Humanity Lost
by Gil Hoy
Visitors are few and far between on death row. They’re not allowed. The isolation is a kind of death. You’re alone and no longer a member of anything. After ten years, you forget what other people look like. You forget what your best friend looks like. I haven’t seen my wife or kids for seven years. I’m starting to forget what my own family looks like.
The only people I see these days are corrections officers and, on rare occasions, another prisoner. When my meals are brought to me, I see a set of arms pushing a tray with food through a slot in my door. But I can’t see who the man or woman is. I saw a doctor six or seven months ago when I stopped eating for ten days. He must have been a very poor doctor to be working in a place like this. He put a needle in my arm so I wouldn’t die from starvation. No use in trying to starve yours truly because they won’t let me do it. They’re going to kill me but they won’t let me kill myself. I have control over nothing.
I used to see my lawyer now and again, but my appeal was denied so he doesn’t come around anymore. He screwed up my trial. He was handling hundreds of cases at the time and was unprepared. He didn’t even interview most of the witnesses the State used to kill me.
I had thought it sounded pretty good when the judge told me that a lawyer would be appointed for me if I couldn’t afford one. I couldn’t. But I didn’t know then what I know now, namely that there are lawyers and then there are lawyers. Half of the time, mine didn’t even show up at pre-trial hearings.
It had all seemed like a game back then. I was innocent, so surely I wasn’t going to have a problem. Yes, I pushed the man hard, and he fell to the ground. But he had charged at me first. I had the bruises to prove it. It wasn’t my fault that he hit his head on the cement sidewalk when he fell and that the force of the impact killed him. That was not my intention. But they said I’d planned it, that I’d intended to kill him. That I had a cold heart and deserved to die. That this was justice and fairness.
I used to socialize. I used to have a lot of friends. I used to be a family man and could go wherever I wanted. I liked to sit in the back yard with my wife and son after cooking up some hamburgers and hot dogs. Often, I would sit alone and watch the sun rise.
I dreamed a few months ago that I’d escaped from this place. A guard had accidentally left my door unlocked and I’d used a long rope to get over the prison wall. My wife and son were waiting for me on the other side and off we went in an old, rusted truck, never to return. I wonder if my wife will remarry after I’m gone. Will my son think that his father was a bad man?
My cell is dark and cold and the size of a small bathroom. It has a steel toilet and a concrete slab for a bed. I’ve been locked up in my cell for twenty plus hours a day for fifteen years now. I’ve lost thirty pounds and sometimes I see things that aren’t there. It’s been ten years since I was able to breathe fresh air and see the sun. It’s all part of my punishment, I suppose. As if death isn’t punishment enough.
Sometimes, I used to think about dropping my appeal. That’s how bad things are in here. Death has to be better than this. I heard that another prisoner did just that. He dropped his appeal, and he’s dead now. There were no further self-imposed delays before they killed him.
Shouldn’t I be allowed to say goodbye to my family? Shouldn’t I be able to do what I need to do to come to peace with myself? The last time I saw my wife, she was wearing a blue and white-striped dress. It was summertime, and she had a bit of a tan. She tried to be positive. My appeals had not been exhausted back then, and she told me to have hope as she made her exit. I haven’t seen her since. I miss her. She wrote me a letter saying it was just too painful for her to come to visit me anymore.
The end is coming very soon. I’m done tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. A corrections officer asked me today what I wanted for dinner. That was a first. “Steak, medium well, a baked potato with sour cream and butter, and chocolate ice cream. And a Bible, pen and paper.” I got the food but nothing else. Not the Bible, nor the pen and paper. I chewed the steak very slowly, wanting each bite to last forever. As if that might prolong the inevitable.
How do you get here? You get here by being a poor man who can’t afford a good lawyer. Then you’ll get here even if you’re innocent. It won’t matter that you didn’t do it. You get here when someone testifies that you said you wanted to kill him. That you wanted to see him dead. I didn’t even know the dead man, and I didn’t know his friend who said that I did. But my lawyer said and did nothing; he just sat there like a rock. It was as if he were sleeping throughout the trial. But that doesn’t matter anymore. No one cares. I lost my appeal and there’s nothing more to be done.
When I first got here, I thought I would be free again one day. How naïve I was. I could see myself again on the beach soaking up the sun. I could feel the salt water on my body and the strong waves of the surf. I haven’t had those thoughts for a very long time now.
The prosecutor was good at what he did. He wanted to win. He wanted to beat me. He wanted to kill me. That’s how you get here. That’s why you die in the morning. The prosecutor hadn’t lost a case in twenty years. He was reputed to have said that any man can win a case when the accused is guilty. But it takes a great lawyer to convict and kill an innocent man.
Who is the protector in this place? Living, breathing oxygen is all around outside. The bright, warm sun is all around outside. The earth still invites you. If you could, you’d taste and savor its sweetness. It’s too late now. I’m done with air. I’m done with the sun and the earth. I’m dead, I’m done. How is the night so long when so short?
I’ve heard that your eyeballs come out of your head from the strength of the electric current. And that you start to bleed from every orifice in your body. That your body burns. I wonder if the dead man’s family will be here to watch the show. And whether watching me die will get rid of their hate for me. It’s starting to get light outside. I can’t see it, but I know it is.
Copyright © 2024 by Gil Hoy
