David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

“I hope to God he doesn’t hold his breath,” Carolyn says to me. She’s done her homework. If Burgos takes a deep breath of the gas, he’ll be unconscious in seconds and will die peacefully. If he holds his breath and fights it, he’ll likely go into convulsions, and this could last up to twenty minutes.

“Terrance Demetrius Burgos,” the prison guard begins, holding the clipboard away from his face. “You have been convicted by a court of law in this state of five separate violations of Article 4, Section 6-10(a), of the Criminal Code, to wit: the homicides of Elisha Danzinger, Angela Mornakowski, Jacqueline Davis…”

Carolyn Pendry makes a noise, leans forward, and, with a guttural groan, vomits on my shoe. I ignore the bile at my feet, offer her a handkerchief, and take her hand, lacing my fingers with hers. She attempts an apology, but there’s no need. She will not be the last one to react in such a way. There’s a doctor on call, in fact, for the witnesses.

“… Sarah Romanski, and Maureen Hollis.”

Terry Burgos has gained a good twenty pounds since his arrest, adding a second chin that covers his neck, his eyes reduced to tiny beads now. He has almost no hair on top; a few strands stick up over the leather restraint that covers his forehead. I look for it in those eyes, any sense of remorse or compassion. Or fear. I admit it, I want this to hurt.

“… jury has determined that these homicides were committed with premeditation and under special circumstances warranting the imposition of capital punishment…”

I feel the collective tension behind me, the mixed emotions of the people so angry and hurt, reliving the tragedy all over again over these last few weeks, now getting the justice that they clam ored for, begged the jury to impose.

“You have signed a written statement, notarized and validated by a court of law, indicating your choice of lethal gas.”

That, or electrocution. I’d have gone the other way. I can’t imagine anything worse than fighting for air.

I look at the two telephones on the wall, one black, one red, the latter connected directly to the governor’s mansion. Then I peek at the clock. Twelve on the dot.

When I look back at Burgos, he has settled his gaze on me. Now we have made eye contact, and I know he’s going to watch me as long as he can. I consider looking away, showing him the lack of respect he probably deserves, but I lock my stare on him. Maybe I owe him that much. Maybe every prosecutor should have to look in the eyes of the person he has condemned. Maybe that’s why I’m here, and why I agreed to visit him yesterday.

His tongue peeks out from between his thin lips. His eye winks but it seems involuntary. No human being, no matter how psychotic, could approach this punishment without some reaction. His fingers drum along the arm pads. His toes dance. His chest heaves. He is perspiring heavily, which is not an appealing sight on a man almost entirely naked.

“… are entitled to make any final statement at this time.”

Absolute silence. Terry Burgos has never apologized, never offered a single word of contrition. This is what the families are waiting for, I suspect-something, anything, to make this better.

His lips part but he says nothing. We are still staring at each other, so it seems that the families will not get what they wanted. Whatever he has to say, he will say to me.

The prison guard is unsure of his next move. Surely, he wants to give Burgos at least this much, the chance to make it right or find some peace. Maybe he likes the guy, in a weird way, having spent the last seven years with him on death row. Most of these guys, sitting in solitary confinement, turn to God or simply lose the will to fight, end up being pretty good inmates.

The guard finally looks at the warden, who holds up a finger, and we all wait.

Terry Burgos clears his throat with a struggle. One guy, out west somewhere, rambled on for almost twenty minutes when given the chance to have his last words.

Another agonizing minute passes, as the prisoner and I stare at each other. I look for a smirk, for an indignant scowl, for fear in his eyes. What I receive, instead, is nothing but childlike wonderment, a hypnotic gaze.

The warden moves closer to the glass cell. “Terry, do you have anything to say?”

Burgos shakes his head slowly, as much as he can with his restraints. His eyes still on me, his mouth parts again. He speaks to me silently, his lips moving in coordination with his tongue and teeth. I’m not much for lipreading but I know what he’s saying.

The warden, who is not facing Burgos, takes the silence as a negative answer and motions to the prison guard, who will now order the officials to begin the process.

“The prisoner has declined any final statement,” says the prison guard.

Sobbing, behind me. Some of the family members wanted to hear contrition. Others probably expected something self-serving and are relieved at the lack of a statement. But the guard is wrong. Terry Burgos didn’t decline a final statement. He mouthed it to me, the man who put him in that chair.

The same thing he said to me yesterday, in his cell.

I’m not the only one.

The Second Verse

Sunday

June 5, 2005

THE CHANGE in the picture quality on the television is notable, going back, as it does, eight years. In the top right of the screen is the date: JUNE 1, 1997.

Carolyn Pendry, in a blue suit and cream silk shirt, sits professionally, her legs crossed, a notepad in her lap. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Burgos,” she says.

The screen cuts to him. Convicted murderer Terry Burgos is seated, his posture poor, shoulders slumped forward, in his orange jumpsuit. His thinning hair is in place. His face is rounded from the added weight, damaged from poor nutrition. His eyes are deep-set, a penetrating black; otherwise, his expression is utterly noncommittal.

“Mr. Burgos, you are scheduled to be executed in four days. The appellate defender’s office is attempting to reinstate your appeal in the federal courts over your objection. What do you say to that?”

Burgos blinks, his eyes moving away from the reporter. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips.

“Are you ready to die, Mr. Burgos?”

His body reacts slightly, jerking, a semblance of a smile playing on his face. Like he’s amused by a long-forgotten memory. His eyes still far away. “How do you know I’m gonna die?”

“Are you saying you can’t die?”

His face goes serious, his eyes opening wider. Like he’s day-dreaming.

“Mr. Burgos?”

“You can kill a body. You can’t kill the truth.”

A pause. A change of topics, perhaps. The subject is not making this easy. Like talking to an infant.

“Did those women deserve to die?”

Burgos leans back in his chair. He’s enjoying a thought. Like the reporter isn’t even there. “It’s not for me to decide.”

“Who decides, then?”

“You know.” Burgos rocks in a chair that doesn’t assist him. Back and forth, the first sign of animation.

“God decides,” says Carolyn Pendry. “Did God tell you to kill those women?”

“‘Course He did.” Burgos punctuates it with a jerk of his head.

“You said Ellie Danzinger was a ‘gift from God,’ Mr. Burgos. What-”

“God gave her to me.” The gentle rocking of his body accelerates.

“How did God do that?”

Burgos raises his hands for emphasis, two hands slicing the air, the shackle connecting his wrist dancing in the air. “You all think I’m crazy because I see things you don’t. But that don’t make me crazy. You all believe in the Creator and in the Second Coming, but if Jesus came down you wouldn’t believe Him.”