New Arrival
by Toney Davis

It had been only three hours since the sun first peeked over the horizon, but it was already a big orange flaming ball of intense heat, scorching its way across the Florida peninsula.
The transport van stopped ten feet or so away from a long concrete ramp with iron railings that ran up to the second level of a three-tiered building.
Florida State Prison, a nearly century old monstrosity, could've been easily mistaken for an abandoned building - there were dozens of windows, each measuring at least four feet high by three feet wide, with many of their small panes busted out°, and a vast amount of peeling paint°, also quite a few missing roof shingles. Its pockmarked facade clearly evidenced decades of abuse by sweltering heat, rain, and hurricane force winds.
If, however, not for the additional buildings sprouting out from both sides of the lower portion, the structure would've formed a perfect cross.
In obvious contrast to the lush green forest in the distance, just outside the three razor wire topped fences and two-foot-high coils of concertina wire running along dirt paths in-between the first and second fences and second and third, the inside grounds were barren and rather dreary: in places where the grass wasn't turning brown, it had already died°, All that remained was randomly scattered patches of dirt.
Through a thick plexiglas partition and dirty windshield, I gazed at the building in total disbelief. Although, I can honestly say that the lack of upkeep didn't surprised me, I did, however, wonder why a wrecking ball hadn't yet put the decrepit beast out of its misery. But then, remembering where we were, I reasoned it was likely due to a combination of factors - the predominant of which was deeply rooted in a longstanding component of selective 'humanity' within 'southern hospitality'.
Someone yelled.
I turned to my right and, peering through wire-mesh-covered windows, saw a group of general population prisoners trudging - like herded animals - towards the stone incline°, their similar mechanized movements and listless gaits suggesting they'd all been subjected to an indoctrination specifically designed to discourage hope, promote subjugation, and dissuade betterment of oneself.
Taking stock of the surroundings and realizing that everything I saw accurately depicted entropy at work, I shook my head in disgust and thought back to yesterday, to how I ended up in this damned mess.

When I entered the courtroom, the first face I saw was my mother's°, she was already crying. And once again, as had been the case throughout this whole sordid ordeal, the sight of her tears shattered my heart. Then when she looked up at me and tried to smile through the tears, my knees buckled. Thankfully, the bailiff escorting me, a sweet old man I had gotten to know and affectionately called Mr. Charlie, tightened his grip on my bicep to steady me.
Surprisingly, very few had shown up to witness my fate. That hadn't been the case a month earlier, when, before a packed house, a jury of my 'peers' - if, by any stretch of the imagination, one could find socioeconomic, cultural, or any other plausible parallels between the middle-to-upper-class white folk who'd sat on my jury and me, a poor, black urbanite - found me guilty.
Then - without a single shred of credible evidence to support their misguided verdicts - they recommended that I be put to death.
More than happy to oblige them, the judge took all of sixty seconds to pronounce my fate, his smug demeanor while doing so was indicative of pride in his power to condemn others. Then, just prior to an authoritatively dismissive bang of his gavel, almost as if he himself was feeling god-like, he said, "May God have mercy on your soul."
I wasn't at all shocked by the sentence. I already knew I was headed to death row. Likewise, just as I'd known - considering a trained monkey probably could've defended me better than my court-appointed attorney - the jury's verdict before it had been revealed.
Thus, my ill-fated journey began.

Now, on an already blistering July morning, arriving at what was supposed to be my final destination on earth, carrying a box filled with my sole worldly possessions, I was to enter the belly of the beast as a condemned soul only to someday exit its bowels as a lifeless configuration of justice, solace, and closure.
The passenger guard, a plump, red-faced 'good ol' boy,' opened the door and, with his right hand, grabbed the overhead handle just above the door jamb, then leaned slightly to the right, raising his left butt cheek off the seat. Next, he placed his left hand beneath his thigh, pressed it against the seat, pushed as he pulled himself up slightly, and scooted his heavy frame - maybe half an inch - across the seat. After repeating the process a few times, he was able to swing his legs around and scoot out of the van.
Once out of the van, he grabbed his pant waistband at each hip, hoisted his britches, and then spat a stream of brown tobacco juice. Inserting a key in the padlock, he removed the lock from the door, and slid it open.
"Grab ya shit an' git out"
At least I thought that's what he said: as soon as the door slid open - both the heat and the reality of my situation hit me all at the same time - my heart began pounding against my chest. My pulse thumped thunderously inside my ears. This effect drowned out all external noise°, the only sounds I could hear were coming from inside of me.
It was impossible to ignore the kind of internal tumult induced by a combination of fear and uncertainty - or, better yet, by a fear of uncertainty.
Though the door had been open for all of a minute, sweat beads were already forming on my forehead. Undoubtedly, this almost instantaneous manifestation resulted from a salvage trifecta: heat, humidity, and hair-raising thoughts.
Even after getting hit with the unjust convictions, I'd done well to push down the latter, to keep distracting thoughts from bubbling up to the surface and shifting my focus. I really didn't have time to worry about the circumstances in which I'd soon find myself. I needed to be laser focused on the appeals process, on issues related to proving my innocence - the only thing that would ease my parents' heartaches. So, essentially, my main objective would "kill two birds with one stone."
But, as I sat there, just outside of the edifice's ominous shadows, shit began get really real.
Though I'd never been to prison, I knew quite a few ex-cons, and I'd lived vicariously through many accounts of their prison tales. Gory, vile stories of crimes - beatings, rapes, murders - perpetrated by both prisoners and guards. So it wasn't like I didn't know what went on inside, what to expect°, yet, knowing did nothing to help mitigate the uneasiness that hit me as soon as we drove through the gates.
As bad, though, as things seemed, I knew this was probably as good as it would get for a while, that things would definitely get worse before they got better.
The driver, less rotund and younger than his side kick, exited, made his way around to the back of the van, opened the door, and removed my box. Then he brought it around and dropped it on the ground, not far from where his partner stood. "Well, boooyyy," his southern drawl Interrupted as he stopped to spit out a glob of brown goo, some of which not only splattered across his chin - but also the top of my box. He swiped at his chin with an open palm, casually wiped his hand on his pant leg, then looked at me and said, "you gon' git out o' my damn vehicle or whut?"
I tried to move.
My mind was telling me to slide across the bench seat towards the door, but my body just wouldn't cooperate. To make matters worse, the unapologetic and temperate July heat and humidity - white-hot against my skin - poured in, as if it were attempting to escape from itself to the van's cooler interior, and enveloped me in fiery air, thick with moisture.
Exemplifying, perhaps, what life was like for those relegated to this hellhole, pungent whiffs of rotting, sunbaked garbage mixed with the suffocating air.
"Jim, I think ya may have ta get innere a drag 'is black ass out."
Knowing the driver's words weren't just idle speak - In fact, they were not just wanting but probably dying for an excuse to come in and get me - encouraged me to get it together and formulate an exit strategy.
Making another attempt to move, I pressed my feet to the floor, and was hit with what felt like a million tiny needles stabbing at the bottoms of my feet, which had obviously fallen asleep.
The shackles - deliberately clasped tightly around my ankles - had cut off my circulation. But the prickly stinging sensation paled in comparison to the searing pain the subtle movement caused in my ankles°, almost immediately after the manacles were attached the sharp metal edges began cutting into my skin. Which was why, after a considerable walk to the van, once inside, I tried to minimize the damage and pain by limiting my movements.
But that respite had come to an end, and - in the interest of self-preservation - not wanting to be another victim of law(less) enforcement's brutality - I had to get moving.
I turned away so the guards couldn't see my face, then, wincing in pain, pressed my feet to the floor and pushed myself sideways. Even with sleepy limbs and the shackles cutting into my ankles, I was able to make significantly better progress than the guard had made in his earlier endeavors.
A couple more agonizing scoots put me at the edge of the seat.
The easy part was done.
I had two options for exiting: I could slide off the seat on to the floor, dig my heels in, and scoot forward on my butt - which, for a couple of reasons, really wasn't an option at all - or I could stand and, preferably, exit on my feet. The problem was, the chain connecting the shackles wasn't long enough to reach the ground from inside the van. So that left me with only one option - jumping out.
Swinging my legs around, I turned to face the opening and was met with sneers from the wonder twins. I flexed my legs and wiggled my toes, hoping to further awaken my half deadened lower extremities°, otherwise, the probability of a successful jump was low. Very low.
Even with sure feet and steady legs - especially considering my hands were cuffed and tethered to a chain that was wrapped and padlocked around my waist, preventing me from using my arms to help with balance - the jump could still go wrong: jump off balance or with too much force and the momentum could carry me sideways or forward, and I'd be forced to take a rather lengthy step to try to regain my balance. But, because the chain was only about a foot long, I wouldn't be able to step wide or far enough to recover. A face plant is all I would accomplish, but not before the chain jerked taunt and sliced even deeper gashes into my throbbing ankles.
I slowly eased off the seat and rose to my feet - well, half rose, anyway - stopping just before my head touched the roof. I didn't know for how long I'd be able to hold this half-squat position. The strain on my legs and feet was tremendous. But, at least, some feeling was returning.
Two steps would get me in the doorway°, I slid my left foot forward, then my right. Once there, because I was bent forward, my head was just outside the van. I raised a bit taller and pressed the back of my neck against the roof's edge, using it to help steady my stance while I took a second prepare for the jump.
Now, however, positioned to make a better assessment, I thought it would be wise to just step off the edge and drop to the ground, instead of jumping and risking bodily harm - especially since my immediate health care, now in the hands of the Department Of Corrections, would not be prioritized in my best interest.
The state of Florida had only one interest: keeping me alive long enough to strap me in "Ol' Sparky," and as the judge, pronouncing the sentence, so eloquently stated, "...send electrical currents through your body until you are dead."
Standing in the doorway, with the sustainer of life, steadily climbing higher overhead, emitting its vital radiance, I realized it had been almost three years since I'd last felt the sun on my face - a fact that led me to the conclusion that this, too, was something definitely worth adding to a growing list of things - like walking on grass - I'd taken for granted, things I'll never again overlook.
I slid my left foot forward until half of it hung over the edge of the floorboard, lifted my heel, and pointed my toes towards the ground. Then raised my right foot and extended it far enough to clear the edge. Next, I slightly shifted my weight forward, letting my left foot slide off the ledge.

As soon as my feet touched the ground, an eruption of intense, searing pain surged through both ankles. But, nonetheless - and to the obvious dismay of my observers - I was safely on the ground.
Thank GOD for even the small victories.
"Grab yo' shit an' let's go, asshole," said the portly guard, his lips pressed tight, face beet red and dripping with sweat.
I stood there, sweat starting to pour down my face, looking at him and thought, really. You can't be serious.
Obviously, he had played this little game many times before, and he knew that I knew he knew there was no way I could bend down and pick the box up, not with my hands tethered to my waist. Furthermore, I didn't know how I was supposed carry it: With my fingers extended, the distance from the tips to my abdomen was less than twelve inches°, the box was at least eighteen inches wide, so the odds of getting my hands far enough beneath the bottom to a get balanced hold weren't in my favor.
Without a doubt, he was testing me, trying to goad me into giving him an excuse - any reason - to pounce and beat me senseless.
Still, I gave him a quizzical look, spread my hands and turned my palms up as much as the cuffs allowed, shrugged my shoulders, then looked down at my manacled hands.
"Well, looka here, Joe Earl... we got us a wise ass," he said, stepping closer to me, scowling.
"It's too damn hot for this cockamamie bullshit," the driver said, snatching up the box and nudging his partner aside. "Here!" He shoved the box into my chest.
With no other options, I did the only thing I could - leaned back, centering my hands so the box wouldn't tip right or left, and pressed my chin against its top.
And that's when I saw it!
The rank glob of tobacco spit slowly oozed toward my face. Then I was hit - first, the left eye, which I squeezed shut, then the right - with hot, stinging drops of sweat. Now, with both eyes closed, panic set in because I couldn't see the brown blob charging at me°, and so I fluttered my eyelids, hoping to wipe away the burning sweat.
"Let's go! We ain't got all day, boy. Move yo' black ass!"
Between flutters I saw both guards turn and head for the ramp. Then the driver turned back towards me and spat a stream of his venom at my feet, which I thought I felt it hit the top of my left shoe.
More importantly, I could already feel the handcuffs, the heavy box weighing down on them, digging deeper into my flesh. The force from pressing down with my chin and pushing up from the bottom didn't help matters. But it was all I could do.
With as good of a hold as I would probably get, I started to take a step but was literally stopped in my tracks: Before my foot even left the ground - just easing the pressure by moving to raise it was enough - a jolt of searing pain circled my ankle. Likewise, putting my full weight back on it hurt like hell. Not that I was pain free while standing still, but it was a less intense, throbbing sensation. With any kind of movement, however, the shackles felt like they dug deeper into the skin. But walking caused the worst pain. With each step the manacles moved back and forth, rubbing against my skin, in a sawing motion around my ankles.
But it had to be done...
By the time I reached the half way point, I felt like I'd ran The NYC Marathon.
Everything hurt!
The guards, watching and waiting, probably hoping I would drop the box, were already at the ramp. "This n*gger's slow as molasses, ain't he?" the driver said, followed by a chorus of chuckles and snickers from a crowd prisoners climbing the ramp, eyeing the new death row guy.
At the top, another group entered a black hole, which, to me, looked like they were being gobbled up by an avaricious beast, an unrelenting salvage created - under the umbrella of "justice" - for the sole purpose of dragging individuals - some kicking and screaming, others willing - into the viscera of nothingness where they'd be stripped of their self-worth, of their dignity and humanity.
Even before exiting the van, then as I made the trek towards the ramp, I wondered what awaited those who had ascended to the top and entered the threshold. But as soon as I climbed the incline, following in their footsteps, I'd no longer have to wonder°, I would discover everything waiting behind the decaying walls.
"Look, Joe, ol' molasses ass finally made it."
"Yayyyyy! Now comes the fun part." I couldn't see the bottom of the ramp. There was no way for me to shift the box and take a peek, so I had no idea how high the ledge rose off the ground.And the last thing I wanted to do was clip the edge, stumble, and fall. I slightly raised my left foot - of the two, it seemed to have a bit more feeling - and, with the toe of my shoe, carefully probed until I found the concrete lip.
Again, I derived no pleasure from completing another leg of the arduous journey, only relief. Which, with what was likely the most difficult task I'd encounter now beneath my feet, didn't last very long at all.
I hadn't the slightest idea of how to go about it, but I had to figure out how to walk up the ramp - while leaning back - carrying a box that felt like its weight had already doubled.
To my right, out the corner of my eye, I saw someone who, apparently, based on the slow pace at which he moved, was up in age. Though he'd already had a significant head start, I thought it would be a good idea, as a temporary distraction from reality, to race him to the top.
"Almost home, ain't cha, boy?"
Wishing I could get the box stuck to me half as much as the sweat soaked prison uniform clung to every inch of me it touched, I turned to the railing, pressed the box against it, and pushed, hoping to get my hands a little further underneath for a better grip. Unfortunately, other than giving me a few seconds to catch my breath, it didn't help me very much. So, prepared to catch and pass the old fella, I turned back and began my ascent.
Naturally, the higher I climbed, the more I'd have to strain to maintain my equilibrium, and that's what worried me. Because I had already spent considerable energy trying to keep hold of the heavy box, the last thing I needed was an added element of physical exertion.
And, true to its laws, at about maybe an eighth of the way up, gravity pulled at me.
Please, GOD...just give me the strength....
Every muscle was already on fire. A slight pounding sensation at both temples intensified. I felt lightheaded. My mouth tasted like it had been coated with sawdust.
The misery inflicted during the entire process - the physical and mental agony - wasn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy.
Only one phrase best described it: hell on earth.
However, allowing negative thoughts, especially those about something I couldn't change, to shift my focus was counterproductive. I needed to remain locked-in on the task at hand, because, one, I really didn't want to give the guards the satisfaction of seeing me falter°, And two, there were predators - masters at detecting perceived physical and/or mental weaknesses they could exploit - lurking amongst those passing just a few feet away from me. But of the many who moved past me, then stepped around the old man, a few hesitated, which, to me, gave the impression that they may have had some desire to help one or both of us°, most, however, acted as though we were mere obstacles in their way.
Right when I needed a mental reset to help stave off negativity, the most apropos lyrics hit me:
                                             "Misery, I don't need your company
                                              Misery, just leave me alone
                                              l don't need you
                                              Misery, leave me, we don't belong..."

The chorus played over and over again in my head until I reached the top of the ramp - until I peered into the black hole, a dimly lit corridor that appeared to stretch to no end.
I had no clue where in the building death row was located. I just prayed that, wherever it was, it wasn't too far away from where I stood, because I didn't know how much longer I could hold onto the box.
The prisoners - at least a hundred or so - who'd climbed the incline ahead of me stood in a line along the right wall.
"Stay in da middle o' da hallway."
Entering, desperately trying to suppress any facial expressions that would reveal the pain wracking my body from almost head to toe, I hobbled down the hallway - in one of the most violent prisons in America - handcuffed, shackled, and totally defenseless°, only a few feet away from some of the most dangerous men known to humankind.
And, on par with its accustomed culture, had someone produced a weapon and attacked me, it would've been like any other day at FSP. I doubt that a single reaction of surprise, shock, or disappointment would've registered on the faces of those nearby..
The guards definitely wouldn't risk their lives to protect me°, in fact - despite being trained to always follow required job description tenets based on care, custody, and control - they would be the first to hightail it.
Suddenly, it happened.
About a quarter of the way down the hallway, I felt like I'd willed my fears to life. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it. With a tremendous thud, the box hit the floor.
The big boom startled those with their backs to me°, all heads snapped around, wide eyes seeking the source. And even before the echoes died, all eyes were on me.
I'd never been to a side so dark that death seemed like a welcoming alternative to whatever was happening at the time. But, looking at the box and wishing I could crawl under it and disappear, I understood how such monstrous, agonizing derailments could occur.
Neither escort guard behind me circled around to pick it up. In my peripheral, though, I saw movement to my right. Moving quickly - probably afraid of chastisement or worse - a prisoner stepped in front of me, picked up the box, and hurriedly placed in my arms.
"Thanks, bro."
Nodding acknowledgement, he hurried back to his place in line.
Unfortunately, even before he'd made it there, I felt the box slip, but I couldn't call him back.
And say what? "Dude, I know you just risked life and limb to help me, but you gotta do a better job."
Hoping we were nearing a final destination, someplace close enough for me to make it there without dropping the box - again, I continued down corridor. But as my recent run of luck - or fate or however one chose to label it - would have it, my wishful desires went unanswered.
Surprisingly, given that my grip wasn't so great to begin with, I'd somehow managed to maintain possession of the box, while making significant progress. Well, significant under the circumstances, anyway. Nevertheless, with each step I'd taken - maybe a total of twenty in all - it felt like the box was about to fall. Then, it did. Again.
Right as I approached the front of the line. This time, though, it didn't seem so dramatic.
And seeing that the first prisoner hadn't suffered any repercussions for helping me, someone immediately stepped out of line, retrieved the box, and handed it to me, taking his time to make sure I had a good grip on it.
"Got it?" He asked, with one hand still on the box.
I adjusted my hands a bit and replied, "Yeah, I got it, thanks."
"No problem."
"Come on, sweethearts. We ain't got all day."
That damned box had been so pressing, weighing me down far more mentally than physically - which said a lot. But as the recipient of two unexpected acts of kindness, I felt less distressed about the consequences of dropping it.
Nonetheless, I couldn't - wouldn't - let my guard down.
So with a renewed vigor, I successfully lugged my belongings to a central control room that sat four catty-corner to four intersecting corridors, two of which had iron gate entryways. The gate straight ahead was locked, but the one to the left was swung wide.
"New arrival! Arriving at Time Square!" The driver shouted, moving around me toward the window.
"New arrival!, His partner echoed as they stepped up to the window. "Heard y'all had a recent vacancy open up," he said to the female guard behind the glass.
Then they all laughed.
"Yeah, I guess we do. Got his paperwork?" She said, shuffling some papers on the desk in front of her. Then, as she reached into a box to her left, the driver took my box, dropped it, broke the tape, and retrieved a manila folder from inside. When he slid it through a slot under the window, she grabbed it and flipped it open, eyeing its contents for a second, before picking up the phone. "Vin, we gotta death row gain out here."
Somewhere nearby, a door slammed several seconds later. A few seconds after that, I heard keys jingling. Then a guard rounded the corner. "Wass up gents?" He said to the escorts. "Let me get this set-up off and get you boyz on yo way." Walking past me, he said, "Turn around and lean against the cage."
When I turned I saw three tiny wire-mesh cages I hadn't noticed when we approached. They sat just to the left, against a wall facing the control room. I stepped forward and, as I leaned my shoulder against the steel grate, he told me to raise my left foot. But then, just as I'd started to lift it, he reached down and yanked the chain.
I wanted to cry out at the pain, but I clinched my jaws, threw my head back in silent agony, and bared my teeth at the ceiling. Then I pressed my forehead - hard - against the warm steel, as he started removing the manacle, which - because it had penetrated my skin, it was actually being unpierced, not just simply removed from around my ankle - made the pain from when he yanked the chain almost pale in comparison. But once it was off, thought, there was still a considerable amount of hurt, I breathed a sigh of relief and quickly raised my right foot.
After he'd finished, as he was handing the restraints to the escort guard, I looked over my shoulder and saw red smudges on them. "Alright, let me get that chain," he said, inserting a key in the lock. After he removed it, he told me to turn to him. I turned, he removed the black box, handed it the to the guard, and opened the tiny cage. "Step in."
When I stepped in, he closed the door, and told me to stick my hands out the small rectangle opening cut into the door. Even before he'd taken the handcuffs, I saw smears of blood on my wrists and forearms. But, again, as with the shackles, it hurt so good to have them off. This time, however, the relief was short-lived: he told me to turn around, and when I did, he reached in, slapped another pair around my wrists - right over top of the slashes made by those he'd removed.
"Dead man walking!" the van driver yelled, referencing a new film about Sister Helen Prejean and a death row prisoner, played by Sean Penn, that was projected to be blockbuster. "Oh, wait... that's him, not me," he said, pointing at me, before they turned and walked away, laughing.
When I sat down on the bench, which was maybe six inches wide, my knees were only a couple of inches away from the door, and my shoulders weren't much further than that away from touching the sides of the cage.
After I'd been sitting there - hands behind my back - thirty or more minutes, I saw an officer pushing a flatbed dolly from the direction of what would've been the base of the cross, the portion of the building with additions burgeoning out of both sides. He rolled through the open gate and into 'Time Square,' lifted my box, threw it on the dolly, and reversed course.
A half an hour turned into over two hours, and despite plenty of gawkers passing by, no one had uttered a single word to me. A short while later, I saw the same guard, the one who'd picked up my belongings, walking back towards me°, this time he walked up to the cage and inserted a key. "Follow me," he said, opening the door.
I stepped out, he slammed the door, turned and retraced his steps. I followed him into a large room, with boxes, TVs, radios, and other miscellaneous items sitting on the floor and two selves running along two walls. My box sat on a cluttered wooden table to our right.
"Turn around." When I turned my back to him, he unhooked one cuff, and told me to turn back. Then he clasped it back around my wrist, pointed to where the box sat, and told me to sign the property slip on the table.
After I signed it, he grabbed the box, placed it in my arms, and told me to follow him.
Out the door, he turned left, and shouted, "Clear the hall!"
Several doors stood open, on both sides of the hallway, but I didn't see a soul anywhere°, I, however, was more focused on the fact that the box was so much easier to carry with my hands untethered. Although its weight still bore down on the handcuffs, I could maintain enough leverage to prevent them from cutting into existing slashes around my wrists.
In that moment, walking down the corridor, carrying the box - the same tobacco-spit-stained holder of my worldly possessions - that, just a few hours earlier, had seemed to be the bane of my existence, I was experiencing a life lesson, one that was proof positive that anything - big or small - was possible with faith, time and perseverance.
A few feet before reaching the first door to our left, we came to a huge window, a space where a section of wall had been cut out and replaced with panes of glass.
Peering inside, I saw five, maybe six, prisoners watching TV. Several heads turned, eyes peering back as we passed. Then when we reached the door, a quick glimpse inside revealed three tiers of cells that stretched for approximately thirty yards.
From the other side of the hallway, laughter erupted. I turned and saw three prisoners, standing just inside the doorway, conversing. They, too, had eyes on us, watching as we passed by.
Another gate stood about a half of a football field away, and I wondered if that's where we were headed. If I had to guess, I would say that death row was locked somewhere behind those steel bars.
Moving along, through a few more windows and doors, we earned a few more stares.
But at the last window, mere steps away from the final gate, I saw shelves stocked with all sorts of merchandise - prepackaged meals, chips, candy bars, healthcare and personal hygiene items - everything one would find on shelves in any grocery or convenient store.
While the guard unlocked the gate, I stared at the shelves, eyeing items and thinking about the goodies I'd been eating since I was a young kid - anything to avoid thinking about what was beyond the gate.
However, as the human mind would have it, because I wanted to ignore it - and with the box no longer providing a significant distraction - the issue loomed larger: as he inserted the key, the metallic scraping sound seemed as loud as a sword being sharpened in preparation for a beheading, and then the click of the disengaging locking mechanism boomed, like a single gunshot - reverberating off the walls like a ricochet, hitting me from both sides - fired as a warning, a reminder that there were no more reprieves, no more escaping the reality that awaited me.
No longer able to delay the inevitable, I walked through the gate.
Straight ahead was a steel door with the letter Q stenciled above it. The letter P identified the door on the right. On my left, the first of two doors had an S above it, and the second door - R wing - was where the guard headed, after relocking the gate.
He banged the key several times against the steel door. A few seconds later, at the conclusion of the corresponding sounds, the door swung open.
"One deaths row gain," he said to the guard who opened it, who looked like he should've been sitting in a high school math class, instead of manning the door to Florida's death row. Then, without awaiting a response or saying another word, he turned and headed back towards the gate.
The guard swung the door wide and took a step back, inviting me to enter.
Standing outside of death's door, my mind raced, trying to sort through emotions - fear, doubt, confusion, anger - I no longer felt the ephemeral, burning pain in my ankles and wrists. Internal hurt - aches that salve couldn't soothe, that would persistently throb in my soul as long as I remained wrongfully imprisoned - replaced the physical pain.
"I think you goin' in cell seven."
Had he not spoken, who knows how long I would've stood there, in a daze, staring past him and seeing nothing.
Slowly, crossing the threshold, I entered a space no larger than ten by twelve feet, then took a couple of steps away from the door to give him enough room to close it. Stopping in front of a whiteboard tacked to the left wall, I heard voices°, it sounded like they were coming from somewhere behind the back wall, which, flanked by steel bars, was opposite the door. Against it sat the only furnishings: a cluttered desk and two metal chairs. Stacked milk crates held a yellow Igloo water cooler, and a box fan in the right corner circulated hot, smoky air.
The guard pulled the door closed, and, as he inserted the key to relock it, another guard, cigarette in hand, appeared from somewhere around the corner, to the right.
"What we got Phelps?"
"A gain, Sarge."
"Where ya puttin' 'im?"
"Ahh." Eyeing the whiteboard behind me, "Yeah, seven." The sergeant dropped his smoke, crushed it under foot and walked over to the left side of the back wall, to an oblong metal box, next to the steel bars. When he grabbed a chest-high handle on front of the box and pulled down, the box started separating in the center°, the lower he pulled the bottom portion, the higher the top rose.
I watched it gradually open wider, like a huge rectangle metal mouth, revealing a number of levers - maybe twenty - lined from top to bottom. A small wheel, with a handle attached, was at the very bottom.
"Follow me," the young guard said, walking past me towards his superior.
At the steel bars - which I hadn't realized was actually a gate - he inserted a key, as the Sergeant reached into the box, pulled one of the levers, and then started turning the wheel.
The voices abruptly quieted.
The guard opened the gate and stepped into a narrow, dimly lit walkway - which was actually part of a hallway that had been divided, though, not equally, by floor-to-ceiling steel bars.
Then I entered the abyss.
The first thing that hit me - stifling heat. Then, from my immediate right, a strong, musty, moldy odor - emanating from a dark, dank shower - hit me next. While, to my left, on the other side of the steel bars, sunlight filtered in through grimy windows.
As I approached a second odoriferous shower, someone address the guard.
"P man! What's up? When y'all gon' lemme out?"
"Yeah. Sarge gon' roll your door soon as I put 'im up."
"OK. . ." "What up, young blood?" "Aight," I replied, starting to turn my head to look at whoever had addressed me, then - remembering I'd heard ex-cons, referring to the "laws of the jungle," say that looking in another man's cell was a cardinal sin, punishable by death - I quickly pivoted to a chin-up head nod, my eyes stayed on the guard a few feet ahead of me.
As I passed several cells, I felt eyes on me. And in my peripheral, dim light radiated from a couple of them, but no other words were spoken.
The guard stopped.
And I knew exactly what it meant: he had reached my final destination and was waiting for me to catch up to him, for me to step into the cage so he could lock me in and seal my fate with one huge, earth-shattering CLANG!
Instantly, time seemed to slow down, and all of my thoughts - which had been focused on my surroundings - simply vanished. Suddenly, my legs were heavy. It felt like I'd been abruptly dropped into the deep end of a swimming pool, where resistant waters fought against me, restricting my movements, and weighed me down.
I stopped when I reached him. Standing at the door, looking into the dark space, I saw a porcelain toilet and sink against the back wall, to my right. Above them, an air vent - smaller than a sheet of paper - was the only ventilation°, and even in the darkness, I could see that it was clogged with dust. A metal bunk, topped with a sliver of a mattress, was bolted to the left wall. Just above it, a small stand was attached to the back wall. A metal footlocker was pushed half way under the foot of the bunk.
The guard, reaching his hand through the bars, tugged a string hanging from the ceiling. A dim 40-watt bulb blinked to life. "She's all --"
Suddenly, from behind the locker, a two inch cockroach scurried into the hallway, onto him shoe, and was halfway up his leg before he began stamping his foot. "Sonofbitch!" He shouted, panicking, as the giant roach scaled his pant leg. Once the critter was up to his knee, with no other options to dislodge it, he frantically swiped at it. He managed to knock it to the floor, then went about trying to stomp it. He could manage only two attempts before the lightening quick pest scampered unscathed into the empty cell next door.
"Ya bitch!"
"Get 'im Phelps?" The sergeant asked, watching the action from the entrance.
"Naw. Bastard got away." Laughter flooded the hallway, followed by a couple of sarcastic remarks:
"You'll gettim next time, champ!"
"Gotta be a lil quicker on the draw!"
"Yeah, yeah. Haha," he retorted. Then, wiping sweat from his brow, he turned to me and said, "Go on set your things on the bunk and lemme get them cuffs off."
I really didn't want to set foot inside the cage. But with no other options - save a beat down - I reluctantly entered.
Before I could even make it to the bunk, the door slammed shut behind me.
"The runaround'll bring you a bedroll in a few. Sarge lettin' 'im out now."
I placed the box on the bunk, returned to the door, and stuck my hands through the food flap.
As soon as he removed the cuffs and walked away, I stripped down to my boxers, threw the sweat-drenched uniform on top of the locker, then sat on the edge and went about the painful task of peeling off my bloody socks. Then, easing back into my shoes, I stood in the middle of the cell and stretched both my arms out towards each wall - which I could've easily touched, had I not been afraid to touch the peeling pale yellow paint, with several layers of at least three different colors beneath it. Next, I walked to the back wall and counted four steps to the bars.
That's what my entire world had been reduced to. Well, mine and the dime-sized spider nestled in a web in the corner above the door.
"Neighbor that just moved in seven," a voice said, "I'm next door in six. I'm Ken."
"What's up, Ken?"
"Just checkin' to see if you need anything."
"Yeah, I'd appreciate something to clean with. When was the last time someone was in here?"

"The dude that was last in there, was executed yesterday."

I didn't reply. I couldn't. Instead, I just flopped down on the bunk, leaned forward, elbows to thighs, and stared down at the floor.
I finally understood why - not why, as nothing about death is funny, but the motivation for their twisted humor - the guards were joking and laughing about a vacancy opening up yesterday - the same day I'd been sentenced to die.
Hours later, not long before sunrise, I fell asleep and dreamt of retracing my steps back down the long corridors and walking - unfettered - to freedom.
For how long shall sleep be my only freedom?