dear Row - the final minutes

Prologue - A Single Tear

I can't remember his name, his crime or what Texas County he fell from, but the contours of his face are etched on my mind, as if he was executed yesterday. He was a black man, well into middle age, with a long, proud chin. But what I remember most is the nothingness. No family members, no friends, no comfort. Maybe he didn't want them to come, maybe they didn't care, maybe he didn't have any in the first place. There was nobody bearing witness for his victim, either. At least that's how I remember it. Maybe they were afraid, maybe they couldn't afford to make the trip, maybe he committed his crime so long ago that the authorities couldn't find anybody. Whatever the reason, it was just a prison official and two reporters, including me, looking through the glass at this man strapped fast to the gurney, needles in both arms, staring hard at the ceiling.

The man didn't look to the side. Why would he? There was nobody in the witness room he knew. But he would have been aware of the warden hovering by his head, and the chaplain, whose hand was rested just below his knee. When the warden stepped forward and asked if he wanted to make a last statement, the man barely shook his head, said nothing, and stared blinking. That's when I saw it: a single tear at the corner of his right eye. A tear he desperately wanted to blink away, a tear he didn't want us to see. It pooled there for a moment, before running down his cheek. That tear affected me in ways no words could. The warden gave his signal, the chemicals started flowing, the man caughed, sputtered and exhaled. A doctor entered the room, pronounced the man dead and pulled a sheet over his head.

Because I can still his face, I could probably go through my files and figure out who he was. But I don't want to remember his name, the crime he committed or where it happened. None of that matters. I remember his execution, and that's enough. As long as I live, I will never see anybody so lonely and forgotten.

While I was watching men and women die in the Texas death chamber - first as a reporter, then as part of the prison system - I didn't allow myself to travel down this road of introspection. When I look at my old execution notes, I can see that things bother me. But because I was young and bold, everything was black and white and certain. Any misgivings I had, I shoved into a suitcase in my mind, which I kicked into a corner. If I had started exploring how the executions made me feel while I was seeing them, or gave too much thought to all the emotions that were in play, how would I have been able to go back into that room, month after month, year after year? What if I'd sobbed? What if someone had noticed the dread on my face? I just couldn't let go of that place. It was the numbness that preserved me and kept me going. But by the end, that suitcase was so full, I was squeezing misgivings in there and having to sit on it in a hurry.

It was only when I left prison system, having witnessed at least 280 executions in 11 years, that I started thinking in detail about the things I'd seen. I'd suddenly see the big, brown plastic container of fruit punch, put out for the condemned man in the holding cell; or I'd open a bag of chips and smell the death chamber; or something on the radio would remind me of a conversation I'd had with an inmate, hours before he died. I'd picture the man on the gurney with the single tear, or the mother of a child-killer Ricky McGinn. Despite being old and frail and confined to a wheelchair, Mrs McGinn turned up to her son's execution in her Sunday best, a floral dress and pearls. When the time comes for McGann to make his final statement, she struggled out of her chair and pressed her wrinkled hands against the glass, because she wanted to make absolutely sure he could see her before he slipped into the abyss.

When I was a little girl, I would lie in bed at night and cry, thinking about all the people I loved who where going to die. I can still picture the light green walls of my bedroom and hear the TV downstairs. I'd turn on my radio and hope the music might drown out my thoughts of death. I'd look through the open doorway, onto the light in the hallway, tears streaming down my cheeks. But I never thought to go downstairs and tell my mom and dad my fears, it was always my secret to deal with. What made me feel better was the thought that when we died, we'd all end up in heaven together. Why be afraid of loved ones dying if death wasn't really a loss? We'd all meet again, it was just a matter of when.

As I grew older, my fear of death developed into a fear of being forgotten. I blame my first love in high school. We broke up when i moved with my family from Texas to Illinois, and within weeks he was seeing someone else. I was devestated. Apparently, I wasn't as. Important as I thought I was. I couldn't understand how somebody could live me so much but forget me so quickly. It sounds dumb,but it messed me up for years. Every time a relationship ended I thought: 'did I pack a punch? Will they remember me?' that's why when I die, I want to be cremated and tossed somewhere pretty. There's nothing sadder than a little stone somewhere that nobody ever visits. Lonely and forgotten, like the man who's name and crime I can't remember.