Execution Exit

“Michael, I want you to postpone your trial to the Fall,” Hale, my attorney advised me.

I shook my head.

After fifteen years awaiting execution on San Quentin’s death row, a black-robed federal court judge had decreed prosecutorial misconduct at my first trial and ordered a new one. A year ago, I had been locked in chains and transported forty minutes south across the Golden Gate Bridge to the county jail for retrial.

“Look,” Hale said sharply, “you know Harris hung his jury.”

I nodded. Harris, another homicide case, was celled near me in maximum security.

“Harris has demanded a speedy retrial. You’re assigned the same judge, same prosecutor, and they’re now unavailable.”

“There are other judges, other prosecutors…” I began.

“Harris managed to persuade four jurors to vote not guilty with this judge, this prosecutor,” Hale cut me off. “I want to try your case with them”

I felt trapped, claustrophobic. Avoiding violence in the county jail had been challenging. I knew the prosecution wanted to portray me as extremely violent, deserving only death, so it was essential to remain incident-free.

My first pass through the county jail eighteen years ago, I had been a law-and-order virgin. I had known nothing about locked life. In custody, I heard inmates calling each other, “Homes.” I didn’t know that was short for homeboy. I thought they were saying “Holmes.” Mrs. Holmes must have raised a bunch of really tough sons who frequently come to jail, I incorrectly reasoned. An inch under six feet tall, only about 160 pounds, I’d been a target, a victim of jailhouse violence, and faded into the background as much as possible.

This time through the jail, I was the guy from Death Row. There was no fading, I was the number one target, the man to establish or burnish a rep, gain credibility.

A couple of days after I was housed in Max, an unrepentant felon rushed me in the day room for no apparent reason, perhaps just the demons in his head whispering insanity, infecting his heart, his soul. A decade and a half of weightlifting on death row had added twenty-five pounds of muscle. I was easily able to spin him around, shove him into his cell, slam shut the door which automatically locked. No punches thrown by me, landed by him, and he didn’t try me again. Still, I knew inmates thought me weak for failing to bloody him.

Another time, I was sitting in restraints alone in a courthouse holding cell after a hearing while awaiting escort back to the jail. The door opened and before I could rise from the wooden bench, deputies pushed in a very large man wearing street clothes, hands locked in cuffs and slammed the door. I could plainly see he was very angry, so I simply nodded.

“What you looking at?!” he bellowed. Threats erupted from his increasingly red face.

Puzzled, I stayed impassive, warily watching him pace while hoping he wouldn’t kick me.

Moments later, the door reopened, two deputies arrived to escort us to jail.

Observing the big man’s rage, the older deputy asked, “Is there a problem?”

“He’s got the problem,” he tilted his head at me. “I’m giving him a beat down when the cuffs come off!”

Glancing at me, still sitting, still impassive, the deputy said casually, “Mr. Hunter is down from Death Row for court. Since he’s been here, he’s been a gentleman. If you got a problem, we’ll take off your restraints and take a coffee break while you sort things out. Fifteen minutes enough time?”

The big guy decided he was good, calmed down, and he was escorted ahead of me from the holding cell.

“What’s with him?” I asked the older deputy walking with me.

“Bully. Beat his wife, she got a no-contact order which he violated when he left her a threatening message. The judge just revoked his bail.”

“Were you really going to remove the restraints?”

“Security lapses happen, you guys get loose from time to time.”

Glad it didn’t happen. I wasn’t in the jail to win fights; I was there to find an exit from the execution chamber.

One morning I was sipping coffee in the day room and watching football on TV. Some new guy emerged from his cell and shambled to me. Wild, long, matted hair, unfocused eyes, and the weather-beaten face of the hard core homeless.

Without introducing himself, he simply growled, “Gimme coffee.”

It’s no disgrace to be broke in custody, I’ve been without funds, so I padded to my cell for a baggie of instant.

I handed the coffee over, and said conversationally, “Don’t ask for more ’til I go to store Tuesday. Spread your hustle.”

“I like coffee,” he said vacantly. Suddenly shrieking, he violently lurched at me, ripping, gouging my face with long, unkempt fingernails.

I blurred out and did not really come back ’til deputies flooded into the day room. Looking down, I saw the derelict crawling on the floor away from me, screaming, “He’s crazy!”

A deputy barked, “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

Man! What did I do? I’ve really blown it.

Another deputy ordered me to my cell. 

Surprised, they hadn’t taken me down and cuffed me, I went to my cell, secured my door, and washed the facial scratches with soap and water.

The cell door opened, and a deputy tossed me a lunch. “You got a bit of a workout; you must be hungry.”

Catching the lunch, I was confused.

“Last night that guy assaulted a deputy. That’s why he was in max, we’ll put him somewhere else now. Do you need medical attention? I’d prefer if no one saw your face, they might write a report. I can bring you a band aid.” 

“I don’t need any medical attention, and the bleeding has stopped. Thanks though.”

“If you want, you can watch football.” Leaving my cell door open, he left.

Free pass!

I’d been lucky. No disciplinary reports, but my luck couldn’t hold forever. I had to get out of the jail.

“What happens exactly if I don’t waive time?”

“We want a good result,” he didn’t answer my question. “You’re the one facing execution. Think it over.”

The next day in court, I told Hale, “I’ll waive the time if I’m sent back to San Quentin. Bring me back when you’re ready for trial.”

“Pre-trial detainees can be housed at the closest prison for the safety and security of the jail,” he thought it through. “San Quentin is the closest prison, but you’re not convicted of anything. You will be segregated in the hole.”

I was sure that was the rule, but I also knew San Quentin is not very organized. Thought I’d go straight back to Death Row.

The judge came in, court came to order, and Hale told her I wanted to return to San Quentin.

“That’s not necessary,” she waved off the concept and set the next court date six months away.

“I need you to waive time for the record, Mr. Hunter,” she addressed me, clearly expecting me to consent.

“No, your honor. If I’m to remain here, we start trial tomorrow.”

“Have you consulted with counsel?”

“I’m the one facing execution not him. Send me to San Quentin or start trial tomorrow.”

After a quick conference that excluded me, a court order was issued, I waived time, and the next morning I was in a holding cell in San Quentin’s Receiving.

Home at last!

An escort came to cuff me, the path to the hole and Death Row  starts out the same, but when we passed the Chapel and started down the chow hall wall, I knew I was being housed on death row.

When I first arrived on death row in 1984, there were 127 condemned men at San Quentin. Now, in 2000, over 700 prisoners awaited execution.

Locked in a cell, my friends sent me a radio, books, food, coffee. I wouldn’t receive my personal property until I went to Classification.

Three days later, I went to Classification. The Associate Warden asked if my status had changed.

I told him I had some court hearings, and I’d have to go back for more later in the year. All true. Just not really an answer to his question.

This non-answer satisfied everyone, and I was assigned to the same condemned man yard I’d been assigned when I left a year ago.

I received my personal property: TV, radio, clothes, food. I watched baseball, sipped coffee, feeling relaxed and content for the first time in a long, long time.

In the morning, a guard asked if I was going to yard. Yes. Strip search, cuffs, metal detector, and onto the yard. Handcuffs removed, I stepped onto the concrete condemned men exercise yard. Small, about half the size of a basketball court, surrounded by high cinder block walls topped by razor wire. Guards with rifles man catwalks, ready to quell any hint of violence.

Thug-hugging my friends, we chatted, catching up while setting up weights for exercise. I was pale and a bit out of shape after the jail. Weeks went by before I became tanned and fit again.

Eventually, Hale came to see me. 

“This is Death Row visiting? Not the hole?”

I nodded. “San Quentin has no clue I’m not convicted.”

Hale asked me to push back my trial date again. I agreed as long as I didn’t have to return to the jail until trial.

“Stay out of trouble,” Hale advised before he went back south.

More months passed before my retarded buddy Bobby had a brilliant idea. The last brilliant idea of Bobby’s was to form a robbery crew. “We got this!” were his last words before they went in guns blazing, killed two people, and Bobby went to Death row. The newest, latest brilliant idea was to jump on me. Since I was a pre-trial detainee not convicted of anything, Bobby figured I could sue California, and we’d get paid big money.

“Don’t worry,” Bobby assured. “I won’t really try to hurt you. Much. We got this!”

Which part of I’m not trying to die in the execution chamber don’t you understand? I wondered. Studying Bobby’s face, all of it  was the answer.

“Glad to hear you won’t be trying to hurt me, Bobby. Much. I want you to fully understand, I’m going to try and hurt you. A lot!”

“Mike, use your common sense. You shouldn’t be on this yard. If you get hurt, you’ll get paid.”

Gesturing at the guards with rifles, I replied, “We can get dead. I really don’t want to be shot. Let me be crystal clear, you jump me, I’ll fight. If I get money, I will give you none of it. Understand?”

Bobby went away unhappy, certain I was throwing away a big pay day. The thing about Bobby, he was never uncertain, but he was almost always wrong. Later, he was executed, so I can’t really stay mad at him.

More time passed, and one afternoon I was keyed into my cell after yard. At 4pm, I went to the front of my cell for count. I leaned against the door, it popped open, and I nearly fell onto the tier. Quickly, I pulled it closed. Pulse pounding, I feared condemned men in cells around me would find out my door was unlocked, and they’d want me to attack the count guard.

When the guard walked, I called to him, but he ignored me and walked past still counting. When he walked back, I cursed at him, trying to get him to stop and deal with me. Glaring angrily, he stopped and seemed ready to yell at me.

Beckoning him with my fingers, I whispered, “My door is unlocked.”

Anger morphed into confusion, and he just stood there.

I pushed the door out an inch to demonstrate it was open. The confusion became alarm; he keyed my door locked. Eyes wide, he spun away and left the tier quickly.

I sighed in relief. No one around me seemed to pick up on what just went down, my door was locked, another bullet had missed me.

Minutes later, two guards cuffed me and escorted me to the sergeant’s office.

“How was your door unlocked?”

“I’ve been wondering myself. I vaguely remember the guard jangling his keys. Think the door stuck, so he thought it was locked.”

“Who keyed your door?”

“Come on, Sarge,” I shook my head.

“Not telling me?”

“Not telling anyone. Told your staff about the door. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s plenty, as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

I nodded.

The sergeant sent me home.

Finally, I returned to the county jail not in the Fall of 2000, but September 1st, 2001. 9/11 happened during my pre-trial hearings. Many of the deputies were in the reserves and they were called to active duty and sent to Afghanistan. Retired deputies came back to fill their positions. The atmosphere was tense, grim, and I thought it a bad time to go to trial but said nothing. The terrorists had killed so many innocents, alarmed the nation, my fate was trivial in comparison.

During jury selection, Hale—after speaking with prospective jurors all day—whispered to me, “I wish I hadn’t waived so much time. We should have gone to trial before 9/11.”

I didn’t answer, time moves in only one direction.

I was grateful to receive life in prison without possibility of parole. I returned to San Quentin and was once again housed on Death row until I was transferred three months later, but this time not allowed on a condemned men exercise yard.

-The End-