Security has become less intense, even though the execution process involves about 120 prison staff. Today I get into the prison with hardly more hassle than it takes to get into a concert. I only have to produce ID twice - the first time when I arrive at the waiting room, and the second time when they take me to the death chamber.
There's something about the demeanor of prison officials that tells you they know there's something wrong about executions. In the waiting room, they greet the witnesses with forced joviality, and speak to us kindly. One of them remarks that I've grown a beard since he last saw me. He points to a table laden with sandwiches, fruit cocktail and soda, and tells us to help ourselves. There's Poland's son Kent, Kent's wife Natalie, Poland's son Marshall, and another writer Poland has invited. Baich's investigator, Lisa Eager, is not going to be a witness, but she's here in the waiting room, with Baich's cellular phone, hoping for a call from a judge. Baich is with Poland.
Dale Baich is the last visitor Michael Poland will have. But Poland doesn't seem to realize this.
"I'm not," Baich says.
"Why not?"
Baich doesn't say anything.
As the guards take Baich out of the room, Poland calls out a good-bye. Baich looks back. Poland is standing in front of the toilet, with his back to Baich, taking a piss. He looks over his shoulder, smiles, and waves with his free hand.
They've moved us to another waiting room, next to the death chamber. It's around two-thirty. An official comes in and reads us a briefing, telling us what's going to happen. He stammers as he reads it.
Kent and Natalie Poland sit huddled together in intimate grief, reading a page of the Bible. From time to time they sing or hum quietly, something that sounds like a hymn, but so quiet I can't make it out, and I'm not about to ask them what it is. She's crying, and Kent is kissing her, whispering to her. His brother stares into space.
Natalie and her father-in-law are close, but, because she's not immediate family, she hasn't been allowed to visit him since his execution date was set. Eight days ago, he wrote her a letter, six handwritten pages. The tone throughout was cheerful. She had recently sent him some photographs of her daughter, and the letter began, "Nat, THANK YOU so much for ALL these wonderful, beautiful pictures of "you-know-who'! (Don't want her head to swell anymore, right?) As I told Kent, though, the little one of her in her PJ's and the black hat had black ink spots all over it as it looks like the ink was still wet when you sealed it. No big thing really, but I wanted you to know all the same so if you use that pen in the future just wait a bit till it dries, OK lady?" He went on to chat about the child's health, and then recommended that she check out various recordings by Marty Robbins, Elvis Presley and Jim Ed Brown. He talked about the books he'd been reading recently - Emerson and Twain - and about the number of weddings that were happening that month. Towards the end of the letter he wrote, "Well, I saved the best (NOT!) for last, this thing with them stopping your visiting. I spoke just briefly with Warden Terry yesterday and he mentioned that Kent had either spoken with him or was pursuing it otherwise. However, he also fell back on quoting policy so I don't think there will be any change anytime soon. As such, we'll just have to wait until this is over and they move me back and then you'll be able to visit again as before as I won't be on "isolation' any longer. It's no big deal, Nat, so don't even bother yourself about it as it'll just be another week or so and then I'll be seeing your smiling face again. Oh, and Frenchbraid Megan's hair for me too, please!" "-
After Baich has left the condemned cell, they come for Michael Poland. They lead him to a gurney and strap him down. Then they put catheters into the veins of one of his arms. With some inmates, the veins are hard to find, so they dissect the arm, with the inmate fully conscious, until a useable vein is discovered. This process is known as "cutting down." But Michael Poland is spared it. His veins aren't hard to find.
This is done without witnesses present. It's a cosmetic maneuver worthy of an advertising agency. They tuck a sheet around him, and strategically position the gurney so that, when the curtain opens, the witnesses will see no sign of needles, tubes or catheters. Poland will look like a man tucked cozily in bed, waiting for someone to bring him coffee.
Once he's been strapped down and his veins catheterized, they leave him lying there for about a half-hour. There are still appeals pending. It's about five minutes past three when all the appeals have been thrown out, and they know there has been no last-minute reprieve. They give the order to pull back the drape.
Poland raises his head and looks to his right, at the soundproofed window. It's hard for him to see the media witnesses, who're standing at the back of the room. At the front, standing close to the glass, are his witnesses and the witnesses for one of his victims. He looks at his family and smiles, then peers at the other witnesses, as though he's enjoying the attention.
Terry Stewart, the Director of the Department of Corrections, comes into the room and stands near the foot of the gurney. He asks Poland if he has any last words.
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