THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, September 13, 1995 TAG: 9509130398
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, the next man scheduled to die in Virginia's death chamber.
SOURCE: DENNIS STOCKTON
LENGTH: Long : 148 lines
On Monday, they brought me to the prison where the state eventually will kill me, if the U.S. Supreme Court lets them and unless Gov. Allen intervenes.
I came here in a white van, arriving at 4 p.m. It could be the last time I ever move.
I'm sitting here right now in a cell at Greensville Correctional Center. There is no toilet paper. There is no electric fan to move the stifling air. There is a light over my head that never goes out because I can't turn it off or on.
I didn't have any advance notice that I was coming here, but I didn't expect any. I knew the state would move me from death row at Mecklenburg Correctional Center to Greensville no less than 15 days before my execution date. That execution date was set for Sept. 27, but I have a temporary stay, one that the state is fighting. It is clear they want to kill me as quickly as possible.
They sent me here with almost none of my personal effects. The only thing I have is a manuscript in a legal folder, my sunglasses and two packs of Marlboros. They even took my shoes. I'm now wearing an orange prison jumpsuit and shower shoes.
I had to leave everything else I own at Mecklenburg.
I have no toothbrush. No comb. No mirror. No razor. No writing implements. No clothes. They even took my red bandana, my St. Christopher's crucifix and my Bible.
They also kept my typewriter. That will make it all the more difficult for me to file my stories as I count off the days to my killing date. But that will not stop me from telling my story.
I'm angry and frustrated. I feel the state has a vendetta against me for telling the truth about what goes on in Virginia's prisons, about what it's really like on death row.
They have put me in D Building, a segregation unit where all the disciplinary cases - nut cases - are held. I can hear them ranting and screaming. I can hear them beating and banging, just like in M Building at Powhatan. I can hear the sounds of madness all around me.
Today during lunch at Mecklenburg, a guard came up and hollered for everybody to get ready for rec. I was sitting with my friend Steve. It was about 1 p.m. The officer told me I was leaving.
I was sent to my cell and the officer told me to start packing. I filled boxes with legal papers, books, manuscripts, clothing, my TV, my radio and my typewriter.
After I finished packing, they handcuffed me again, put my boxes in a laundry cart and took me downstairs to the property control room. An officer inventoried my property, which took more than an hour. Then the property was repacked in the same boxes.
I was placed in full restraints, including leg irons. A nurse came by and they took the handcuffs off to give me my medicine: 5 milligrams of Valium.
They put my property in what looked like a trailer and drove it to the sally-port gate. I walked to the gate and climbed into the back of a white van by stepping up on a blue milk carton. A female officer arrived and told me we couldn't take any property except a carton of cigarettes and a small amount of legal papers.
I asked why my property was being held at Mecklenburg. I had signed a receipt for all the property. Sgt. Crenshaw, who was in charge, said, ``We've got orders.''
I have no doubt that somebody from the attorney general's office will be going through my property, especially my writings.
Three of us left Mecklenburg: an officer driving the van, Crenshaw riding shotgun and me shackled in the back. The driver made the right turn onto U.S. 58 at 2:43 p.m. Crenshaw's head was leaning against the side of the van, and before I knew it he was asleep. Behind us was an escort - a small blue car.
When we arrived at Greensville, a man named Wayne Brown came over and opened the door. Crenshaw woke up and got out. Brown introduced himself and told me why I'm here: I've got an execution date.
They took my carton of cigarettes and the legal folder over to the medical unit and X-rayed them.
A sergeant came out and told me that I was going to D Building, a segregation unit. Once I was in the contact visiting room there, they took off all the restraints. They told me to empty my pockets, and I did: a red bandana handkerchief, a white handkerchief, a cigarette lighter, cigarettes, the St. Christopher crucifix a friend gave me, my sunglasses.
They took me into a bathroom, told me to take my clothes off and gave me a body search. Then they brought me the orange jumpsuit, took my regular shoes and gave me the shower shoes.
An officer came in and wanted to know what size clothes I wear. They searched my folder again. It contained a copy of The Daybook, my autobiography. A man in civvies wanted to keep it, but I said no, Bantam Books has it under consideration. They kept my shoes, handkerchiefs, lighter and crucifix. They told me the it would be stored in personal property and I'll get it when I leave here.
After putting on the jumpsuit, I was brought upstairs and put in a cell. On the way, Lem Tuggle saw me and yelled, ``Hey, how ya doing?'' Tuggle has been on death row longer than any other inmate in Virginia except me and is here for the same reason I am: He has a killing date. Like me, he has a stay that the state is fighting.
Right now I'm in my cell sitting on a mattress on a bed similar to the one at Mecklenburg. The bed is unmade. There is a pillow with no pillow case.
Not only is there no toilet paper, there is no soap. A cup of pink Kool-Aid was delivered along with the evening meal. I'm not sure what the meal was, but what it looked like was what you would see after a drunk vomited. They gave me two packs of my cigarettes and a pack of matches.
A Dr. Switzer came by to give me a physical, but he didn't come in my cell. The exam was conducted through the food-tray slot.
He took my blood pressure. He didn't tell me what it was, but said it was fine. He told me I'd get my regular medication.
He looked in my mouth and saw a cavity.
``How long has it been since you've seen a dentist?'' he asked.
``Back in 1984,'' I told him.
Then I told him the only doctors I've since since 1984 were psychiatrists and an eye doctor.
Before I had come into the cell, they weighed me, and I was 148 pounds. When I was weighed back in April, I weighed 168. It frightened me when that man said I weighed 148 pounds; there's got to be a reason for me losing that much weight. Dr. Switzer said he would arrange for an X-ray.
A Sgt. Reed brought me an orientation packet. It warns about abuse of food trays or food products. It says that 30 to 40 minutes after each meal, inmates must return food trays, beverage containers and utensils. An inmate who throws anything will get nine consecutive bag meals, the handbook says. Because of this policy, I can't keep a cup to get a drink of water.
The handbook says you have to stand up for count every day at 11 a.m., 3 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. It also explains that inmates now have to co-pay medical bills.
Right now, I'm sitting in an empty cell. I was ordered here by the regional administrator, W.P. ``Buck'' Rogers. Rogers and I have been going at it for years, since he was the warden at Powhatan when I was there. I believe Rogers is just trying to keep me from writing. He had me sent here without my property for one reason only: to punish me. I really can't stand the S.O.B.
I know my friend Steve is worried about me. I'm supposed to call his grandmother, but her phone number is in my Bible back at Mecklenburg.
Steve, don't worry about me, kid. God's looking out for me. You stay strong. I'll be in touch soon.
At about 5:15 Tuesday, three officers came to my cell, handcuffed me and took me to the watch commander's office. The lieutenant on duty told me I had a choice of how I wanted to be executed: lethal injection or electrocution.
He then asked me to sign a form. On the form, he circled ``lethal injection.'' I signed it.
Then I told him, ``Load that baby down with methamphetamine.'' For people who don't know, that's also called speed, or crank.
The officers all got a good laugh. I did too.
KEYWORDS: DEATH ROW CAPITAL PUNISHMENT VIRGINIA MURDER
DIARY by CNB