Ron Writes: Pat (my fiance) tells me that I hardly tell of the sorrows of being an exhonoree when
I speak to people. I seem to always dwell on the statistics. Well, this is for Pat. ***
“Hey, Mom, pass the turkey, please.”
I silently watch as the wave of many pairs of hands relay
the big platter to my end of the table. Just as I am forking slices of meat onto my plate,
I hear the loud slam, a metal door, the reverberation of steel bars jarring me awake.
Fuck, I am back on death row again. When will it end for me? I shoot a look at the
calendar, good--I still have two weeks to live. I recall my pledge not to make it easy for them.
I have been practicing holding my breath for the last year and a half .
The other day, the Assistant Warden asked me if I had a special request
for the moment when the pellets fall in the gas chamber. I said, “Yes, will you hold my hand?"
I hold my shaving mirror outside of the bars at a 45 degree angle. I can see the trustee pushing the food cart,
sliding a tray of food into each cell as he makes his way down the rock.
I don’t have to wonder what’s for breakfast. It’s the same thing every day.
Cold chopped potatoes with chili sauce carefully splattered on it. It looks
like someone or something had already tried to eat it once. We used to get a hard boiled egg on Sundays,
but that ended when the Assistant Warden caught one flying at about 90 mph with the back of his head.
Nice catch. It was almost worth it.
We had excitement on the row for the next two days.
In our dry routine of death row existence, the slightest deviation at all from the daily drudgery was an EVENT.
This egg assault brought much ado for us. But then I realized that it was merely another of those victories with too great a cost.
That was 8 months ago, and I miss that stupid egg on Sundays. It may not
seem like a big thing to most people but when you live in a 6 by 9 foot cell, an egg is
something to look forward to all week as I cram down my morning delicacy,
I feel the anger rising inside of me.
Why am I so shocked every time I awake from a
dream to find my self on death row? It’s embarrassing in its own indignant way,
to keep going through this. I have been here for a long time, and this is silly. I should be used to it by now.
Every time I get lost in a book, daydream, wake up in the morning, look up from a crossword
puzzle or reading a newspaper, the feeling overwhelms me. Fuck, I’m on death row.
That sudden realization always hits me square in the face with the force of a sonic boom.
As I think about the other exonorees I work with, I recall conversations we have had pertaining
to this syndrome. Death row is harder for an innocent man. A real murderer can at
least have some solace in the fact that he is paying for his crime. For us it was different.
We did nothing to deserve it. It was all for nothing. Someone did this to us.
I have the deepest respect and admiration for people like Juan Melendez, Ray Krone,
Gary Gauger, Freddy Pitts and the others who travel around this country speaking to
anyone whom will listen about the death penalty. If not for their sheer dedication in this quest,
they couldn’t possibly do it, because there is another part of this syndrome that people never see.
Just before a speech or presentation, we all get together in a hall way, a side office, or sometimes even a men’s room.
We go over our agenda and lend support to each other for the task ahead.
We try to monitor ourselves to see if anyone is having a problem with what is about to transpire,
because we silently know that even though the audience will not see it, every time we talk about our case,
it puts us right back on the row.
For years after my release from prison I avoided, like a plague,
anything to do with the death penalty, prison, or my incarceration. It was not a happy time in my life.
It was over, and I didn’t want to talk about it, because I didn’t want to relive it. I refused all media interviews
and would not even talk about it with my family and my closest friends. I was starting my life over, and
that was hard enough with that juggernaut of an anchor holding me down. I was having no luck finding a job.
The “media created” veil of murderer hung on me wherever I went. No one would hire a man who “got mixed
up in some murder out west somewhere.” It would not be good for the morale of the other employees.
It didn’t matter that I was innocent.
Everybody knew about the murder, and everybody knew who I was.
They had seen my face in the news . This was the time in my life when I realized that there really was a God.
There must be a God, because he created macaroni and cheese. My morning delicacy now consisted
of macaroni and cheese -- so did lunch and dinner. It sure tasted better than chili potatoes.
Some days I didn’t eat at all.
It wasn’t till many years later that I would think about the row.
It wasn’t till after I had gotten my life together, raised a family, and become an established
citizen that I would even let those repugnant thoughts enter my mind willingly. I say willingly,
because I realize that no matter how much time has passed,
I still have that one dastardly thing that I carried out from death row with me.
I still have the syndrome.
--Ron Keine
