Blood was beginning to trickle down out of his shoes, falling seven stories down the side of the newly built, escape-proof Harold Banke Justice Center. The bedsheets he’d purchased from the orderlies at the jail dangled in the air. Twenty months of meticulous planning had all come down to this moment: would the bedsheets hold his weight? They always did in the movies, but this was real life. No stuntmen, no actors in cop uniforms, and no guns with blank rounds.

He wasn’t scared to die; he had accepted the risk long ago. The chance to embarrass the sheriff and the justice system was too great of a motivation.

Freedom lay nearly a hundred feet down.

*

Shawn Gilreath was born in suburban Atlanta in the mid-1970s. He grew up in a two-parent, white, middle-class environment. His father had a short, but distinguished, military career followed by a position as the chief of police. His mother was a schoolteacher. He had an older sister and a nephew he referred to as his brother.

From a young age, Shawn showed a great interest in the military, police, and weapons. He planned to enter the military and become a member of Delta Force, the most secretive and elite branch of the military that has ever existed. He trained with every weapon he could get his hands on, both firing them and taking them apart. While no one is ever guaranteed to make it to such a level, he was doing everything he could to set himself apart. He tried marijuana in high school but didn’t find it to his liking, and he never did any other drugs. In fact, he looked down on those who used drugs, largely in part due to his sister’s struggles with addiction. He looked down on those who sold drugs even more.

Shawn played sports growing up: basketball and soccer as a kid, football and track in high school—being fast and able to run long distances had always been one of his strengths. Both are great qualities to have if you want to join an elite military force. Even at the age he is now, Shawn is in great shape and could potentially still run a marathon.

At 17 years old, Shawn met who would eventually become his wife. She was a year older than him and attended college. After graduating, she landed a job at a software company. To this day, Shawn still speaks of her fondly and refers to her as the love of his life.

While no childhood is perfect, a lot of people who commit violent crimes have been victims of violence as children. While interviewing Shawn, the recurring primary question I sought an answer to was this: what was the origin of his violence? What turned him into the person he became? What was the trigger? I never truly found an exact answer, but what I did find was a mindset: an acceptance of violence as the means to an end.

The first sign I understood as inextricably tied to his proclivity for violence was his motivation to become a member of Delta Force. While most people speak of serving their country or buying a Camaro with a USAA loan, Shawn wanted to break doors down, tie people up, torture them for answers, and eliminate anyone standing in the way. Another sign indicative of his appetite for violence was his obsession with weapons and explosives. He gave an account of a story about an instance when his father walked into the garage and found him sawing off the end of a shotgun. His father asked Shawn if the gun was one of his. When Shawn told him it wasn’t, his dad just walked back inside the house. Another time, Shawn blew up the garage of a house being built. Why? Well, he wanted to see the explosion. These events certainly aren’t enough to explain everything about who Shawn Gilreath would become, but a pattern begins to emerge.

The most glaring precursor to the crimes he would eventually commit was his outspoken white supremacy. His Nazi beliefs are still at the core of his being and are by far the hardest part about him to wrap my head around. Rather than try to understand or rationalize his ideas, all I can do is explain it the way he explained it to me. Shawn grew up in the 80s and early 90s in the South. While civil rights movements were largely viewed as successful, we all know that even today racism is alive and well in America. Shawn mentioned that his father was involved in the shooting death of an armed black male, which became a high-profile case. He views people of color as a lower race, a view echoed by the white supremacy group he was part of that was ultimately featured on The Montel Williams Show in the early 90s.

While our collective understanding of Nazi ideals aligns with those of racist ideals, another aspect of the belief system that led to the justifications of his crimes is the Nazi focus on extreme Darwinism: the belief that we are no more than animals, that our lives are virtually meaningless, and that only the strongest deserve to survive. One of the most telling instances of Shawn’s morals and perceived value of life came as a direct result from a question I was once asked in college: If you were driving down the road, lost control of your vehicle, and you had two options put before you, which would you choose if you had to A) swerve to avoid hitting a random person and thus killing your own dog, or B) swerve to avoid killing your dog and thus killing the random person? In response, Shawn first asked, “What color is the person?” Knowing where this line of reasoning would lead, I responded, “White,” and Shawn then responded in a way no one has ever answered me before.

“I’d hit whichever one would do less damage to my car.”

His chilling answer revealed the depths of Shawn’s overall moral compass more thoroughly than anything else that can be extrapolated upon the matter. Family, race, and motive all play crucial, cyclical roles in his story, but it’s clear that violence and a belief in his innate superiority were the building blocks of Shawn’s life of crime.

Before Shawn was 18 years old, his long-term military plans and life met their first speed bump. He was arrested on October 16, 1992, for breaking into a vehicle. He was sentenced as a first-time offender and given three years of probation. While this wasn’t ideal in terms of achieving his envisioned military career, as long as he did what he was supposed to do, the infraction would be wiped from his record and he could continue to pursue his Delta Force dreams. Two years later, when he was just a few months shy of being able to join the military, Shawn was arrested again. On November 18, 1994, he was taken into custody for possessing a firearm by a convicted felon. He was charged with burglary in the same case, but the charge was dropped as part of his plea bargain. He spent a couple of months in prison before being released via parole. With his long-term plan now unattainable, Shawn was left with nothing but the vast stores of knowledge and training he’d spent years accumulating. He proceeded to pursue the only path he could see ahead of him: life as a convicted felon.

During the years immediately after high school, Shawn frequented parties where he was introduced to a few men who would become his friends, crew, and eventual co-defendants. The first man he met became the crew’s Judas. Jason Edwards Busby was a fellow skinhead that Shawn met through a chance encounter. Although Shawn admitted that he performed his first home invasion with Busby, he also revealed that Busby wasn’t really cut out for a life of crime and consequently wasn’t much involved in what happened over the next two years. About 300 yards from Busby lived two half-brothers named Patrick Neil Sullivan and James Anthony Morelock. These two men would go on to play major roles in Shawn’s life. Raychel “Ray” David Gosdin was the last man Shawn met who became part of the crew. Ray was found through a peripheral friend, Anthony Turner (named in court documents but never a part of the crew). When asked to speak about the men he committed all of these crimes with, Shawn showed a glowing affection for all of them with the exception of Busby.

Shawn explained, “What clicked is that we clicked. None of us did drugs. Gosdin would smoke weed if you had some. Sullivan and I drank beer. Everyone but Morelock smoked cigarettes. All very laid back in a weird sense. We could spend hours shooting pool, bowling, and so forth. We were friends. We liked each other. They were at my wedding. We shot guns, hung out. Under any circumstances, we were there for one another, no questions asked. Morelock’s and Sullivan’s older brother, Terry, was an addict like my sister, and on occasion we teamed up to help one another out. All for one. We all went to trial, no ratting. Good, honest, honorable men.” Shawn went on to say that his crew’s downfall weighs heavily upon his heart every single day.

Describing each man’s personality and how it pertained to their tasks in each crime, Shawn related that Gosdin was funny and outgoing. Girls liked him and his nickname was “Roach” because he closely resembled a character of the same name from the film Point Break. In Shawn’s mind, Gosdin was born to be what he became. While some people are born to play sports or become doctors, Gosdin was born to kill. Morelock was smart, bestowed with intelligence that parlayed into his role as devil’s advocate. He was a mechanically inclined problem solver, outgoing, and according to Shawn, “Almost as funny as me.” Sullivan was a sturdy, reliable, hard-working introvert. Together, the four of them would go on an impressive run of crimes that ultimately led to federal prison.

First, they needed the weapons, so gun stores were their original targets. In the presentence investigation, four businesses were mentioned, but after talking with Shawn, I learned the number is actually much higher. One particular gun store was robbed three times in 35 days by breaking into the alarm company next door—which, ironically, didn’t have an alarm—and entering the gun store by breaking through the alarm company’s wall. During another robbery, Gosdin fired his weapon at a person because they’d stopped in a used car lot next door to see what was going on. At one point, during another gun store robbery, a crackhead stopped in front of the store and started an intense argument with a telephone pole outside while the crew watched with amusement. According to Shawn, the best part of hitting the same gun store was—after the older merchandise was purloined by the crew—the store would then bring in all new inventory, and who doesn’t want new stuff? After gun store robberies, the crew would keep all the things they wanted to use for further crimes and sell the surplus to, as Shawn said, “blacks.”

The next target was drug dealers. Over the course of our discussions, it was quite apparent that Shawn viewed himself as superior to drug dealers. He claimed his inherent disdain for drug dealers came from growing up in the late 80s and early 90s when the War on Drugs was in full swing. In today’s world, there has been a giant push to release non-violent drug offenders by many people in places of power. Back then, however, selling drugs was viewed as a crime committed by the worst of people. This mindset is what created mandatory minimum sentencing that has remain unchanged in our judicial system for decades and counting. While Shawn didn’t directly relate this, his father’s role as chief of police, his drug-addicted sister, and the perception that drug dealers are mostly black had a lot to do with his views on drug-related matters. He had girls who would set the dealers up, then the crew would rob them. There was no real money in that, so the next crime they set their sights on was takeover bank robberies.

The crew would run in with masks and guns, demand everyone to get on the floor, go behind the counter, take all the cash they could get their hands on, and leave. Banks were targeted based on their entrance and exit routes. These takeover bank robberies produced anywhere between $40,000 to $200,000. There was no real intel or reconnaissance done. During one robbery, Shawn was wearing a brand new bulletproof vest. The vest was so heavy that he actually fell down during the robbery to the intense amusement of his crew. At yet another robbery, Shawn shared that no matter how intense a situation, men still somehow found the time to be men.

*

Shawn came out of the back of the bank and scanned the lobby while Gosdin finished getting the cash from the drive-through teller. He looked over and noticed a young, attractive blonde girl who’d hit the floor in fear. Her skirt had come up. She had a great ass, white cotton thong wedged in there, quivering. After staring at her ass for quite a few seconds, he noticed three construction workers looking from him to the girl’s exposed ass. They all smirked at him, sharing a private lewd moment as men are wont to do.

*

Things were going well. After a successful robbery, the guys would celebrate at Outback—Shawn’s favorite restaurant—followed by trips to strip clubs where each man would spend anywhere from $500 to $1,000. Shawn would buy his wife, mom, dad, and little brother something nice. At just 20 years old, he bought 15 acres of land in Tennessee and planned to build a vacation home there. He wore nice clothes, but nothing flashy. Shawn claimed his motive for the crimes was simple: money. Yet while life seemed to be going well, his wife was beginning to question who really was. She knew he didn’t have a job, but somehow he continued to bring home large sums of money. She pleaded with him to stop what he was doing, told him that they didn’t need the money, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

Jason Edward Busby was down on his luck. He’d lost his place to live and totaled his car. Desperate for money, he approached his buddy Shawn to ask for help. Shawn was aware of Busby’s situation and decided to offer assistance. After all, isn’t that what friends do? Even after Busby asked for a $10k loan, Shawn merely found the request amusing. He knew Busby didn’t have the means to ever pay back such an amount. If Busby had asked for a hundred bucks or to borrow a car for a week or two, Shawn would’ve gladly obliged, but $10,000? Instead of completely rejecting Busby’s plea, he gave Busby the opportunity to come in on a job. Busby had been the original connection to Shawn’s crew, and they’d already been through a home invasion together. Despite the fact that Busby was one more cut off the profit, he decided to give his friend a chance. This proved to be the most damming decision of Shawn’s life.

This job was different from the other thirteen robberies they’d successfully committed. Rather than run in and take the bank over, they stalked their prey. The goal was to get inside the vault where the real money was. The following is a reconstruction of events based on court documents and recollections from Shawn himself.

*

It was still dark outside, but dawn was quickly approaching. Each man had a job to perform, a task given to them by their leader, Shawn Gilreath. Busby was in charge of cutting the phone lines to disable the alarm system while Gosdin went to the back of the house to find an entry point. Upon the alarm’s disabling, Busby and Sullivan joined Gosdin and Morelock at the kitchen window just off the deck. When they entered the house, they split up into pairs—Busby and Sullivan went downstairs while Gosdin and Morelock went upstairs. They found the family asleep, roughly roused them with little fanfare, and moved them all into the master bedroom. There were two small children aged nine and five. The homeowners were aged 32 and 35, and the husband’s mother, age 59. The target of the break–in was the 32-year-old female. She was the bank employee who opened the Nations Bank in Stockbridge, Georgia. During this time, Shawn was riding around in his vehicle and maintaining radio contact via walkie talkie. The four men in the house were all wearing Friday the 13th-style hockey masks, dressed in black army fatigues. Busby drove his muddy boot onto the husband’s face and shoved a shotgun against his head.

“How does it feel?” Busby asked, leering.

Around 6 a.m., they instructed the female to get dressed and had her repeat the vault codes over and over. She told them that the vault should carry between $100k and $300k. They were pleased with this answer. Cautiously eavesdropping on the intruders’ conversations, the female realized that the men holding her hostage were aware of both the name and type of vehicle driven by the co-worker she opened the bank with. Only the plan’s mastermind understood why the crew targeted this employee over the other: it’s easier to break into a single-family suburban home instead of a trailer park. The men, ready to embark, told the victim that once they had secured the funds, they would send her money to cover the cost of cleaning the carpet that they’d tracked mud all over.

*

After securing the entire family with flex cuffs and promising to leave a man behind to kill the family if the female didn’t do as ordered, they blindfolded her and led her out to her Dodge Caravan. According to her testimony, the men drove directly to the bank without needing directions. Upon arriving, the four men contacted Shawn via walkie talkie and called the robbery off. Why? Shawn says the timing wasn’t right. During the drive to the bank, they’d gotten stuck behind a school bus. None of them, with the exception of Busby, were desperate for money. It wasn’t going as planned, so they took her to a field and left her tied up in her van. Eventually she freed herself, flagged down a passing motorist, and reported the entire incident to the police. Her family was found safe; police determined that no one was left behind to potentially murder her family. Shawn confirmed the threat was a bluff. On the whole, the mission was unsuccessful, but none of the men had any idea it would lead to their downfall.

A month after the attempted bank robbery, the first shoe dropped. A random citizen found a small piece of paper that contained what seemed to be a bank robbery script.

“We do not want to hurt anyone, but we will. We are monitoring all of Henry County’s calls on our scanner, even tactical frequencies and state patrol. When we leave the house in your van, two of our associates will enter and watch over your family. If we have not called our associates by 9:15, they will dispose of your family. If we have been given one transmitter or dye pack, they die.”

The note was written on a piece of paper with “1993 Day Runner” printed on the bottom, one found in similar At-A-Glance daily planners and organizers of the time. The note was handed off to the FBI.

When asked how a note like that could have possibly ended up in some random person’s yard, Shawn admitted that he didn’t know for sure, but surmised that Busby may have set it up. A week after the note’s discovery, in connection with a murder investigation, Shawn’s house was searched. Police found a Day Runner with the female bank worker’s plate numbers, directions to her house, and the tag numbers of three other bank employees. Shawn knew that leaving evidence like this in his home was a costly mistake, but it was actually imprints of these notes on underlying paper that were the ultimate error. The notes themselves were not discovered. The residence of Morelock and Sullivan was also searched, and yet more notes were uncovered on a 1993 Day Runner containing the tag number of another bank employee and possible escape routes. The investigation led to other people that members of the crew had discussed the crime with. Some of this information didn’t add up with the crime in question, but all of the information was damming. Gosdin was arrested for murder, and while leading investigators to stolen pepper spray, they came across masks similar to the ones described in the robbery.

Jason Busby was the first arrest. Busby quickly folded and told investigators who was involved with the kidnapping and planned armed robbery. Shawn didn’t then and doesn’t now deny his involvement in this crime, nor his role as mastermind, but it’s obvious while reading Busby’s version of events that Busby did a lot of lying for self-preservation. Busby’s lies caught up to him when the judge presiding over his trial handed over a 12-year sentence as opposed to the 10-year sentence the state recommended as part of his plea bargain. The judge stated that Busby had made a mockery of his courtroom with his blatant lies, lies that Shawn believed should’ve been thrown out completely. While Shawn didn’t deny his participation, he also didn’t see his conviction as fair.

“How can you call it a jury of my peers when there’s a 60-year-old black woman with cancer on it? She isn’t my peer; she just lives in the same zip code.”

Upon Shawn’s conviction, he received a 612-month sentence. If you don’t want to do the math, that’s 51 years. When I was sentenced to 60 months for marijuana trafficking, I was shaken to my core. 612 months in prison isn’t a number I can even fathom. For normal people, this kind of sentence is the end, the final chapter. To be handed a 51-year federal prison sentence at just 21 years old? But Shawn Gilreath is not a normal person by any standard.

As you may have noticed, the word “murder” has been touched upon a few times thus far. Intrigued? Disgusted? There are actually two murders directly referred to in the court documents. The first is mentioned by Busby in his interviews with police: “Busby also provided information about other robberies and burglaries in which he and/or others had participated, as well as the murder of a black male which had been perpetrated by Gilreath, which he and some other ‘skinheads’ watched.” While I can’t go into every detail of Shawn’s criminal past—because many crimes remain unsolved—this was Shawn’s response when asked for comment on the murder of a black male:

“Black lives matter… just not to me.” Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

Both Gosdin and Shawn were arrested and charged with the murder of 69-year-old Edwin Levi McCollum. Over the next ten years, this case was drawn out while the prosecution sought the death penalty for Shawn. Because Gosdin was still a minor during the murder, he could not be given the death penalty. Neither Gosdin nor Shawn ever denied involvement in the crime, but the unclear motive was the chief concern for investigators. By law, to have a capital murder charge in Georgia, the murder had to happen during the commission of another felony crime. The prosecution’s position was that it happened during an armed robbery, yet Shawn’s explanation was that the murder was purely a hired hit. Gosdin walked in the store, shot McCollum in the head, walked out of the store, got in Shawn’s car, and they both drove away. This murder case plays an intricate role in the rest of Shawn’s story.

During his ongoing murder trial, Shawn and his two co-defendants received a big win. In 2002, they were resentenced as a result of sentencing enhancements that shouldn’t have been applied. This dropped Sullivan’s and Morelock’s sentences down to 15 and 17 years, respectively, while Shawn’s dropped to 21. Part of this resentencing had to do with the prosecution never recovering the guns used in the crime, and partly because Gosdin was never even charged in the crime. Shawn had been given an enhancement for involving a minor in a crime he’d planned, but since Gosdin wasn’t charged with the precipitating crime, Shawn never should’ve received such an enhancement. Why wasn’t Gosdin charged? The answer is simple and shows how truly inadequate our judicial system is. There were four men in the house with masks. The victims claimed there was a fifth man on the walkie talkie, but no victim ever heard the fifth man’s voice. So, if the cops had arrested five people, each of the defendants could’ve claimed that there were only four men at the scene involved with the crime, none of whom was themselves as each could’ve claimed to be the rumored fifth man. The jury couldn’t have known which four men were actually in the house, so they never arrested Gosdin for the home invasion and consequent kidnapping since they already had him for murder. This left the prosecution with four perpetrators in masks, and four men accused of the crime.

Despite getting 30 years removed from his sentence, Shawn wasn’t yet out of the woods. He was still facing capital murder charges, and he felt like the local authorities were dragging him through the mud. While federal prison in a penitentiary is far from what one would describe as a good time, life once inside becomes sustainable. There is commissary, rec time, phone calls, and at the time tobacco products were allowed. When Shawn was taken back to state court, he was held in a super-maximum security, newly built facility named the Harold Banke Justice Center. Void of many of the amenities Shawn enjoyed in federal prison, he would be held at Harold Banke for weeks—sometimes months—to attend virtually meaningless court hearings. Shawn believed this to be a personal vendetta against him carried out by many of the law enforcement people involved with the case, people that Shawn knew personally. With his father being the chief of police while growing up, he had personal relationships with many people involved.

Thus far, I’ve been writing this and attempting to relate Shawn’s story without revealing much of his personality nor my personal beliefs and feelings regarding him and his story. Shawn is polarizing, plain and simple. He’s never going to be the kind of person that others are indifferent to. If he likes you and thinks highly of you, he will do anything for you. If he doesn’t like you, even in the slightest, he would watch you bleed to death while laughing about the blood bubbling out of your mouth. None of this is an exaggeration or a figure of speech. If he really doesn’t like you, he’ll have you killed and not spare a second thought nor lose a wink of sleep over it. The point here is that despite his crimes, there were still people in the law enforcement community that continued to like him, still saw him as the Shawn they knew, the son of the chief of police. There were others that saw his crimes for what they were, and they abhorred him for it. Shawn’s annoyance when he relayed this to me was palpable. In his mind, they couldn’t convict him of capital murder, he was already sentenced to prison for most of his natural life, and he wanted to be left alone to do his time.

While waiting to be resentenced for his original conviction, Shawn started to formulate a plan. He was housed on the 7th floor—the top floor—of the Harold Banke Justice Center, the supermax pod. All of the men on the floor were facing life or near-life sentences. Some, like Shawn, were facing the death penalty. He started trying to make friends, trying to find someone willing and able to help him escape. He asked all the white inmates, and while some were interested at first, once they realized how serious Shawn was, they would back off. The only guy who agreed to help was, ironically enough, a black man named Floyd Williams. By the end of 2002, Shawn got his lawyer to ensure that he would be kept at Harold Banke. He made a big deal about his legal mail being opened by staff, and after his complaint, it never was again. He got his mother to obtain legal envelopes from his lawyer and tested out his newly formed plan. True to form, the legal mail remained unopened before landing in Shawn’s hands, so in November 2002, Shawn’s mother sent him blades in legal envelopes.

Shawn received two blades and a carbide rod. He hid the second blade in another unit with Floyd’s brother, and the first blade was broken into three pieces hidden in honey buns. There were times, however, that Shawn had no choice but to “suitcase” the blades. No, not that kind of suitcase. The next step was finding a way to get in the rec cage outside with just his fellow would-be escapee. Shawn intimidated other inmates into not coming outside while he convinced the guards on duty to allow Floyd and himself out into the rec cage to play basketball. While Floyd would make as much noise as possible throwing the ball against the backboard and rim, Shawn would use the hacksaw blade to cut through the rec fence. While the cutting period was underway, other aspects of the escape needed outlining. They needed a getaway car, clothes, money, and a plan. Unsurprisingly, Shawn found it difficult to find people willing to help him, though Shawn couldn’t imagine why. Finally the cards started falling into place, the plan coming into clearer focus. It took him from February to November 2003, but Shawn only ever needed the first blade. After nine months of cutting, freedom was finally within reach.

*

Tuesday, November 18, 2003, at approximately 11 p.m.

Shawn lay in his bed, listening. He thought he heard a sound. 

Beep. BEEP. BEEP. 

A five-minute pause, then BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. 

Another five-minute pause. 

That was it. That was the signal. Now, to get out of the cell. 

Convincing the guard to let himself and Floyd out of their cell didn’t take much work—one of the small joys of guards paid $12.50 an hour. Once out of the unit, they made their way stealthily across an open area and onto the rec yard. Seventeen bedsheets were split between the two of them, tied tightly around their bodies. The shoes they wore—prison-issued transport shoes not meant for much activity—weren’t exactly Air Jordans. To gain access to the hole he’d been cutting for nine months, Shawn needed to run and plant his foot against the wall in order to climb to the top. Attempting to do just this, Shawn’s planting foot slipped.

A pole that jutted out of the wall punctured Shawn’s foot right between his big and second toes. Blood quickly saturated his prison-issued shoe, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins numbed the shock and pain. Taking another running start, blood seeping, Shawn attempted the jump again. Success. Pushing through the fence, yet another wound opened up on his body, the jagged fence ripping cheerfully against his skin. But there was no time for pain, no time for a thought other than the one at hand: freedom. The bedsheets were thrown down, but every knot had to hold. His blood now trickled over the edge of the building as the two men eyed their goal down a sheer 100-foot drop to the ground. It was time to look fate in the eye.

Grabbing onto the sheet, Shawn began repelling down the side of the building just in time to see a cop bringing a new inmate inside. The air seized in his lungs, heart skipping a beat, but the cop somehow didn’t notice the two men clinging to life and the promise of freedom.

On solid ground once again, the two escapees made their way to the parking lot. The car was exactly where it was supposed to be, left running. They hurriedly put on the clothes left for them and began making their way as fugitives from justice.

Escape from the escape-proof building. Escape from a 51-year prison sentence. Escape from a capital murder trial. Seven years of imprisonment behind him and nothing but open interstate ahead, Shawn’s next 17 days were the kind you’d see unfold on movie theatre screens.

*

First on the agenda? Getting a new vehicle. Of all the various crimes he’d committed, Shawn had no idea how to hot-wire a car. The plan was for Floyd to show him how, and then the two would go their separate ways. They drove the original escape vehicle to Eagle’s Landing Country Club. As luck would have it, the first vehicle they tried—a red Ford F-150—already had the keys inside. Two men united together in a life or death situation for over a year then stood on the brink of separation. One, a white Nazi who allegedly killed men just for being black. The other, a black man who faced the death penalty for the savage murder of an entire family. Floyd made the decision, a decision hard to understand if you’ve never met Shawn Gilreath. He chose to follow the man who had helped him escape the unescapable prison. It was then that Shawn knew he could trust Floyd no matter his race. Floyd, ex-Navy, knew how to listen and take orders, and the family he murdered? Done as an attempt to save his brother from a long prison sentence. Together, the two set off on a path of destruction.

They first headed north to Virginia where they were supposed to find help waiting. Turned out, people were less willing to help two escaped inmates when they were right in front of them and not a vague, hypothetical idea. They needed money, they needed weapons, and they definitely needed help.

On Friday, November 21, 2003, they allegedly performed the first of their alleged bank robberies. With no guns, they used knives during the robbery. After obtaining enough money to buy a cheap hotel room, Shawn finally gave himself much needed medical attention before the two escapees got some rest. That evening, the two headed to Outback where Shawn left the attractive waitress a $100 tip. Saturday morning they hit their first gun store before making their way to Beltsville, Maryland. Staying at a cheap motel near College Park, they found buyers for the excess guns. They robbed more banks, stole more vehicles, and spent their nights at the Showcase Theatre strip club on Route 1.

On a particular night at this fine establishment, a stripper came back to Shawn’s motel room. Floyd, conveniently absent, left a bag of marijuana on the dresser—all the drawers were full of weapons. The stripper rolled herself a joint with such speed and precision that Shawn couldn’t help but feel awe at her prowess. As she stood there—inhaling, naked—Shawn found himself itching to get on with things. The stripper smirked at him, commenting that he was too uptight, that he should be the one smoking the joint. I’ve always known strippers to have the best intuition. Early during our conversations, I agreed that Shawn’s life might’ve turned out differently if he’d simply chilled out and smoked a blunt.

Imagine the thrill these two men must’ve felt: on the run, loaded up with weapons, and riding the high of a successful string of bank robberies. Good food in their bellies, women in their beds—one, a stripper named Alana, that Shawn took quite a fancy to. One wonders if Alana ever realized who she was actually sleeping with. For those two weeks at the end of November and early December, their lives were looking pretty good.

For someone as capable of making highly thought out plans as Shawn was, I can’t understand why Shawn decided to stay in one place. When asked what his ultimate plan was, I was surprised to find out that he didn’t really have one. For Shawn, the entire escape was about showing the sheriff’s department in Atlanta that he could escape. He had no plans on fleeing to Mexico or Canada, didn’t plan on hiding out in some random place while assuming a new identity. Shawn actually expected to get caught. He was on back-to-back weeks of America’s Most Wanted, CNN had broadcasted footage of the bedsheets hanging down the side of the Harold Banke Justice Center. As far as he saw it, Shawn was intent on continuing to rob banks just to humiliate the people who were in charge of keeping him locked up. In retrospect, Shawn remained surprised that Floyd followed him after their escape. He believed Floyd might’ve stood a better chance trying to flee, especially with the charges he was facing. However, once Floyd made the decision to hop in the F-150 in Atlanta, he followed Shawn through each obstacle until they reached the end of their epic run.

On December 5, 2003, 17 days after their incredible escape from Atlanta, a series of mistakes and misfortune led to the escapees’ capture.

*

They were scoping out banks daily, using the same criteria Shawn had utilized during his successful string of robberies in 1996. The two men—driving a nondescript white van—pulled into a Lowes parking lot in White Marsh, Maryland.

Shawn liked white work vans because no one ever questioned what a white guy wearing a ball cap and drinking a cup of coffee was doing while driving a white van. For all appearances, he looked like some other random guy making a living, only this particular white van was full of weapons.

They switched vehicles and hopped into a red jeep they’d stolen in Virginia after ditching the F-150. Shawn drove Floyd to the nearby SunTrust bank and Floyd entered unarmed. He was only supposed to be scoping out the bank for the two of them to return later, but for some reason, Floyd went against the plan. It seemed like Floyd thought someone had just deposited a large amount of money. Floyd slid the teller a note.

“This is a robbery! I have a gun! Put all the money (large bills) in the bag! No games!!!”

Obliging, the teller placed $1,776 in the bag and Floyd hightailed it back to the jeep. The two quickly navigated back toward the van and switched vehicles.

It just so happened that an unusually watchful employee at a nearby Target noticed the two men switching vehicles. Suspicious, the employee engaged Target’s camera system to follow Shawn and Floyd’s movements. In pure cosmic irony, the employee believed he was seeing a drug deal. The van was quickly reported to police and spotted shortly after pulling out of the parking lot. Shawn got on the interstate near the Harbor Tunnel, attempting to flee.

In the final unfortunate circumstance in a string of unlucky events, Shawn and Floyd had no idea that they were driving directly into the presidential motorcade for a visiting George Bush. The entire interstate was blocked with highly trained police personnel with one goal in mind: to protect the president at all costs.

Shawn decided that he didn’t particularly feel like dying that day. He drove the van into a ravine and bailed out. They attempted to get away on foot, but Shawn’s injury guaranteed that they wouldn’t make it far. Running, they stripped off two loaded handguns each and scattered the money. The police pounced on the abandoned van and found a stocked arsenal along with ski masks, flex cuffs, police scanners, and various items all reported stolen from a sporting goods store in Virginia.

Shawn and Floyd were both once again in custody, their wild ride finally over.

*

This time around, there was no trial, no Busby to play the rat, no arguments about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Shawn accepted his punishment with head held high: an additional 25 years added on to his sentence. He received no extra time for escaping, nor any for the actual bank robbery. The added years were for the guns used during the crime. Floyd Williams received a plea bargain in his murder case and is currently serving life without the possibility of parole. Floyd lost nothing by going on this epic run, but Shawn lost much, much more. His mother, Jerry Gilreath, was charged with helping her son escape and was sentenced to three years in prison for her participation.

Speaking to investigators about her son, Jerry said, “The family suffered a lot of tragedies within the same time frame; my son went to jail, his wife filed for divorce, his sister was kidnapped and murdered, and his father had a heart attack.” She went on to describe Shawn as “friendly” and “outgoing.”

After the escape and receiving 25 additional years, Shawn’s murder case was dropped. He never ended up being convicted of any murders. The final number of years he had on his prison sentence was 42. He has since done 24 years, and with good time added, he is scheduled for release in 2033. He will be 58 years old upon release. It’s difficult to describe anyone who gets 42 years in prison as lucky, but in Shawn’s case, the word certainly applies.

Shawn’s prison life has been eventful, to say the least. During our many conversations, Shawn said, “If you think my life before prison was crazy, it doesn’t even compare to my life once I was actually incarcerated.” He’s been to 16 different prisons and has spent a cumulative total of eight years in the SHU between each prison. He’s currently in the SHU under another FBI investigation. He’s the leader of the “White,” a title that commands respect among inmates and guards nearly everywhere he’s transferred.

Now comes the hardest part for me. In every post, I like to make some kind of personal statement—advocating for those without a voice, making a difference, attempting to bring about change. This experience, writing about someone who has committed crimes I unequivocally consider heinous, has taken me on a whirlwind of emotions. I do not condone or stand for any of Shawn’s beliefs about race, life, or normal human decency. My role in all this is to relate what Shawn has told me and try to portray his beliefs as he’s shared them with me. I’ve commented where I deem necessary, but I’ve tried to leave personal judgment for the reader.

That said, Shawn is brilliant. He’s not just witty, smart, or intelligent; Shawn could’ve been anything he wanted to become in this life, and he would’ve been exceptional at it. The biggest question I’ve had over the course of our talks is simply “WHY?” What was his mindset? What was he thinking? Why? This is what we all want to know when we hear about someone who has committed crimes like Shawn has. How can a person so brilliant, so engaging, so full of promise, end up in prison for 42 years? Writing about him and his story has opened a door into the mind of the kind of person I never dreamed I would meet.

The most confusing part of all of this is how I wound up liking Shawn. I don’t like his beliefs, I don’t like the things he’s done, I don’t like the way he treats some of the other people here, but as a man—on an intellectual and respect level—I like him. He has gone out of his way to help me get envelopes so that I can write my family and friends, he’s given me the legal pad I needed to write letters, that I needed to write this story. He’s randomly given both my cellie and I things we’ve needed during our time here.

We both respect that we don’t share each others’ beliefs. He’s a Trump fan and I’m a Bernie supporter. He teases me about my beliefs while I openly call his crazy. He considers me a left-wing social justice warrior who doesn’t understand that power only comes by force whereas I believe that together, our collective love for each other and human progress can change the world. In a way, talking to Shawn hasn’t been much different from talking to the rest of my white friends who don’t agree with my political views.

We call him “Pee-Paw” on the range because he yells at us if we’re too loud after lights out, just like a grand-dad would. Some people reading this will call him a monster. And while I can’t disagree that he deserves such a title, I do believe that—not unlike most people on earth—there’s more to him than what he’s done. We are not uncomplicated creatures, and there’s more than meets the eye to every single person populating this planet.

When asked for motive in his crimes, Shaw’s simple answer might surprise you. “Money,” he said, but I need more than that. Shawn’s perception of middle class suburban white life is actually pretty reasonable. He looked around his neighborhood growing up, and all he saw was debt. The banks owned the houses that people thought were theirs, the colleges that people attended owned the money those people went on to make in their jobs. The cars were all financed, and one day in the distant future when people were in their sixties, they’d finally own the boat in the driveway. Then, after working their entire lives to pay all these things off, they die and their children can’t sell it all off fast enough. Shawn didn’t want that life. He wanted all those things, but he didn’t want to spend his life waiting to own them, he wanted them to be his now.

While, philosophically, we might agree with the desire for instant gratification, the way Shawn went about achieving this goal is extreme, to say the least. How could someone so intelligent go to such extreme measures to acquire wealth? I think the answer goes back to Shawn’s extremely Nazi/Darwinistic beliefs. As he tells it, Shawn never promised the people that he kidnapped, tortured, and allegedly murdered that he wasn’t going to do these things to them. No, he never raped anyone even though conditions were prime for such a terrible act, and he wasn’t beating up old ladies for their purses. If you look at a majority of his targets—gun stores, drug dealers, banks—these are places or people who, in Shawn’s mind, should be expecting to be robbed. This set expectation means Shawn believed it was a fair fight. He won because he outsmarted his opponent and his opponent’s defenses. When bringing up the kidnapping and restraining of small children, Shawn brushed these instances off as collateral damage—he didn’t feel good about doing it, but it had to be done. He didn’t physically harm the children (and clearly doesn’t believe in long-lasting psychological scarring as a result of traumatic events), so Shawn believed he behaved no differently from what the military engages in when the U.S. sends soldiers to other countries where they kick in doors, kidnap people, torture, and kill. To what end? Well, for money. So if the military does these things, we collectively shrug our shoulders or perhaps dub the perpetrators “heroes.”

When analyzing Shawn’s deeply held beliefs and goals alongside the events of his life, one can draw the line from each crime to another stemming from that original goal of being in Delta Force. Instead of being patient and working his way through the military ranks, Shawn created his own Delta Force and did every single thing he envisioned for himself as an elite killing machine, except he did them all here at home.

Because of my cause and purpose, nearly everything I write is about drugs, so I’ve saved Shawn’s views on this for last. After he read my post about Mike Avila, The Cycle of Struggle, he responded that the social justice warrior perspective that non-violent drug offenders are unfairly punished is complete and total bullshit. He viewed the nature/nurture argument of a person’s upbringing and socioeconomic experience funneling them down a set, specific path as invalid. To Shawn, drug dealers and himself both have the same end goal, but his means to achieve that goal are far more direct.

“We all want new shiny shit,” Shawn claimed. What, then, is the difference between turning girls out and making them whore themselves for drugs versus kidnapping a family to rob a bank? This attitude may stem from his experience with his sister. His sister’s kidnapping and consequent murder, while only briefly mentioned above, appear now sheerly because it took a very long time for the topic to come up in our conversations. What he had to say about this event might be the most shocking thing he’d told me thus far.

“I wish I’d done it myself two years earlier. Would’ve saved my parents a lot of heartache.”

Shawn viewed his sister as a junkie and a whore who sold her body for drugs. When questioned whether he thought his crimes had any role in his sister’s death, Shawn categorically denied that the events were linked. He did, however, think that the police department’s seemingly indifferent approach to finding his sister’s killers was a direct response to their vendetta against him.

I fully agree that there are drug dealers who do all kinds of terrible things. I do agree that purposefully providing girls drugs to get them addicted to then use them for sex is morally reprehensible, but I also wholeheartedly disagree that this is the primary motive or practice of most non-violent drug offenders. I also agree that “new shiny shit” is certainly an end goal of drug dealers, but the same can be said for anyone in the world who has a job. Kidnapping families as the means to an end of obtaining “new shiny shit” is absolutely not the same as selling drugs to adults who want them. There is a solution to prevent drug dealers from turning girls out or lying about what drugs are cut with what they’re selling to get people addicted: we can legalize them, regulate them, and spend the tax money on treating the people who become addicted while educating the public on the dangers of each drug. There is no solution that makes kidnapping families, robbing banks, and allegedly murdering people just for being black more palatable.

Maybe I am nothing more than a liberal social justice warrior who doesn’t understand how the world really works, but at least I believe in something: together, we can change the world.

—Prison Daddy

P.S. After all our conversations, questions, philosophical disagreements, laughs, and learning about each other, Shawn sent me a letter I’d like to share with you all:

The questions you’ve been asking me have brought forth a lot of emotions that I have buried. While not a sob story, there is one element that I don’t discuss much. Throughout my years in prison, I have done a lot of soul searching. I had to learn to be honest with myself, to see things for what they truly are. To accept responsibility for the pain I wrought upon those I care about.

My biggest flaw was impatience. That single word defines all that lead me to where I am today. All I wanted was to make my parents proud and take care of my wife. I think about them all every single day—the disappointment, embarrassment, the pain of their loss.

I have never, nor would I ever wish to experience again, the all-consuming love I had for my wife. Words can’t describe it. All I can hope for is her happiness.

At night, when it’s dark and quiet, is when I battle my demons. I’ve done 8-9 years easily in the SHU, so it’s been a long battle. I’ve learned to contain the anger and hatred, the fear and anxiety, the uncertainty. Sometimes I’ve begged for death, a quick bullet to the head. Painless. Lights out. While certainly not suicidal, I feel as though the feeling is similar to an addict that hits rock bottom. You don’t want to die per se; you just want the pain to stop at any cost.

Sleep will finally come for me. One day I won’t wake up. I don’t fear death—I have embraced it face to face, a lover’s embrace, far too many times to frighten easily. Nor, however, do I want to die. There’s too much left to do. The dichotomy of such an existence can be emotionally taxing.

So, when you’re writing, these might be things to consider. I don’t have much humanity left to share, but at one time I did. A carapace of hate protects that which is vulnerable. One couldn’t exist without the other.

I am excited that you have taken an interest in my story. You have your own motives, as we all do. When you’re finished, I will not critique your opinions or attempt to swing your perception. Do not hold back. To do so wouldn’t be honest.

The world surely looks different through other people’s eyes. Perhaps none of what I said here will have an influence on what you have to write. Maybe it shouldn’t. Perhaps to do so would only darken an otherwise beautiful thing.

Thank you for your effort, patience, and time. I hope that, unlike a lot of what I’ve done, it won’t prove wasted.

Shawn—

Learning about your life has been eye-opening. While I don’t agree with or condone the things you’ve done, I also don’t believe that your life is over. I believe there is a reason that you were spared life in prison, and it wasn’t just random sentencing errors. I believe in people. This is one of the reasons I find your crimes so heinous, but it’s also the reason I believe you still have a chance to make a difference. My challenge to you as a fellow inmate, a fellow man, and perhaps a friend, is to make the rest of your story one of redemption—the redemption of a life full of destruction. You’re right: you aren’t dead yet for a reason. That reason isn’t to get out and rob one more bank or kidnap one more person. You have the chance to become a better person. People listen to you and follow you; why wouldn’t they when you’re a natural leader. Get rid of all the racist shit and become a person that inspires those who follow your lead. You aren’t now, but could be, better than who you’ve been before. We grew up in similar homes, in similar situations. I could just as easily have been you.

Take a step back and see the hope and love that exists in the world. People make mistakes, but those mistakes don’t have to define you unless you let them. It can be overcome.

—Jeremy

[Editor’s Note: The following is a transcription of writing from Shawn Gilreath, included at his request.]

Aiding & Abetting

1996

Wow! 1996 is crazy. Machine guns and silencers. Murder. Kidnapping. Bank robbery. Home invasions. The Olympics. And I get married to the only human I’ve ever loved more than myself. Twice.

We elope in June, the week of our fourth anniversary. We wed in the courthouse in Mountain City, Tennessee where we’d purchased property last year. We wait until October to have a church wedding. It is awesome. Thirteen days later, my world shakes. Five days after that, it crumbles.

Wednesday, October 23, 1996, I’m arrested for capital murder, felony murder, and a bevy of other charges. Things go really bad.

I’m 21 years old.

*

As I look back with the clarity of hindsight, I can see the highs and lows, what went right and what went wrong. The things I’d change, and those that I wouldn’t.

Ah, to be young again. But isn’t that the age-old story? Youth is wasted on the young.

On Friday, October 18, 1996, the cops pick me up on a bullshit charge. I spend the weekend in jail. The charges are tossed out Monday morning at my arraignment. My parole officer drops the “hold” that is automatically placed on parolees.

So I’m sitting there in holding cell six, waiting to leave. Already back in street clothes, I can see my wife giving me a “What the FUCK?” look. I just shrug and wait. I’m just waiting to get home, hit the shower, and bury my face in her sweet pussy.

Then I see the suits. Uh-oh. They’re looking at me like I’m in a zoo, and in a sense, I am. A jailer—which has got to be one of the lowest jobs on the evolutionary ladder—pops open the door and ushers me towards intake. This is where you come in to jail; the exit is the other way.

The suits are waiting on me. They try the good cop/bad cop “We Know It’s All Just a Misunderstanding” routine. I’m wracking my brain.

Then I hear the word “homicide.” Whoa! Stop the presses! Homicide? As in murder? Don’t worry, they say, they’re on my side.

I deny everything and lawyer up. You can talk your way into jail, but without ratting, you can’t talk your way out of jail. So they reluctantly let me go. I make a beeline out of there just a little less confident than I was ten to fifteen minutes before. I jump in my wife’s car and explain everything to her. I go home, hit the shower, and then dive into her aforementioned pussy. Later that night I meet with my cohorts and discuss the situation.

I, along with Ray, are suspected in at least one homicide. Not Cool. Ray leaves town that same night. Atlanta to Denver, Denver to San Diego. Look out, Mexico! But Ray calls his mom because he loves and respects her, doesn’t want her to worry. And she, in turn, calls the cops and rats him out. But don’t worry, it won’t be the last time.

Me? I hang around like a dumbass. Man, I just got married. I got shit to do. I watched too much T.V. where they never arrest the wrong guy. When it’s the right guy, there’s tons of forensic evidence à la C.S.I., and of course the cops are the good guys that wear white hats, take their vitamins, say their prayers, and always, always tell the truth.

Was I ever that gullible? Yes, yes I was. But I have since seen the light. It’s blinding, and it’s given me a migraine that I can’t shake.

So, on that fateful day my wife and I are off to get a late lunch. She has taken the day off from the software company she works at to go and talk to my lawyer (whose advice is to leave town and check in every six months). I should’ve left town and never looked back. Now all I can do is look back.

So we’re going to get something to eat, and the fucking S.W.A.T teams come out of nowhere. Right as I was crossing I-75 on Mt. Zion Road, my world starts to crumble.

I get booked into Clayton County Jail, and my wife is, too. She bonds out the next day. She’d just graduated from the University of West Georgia; she’s not the type of person that goes to jail. I think this could be seen as the last day I was married. Epic fail.

Jail sucks. Bad food, bad people. Lights, noise, movement, confusion. Never-ending commotion full of losers that can’t get out of jail on a $50 bond along with guards making per hour what one good mixed drink costs.

Then the news. Ahh, yes, the fifth estate. Ha! Jackals one and all. They do as much or more damage than the cops and rats that fuel the American criminal justice system. What an oxymoron that is. So, jailed in a suburb of Atlanta, in a predominantly black community, I’m being plastered on the T.V. and newspapers as a racist.

Perhaps I am, if by “racist” they mean a white man that’s proud to be white, won’t back down, and will fight back. Then I’m a racist. And of course you can be anything you want to be except that. We’re supposed to cower. Surprise!

So, I’m now living in a dorm with approximately 70 inmates that should’ve held 32. Four to five of us are in a single cell sometimes, which is somewhat homey as the doors don’t work. We sleep, eat, play cards, and wait. People come and go at all hours, even in a max unit. The ones that have more serious charges form routines and interact a bit more than the vagrants. This mentality of permanency will prove fruitful later on in my “career.” I live here; you fuckers are just passing through.

One of the things I dread is calling my dad. I get along well with both of my parents, but my dad was a former chief of police in Monticello, Georgia. Explaining shit to him could prove dicey.

His disappointment is tangible, but he and my mom stick with me until their deaths. I couldn’t have asked for better people to raise me.

My wife visits me at every opportunity, flashing those perfect B cups and the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. It was a game, a situation we’d come out on the other side of together and stronger than before.

Holy shit, was I as dumb as a fucking hammer? Obviously so.

One day my wife shows up with a drastic new haircut and her mom who hates me. I know things aren’t going to go well.

Her grandfather—her mom’s dad—was a judge in that county. She’s embarrassed. Every single one of her friends and family urge her to jump ship. So she does, but not before explaining that she’s 22-years-old and didn’t get married to sleep alone, blah, blah, blah. Obviously that’s true, though, because at my last check she’s on her third marriage. I only got arrested for murders once, so maybe the relationship just wasn’t meant to last.

She moves on and erases me out of her life. Fuck her and her friends and family. I hope she’s fat with kids that hate her. Perhaps husband #4 will like hairy nipples.

So now I’m in jail and going through a divorce while facing murder charges. But I got shit under control. Then in December of 1996, I find out I’ve just been indicted by the feds. Bank robbing. Kidnapping. Machine guns. Silencers. So much for control.

So I start trying to find a way out of jail. I bust windows, holes in walls, you name it. I was one of the catalysts for that particular jail to be condemned.

1997

Hello, New Year. We start the year off with a riot that makes the news. We tear that place up. Then, in March, I help my co-defendant Ray procure sheet metal shears and a key from a maintenance worker. This worker lived in a trailer park behind the jail—he’s gunna sell whatever he can if the price is right. Ray Gosdin, Robert Peppers, and some random black guy escape. Peppers had previously escaped in December 1996.

I’m in B-6; they’re in B-4. I can’t get over there because they won’t let me and any of my co-defendants be around each other. Wonder why?

I give them the go-ahead, and they leave that night. So we’re back on the news. In April I catch a new charge and my mom gets arrested for smuggling contraband into the jail.

Ray calls his mom and she turns him in again. Told you she’d be back. Our moms are polar opposites.

I’m going back and forth into federal custody. Myself and two others are preparing for trial against the feds. Yep, dumb as a hammer.

Now by this point, the charges are mounting. Every time the U.S. Marshals transport me, it’s a full on S.W.A.T. team with radio checkpoints, motorcycle outriders—the whole gamut. Safe to say traffic was never a problem.

USP Atlanta has a pretrial unit as does the Atlanta City Detention Center. I’m housed in various cells, closets, and offices. This is to keep me off balance and apply emotional pressure. I love a challenge.

Except for the riot, escape, and smuggling, 1997 is fairly sedate. I officially become a divorcee on my first anniversary, and on my dad’s birthday in June, I have my Unified Appeal hearing. This is where the state officially tells you that they’re seeking the death penalty.

Important dates are another tool they use to break you down, as you’ll see in 1998.

1998

In January I get indicted by the state on murder, felony murder, armed robbery, and some other minor charges. Myself and two others—James Anthony Brian Morelock and Patrick Neil Sullivan—start trial in March and wrap it up a couple of weeks later.

Brian and Neil never ratted. They stood strong and never outwardly wavered. Jason Edward Busby is a lying two-faced piece of shit that would rather lie than tell the truth when the truth would serve him better. I hope Busby dies a slow, lingering death of some unknown ailment, but don’t get this confused with anger and hatred; I say this with love.

I get sentenced to 612 months in federal prison. For those without the necessary math skills, that’s 51 years. Brian and Neil get 40 years each. Busby rats and lies himself into a 12-year sentence when he was only supposed to receive ten years. If he’d kept his mouth shut, no one would’ve gone down. Stupid. In November, Ray goes to trial on the murders. He’s convicted and sentenced to two life sentences plus fifteen years. I don’t know the details of the case, but what I do know is that he is in Georgia State Prison, and I hope that, one day, he gets out. Raychel David Gosdin is one of the best men I’ve ever known.

Busby lied. The prosecutor lied. The FBI embellished. The victims ad libbed. But all that is nothing compared to the corruption and bullshit I saw later on.

So I lie awake at night and re-think this whole “it’s under control” outlook. What now? Well, it’s game time. It is what it is, and there are only two options: fight or die. I’m way too young and pretty to die. Come to think of it, I’m way too young and pretty for prison. So it’s back to square one.

To put this in perspective, I’m 23 years old, 6”1’, 165-171 lbs, light brown/blond hair, with blue eyes. A more masculine Doogie Howser. I don’t even have a whisker yet.

So I hit that yard at USP Atlanta like a lion. Well, not exactly. I went in scared. I went in bewildered. But not broken. Thanks to the publicity I’d garnered, most of my fellow white inmates know the important things: A) I didn’t rat, B) I’m not a sex offender. In prison lingo, I was “okay” but not one of the fellas. That distinction takes time and effort.

USP Atlanta is scary as hell when you first see it, kinda like the prison in Shawshank Redemption. I keep thinking about one quote from that movie. Referring to The Sisters, the narrator says, “Sometimes he was able to fight ‘em off. Sometimes not. And that’s how it went for Andy.”

I watch. I learn. I listen. I know my place. I’d read numerous books in pretrial and had this preconceived notion of how federal prison worked. It was all bullshit, every last fucking word. 

24 years on, the feds are vastly different now, but when I hit the yard, it was not what I thought it’d be. Neither better nor worse, just unexpected.

I was constantly back and forth between fed custody and the county jail for motion hearings on the murders. Really, it was a way to keep me off balance and apply pressure. I was a freshman in a university that few graduate to. Since that time, I’ve earned a doctorate in criminology. Those that can, do. Those that can’t, teach. I can’t really do much these days, so I teach. I teach others how to do time, how to manipulate the system. How to not only survive, but how—for a chosen few—you can prosper.

1999

Still back and forth. My time on the yard at USP Atlanta is a very unique experience. My mindset it simple: this is it. This is my life. Period. I’m doing 51 years and I have pending murder charges.

I’ve always had an above-average intelligence. If I’m interested in something, my brain just absorbs everything I see, hear, or read. I learned how to say “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me.” That’s Rule #1 in a high/max federal penitentiary (not to be confused with a camp/low/med facility). Al Capone did time at USP Atlanta, and a lot of the rules he lived by while there still apply. Please, thank you, and excuse me. You’d hear these hundreds of times a day back then.

The second thing you learn is to watch things without it being obvious. You don’t stare, you don’t look. Two guys stabbing a third in a corner? Once you acknowledge it, you keep moving. You don’t ogle or laugh—nothing. You listen. You listen to what’s going on around you at all times: conversations, feet scuffling—anything out of the norm. It’s really about the appearance of minding your own business while knowing what’s going around you. This is a trait that would keep me alive (so far) for the next quarter century.

The third thing I learned was how to make improvised weapons.

A lock in a sock is bullshit. Socks are sewn at the toe, so the force of impact usually busts the seam on the first strike. If not the first, then the second. The last thing you want when you hit a man in the head with a blunt object is to see it go skittering across the floor. I have seen this happen, and it usually doesn’t end well.

You must always put your lock on the nylon belts the prison issues you, but not at the end. You want about six to eight inches of motion from where you grip the belt. Now, if you really want to fuck a man up, you take that same belt/lock combo and run the belt through a rolled up magazine. So at one end you have the lock, the magazine is the handle, and the belt is wrapped around your hand. The belt holds the lock to the magazine, and the magazine is now tied to your hand. I’ve dubbed this “Thor’s Hammer.” It’s a devastating weapon that only takes about ten seconds to assemble if properly prepped.

The next is a knife. We don’t call them shivs. Sometimes they’re called shanks or bonecrushers. It’s a knife, whether from metal or plastic. I have seen steel, aluminum, and copper knives. Plexiglass is very common. Almost any type of plastic can be heated and forged together—cooled in water, reheated, and molded until you get the desired effect. You’ve also got razor blades melted into toothbrushes for a slashing device. Not to underestimated.

I see guys on Gangland and other similar shows displaying the newspaper spears they make, bows and arrows that look cool but are made for T.V., trust me. We are not running around with spears and bows. But those guys are in state prison, so maybe they are. The feds won’t allow any video or the like inside a federal prison. So much for transparency, huh?

2000

Brian, Neil, and myself win our appeals in 2000. It’ll be two more years before we are resentenced, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel. I’m still going back and forth. In November I beat up a rapper named “Drama”—Terrence Cook—while in the county jail. Once the dust settles that night, his homies attack me and my arm gets broken. The radius snaps and my elbow is dislocated at the same time, and I’m taken to Clayton General. The whole thing is really an excuse to attack a white guy that’s labeled as a racist. Gregory Waylon Beyers helps me. He stands with me and fights. Thank you. I’ve never seen him since, but I’m grateful for his help.

24-30 hours later, I’m the first inmate (not counting trustees) to be moved from the jail in Lovejoy to the brand new Banke Justice Center up the street. The S.W.A.T. team scoops me up at about 11 p.m. and secretly rush me to the new jail. It takes 20-25 vehicles and approximately 50 S.W.A.T. members to do so. What a bunch of clowns.

Immediately, I start the process of bringing this facility down just like we did Lovejoy. It takes me three years.

2001

When I’m back at USP Atlanta, I’m in training to be the best convict I can. I’m young, healthy, armed, and determined to be respected. As a white man in a federal penitentiary (USP), you are required to “put in work.” What this “work” translates to is a targeted assault by two or more on one. Fair? Nope. But fair doesn’t count when you just want to see the sun come up one more time. So, when your turn comes, you go. You just go. Once the plan is in place, you put your game face on and do it. You don’t think, you don’t feel. You don’t care. So I juggle the assaults with visits and T.V. shows. I can’t let things interfere with visits, and I used to watch a lot of T.V.

I learn prison politics. I’m learning about gangs, chain of command, drug sales, scams. You name it, I’m taking it in. I watch the war of attrition at the top of these pyramids. I see those at the bottom. I’m looking for the sweet spot somewhere in the middle.

2002

We get resentenced. Brian and Neil go from 40 years to 15 years. I go from 51 down to 21, then back up to 30, all in the same day. Later on, you’ll see why this is. My judge, Jack T. Camp, gets caught running dope, guns, and whores. During this particular time, he’s on the wrong medication and smoking crack, and the DEA knew it the whole time he’s on the bench. So, I’m pissed. The next time I go back to county, I have my lawyer keep me there. I don’t want to escape from the feds. Things like “primary custody” and “fugitive disentitlement clause” are bad but don’t apply to county inmates on unrelated state charges.

Every time I go back to county, I mold it a little more. Some guards hate me, some like me. Most are just scared. The sheriffs don’t like me. I cause a little internal warfare between them, which causes the new sheriff to escort the old sheriff and his supporters out at gunpoint. Fuck ‘em. To show how bad it was, one of my victims, Detective Eric Heinz, was put in charge of all the property seized from my house. Years later, it was all “accidentally” destroyed. Oops, So sorry.

So, to show them, I really start plotting. I acquire two hacksaw blades and a carbide rod. How? Oh, that’s a secret no one knows.

I watch, look, and listen. I learn their system better than they do. I live here. This is my world. You fuckers only work here. No matter the technology, the gadgets—you are only as good as your weakest link. And their chain is made of tissue paper.

Once I get the blades in November, the question is now what? I toss the carbide rod—too cumbersome—and I pass one blade into another unit as a back up. I know tons of people in this jail, and I’m the highest profile inmate here. At one time there was a large photo of me in the intake unit as an example. I break the second blade into thirds. I hide two pieces inside honeybuns, and the other I keep on my person 24/7. Times when I get suspicious, I wrap it in plastic wrap and stick it up my ass. I sleep like this many a night.

2003

I’m finally able to start cutting the mesh on the rec yard. I’ve recruited a lookout named Floyd Wayne Williams. He’s in facing multiple murders he committed for his brother, Mike. I work the system. I cut when I can from February 4, 2003, until I finally break through on November 15. On Tuesday, November 18, Floyd and I leave.

The events that follow the escape are chronicled by Prison Daddy. He tells a better story from the outside than I do.

Final thoughts on the escape? Floyd ends up getting multiple life sentences without the possibility of parole. He will die in prison. He’s had the opportunity to “help” me out on some legal issue but refuses. He’s bitter. Fuck him.

That said, there are still some unanswered questions about the escape. How did two guys with a combined five to six capital murder charges get out of their maximum security cells, out of a maximum security pod, across a common area, and onto a rec yard at 11 p.m.? Not to mention the three locked doors controlled by a state of the art command center. That’s not including the hacksaw blade and rope made of bedsheets we’d concealed on our persons. Out through cut metal, down the sheets, over the fence into an awaiting car. No cameras recorded this. No C.O. saw anything. They had no idea what happened until some lame ass citizen saw us scaling the fence and went into the lobby to report what he saw. By the time they figured shit out, we were in the next county. I, with numerous cuts and a broken foot while bleeding profusely.

Sixteen days later, we’re arrested and booked into Towson County jail in Baltimore, Maryland. What a fucking shithole. They treat me fairly bad. Then the feds come to pick me up. Floyd stays in state custody and escapes, briefly, again He’s never charged in any federal crime, but I am and get additional time for using a gun in a bank robbery. The thing is we never used a gun. Floyd is never charged, but I get an aiding and abetting 924(c) on a case by myself. I don’t know how they do the things they do within the federal criminal justice system, but they do what they want. I guess I aided and abetted myself outside the bank with guns that weren’t even present. Whatever.

From Towson, I get moved to the supermax on Madison Street (before Maryland Department of Corrections built the new ultramax). Now this is a real dump. It’s overcrowded, to say the least. M.D.O.C. would send federal inmates out to contract facilities, and I terrorized several. Northern Neck Regional Jail finally house me in a mop closet next to the law library. They call it “Special J.” I go from the B unit max, to the E unit hole, to a fucking mop closet. Sometimes you just gotta laugh this shit off. I rot for about a year.

Back at the supermax, I can see the New Year’s Eve fireworks at the Inner Harbor. F-4 has a great view of the city.

2005

I catch a consecutive sentence. I’m making my way back into the system, but my situation is worse now. I’m not a happy camper.

I’m going back to USP Atlanta, right? Nope. ATL is being downgraded to a medium, and I am not a medium at this time. I’ve been re-designated to USP Lee in Virginia. Once I arrive, I’m placed in the special housing unit for Captain’s review, like he’s not gunna let me stay there. So I sit in the SHU for a bit and they eventually let me out. I’m getting back in the groove of prison life, then I get put back into the SHU under investigation, which will become the bane of my existence. Then they let me back out, and I go back to prison life: working, hustling, playing sports, and gaming the system. In December, I need to have surgery on my jaw.

2006

USP Lee has more gangs than USP ATL did. It’s been four years since I’ve been on a yard. I’m still learning—running a poker operation, eating and staying in shape, playing volleyball, football, and softball. I run into two Hell’s Angels. I’d bumped into one or two throughout the years, but I’m around these two men on a daily basis. One’s from Massachusetts, and the other is the president of the San Diego chapters. These two men unknowingly lay a foundation upon which I built in the years to come.

In March, there’s an altercation on the rec yard. It’s the first time USP Lee has to use live ammo from the gun towers. We’re out there in the rain and mud, freezing our asses off and fighting. Then the towers start shooting at us.

A couple of months later, I get into a fight with my cellie. He’s the shot caller for a gang called A.R.M. So they ship me. I go to USP Beaumont.

Now this place is an eye-opener. Bloody Beaumont is the most dangerous prison the feds have seen in a long time, if not ever. Assaults are a daily occurrence. Gangs are plentiful: Dirty White Boys, Aryan Brotherhood of Texas, Boston guys, Norteños, Barrio Azteca, Texas Syndicate, Latin Kings, Bloods, Crips, G.D., S.A.C., Skinheads, Nazi Low Riders. You name it, it’s here.

2006 is an eventful year at Beaumont. I can’t remember all the crazy shit, but you can probably Google various articles and reports on the place. There are many.

2007

More mayhem. Life at Bloody Beaumont is a daily struggle. Violence is the norm—there’s a reputation to uphold. Inmate on inmate, inmate on staff, even staff on staff. That’s a funny spectacle.

The year wraps up when two inmates slip their cuffs and stab two guards in the SHU. They get the keys and take over D-range. They end up entering a cell and killing another inmate. They’re currently both on death row at USP Terra Haute. Whites and D.C. Blacks have been warring since the mid 90s murders at USP Lewisburg. This does not help matters and only causes tensions to rise.

2008

The year starts with a riot at Beaumont, which was bound to happen. The Crips get into it with the Texas Family, a black gang from Texas that claims Beaumont as their base. We watch the blacks go at it for a while—I can’t say for how long as time distorts in situations like this, but I do know that the center tower runs out of grenades and ammo. Blacks stabbing blacks, cops shooting and spraying anything that comes close. It’s a free fire zone. Several people use the opportunity to do their own thing.

All this eventually leads to another murder. My counselor is assaulted and the perpetrators are placed in the SHU. One black, one white: James Sweeney and Bo Napper—childhood friends from Baltimore. Sweeney is one of the founders of D.M.I. (Dead Man Inc), and probably one of the most dangerous men I know simply because he loves this shit. So they go to the SHU, which is overcrowded. Later that day, a third inmate is put in there with them. Sweeney and Bo kill him. They give up the body two days later.

We go back to living our lives day to day. Just another riot. Just another body.

2009

I finally get to leave Beaumont. I move some money. I get told on by inmate Tom Stupka. He’s later murdered for working with prison officials. A prison rat. Fuck him. He got his head caved in by a chunk of concrete.

I go to my first medium security, FCI Herlong, in Susanville, California. Have I mentioned that I’m from Atlanta? I’m a long way from home.

There’s a few guys I know here. I become friends with “Pep.” Pepmeyer is a short, stocky, angry Hells Angel from New York, and we’re both a long way from home. We go to the SHU together and I find out he’s president of the Nomads in NYC. (He died not long ago, but he was at the top of his game.)

2010

There’s an investigation at Herlong that gets me sent back to a penitentiary, USP Florence in Colorado—right across the street from ADX.

Florence is cold. It’s still recovering from a riot on Hitler’s birthday in 2008. Windows are still boarded. Distance markers are placed on the housing units so the towers know how long their shots are. They’ve just rigged up a new pulley system to resupply the tower with ammo from the top of the chow hall. It’s crazy, but I don’t mind it.

The food is good. There’s plenty of workout equipment. There’s also a bunch of staff assaults. I live in a retarded unit—two counselors, who end up in ICU for 11 days, and my case manager all get assaulted within in a month or so of each other. There’s prison politics, racial politics, gang politics. Some of the blacks that’d been assaulted in the riot are still here, and most aren’t particularly fond of white people.

I’m back to running poker tables. It’s the first time I sell drugs in prison—a poker debt where I accept heroin as payment. I sell the heroin and make double what I’m owed for the poker. Hmm…

This is around the time when I find out my judge, Jack T. Camp, is a bigger crook than I am. He gets 30 days in jail for more shit than I got 30 years for, but that’s okay because he’s a good guy and only made a mistake. A mistake he made for ten years.

Like this guy told me once: “I ain’t a crackhead; I only smoked crack twice in my life. Once for eight years, the other for eleven.” Funny, but that describes the esteemed Judge Camp. And it’s okay! We all make mistakes and America believes in second chances!

Bullshit.

2011

I go to the SHU under investigation. I’m cold and hungry. A few months later, I get a good boy transfer back to a medium, FCI Yazoo City. This place is the armpit of Mississippi, which is itself the armpit of America.

I don’t last long at FCI Yazoo. I get caught with a Samsung Galaxy and about seven pounds of loose tobacco. The feds quit smoking in ‘05-’06, so I spend a few months in the SHU. Surprising, I know.

2012

I get sent from FCI Yazoo back to a penitentiary. USP Pollock in Louisiana isn’t bad. Good food, good rec. Violence is the norm. It’s the only federal prison I’ve been to without going to the SHU. It’s touch and go a few times, but by this point in my life, I’ve pretty much mastered this side of the wall.

Right after I leave, there are several murders in my unit, A4. That unit had more bodies than any other unit at Pollock.

2013

From USP Pollock I go to FCI Estill in South Carolina. It’s a nice place… for a prison. Some guys drop kites on me, and I go back to the SHU. “Kite” is slang for a note or short letter, either from inmate to inmate or inmate rat to staff. The rats got me.

I meet Hells Angels president “Lightning Mark” from S.C.

2014

FCI Estill to FCI Coleman. Great food, excellent yard. No violence, but the rats get me again. I do six months in the SHU and it’s back to a penitentiary.

2015

USP Coleman 1. Decent food, good rec. I meet Hells Angel Diamond Dan Bifield and Christian Rufino. I form a friendship with both of these men. Dan has been a HA since before I was born, and he’s one of the best men I’ve ever met. He’ll be 70 years this year. Dan is the real deal outlaw 1%er. Chris is president of the Salem, Massachusetts chapter. I stay in touch regularly.

2016

I get caught with a package of dope. K2. I’m fucking slipping. Chris comes to the SHU two to three days later for suboxone, then Dan gets kited off the yard because of Chris and I. All three of us wind up in the SHU. We have a good time.

Dan goes to Talladega. Chris goes back to USP Allenwood, and a few months later he wins an appeal and gets an immediate release. (He’s doing great and runs a tight ship for his club.)

Me? I spend six months in solitary and then get sent to USP Big Sandy. I’m there for 26 fucking hours and they lock up 22 white guys for a “group demonstration.” I spend exactly six more months in the SHU pending a S.M.U. referral.

2017

I leave Big Sandy and go to USP McCreary. 27 days on the yard and back in the SHU. I get sent back to California, USP Atwater. 28 days at Atwater and I’m back in the SHU for four and a half months.

While I’m at Atwater, I meet Raymond “Ray Ray” Foakes, former president of Sonoma’s Hells Angels chapter, and Mike Ottinger, a San Diego HA in for killing a Mongol. Ray Ray and his bros got wrapped up in a pending R.I.C.O. case in Fresno. Ray Ray is one of the best dudes you could ever meet. Mike? Not so much. Mike’s without a doubt the worst HA I’ve ever met.

I hope the men in Fresno come out on top. I know they’ll come out with their honor.

2018

Only one brief stint in the SHU for nothing. I ride it out by keeping my head down. A day in the life. Towards the end I get put in for a transfer to FCI Talladega.

2019

The first week in February, I reach Talladega. I’m back with my friend Diamond Dan. We spend eight months working out and planning for the future before I fuck up and yell at somebody. Back to the SHU I go. I get sent to FCI Edgefield. Shithole.

2020

Edgefield sucks. I hate it and everyone here. I miss Talladega. I miss Dan. I’m on the yard for four months before I’m SHU bound again.

And here I sit, five months later, due to an FBI “Threat Assessment,” which means nothing. COVID-19 ain’t helping either. The best day at Edgefield will be when they put me on a bus that’s leaving.

Epilogue

I’ve spent 24 years in federal prison. I’ve been exposed to and studied every gang in the system. I have studied the Bureau of Prisons from the inside out. People read books like Busted by the Feds—this guy was never at a USP. He has no real clue what life is like. There is no “Club Fed.” No steaks and shrimp. We have nothing; we are just numbers.

I came in at 21 years old. As I write this, I’m 45 years old. I’m a different person than I was 24 years ago. Better or worse, I can’t say. Just different.

I hope that when I get out in 12-13 years—or maybe sooner if a legal avenue opens—I can still have a life. I want to capitalize on my experience and knowledge to perhaps help others cope with their time in prison. The system is broken almost beyond repair, but it can be fixed easily. I know deep down that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West won’t ever help me. I’m white and unapologetic, so therefore I don’t fit the social justice narrative. I’m a published author. I do positive shit. But I refuse to be broken, thus I will get no relief.

I’ve lived in medium and max facilities for all of my adult life. 60% of my time since birth has been in federal prison, with more than eight years in solitary, if not more. I’m the only one on either of my indictments that’s still in prison. What a shame.

If you read this and want to help, you can contact me via the BOP’s inmate locator-search by number: Shawn Gilreath 47555-019. You can also text or email your elected officials and U.S. pardon attorney to urge my petition for commutation be granted.