The Caged Silence of Elijah Marr
Brian Sankarsingh tells a story of due process
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Elijah Marr had never left the state of Alabama. At thirty-two, he worked as a custodian at a local high school in a quiet town nestled against the slow, winding banks of the Tombigbee River. He lived with his aging mother and never missed a Sunday at church. His life was humble, predictable, and entirely without blemish. Then one day everything changed.
In the summer of 2003, a white woman was assaulted and left for dead in a park near the school where Elijah worked. The crime sparked panic, media frenzy, and pressure on local police to find a suspect fast. The victim, in a confused and traumatized state, said her attacker was “a Black man in dark clothes.” That was all.
Elijah became a suspect simply because he fit that vague description and was seen walking home from his night shift, wearing dark coveralls, a few blocks from the park. He had no prior record. He had an alibi. But that didn’t matter.
The police brought him in for questioning with little to no due process. They told him if he cooperated, he’d go home. Hours turned into a day. No lawyer was present. No phone call was allowed. Sleep-deprived, frightened, and trusting, Elijah eventually signed a confession he didn’t understand, thinking he’d be allowed to see his mother.
There was no physical evidence tying him to the scene. DNA found on the victim didn’t match. But his coerced confession was enough. The court-appointed lawyer barely reviewed his case, overwhelmed and underpaid. The prosecutor painted Elijah as a predator with "a secret life," and the jury, a nearly all-white panel, agreed.
Elijah was sentenced to life without parole.
Years passed. Appeals were denied. New evidence from a jailhouse informant who admitted that he lied about Elijah’s jailhouse confession to get a reduced sentence was dismissed as irrelevant. The Innocence Project tried to take the case, but bureaucratic stonewalls and missing files delayed progress indefinitely.
Elijah, once quiet but joyful, grew silent in prison. His mother died waiting for his return. He began to write poetry in the margins of legal pads, sending them to anyone who would read them. In one of his final letters to a former teacher, he wrote:
"They told me the truth didn't matter. I always thought it did. I still do. That's all I have left."
To this day, Elijah remains incarcerated. His case, like thousands of others, is buried beneath a system that prized closure over justice and power over truth.
The Walls Don’t Blink by Elijah Marr The walls don’t blink They just stare colorless and calm like the men who said “Confess, and this’ll all go away” I’ve never raised my hands in anger only to mop up a hallway spill But my skin spoke louder than my silence and that was enough They told me truth would save me but the truth is quiet and courtrooms are loud with the roar of certainty dressed as fact My mother’s rosary still circles my wrist in dreams She believed the Lord saw me I hope He still does Because these walls don’t blink and neither do the men who built them They eat years like bread drink names like rain forget you while you still remember what it felt like to be free But I write I write because ink doesn’t lie It bleeds, like me and it’s the only thing they haven’t taken
Bio: BRIAN SANKARSINGH is a two-time award-winning poet and author. He is a Trinidadian-born Canadian immigrant who has published several books of poetry on a wide range of social and historical themes including racism, colonialism, and enslavement. Sankarsingh artfully blends prose and poetry into his storytelling creating an eclectic mix with both genres. This unique approach is sure to provide something for everyone.
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