Today I went to the gas chamber.
I didn’t want to go (who does?) but I’d been trying for weeks to talk to the PIO (public information officer) to no avail. Lieutenant Robinson is a likable and extremely busy man who wears a lot of hats. I finally caught up with him on the yard where he was addressing a group of visitors touring San Quentin. He said he could meet with me in about twenty minutes when he was finished. But now that I had his attention, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight, so I followed him to the last stop - the gas chamber. Indeed.
He unlocked the iron bar doors and I followed the group inside. The first thing I noticed was the old sickly green linoleum floor which was also the color of the chamber. It looked like some kind of underwater Exploratorium.
What struck me next were the seats where I assume people watch the execution. Execution. That’s a very heady word that I can’t wrap my head around at all. It conjures visions of a hefty man with a hood over his head, firing squads, horses being swatted with men dangling from nooses.
There is no way that an execution can be anything other than cruel and unusual punishment. The eighth amendment addresses this, but it would seem it applies to torture. Ask a prisoner who’s been in solitary deprived of light, any communication or exercise if that’s not cruel let alone unusual.
There has not been an execution at San Quentin since 2006. According to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation there are currently 749 people on death row and the average time served before execution is 17.9 years.
Although gas is no longer used, lethal injection does not make the thought of murder any more palpable. If you take issue with the word murder, then please let me know another word for willingly putting a person to death.
Since I have a hard time understanding why people slow down to look at a car wrecks, I’m at a loss as to why anybody would want to observe a person being put to death, (although I respect the choices their families and relatives make). As I walk by the old no longer used dungeon (definitely cruel) on my way to the media center, I get chills and move quickly to the mainline. I think of my fourteen-year-old dog, Mo, and his spreading cancer that may require him to be put-down if it becomes insufferable. This begs the question, am I murdering my dog? And if one of my family members had an incurable disease and was suffering, would I do the same at their request?
I don’t really have an answer for that. The debate over mercy killing and capital punishment will most likely remain questionable for a long time. There are moral matters that remain unsolved when it comes to abortion, life and death.
A woman in her early thirties has been quietly listening to Lt. Robinson explain the history and facts of the chamber. When he’s finished, he asks if there are any questions. She raises her hand and asks if the men can have anything they want for the last meal. “Within reason” is the answer. She thinks about this and says, “Well, can they have alcohol?”
Talk about food for thought. In reality, any meal that any of us eat could be our last, which is a good argument for eating well. But it seems to me to be a pointless gesture and too preposterous to even ponder.
I find myself wondering where the last meal is prepared and how it is delivered. Is there a price limit and if they get the order wrong can they send it back? I know the answer to that one and the curious can google last meals as did I. Here are a couple that caught my attention:
· His last meal was one lobster tail, fried potatoes, a half-pound of fried shrimp, six ounces of fried clams, half a loaf of garlic bread and 32 ounces of A&W Root Beer.
· He requested steak, fried chicken, cherry Kool-Aid and pecan pie. He left the pecan pie on the side of the tray, telling the guards who came to take him to the execution chamber that he was saving it "for later."
The final question was from a young lady in her twenties. She asked if they could order alcohol. I didn’t hear the answer but doubt they supply a wine list. There’s also no alcohol allowed on the premises and perhaps it would interfere with the injection.
After the tour and my subsequent meeting, I walk out the iron gates to my car. The Bay is glistening, ignoring the fact that it is winter as it peels back the layers of chill that saturates the soul indecisive as ever where to pounce in this microclimate we live in.
By the time I get home it’s dark. I’m quite hungry because I forgot to bring lunch with me. And so I find myself once again thinking about what to have for dinner. I love to cook but after being the sole provider of meals for the past four decades, I find myself more and more annoyed and at a loss for what to eat. Should I go out, order in, or cook pasta, chicken, fish, just a salad, grill a burger; the choices are limitless.
And as with most things these days, I can’t help but think about the men incarcerated at San Quentin. I know there’s no rational in denying myself a good meal because of what they are confined to eat, but it still makes me pause and for the millionth time this week have gratitude for all I have.
I pour myself a glass of wine and scroll through the cabinets where I find a can of clams to go with some linguine. Easy. Again, I’m confronted with the options of what to do next. Watch TV? What show. Read a book or listen to music. Call a friend or take a bubble bath. This, is what freedom means. The ability to make choices.
And every day that I walk through San Quintin past the adjustment center which is what they call death row, I continue to digest how making the wrong choices have altered the course of so many lives.
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