Doing Time (47 page)

I remember, as if it were now, the picture
of a burned statue of the Virgin Mary
and the image of a small child kneeling
in prayer before it, weeping for a murdered mother
whose name, also, was Mary.

I recall those I, too, have slain:
those by my wrath seized, stolen from life,
becoming but candles lit by children
who became adults before childhood lived.

I recall their dying, their sparks fading,
gone like that: out. Returned to the void.
Nothing.

“These are the executed ones,” he said.
I recall standing there alone, filled
by the putrid odor of stinking jungles,
sunscorched deserts, savage streets,
knowing the drowning sensation of my own
awakening, pulling me down into the swirling
cauldron of enlightenment.

I recall how a warm wind brushed my face
and then was gone. I remember touching
a grim stone, experiencing how that dust
had lived: born of anguish to laugh,
make love, and perhaps do it again tomorrow
until at last death came,
speaking of one other place to be
consumed by life: that stopping place
where I, too, found these things.

“These are the executed ones,” he stated, eyes
small sparks, and then was gone, dissolving
into the umbra arts of night,
leaving but those sparks which smolder in my soul,
like candles surrounding the powerless and
charred Virgin's image in a chapel.
“These are the executed ones,” he announced,
studying a horizon of tombstones. “Pray for them …
and for those to come.”

1990, California State Prison-San Quentin
San Quentin, California

I could see myself in the dark mahogany coffin. How I had gotten there and why was something I couldn't remember. I could hear the hum of an organ playing softly in the background, as mourners began filling the pews of the small church. Most of the faces I didn't recognize, but there were a few mugs I was happy to see, homeboys from the old neighborhood — Big J.T., Lowdown, Spoony, and Spoony's little brother, Klepto, who, at the ripe old age of ten, was already a professional thief. I thought it was strange that they were wearing white dinner jackets and carrying serving plates. Then again, these were guys who'd wake up in the morning and smoke weed for breakfast. They probably thought there were going to be some eats after the funeral. I didn't blame them; these things can be pretty boring. I saw my family seated in the front row. My lawyer, with his secretary, Dora, was sitting behind them. My mother, who never dreamed she would outlive any of her children, looked on, stricken. I felt a pang of guilt.

The sound of the organ began to fade and the faint hush of whispers among the mourners slowly subsided.

Whack!
“Now put that back!” I heard Spoony say, as he popped Klepto upside the head. Then they all began to stare hypnotically at the dark-robed figure standing ominously behind the wooden podium. His face was obscured by a large hood, and his hands were gloved. Man, this guy is straight outta the comic books, I thought.

When he spoke, his voice seemed to resonate off the walls of the church, sending icy chills through my skin like an arctic breeze.

“Let us all rejoice in the holy offering!” he bellowed.

Offering? What offering?
I thought.

“Let us give thanks to the blessed one,” he commanded, as everyone in the church began nodding their heads in unison and shouting, “Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!”

Whooooaaaa! Back up, mister! What fucking offering? This is my goddamn funeral, not a
—

“We shall partake of the sacrifice!” he thundered on, followed by another joyous chorus of ‘‘That's right, Lord. Thank you, Lord!”

Hey! What the hell is going on here?
I tried to scream, but couldn't make a sound. He then beckoned to everyone to gather around the casket, and I could feel them pressing and pushing up against the sides, peering in at my lifeless body, lovingly … almost hungrily. Panic set in, and I tried to get up and run, but I couldn't move.
Aw, c'mon
—
let me outta here,
I pleaded. I
ain't no offering.

I felt hands caressing and poking my body. Then I saw my little sister and Klepto licking their lips and my lawyer's secretary wiping off her silverware. The dark figure walked to the head of the casket and pulled back his hood. His face was hideous: there was no skin, just bone and pieces of rotting flesh. His mouth was twisted and mangled as he grinned, displaying rows of sharklike teeth, and his eyes were only gaping holes filled with maggots. I frantically looked around and saw everyone changing into grotesque and disfigured creatures. My mother was barely recognizable as she grabbed me by the throat with a clawed hand and began to lift me straight from the coffin. Filled with the horror of what was about to happen, I tried to close my mind to the gruesome scene. … I couldn't.

“Now! Let us all feast!” the robed thing said, as he snapped off one of my arms like a chicken wing.

Noooooo!
I screamed in my mind, just as the thing that used to be my little sister dislodged one of my eyeballs from its socket with her easybake oven fork and greedily gobbled it down.

My eyes flew open and I quickly sat up in the bunk to survey the small cell. Everything was still. “Damn!” I whispered to myself. “You gotta get a grip, man.” Dreaming is one thing, but this shit is ridiculous. Some would claim this was guilt eating away at my conscience … fuck them! I bet that prison shrink would have a field day analyzing my dream.
Fuck hint, too.

I looked out the small window directly in front of my cell. It was dark outside, making things seem almost peaceful. But that was an illusion. There was nothing peaceful about prison, nothing serene about death row, and at that very moment certain preparations were being carried out that placed me at the center of it all.

My name is Nathan Cole Walker; Nat Cole for short, a nickname my grandmother gave me on account of her fondness for the singer Nat King Cole. Personally, I can't hit a note and rap music is my thing. I must admit, I did have a smooth style that infatuated the young ladies. But that was eons ago and a helluva lot has changed since those days.

In less than twenty-four hours it will be my twenty-fifth birthday, but there will be no celebrating, no party, no happy nothin'. Because I'm not gonna live to see it.

Six years ago, I was sentenced to death. The whys don't matter now, and the particulars aren't important. Today I have run out of time, destiny has come kicking at my door, and 1 am scheduled to be executed promptly at eleven thirty Wednesday night. It is now Wednesday morning … my last day on Earth.

I tried to shake the dream from my head, before beginning my routine of pacing the six-by-ten cell. It's a mode of controlling the rage of the half-man, half-animals we've become. A silent way of expressing our malediction at being caged. It is never escape — respite, maybe — but never escape.

“Anything wrong, Walker?” the guard who was posted outside my cell asked. He had been watching me from the moment I woke up, jotting down his observations on paper.

“Naw, nothin' I can't deal with,” I shot back in disgust.

“What time is it?” I asked the guard. He glanced up from the
Playboy
he had stashed between the pages of a
National Geographic,
rubbed his eyes, and looked at his watch.

“It's almost six thirty.” He yawned. “Just about time for me to be gettin' outta here,” he added, with apparent relief. Six thirty was the shift change; another guard would be taking his place for second watch in a few minutes. I resumed my pacing.

Anyone put on death watch is provided with around-the-clock security and scrutiny, compliments of the Department of Corrections, just in case you decide to skip the scenic route to the gas chamber, in an attempt to cheat the state out of its judicial duty to personally kill you. The guard who would be coming on for second watch was named Ford. I had known Ford over the years; he was okay, as guards go. Sometimes we'd get in a game or two of chess, or shoot the breeze to break the monotony. When you're waiting to die, the boredom alone could kill you.

I could hear Ford locking the door.

“How's it going, Ford?” I said, still looking up at the ceiling.

“Not too bad, Walker. And you?”

“Same old tune.” There was silence for a moment.

“You wanna get in a game of chess later?” he asked, trying to sound cheerful. We both knew we'd played our last game.

“I don't know — maybe.”

“Well, if you do, just holler.” He turned to his paperwork and I shut my eyes in a futile attempt to shield out reality. My mind was like a movie screen.

“Nigger, you got somethin' to say before I end you black ass life?” I didn't say a word as I watched the cop pull his pants leg and reach for the gun that was strapped to his ankle. I let the Glock slide easily down my sleeve and into my hand. By the time the cop realized a gun was pointing at him, it was too late. The first bullet tore through the front of his neck and the second one entered his right eye. He died before hitting the ground. The scene repeated itself over and over. After all these years, that one event still seemed like it happened yesterday.

The ringing of the phone brought me back. “I'll ask him, hold on. Walker, it's Chaplain Graves,” Ford said, with an ear-to-ear grin. “You wanna see him?”

“Fuck him!” I said. I sat up on the bunk and grabbed a book from the pile on the floor. It was Ralph Ellison's
Invisible Man.
I could relate to the main character, because all my life I've been invisible to folks. The only time they seemed to take notice was when I got into trouble. No one really knew me, not even my family — hell, I didn't even know myself. Everything I did brought me close to death, toward this very moment. I once read somewhere that desperate men are always running out of time. Well, right now, I must be truly desperate.

I must have read for almost an hour before putting the book down. I was just about to close my eyes when Ford asked, “Say, Walker? If you want, I can call the Muslim chaplain or something. I mean, in case you wanted to speak to someone.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Well, I just thought you might want to talk to somebody who can understand — well, who can relate to — you know what I mean ?”

“I know what you mean, Ford.”

“Say, Walker? Are you afraid of dying? I mean, I can't even imagine how I would feel in your place.”

I thought about it for a moment, but I already knew my answer.

“Naw, I ain't afraid of dying. Dying is something I've been doing all my life. But when you know when and how it's gonna happen, all it takes is that one step over the edge inside your head — then bam! That's why most men are able to walk to their execution. They're already dead inside their heads.”

“That's a helluva way of looking at it, Walker.”

“I don't need to get nothing off my chest. And if there is a God out there, then he's gonna have a lot of fucking explaining to do when I reach the hereafter.”

We both laughed; then there was a long pause. Empty of anything else to say, we both went back to what we were doing. I was tossed back to old times, and it wasn't long before I dozed off.

“Hey, Walker! Walker!” I heard my name being called from far away.

“Whaaat…” I mumbled, still half in the dream state.

“Walker. Someone here to see you,” Ford said apologetically.

“Who?” I demanded, fully awake now.

“Doctor Cohen.”

“Doctor Cohen?” I tried to place the name. Cohen was the prison shrink. This was his third visit; the first two times I simply ignored his ass.

He pulled the extra chair from the desk and planted it in front of the cell. We were face to face with the cell bars between us.

“What's up, Doc?” I smiled.

“How are you feeling today, Walker?” He always started off with the same stupid ass question, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

“Well, you caught me in a good mood today, Doc. I was just about to start playing with my dick … but what can I do for you?”

“I came by to see how you are doing.”

“For cryin' out loud, all of a sudden everyone is concerned about my fucking welfare. What gives?”

“I'm just doing my job, Walker,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“And what is that, Doc?” He looked at me, puzzled.

“Well, to talk, mainly.”

“About what?”

“About emotions you're feeling, about things that may be going through your mind, or dreams you may be having.” His mention of dreams caught me off guard, and I wondered if I had talked in my sleep.

“Dreamt I walked on water, Doc,” I said sarcastically.

“Walker, I understand that under the circumstances it's normal to feel anger, but you don't have to be confrontational.”

“Wrong! That's my style, man, plus I like testing seersuckah-suit mothafuckahs like you, just to see that geek look you get on your face.” I burst out laughing; he just sat there, turning beet red. His mouth opened and closed, as if he were trying to find something to say.

“Okay, Walker, you crazy bastard!” he whispered through clenched teeth, trying vainly to maintain his clinical composure. “If you want to play fucking games —”

I immediately stopped laughing and sprang to my feet, cutting him off. I had him and he knew it.

“Game! Naw, this is far from a fucking game, Doctor. Here the stakes are much higher.”

“Well, then, what would you call it?”

“I call it.. . my personal responsibility to upset bullshit mental tacticians like yourself. You waltz in here doing your friend routine, thinking you'll become famous at my expense by getting me to expose the juicer morsels of my brain — so you can jump in front of the camera seconds after I'm dead, claiming you were the only one I would talk to, the only one I trusted.”