Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, February 7, 1995 TAG: 9502070048
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: A-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DIANE STRUZZI STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
As Edward Honaker emerges from the cocoon of prison life, crowds sometime make him antsy; routine events not found in prison still mesmerize him.
"It's the mundane things I examine now," he said. "Watching children play. I sat out on the deck and watched four squirrels play tag. Ten years ago I would have gotten a shotgun and had squirrel gravy. I don't care if I ever hunt now. I respect life more than I would under normal circumstances."
Prison stole nearly 10 years from Honaker's life. Innocence made him a local celebrity.
"I'm swimming in a sea of wonder," said Honaker, 44, describing the past three months.
He has appeared on ``60 Minutes'' talking about the DNA evidence that helped free him. His story has been featured on "A Current Affair" and in People magazine.
Ten years ago, a jury convicted Honaker of raping a Newport News woman on the Blue Ridge Parkway, then sentenced him to life in prison.
The son of a police officer who grew up in White Sulphur Springs, W.Va., Honaker didn't expect to find himself on the wrong side of the law. When he did, he plodded through the justice system, each step of the way believing that someone would realize the mistake.
No one did.
In court, he remembers his rage when the prosecutor called him the Blue Ridge rapist. In prison, he recalls the isolation of his innocence.
"The prison administration, regardless of whether they believe you or not, have to keep you behind the walls," he said. "So, you just swallow it."
Two years ago, supported by a lawyer noted for his work with DNA evidence - Barry Scheck - and the prisoner-advocacy group Centurion Ministries, Honaker waged a battle for his freedom.
DNA testing showed he was not the rapist, but his release depended on a pardon from Gov. George Allen.
Honaker can tell you precisely when that came: 10:28 a.m., Oct. 21, 1994.
Prison was monotonous, almost suffocating, Honaker says. Freedom is breathtaking. Every moment is pondered, each experience relished.
It has been a gradual process of reacquainting himself with life. The former Roanoker moved to his girlfriend's house in Martinsville. Through the Virginia Employment Commission he landed a job as a welder and maintenance worker at Corrugated Container Corp. in Roanoke.
When he was laid off during the holidays, he took it in stride, focusing instead on rekindling the relationship with his children. He seldom saw his son and two daughters in prison. They kept in touch during recent years through letters.
Getting to know each other again has been difficult. He missed the birth of his 13-month-old grandson. He hasn't celebrated his children's birthdays with them for a decade.
"It's very strange," said Michelle Honaker, who spent her 19th birthday with her father last week. They played several games of pool at Crossroads Mall and went shopping.
"I was confused what to say him," she said. "But it's not real hard. He knows everything I do, because I tell him. Now, I see him once every two to three weeks. I call him and talk to him a lot."
Soon after his release, Honaker discovered he had another daughter in Newport News from a relationship he had more than 20 years ago. His daughter tracked him down from an old pay stub her mother had kept, Honaker said.
"It took me going to prison and getting out for her to find me," he added.
Honaker, who describes himself as a McDonald's and Wendy's kind of guy, now sees a deeper meaning in life.
Prison has made him introspective.
"I'm much more patient and understanding of people's problems," he said. "It used to be I'd go out and drink beer. Now, I don't have a taste for it...[but] I've always cared for other people. I don't think I'm a different person. I've always been a cut-up. Life is much too precious to get killed over a stupid barroom fight. My fighting days are pretty much over."
In his cell, Honaker began to write a series of short stories and a novel he wants to publish. The stories are moral tales - one is a children's book about a child minding his mother. One of his friends who is still an inmate at Nottoway Correctional Center is illustrating the story.
His novel is about an Indian medicine man who resurrects his spirit every 100 years to seek revenge on those who massacred his settlement.
"I was resolved to do something constructive," Honaker said. "I wanted Ed Honaker to make an accomplishment. I'd really hate to think I did 10 years and nothing good came out of it."
Friendships eased his time behind bars. He met fellow inmate Michael Graham. The two became inseparable.
Graham, who was released just before Honaker was granted clemency, said that in contrast to his friend, "I should have gone to prison. I can't imagine what it was like to be in prison and be in Ed's shoes. He used to say it rolled off him that he didn't belong here. That it made his time easier to do."
Honaker keeps in touch with such friends, but he's spending most of his time with his family. And he talks with his Richmond lawyer regularly about a suit against the state.
"We're talking about 10 years of my life flushed down the toilet, wasted, taken away, stolen. How do you compensate someone?" he asked.
His eyes still fill with tears when he remembers Allen telephoning him in the warden's office of Nottoway Correctional Center. His voice cracks recalling the moment.
Allen said, ```You are a free man as of right now and today,''' Honaker said. "And once again Ed Honaker lost all emotion. I managed to get out a thank you. After that, if I live to be 3,000 years old I won't remember what he said to me."
As he left the prison, he turned to look at one of the first things he saw when he entered it almost a decade ago: The high, barbed-wire-topped fence around the prison's perimeter.
From the outside, Honaker says, "that fence doesn't look as tall."
by CNB