Sunday, May 13, 2001
HUNTSVILLE, Tex. -- For three years I presided over the place where nearly all Texas prisoners spend their final moments behind bars. Most are released to a life outside. But many others come here to die. For some, even that is a release. As the senior warden at "The Walls" (as the Huntsville Unit of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice is known), I oversaw the execution of 89 inmates at the busiest death house in the nation.
I retired this year, which has given me time to reflect on some of the prisoners who died on my watch. Death row inmates were transferred to The Walls and its death house in the early afternoon of their execution day. In most cases, their remaining hours played out right on schedule. But there were times when the condemned would be prepared to die -- and then walk out of the death house alive. That's because more than half of them would arrive on the day of their execution with an appeal pending in the courts. Last minute stays-of-execution, like the 30-day reprieve granted Timothy McVeigh on Friday, were a far more ordinary part of the process than most people seem to realize.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My first meeting with the prisoner was usually about 1:30, shortly after he had been placed in his cell. I would introduce myself, answer questions and try to get a sense of his mood.
I never knew what to expect. Most of them were willing to talk. Some conversations were surprisingly humorous; others were heavy. We nearly always discussed the last meal, phone calls they wanted to make, and last visits with attorneys and spiritual advisers. We talked about what would happen a few hours later just down the hall, and about a last statement and arrangements for his remains. If I had any doubt about an inmate's intent to come from the cell later, I would tell him that I'd be back to get him at 6. I'd explain that the officers could help him from the cell if need be. Nearly all of them said they could walk out on their own. There were times when, even after 6, we'd still be waiting for a court to rule on a stay of execution. Stays never bothered me. If we got the word, it was just a matter of telling the employees they could all go home and thank you for coming. But I could see that the wait was nerve-racking for the inmates, especially the ones who came to the death house banking on it. If they didn't get the stay, they'd have only an hour or two to get themselves ready.
As I walked around the red brick buildings of The Walls, I would often glance up at the huge clock that has overlooked the recreation yard for more than a century. For me, the clock ticked away the minutes until I went home, but I knew full well that the inmate saw something else: a constant reminder of the time he couldn't make up.
Texas began executing condemned inmates at The Walls in 1924. Death row was an old structure even then, having been built around the time of the Civil War. The current death house contains a block of eight cells, the execution chamber with its adjoining IV room, and two galleries, one for the victim's witnesses and one for the inmate's. No one lives in the death house anymore. The condemned live in a new high-security unit about 45 miles away in Livingston.
In most cases, I don't think the inmates I talked to were anything like the people who had committed the crime. By the time I met them, they had become accustomed to a different way of life than they knew outside prison. They had grown older, and not just in years; most communicated intelligently, were often insightful, even witty, and many were prepared to die. Two things surprised me most: How much they could eat a couple of hours before their execution and how calm some of them were. One man, Excell White, had been on death row 24 years and 6 months. He was at peace with the world and ready to go.
Another, Richard Foster, I remember because he was so lively. He was what we called a "volunteer," meaning he had waived his right to further appeals,much like McVeigh. As much as a warden could, I enjoyed my conversation with Foster. He admitted in a moment that he had committed the crime and said he had had time to set things right with God. If you can imagine it, he was cheerful when he was strapped down. The guards said he had been joking all day.
For me, the worst one was Gary Graham. There was a huge crowd outside protesting; it was a very tense day. Graham was extremely angry. He struggled mightily not to come out of his cell and continued struggling until he was fully strapped down. He said almost nothing. I'd ask him a question, and he'd just stare.
Another one was particularly difficult: Last May, I presided over the execution of a man who had worked for me at another prison. He was an officer there, a quiet employee who came to work every day and did his job. He was convicted in the deaths of a family of six. I asked him if he remembered me, and he said yes. He wasn't very talkative, which made things easier. We didn't talk about old times.
I am not an expert on capital punishment. I am experienced in one facet of the issue: ensuring that the condemned are executed in accordance with the laws of Texas. Carrying out executions was only one of my responsibilities. As many as 1,700 inmates at a time lived at The Walls. Add to that 12,000 inmates who came and went in any given month, mostly while being transferred from one prison facility to another. Every one of the 150,000 male inmates housed in more than 100 units located throughout the state will be processed out through The Walls. If they die in prison and nobody claims the body, they will be buried by a detail from The Walls. The state buried 107 inmates at Huntsville last year. I attended most of their funerals.
So being senior warden is a big job. But the aspect that draws the most attention is the business of the death house.
My first one was April 22, 1998. Shortly after 6 p.m. I walked to the cell where Joseph Cannon was waiting and told him it was time. I was not yet senior warden at The Walls, but the warden there was hospitalized and I got the call.I had never even witnessed an execution, and now I was about to oversee one. My boss had explained to me what to do, when to do it, where to stand. Later I would struggle with accepting the promotion to The Walls because of my trepidation at having to do this.
I watched as the tie-down crew secured Cannon in his straps on the gurney. Watched as the IV was inserted after a struggle to find a good vein. Listened as he made his last statement. Then, the IV fell out. The chaplain and I closed the curtains. The witnesses were taken away. Eventually, the IV was reinserted and we started again. I took off my glasses. That was the signal to the hidden executioner to start the flow of the three fluids, one to put him to sleep, one to collapse his lungs and diaphragm, one to stop his heart. I waited three minutes before asking the doctor to make his pronouncement. Then I went home to my family.
From a human standpoint, it was the most emotionally draining experience I had ever had. It would get easier with routine. But it would never get easy.
I realized early on that I could not do my job effectively if I read the inmate's file before I met him. It was virtually impossible to keep my mind on the job at hand if I associated the person on the gurney with the brutal, atrocious crime for which he had been convicted. And I convinced myself that my job was simply to see that the process was carried out smoothly and professionally and with as much dignity as possible. I doubt that I could have supervised more than oneor two executions if I had chosen to be unforgiving, vengeful or zealous about watching someone die.
Because I am the man who had to carry out the somber business of the state more often than anyone else alive, I get asked lots of questions. People wonder how I could do it. I remind them that mine was but the final contribution to a long and complex process. Each member of the jury had a part, along with the attorneys and witnesses and judges. I have never lost a loved one to a brutal murder. I have never spent months or years investigating a case. I've never sat on a jury and had to decide whether to put someone to death. I've never sat in judgment. That must be an enormous burden.
Has an innocent man ever been executed? Probably. The judicial system is designed to promote fairness, but anyone who expects perfection is asking for an impossibility. Any revamping might make the system better, but because human nature is involved, it won't make it perfect.
Does the process provide the victim's family the "closure" so often mentioned? I have no way of knowing. But I do know this: Those who have taken part in or witnessed a legal execution will leave with an understanding of how fragile life is. It seems to me that a new set of victims is created among the family members of the condemned who watch. I wondered most about the mothers who saw their sons being put to death. Some of them would just wail out crying. It's a sound you'll never hear any place else, an awful sound that sticks with you.
At times, the weariness built up. When my family's dachshund was attacked by a bigger dog and needed to be put down, the vet suggested I leave the room. Then I told him what I did at The Walls and he said, "Well then, you can stay if you want." When I got home, my wife remarked on how tired I looked, and I said, "I'm just tired of watching things die." I don't mean to compare an animal's life with a human life. But it was at a time when we had several executions in just a few days, and sometimes the load got heavy.
By far the question people ask me most is how I feel about the death penalty. I can only tell you this: Apparently, our society believes that some people need to be removed permanently and completely. As the warden, and a servant of the taxpayer, I tried to do the best job that I could. As a human being, I see it as a sad affair. But it is as a Christian that I struggle most. Jesus teaches us how we should treat one another, but part of me has absolutely no compassion for someone convicted of murdering a child. I have watched men being put to death for hideous crimes and wondered at that moment if we were doing the right thing.
I walked out of this job much the same as when I began it, full of questions. And with a gnawing in my gut that hasn't gone away -- and isn't likely to any time soon.
Jim Willett, who worked for the Texas prison system for 30 years, is writing "A Warden's Journey" based on a journal of his years as senior warden at The Walls.
