Months Before Six – Part Six

To read Part Five click here

Life Watch Update: June 16^th, 2020 (3:00PM)

In a few hours’ time, my friend, Ruben Guiterrez, is scheduled to be poisoned to death by the agents of the State of Texas for a crime a jury believed he took part in over twenty years ago.

At 8:00AM, he was taken off of the Death Watch section, where all men who receive their date of State-sanctioned comeuppance are warehoused until they are but a notation in some dusty government file, recording only their crime and last words – or until they receive a stay of execution. He was escorted to his last visit with his loved ones by two grey-suited, unperturbed guards, who later stated, “Nothin’ personal, just doin’ our job.”

When Ruben was taken away, I refused to watch him go. I remained as far away from my cold steel cell door as I could get. I would not allow my last memory of another man I’ve become true friends with be of him being marched to his death by two State paid employees; to a death I’ve witnessed him steadfastly fight as he’s beaten one execution date after another over the past eighteen months. As long as possible, I wanted to avoid feeling the rage inside of me build in a vain attempt to mask the true feelings that would eventually swamp me.

This time, I do not expect my friend to live as I did with all of his previous execution dates. I think his luck has likely run out. Yet, despite my pessimism and in spite of my dour disposition on this potentially tragic day, all of my hope for his survival isn’t gone. A small glimmer of hope still remains flickering in the darkness of my worn soul like an infinitesimally small candle. This small flame is more of a testament to the spirit residing inside Ruben than of any faith I still hold.

Ruben has shown such a will to live and flat out refusal to give in, or up, that my logical mind cannot completely count a man like him out until it’s all over. I’ve never seen someone fight such long odds like Ruben has – as he’s managed to get one stay of execution after another, only to immediately be given a new date by the bloodthirsty District Attorney in charge of his case. Each time he’s been moved off of the Death Watch section and brought back, he has new hope and new plans to defeat the State’s latest appointed day of death. Ruben has a will to live that I’ve rarely seen in anyone. It is because of this vast will rubbing off on me that the flame of hope still flickers within me.

Life Watch Update: June 16^th, 2020 (5:20PM)

Ten minutes ago, I believe I heard – I hope I heard – a Death Row sergeant come onto the pod and quietly tell the picket officer that Ruben had just gotten a stay. But, with my nerves thrumming with suppressed emotion like I imagine the infamous third rail in New York City’s subway thrums with electricity, I’m not sure if I was only hearing what I wanted to hear. Regardless of my uncertainty about what I heard, the flickering candle of hope within me is now a flaming torch.

Now, I will have to burn with a newfound hope until I can catch a news station on my radio reporting the fate of my friend. 

Life Watch Update: June 16^th, 2020 (6:00PM)

“Ruben Guiterrez received a stay of execution by the Supreme Court about an hour prior to his scheduled execution…” 

With those happily received words, I took the plastic headphones off my tired head, not needing to hear any more from the reporter.

My friend would live, that’s all that mattered. With that, my nerves settled enough for me to sink into unsettled sleep.

Life Watch Update: June 16^th, 2020 (8:00PM)

Around 8:00PM the night Ruben had once again sidestepped his death, he arrived back on Death Row from the Death House – where his captors had expected to carry out his jury-mandated murder – and he was brought back to the Death Watch section. I was asleep at the time but was woken briefly by his cell door being opened and slammed shut. As the echo of his slammed cell door faded away, so too did the last of my tension and stress. I finally settled into real rest knowing my friend was truly safe for now.

Life Watch Update: June 17^th, 2020 (7:00AM)

About 7:00AM the next hot and muggy Texas morning, Ruben was taken to the dayroom, which is in front of my cell, for his two hours of recreation.

As he and the two guards escorting him slowly walked past my cell, I noticed he was only wearing a pair of raggedy looking boxers and a pair of black slip-on prison shoes. One of the guards was carrying his all white prison “jumper” (what my wife calls a “onesie”).

Seeing Ruben wearing only the States’ necessities, and not his new commissary tennis shoes, “recreation” socks, gym shorts, t-shirt and free world watch, I groaned a little in commiseration knowing, in anticipation of his death, he must have released every bit of his personal property to his family during his last visit; which, of course, the Texas Department of Criminal Justice would not allow them to return to him.

He had just stared down the barrel of a poison-filled syringe and lived, but now had nothing. No toothpaste, deodorant, food, coffee, paper, pen, cup, spoon, etc. Nothing, that is, but his life.

As the stainless-steel handcuffs were removed from behind his back, he stood up straight and faced me with a wane, almost haunted look on his usually unreadable face. He nodded at me as he took his jumper off of the hard, black iron bars where the guard had placed it and began to slowly dress. Normally, Ruben would dress so quickly; it was like he was in a race with some invisible foe, all while loudly talking to, or about, someone or something. Now, he dressed slowly and silently.

Ruben is a very loud talking, boisterous, aggressive, funny smart ass that is full of life. He never seems to stop talking and always oozes energy – tons of energy. Today, however, the guy I was looking at seemed filled with a deep inner weariness that penetrated past his bones to his soul; a quiet, slow moving Ruben who wasn’t loaded with so much energy that it seemed to spark off of his skin.

That shook me up, and put into perspective the horror he’d been through. If such an emotionally strong warrior like Ruben could be shaken by coming so close to death, than being within minutes of the end of your earthly existence could only be understood by “living” it yourself… and maybe not even then.

After he was dressed, he began to talk to me about the experience he endured. He spoke quietly, but in an emotionally charged voice, telling me about being on the phone roughly an hour before his execution and learning that the Supreme Court had just given him a stay. He told me how it all felt, which is between he and me, but the look in his dark eyes as he relived the experience is one I will never forget.

As he spoke, I was reminded of a scene in one of my favorite books, Shōgun by James Clavell. A ship, the Erasmus, piloted by John Blackthorne, shipwrecked on the coast of ancient Japan, which was controlled by samurai warrior Kasigi Omi-san. Omi’s feudal lord and uncle, Kasigi Yabu, ordered an entire village to be killed unless Blackthorne learned to speak Japanese.

To everyone’s surprise, Blackthorne instead decided to commit Japanese ritual suicide, called Bushidō, to protest Yabu’s threat. As Blackthorne went through the ritual, the Japanese watched him and, to their shock, Blackthorne was not bluffing. However, right before Blackthorne plunged the steel blade into his body, Kasigi Omi stopped his arm.

Blackthorne was so prepared to die – expected to die – that once Omi stopped him, he was unable to even walk. He needed time to fully comprehend that he would live. He was in total shock.

As my friend spoke to me, I realized he too was in shock and trying to recover his equilibrium. He was trying to get both feet replanted in the world of the living and readjust his mind to life and not death.

The longer he spoke, he seemed to slowly become his old self. His voice slowly rose louder with each passing minute, and his old energy was seeping back into him. His powerful spirit seemed to be re-emerging into the land of the living. The haunted look on his face and deep within his eyes was slowly fading away.

By the time he left the dayroom, over two hours later, he was well on his way to fully recovering, but the shadow of death still remained faintly lurking about him.

He was moved that night, and I haven’t seen him again, yet I’ve no doubt that he’s fully rebounded – as fully rebounded as one can.

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror; I can take the next thing that comes along’.” – Eleanor Roosevelt.

Billy Wardlow aka “Bandit” (Executed: July 8^th, 2020)

Part I

“Patrick Murphy!” I heard Billy call from the dayroom, 15 feet from my cell, as he stood on the hard, brown, cracked concrete with giant-sized, all white Reebok running shoes covering his huge feet. His enormous, pale hands gripped the cool, black bars of the cage he was confined to. He was leaning his tall, thin frame forward, slightly pressing his smooth forehead against the flaking bars, as his bright, intelligent eyes peered out towards Patrick’s cell.

A smile split Billy’s handsome, boyish face as Patrick answered. 

“Hey, Bandit. I am glad to see you again, but I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances, you know what I’m sayin’?”

The day before, Billy arrived on Texas’ Death Watch section – where men who receive their execution dates are housed until their lives’ journey is brought to an end by a mystery dose of lethal pharmaceuticals at the gloved hands of masked agents of the State. I had never seen nor heard of Billy until he walked onto the section, with his head up and proud eyes straight ahead. He towered over the two guards escorting him, each holding onto one elbow. I only caught a quick glance of his face as he swept by my cell taking super-sized strides that forced the shorter guards to quickstep just to keep up with him, making it appear that he was escorting them. I did catch enough of a glance to get an impression of calmness, pride and youthfulness. 

“Yeah, I know exactly what you’re saying, Murphy. I heard you made it all the way to the Death House in Huntsville and sat down the hall from the execution chamber for hours until the Supreme Court finally gave you a stay,” Billy stated with both sympathy and curiosity in his voice. “What was that experience like for you, Murphy?” he continued.

“It was a trip, Bandit,” Murphy said, and went on to explain the entire process of being transported to the Death House and waiting to be killed.

“That sounds rough, Murphy,” Billy replied quietly. “I am glad you made it, that’s the kind of experience that changes you forever.”

“Yes, it is.” Murphy said somberly.

Billy then shared the following story (which is recalled to the best of my ability):

“There was an event that happened when I first arrived on Death Row that changed me forever too. When I first came to Death Row, in 1995, I was 20 years old. Death Row was still on the Ellis Unit, and we were not housed in solitary confinement like we are now at this prison. My first cell was right by where they housed Death Watch, just a few cells away. I didn’t understand the realness of what was happening yet. “Death Row”, “Death Watch”, it was all abstract and not fully fleshed out to me. At least, not yet… it would be shortly. But, at first, I wasn’t afraid of Death Row, or death, mine or anyone else’s. I felt immune and invulnerable to my surroundings, to even life and death.

A couple of weeks later, I saw guards going to talk to the guy on Death Watch and realized they were telling him it was time to go, time to die. He was refusing to go. I could hear a Captain trying to coax him peacefully out of the cell. When the Captain’s insincere attempt at understanding failed to extricate him, he seemed happy to resort to the Texas standard – brutality. The Captain sent four officers into the cell to drag him out. I had my commissary mirror held outside of the bars of my cell aimed down the run so I could look into it and witness everything. As the man was dragged out of the cell, he got his arms free of the officers’ grip and out of pure, animalistic desperation, he shot his hands out, latching ahold of the bars in a literal death grip. I saw his hands turn white and the veins in his forearms bulge as he put all of his strength, all of his heart, into clinging onto life.

Two guards, one holding each leg, yanked him until he was perpendicular to the floor. They pulled with such force his body seemed to stretch, and still he clung to the bars with a tenacity that was horrifying. His face was blocked from my view, however, I always imagined what expression it held, and I am glad I am not haunted by it. The two guards holding his legs, each with a leg under one of their arms, began leaning backward, pulling with all of their strength – like men playing tug-of-war, only they faced a lone man who they couldn’t defeat. That is, until the Captain kicked the man’s fingers, finally breaking his grip and maybe his fingers too. He was taken away and executed that day. 

Seeing that happen really fucked me up. That I was on Death Row was finally real to me. That they were trying to kill me too sunk in. The utter inhumanity of it had horrified me.”

Billy had a smooth voice and such an eloquent way of talking that it had caught me right up in his conversation. I doubt I was the only one ear hustling (i.e. eavesdropping) on their conversation. He was such a gifted orator and natural storyteller; I imagine that most everyone housed on Death Watch were kicking their feet up listening to him.

Have you ever been out to eat and heard someone at a nearby table telling a story and you couldn’t help but ear hustle? Someone you liked just by the tone of their voice and you wanted to listen to whatever they had to say? Someone whose ability to articulate a memory captivated you? That was Billy.

He went on to tell story after story for the next hour (my favorite will be shared in a following Life Watch Update). I sat back on my bunk, opened up a bag of BBQ chips and listened to him, feeling like I was at the theater. Without even knowing it, Billy had given me a sense of humanity while he simply expressed his own.

As he spoke, I was able to deduce he was almost 45 years old, had been arrested at 18, and was working on his 27^th year of incarceration. He didn’t look like he’d been incarcerated 27 years. He barely looked 27. He certainly did not express himself like someone who had basically been raised in prison. He sounded so completely normal and mature. How could he have managed to endure this environment, and especially over 20 years of living in solitary confinement, and come across so… civilized, decent, honest and funny? He seemed so well adjusted and mature that it was stunning to fathom how he’d managed such an achievement under the living conditions he’d endured.

I instinctively liked him and felt that whatever dastardly deed had brought him to Death Row was an anomaly to who he really was as a human being. I thought maybe he’d went down the wrong path, like so many do, but it seemed apparent to me that he’d spent his time on Death Row maturing into someone of value. Whoever he was when he committed his crime had been relegated to a memory as the confined years slipped past him.

I was so impressed by Billy that day, and took such a liking to him, that I realized I didn’t want to become friends with yet another person who shined, only to watch that shining light be snuffed out. I made no attempt to get to know Billy personally and breathed an inner sigh of relief when he also made no attempt to get to know me. I did pay attention to him as the weeks and months passed by and my initial opinion of him only solidified. My respect and liking for him only grew. 

Billy did his time like an “old school convict”, or in layman’s terms: he did his time like an adult, which is much rarer than you’d imagine in today’s penitentiary. Those that master this art form of prison adulthood are an example to others and stand out.

Billy minded his own business, never gossiped that I heard, and showed everyone around him common courtesy and respect. But what really made me respect him was how he stepped up one day to help someone he knew would never return the favor: An almost 60 year old, intellectually disabled man on Death Watch lost his ID card and was unable to buy anything he needed from the prison commissary for a month. In prison, not only are the intellectually disabled typically preyed upon, but when they need help they are often the last ones other inmates offer assistance. In a prison society largely based upon reciprocity, it’s understood you’ll never get a “return on your investment” from one of “those” people; “those” people are invisible and forgotten.

However, that old man was not invisible or forgotten to Billy. Without being asked, he simply sent the man hygiene, food and stamps, making it clear he did not want anything back.

Who you are to the least amongst us, is who you really are.

Part II

Watching Billy’s last days unwind in front of me, I was not surprised that he showed no visible signs of distress and remained calm and collected. No fear, worries or anxiety showed that I could discern. It was like he was unaffected by his life’s string potentially coming to an end.

Here was someone who’d so mastered the convicts’ art of masking vulnerability that he seemed impervious.

Because I’d seen his humanity shine so bright during “Story Hour with Mr Wardlow”, I was somewhat disappointed to not see through his convict mask and get another glimpse of his heart, to see one more showing of his humanity.

Then, by accident, I did.

Billy lived above me for nine months, in a cell that shared the same air vents and plumbing. Due to this, I could hear him whenever he used his sink or toilet. It was easy to distinguish his hot and cold water from his neighbor, Carlos, who shared our pipe chase, because their hot and cold water made separate and distinct loud noises as the water traveled through the grouchy 30 year old pipes.

Every Sunday, around noon, Billy’s hot water would come squeaking to life and remain on for an hour or so as he washed his sheets.

On June 28^th, his second to last Sunday alive, his hot water didn’t come squeaking to life – not around noon, not at all that day.

It wasn’t until about 4PM that I realized Billy had broken his long-standing habit. I knew cleanliness was important to him due to much more than his “Sunday Sheet Day” habit. He kept the clothing he wore daily in pristine condition. You never saw Billy wearing dirty clothing or looking scruffy. Even more telling was every time he went to recreation in our dayroom, he brought his own cleaning supplies and washed the sink and workout mattress. These were the actions of someone it meant a lot to live clean and proud, someone determined not to allow himself to devolve into slovenliness due to this slovenly inducing environment.

For Billy to forgo this weekly domestic chore – a chore he’d likely completed without fail for years and years – made me stop cold to wonder: Why? Just how much would a guy like that have to be struggling to break this routine? A lot, was my guess. I felt like I was invading his privacy by having stumbled onto this vulnerability he unknowingly showed, yet I was glad I had seen this tiny crack in his armor because it only made his humanity shine brighter. It only made me like him more.

On July 5^th, his last Sunday alive, again, his hot water did not come squeaking to life – not around noon, not at all that day.

Abstaining from his long-standing routine was the only sign of Billy’s struggles at the end. That last Sunday, I wondered if by breaking his routine he felt he wouldn’t get a stay. That he wouldn’t live. Was he afraid? Indifferent? Was he thinking of his fiancée Dani and other loved ones? About regrets? Maybe sniffing his sheets and regretting not washing them? I thought with a smile. Or, was he thinking of that man, long ago gripping onto those cold iron bars unwilling to give up on life?

I’ll never know what fears he faced those last days, what struggles he overcame, or what regrets he had. I’ll only know that that gentle giant faced his last days with dignity, class and compassion for others.

On July 8^th, 2020, at about 8AM, Billy was taken to his last visit and left the Death Watch section exactly as he’d entered it all of those months ago: head up and proud eyes straight ahead, towering over the two guards escorting him, each holding onto one elbow. A couple of shouted good-byes from his friends followed him as he disappeared from sight. However, he’ll never disappear from the hearts of those who knew him.

Billy, you were one of the good ones.

Rest in peace.

Always,

Billy

“There is no reason why the same man should like the same books at 18 and at 48.” 

– Ezra Pound; or be the same man at 18 and at 45…

Life Watch Update: August 1^st, 2020

As promised, my favorite story Billy Wardlow told Murphy during “Story Hour with Mr Wardlow”:

“Murphy, one night on Ellis [the prison Death Row used to be housed on], this unattractive, overweight, nympho guard was working our wing. When she worked, she would go right down the run, from cell to cell, giving guys she was cool with hand jobs through the bars. I was 20 or 21 years old, horny, hormones still going crazy, so I wanted a turn too. I didn’t care what she looked like, Murphy. My cellie was a kind of slow, white guy, who’s dead now, and was asleep on the top bunk.

I was standing at the bars of our cell watching her make her way down the run, stopping to reach into someone’s cell to jack them off. When I knew I was next, I stripped butt naked and was standing there, when all of a sudden I heard “NOOOOO!” shouted from behind me. I whipped around to see my cellie crouched on the top bunk about to freak out. 

“No way, man!” he half-shouted. “Now I know why they call you ‘Bandit’!”

The guy thought I was called Bandit because I was a ‘Booty Bandit’ – that I was going to rape him. I can imagine how it looked to him, there I was six-foot-five inches tall, 210 pounds, butt naked, with a hard dick in the middle of the night…

It took me a while to convince him that I was waiting on a guard to jack me off, and he didn’t relax until she came to our cell and did the deed to me.”

Life Watch Update: October 19^th, 2020

“Look out, Billy!” Little Steve called from the dayroom.

“What’s up, Steve?” I asked once I got to my cell door.

Steve was standing about 15 feet away, inside the cage that is our dayroom. He was hunched over his walker and a serious look was on his usually cheerful, smiling face.

“I read all of the farewells you wrote for the guys on Death Row. You’re a decent writer, but one of the farewells I didn’t like at all,” he said. 

“Was it a farewell about someone you didn’t like?” I asked.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “How’d you know?”

“Steve,” I said “You’re not the first guy on Death Row who’s told me they didn’t like one of the farewells. Every time it’s been someone they couldn’t stand.”

“Yeah, well, you get this guy all wrong, Billy. You made him out to be a better person than he was. The dude was a snake,” he said excitedly. 

“Did I get the other farewells right at least?” I asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t know all of the guys you wrote about, but the ones I knew you did – except for that one snake,” he said.

“Steve, you maintain you’re innocent, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he stated.

“So, if I felt you were really guilty, would it be appropriate for me to point that out in your farewell? Or, if I saw a bunch of bad traits in you, would it be fitting to put all of that into your farewell?” I asked.

“Well… maybe not,” he slowly said.

“Steve, there’s plenty of negative shit online about every one of us on Death Row that people can read. The point of these farewells isn’t to dog each guy out, but to shine a light on the goodness I see in them; to show the world there’s more to them, and us, than just our horrible crimes. I’m well aware that I don’t expose all of the flaws in everybody and I’m cool with that. Imagine this: I write something needlessly negative about you, and shortly after your death your mom reads it and it causes her more pain knowing her baby boy wasn’t even liked by the guys you lived your last days around – that you were surrounded by that bullshit in your last days. Think that would cause her more pain? How’s that doing anyone any good?” I said.

“It wouldn’t,” he said. “But I still don’t like the farewell.”

“Steve, if that’s the only farewell you didn’t like, then I think you might want to consider something,” I said.

“And what’s that?” he asked calmly.

“That there was more to that guy than whatever he did to make you not like him. That you’re allowing your dislike for him to blind you to the goodness I clearly saw in him. And you’re doing to him exactly what many free world people do to us – refusing to see his humanity and refusing to forgive,” I said.

“That ain’t always easy, Billy,” he said quietly.

“A mature person is one who does not think only in absolutes, who is able to be objective even when deeply stirred emotionally, who has learned that there is both good and bad in all people and in all things and who walks humbly and deals charitably with the circumstances of life…” – Eleanor Roosevelt

Life Watch Update: October 25^th, 2020

In a recent letter from my wife, she expressed some things that she sometimes worries about; one of which was who would write my farewell if the State is successful in its plan to kill me.

I didn’t really have an answer to that question, and I didn’t think about it again until something occurred to me that put into perspective how short my own time on earth could be… 

On September 30^th, 2020, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals (CCA) denied my 11.071 writ of habeas corpus (appeal) six weeks after it was filed.

When my 11.071 was filed with the CCA, there were five other 11.071’s already ahead of mine on their docket. However, the CCA jumped over all five of those in order to rule on mine first. 

According to my attorneys, this was unprecedented behavior by the CCA – both in bypassing all the other 11.071’s on their docket to get to me, and the speed of their ruling: A very fast ruling by the CCA is considered six to nine months, with the average being twelve to eighteen months.

When I arrived on Death Row on November 15^th, 2017 – and first experienced how the State planned to mistreat me – I assumed that agents of the State would be working behind the scenes, using their power to influence the courts to speed up my appeals. The unprecedented action by the CCA seems to have validated my assumption that the State is fast-tracking my execution.

My appeals now move into the federal courts, where hopefully it’ll be harder for the State to peddle their power and pressure the courts to rush a ruling. My next appeal is to a federal US District Court, and is due in October 2021. If it is denied, I must file an appeal in the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals within three to four months. If that is denied, I must then file an appeal to the Supreme Court within a couple of months.

There’s only eighteen to twenty months’ worth of built-in delays from this point onward. Any other delay in my execution, assuming I lose every appeal, is solely determined by how long each court takes to reach a ruling.

If the State is able to coerce the next two courts to rush their rulings – as the State appears was able to influence the CCA – then I may very well only have two or three years left.

With this potential reality staring at me, one of the things I thought about was my wife’s question of who would write my farewell if the State is successful in its plan to kill me. After some contemplation, I realized that in a fundamental way I am already writing my own farewell with my “Months Before Six” writing project.

As I write about each man who passes through my life in their journey to their next life, and write about life on this Death Watch section, I am showing you my heartache, pain, sorrow, desire to do something positive, and my remorse. I am showing you a piece of my humanity as I try to capture the humanity of others.

So, as you read these farewells and life watch updates, understand you’re reading my farewell to you all too.

To read John Ramirez’s commentary on Billy’s farewells, click here

Billy Tracy #999607