On October 29, 1999, two weeks after he was convicted, Donte Drumm arrived on death row at the Ellis Unit at the prison in Huntsville, a town of thirty-five thousand, about ninety miles north of downtown Houston. He was processed and issued the standard wardrobe of two sets of white shirts and pants, two white jumpsuits, four pairs of boxers1, two white T-shirts, one pair of rubber shower shoes, one thin blanket, and one small pillow. He was also given a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a plastic comb, and one roll of toilet paper. He was assigned to a small cell with one concrete bunk2, and a stainless3 steel toilet and sink. He became one of 452 male inmates5 on death row. There were twenty-two condemned6 women housed at another prison near Gatesville, Texas.
Because he had no record of bad behavior in prison, he was classified as a Level I. As such, he was allowed a few extra privileges. He could work up to four hours a day in the garment factory on death row. He could spend his exercise time in a yard with a few other inmates. He could shower once a day, alone without supervision7. He could participate in religious services, craft workshops, and educational programs. He could receive a maximum of $75 a month from the outside. He could purchase a television, a radio, writing supplies, and some food from the commissary. And he was allowed visitors twice a week. Those who violated the rules were demoted to Level II, where the privileges were curtailed8. The bad boys were reduced to Level III, where all goodies were taken away.
Though he had been in a county jail for almost a year, the shock of death row was overwhelming. The noise was relentless--loud radios and televisions, the constant banter9 of the other inmates, the shouts from the guards, the whistling and gurgling from the old plumbing10 pipes, and the banging of the cell doors being opened and closed. In one letter to his mother, he wrote: "The racket never stops. Never. I try to ignore it, and for an hour or so I can, but then someone will scream or start singing badly and a guard will yell and everybody will laugh. This goes on at all hours. The radios and televisions are turned off at ten at night, and that's when the loudmouths start their foolishness. Living like an animal in a cage is bad enough, but the noise is driving me crazy."
But he soon learned that he could endure the confinement11 and the rituals. He wasn't sure, though, if he could live without his family and friends. He missed his brothers and sister and father, but the thought of being permanently12 separated from his mother was enough to make him weep. He cried for hours, always with his face down, in the dark, and very quietly.
Death row is a nightmare for serial13 killers14 and ax murderers. For an innocent man, it's a life of mental torture that the human spirit is not equipped to survive.
His sentence of death took on a new meaning on November 16 when Desmond Jennings was executed for killing15 two people during a bad drug deal. The following day, John Lamb was executed for the murder of a traveling salesman, the day after Lamb had been paroled from prison. The next day, November 18, Jose Gutierrez was executed for an armed robbery and murder he committed with his brother. The brother had been executed five years earlier. Jennings had been on death row for four years, Lamb sixteen, Gutierrez ten. A guard told Donte that the average stay on death row before execution was ten years, which, he said proudly, was the shortest in the nation. Once again, Texas was number one. "But don't worry," the guard said. "It's the longest ten years of your life, and, of course, the last." Ha, ha.
Three weeks later, on December 8, David Long was executed for the hatchet17 slayings of three women in a Dallas suburb. During his trial, Long told the jury he would kill again if not given the death penalty. The jury obliged. On December 9, James Beathard was executed for another triple homicide. Five days later, Robert Atworth was executed, after only three years on death row. The following day, Sammie Felder was executed after a twenty-three-year wait.
After Felder's death Donte wrote a letter to Robbie Flak in which he said, "Hey, man, these dudes are serious around here. Seven killings18 in four weeks. Sammie was number 199 since they got the green light a few years back. He's also number 35 for this year, and they've got 50 scheduled for next year. You got to do something, man."
Living conditions went from bad to worse. Administrators19 within the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) were in the process of moving death row from Huntsville to the Polunsky Unit near the town of Livingston, forty miles away. Though no official reason was given, the move came after an unsuccessful escape attempt by five condemned prisoners. Four were captured within the prison. The fifth one was found floating in a river, cause of death unknown. Not long thereafter, the decision was made to tighten20 security and move the men to Polunsky. After four months in Huntsville, Donte was shackled21 and put on a bus with twenty others.
At the new place, he was assigned to a cell that measured six feet by ten feet. There were no windows. The door was solid metal, with a small square opening so the guards could look in. Below it was a narrow slot for a food tray. The cell was enclosed, no bars to look through, no way to see another human. It was a cramped22 bunker of concrete and steel.
The people who ran the prison decided23 that a twenty-three-hour-a-day lockup was the proper way to control the prisoners and prevent escape and violence. Virtually all forms of inmate4 contact were eliminated. No work programs, religious services, group recreation, nothing that would allow human interaction. Televisions were banned. For one hour each day, Donte was led to a "day room," a small, enclosed, indoor space not much larger than his cell. There, alone and watched by a guard, he was supposed to enjoy whatever recreation he could fabricate in his mind. Twice a week, weather permitting, he was taken outside to a small, semi-grassy area known as the "dog kennel24." For an hour, he could look at the sky.
Remarkably25, he soon found himself longing26 for the nonstop noise he had so despised at Huntsville.
After a month in Polunsky, in a letter to Robbie Flak, he wrote: "For twenty-three hours a day, I'm locked in this closet. The only time I speak to another person is when the guards bring food, or what they call food around here. So all I see is guards, not the kinds of people I'd choose. I'm surrounded by murderers, real murderers, and I'd rather talk to them than talk to the guards. Everything in here is designed to make life as bad as possible. Take mealtime. They feed us breakfast at three in the morning. Why? Nobody knows, and nobody asks. They wake us up to feed us crap that most dogs would run from. Lunch is at three in the afternoon. Supper is at ten at night. Cold eggs and white bread for breakfast, sometimes applesauce and pancakes. Peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. Sometimes baloney, bad baloney. Rubber chicken and instant mashed27 potatoes for supper. Some judge somewhere said that we're entitled to twenty-two hundred calories a day--I'm sure you know this--and if they figure they're a little short, they just pile on some more white bread. It's always stale. Yesterday for lunch I got five slices of white bread, cold pork and beans, and a chunk28 of moldy29 cheddar cheese. Can we sue over the food? Probably already been done. But I can take the food. I can take the searches at all hours. I think I can handle anything, Robbie, but I'm not sure about the solitary30 confinement. Please do something."
He became even more depressed31 and despondent32, and was sleeping twelve hours a day. To fight boredom33, he replayed every football game of his high school career. He pretended to be a radio announcer, calling the action, adding the color, always with the great Donte Drumm as the star. He rattled34 off the names of his teammates, everyone but Joey Gamble, and gave fictitious36 names to his opponents. Twelve games for his sophomore37 season, thirteen for his junior, and whereas Marshall had beaten Slone both years in the play-offs, Donte would have none of it in prison. The Slone Warriors38 won those games, and advanced until they slaughtered39 Odessa Permian in the championship game, in Cowboys Stadium, in front of seventy-five thousand fans. Donte was the Most Valuable Player. Mr. Texas Football for both years, something that had never been done before.
After the games, after he'd signed off his broadcasts, Donte wrote letters. His goal each day was to write at least five. He read his Bible for hours and memorized verses of scripture40. When Robbie filed another thick brief in another court, Donte read every word. And to prove it, he wrote long, grateful letters to his lawyer.
But after a year in isolation41, he began to fear that he was losing his memory. The scores of his old games slipped away. Names of teammates were forgotten. He couldn't rattle35 off the twenty-seven books of the New Testament42. He was lethargic43 and couldn't shake his depression. His mind was disintegrating44. He was sleeping sixteen hours a day and eating half the food they brought him.
On March 14, 2001, two events almost pushed him over the edge. The first was a letter from his mother. It was three pages long, in the handwriting that he treasured, and after he read the first page, he quit. He could not finish reading a letter. He wanted to and he knew that he should, but his eyes would not focus and his mind would not process her words. Two hours later, he received the news that the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals had affirmed his conviction. He wept for a long time, then stretched out on his bunk and stared at the ceiling in a semi-catatonic fog. He didn't move for hours. He refused lunch.
In the last game of his junior year, in the play-offs against Marshall, his left hand had been stepped on by a three-hundred-pound offensive tackle. Three fingers were crushed and broken. The pain was instant and so intense that he almost passed out. A trainer taped the fingers together, and on the next series Donte was back in the game. For almost the entire second half, he played like a wild man. The pain made him crazy. Between plays, he stood stoically and watched the offensive huddle45, never once shaking his hand, never touching46 it, in no way acknowledging the pain that made his eyes water. From somewhere, he found the iron will and the incredible toughness to finish the game.
Though he'd forgotten that score too, he vowed47 to reach down again, reach into the depths of his gut16 and the subconscious48 layers of a brain that was failing him, and find the will to stop his slide into insanity49. He managed to pull himself off the bed. He fell to the floor and did twenty push-ups. Then he did sit-ups until his abdomen50 ached. He ran in place until he could no longer lift his feet. Squats51, leg lifts, more pushups and sit-ups. When he was covered in sweat, he sat down and made a schedule. At five each morning, he would begin a precise series of exercises and work nonstop for sixty minutes. At 6:30 a.m., he would write two letters. At 7:00 a.m., he would memorize a new verse of scripture. And so on. His goal was a thousand push-ups and sit-ups a day. He would write ten letters, and not just to his family and close friends. He would find some new pen pals52. He would read at least one book a day. He would cut his sleep in half. He would begin a journal.
These goals were printed neatly53, labeled "The Routine," and stuck to the wall beside his metal mirror. Donte found the enthusiasm to stick to his regimen. He attacked it each morning. After a month, he was doing twelve hundred push-ups and sit-ups a day, and the hard muscles felt good. The exercise brought the blood back to his brain. The reading and writing opened new worlds. A young girl in New Zealand wrote him a letter, and he shot one right back. Her name was Millie. She was fifteen years old, and her parents approved the correspondence, but they monitored his letters. When she sent a small photo of herself, Donte fell in love. He was soon doing two thousand push-ups and sit-ups, spurred on by the dream of one day meeting Millie. His journal was filled with graphic54, erotic scenes of the couple as they traveled the world. She wrote him once a month, and for every letter she mailed, she got at least three in return.
Roberta Drumm made the decision not to tell Donte his father was dying of heart disease. And when, during one of her many routine visits, she told him his father was dead, Donte's fragile world began to crack again. The knowledge that his father had died before he could walk out of prison fully55 exonerated56 proved too much. He allowed himself to break his rigid57 routine. He skipped a day, then a second. He couldn't stop crying and trembling.
Then Millie dropped him. Her letters arrived around the fifteenth of each month, every month for over two years, plus cards for his birthday and Christmas. For a reason Donte would never know, they stopped. He sent her letter after letter and received nothing in return. He accused the prison guards of tampering58 with his mail and even convinced Robbie to make some threats. Gradually, though, he accepted the fact that she was gone. He fell into a dark and long depression, with no interest in The Routine. He began a hunger strike, didn't eat for ten days, but gave it up when no one seemed to care. He went weeks with no exercise, no reading, no journal entries, and letters only to his mother and Robbie. Before long, he'd forgotten the old football scores again and could only recall a few of the more famous scripture verses. He would stare at the ceiling for hours, mumbling59 over and over, "Jesus, I'm losing my mind."
The Visitors' Room at Polunsky is a large, open area with plenty of tables and chairs and vending60 machines along the walls. In the center, there is a long row of booths, all divided by glass. The inmates sit on one side, their visitors on the other, and all conversations are by phone. Behind the inmates, guards are always looming61, watching. To one side, there are three booths used for attorney visits. They, too, are divided by glass, and all consultations62 are by phone.
In the early years, Donte was thrilled at the sight of Robbie Flak sitting at the narrow counter on the other side of the glass. Robbie was his lawyer, his friend, his fierce defender63, and Robbie was the man who would right this incredible wrong. Robbie was fighting hard and loud and threatening hellfire for those who were mistreating his client. So many of the condemned had bad lawyers on the outside or no lawyers at all. Their appeals had run, the system was finished with them. No one out there was advocating on their behalf. But Donte had Mr. Robbie Flak, and he knew at some moment in each day his lawyer was thinking about him and scheming a new way to get him out.
But after eight years on death row, Donte had lost hope. He had not lost faith in Robbie; he'd simply realized that the Texas systems were much more powerful than one lawyer. Absent a miracle, this wrong would run its course. Robbie had explained that they would file motions until the very end, but he was also realistic.
They spoke64 through the phone, each happy to see the other. Robbie brought greetings from the entire Drumm family. He'd visited their home the night before, and gave all the details. Donte listened with a smile, but said little. His conversational65 skills had deteriorated66 along with everything else. Physically67, he was a skinny, stooped, aging man of twenty-seven. Mentally, he was a mess. He could not keep up with time, never knew if it was night or day, often skipped meals, showers, and his daily hour of recreation. He refused to say a word to the guards and often had trouble following their most basic commands. They were somewhat sympathetic because they knew he was not a threat. He sometimes slept eighteen to twenty hours a day and when he wasn't asleep, he was unable to do anything. He had not exercised in years. He never read and managed to write a letter or two each week, but only to his family and Robbie. The letters were short, often incoherent, and filled with misspelled words and glaring grammatical errors. The writing was so sloppy68 that it was disheartening. A letter from Donte was not a pleasant envelope to open.
Dr. Kristi Hinze had read and analyzed69 hundreds of letters he'd written during his eight years on death row. She had already formed the opinion that the solitary confinement had driven him far from reality. He was depressed, lethargic, delusional70, paranoid, schizophrenic, and suicidal. He was hearing voices, those of his late father and his high school football coach. In layman's terms, his brain had shut down. He was insane.
After a few minutes of summarizing where they were with the last-minute appeals, and covering the events scheduled for the next two days, Robbie introduced Dr. Hinze. She took the seat and the phone and said hello. Robbie stood close behind her with a legal pad and pen. For over an hour, she asked questions about his daily routine, his habits, dreams, thoughts, desires, and feelings about death. He surprised her by saying that 213 men had been executed while he had been on death row. Robbie confirmed the number to be accurate. But there were no more surprises, no more specifics. She quizzed him at length about the reasons he was there, and why he was to be executed. He did not know, did not understand why they were doing this to him. Yes, he was certain that he was about to be executed. Just look at the other 213.
One hour was enough for Dr. Hinze. She handed the phone back to Robbie, who sat down and began talking about the details for Thursday. He told Donte that his mother was determined71 to watch the execution, and this upset him. He began crying and finally put the phone down to wipe his face. He refused to pick it up, and when he stopped crying, he locked his arms across his chest and stared at the floor. Finally, he stood and walked to the door behind him.
The rest of the team waited outside in the van, a guard nearby, casually72 watching them. When Robbie and Dr. Hinze returned to the van, Aaron waved at the guard and drove away. They stopped at a pizza place on the edge of town and had a quick lunch. They had just settled back in the van and were leaving Livingston when the phone rang. It was Fred Pryor. Joey Gamble had called and wanted to meet for a drink after work.
收听单词发音 |
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boxers
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| n.拳击短裤；（尤指职业）拳击手( boxer的名词复数 )；拳师狗 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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killings
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| 谋杀( killing的名词复数 )； 突然发大财，暴发 | |
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administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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shackled
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| 给（某人）带上手铐或脚镣( shackle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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vending
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| v.出售（尤指土地等财产）( vend的现在分词 )；（尤指在公共场所）贩卖；发表（意见，言论）；声明 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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62
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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66
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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delusional
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| 妄想的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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