Westervelt wallows in prison, maintaining his innocence as he re-works his case

DANNAMORA — Erick Westervelt is haunted by a cigarette butt.

He has circled it in a picture of a crime scene and says police never tested it for DNA.

The crime scene was in Delmar in 2004, at the home of Timothy Gray. Gray was brutally bludgeoned there and left to die.

Westervelt had fought with Gray over a woman they both loved. He signed a confession and was convicted of murder. At 25, Westervelt is inside the 60-foot concrete walls of the Clinton Correctional Facility, serving a 25-to-life sentence — and maintaining his innocence.

Westervelt has four large binders, each nearly four inches thick, neatly printed and bound. He’s filled them with every aspect of the trial that convicted him of murder.
One of binders is titled, "Police Investigation," with words in parenthesis underneath that say, "or lack thereof."

Everything from autopsy photographs to supporting depositions and statements is inside of the binders.
The life-long Guilderland resident describes himself as an "innocent man wronged by an unjust justice system."

Gray’s killer or killers are still out there, Westervelt says, and he is trying to get the truth out, and, when it comes out, he will be exonerated.
As for serving a sentence for a crime that he adamantly denies doing, Westervelt said that he is innocent and "cannot put into words" how he feels about first losing the woman that he loved and then being convicted of murdering her boyfriend.
"It’s tough"It’s like being on top of a mountain and then completely falling down to the ground," Westervelt told The Enterprise in an exclusive prison interview. "Except that it was a gradual descent."

An appeal of Westervelt’s conviction will be heard this summer, according to his attorney. (See related story.) Westervelt appeared confident, yet frustrated at times, during his nearly five-hour interview.
"I don’t know who killed Tim Gray," Westervelt told The Enterprise. "I was at home, sitting there watching the game with my father — Yankees-Twins, game one, division series. I recalled very specific events from that game"I told the cops the same thing, they don’t believe me, they believe what they want to believe."
Westervelt grew up in suburban Guilderland, raised by state-office workers. During his trial, he was described by his peers and high-school coaches as a passive young man; they said it would be "out of character" for him to commit such a terrible and violent crime.

Westervelt played football and baseball for Guilderland High School, graduating in 2000.
"I never really lived anywhere else, that’s all I really knew," Westervelt said of Guilderland.

His family — a brother and his parents — live on Salvia Lane, in a middle-class neighborhood. (See related story.)
"When we moved in that house, there were only six houses on the street"If I get back home, it’s going to be like ‘Wow, what happened here,’"I probably won’t even recognize some of it."

Three friends who knew him since kindergarten testified to his good character at the murder trial.

Westervelt said he lost all connection with his hometown following his conviction and that his only visitors are his parents and brother, and sometimes his aunts. He has only received one letter from former friends since being sentenced, Westervelt said.

A former friend and schoolmate at Guilderland told The Enterprise that he "felt bad" about not writing to Westervelt, but that he "felt weird" about his conviction.

Clinton Correctional
When talking about taking the long drive from Albany to the prison, which is near the Canadian border, Westervelt said, "I don’t know. I’ve only made the trip once."
The Clinton Correctional Facility is one of New York’s oldest maximum-security prisons. Located in Dannamora in Clinton County, the prison is 10 miles north of Plattsburgh and nicknamed New York’s "little Siberia," because of its isolation and long, cold winters.

The sleepy Adirondack village of Dannamora surrounds the prison as its walls rise above the streets of the village’s business district. The large concrete wall along the main road was built in 1887.

Outside the walls, life goes on as normal. People live, work, and shop in the small village. A Ford dealership, an auto-parts store, a liquor store, and a pizza shop are directly across the street from the prison.

On the inside, separate checkpoints and security stops punctuate a walk through thick metal doors and gated hallways with windows of dense shatterproof glass. Various construction and excavation projects were underway last month in the outer courtyard because of spring’s arrival.

The annexes where prisoners are held have thick wooden desks raised several feet in the air at each entrance to serve as a checkpoint. A faint sterile odor is barely detectable among the 1970s-style infrastructure of tile, fluorescent lights, and iron drop-gates.

Once inside this area, guards no longer carry firearms. The correctional officers walk up and down the halls, carrying three-foot long wooden clubs.

Many of the buildings inside the walls and razor wire have a Victorian facade. Large glass-encased towers manned by armed guards are mounted on every corner of the prison.
Westervelt, carrying his binders, was escorted by a correctional officer inside a large conference room known as the "parole room" for the interview.

The hallway outside the room served as the corridor between the inmates’ cells and the building’s entrance. The hallway is clearly visible from two large wire-reinforced windows in the room as guards and inmates routinely pass by.

Like clockwork, guards come in or leave every hour during shift changes. Inmates escorted in and out by guards are announced by the sounds of rattling shackles and dragging manacles heard throughout the interview.

Most of the inmates brought into the hallway were quiet and subdued. Others being led out were more vocal, acting rambunctious at times as they let out hoots and howls like a group of high-school students let out after the bell.

Serving time
Because of his college background and experience with computers, Westervelt works in the print shop, a position that helped land him in the "Honor Block" of the prison.

Westervelt was a senior at the University at Albany before his conviction and had considered pursuing a career in law enforcement.
"It’s surreal, in a really bad way"I don’t want to be here. It sucks, it’s terrible," Westervelt said. "The one good thing about this place is that it’s a lot better than the county jails."
He was transported to a downstate prison for "processing" for a short period of time after his conviction, said Westervelt, before being sent to the Clinton Correctional Facility.

Westervelt said that, while he was in county lockup, after his arrest and during his trial, he was allowed very little time outside his cell and he continually went over the materials of his case in hopes of being found innocent.
"It actually occupies a lot of your time, working and all of that stuff," he said of his current situation. "It’s good because it gets me away from thinking about all this stuff and going over it"A lot of times, especially in the county jail, that’s all I did is go over this stuff.
"It’s so much more depressing and frustrating that you’re not getting the answers and nothing’s going your way," he continued. "But here, from time to time, you think about it, but a lot of times you’re so busy doing something, whether its just stuff you need to take care of before you go outside, or the little personal projects you choose to do"it keeps you busy.
However, Westervelt said, not a day goes by that he does not think about his case or his former life. Westervelt said that he feels sorry for the Grays and their loss, but that they will always blame him for their son’s death because "it’s the comfortable lie."

Christopher Porco is also serving his sentence in the Clinton Correctional Facility. He was convicted in a high-profile case of an ax murder in Delmar that took place five weeks after the Delmar hatchet murder of Gray. Porco, convicted of murdering his father and attempting to murder his mother, is isolated from the prison’s general population, Westervelt said, and he has not seen him.
"Some days are worse than others. It depends on what happens. Sometimes I’ll see something on TV"or something else I’ll see will trigger memories," said Westervelt.

Living in a single cell on the Honor Block, Westervelt says that, although his cell is roughly the same size as the one he had earlier in the C block, his personal locker is larger.
"It’s just more freedoms on the Honor Block"you get in for good behavior and working in a program," Westervelt said. "It’s all about how you approach daily life and how you do things."

Some people, he said, are in their cells 23 hours a day and rarely get to go outside.
"You get to go to the commissary every two weeks"You can have Walkmans and stuff, and tapes, and you’ve got people with TVs," Westervelt told The Enterprise. "We get to go to the gym three times a week; I like to play basketball; and I get to go outside every day."
Westervelt also said that people in his block are given a 20-by-20-foot "plot" outside where they can have a picnic table and a small garden if they wish.
"You’re not supposed to, but people do smoke inside"I usually only do outside," said Westervelt. "I’d like to quit eventually, plus inside there’s no air circulation so anybody who smokes inside, it’s just going to linger."
Dismissing many people’s perception of prison rapes, Westervelt said that he "doesn’t see very much of that."
"You hear all those stories about certain things; as far as I can see, a lot of that stuff doesn’t happen. I think that people would be surprised. The media portrays it as different; maybe it happens in other places," Westervelt said. "I mean you see occasional fights here and there, you know, and I’m sure that drugs get circulated around. People get caught with weapons from time to time. But, as far as I’ve seen, you know, there’s not been much of that."

Westervelt, maintaining his innocence, said that one of the hardest parts of his conviction is that people will never treat him the same, even if he were to be exonerated.
"This is going to live with me forever, especially with the Internet and everything"All someone has to do is Google my name"and something’s probably going to come up about the whole situation," Westervelt told The Enterprise. "Even if people believe me and everything, people are still going to think, ‘Why did this guy do this" Is he a murderer" Is he going to hurt me"’ It’s amazing how people paint me"because I didn’t do this."