The Remote Possibility of Death
by Wyatt Kroopf
1.
In 2006, a judge in California ruled that no more executions
could take place at San Quentin Prison until a new execution
chamber was built. The reasons: the old chamber was too cramped,
witnesses complained of sharing air and sweaty shoulders rubbing
against grieving faces. The old chamber was too dimly lit,
staff had to squint to find veins and still tubes were misplaced,
missing the mark, collapsing the veins. Witnesses complained
that the death was too dark, the relief too grim.
Fluorescent lighting was mandated.
The old chamber had poor sight-lines, defeating the purpose
of witness, forcing everyone to balance on tiptoes to get a good look
at the slumped body on the gurney.
The staff’s confirmation of death was rendered a guess.
Guessing was permitted. Visual evidence was not required, but suggested.
2.
The new execution chamber had a blueprint. The lines designating
the rooms were crisp, cleanly slicing the space into its varied purposes.
There would be more space to breathe, for most.
The views would be much improved, a direct line from eyes to gurney.
Everyone would be able to see better because the light would be bright
but not blinding.
3.
From 2007 to 2010, the new execution chamber was built by prisoners. For free.
It met or exceeded expectations, I’m told.
4.
The new execution chamber has a hole in the wall. The hole is circular
and cased with a dull gray rubber. It looks like a peephole,
an enticement to peer into. But it’s too large. There’s no glass
to distort the image on the other side. It is not a peephole, I’m told.
There can be no glass due to the purpose of the hole: injection, not observation.
Hands slip tubes through to other hands that receive tubes
to slip into veins on the arms of the body on the gurney.
The more hands, the better, I’m told. Responsibility spread
is responsibility diminished. The hole is directly above the head
rest of the gurney. The gurney is mint green
like the dresses that waitresses at diners wore in the 1950s
and like surgical gloves—a relic marking the progress
of precision. The slumped body in the gurney endures the appearance
or the perfection of painless death. It is not known which.
But, I’m told, it’s scientifically verified. The hole in the wall is? I ask.
No, lethal injection is scientifically verified. I thought we were talking about
the hole in the wall.
5.
Above the hole in the wall is a square of glass. It is a window
and a mirror, I’m told. I don’t get it. A window and a mirror? I ask.
Like in crime shows, you know, I’m told, when cops interrogate bad guys
while other cops watch from the other side. But who’s being interrogated? I ask.
No, lethal injection, I’m told, we’re talking about lethal injection.
6.
Eyes behind the mirror, looking out the window at me, watching
the slumped body in the gurney, or, me watching myself witness.
I can’t see hands doing the injecting. I can’t see eyes, not watching
me, but scrutinizing the slumped body on the gurney, waiting
for the moment the chest ceases movement, I’m told.
Then, marking down the time.
7.
Above the square of glass is a clock. The clock has read 12:01
since 2010, when the new execution chamber was completed.
It is not stuck, I’m told. They are waiting, I’m told, for a body
to slump on the gurney. The clock only marks time
between the white fluorescent walls. Refuses to mark
the years dribbling out of the dirty spigots next door.
Refuses to mark indistinguishable days confined next door.
Refuses to mark wasted time, I’m told.
So, no one’s been killed in this room, yet? I ask.
Lethally injected, I’m told. So, no one’s been killed in this room, yet? I ask.
Lethally injected, I’m told. No, I’m told,
not yet.
In 2006, a judge in California ruled that no more executions
could take place at San Quentin Prison until a new execution
chamber was built. The reasons: the old chamber was too cramped,
witnesses complained of sharing air and sweaty shoulders rubbing
against grieving faces. The old chamber was too dimly lit,
staff had to squint to find veins and still tubes were misplaced,
missing the mark, collapsing the veins. Witnesses complained
that the death was too dark, the relief too grim.
Fluorescent lighting was mandated.
The old chamber had poor sight-lines, defeating the purpose
of witness, forcing everyone to balance on tiptoes to get a good look
at the slumped body on the gurney.
The staff’s confirmation of death was rendered a guess.
Guessing was permitted. Visual evidence was not required, but suggested.
2.
The new execution chamber had a blueprint. The lines designating
the rooms were crisp, cleanly slicing the space into its varied purposes.
There would be more space to breathe, for most.
The views would be much improved, a direct line from eyes to gurney.
Everyone would be able to see better because the light would be bright
but not blinding.
3.
From 2007 to 2010, the new execution chamber was built by prisoners. For free.
It met or exceeded expectations, I’m told.
4.
The new execution chamber has a hole in the wall. The hole is circular
and cased with a dull gray rubber. It looks like a peephole,
an enticement to peer into. But it’s too large. There’s no glass
to distort the image on the other side. It is not a peephole, I’m told.
There can be no glass due to the purpose of the hole: injection, not observation.
Hands slip tubes through to other hands that receive tubes
to slip into veins on the arms of the body on the gurney.
The more hands, the better, I’m told. Responsibility spread
is responsibility diminished. The hole is directly above the head
rest of the gurney. The gurney is mint green
like the dresses that waitresses at diners wore in the 1950s
and like surgical gloves—a relic marking the progress
of precision. The slumped body in the gurney endures the appearance
or the perfection of painless death. It is not known which.
But, I’m told, it’s scientifically verified. The hole in the wall is? I ask.
No, lethal injection is scientifically verified. I thought we were talking about
the hole in the wall.
5.
Above the hole in the wall is a square of glass. It is a window
and a mirror, I’m told. I don’t get it. A window and a mirror? I ask.
Like in crime shows, you know, I’m told, when cops interrogate bad guys
while other cops watch from the other side. But who’s being interrogated? I ask.
No, lethal injection, I’m told, we’re talking about lethal injection.
6.
Eyes behind the mirror, looking out the window at me, watching
the slumped body in the gurney, or, me watching myself witness.
I can’t see hands doing the injecting. I can’t see eyes, not watching
me, but scrutinizing the slumped body on the gurney, waiting
for the moment the chest ceases movement, I’m told.
Then, marking down the time.
7.
Above the square of glass is a clock. The clock has read 12:01
since 2010, when the new execution chamber was completed.
It is not stuck, I’m told. They are waiting, I’m told, for a body
to slump on the gurney. The clock only marks time
between the white fluorescent walls. Refuses to mark
the years dribbling out of the dirty spigots next door.
Refuses to mark indistinguishable days confined next door.
Refuses to mark wasted time, I’m told.
So, no one’s been killed in this room, yet? I ask.
Lethally injected, I’m told. So, no one’s been killed in this room, yet? I ask.
Lethally injected, I’m told. No, I’m told,
not yet.
Wyatt Kroopf is a writer and educator based in Baltimore, Maryland. Currently, he works as the artist-in-residence at Baltimore United Viewfinders, where he teaches writing and digital storytelling to Baltimore youth.