Is True Crime Keeping Me in Prison?

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Back in September 2018, I shared an article titled “The Mental-Health Crisis in Prisons” with New York magazine. On a whim, I contacted a producer I knew from CNN, Loen Kelley, asking her assistance to discuss this critical issue on air. Our connection stemmed from her website, PrisonWriters.com. You see, I was once a prisoner myself, convicted of manslaughter in 2001 at the age of 24. My sentence included 25 years to life, adding onto the three years I had already served for drug dealing. Eventually, I found myself incarcerated at Attica. There, I participated in a writing workshop and discovered my passion for journalism. Loen and I had discussed our shared interests on several occasions, leading me to believe she was invested in my well-being.

In a letter, Loen introduced me to two producers from HLN, a network that specializes in true-crime shows and is related to CNN. Their colleagues subsequently paid me a visit, mentioning that their program centered around redemption, with Chris Cuomo expressing an interest in discussing my journey towards becoming a journalist while incarcerated. During my trial, there were some sensationalized articles in the tabloids due to the similarity of my name to the deceased Beatle, but overall, my case received little attention from the media. Given that I had already served 18 years, which is the average time served for murder in America, it was not difficult for me to assume that Cuomo wanted to highlight my second chance. Prior to their visit, I had asked my brother to find a docuseries hosted by Cuomo aside from his nightly CNN show. One of them was titled “Inside Evil.

I inquired from the pair of producers during our meeting if they weren’t planning to cast me on that “Inside Evil” show, didn’t they? The initial season went by the name “Inside With Chris Cuomo,” one of them informed me. For the second season, it was rebranded as “Inside Evil.” They mentioned that for the third season, it would focus on stories of redemption. Previously, when I reached out to CNN for a comment, they told me one of the producers I met had been discussing the series title. The other producer also said there had been an attempt to change the name. However, a CNN spokesperson now states that there were no substantial discussions about altering it. When Cuomo interviewed me weeks later, he was straightforward: The show indeed is called “Inside Evil.

As a film enthusiast, finding myself in such a peculiar situation, I couldn’t help but feel a tad out of my depth. Yet, when engaged in conversation with a television journalist whose sibling holds the office of governor – the very individual who wields the power to commute my sentence and grant me freedom – one can hardly afford to falter. So, I pressed on.

I caught my episode towards the end of 2019. Previously, it had been aired on HLN, but our prison cable package didn’t include that channel. However, we did have CNN, and they were airing the entire third season of Inside Evil that evening. The two-hour premiere focused on a serial killer, as described in the show’s promotional material, who had allegedly killed more women than Jack the Ripper. In the end, it was disclosed that the man had committed suicide in his San Quentin cell. My episode, which served as the season finale, was titled “Killer Writing.

During most of the episode, I face Cuomo, detailing my past criminal life and attempting to justify my admiration for gangsters. As I share the incidents – my voice fluctuating between frustration and pride – the audience witnesses a woman sobbing, who is the sister of the man I murdered. Snapshots of my multiple arrests, focusing on my bloodshot eyes, are displayed. The eerie, nameless reenactments of the murder are the most challenging to endure. I am portrayed as a dark figure dressed entirely in black, moving slowly to retrieve the AR15 from the trunk. When I (or the figure) pulls the trigger, bullets spew from the barrel and spent casings scatter on the ground. This scene – my lowest point, taking a life – is repeatedly shown throughout the 45-minute program. Now, these images are inseparable from my real recollections of that fateful night, and they blend together in my mind.

When Cuomo and I delved into my writing, he remarked that we had both collaborated with the same editor at Men’s Health. “In essence,” Cuomo explained, “we perform the same role, albeit through the same individual and the same publication, in two entirely distinct realms. How do you manage this dichotomy?

I didn’t, I told him, I just did the work.

Today, it’s tough for me to admit this truth: I let my pride blind me from seeing my own mistakes. I said things that I deeply regret, and some of these statements were altered to fit the program’s evil theme. These segments will be online forever now. Although I have a writing career that allows me to challenge the show’s negative portrayal, many other incarcerated individuals lack the means to counteract when true crime sensationalizes their most heinous actions.

Over time, families of victims have expressed concerns about the insensitive and unethical methods used by producers when dealing with them. Moreover, the negative consequences of these reality TV shows extend beyond this. They often disclose personal details and family histories of both victims and offenders, which can be dangerous for those currently incarcerated, as well as their families. The public exposure can subject them to unwanted scrutiny and criticism when crimes are rehashed. In many cases, producers do not seek the input or consent of prisoners regarding episodes about their cases, leaving them taken aback when they find out they’re on TV. When contacted, producers may provide false information about the show’s intentions, misrepresent its title, or make promises they cannot keep. If we choose to participate, our responses are often manipulated to emphasize our most negative comments, such as an inappropriate expression of remorse or an overly casual comment about our crimes. The end product usually fails to capture the underlying traumas that drive individuals to commit violent acts, like abuse and neglect in childhood. Worst still, appearing on these shows can impact our chances for release. I have personally experienced this.

Over time, I’ve seen numerous true-crime series featuring men who were imprisoned alongside me. Occasionally, when I move to a new prison, I might recognize someone and ponder if we served time together in another facility or if I saw him on television. This has become increasingly frequent as the years pass and the shows accumulate. When you know about their criminal background before meeting them, it can be quite off-putting; it taints your perception of them altogether.

Back in 2017, when I encountered Mulumba Kazigo in Sing Sing, he was a thin man with mannerisms typically associated with femininity. Born in Uganda and raised in America, Mulumba lived in a yellow house in Westchester alongside six siblings, their mother, and his father, Dr. Joseph Kazigo, a surgeon. In 2005, following years of suffering abusive treatment, Mulumba stormed the apartment his father rented near the Long Island hospital where he worked. He attacked the 67-year-old with a baseball bat and inflicted a grievous wound to his throat. His sister, who was then a doctor in the U.S. Army, informed the prosecutor that Mulumba had been on antidepressants and was contemplating suicide. She claimed their father had expelled him from their home and instructed him to procure his medication from the hospital’s emergency room. The sister recounted the disturbing pattern of abuse they all endured as they grew up, which eventually led Mulumba to receive a 20-year sentence.

Midway through Mulumba’s statement, someone from Investigation Discovery contacted him for an interview. Initially hesitant, he admits that after the producer offered him $1,000, he consented to be part of it. This offer was particularly tempting for a prisoner who would need to work tirelessly for many hours to earn that amount. However, following his interview at Sing Sing, Mulumba never received any further contact from the producer nor the promised money. (It’s important to note that Mike Mathis Productions, the company responsible for filming the program for the network, stated they do not compensate individuals for appearing on their shows or make payment promises.) In 2013, Investigation Discovery broadcasted Mulumba’s episode as part of the Blood Relatives series. The title of this specific episode was “Paging Doctor Death.

The television series exaggerates the nature of real-life crime, featuring an overly dramatic narrator, awkward background footage, stereotyping, and cheesy tunes. It portrays the Kazigos as a harmonious family on the brink of disaster, hinting at tension through significant glances during meals and clenched jawlines. The dialogue is poor. Following the revelation that one of Mulumba’s siblings had taken their own life, the narrator states, “Little do they know another member of this close-knit family is preparing to break.” Mulumba speaks articulately and softly. However, the series trivializes the hardships experienced by him and his family at the hands of an abusive father. The narration continues, “Yes, Joseph can be firm-handed, but why not run a well-managed household?

Mulumba expressed feelings of deception and mistreatment. He conveyed remorse over his involvement because it caused even greater distress to his family. It seemed an additional disgrace for him, I suppose, knowing that a sensationalized portrayal existed about such a private hardship: Mulumba’s siblings and mother are relatives of both the victim and the perpetrator.

When my episode was broadcasted, I was on edge, fearing that men were discussing the show behind my back. The man I ended up killing had his own brushes with the law, and his mugshot would be circulated across the prison. Over time, I’d crossed paths with some of his associates. One, who recognized me from the neighborhood, stabbed me six times in the chest, collapsing my lung. It’s those hidden adversaries that can prove to be the most perilous.

Prior to encountering an individual named Kyle, who I’ll refer to here, I felt as though I already knew him. Years earlier, I had watched a true-crime show about his case. He had been convicted of stabbing and beating someone, earning a ten-year sentence for the crime. Given that Kyle was a small man with protruding blue eyes and an unstable demeanor, I anticipated he would be vulnerable in prison. True to form, when he joined my tier at Sing Sing, where I had been transferred in 2017, I saw him being targeted just as I had expected.

Others discovered during the show that Kyle’s family possessed wealth. Once the dealers inside figured out that he enjoyed getting high, they supplied him with heroin and K2 for nearly a decade due to his privileged status. I’ve been in two separate prisons with Kyle, and on both occasions, he ended up on my tier. Numerous times, I witnessed him falling into a catatonic state from K2, or overdosing on opiates only to be revived with Narcan. The situation became so severe that — to keep him from purchasing drugs from other inmates — the superintendent isolated Kyle in the prison infirmary ward for the final months of his sentence, until he was released last year.

But the most preyed-upon subjects for true crime may not be men like Kyle and me.

Across the country, women’s correctional facilities are overflowing with trauma, and their numbers have grown at a rate double that of men since 1980. Currently, approximately 200,000 women are incarcerated, representing almost the total U.S. prison population from the early ’70s. Despite efforts by activists and academics to reframe the impact of trauma on domestic violence, the consumption of true-crime content centered around women has expanded significantly.

In a recent conversation, I spoke with Kwaneta Harris, a Texas-based prison journalist who is currently serving a 50-year sentence for the murder of her lover in 2006. Over the years, I’ve supported and nurtured Kwaneta’s writing talents, exchanging ideas about reporting from within prison by calling each other at the same time as our respective mothers. Our discussions frequently revolved around true crime, a genre that Kwaneta is particularly familiar with due to her own experiences. In 2016, the popular TV show Snapped, which focuses on female killers, aired an episode about Kwaneta without her involvement. This broadcast led to bullying of Kwaneta’s daughter, who was in high school at the time. As a result, she had to change schools twice, and Kwaneta advised her to lie and say that her mother had passed away, rather than disclose the truth and face judgment. “I’d prefer for her to lie and receive sympathy over telling the truth and being judged,” Kwaneta stated.

Just as men in New York prisons often receive contact from true-crime producers, those in Kwaneta’s cellblock are frequently approached as well. On one occasion, I phoned during the dayroom recess, and Kwaneta handed her tablet phone to Shaina Sepulvado. Back in 2005, when Shaina was only 16 years old, she was involved in the murder of her stepfather along with two friends. All three, including Shaina’s mother who was found guilty of facilitating their actions, were given life sentences. Shaina has consistently maintained that her mother played no role in the crime. In 2011, she made an appearance on the show Snapped.

In her episode, there’s not much focus on the fact that Shaina was a minor with learning difficulties during the commission of her crime. At 35 years old, Shaina continues to struggle with reading and writing. As a result, she confides in Kwaneta about the offers she receives from true-crime show producers. One recent offer came from I Am a Killer, but Shaina declined. She explained this to me, stating that other shows had manipulated her words to portray her as a bad person. Despite acknowledging her role in her stepfather’s murder, she did not pull the trigger. Shaina feels that I Am a Killer misrepresents her character by suggesting she identifies as something she is not.

2019 saw the passing of New York’s Domestic Violence Survivors Justice Act, which allows judges to reconsider the impact of domestic abuse on defendants when determining sentences. This law has primarily benefited women, but it was Mulumba, in August 2020, who became the first male prisoner released under this act. In a piece for the Tulsa World, Mulumba wrote about his experience post-release, urging for similar legislation in Oklahoma, stating that sentencing should consider the circumstances surrounding the crime committed.

As a film enthusiast, I can’t help but question if show producers truly delve deep into mitigating factors like a troubled past, mental health issues, or learning disabilities, as they claim. Instead, the sensational headlines and dark undertones often overshadow these complex themes, leaving viewers merely entertained rather than deeply engaged in understanding these circumstances.

Investigators, coroners, and mental health professionals delve into these cases, while lawyers weave contrasting accounts that are judged by a judge and decided upon by a jury. However, once the accused is imprisoned, there emerges another set of individuals who revisit the events for the sole entertainment purpose. It occasionally crosses my mind whether the media producers, journalists, and podcasters – who build their careers on personal calamities, sometimes without our consent – ever reflect upon why they repeatedly narrate and, regrettably, dramatize stories of violence.

It seems that many people tune into these shows, possibly acting as onlookers to our darkest actions. To learn about infidelity, murder, and the lengths we went to hide our wrongdoings – it’s an uncomfortable truth. My episode exposed something that remained hidden during the trial: After I ended the life of someone I once considered a friend, I contacted his mother under the guise of seeking him out, attempting to cover my tracks. When I later watched this while in prison, I felt nothing but contempt for myself. The same disgust was mirrored by others.

As a movie enthusiast, I’ve been following the significant changes in the Brooklyn District Attorney’s Office under the forward-thinking leadership of Eric Gonzalez. Recently, they established a unit to reevaluate clemency petitions. Having the backing of the office that initially incarcerated me could potentially sway the governor into reducing my sentence. However, the prosecutors were divided on my case; they chose neither to oppose nor support it. One of his deputies mentioned that Gonzalez was quite apprehensive about a piece of writing I submitted, which he referred to as “Killer Writing.

Last year, when I met with Governor Kathy Hochul’s clemency team regarding my application, one of her deputies delved into intricate inquiries about a topic they referred to as “Killer Writing.” They questioned things like whether I had contacted the victim’s mother seeking my friend after the crime, and why I chose an AR15.

I can see why they were curious. Clemency is often about appearances, and they want to avoid appearing overly lenient towards someone who doesn’t deserve it. However, their intense focus on “Inside Evil” was heart-wrenching for me. I had hoped the show would shed light on who I was during that time, but I also wanted the governor and district attorney to see who I have become: a productive journalist, a mentor, and someone who has maintained sobriety. Journalism has enabled me to foster empathy and come to terms with my actions.

Unfortunately, it seems that the producers of this true crime series have had as much, if not more, influence on the consideration for my sentence commutation as my personal growth during these past 24 years in prison. This leaves me questioning whether my ongoing incarceration is being fueled by the allure of true crime narratives rather than who I truly am today.

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2025-04-30 14:55