Is True Crime Keeping Me in Prison?

by

This article was showcased in One Great Story, the daily reading recommendation newsletter from New York. You can subscribe here to receive it every evening.

In September 2018, I shared a piece in the New York publication regarding the mental health issue within prisons. Impulsively, I contacted a producer I knew from CNN, Loen Kelley, to see if she could facilitate a segment where we could discuss this crisis. Our connection was through her website, PrisonWriters.com. In 2001, at the age of 24, I took a life on a Brooklyn street and was sentenced to serve 25 years to life, in addition to the three years I had already been serving for drug dealing. Over time, I found myself at Attica, where I joined a writing workshop and developed an interest in journalism. Loen and I had exchanged professional conversations before, and I believed she was looking out for me.

Lena sent a letter to introduce me to two producers from HLN, a network with a focus on true-crime shows. Upon visiting me, her colleagues mentioned their program centered around redemption, and Chris Cuomo expressed interest in discussing my journey towards journalism while incarcerated. Due to some lighthearted tabloid articles about me, such as the New York Daily News‘s “DA Seeks Instant Karma in Drug Killing,” the media generally showed little interest in my case. This, coupled with the fact that I had already served 18 years — the typical time for a murder sentence in the U.S. — made me think Cuomo was more interested in my resurgence rather than my past. Before their visit, I had asked my brother to look up the documentaries hosted by Cuomo aside from his nightly CNN show. One of them stood out: Inside Evil.

I inquired from the two producers in the meeting room if they weren’t planning on having me appear on the “Inside Evil” show, correct? Earlier seasons of this program were titled “Inside With Chris Cuomo,” one producer shared, but for the second season, it was renamed “Inside Evil.” For the third season, she mentioned that it would focus on tales of redemption. Previously, when I contacted CNN for comment, they informed me that one of the producers I met with had been in discussions about the series title. The other producer also told me there had been an attempt to change the name. However, a CNN representative now states that “there was no substantial conversation” about modifying it. When Cuomo came to interview me weeks later, he openly admitted that the show was indeed titled “Inside Evil.

In such a situation where a TV journalist’s brother holds the power to pardon me, I found myself in a challenging position, yet I carried on with the conversation.

I caught up with my episode from late 2019, which had initially aired on HLN earlier but wasn’t available in our prison cable package. We did have CNN, and they were broadcasting the entire third season of Inside Evil that evening. The two-hour opener focused on a serial killer, as suggested by the show’s advertisements, who supposedly 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, titled “Killer Writing,” was the season finale.

For most of the show, I face Cuomo, detailing my past criminal life and attempting to clarify why I admired gangsters. As I narrate the events – my voice occasionally falters between frustration and bravado – the audience witnesses a woman sobbing, who turns out to be the sister of the man I had killed. Images of my multiple mugshots are displayed, with close-ups on my bloodshot eyes. The ominous, unidentified reenactments of the murder are the most challenging to watch. In these scenes, I am portrayed as a dark figure in all black, moving slowly to retrieve an AR15 from the trunk. When the trigger is pulled, gunfire erupts from the barrel and casings scatter on the pavement. This scene – the most distressing moment of my life, taking another’s life – is repeated multiple times throughout the 45-minute episode. Now, these images have become inseparable from my real recollections of that fateful night. In my thoughts, they blend together.

When Cuomo and I delved into my writing, he noted that we had both collaborated with the same editor at Men’s Health. “In essence,” Cuomo remarked, “we perform similar roles, working hand-in-hand with the same individual, through the same medium, yet existing in entirely separate spheres. 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, but I let my pride overshadow my wisdom in the past. I said things that now make me cringe. Some of my responses were manipulated to fit the dark narrative of the show, and those clips will live on indefinitely online. Though I have a platform to challenge the show’s negative portrayal, many other individuals in similar circumstances lack the ability to counteract the sensationalization of their tragic actions within true crime shows.

Families of victims have consistently expressed concerns over the years about the thoughtless and unprofessional tactics used by show producers in dealing with them. However, the repercussions of this widely-popular entertainment genre extend beyond this. These shows often disclose private information and family backgrounds of both victims and offenders, which can pose a risk to incarcerated individuals when viewed by fellow prisoners or guards. Additionally, such exposure can negatively impact the families and loved ones of prisoners, who find themselves under public scrutiny as crimes are re-enacted.

In many instances, producers fail to consult with inmates about their episodes or seek their input, leaving them taken aback when they discover someone in a neighboring cell has alerted them that they’re on television. When producers do reach out, they often provide misleading descriptions of the show’s intentions, manipulate its title, or make pledges they cannot fulfill. If we choose to participate, our statements are frequently edited to emphasize our least favorable reactions, such as a poorly-expressed remorse or an overly flippant comment about our crimes. The final edits usually conceal the underlying traumas that drive individuals towards violent acts, like abusive upbringings and domestic violence. Moreover, appearing on these shows can even impact parole prospects. I can personally attest to this.

Over time, I’ve observed numerous true-crime series featuring men serving prison sentences alongside me. Occasionally, during transfers to different facilities, I encounter a face that seems familiar, leaving me questioning whether we shared a previous prison or if our acquaintance was forged through television. This occurrence has become increasingly frequent as the years and shows accumulate. Learning about someone’s criminal past before meeting them can be unsettling; it often taints my perception of them.

In the year 2017, I encountered Mulumba Kazigo in Sing Sing. Mulumba, a Ugandan-American, was slender and exhibited feminine traits. He spent his childhood in a yellow house in Westchester with six siblings, their mother, and their father, Dr. Joseph Kazigo, a surgeon. In 2005, following years of suffering severe abuse, Mulumba entered the apartment his father rented near the hospital where he worked on Long Island. He attacked the 67-year-old with a baseball bat and inflicted a wound to his throat. His sister, a doctor in the U.S. Army at the time, informed the prosecutor that Mulumba was taking antidepressants and suicidal. She also stated that their father had kicked him out and directed him to obtain his medication from the hospital’s emergency room. Furthermore, she described the unhealthy manner in which they were all physically punished as they grew up. Mulumba was sentenced to 20 years.

During the middle of 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 take part. For a prisoner, such an amount would represent countless hours of work. After the film team interviewed him at Sing Sing, Mulumba never received any further contact from the producer nor the promised money. (A spokesperson for Mike Mathis Productions, the company that produced the show for the network, stated they do not compensate guests or make payment promises.) In 2013, Investigation Discovery broadcasted Mulumba’s episode as part of the Blood Relatives series. The title of the episode was “Paging Doctor Death.”

The series portrays true crime in an exaggerated, comical manner – from the hokey narrator to the awkward background footage, sensationalism, and cheesy tunes. It presents the Kazigos as a happy family on the brink of chaos: significant glares exchanged over dinner, tense moments. The dialogue is poor quality. Following the revelation that one of Mulumba’s siblings had taken their own life, the narrator states, “Little do they know that another family member will soon break.” Mulumba appears articulate and calm-toned. However, this production trivialized the hardships faced by him and his family due to his abusive father. The narration further comments, “Yes, Joseph can be firm-handed, but what’s wrong with maintaining order?

Mulumba expressed feelings of deception and mistreatment. He confided in me that he wished he hadn’t taken part because it caused even greater pain to his family. It was a source of additional sorrow for him, I presume, to learn that a sensational portrayal was circulating about such a personal calamity: Mulumba’s siblings and mother are relatives of both the victim and the perpetrator.

As my episode went live, I found myself gripped by an unease, fearing that men would be chattering about the series. The man I ended up taking down had a history with the law, his mugshot circulating through the penitentiary. Over time, I’d crossed paths with a few of his associates. One, who recognized me from the hood, stabbed me six times in the chest, damaging my lung. It’s those adversaries you don’t even know exist that can pose the greatest threat.

Prior to encountering an individual whom I’ll refer to as Kyle, I felt as though I already knew him. This was because I had seen a true-crime show detailing his case several years ago. He had been convicted of stabbing and beating someone, earning a ten-year sentence for his crime. Given that Kyle, a small man with large, blue eyes and an unstable demeanor, seemed destined to be a target in prison, my prediction unfortunately came true when he was transferred to the same tier as me in Sing Sing in 2017. There, I witnessed exactly what I had expected.

Previous viewers discovered through the program that Kyle’s relatives were wealthy. When the dealers within became aware of his fondness for getting high, they provided him with heroin and K2 for nearly a decade. I encountered Kyle in two separate prisons, and both times he ended up on my tier. Frequently, I would witness him in a state of catatonia due to K2, or observe him overdosing on opiates only to be resuscitated with Narcan. The situation became so dire 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 freed 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 overwhelmed by trauma, and their numbers have risen at a rate double that of men since 1980. Currently, there are approximately 200,000 women incarcerated, which is nearly equivalent to the overall U.S. prison population from the early ’70s. Despite efforts by activists and academics to redefine the impact of trauma in domestic homicides, popular true-crime stories focusing on women have become increasingly prevalent.

In a recent conversation, I spoke with Kwaneta Harris, a Texas-based journalist who’s incarcerated for a 2006 murder. Over time, I’ve supported her writing endeavors by discussing journalism from our respective prisons. We frequently discuss true crime, given her personal involvement in the genre. Back in the day, the hit show Snapped, which focuses on female killers, aired an episode about Kwaneta without her involvement. When it was broadcasted in 2016, it sparked bullying among her high school-aged daughter’s peers. As a result, she had to transfer schools twice. Kwaneta advised her daughter to claim that her mother had passed away, stating, “I’d prefer she lie and receive sympathy than reveal the truth and face judgment.

Similar to the frequent contact men in New York prisons receive from true-crime producers, these individuals often reach out to women housed in Kwaneta’s cellblock. On one occasion, I made a call during dayroom recreation time, and Kwaneta handed her tablet phone over to Shaina Sepulvado. In the year 2005, when Shaina was just 16 years old, she was involved in the murder of her stepfather alongside two friends. All three – Shaina, her friends, and her mother, who was convicted for encouraging them, each received a life sentence. Shaina has consistently maintained that her mother played no part in the crime. In 2011, Shaina made an appearance on the show Snapped.

In her story, there’s not a lot of focus on the fact that she was a minor with learning difficulties when she committed the crime. Now, at 35 years old, Shaina continues to struggle with reading and writing. That’s why she confides in Kwaneta about the offers she gets from true-crime show producers. Recently, a producer from I Am a Killer asked Shaina to appear on their show, but she refused. “I came to understand that other shows manipulated my words to make me seem like a terrible individual,” she explained to me. Although Shaina acknowledges her role in the murder of her stepfather, she did not pull the trigger. She feels that I Am a Killer portrays her as something she is not: “The show I Am a Killer implies that I believe I am the monster I am not.

2019 saw the passage of New York’s Domestic Violence Survivors Justice Act by lawmakers, allowing judges to reevaluate if the abuse defendants endured significantly influenced their criminal actions and warranted a reduction in sentence. Primarily, this new legislation has been beneficial for women. A study on imprisoned women across five states revealed that 86% had suffered sexual violence and 77% had experienced severe partner abuse; however, Mulumba was the first male inmate to be released under this law in August 2020. In a piece for Tulsa World, he expressed his thoughts post-release, advocating for similar legislation to be enacted in Oklahoma, stating that sentencing procedures should consider the circumstances under which the crime was committed.

While some creators may claim their productions address extenuating factors such as a troubled childhood, psychological disorders, or learning difficulties, I’m not convinced that the provocative headlines and grim undertones encourage audiences to deeply contemplate these issues instead.

Investigators such as detectives, medical experts, and psychiatrists examine these crimes, while lawyers create contrasting accounts that are judged by a judge and ultimately decided upon by a jury. However, once the accused is incarcerated, there emerges another set of individuals who revisit the events for the sole entertainment value. It’s sometimes perplexing to consider whether those who build careers on recounting personal tragedies – be they producers, reporters, or podcast hosts – ever ponder why they are retelling these stories and, even more so, amplifying tales of violence.

It’s likely that many people tune into these shows, acting as onlookers to our most heinous actions. To learn about infidelity, murder, and the lengths some of us went to hide our wrongdoings – it’s a source of embarrassment. My episode unveiled something that wasn’t disclosed during the trial: After I ended the life of someone I once considered a friend, hid his body, and then called his mother inquiring about him, attempting to cover my tracks. Reflecting on this years later while watching from my cell, I felt a deep sense of revulsion toward myself. Others shared that sentiment as well.

Over the past few years, the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office, led by progressive Eric Gonzalez, established a team to examine applications for clemency. Having the backing of the office that initially sent you to prison could potentially sway the governor to reduce your sentence, however, opinions within the prosecutor’s office were divided on my case. They neither opposed nor supported it. One of his deputies mentioned that Gonzalez was “very concerned” by “Strong Writing.

Last year, when my legal team conferred with Governor Kathy Hochul’s clemency team regarding my application, one of her deputies probed deeply into a subject called “Killer Writing.” They asked questions such as whether I had contacted the victim’s mother seeking my friend after committing the crime, and why I used an AR15. It makes sense that they would ask these questions, given that clemency often hinges on public perception, and they wouldn’t want to seem excessively 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 delve into who I was at the time, but instead, I wished they would consider who I have become: a working journalist, a mentor, and a person who has achieved sobriety. Journalism has enabled me to cultivate empathy and reconcile with my crime. Unfortunately, it seems that the portrayal of me in true crime shows might be prolonging my imprisonment rather than my transformation during these past 24 years in prison. In essence, it appears that true crime may be keeping me behind bars.

Read More

2025-04-30 19:56