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Reprinted by permission of jane davis (c) 1999 from "Chicken Soup for the Prisoner's Soul" by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Tom Lagana. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder no portion of this publication may be reproduced without, prior written consent. All rights reserved. |
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by jane
davis I first met Larry a
few years ago. Knowing the spiritual work I did in
prisons, coupled with Larry's zest for things of the
spirit, his parents suggested I meet him. Larry and I
corresponded and he put me on his visitorís
list. I didn't really know
what to expect the day I arrived to see him. What I knew,
as I always know, was that a human being was going to
come out and meet with me. Like every relationship it
would take on its own qualities. In Texas, all death
row visits take place behind glass and wire mesh. Once a
man goes to death row, he never again touches or hugs his
loved ones. Not even on the day he is killed. Final
good-byes are said behind glass, even to one's children
and mother. I sat on one side of
the wire-ribboned glass, waiting for Larry to come out
and sit on the other side. A young-looking, balding man
with bushy eyebrows and intense eyes was led to his
chair. He wore the prison whites of Texas and a gentle,
beaming smile. My hands automatically went up on the
glass, fingers spread wide as if giving an alien hug. His
hands met mine on the other side. We smiled and nodded
and took a deep breath acknowledging, in some unspoken
way, where we were. Death row. Larry had been sitting
on Texas' death row for seventeen years. When he was a
teenager, he was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic but
was refused help from the state because he wasn't
violent. One day he killed five people. Instead of
receiving help, he was sentenced to death. Over the years, I came
to know Larry as an intelligent, caring, searching human
being. Strange words to apply to one who carries the
label "mass murderer." But even Larry searches for an
answer as to why he really did what he did that fateful
night and has spent years trying to meet with the
victim's families to apologize and provide a space for
them to heal. When I first met him, I had no idea of what
he was on death row for. While that is often the first
question asked of me -- "What did he do?î -- it is
often the last thing I come to know about the people I
meet with behind bars. In August 1999,
Larry's time had come. He had his date with death: August
17 at 6 P.M. For Larry, that was all right; he was
prepared to die. Preparing for death is
not like getting ready for a dance. It is an integrated
challenge of the body, mind, and soul. People living on
death row live with death differently than anyone else.
Larry prepared for years for this moment; in the final
days and hours he combined fasting and prayer and
focus. Larry has often told
me, "They can't kill me." It's one of the theosophical
beliefs he holds; others have used that quotation to
question his sanity. What he means is that his physical
body can die but his soul, his spirit, will go on. His
belief in the hereafter is one of the gifts he cultivated
as a result of his life, these last years, daily
revolving around death. Facing death, whether it be as a
result of a fatal illness or execution, has a way of
strengthening one's life. The final hour that
Larry was allowed to spend with others was spent with
those who were spiritually connected with him to help
prepare for his moment of departure. While the noise of
the prison visiting room echoed around us, we created a
place of peace within a harsh, cold, deadly environment.
Five of us sat in a semi-circle on one side of the glass
as Larry, adorned with wooden prayer beads, faced us. For
an hour we meditated together. Virtually no words were
spoken except a whispered "I love you"; heads nodded in
solemn, gentle bows as we offered final
good-byes. The next time we would
see Larry he would be strapped to a gurney with an IV
needle in his arm. He would not look at us. His path,
Sant Mat ñ a Sikh derivative -- teaches him to be
focused on where he is going and not to take any
connection to this life with him. But it was not to be.
An hour later, as he was arriving at The Walls unit in
downtown Huntsville, he was notified that he had received
a stay. He had already sent all of his belongings for
bequeathing. I was told that he looked out the window,
silently, when told the news. Generally a stay is
something to celebrate. In Larry's case it was
bittersweet. Not long after, I
received a call from a state-appointed psychologist. He
wanted to know if I thought Larry was mentally competent.
The competency law in Texas is simply defined: first,
does the person understand the imminent nature of what he
is facing -- in other words, death -- and second, does he
understand why he is being executed? It was a humbling
moment for me. I was being brought face to face with
telling the truth. Never did I ever imagine that telling
the truth would contribute to the killing of a human
being. I knew Larry had given
this man my name and number. I also knew he wanted me to
speak the truth as I knew it. "Did Larry ever speak
to you about his burial arrangements?" I was
asked. "Yes," I answered and
described what he desired to be done with his
remains. "Did Larry ever talk
with you about bequeathing his property?" "Yes," I replied and
shared what Larry wanted done with them his books, his
poetry, his writings and his musical
instruments. "Is there anything, in
all the time you've met with him, that you could share
that might indicate that he is not competent?" I wept
quietly, feeling the enormity of the questions and the
answers. "I wish I could lie," I whispered. Larry was executed on
January 21, 2000 and declared dead at 6:16 p.m.; seven
minutes after the first chemical entered his system. In
the week prior to his death, Larry repeated words
expressed over the years. ìI did a terrible thing
taking the lives of their loved ones. To say
ëIím sorryí seems so hollow. I wish I
could tell you why things happened as they did, but it is
all still very much a mystery to me. I hope they will be
able to forgive me.î Itís often
abhorrent for many people to apply the word "human being"
to those who have crossed certain human lines. One of the
most valuable lessons I continue to learn from Larry --
and others who live in prison and death row -- is not
only the depths to which man can fall, but also the
spiritual heights to which man can rise, and change, and
grow. This applies even to those who have murdered and
raped. Because, really, All I
know when I meet a human -- whether inside the walls or
out -- is that I know I know nothing about them. I merely
yearn to know my "neighbors" -- their good inclinations
as well as evil inclinations -- so I can practice
applying the gut-wrenching, humbling action of
love. |