THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 20, 1995 TAG: 9508200035
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SERIES: Under sentence of death
Journal of a condemned man
This is one in a series of dispatches from death-row inmate Dennis
Stockton, who is scheduled to be executed Sept. 27
LENGTH: Long : 176 lines
Dennis Stockton has spent 4,449 days on death row. The building where he spent more time than any other was M Building at Powhatan Correctional Center, which houses maximum security inmates, many with behavioral problems. Some prison experts have described the building as one of the most inhumane penal facilities in America.
Russ Ford, head of Gateway Parish, a statewide ministry that provides spiritual guidance to death-row inmate and victims of violence, visited Stockton there several times.
``Each time I was there I stood in water containing human urine and excrement,'' Ford said from his headquarters in Chesterfield County. ``The only way to describe the noise level there is tormenting.''
Before Stockton was removed from Powhatan in April, shortly after he learned from his lawyers that his execution would probably take place this year, he wrote an account in his diary of one day in M Building, from the moment he woke up until he retired that night. This is that account - one day on death row in Virginia.
Feb. 24, 1995 - I'm lying on my right side when I wake up. By raising my left arm I can see my tray slot, and my thermos lying in it. I have an understanding with the midnight-to-8 a.m. shift that works quite well most mornings. As breakfast time approaches, the
guard making rounds will take my thermos and bring it back full of hot water on his next round.
Since my thermos is now lying there, it means it'll be awhile before breakfast is served. I wonder how long? My watch is on top of a book entitled ``Daily Strength For Daily Needs,'' but in order to find out the time I'll have to get up, something I don't want to do just now. I doze back off.
I have no idea how long I've slept when I awaken again, but my thermos is gone. My radio has been on all night, tuned to the Trucker's Network. It seems a bit louder now than it did when I went to sleep. A song from 1972 (I think it was) is playing. Remember ``4 In The Morning'' by Faron Young? My radio is tied to the bars at the front of my cell. This means I have to sit up in order to turn the volume down, which I do. And since I'm halfway up, I go ahead and get up and check the time. It's 4:57 a.m.
From the top tier comes the sound of cups being set in tray slots. My water will be here when the cups are set out on this tier in the next few minutes, so I go ahead and wash my hands and face. As I'm drying off, sure enough, a guard appears in front of my cell with my thermos. I say ``thanks'' and he leaves after setting a cup for juice in my slot.
Before I make my coffee, I roll two cigarettes. I don't smoke all that much but do crave a smoke when I wake up and after meals. I roll my smokes from a can of Bugler tobacco. It sells for $3.15 in the canteen here. Two packs of rolling papers sealed in plastic come with each can. There's 115 papers in each pack - leaves, as they're called. It takes a few minutes to roll my smokes. I sit down to drink it and enjoy a smoke.
The sound of commodes flushing tells me others are awake. At the first break in the flushing, I hear someone say something for the first time today. (Inmate) is asking (Guard), in a voice that really doesn't have to be that loud, ``See if you can bum me a cigarette from somewhere.''
Now that someone has spoken, others follow the lead. Soon four or five are talking at the same time, while in the background other commodes are being flushed and someone has turned up a radio. Since it's a type music I hate, I reach over and turn my volume back up. The Trucker's Network has signed off for the night and now there's a DJ doing a lot of unnecessary talking. Talking right into the beginning of a song I like. And he doesn't wait till the song is quite over before he's yapping again.
A guard comes by pouring juice. When I get up to see what kind it is, it's nothing but Kool-Aid left over from supper last night. They call it ``fruit punch'' when they serve it at breakfast. I pour it in the commode and toss the cup out on the tier. Most times I'll put the cups in my tray and slide it out under the door, but when I get Kool-Aid for breakfast, I tend to be nasty and throw cups out.
A guard sets a tray in my tray slot. I grab it quickly and check it out. Not because I'm all that hungry, but I know if it sits there long, ants will invade it. These ants are real tiny, hard to see unless I have my glasses on. I put my glasses on to inspect my tray. I'm lucky this morning. I don't find any ants. I take my glasses back off to eat.
For 13 out of 14 days, we'll have scrambled eggs. At times they're powdered eggs, other times the real thing. They're real eggs this morning. There's also grits, a dab of jelly, 2 sausages that resemble dog t---- (which I never eat) and 2 pieces of bread.
Mealtime is the quietest time here. Everybody's busy scarfing down their chow, I reckon.
Before I do anything else, I have what I call my ``quiet time,'' when I read from my Bible and a page from the book I told you my watch is laid on. My reading time varies, anywhere from a little to several chapters. The minute I'm distracted or my mind begins to wander, I close my Bible for the day. Before opening my Bible, I ask God to open my mind to understand what I'm about to read, and to guide me throughout the day.
My mood dictates what type of writing I will do. In addition to writing for this newspaper, I also put out a bi-monthly newsletter (with the help of my church) and I'm working on two books. One is fiction, the other non-fiction. I decide to work on my fiction today. My literary hero is the late Louis L'Amour. My ``good guy'' characters are patterned after his. They're from the Smoky Mountains of east Tennessee and speak in a dialect I've created especially for them. Long ago, I read that Mr. L'Amour wrote five pages a day. When the fifth page rolled out of his typewriter, he simply quit. I try to at least match his output, but will at times get caught up in the story and put out as many as 15.
I'm on my fourth page of the day when two guards come to get me for a shower. A guard will cuff me (hands behind me) through the tray slot before my door is opened. All movement is this way. One has to be careful going up and down the stairs cuffed in this fashion. Down at the shower, I'm locked in a stall before the cuffs are removed through a hole in the door. The shower itself is about the size of a phone booth. I'm lucky today, for I draw a stall that isn't full of body hair, dirty underwear, partial bars of soap or human feces. Most of the showers don't drain well. The one I draw today is like that. I'm used to washing my feet in my cell sink when returning from a shower.
My shower days are Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. That's if there's no lockdown (something we have quite a few of). If there's a lockdown, it's not uncommon to go a week between showers.
Dinner - the midday meal - is served sometime between 1:30 and 2:30 p.m. I'm not back from the shower long before it's brought around. Again, I check my tray out quickly. I wish I hadn't. The sight and smell of what's on it is enough - a rancid-smelling macaroni concoction. I slide it back out. Since the Kool-Aid is orange-flavored, I drink a cup. I roll and smoke a cigarette, my mind back in the story I'm working on. From nearby, (Inmate) gets my attention, asking, ``Dennis, what time is it?''
``2:53,'' I reply, before finishing my smoke, getting my thoughts back in order. Soon I am ``lost'' once again in my story. Creating fiction. That's my escape!
``Hot water, Dennis?''
I return to reality to find (Guard) at my door. He's one of the more considerate ones here. He's brought a pitcher of hot water for death row without, to my knowledge, anyone asking. I grab my thermos and cup.
By the time the shifts change at 4 p.m., I've managed to turn out two more pages. Once I have a page in the memory bank, I'll proofread it before running off any copies. Still, with all the uproar around me, many times I'll overlook an obvious error. Writing is the last profession one in my position should take up.
By the time the 6 p.m. news comes on, I've managed to complete two more pages. Supper and the news usually arrive at the same time. The bread is the only thing I eat off my tray. Most days my TV is not turned on. I just can't find very much interesting enough to watch. I only have the news on because the Winston Cup drivers are at Daytona, getting ready for Sunday's Daytona 500.
Everyone is talking at once now, it seems. Four times I have to stop and get something lying on the tier in front of my cell and pass it along to another inmate. Once I'm back at my typewriter, I discover four mistakes. . .
A guard comes by, passing out mail. He leaves two pieces in my tray slot. One is a tax form sent by this newspaper, the other a letter from a friend. I finish the page in my typewriter, run off my copies and put my typewriter and work up for the day.
By the time I've answered my mail, the nurse comes along passing out medications. Each night, I get a capsule for sleep. The capsule and the mail are the two things I most look forward to here each day.
I need to shave, so I do. I have to shave with an electric razor. No other type is permitted. I'm fortunate in that I have my own personal razor. If I didn't and wanted to shave, I'd have to do so with one furnished by the state, a ``community'' razor guards pass from cell to cell. I refuse to use that razor. The way I see it, it'd be like using someone else's toothbrush.
Blend in five brief phone calls with what you just read, and there you have my day. It's now approaching 10 p.m. I set the volume on my radio as I did last (and every) night, brush my teeth, say my prayer and go to bed. I'm tired and it's late. . . .
As Scarlett O'Hara said, ``Tomorrow is another day!'' ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
Dennis Stockton
FILE PHOTO
This is one day in the life of Dennis Stockton, on death row in
Virginia. He wrote an account from the moment he woke up until he
retired that night.
KEYWORDS: DEATH ROW MURDER DIARY by CNB