A Death Row Story

Content warning: this article discusses suicide and contains graphic depictions of suicide

Suicide. There is definitely no one-size-fits-all explanation for it. It's also a topic that most people can agree as being a tragedy most times it happens. I say most because I anticipate and expect little sympathy in this particular tale. I have unfortunately been present for a great number of them and the reasons range from cowardice to pettiness. I've witnessed hangings and overdoses and even suicide-by-cop to name a few. However, one stands out to me. His name was Marty.

My friend Marty was one of the fellas serving time in prison with me. We spent years on the compound just doing our time and making a good time of it. Working out, fight training, playing poker, smuggling in fresh vegetables for cooking, you name it. Like any of the fellas, we did and shared everything together. He was a terrifyingly brilliant man in such a way that he studied law in his free time. Understanding it well enough that he successfully compelled the courts to reduce his sentence twice. He actually managed to pull it off once and his reaction was, "now watch this".

However, Marty was also a wild man. He was a force of nature, an absolute tidal wave in any violent situation. I could always count on him to be one of the first to come to my aid when things got messy. It wouldn't even occur to him to ask why we were fighting until it was over. The drama never phased him though, as if he were immune to the adrenaline. He'd laugh and crack jokes even during a brawl. I remember watching him once yelping, "ow, stop it" and "you're mean" in a childishly whiny voice during a fight. Even the other guy's gang buddies couldn't help laughing as we all watched this ridiculous display.

Years passed and Marty, unlike many others, got out. He actually went home to much fanfare and celebration from us in gen-pop.  However, the game is a cruel mistress and doesn't let us go easily. Marty and I had shared a common hustle in that we loved hitting dope houses and robbing corner boys. There was something about targeting people already in the game that made it feel alright. Within a few months back on the street he got in too deep busting into one of those houses. He'd made it out but left a dead man lying inside. Or at least he believed the guy was dead. As it came to light too late, that dope boy survived. Everything would've been different had Marty known that he wasn't yet a murderer.  I hate that 'yet' is the keyword.

It was hours later when flashing red and blue lights strobed in his rearview mirror as he parked on the street where he lived.  A dead-end street. He couldn't believe that they had figured it out so quickly and wondered if one of the witnesses in that dope house had actually known him. However, in his mind, it didn't matter because he was about to go down for murder anyway.

He felt, perhaps ironically for the first time, that he had nothing to lose. He burst out of his car and began firing on the cruiser behind him as he walked toward it. By the time he reached the driver's side window, the police officer inside was already dead. Shot to death by his hand using the very guns he had taken from the dope house earlier. The dope house where no one died and no crime had been reported. This was nothing more than a routine traffic stop for failing to use his turn signal. This officer had no idea about anything that had taken place and was not there to arrest him. 

He went on the run and there was a nationwide manhunt to find him. It took a few months to catch Marty, but he was quickly convicted once they did. A conviction made simpler by the fact that he plead guilty.  Not long after he found himself on the state's Death Row. My Death Row.

I had already been the cadre on Death Row for some time at this point. I did all of the day-to-day jobs back there. Cleaning, laundry, whatever needed to be done.  His return to the joint was a somber and painful day for me. My friend wasn't coming back to gen-pop with me and the fellas to cut it up like old times. Instead, here he was on the Last Mile and he'd spend the rest of his life there.

I did everything I could to make it so he wanted for nothing. Creature comforts, double food portions, anything I could smuggle in or provide to make him comfortable he had. Being on Death Row didn't change him though. He was exactly as I remembered him. True to form, he knew what he had done and said being in that cell was right. "I was going to end up here eventually," he told me once. Nodding my head I had to agree.

Marty had no interest in filing appeals to his death sentence however they're mandatory and were filed on his behalf in spite of his wishes otherwise. "I don't want to drag this out," he said, referring to the decades-long appeal process that every inmate went through before execution. He didn't want to get out of it, he wanted to get on with it.

One winter day he called me over to tell me he's not going to wait. "I'm checking out," he said to me casually, "can you sit with me in case I say some profound shit before I die?" I knew what he really meant and agreed with an "I got you" fist bump. The next day I pulled up a plastic milk crate and sat at his door as he slit his wrists.

He had written on the cell wall a message for the officers who'd find him later that read "please change my underwear" before sitting on the bed near the door. He still wore his smile the entire time. I asked a couple of times if he was sure, that I could fetch the guards, and he said, "Yeah. I ain't in hanging out here for the next 20" and ", it's cool, they can have me today"

Bleeding to death takes longer than people believe and Marty was no exception. We made jokes about how the fellas were going to make fun of him as I kept calling him a puss. When he couldn't sit up any longer he laid down to get comfortable. I got up and stood half bent over to reach through the food slot in his door to hold his hand. Grateful that he couldn't see my face. He would've called me a bitch had he seen the tears in my eyes. I was still so young then, in my early 20's, and he had been one of my big brothers.

Controlling my voice I asked if he was scared and he told me to go fuck myself. I made small talk until It reached the point where he really wasn't holding my hand anymore. His words had deteriorated to barely a mumble. In an excited voice I said to him, "dude, the governor called, your sentence was just commuted" as a joke.

His last words to me in response with that Marty smile were "I fucking hate you". He didn't speak again and after what felt like an eternity I had no choice but to accept he was gone. I couldn't stop the strange heaving convolution in my midsection as I repressed a natural human reaction. I had already known that he'd die back there no matter what but I wasn't able to process in that moment the way he had. Marty just couldn't see the point in dragging it out. I had wanted to disagree with him back then but how? What argument could I have made when he agreed with his sentence?

He wasn't a good man but he was a good friend. He was my friend. I hated him for asking me to be there but I would've hated him more had he been alone. I don't tell his story for you to feel sympathy for him. He wouldn't want that anyway. I tell it to quiet the ghosts in my head. He paid his debt without complaint or blame for others. You'll see him as a criminal but I remember the guy who comforted me saying "you'll be alright. We got you" when I was just a scared young kid new to prison. He may have been a monster to you, but he was my friend Marty to me.