Doing Time

by Bell Gale Chevigny

  “I’m telling you, Walker, no such thing has ever crossed my mind. Nothing that’s mentioned here will go beyond these walls. I’m a professional doctor, for Christ’s sake!”

  “When you look at me, all you see is an experiment … some data that might make you famous. But you sit there confident, grinning inside, never realizing that by trying to look into my head, you incriminate yourself, just like all the others who will watch me suffocate, watch me slowly, painfully, pass into nonexistence. My death will render me not guilty, but it illuminates your guilt, your savage necrophilia. I’m every bit as human as those who seek to strip me of my humanity.”

  He sat there looking like a kid who just got busted bang with his hand in the cookie jar. If I had been in doubt, his eyes convinced me that my words had hit their mark.

  He stood abruptly, began to walk toward the door, hesitated, and then left. I lay back on the bunk with my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.

  “What time is it, Ford?” I called out.

  “Ten twenty,” he called back.

  My lawyer, Duncan Brock, would be coming around noon, as he did every day. He was the only person I still cared to talk to. “Ten twenty, “I said to myself. You’re gonna be a statistic, Nat Cole, in less than fifteen hours.

  I lay there for about thirty minutes. I had already resigned myself to the fact that the courts weren’t going to give me any action. All this waiting around was starting to make me edgy.

  The phone rang. Ford answered it.

  “Walker, your attorney is here. They’re on their way to pick you up.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  Two guards escorted me to the small room where they allowed me to visit. When I walked in, Duncan Brock stood up to greet me. We shook hands warmly, then sat at the small table. He looked tired, and I knew he had probably slept only a few hours in the last four days. His otherwise immaculate suit was rumpled, his hair halfheartedly combed, and there were noticeable dark spots beneath his eyes.

  “How are you holding up, Nat?”

  “So-so, but you look like you been mugged.” We both smiled. Duncan was one of the few people left in the world I truly respected. Over the years we’d had our share of differences but always managed to work them out. It made us respect each other as persons, as friends. I felt sorry for him. He had done his best, yet I thought he was always going to feel that there was something more he could have done. Even in these final hours, Duncan was optimistic.

  We talked about how my family was doing, and about the people outside the prison protesting my execution. Then he began to tell me about the legal strategies he was trying.

  “Listen, Nat, I filed a new writ with the Ninth Circuit Court challenging —”

  My thoughts began to drift, and images floated through my mind. “Son, where are you going?” “To basketball practice, Momma —”

  “I talked to one of my law professors and he thinks —”

  “Momma, Nat hit me —”

  “— also the Supreme Court could —”

  “Homeboy! Nat Cole is straight crazy —”

  “— other options that legally —”

  “Mrs. Walker, we’ve arrested your son for —”

  “— the main thing is the constitutionality of —”

  “You are hereby sentenced to be put to death in the —”

  Like a motion picture the scenes came and went, until one thing remained; the words The End.

  We sat there exchanging small talk until a guard showed up at the gate, announcing it was time for me to go back. We stood and embraced each other.

  Then the guard motioned me to him. I walked over, turned around, and he put the cuffs on and opened the gate to escort me back upstairs.

  “Take care, Duncan,” I said.

  “I’m not going to give up, Nat!” he said strongly. I didn’t answer. I knew this was the last time we would see each other,

  Back at my cell, it was a little after four o’clock. The phone had been installed right outside, a direct link to my lawyer for good news … or bad.

  It was almost six o’clock when Ford called to me. At first my mind couldn’t compute the reality of his question. I was stunned by its finality, even though 1 knew they would ask me.

  “Walker, the warden wants to know what you’d like for your last meal.”

  I didn’t say anything. My mind locked on the question. The concept loomed like a giant neon sign, pushing all other thoughts to the side, until it alone remained. Last meal! Hell, how in the fuck was I supposed to enjoy something like that? My stomach did some gymnastics and I knew there was no way I was going to be able to eat anything. The very thought of crapping on myself while choking to death was enough to deter me from eating. When they pulled me out of the chamber, my drawers were going to be clean.

  “Fuck that, man. I don’t want nothin’!” I told Ford.

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t want shit!” I could imagine the warden’s expression. He’ll probably try to send that shrink over here. But I doubt he wanted to see me again. I got off the bunk and began pacing again. I also started singing every song I knew in my mind, but after a while, I would sing the first verse, then nothing … hum a few notes, then nothing. It was like the words were just vanishing from my memory. Verses got mixed up, songs became intertwined. I finally gave up.

  “What time you got, Ford?”

  “Seven thirty-five.”

  “I need to use a pencil and paper.”

  “No problem.” He went in his desk and got out some sheets of paper and a small pencil that had been broken in half, for my supposed safety.

  I rolled my mattress back so I could use the flat steel bunk as a table. I was going to write one last letter, but instead found myself just sitting there, staring at the paper. After about an hour of scribbling on several sheets of paper and tossing them into the toilet, I finally wrote something. I titled it A Seminar in Dying. It was a poem, the kind only a desperate man could write.

  Imagine seeing the flash of a camera, and in that same instant you

  witness the most violent and brutal scene of your life.

  Imagine seeing a contorted face, broken limbs, blood flowing.

  Imagine the terrified screams, the unbearable pain, the pleas for help,

  the tears.

  Imagine death, as you fall to your knees, embracing a dying body …

  your body.

  Imagine that last look, that last word, that last touch … that last

  breath.

  Imagine life the day after, the week after, the year after… the hereafter.

  Imagine seeing that camera flash in your sleep and your waking

  moments

  … over and over, every second, every minute, every hour,

  in your mind.

  Imagine seeing the end … your end, every day, until you die … imagine.

  It was all I had left in me. I folded the paper, got an envelope from Ford, and addressed it to my lawyer,

  “Make sure he gets this after — you know, when things are over.”

  “He’ll get it, don’t worry.”

  Sometime later, the phone in front of my cell rang. I just stared at it, uncertain of what to do.

  “Answer it,” Ford said, enthusiastically. I reached gingerly through the bars and picked it up.

  “Yeah?” I whispered.

  “Nat?” It was Duncan. He sounded exhausted.

  “Yeah?” I whispered again,

  “Nat, the courts turned us down, but —”

  I put the phone down, not hanging it up, just laying it on its side. I could hear Duncan still calling my name, but there was nothing else to say, nothing else to hear.

  “What time you got, Ford?”

  “Eleven-o-five.” Just then, the phone on his desk rang. The sudden change of his expression told me everything.

  “Walker,” he said solemnly, as he hung up the phone.

  “Yeah, I know.” The
y were on their way to get me. This was it — time to face the matador.

  “You want some more orange juice or something, Walker?”

  I just looked at him. I knew he was trying the break the overwhelming sense of dread that had started to condense like storm clouds around us. I looked down at my feet. I didn’t recognize them. They seemed like independent machines separate from my body, and they would of their own volition lead me right to the gas chamber. Looking away, I thought, 7 would bate to have to whack you guys off. I put my shoes on and splashed some cold water on my face. I took a piss, washed my hands, and combed my hair — but as I was combing it, I was struck by the realization that everything I was now doing would be my last time doing it. I suddenly felt completely alone; my heart started to thump somewhere in my throat.

  “Walker, it’s time to go.” The warden and two guards were waiting like stone sentinels. I walked over to the bars, consciously controlling each step. One guard put the cuffs on through the tray-slot. Ford opened the gate and, as I stepped out, I nodded to him slightly. He nodded back. I walked slowly, my breath hard. The sound of it echoed in my head like giant waves. I turned to the warden.

  “Do me a favor, Warden?”

  “What is it?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Well, do you think we could make this long walk short?”

  “How?” He looked even more confused.

  “By running!” I said and burst out laughing.

  They all looked at me like I had just snapped, Ford included. They stood there, uncertain of what to do next.

  “Aw, c’mon guys, it’s a joke,” I said. “I’m just trying to ease the gloom. Hell, the way you dudes look, a person would think you’re the ones about to get x’ed out.”

  “Walker, how can you joke at a time like this?”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Warden. So when do you think would be a good time for me to joke?”

  Then, looking him straight in the eye, I asked him seriously, “Warden? When was the last time you been to a circus?” But I didn’t give him time to answer, “Let’s go,” I said. “There’s one waiting for us.”

  We walked out into a long, narrow hallway.

  The warden stuck a key into a slot where the buttons should have been and turned it. It took a few seconds for the door to open and I could hear the elevator lumbering toward the top. The door opened suddenly with a whoosh, and we all stepped in. The guards positioned themselves behind me, while the warden remained at my side. It had all been rehearsed, their roles, the parts they would play. I imagined them practicing it. I wondered who they got to play me.

  The elevator stopped and the door whooshed open. “We stepped into a smaller hallway, made a right, and walked toward a large green steel door. I thought I could hear a murmur of voices on the other side and I imagined rows of people drinking soda, eating popcorn, and chanting, “Kill him, kill him, kill him!”

  The warden pressed a button this time, and a few seconds later the door popped open. As we walked in, my entire body grew hot and the palms of my hands started to sweat. The first thing I saw was the gas chamber.

  Everything became dreamlike and every second was an eternity. My mind went numb, my throat bone dry. This was my first real look at the chamber — I stood there, my eyes transfixed on the cylindrical shape and the chair sitting directly in the middle. The feeling of deja vu hit me again, this time much stronger. Now don’t get the wrong impression — I didn’t all of a sudden get religion. But when dying is the central theme of your life, your perspective on things can change. I don’t think it’s an issue of whether or not we’re afraid of dying — it’s more like being afraid of not having existed, you know what I mean? I guess that’s why people tend to believe in things like reincarnation, heaven, and transmigration, because those things offer a sense of continuity or immortality. Hey, life after death sure beats ashes to ashes.

  “Let’s go, Walker,” the warden said, taking hold of my arm. We walked to the door of the chamber. One of the guards pulled open the door and, as I stepped in, the air was stale and oppressive. I swear I could sense the men who had gone before me — that somehow I could feel them still in that room. If my mind was playing a trick on me, it was a damn good one.

  I sat down hypnotically. The chair was hard and cold. The two guards began immediately to strap me in, wrists first, then my waist and legs. My eyes were wide, alert, as if trying to suck in the last images of life. They darted around the chamber seeking anything … everything. The cubicle was spotless, almost as if all trace of reality itself had been vacuumed out. It was the only place I had ever been inside prison where there was absolutely no graffiti … no “Kilroy was here,” no “Jesus loves you,” no gang writing, not so much as a scratch. I guess anyone coming in here ain’t in a position to do nothing but die — and the only thing that will ever deface these walls will be the souls of dead men. The warden double-checked the straps after the guards had finished. Then in a well-practiced monotone, he asked, “Do you have any last words, Walker?”

  Ignoring his question, I swallowed the large lump that had formed in my throat and stared straight ahead at the dark glass window in front of me. I knew there would be people sitting on the other side, waiting to watch my death. Well, enjoy the show, folks, I said to myself. The warden asked me again if I had any last words. I said nothing, still staring at the window. He then proceeded to tell me in the same flat voice how the sentence of death was being carried out by order of the court. When he had finished, he and the two guards left without looking back. I heard the latch locking the door, and except for my breathing, there was absolute silence. I pulled against the strap — nothing. I knew it was useless at this point, but still…

  I could feel my muscles tightening, as my pulse vibrated throughout my entire body. An eternity seemed to pass as I sat there, waiting for something to happen. I kept thinking that they were going to come through the door at any second. My eyes were frantically searching the window for any movement. Finally, I closed them and let my head fall back. I felt some sweat or a tear rolling off my cheek. I opened my eyes just in time to catch it falling from my face, and as I watched it fall in slow motion, I suddenly tasted something bitter and acidic in my mouth, and my lungs seemed to ignite into flames. Without even thinking about it, I quickly held my breath and, at that very moment, I knew that once I let it go, it would all be over.

  With each second, the pain in my chest grew more unbearable — inside I was on fire. I began spinning and tumbling, my head falling backward and forward. I could feel the explosion in my chest heaving upward, as the pain began to burst into a billion pieces of light … and then I was falling, falling toward the sky, higher and higher, until I could no longer see beneath the clouds, until darkness began to engulf me. It was almost over. “C’mon, Nat, warp speed, man.” Yeah, I thought, I do have something to say … then I felt the rush of warm wind, and I breathed out.

  1995,California State Prison-San Quentin

  San Quentin, California

  “Write a poem that makes no

  sense

  Judith Clark

  Marlenę squatted on the hospital rooftop

  agitated, wary

  her frayed bonds with life

  ready to snap, while

  below, a rush of blue and gray uniforms

  pleading voices, as her

  sister convicts

  piled mattresses on the ground

  that saved her

  when she leapt

  over the precipice

  Today, guards tramp on that roof

  and under it,

  workmen erect walls within walls

  seal openings

  to air and light

  tear apart the old balcony to

  build a steel mesh and iron cage

  Death row

  they are building

  death row

  here,

  at Bedford Hills

  on the third floor of the hospital

  n
ext to the nursery

  a shadow

  over the wide-eyed infants,

  robust toddlers,

  + An exercise given by Hettie Jones at the Bedford Hills Writing Workshop.

  a curse upon their mothers,

  all of us

  Marlenę rests quietly

  her wounds heal

  but the mad fury that drove her

  is loose

  sweeping over the prison

  through this land

  waiting to taste first blood

  no mattresses next time

  no mercy

  1995, Bedford Hills Correctional Facility

  Bedford Hills, New York

  Notes

  Introduction

  p.vii I write because I can’t fy. See Chevigny, “All I Have, A Lament and a Boast’: Why Prisoners Write,” Prose and Con: Essays on Prison Literature in the United States, ed. D. Quentin Miller (Jeferson, N.C.: McFarland, 2005).

  p.x “Like slave … Auburn Prison.” With Liberty for Some: 500 Years of Imprisonment in America (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1998). pp. 265-69.

  p.x “In July … hunger strike.” Tom Wicker, A Time to Die (New York: Quadrangle, 1975), pp. 6-8.

  p.xi “Penologists Andrew … United States.” Andrew von Hirsch, Doing Justice (New York, Hill and Wang, 1976) Robert Martinson, “What Works? Questions and Answers about Prison Reform,” Public Interest 35: 22-54.

  p.xii “As former … ever seen.” Prison Life (January-February 1996): 38.

  p.xii “A predatory … more overtime.” Victor Hassine, Life without Parole: Living in Prison Today (Los Angeles: Roxbury Publishing Company, 1996), 31, 37, 65.

  p.xiii “Tere’s little violence … than men do.” All too familiar: Sexual Abuse of Women in U.S. State Prisons, Human Rights Watch, Women’s Rights Project (New York: Human Rights Watch, 1996).

  p.xiii “Tis nation … in London.” Adam Liptak “U.S. Prison Population Dwarfs that of Other Nations.” New York Times, April 23, 2008.