentence or character.  The reason I have included Andrew's story here, with his permission, is to hopefully cause those who read it to think about the possible consequences of driving after drinking alcohol.  That is Andrew's hope as well, which is why he has allowed me to share his story.

You may be a parent of a son or daughter who drives after drinking.  If you are, you may possibly say to yourself "My God, that could be my kid in prison right now", and Andrew's story might cause you to discuss this uncomfortable subject with your son, or daughter.  Maybe you will feel the need to share Andrews story with your brother or sister, or boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife, mother or father, or whatever the relation may be.  I encourage you to share Andrew's story with anyone who you feel is at risk for one day being where he is now.

If you are a person, young or old, who doesn't give a second thought to driving after drinking, (or driving under the influence of some other substance), and are living with that false belief that "it will never happen to me", I hope Andrew's story will cause you to understand that it could one day very well be you if you continue to discount the possible consequences of what could happen after you get behind the wheel while under the influence.

Below is Andrew's story, in his own words. 

The Road Goes On Forever

(Andrew Papke)

(Andrew, in the early stage of his incarceration.)

It was a cold Sunday morning.  I was looking up at the high lonesome Texas sky over the red brick wall as I lay in my cell at the 'ole Walls Unit in Huntsville.  Robert Earl Keen was crooning into my sleepy head through raggedy headphones.

I had skipped church.  In and of itself, that was not a big deal, except that I worked for the unit chaplain.  I was expected to be on the front pew in the "Chapel of Hope" every Sunday until one of us retired, made parole or died.  This stunt I would hear about, and I hoped he would simmer before coming into work on Monday.  But at 6:00 a.m. on this freezing morning I was feeling a little under the covers...er, weather.  I had simply awakened without the sand to put my feet on that cold concrete floor and relinquish the blanket I was under.

Of course, as soon as I looked at my clock, knowing that service had begun, I couldn't sleep.  My conscience pricked, I got up and made myself a hot shot of what we convicts refer to as Columbia's finest legal export.  As I sat there rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked up and squinted into the sun that was making its presence felt over that red brick wall.  I thought back to when I was seven years old.

My dad had bought me a dirt bike for my birthday.  It was the greatest present ever!  Though I could barely kick start it at that age, he was always there to assist.  I would make tracks in the field next door and ride laps faster, jumping higher all day for as many hours as would permit.  Sometimes Dad would ride his big dirt bike with me, even more so in the years after, while youth still had its hold on my innocence.  We called it "clearing out the cobwebs."

And were I out from under this prison, this day would offer no amount of cool air to stop me and Dad from clearing out the cobwebs.  What a great day it would have been for a ride.  No patterns, just wide open across that field, winding through the junipers leaving a trail or torque churned black dirt.  That was home.

But for me, home was never a house.  It was always the memory of times like these; times when I could play outside smelling the dirt as my little brother, Dave, and I made G.I. Joe bunkers together.  Home was me spending the night camping with Dave in the tree forts we made from scrounged lumber; wood that never seemed in short supply thanks to Dad.  Home is when you hope for tomorrow to be just like today.

I am not home now.  Home was yesterday; that goodness in life I left behind when I came here.  No matter how much taken for granted, or how misused, it will always be home.

The hard part is knowing that what used to be home will not ever be there again, and there is a fear that not even a remnant will remain.  Maybe a new family with teenagers working on their Chevy Camaro in the driveway will be there at my old house.  My driveway.

These images of home I remember so well; not many different times, but many of those same memories over and over.  Once in awhile a snapshot from my youth; events obscured by time.  That morning's reflections are not unique.  There are no new memories.  There haven't been for some time.  It could be any day that I could be thinking about home; every day in fact.  But at least once during any given day I find myself thinking about one sweltering night in June, 1996.  It chokes out every other thought and it stays until sleep comes, sometimes longer.

The headlights came from nowhere.  The collision happened so quickly.  Head on.  Less than a second from the time I crossed the center line to the point of impact.  A loud "POP!" with the crunch of steel and the tinkling of glass scattered across the asphalt. 

(Car driven by Andrew)

Afterwards everything sounded like it was under water, as my eardrums were busted from the concussion.  I could barely focus on anything other than the darkness before me that seamed smeared and spiraling into a spreading brown smudge.

The gurgling screams of my passenger cut the stillness.  My first concern was to get to him.  "I have to check on him and keep him calm!" I thought.  "What the hell just happened?!" I cried out loud, somehow not knowing but sensing this was truly serious.  It was bad, indeed.  I brushed my hair back, my cap gone, and found blood coming from my face and ears.  We were pinned in the car and I began to panic with the fear that one feels when the lights are turned off in our room at night as kids and the closet door creaks.

As I started to lose a grip on consciousness, I wondered, "Is this how it feels to go?  Is this how we die?"  Afraid, I managed to throw my weight against the door repeatedly until it unjammed.  I smashed and kicked it forcefully to open it just enough to squeeze from behind the seat and steering wheel, scramble up from the pavement and move around to the back of the car and tend to my buddy who was trapped in his seat with his legs wedged between the floorboard and crushed engine compartment.

As he continued to scream incoherently, I comforted him the best way I knew how at the time by telling him, "You're going to be okay, bro, help is on the way."  A sense of urgency drew me towards the other vehicle.  It was difficult to see, but the unnerving coppery smell of death rode upon the hot breeze.

The car I was driving was completely crushed in, and I could not see my friend from the waist down.  I kept patting his hair and telling him just to "hang on", trying to keep him calm.  I was having a hard time understanding what he was trying to tell me.  His bottom row of teeth were gone and blood was sputtering all over his chest.

I remember the smell of coolant from the motor and fuel fumes, and tried to reach through the passenger side door and turn off the ignition switch, but the key had broken off in my right knee and I was in a panic, praying that a spark wouldn't set the car ablaze.

At the sight of the other car laying crippled on it's side, I felt faint, but desperately tried to walk toward it.  It was like a silent dream in slow motion.  As I drew nearer, I saw the driver slumped motionless over the dashboard, suspended by his seatbelt.  He didn't move.  He just looked normal, as if he were sleeping.  His car did not look like a car any longer.  It looked like a twisted mangle of metal and rubber that, just minutes before, had been a handsomely restored Volkswagen "Beatle".

(Victim's Volkswagen Beetle)

I was drunk and I knew it.  Everything was going black and my left side became numb.  I remember being led by a passerby around to the front of the car where I passed out, slipping down into a drainage ditch.  The scene faded as I collapsed.  The driver of the other car still had not moved.

My next conscious memory was that of the bright searchlight of the rescue helicopter landing seemingly atop of us.  My feet were tingling like when they fall asleep; pins and needles.  I had landed in an ant bed and was going into shock.  Time slipped away as I looked up next to find paramedics cutting my jeans and boxer shorts off as they loaded me onto a gurney, where a State Trooper started asking questions.

I had an oxygen mask on my face and intravenous lines running into my arms and ankle.  I did not really comprehend the nature or gravity of what was going on.  This had been a terrible crash and was far worse than I thought.  My buddy was extracted from the car and we were loaded on the helicopter.

As we started to lift off, my fiancée, mom and my family were the only lucid images rapidly flashing before my eyes.  It was during these times, times when we do not know if the next minute will come, what is truly important in this world.  As we made the longest flight of our lives to a hospital twenty miles away in downtown Austin, I regretted not having told my brother "I loved you" the last time we spoke.

Paramedics began to clean us up.  There was a needle broken off in my arm.  The pain pulsing through my whole body was putting me under and consciousness was illusory and sporadic.  In the "crash room" my mom, brother and fiancée had been summoned for a brief visit.  When I saw the horror on their faces, I cried for the first time I could remember.  I took the cross from around my neck and placed it in my brother's palm as he held my bloodied hand.

Once all of the x-rays and diagnoses had been accrued at the hospital, a doctor gave us the news.  I had six broken ribs, multiple contusions and abrasions, a mild concussion, and suspected spinal damage to the t-4 and t-5 vertebrae.  A social worker informed me that my buddy was going to survive but was seriously injured with a crushed ankle, broken femur and was in surgery and an emergency splenectomy , (removal of the spleen), was being performed.  The driver of the other car and his girlfriend had died instantly.  They were on their way home from a date.

After my stay at the trauma center, I was released to police custody.  I was arrested and taken to central booking in a wheelchair and hospital gown, handcuffed and covered with glass and bodily fluids.  I felt sick and couldn't move.  I knew that life was never going to be the same after the staff had told me of their deaths.

By the next day, after gaining a tiny grasp of my surroundings, I was in disbelief.  This was a nightmare, one that two kids would never wake up from; one that I would never sleep without again.

The following morning I was arraigned on two counts of Intoxication Manslaughter.  Lives had changed.  Theirs had ended, and in so many ways, so had the lives of their families and mine.  Lying in my cell in the county jail, I could hear the news on the dayroom television where they were reporting about this horrible wreck that rocked central Texas.

This is from KTBC FOX Channel 7 News:

"Take a look at this damage.  The roads are getting dangerous, and are expected to get even worse.  Good evening, and thanks for joining the FOX 7 News Weekend Report.  The violence begins on Austin roads.  Last night a head-on collision leaves two people dead and one man in jail.  We're told that the two cars were headed in opposite directions when one crossed over the yellow line and onto the wrong side of the road.  This is the car that was hit, with two teenagers killed in the crash.  Here's the driver.  He's in jail tonight, charged in the deaths.  Troopers fear there will be more accidents like this.

The world was getting a light flooded glimpse of the same scene I knew and saw.  Every station it seemed covered the crash for days, and speculated and commented on a plethora of facts and sentiments.

KVUE ABC 24, 6PM News said:

"Authorities want to know how an Austin teenager got alcohol before getting behind the wheel and killing two other teens.  Authorities say 19-year-old Andrew Papke was drunk when he crashed into an oncoming car.  The accident happened just before eleven Saturday night on Brodie Lane.  Papke has been charged with two counts of Intoxication Manslaughter."

Images of the car I was driving and that "Beetle", as well as pictures of the victims in their prom attire just weeks prior, and my mug shots from the booking facility plastered the news for days afterward.  At the bars, the drinks kept flowing.

From the photographs I later saw, all that remained of the "Beetle" was a ball of crushed metal with absolutely no living space.  I just could not believe that there was a passenger inside the car with the driver.  I did not see how it was possible that a body could fit in such a tiny space.  But then I remembered when I saw the car that night.  I saw transmission fluid all over the ground, running out from underneath the overturned car.  I started thinking about it and realized that a Volkswagen Beetle has a standard transmission.  It wouldn't have automatic transmission fluid, and transmission fluid was red in color, and gooey.  All Beetles are standards.  They only have grease in their gearboxes.  That wasn't transmission fluid at all.  That was blood.

Pictures showed the frame of the car I was driving buckled upward mid-way to the back of the vehicle, leaving very little room to sustain life.  The floorboard and dash were almost completely crushed to the middle of the side doors.  The steering wheel was bent over forward, and an object from the engine bay had impaled through the dashboard and nearly imbedded into the seat in which I had been sitting.  To this day, in addition to bewilderment as to how I survived, are the words of those who were killed reverberating in my head as they visit me in my sleep..."Why Andrew, why!?"

Roughly a year later the trial proceedings began.  I pleaded guilty in open court to both counts of manslaughter.  The sentence came back: Twenty years on each count.  The judge subsequently "stacked" them, meaning I had to serve the first sentence completely out before beginning the second.  They would be run consecutively.  I have the maximum punishment by law.  If parole, an illusive beast in Texas, is not granted then I will serve up to forty years flat.  I will buy the calendar for year 2036 in prison.

Drinking and driving puts everyone at risk as a potential victim.  Its is deadly.  When I drove out there, I was an accident waiting to happen.  But it really isn't an accident, is it?  Pointing a loaded pistol in a crowd and pulling the trigger is no different than driving under the influence.  We all have seen the results of it on television, driver's ed classes and other places.  We all know better when we take that drink without preparing a way to get home.  Getting behind the wheel drunk is nothing short of attempted murder.  A crash that kills someone is nothing less than a successful result, an actual commission of said offense.

This carelessness allows an already deadly hunk of hurtling metal to become an out of control projectile; a bullet as it were.  When we drink and drive it is not a matter of "if", just when and how bad it is going to be when it does occur.  If I had hit a motorcycle or school bus, would it have been any less serious of an offense?  What if I had only run off the road hitting a tree and just killed myself?  Or not hit anyone at all and made it home "safely".  The answer is a resounding scream, "NO!", because the act is still the same.

This year over seventeen thousand people will die in the U.S. as a result of someone's lack of sense when it comes to drinking and driving, thousands in Texas alone.  When it comes time to go to the club this weekend, or the lake...when prom night or spring break or any other fun "rites of passage" that we thirst for comes...before you go, think of the memories of home you have.  Think of your family.  Think of your friends.  Because if you don't and someone ends up dead, the only memories you'll have will be overshadowed by those of that time when you knew better but didn't choose more wisely.  Before you get behind the wheel after having just even one drink, think of that other family who will get a knock on the door in the middle of the night, and later be making funeral arrangements...because of you.

Be smart.  Don't drive after drinking.  If after drinking you do decide to get behind the wheel, convinced that you are "OK to drive",...well,  we'll leave the light on for ya'.

Andrew Papke