Surrender

     I clicked through a series of black and white mug shots and terse murder descriptions on the Texas Department of Criminal Justice’s website.  For my graduate thesis, I was looking for a person who knew the day that he was going to die. There were hundreds of men to choose from, but only a select few who had a scheduled “date.”  This was a difficult process of elimination, as I had strict criteria for my selection—they couldn’t scare me. I knew that I would never be able to communicate with the man who’d killed his entire family or the man who’d raped and murdered a nine-year-old girl.  Their acts were too personal, too evil for comprehension.  I had to find someone who had made a horrendously bad decision in a moment of extreme duress. 

     After about a half an hour of searching for the perfect research subject, I found him.  I surmised from the looks of his mug shot and the brief description of his crime that Khristian Oliver was a wide-eyed twenty-year-old kid with a buzz cut, a high school diploma, and a clean record.  With a couple of friends and his pregnant girlfriend, he had burglarized a vacant house.  When the owner came home and found the intruders, he shot one of them with his hunting rifle.  Khristian shot back.

     Despite his horrific actions on that night, he did not scare me.  Yes, he committed murder, but in my mind, I could rationalize how things had happened.  Add the cockiness of youth, a little bit of desperation, a burglary, a gun, and probably an intoxicating substance or two.  I sent him a typed, official looking letter explaining that I didn’t want to talk to him about his crime.  I simply wanted to know his feelings about knowing the day and approximate time of his death. 

     Within a week, I received his response—not only no, but no thank you.  He was polite, to the point and his words were written neatly on lined notebook paper.  His attorney didn’t think it was a good idea for him to communicate to a stranger with appeals pending.  I never pursued another inmate; I just put the whole idea to rest.

     Twenty-one days before his scheduled execution, he sent me another letter.
 Dear Pamela,

 Did you ever find anyone to help you with your thesis?  If not, I will. I know I declined at first but today my attorney says I don’t stand much of a chance of getting any relief and my execution date is for Nov. 5^th.  So if you’d like, send me a list of questions you’d like answered or whatever you had planned.  If you don’t need me that’s cool too, just thought I’d offer.

J

            Take Care,

            Khristian Oliver

     At my subdivision’s mailbox, I sat in my car and wept.  I didn’t know if it was the fact that a complete stranger wanted to help me with my thesis, or the fact that a condemned man had ended his devastating letter with a little smiley face.  When I got home, I searched the Internet for the cheapest ticket from Colorado to Texas, and booked it. I didn’t know how I was going to meet him, but I figured it would probably help if I were in Texas.  I wrote him a series of questions on yellow legal pad paper with an additional request to be added to his visitor’s list and sent it for next day delivery.  Our time was running out.

     After several letters of correspondence and an okay to visit him, I flew to Huntsville, Texas, arriving three days before his scheduled execution.  After a fitful night of sleep in a cockroach-infested motel, I woke early and drove the forty miles to the Polunsky Unit, home to Texas’s death row.  Before turning into the parking lot, a guard at a kiosk stopped me to inspect my vehicle.  After combing through the nooks and crannies of my rental car, he asked me the name and number of “my inmate.”  I rattled off Khristian’s information.  The guard then pointed towards the prison.

     “You’re going to go to that first building there.  And remember, you can’t bring nothing inside but your ID, some money if you want to buy him something, and a smile.” 

     I entered the first building.  I didn’t know if it was a Texas thing, or what, but the whole security procedure felt relaxed and informal, like being at an airport when you get pulled aside and patted down. Within minutes, I was given the go ahead to enter the prison with a yellow visitor’s lanyard and a blue piece of paper stating Khristian’s name and our relationship—“FRND.”

     The large visiting area at the Polunsky Unit was divided by a long row of booths with low stools and phones.   Unsure of where to go, I walked towards the smaller room that contained a set of bathrooms and a variety of vending machines.  A lone female guard sat at a table. I handed her my blue piece of paper. 

     “How are you today?” she asked with a smile.

     “I’m a little nervous,” I replied, thankful for her kindness.

     “Khristian’s not in his room yet, but Mr. Whiteside, his spiritual adviser is,” she said.

     I followed her to a small room that contained several metal chairs, a wooden table, two phones and a thick Plexiglass window.  Even though he didn’t know me, Mr. Whiteside greeted me with a disarming sincerity. In a soft Southern voice, he told me that Khristian was “Unlike a lot of the other men I meet in here.  He isn’t institutionalized.  He’s very shy and gentle and kind. He’s like a kitten.”

     Before I had a chance to digest those words, Khristian entered the room behind the glass.  He looked nothing like his mug shot that was taken eleven years earlier.  He was heavier, wore glasses and his buzz cut had been replaced with a thick mane of jet-black hair.  He was dressed in an off white t-shirt with a white sleeveless jumpsuit over it.  Because I didn’t know what else to do, I smiled and waved at him like we were a couple of old friends.  He wiped the phone down with his shirt and placed it next to his ear.  Before saying a word, he flashed me a look of amazement. I guess neither one of us could believe that we were actually sitting there face to face.

      Behind his tinted glasses, his pupils were large, making his eyes look black.  When he smiled at some of my nervous attempts at levity, it was not a tooth-baring grin, but a slight lift of the corners of his mouth. Although he was born and raised in Texas, there were only hints of an accent in his speech.  His voice was calm as he thoughtfully answered my death related questions.

     How are you approaching your execution—with hope or surrender?

     Do you believe in an after life?

     Do you have a witness list for your execution?  How do they feel about being present?

     Khristian said he was at peace with dying; it was merely a transition for him.  He was nervous, but also excited to move on.  He said the Twenty-third Psalm would be his last statement.  He asked if I was familiar with it.  I knew it, but I was so overwhelmed by the situation, I couldn’t recall the words.  I tried to recite it, but stumbled after, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” 

      I asked what he had selected as his last meal. 

     “Fried chicken, chocolate ice cream and coffee.”

     “Really?” I said in disbelief.  That seemed so ordinary.

     “Fried chicken is the only thing they really know how to make any good.”

     Even though his parents had visited him every week for the past eleven years, he said they were guarded with their emotions, so he didn’t really know how they felt about his impending death.  Because of that, he wasn’t sure if they should be present for his execution, especially his mother.  Neither of his siblings had ever visited him, but his brother finally came this week and his sister was coming tomorrow.

     Distracted by something, he looked over my shoulder toward the visiting area.  His mom had arrived. I recognized her from a picture in a newspaper article I’d read about her famous artist husband in the Houston paper.  She was a tiny woman with light brown skin and an ornate scarf, perhaps one that her husband had designed for Hermes, covering her hair. She wore a pale yellow coat—a sunny visual in such a dreary place. I asked Khristian if I could come back tomorrow.

     “You can have a full hour if you want to.”

     I nervously introduced myself to Mrs. Oliver.  She gently shook my hand after I told her that I had been writing her son for the past few weeks. In a quiet, almost whispered voice, she asked me if I needed more time.  I told her I didn’t want to take any time away from her, but she insisted that it was fine if I wanted to talk to her son some more. 

     I did.  Even though he had answered all of my questions, my whole reason for being there, I felt compelled to speak with him again .  I returned to the tiny room and told him that I thought his mom was very nice.  He agreed and told me that she was more open and outgoing with her emotions than his father.  I asked if she was born in February, thinking she might be a Pisces.  Khristian knew what I was getting at without explanation on my part.

     “No, she’s not an Aquarius. She’s a Libra.”

     He leaned forward in his chair.  “Can you guess what I am?” 

     “I can’t guess because I already know your birthday.  You’re a Virgo.”

     I looked back towards his mother.  I imagined she probably thought that I was this serious graduate student who was going to write about her son in an academic way, and there I was chatting with him about astrology.  She had only today and tomorrow, eight measly visiting hours to spend with him.  I needed to go.

     Outside the front door of the prison, Mr. Oliver stood patiently waiting in the bright Texas sun.  Since only two visitors per inmate were allowed in, he had been counting the minutes for me to leave.  I didn’t know what to say to him, so I said nothing and walked to my rental car.

     I sat in the prison parking lot with the car windows rolled down scribbling copious amounts of notes in an attempt to make sense out of the fact that this perfectly healthy young man was going to die in twenty-four hours. Horses whinnied and dogs barked in the distance.  Birds and monarch butterflies were everywhere, their effortless flight taunting the inhabitants of the flat, taupe building that stood behind two barbed wire fences.  I attempted to remain inconspicuous to the man in the tall guard tower in case he thought I was casing the joint. But he was oblivious to me. He was leaned over the railing and staring off into the distance.  A faded orange plane with a loud motor flew above us.  I wondered if it was some sort of tourist flight.  “And if you look directly below us folks you’ll see the infamous Polunsky Unit—otherwise known as DEATH ROW—home to the most fiendish, horrible, and dastardly men in Texas.”  As the plane took another pass over the prison, I saw it—Mrs. Oliver’s pale yellow coat.   I ran from my car towards his parents.  His mother looked at me with surprise.

      “We’re so glad you’re still here.  We have to be somewhere.  You can go back and visit with Khristian if you’d like,” she said.

     “He doesn’t have any more visitors?” I asked.
     “No.”

     Khristian’s parents walked solemnly towards their newer model SUV.  Mr. Oliver’s hand rested on the small of his wife’s back, as if he were gently nudging her to leave.    

     When I entered the visiting area, I looked towards Khristian’s room.  Another man was now behind the glass conversing with two elderly women.  I approached the guard and handed her my blue piece of paper.  Within minutes, we were face to face again. 

     When I questioned him about his parent’s early departure, he said that they were going to Austin to plead his case at the Governor’s office.  Because we had covered all of my questions, we spent an hour and a half talking about our lives.  He asked me about my children and then revealed that he had a daughter of his own named Kittisue. They had never met.  He told me he loved her and, if he had one dying wish, he wanted her to know that.  

     He revealed that he passed the time in his austere cell by making pencil drawings and painting with a children’s set of watercolors.  His art was not allowed to hang on the white walls of his cell.  They had to remain blank.  Since he was only allowed two hours of outdoor “rec” time a week, he spent a lot of time reading.  He enjoyed fantasy books and was fascinated by science, especially studies of the brain.  He told me about his depression, the medication he was on and his time spent in the psych unit. He revealed his scars to me with outstretched arms from three different attempts to end his life with a shaving razor.  Each time, he was “saved,” from bleeding to death.  I asked him if he realized the irony in that.  He did.  He said that a couple of years back, another inmate had killed himself the day before his execution and it had caused a media firestorm.  In his deathwatch cell, the place where all inmates are moved prior to their execution, a video camera was trained on Khristian to ensure that he didn’t try to kill himself again.

     To lighten our conversation, I told him about a recent trip I took to New York.  He wistfully recalled a high school trip he took there.  His class had visited the Twin Towers and went to see The Phantom of the Opera, a play that he enjoyed.  In the midst of this fond, light-hearted recollection, the female guard approached with splayed fingers.

     “Five minutes,” she said.

     On November 5, 2009, the day of his execution, I arrived at the Polunsky unit at 7:30 a.m. Hyper aware of how limited his time was, I rushed to the visiting area.  Khristian was not in the room. Mr. Whiteside waited with me for him to arrive.  When he did enter, Mr. Whiteside recited the first line of Psalm Forty-six to him, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble.”  He assured Khristian that he would see him later this afternoon in Huntsville and they knocked knuckles on the glass.

     I asked Khristian if I could get a picture taken with him, one of the concessions offered for a small fee at the prison.  He agreed and I paid the guard three dollars.  She entered the room with a digital camera and told me to stand as close to the glass as I could.  Khristian did the same.  She took one picture and was disappointed by the glare from the window.  As this was going on, Khristian’s sister entered the room and watched the whole awkward photographic process.  Her eyes were red from crying.  The guard suggested that I move to the other side.  I did.  She revealed that the second picture was just as bad by showing it to me.  She was hell bent on taking a good picture and I wanted to say, “We’re in a prison for crying out loud.  There really are no good pictures.  He is going to die today.  Please, just take the damn picture so he can spend some time with his sister!” After the third attempt, I politely told the guard that whatever the result was, it was fine.  I turned to face Khristian and picked up the black phone.   These would be my last words to him and I felt their weight.

     “Khristian.  I want to thank you so much for taking the time to share with me.  It really meant a lot.”

     “You’re welcome.  Take care, Pamela,” he said.

     I could not utter the word “Goodbye.”  Instead, I said “Thank you,” and left the room.  I closed the door quietly and sprinted to the women’s restroom by the Pepsi machine.  My eyes were burning as tears streamed down my face.  I tried to pull it together, but I couldn’t.  I felt hopeless and helpless staring at my contorting face in the prison bathroom’s florescent light.

     Giving up, I put my sunglasses on and exited the restroom.  The guard handed me the print out of the photo. 

     “It’s a good picture.  You look nice.”

     I thanked her and walked through the main visiting room, holding this remnant of a human life that I would never see again.

     I arrived at the Walls Unit in Huntsville at 4:00 p.m. and took a seat on a low wall across from the prison.  Khristian had been transported here in the afternoon.  Upon arrival, he would be addressed as Offender Oliver.  Unlike the guards at the Polunsky Unit, none of the guards at the Walls Unit knew him.  It made their job easier.

     Even though I was told that protestors gathered at this wall on execution days, the lot was empty.  I felt like I was in an alternate universe.  I couldn’t help thinking about Khristian in that red brick building. He was probably sitting with his state- assigned chaplain—a man he met just a couple of days ago.  His last hours would be spent with strangers. I wondered what he was talking about.  Would he call his parents?  What would he say?  I love you Mom.  You’ll be okay.  I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.  They say I’ve gotta go.  I love you too.  Goodbye.

    In just an hour and a half, or maybe less, he would be led into the death chamber, he would be strapped down to a gurney by four uniformed guards, two IVs would be inserted into his arms by a medical team, and the curtains would be pulled back in that tiny room for Khristian’s family and the victim’s family to witness the worst show on earth.

     A young woman in her twenties took a seat on the wall by the corner of the street.  I asked if she knew which side we were on—the for or against side?

     “I’m not sure.  Sorry.”

     “So. Which side are you on?”

     The young woman’s face scrunched up as she tried to suppress an emotional outburst. Her name was Amber and she had been Khristian’s pen pal for the past nine years.  They had never met.  Within seconds we were both crying on the corner of Avenue I.  I asked if she needed a hug.  She did.  I’m not a touchy feely person, but I felt that hugging this grieving stranger was the most natural, appropriate thing to do.  I handed her a Kleenex from my purse and we wiped our eyes.

     Two women arrived in anti-death penalty t-shirts, and we realized that we had been on the correct side of the street all along.  One of the ladies set up a lawn chair at the entrance to the parking lot.  The other lined up signs along the wall.  Cars whizzed by.  It was business as usual in Huntsville.

     After introductions, I told one of the protestors that the saddest thing besides the obvious, was that Khristian would not be allowed to hug his family before his death.  “The only time his family gets to touch him is when he’s dead on a gurney,” she replied.

Amber and I remained quiet, transfixed by these cold words, the street and the people who might cross it as it got closer to six-o-clock.  There was nothing more to say.

     A few minutes before six, as the sun set on Huntsville, the media witnesses crossed the street and entered the prison.  A few paces behind, I saw the pale yellow coat ascend the steps.  Mrs. Oliver was entering that building to witness her son die. The last time she would see him alive, he would be strapped down and helpless behind glass, like a fish in an empty tank.  She would not be able to rush to him, comfort him or hold his hand as he took his last breath.  She could only watch.

     The street in front of the prison was now empty.  Six bells tolled on the prison clock.

     As the clock ticked forward, I repeated the words “Don’t be afraid,” inside my head.  And even as I said them, I didn’t know who they were intended for, Khristian or for myself.  Amber, who stood beside me on the edge of the grass began to cry.  I felt numb. 

     At 6:00 p.m., a microphone was lowered from the ceiling towards Khristian’s mouth. In a room to the right of his head stood the victim’s family.  In another room near his knees stood his own.  He addressed them both during his last statement.

            Collins family, I know you’re not going to get the closure you

            are looking for tonight.  I wish you the best.  I prayed for y’all

            every day and every night.  I have only the warmest wishes.  I

            am sorry for what you are having to go through.  Mom, Pa, Kristy,

            Khristopher, Tony, I love all y’all.  Thank you Mr. Whiteside.

     He nodded towards the state chaplain.  The warden signaled the executioner, and the drugs began to flow as he recited the Twenty-third Psalm.

      Like the hundreds of men and women who came before him, Khristian spent the average amount of time on death row prior to his execution, 10.26 years.  He was killed with a lethal concoction of: Sodium Thiopental, which was used to sedate him, Pancuronium Bromide, a muscle relaxant that collapsed his diaphragm and lungs, and finally, Potassium Chloride, which stopped his heart.  According to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice’s website, the cost per execution for the drugs used is “$86.08 and the offender is usually pronounced dead approximately seven minutes after the lethal injection begins.” At 6:18 p.m., Khristian Oliver’s spirit exited his human body.  Officially, he became the four hundred and forty-third person to be executed in Texas since the death penalty was reinstated in 1976.

     At 6:25 p.m., Khristian’s family and the media exited the prison.  The protestors packed up their signs and casually spoke of the next execution on the eleventh.

     “His poor family,” I said to no one, to everyone.

     I needed something.  It wasn’t a cigarette or a drink or even a hug. I knew I couldn’t just walk away from this and go back to my motel. I turned to the bearded man next to me. 

     “Do his parents get to take his body back to Waco tonight?” I asked.

     “They take everyone to a funeral home right around the corner.  They’ve got a pretty sweet deal with the state.  Everyone, regardless of where they end up, has to go there.  That’s where his family is probably headed right now.  You can go too if you want.”

     After all the patting down and security measures and thick glass walls and telephoned conversations, I couldn’t believe I could just walk into a funeral home and see Khristian without some sort of bureaucratic barrier.

     “You probably want to get there when his family walks in.”

     I turned towards Amber who stood at my side like a lost little girl.

     “Do you want to go with me?” I asked.

     She nodded yes.

     I was not thinking at this point.  I was merely doing.  When we arrived at the funeral home, Mr. Whiteside was walking towards the entrance.  We quickly followed him.  A tall older man blocked the door with his arms crossed.  He looked at Amber and me with a dour expression as Mr. Whiteside introduced us.

     “This is Pamela, a friend of Khristian’s and this is…”

     “Amber,” I said to fill the void.

     Wearily we entered the funeral home.  Khristian’s parents, another man and woman I didn’t know, and his brother and sister with their spouses stood at the front of the room.  Amber and I took a seat on the first pew and tried to remain inconspicuous.  I turned off my cell phone; its happy decelerated jingle made me want to crawl under my seat.  I grabbed a handful of tissue and looked towards Khristian’s body at the front of the room.  My eyes welled with tears and my body shook from trying to suppress the guttural sobs that wanted to escape my mouth.  When I finally broke down, nobody seemed to mind.

     Mr. and Mrs. Oliver stood by their son’s lifeless body in the horrendously bright room.  A burgundy blanket was pulled up to Khristian’s collarbone.  His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted.  Mr. Oliver’s arm rested on the small of his wife’s back, just as it was at the prison.  They both look stunned.  Mrs. Oliver turned in the direction of my nose blowing.  With wide sad eyes, she nodded in my direction, acknowledging my presence.

     “I’m so sorry,” I hiccupped between sobs.  She turned back to her son.  The small group parted as Mrs. Oliver stepped up to the gurney.  She did not cry or scream or throw herself to the floor.  She simply touched his face, something she hadn’t been able to do in over eleven years. 

     Out of nowhere, a Muzak version of  “Let There Be Peace on Earth” played.  It was loud and totally distracting.  I don’t know if this was the state chaplain’s attempt to drown out the sound of my crying or if he was trying to comfort the family members with music. A funeral home employee approached us and said that when we exited we “Need to use that door.  It leads out to the parking lot.”

     Realizing that our time was limited, Mr. Whiteside asked us to join hands in prayer.  I took Mr. Whiteside and Amber’s hands and we formed a circle with Khristian’s family. When the prayer ended with a collective “Amen,” I walked back towards the pew.

    Each member of Khristian’s family stopped to spend a moment with him before exiting through the right door.  I was the last to leave.  I had never seen a dead person before.  I walked up to his still warm body and gazed down at his youthful face. I placed my left hand on his shoulder, said “Goodbye,” and walked out the door.

     By spending time with Khristian Oliver in the hours before his death, he became much more to me than just a mug shot or the succinct summation of his worst day.  I discovered a gracious, kind, and honest human being.  I empathized with his isolation, his loneliness and his fear.  How could I not?  I too am human.

     A letter arrived from Khristian on Monday, November 9, 2009 in my Colorado mailbox.  I didn’t want to open it, knowing that it would be the last time I’d ever hear from him. Unlike his other letters, it was written on graph paper and there were no smiling faces.  It read like a slowly deflating balloon.

Having been locked up over 10 years I’ve grown  complacent over the years and my execution date seems surreal  to pop up what seems so suddenly.  I try to distract myself but it’s  rather hard to do so with something as profound as death looming  over me.  I seem to be growing more nervous as the hour approaches  but I doubt I’ll lose any sleep over it—I’m pretty tired and it’s  only 4:12pm as I write this.  I received a call from my attorney  saying I lost my appeal in the state court and in the court of criminal  appeals, so they very likely will execute me in 26 hours.

Is there any peace with this process?  I don’t find peace outside my  spirituality—my belief in the Lord is the sole source of my peace  and tranquility.  I hate to think of this as a process—it makes it  sound so cold and clinical.  I of course believe in an afterlife— death is merely a transition from one state of existence to another... The best way to deal with this situation (or what works for me anyway) is both Hope and Surrender.  Hope that relief will be given but  surrender to the reality of the situation.  Never give up hope  though.

                        
My family has been handling this situation very reserved and  humble.  We’re not a family that wears our emotions on our  sleeves so you would be hard pressed to know anything was  wrong.  Both me and my family are accepting of what will be  however my mom refuses to contemplate my execution.  I think  all this will be hardest on her.  I’ve told my family that it’s up to  them if they want to be present.  I’ve put my parents, my brother,  my sister, and her husband on my list of witnesses.  We’re not allowed contact visits for any reason.  My last goodbyes  will be by phone at Huntsville ...

There are a couple of reasons I keep to myself in here—first because  a lot of people here are looking to use you for their own ends.  Some  try to learn as much about you as they can so that they can testify  against you if you receive relief from the courts—others are just  looking for someone to support their eating habits.  Secondly the  majority of the people here are very easy to anger.  They think  you’re weak if you help someone out, they say you’re scared  if you don’t join a gang—just aggressive machoism.  A lot of the  guys here deserve very much to be locked up (Not necessarily on  Death Row—I really don’t believe in the Death Penalty).

Well, I hope this letter is sufficient—I have a long day ahead of  me so I’ll close here.

    
And he did.