Rabbi Dovid Goldstein, together with his wife Elisa, founded Chabad of West Houston in 1998. He is the head Jewish chaplain for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice and works extensively with Jews incarcerated in federal and state prisons in Texas. Rabbi Goldstein shares a unique story:
One day I got a phone call. “Hi, Rabbi Goldstein. I’m working with the Innocence Project to halt capital punishment across all prisons. Did you know there’s a Jew on death row in your prison?” I wasn’t aware of any Jews on death row, but as there are over 150,000 inmates in the Texas prison system, I only meet with those who apply for the Jewish program. Apparently, this particular inmate, Fred Davidson*, hadn’t applied.
I immediately looked into him and discovered some interesting facts. He’d had a difficult childhood, which had affected his mental state. His only Jewish contact was an old penpal from New York, who now sold Kabbalistic amulets. He’d asked to be cremated after his sentence was carried out.
I tried explaining to his mother how terrible it was for the soul to be cremated, but she wasn’t religious at all and couldn’t care less. She was annoyed when I persisted, and asked me not to try and convince her son out of it.
I wanted to visit Fred to put tefillin on with him, say viduy together, and talk to him about the afterlife. Death row inmates are not granted the privilege of contact visits, but I got religious dispensation for a twenty minute personal visit.
Three days before his execution date, I took Rabbi Mendy Traxler with me, and we were led into a small room. A few minutes later, two prison guards escorted a heavily chained Fred into the room and sat him across from us.
“Rabbis, thank you for coming. I want to make it clear – I am not interested in Judaism. If that’s what you came here to discuss, we can end this meeting now.”
We only had 20 minutes to change his mind. Failure was simply not an option. I knew he’d grown up in Dallas, where I’d also spent part of my childhood, so I brought up sports, hoping to establish a friendly connection. With the ticking clock in mind, I tried sneaking in some Jewish tidbits, but Fred immediately caught on. He slammed his fist on the table, narrowed his eyes, and yelled, “I told you! No Jewish-talk!”
“I’m sorry; I’m sorry,” I apologized. “No more Jewish-talk.”
We began to discuss how he’d ended up in prison. It was a fascinating, if unnerving, experience to hear a murderer’s perspective on what had led to his killing spree.
The 20 minutes were up, but the guard on the other side of the glass was taking a well-deserved nap, so I eagerly pushed my luck again.
“I know you don’t want to talk Judaism, but I heard you have a Jewish friend who’s into Kabbalah.”
Fred’s eyes lit up. “I love Kabbalah!” he exclaimed.
“Really?” I asked, surprised. “What Kabbalah have you learned?”
“I love the Hebrew alphabet, and the significance of the letters,” he enthused.
“Which letter is your favorite?” I asked.
“Shimu!” he answered, confidently. He held up three fingers. “Shimu!”
“Oh, shin! Why is it your favorite letter?”
“I read that King David had a shin on his shield. King David was a mighty warrior, so I love King David!”
“Do you want to be a warrior like King David, Fred?” I asked him, sensing my opening. His eyes opened wide. I opened my tefillin bag and removed the shel rosh. “See?” I showed him the engraving on the side of the box.
“That’s the shin!” he said, excitedly.
“Exactly! Just like King David! Would you like to put them on?” I offered.
“Okay,” he agreed.
I crossed to his side of the table and began wrapping the tefillin around his manacled arms. He repeated Shema after me, word by word, before breaking down in sobs. It was surreal to see such a large, intimidating man, who’d ruthlessly killed others in cold blood, crying like a child. We continued with the rest of the tefillah, as well as viduy.
I judged the time ripe to open the most important discussion. I broached the topic of cremation and started to explain why a Jewish burial is so important.
“I don’t really care either way, Rabbi,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If you think I shouldn’t get one, I’ll tell my mother to call you to discuss it.”
The guard, now awake, began motioning to us to wrap it up.
“Fred, I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Until that time comes, I bless you chazak ve’ematz - may you be strong, and may G-d be with you,” I told him.
“Before I leave, I have one small request.”
“What is it?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Can I give you a hug?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Only if it will make you feel better.”
“It will,” I assured him.
He agreed, and let me give him a hug. With that, we said farewell, and left.
Three days later, on the day of Fred’s execution, his mother called me. I thought she’d be upset that I’d spoken to Fred about cremation after she specifically asked me not to, but she’d called for a different reason.
“Rabbi,” she began. “My son has been on death row for eight years. He’s been constantly mistreated by everyone. In all those years, the only person to lay a loving hand on him was you. Fred called me and told me about your visit, including the hug you gave him before you left. I can see you truly care about him. I’ll sign over the rights to his body, and you can bury him as you see fit.”
Fred Davidson, after a life of wandering, was buried with full Jewish dignity.
From dollardaily.org
