Lyons - Death row, texas: inside the execution chamber

DEATH ROW, TEXAS

INSIDE THE EXECUTION CHAMBER

Witnessing the Final Moments of the Condemned

MICHELLE LYONS

Text copyright 2018 Michelle Lyons. All rights reserved. Any unauthorized duplication in whole or in part or dissemination of this edition by any means (including but not limited to photocopying, electronic devices, digital versions, and the internet) will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Published in the United States by

Ulysses Press

P.O. Box 3440

Berkeley, CA 94703

www.ulyssespress.com

First published in 2018 in the United Kingdom as Death Row: The Final Minutes by Blink Publishing, an imprint of the Bonnier Publishing Group

ISBN: 978-1-61243-890-0

Written with Ben Dirs

Design: seagulls.net

US proofreader: Shayna Keyles

US production: Claire Sielaff

Distributed by Publishers Group West

To my Mom, Dad and brother,
for making me all that I am.

To my daughter,
for making me realize all that I still want to be.

CONTENTS

AUTHORS NOTE

While this is essentially the story of my time working with and for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, first as a journalist and then as a spokesperson, it could not have been written without my dear friend and former colleague Larry Fitzgerald, whose thoughts appear throughout. As such, I must thank Ed Hancox, whose documentary about Larry for the BBC (The Man Who Witnessed 219 Executions) was the germ of this book and whose interviews, which he kindly shared with me, proved invaluable. In total, Larry and I witnessed almost 500 executions, many of them together. He was my mentor, a wonderful man, and will always be the face of the Texas prison system. This is Larrys story, as much as it is mine.

Michelle Lyons,
May 2018

PROLOGUE

A SINGLE TEAR

I cant remember his name, his crime or what Texas county he fell from, but the contours of his face are etched on my mind, as if he were executed yesterday. He was a black man, well into middle age, with a long, proud chin. But what I remember most is the nothingness. No family members, no friends, no comfort. Maybe he didnt want them to come, maybe they didnt care, maybe he didnt have any in the first place. There was nobody bearing witness for his victim, either. At least thats how I remember it. Maybe they were afraid, maybe they couldnt afford to make the trip, maybe he committed his crime so long ago that the authorities couldnt find anybody. Whatever the reason, it was just a prison official and two reporters, including me, looking through the glass at this man strapped fast to the gurney, needles in both arms, staring hard at the ceiling.

The man didnt look to the side. Why would he? There was nobody in the witness rooms he knew. But he would have been aware of the warden hovering by his head, and the chaplain, whose hand was rested just below his knee. When the warden stepped forward and asked if he wanted to make a last statement, the man barely shook his head, said nothing and started blinking. Thats when I saw it: a single tear at the corner of his right eye. A tear he desperately wanted to blink away, a tear he didnt want us to see. It pooled there for a moment before running down his cheek. That tear affected me in ways no words could. The warden gave his signal, the chemicals started flowing, the man coughed, sputtered and exhaled. A doctor entered the room, pronounced the man dead and pulled a sheet over his head.

Because I can still see his face, I could probably go through my files and figure out who he was. But I dont want to remember his name, the crime he committed or where it happened. None of that matters. I remember his execution, and thats enough. As long as I live, I will never see anybody so lonely and forgotten.

While I was watching men and women die in the Texas death chamberfirst as a reporter, then as part of the prison systemI didnt allow myself to travel down this road of introspection. When I look at my old execution notes, I can see that things bothered me. But because I was young and bold, everything was black and white and certain. Any misgivings I had, I shoved into a suitcase in my mind, which I kicked into a corner. If I had started exploring how the executions made me feel while I was seeing them, or gave too much thought to all the emotions that were in play, how would I have been able to go back into that room, month after month, year after year? What if Id sobbed? What if someone had noticed the dread on my face? I just couldnt let my head go to that place. It was the numbness that preserved me and kept me going. But by the end, that suitcase was so full, I was squeezing misgivings in there and having to sit on it in a hurry.

It was only when I left the prison system, having witnessed at least 280 executions in 11 years, that I started thinking in detail about the things Id seen. Id suddenly see the big, brown plastic container of fruit punch, put out for the condemned man in the holding cell; or Id open a bag of chips and smell the death chamber; or something on the radio would remind me of a conversation Id had with an inmate, hours before he died. Id picture the man on the gurney with the single tear, or the mother of child-killer Ricky McGinn. Despite being old and frail and confined to a wheelchair, Mrs. McGinn turned up to her sons execution in her Sunday best, a floral dress and pearls. When the time came for McGinn to make his final statement, she struggled out of her chair and pressed her wrinkled hands against the glass, because she wanted to make absolutely sure he could see her before he slipped into the abyss.

When I was a little girl, I would lie in bed at night and cry, thinking about all the people I loved who were going to die. I can still picture the light green walls of my bedroom and hear the TV downstairs. Id turn on my radio and hope the music might drown out my thoughts of death. Id look through the open doorway, onto the light in the hallway, tears streaming down my cheeks. But I never thought to go downstairs and tell my mom and dad my fears; it was always my secret to deal with. What made me feel better was the thought that when we died, wed all end up in heaven together. Why be afraid of loved ones dying if death wasnt really a loss? Wed all meet again, it was just a matter of when.

As I grew older, my fear of death developed into a fear of being forgotten. I blame my first love in high school. We broke up when I moved with my family from Texas to Illinois, and within weeks he was seeing someone else. I was devastated. Apparently, I wasnt as important as I thought I was. I couldnt understand how somebody could love me so much but forget me so quickly. It sounds dumb, but it messed me up for years. Every time a relationship ended, I thought: Did I pack a punch? Will they remember me? Thats why when I die, I want to be cremated and tossed somewhere pretty. Theres nothing sadder than a little stone somewhere that nobody ever visits. Lonely and forgotten, like the man whose name and crime I cant remember.

CHAPTER 1

GOING TO SLEEP

If a man were torn to pieces in my presence it would not have been so repulsive as this ingenious and elegant machine by means of which they killed a strong, hale, healthy man in an instant.

Leo Tolstoy, on the execution of Francis Richeux, April 6, 1857

This was my first execution and I was completely fine with it. Many, many people asked me if I was really okay. I really was. In fact, I felt bad, like, Am I supposed to be upset about this? Do people think Im evil or something because Im not?