Death Row

Eyes of an Innocent Man

He didn't have the eyes of a man ordering his last meal.

When men (I say men because there were more men there than women) would order their last meal, they would fall into three groups: those who ordered a burger, those who ordered something exotic they could normally not afford, and those who order something that resembled their native countries cuisine.

He just asked for a grilled cheese and an ice tea. When they asked what kind of bread, cheese, and tea he said, 'Surprise me.'

I've seen many men on the day of their execution. Some stare at the wall. Some complain about the food. Some plead that they are innocent, and they probably are. That's the thing about humans, they make mistakes and sometimes those mistakes end in the death of innocent men. Mais c'est la vie.

I walked past cell three, Jerald saw me walk by and screamed 'I'M INNOCENT!'

'I know.'

I walked up to cell two.

Christopher Johnson. The next bull's eye of an unjust, morally corrupt society, a society that stands for freedom and justice. Who knew justice looked like a needle?

But who am I to criticize one of the most powerful nations in the world? Talk like that would earn me the needle, maybe even a firing squad if I asked nicely.

Marcus, the guard, had just finished delivering Christopher Johnson's final meal.

"Thank you Marcus."

"No problem Christopher Johnson. I hope it's satisfactory."

"I'm sure it will be. How was your daughter's surgery?"

"It was a success. The doctor's said that she will have a full recovery."

"Good."

I cleared my throat. "Excuse me, I'm here to see the prisoner." Marcus looked at me and said, "Hello preacher. I was just leaving. I'll see you later Christopher Johnson."

"Later Marcus."

I grabbed one of the cheap plastic chairs that lined the walls and pulled it up to the fishbowl of a cell. The wall of the prison cell that faced the hallway was made of plexiglass, that way the prisoners weren't moved to different rooms to visit loved ones and or lawyers. And me. The preacher. I sat down; the legs of the chair bent a degree more than when I had sat there the week before. I placed my dirt brown brief case on my lap, took out my note pad and Bible, and then sat the withered brief case on the milk white, tiled floor. I looked at the quick notes I had taken during my meeting on the condemned men of the week.

Christopher Johnson: Construction worker, murdered three coworkers and stole nitroglycerin. Was caught attempting to flee the home of his friend Jerry Sutherland. He was in Jerry Sutherland's car when the authorities arrived and was found with the murder weapon in the back seat along with the nitroglycerin.

When I first began this job, I tried to prevent my brain from sketching the scenes of the crime, the faces of the victims, and the evil in the convicted. But after thirty years, my imagination took over. Looking over my notes, I imagined the victims, faces smashed in, blood pooling in their gaping mouths, the fear eternally caged in the golf ball sized blobs called eyes. I sighed. You had to be a preacher. Couldn't have chosen accounting like a normal white American male.

Funny how, as children, we set out to have extravagant jobs. We base our futures on TV shows like CSI and How to Get Away With Murder. We believe that we are fit to be cops with guns or Manhattan lawyers with penthouses. We forget the small jobs like McDonald's manager, Macy's sales clerk, and college janitor. And death row minister. How I went from my comfortable home in southern Virginia to death row minister in Arizona is beyond me. But again, c'est la vie.

I took a breath, time to face the first customer of the day. I looked up.

"Christopher Johnson." I said the name crisply, like how I imagined the prosecuting lawyer would have said it at the trial.

"That's me" he responded. Not in a sassy way, just a simple statement.

"Do you want to tell me why you're here?" This part always put me to sleep. They really thought that I believed them, as if I lived in a box and hadn't seen the news. They thought I was going to believe them, like I was an ignorant child, ready to believe anything.

"There's nothing to tell. I have to die, there is nothing more to it really." I blinked. That was a surprise. Most men (again I say men because there were more men than women) would, again, fall into three categorize: They would plead their innocence until they were blue in the face, as if the white strip on my black collar would give me the power to overrule a judge and grand jury. The next group would, again, stare at the wall. Unable to process how they went from their first day in second grade to death row. They would stare at the wall as if they were re-watching their lives. The third group would just relive their crimes. They would describe how they kidnapped and murdered children.

"Okay, then do you have any confessions you would like to make?"

"No I think I'm all set, thanks though." He took a bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich, chewed slowly, swallowed, and then took a sip of his ice tea. "Man, that's some good stuff."

"Hm, right, not exactly a gourmet meal." How could this man be so calm? He killed three people and was suspected of trying to build a bomb with the nitroglycerin he stole. "You sure there's nothing you want to talk about?" He paused for a second, blinked.

"Not that I can think of. I would like to enjoy my grilled cheese and ice tea."

"Right, of course, please don't let me bother you. I know you're crunched for time. Not like I have other things to do." I watched to see if he reacted. Nothing. Hmpf.

"Is there something more important you have to attend too?" Again, not a snarky answer, just a simple question.

"Well... not really. You're death appointment is in an hour. That's not enough time for me to listen to another death row resident try and convince me of his innocence."

"Then I guess we can just chill for now." Ridiculous. I could've slept in.

I took my Bible and placed it in my brief case along with the note pad and took out my iPhone. I opened it up and began an intense game of Angry Birds. I occasionally looked up and Christopher Johnson, but he just ignored me and continued chewing away at the grilled cheese.

Then a door down the hall to my right opened and three guards and Herbert, the other prison minister, walked down past me to cell one. A quick side note, Herbert and I didn't exactly get along. While I, in my humble opinion, have a relatively likable personality, Herbert's personality could be compared to a donkey's butt hole. He is a short man, hairy everywhere but the top of his head. And he smells like a donkey's butt too. But he knew how to be promoted.

The trio stood in front of cell one and began the tedious procedure of preparing the lucky man for the death. I went back to my riveting game of Angry Birds.

"Will they move me to cell one once it's empty?" I looked up at Christopher Johnson, trying to see if there was genuine concern for his emanate death, but, as always, it was a simple question with no emotion.

"Nah, that would require more paper work which, contrary to popular belief, does nothing of value. Except waste more time."

"You're very concerned with time aren't you?"

"When my Angry Bird time and sleep are disturbed, yes I am concerned."

"Why? You'll get a raise if you tried a bit harder at your job. Isn't that a good use of your time?"