Dateline Originals - Letters from Sing Sing - Ep. 2: 74 Minutes

Episode Date: August 29, 2024

JJ Velazquez claimed he had an alibi: a 74-minute phone call on a landline with his mother, Maria Velazquez, that overlapped with the time of the crime. So Dan visits Maria. She lives in a town in New York on the Hudson River directly across from Sing Sing, the maximum security prison where her son is incarcerated. Maria talks to Dan about JJ’s childhood. And she recounts in detail her memory of January 27th, 1998, the day of Al Ward’s murder.Meanwhile, Dan is still familiarizing himself with JJ’s case file. There are thousands of pages of documents that sit in a box by his desk. He starts to work his way through the trial transcript. Immediately, it’s clear to him that the trial was strange. As Dan unpacks what happened in the courtroom, he’s left with more questions than answers. Prosecutors say five people identified JJ as the man who killed Al Ward. Dan decides to find them.This episode was originally published on February 20, 2023. 

There's some family pictures, school papers that I've kept. He always got very good grades. This is excellent. He loved dinosaurs. He did a dinosaur project. And you could see that he was such a happy person, always with the smiles and the laughter and friends. He had a lot of friends.

I'm with Maria Velasquez, JJ's mother. She's showing me his childhood drawings, old report cards, photos of JJ when he was a kid. I used to feel like a taxi driver, running them to the movies, running them to shows, running them all over the place. Because he always, oh mom, mom will take you, mom will take you. And I wind up like with five or six boys in my car, driving them to the movies, taking them bowling, doing all kinds of things, you know? This is one of my favorites.

Maria lives in Havistraw, a town in New York on the Hudson River. Directly across the water is Sing Sing, the maximum security prison where her son is locked up. Maria pulls out another set of photos. These look more recent. In them, JJ's older. When we go to the FRPs, the family reunion project, we always take pictures.

The program that Maria is describing lets incarcerated people with good behavior visit with their families for a couple of nights in a trailer on prison grounds. We've celebrated birthdays, my birthday, his birthday, Mother's Day, Father's Day, all on FRPs. She tells me that she always tries to spend the major holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas, with her son. There's no gifts, there's no tree, you know, what we're used to. But I've gone outdoors and picked a little bush and come inside and put little things on it and made a tree out of it. And

we've always managed to just keep the family going no matter what. But my reason for coming to see Maria went beyond just hearing stories about JJ's past. He insisted he had proof he didn't murder Al Ward, the retired police officer. He told me that he had an alibi. I have always felt so grateful to have known where my son was when they said that he was someplace else. I've shed many tears but not because my son is a murderer. My son is not a murderer. He is not and I know because I know where he was. He was on the phone with me.

I'm Dan Slepian, and this is Letters from Sing Sing. Episode 2, 74 Minutes. J.J. Velasquez was an only child raised by two working parents in the Bronx. His mother, Maria, was a labor union organizer, and his dad was a police officer for Amtrak. They separated when J.J. was 11, and his father had another son. Maria says J.J. was a good kid. He played soccer and baseball, was an altar boy at their church, and he was on the right track at school.

He was very active in school, in high school. That was closest to us, had a law program. And so I took him over to the school to get him interviewed for the program and it just so happens that I had to go outside and put money in the meter and by the time I got back, the law professor had already interviewed him and said, he's in. He liked the way he expressed himself. And he was just, I guess, charismatic. People are drawn to him when he speaks. He's always been like that. When JJ was about 16, things began to change. He began to change. Got to high school and I started spreading my wings a little bit. Got exposed a little bit more to life, a little more freedom. Came a little hard-headed. Wanted to be seen as a cool individual. I was into sports,

so I had to hold up some type of image. He kind of like just started letting loose and just started, you know, hanging out with the boys and just not paying attention to school. And the only class that he did well in was his law class. And the professor said, you know, he does really well in this class, but I'm not going to pass him if he doesn't do well in his other classes. When he was about 16, I sent him to live with his father. His father lived in Manhattan. And I figured maybe, you know, living with his father would help him, you know, through these issues. And instead, I think what happened was that it got worse. My parents offered me something better.

But I was rebellious and I wanted my own way. You know, I wanted to be able to tell myself what to do. I thought I was grown. JJ dropped out of high school and started selling drugs. I sold weed. I sold coke. I was in the street. I was by myself. I ran away from home. Not because of anything that my parents did, just me trying to find my way. Where I come from, the working class people are struggling, barely paying their bills.

I don't live around doctors or lawyers. They're not paying their bills. I don't live around doctors or lawyers. They're not from my neighborhood. The drug dealers are hanging out on the street, having fun, partying with girls, driving nice cars, have nice clothes. So growing up, it's almost like you see that success is the image of these drug dealers. And I wasn't very successful in it.

You know, but that was my life. During those years, J.J. had a few run-ins with the police. He'd been arrested for drug possession, but had never been convicted. Even so, his mugshot remained in the police database. When he was 17, J.J. met Vanessa Sapero, who lived in his neighborhood. They started dating, and two years later, Vanessa got pregnant. They named their baby boy John. My son was born in Union Hospital in the Bronx, and it gave me new meaning.

It gave me a sense of purpose. I knew now that I had to live for him. But still, where was I? How was I going to pull it off? So J.J. enrolled in classes at a technical career institute, but at night to make money, he continued to sell drugs on a street corner. A few years after their first son John was born, J.J. and Vanessa had another baby, Jacob. On the morning of January 27, 1998, the day of Al Ward's murder, J.J. says he was at home in the Bronx with Vanessa and his two boys.

Jacob had been born just five weeks earlier. I woke up early, entertained my oldest son who was up, jovial, running around, you know, looking for attention. So I give him the attention that he wants. You know, I make breakfast. Later that morning, JJ says he got on the phone with his mom, Maria. They had something to discuss about the next day, January 28th. January 28th is my father's birthday.

And he died April 1997. So this would be the first time that my father's birthday would come around and we wouldn't spend it with him. It was something that was hard, you know, for my son. He was an only child. He was always very close to his father. He was more than my father. He was my best friend. You know, like he was the spark. He's the one who

got everybody together, knew what was going on with everybody. I wanted to continue being that staple in the family that my father was. I wanted to take his place. I wanted our family to be together, you know? So during that call, JJ says he told his mom he wanted to gather his family at his father's gravesite the next day. And he wanted the two most important women in his life to be there, Maria and Vanessa. The problem was the two of them had been fighting. They weren't speaking to each other. So I was torn between them.

I was trying to let them know that at this time I need your support. You both have to come. Now Vanessa was like, you know, I don't want to be around her, but I'll need your support. You both have to come. Now, Vanessa was like, you know, I don't want to be around her, but I'll go, but I'm not talking to her, you know? Well, my mother's, you know, that's my mom. She can't tell her anything. Don't tell me what to do, man. So we had a long conversation because I kept, you know, trying to instill in her how important it was.

JJ remembers the conversation getting heated. It was a tug of war. It was me against her, you know. We spoke a long time on the phone. A long time. We went back and forth for a while, but she finally agreed. The next day, J.J. says they all headed to a cemetery in the Bronx. But when they got there, the gates were locked. And I remember being there in the clouds and it was starting to rain and I wanted to climb over the fence just to go see my father. You know, and my mother was like, it's not worth it.

You can get caught for trespassing or whatever. We'll come back. The sad part about it is I never had that chance to go back. Three days later, J.J. would get a call and learn the police were looking for him. Maria would scramble to find a lawyer. They'd spend the weekend holed up in a hotel. And then she'd drive her son to the 28th Precinct in Harlem. I can't forget how I felt.

It was like I had betrayed my son by turning him into the police. I let out this scream. It was such a loud scream. And I stood there for a few minutes, and then I just left and started to head home. As Maria was driving home, she says she started thinking about the day of the crime, trying to remember what she had been doing, what JJ had been doing. And then she remembered that long, heated phone call with him.

I got home and immediately I started, you know, calling the phone company. I requested my phone bills. I called Vanessa. I told her, you have to call the phone company. We need to put all this information together, and we need to get it to the lawyer as soon as possible because this is what's going to prove where he was. All this time, Maria still didn't know what was happening with her son. He'd been at the precinct for hours. She still hadn't heard from JJ or his

lawyer. That day was like the longest day, not knowing, not hearing anything. And when I finally heard, it was that they had kept my son. And I couldn't believe it. I was told that he would probably be in Rikers. Rikers is New York City's massive jail complex, where people who have been arrested wait for their day in court. It's considered one of the most horrific and dangerous jails in the country. I was so worried and heard so many stories about Rikers and how terrible a place it is and all the things that happened in there. So I was very concerned that they would hurt him, especially that he was being accused of murdering a retired police officer. She kept pushing the phone company for records.

And eventually, she got them. We got the phone records. And we saw that we had been on the phone that whole time. Here's what the records show. A 74-minute phone call made on a landline. This was before everyone had a cell phone. The call was from JJ and Vanessa's apartment in the Bronx to Maria's home in Havistraw, overlapping with the time the robbery was unfolding in Harlem.

Once we got that phone record, we said it's all a matter of just going in there and proving where you were, and you're going to be a free man. Maria was certain that with these phone records, no jury would convict JJ. I first received JJ's trial transcript in 2002. It was over 2,000 pages, and it filled three large binders. I read it when I could, but by 2008, I'd actually gone through it twice, marking up the margins, returning to certain sections over and over again. I wanted to be sure that I really understood what the jury had heard, the facts that ended up convicting JJ.

I've read a lot of transcripts over the years, and this trial was strange. It began on October 18, 1999, at a courthouse in Lower Manhattan. By then, J.J. had been at Rikers for almost two years. He was facing 13 charges, including first and second degree murder. A jury was selected, and then the prosecutor, Eugene Hurley, presented his opening statement. It's our theory that the defendant is the gunman. This defendant murdered Albert Ward. And after all this evidence is presented to you, I'll ask you to find the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

That voice you're hearing isn't actually Eugene Hurley. We've asked actors to read portions of the trial transcripts because no recording of the trial exists. You'll hear that five people, Philip Jones, Robert Jones, Lorenzo Woodford, Augustus Brown, and Dorothy Kennedy, five of them, identified this defendant after being able to... The prosecution's case rested solely on those eyewitnesses. The first one called to the stand was Augustus Brown. He was the drug dealer who first picked out J.J.'s photo, making him a suspect. Prosecutors were worried Brown wasn't going to show up at the trial, so they put him in jail on what's called a material witness order.

As Brown took the stand, J.J. says he realized something. He recognized him from that very morning when J.J. was in a holding cell behind the courtroom. It's called the bullpen. I'm in this bullpen right in front of the desk where there's officers right here. There's another bullpen here and there's an individual staring at him. And, you know, being in prison, you start becoming conscious, you know. So I look at him, and he says, it wasn't me. I'm like, what are you talking about, man? As he starts talking and rambling off, the officers say, yo, they got a separation.

Get them out of there. So they start taking him out the pen. I say, yo, what are you talking about? He said, yo, they're making me do it. I'm in jail right now because I won't testify against you. I said, what? And they took him out the pen. I said, yo, what are you talking about? He said, yo, they're making me do it. I'm in jail right now because I won't testify against you. I said, what? And they took him out. I told my lawyers about what happened. They said, listen, don't bring that up. I don't know any better. I'm listening to my lawyers. This guy gets on the stand and testifies against me. This is the main witness, Augustus Brown. The prosecutor began by asking

Brown questions about the day of the crime. I would like to direct your attention back to the afternoon of January 27th, 1998, between around noon and 2 p.m. Do you recall where you were then? On 127th and 8th Avenue. What were you doing? I was selling drugs. Brown explained to the jury that he was in the back room of the illegal gambling spot, in the middle of a drug deal with a regular customer, Lorenzo Woodford. We was talking, then we heard like a noise. So I walked down to the other room, and then that's when this gentleman right here,

Brown pointed at JJ, had the gun in my face and was like, you know what this is? And it was a bunch of people laying on the floor, duct taped up, and he told us to lay over there with him. Brown told the jury that Al Ward, the retired officer, pulled out his weapon and fired. Then he saw Ward fall after being shot by the gunman. Can you tell us where that person is in the room? What he's wearing right now? He's right here with the black suit on. Again, Brown pointed right at JJ.

The prosecution called more eyewitnesses to the stand. Robert Jones had been working the door at the gambling spot that day and was questioned by detectives just hours after the shooting. Do you remember giving the police a description of the light-skinned male? Yes. Do you remember now what description it was that you gave him? Well, the first time I described it to him, I told him he was like light-skinned Puerto Rican, you know?

Wait a minute. I'd read the police reports. That wasn't how Robert Jones initially described the shooter. He first described the gunman as a light-skinned black man. There was no mention of the words Puerto Rican. It seemed to me like Jones was now adjusting his description to fit J.J. During cross-examination, J.J.'s lawyer, Frank Gould, tried to point out this discrepancy. He asked Jones to read the original statement he gave to police. Is it accurate? Yes. Is it true?

From what I read, yes. Did you describe the person who you said did the shooting as male, black, light skin, with light beard and mustache and braids? He was about 5 foot 7 inches or 8 inches tall, 150 to 155. And then Jones said something I found highly suspicious. I don't remember using the word black. I'm sorry, sir. I don't remember using the word there, black. JJ's lawyer didn't seem to buy it. Are you suggesting they put the word black in, but you didn't say it? I could have said it at the time. I could have said it. I was a little shaken up at the time, so I could have said it. According to the I could have said it. I was a little shaken up at the time, so I could have said it. According to the police report, Jones did say it.

He did initially describe the gunman as black, but he changed that description the day after the murder. The report says Jones looked at a series of mugshots of black men, but then said he, quote, felt the perp was half Black and half Hispanic. Ultimately, he said mugshots of white Hispanics were the most accurate in similarity to the shooter. And at trial, Jones insisted J.J. was that shooter. Do you see the light-skinned man in court today? That's him. Two more eyewitnesses, Philip Jones and Lorenzo Woodford, took the stand. Both first described the shooter as a black man.

Now, both swore under oath that J.J. was the gunman. It felt like a slap in the face, a stab in the gut. People accusing me of something that I didn't do. People that I had meeting for the first time. Everybody that was there basically said two black males came up in there. One light skin with dreadlocks, one dark skin. I'm not a black male.

I'm not trying to make this a racist argument or anything like that. But clearly when you meet me, you would know that I'm Hispanic. The last eyewitness who police said identified JJ was an 84 yearyear-old woman named Dorothy Kennedy.

She was an elderly woman, testified that she was a church-going woman, God-fearing woman. Dorothy Kennedy testified that she was at the number spot on the day of the shooting and saw the gunman. The prosecutor asked her about that. Do you see the person who had the gun in court today? Excuse me? I'd like you to look around the courtroom and tell us whether you see the fellow who had the gun in court right now.

The one with the white shirt on. Over here in the jury box? Yes. I actually read this part several times because I found it so hard to believe. According to the transcript, when she was asked to identify the shooter, she did not point to JJ. You know who she points out? Jury number six. The jury's there laughing.

Majority of people in the courtroom are laughing, but this ain't a joke. This is my life on the line. It seemed like the only two people who were serious was me and the prosecutor. The prosecutor pissed off because she selected the wrong man. And me pissed off because everybody thinks it's a joke. Something was going on in that stand. Something was clearly wrong. You know what was wrong? I wasn't the person who did this. After the prosecution rested, J.J.'s lawyers presented their case. During his opening statement, Frank Gould had argued that J.J. didn't match the initial descriptions that the eyewitnesses gave in the hours after the crime. What's the first thing you ask a witness?

What did he look like? Every witness in this case said the man who did the shooting was a male, black, light-skinned. Every witness said that. Some said the man had braids. He pointed out that J.J. isn't black, that he didn't match the sketch, and that he didn't have braids. I had what they would refer to in the street as a Caesar, low cut, you know, used with the trimmers. They cut it down. Can't even put scissors on it. His lawyers even showed the jury a picture of JJ that was taken one month before the murder. In the photo, he's holding his newborn son Jacob in the hospital, and JJ has short, close-cropped hair. But to J.J., the most important evidence was his alibi,

the 74-minute phone call. His girlfriend Vanessa testified about that day. And as a reminder, these are actors reading the transcript. Now, on January 27th of 1998, let's stay with the morning and the afternoon, the early afternoon. Do you know where JJ was? Yes. Where was he? He was home with me and the two kids. And she testified that she remembered JJ having a conversation with his mother. Then it was Maria's turn. JJ says watching his mom

on the stand tore him up. The judge kept saying, speak up, speak up, speak into the mic. It was like he was taunting her. And, you know, she started to cry. As she started to cry, I started to cry because, you know, I couldn't fathom the fact that my mother was being put in such a precarious situation. The prosecutor was trying to assassinate a character. My mom's a straight-up woman.

You know, she stands by the truth. That's who she is. Maria testified that she and JJ were on the phone for those 74 minutes. But the prosecutor suggested that someone else could have been on the line with her, like JJ's girlfriend, Vanessa. He implied Maria was covering for her only son. When the DA said that I'm just a mother

who would do anything, anything to save my chest and blew the wind out of me. Because I told the truth. I told the truth. J.J. says he did too. He even took the stand in his own defense. Many defendants don't do that to avoid cross-examination. But J.J. says he wanted a chance to make his own case, that the facts were on his

side. I mean, facts are facts. You know, your interpretation or somebody else's interpretation of facts can be altered, but the facts cannot change. The fact is that I was on the phone with my mother for a long time. We have phone reports. The prosecutor didn't deny that the call happened. He just suggested in his closing arguments that they were all lying about who was actually on the phone. The claim here is that a 22-year-old man had a 74-minute conversation with his mother. Now, that is not his girlfriend or his boyfriend. This is his mother.

A 74-minute conversation from a 22-year-old man. I think that you'll admit, if you think about that, that that is a highly unlikely event. It just doesn't ring true, if you'll pardon the expression. Still, J.J. says he felt confident the jury wouldn't buy the prosecutor's argument. He even told me that some of the court officers working the trial thought he'd walk out of there. I mean, every court officer that escorted me back and forth saying, man, you're free. The court officer that was in the courtroom

listening to the testimony, he's telling me, you're free. The jury got the case on a Wednesday morning and was sequestered, meaning they couldn't go home until they came up with a verdict. They deliberated for three full days. It wasn't until Friday afternoon that they announced they'd reached a verdict. On the top count of first-degree murder, not guilty. And I felt great, and I knew I was walking out. Then came the next count, second-degree murder. And then I remember a sharp pain, a real sharp pain in my heart, because I found out that I may never see the streets again.

I was found guilty. He was found guilty of second-degree murder and multiple counts of robbery. Maria says she was stunned. The first thing I said to myself was, they didn't believe me. Because had they believed me me they wouldn't have found them guilty i totally believed in the justice system totally i was one of those people that believes that if you're in prison it's because you belong there because you did something wrong boy was I wrong.

A trial usually presents two narratives, and it's up to the jury to decide which one is the right one. I did think the phone call was pretty solid evidence, and yet the prosecution had a point. There was no way to prove that it had been JJ on the other side of that call. Still, based on the evidence I'd read in JJ's case file, I had a lot of unanswered questions. There were parts of the story the jury never even heard. Like, what about JJ's alleged accomplice, Terry Daniels, the guy with the duct tape? He never testified againstJ., even though he pleaded guilty and said he did the crime with him. Why wasn't he a part of J.J.'s trial?

And why would the eyewitnesses say the shooter was black in police reports and then say something else when they testified? And then there was that strange thing J.J. told me about his exchange with Augustus Brown. He'd said, they're making me do it. I didn't know what to make of that conversation. I wasn't even sure it happened. But if it had, what did it mean? What if J.J. was telling the truth? On the day of his sentencing, J.J. read a statement to the court. We asked him to read part of it. I'm in jail for a crime I did not commit.

As God's witness, I had absolutely nothing to do with this crime. Nothing at all. I've never met these people. I've never been in such a spot. I've never even heard of it. In my eyes, the justice system played some type of game, and I really don't take this as a game. This is my life. And for those that do look at it as some type of game, winners and losers, there will be no winners here. We are all losers. We have not found your killer yet. Instead, an innocent

man will go on to serve a life sentence while the murderer remains at large. Is that justice? I don't think so. Thank you for listening to what I have to say. I sincerely hope one day you find your man. J.J. was sentenced to 25 years to life. It's 2009. Ten years have passed since JJ's trial, and almost seven since he wrote me his first letter. Now I have a stack of them. So many are about the pain of being separated from his two boys. He's especially concerned about his older son, John. June 26, 2009.

I haven't told anyone this, Dan, but I've been waking up in the middle of the night worried about my son. I have not spoken to him since December. I know my son is trouble bound. He is a good child with a pretty solid foundation of principles and morals. Yet he is vulnerable in an environment that makes statistics out of our youth. How can a father accept that there is nothing that he can do? Is it all right for a father to trick himself into thinking that everything will be all right? One month after receiving that letter, I decided to visit JJ's son, John, in the South Bronx, where he lived with his younger brother, Jacob, and his mom, Vanessa. She and JJ were no longer together. I first met John when he was 8 years old, in that prison lobby on Thanksgiving morning.

Now he's almost 15, and it seems like what J.J. was worrying about is starting to happen. Yeah, I don't really trust cops. Like, I know they're not all the same, but most of them, like, they do stupid stuff. We're sitting outside his apartment building. He tells me that he and some friends recently had a run-in with undercover police officers. And we just all sitting on a bench and stuff. And the car pulls up, and it makes the brake noise or whatever. And I hear doors open, and then the doors slam.

I get up, and I start running. But I didn't know they was cops, because they were all black. And then he takes me, and he slams me. Like, but didn't find anything. And now, like, I look at everybody carefully. Like, if they have that silver thing around their neck, I know that they're a cop or something because they have a badge. So I look at everybody carefully now. John knows how his dad would react to all of this. My dad's the type of person

that he gonna hear everything first, and then he gonna go down on me without their room, and then he'll help me and tell me what to do about it. But I have no problem with telling my dad anything because me and my dad's relationship, he's like my best friend, I can tell him anything. My dad always says the same thing. He tells me to stay in school, to keep up the streets,

don't do stupid stuff. Don't do anything that puts yourself in a position for cops to come. Because if cops got him locked up for a long time for not doing anything, like me just doing one thing put me in the same position he's in. Like my dad's innocent.

He's in a place he's not supposed to be. He told me that it wasn't him, and I believe him. And now that this stuff happens, I even believe him more, because I know that the system's real messed up. And just because he's there, I could be there too for doing something I never did. But John hasn't talked to his father about the incident with the police, because he hasn't gone to see him in six months. Right now, I really don't want to go up there.

It has nothing to do with my father. I love my father. I do want to see my father. I have nothing against him, not at all. It's just jails and stuff like that. I get it. I understand how John feels. I've been going to see JJ for a while now at Sing Sing. It is not a place where someone would want to visit. Just the process of getting in is frustrating.

And once you're inside, you can feel the tension. By now, I'd been given unusual access. He lives on A Block here? Yeah. I'm allowed to bring my camera to JJ's cell. He lives in A Block, a housing unit with hundreds of other men. The block is the length of two football fields. Rows of cells stacked on top of each other line the walls.

JJ's on the upper tier. I'm let up two flights of stairs to a narrow catwalk that runs the length of the block. I walk by dozens of cells. I see men sleeping, reading, listening to music with headphones on. An officer leads me to J.J.'s cell. He's locked inside, so I reach through the bars to shake his hand. How you doing, Dan? You all right?

Good to see you, man. Okay. His cell is about seven by nine feet. Even from the outside, I can see the whole space. So just, yeah, just take me on a little tour of it. All right. This is my little radio. Keep me in tune with the world.

A lot of books that I like to read from time to time in here. You don't have much to do but read, so I read a lot. There are books and papers and neat stacks everywhere, on top of a makeshift desk, under it by his bed. I can see a book propped up. It's titled Forensics, True Crime Scene Investigations. J.J. moves a few steps to the back of his cell. Back there, I keep my food for the most part. I try to, you know, make do with what my mother sends me in the package and commissary.

Everything has to be hermetically sealed, commercially sealed, or in a can. You can't really cook in here. What you can do is you can utilize this to heat up your food. He holds up a small electric kettle. This is basically your only tool. You have to be very creative to learn how to eat in here. JJ then points to his bed. He's covered it in maroon sheets and a blanket that his mom sent him. The mattress is barely an inch thick. A lot of people get back problems in prison because everything you do, you got to do like this. You don't have

no back support. He's lying flat on his bed. You know, you move around so much in here and you try to find ways to get comfortable. But there's no way of being comfortable in here. It's not situated to be comfortable. Another thing that ends up happening, which is a bad habit, I try to break it. Is a lot of times often when a person comes into their cell, being that there's nothing to do but lay down, you tend to fall asleep. So it's like you sleep your life away. You know, there's times where I feel like, I guess you could say like a turtle. I go and hide up in that little shell. And I've experienced those times during the time that I've known you, where

I won't write for a long time. I won't write my mother. I won't write anybody. I won't write my children. But he keeps their photos close. Those photo albums right here. I have plenty of photo albums. My kids. That's their mother. That's my mother. That's when they were younger.

Picture my family, my father, my uncles, my two sons. You spend a lot of time sitting here thinking about your kids, the time that you're not with them. I spend a lot of time about that. I spend a lot of time in fear. If I may, for a second, I'll show you something. J.J. reaches under his bed and pulls out a newspaper. This is the New York Post. We don't always have access to the newspaper. But if you see this article right here, it says, South Bronx boxing star shot dead.

This is a young kid, 20 years old. He's from the Bronx. I know his father. His father's incarcerated. My kids are from the Bronx. I know his father. His father's incarcerated. My kids are from the Bronx. I'm afraid of the same thing. To be in here while my sons get killed or get arrested or get into some problems in the street and I can't be there for them. That's the worst part of being in prison.

You know? That's depression. You get depressed. I get depressed often. You know, but I have 11 years in. What I've learned, the best way to stay away from depression is to keep active, stay busy. He shows me a massive stack of manila folders. This area right here that I have covered, it's a bunch of files, mainly legal work.

That's where I have all my legal work. I have some more legal work right here that I have covered, it's a bunch of files, mainly legal work. That's where I have all my legal work at. I have some more legal work right here under my bed that I keep in a bag. He pulls out some more papers and starts leafing through them. Trial transcripts, arrest records, court motions, all stashed under his bed. A decade after his conviction, it's clear JJ has not stopped fighting the verdict that sent him here.

You know, 12 jurors said you're here for a reason. That's right. That's what they gathered, but they didn't know the whole story, and neither did I at that time. JJ says he knows the jury didn't get the whole picture because of something he discovered in his case file. Had it not been me waking up and saying, yo, you can't stay in here forever. You got to start getting your paperwork. You got to ask your lawyers for your paperwork. You got to start writing the courts and getting your paperwork.

Had it not been for that, I would have never known about Mustafa to this day. It turns out back in 1998, just days after the crime, the NYPD had a main suspect for the murder of Al Ward. And it wasn't JJ. It was a man named Mustafa. Next time. They had a primary target. They knew who they were looking for. How did I wind up here? The moment they had that one identification, one guy after all this stuff, they stopped.

If somebody stick a gun in your face and take money from you, you don't think you'd remember what that person looked like? What I'm trying to do is try to find the truth. That's all I'm trying to do. Letters from Sing Sing was written and produced by Preeti Varathan, Rob Allen, and me. Our associate producer is Rachel Young. Our story editor is Jennifer Gorin. Our voice actors are Michael Bach, Leah Finney, Aaron Goodson, Isaiah Seward, Desiree Rodriguez, and Dan Wachs. Original score by Christopher Scullion, Robert Reale, and Four Elements Music. Sound design by Cedric Wilson.

Fact-checking by Joseph Frischmuth. Bryson Barnes is our technical director. Preeti Varathan is our supervising producer. Soraya Gage, Reed Cherlin, and Alexa Danner are our executive producers. Liz Cole runs NBC News Studios. Letters from Sing Sing is runs NBC News Studios. Letters from Sing Sing is an NBC News Studios production.