By Michael Goldstein
By Dennis Romero
By Sarah Fenske
By Matthew Mullins
By Patrick Range McDonald
By LA Weekly
By Dennis Romero
By Simone Wilson
”Snowball‘s Chance“ read the lead headline on the San Francisco Chronicle’s front page Tuesday, the day condemned inmate Stephen Wayne Anderson was executed at San Quentin. It referred to a freak Arctic storm that blanketed the Bay Area, but also could have described the odds faced by Anderson‘s attorneys as their 11th-hour efforts to save their client faded, and his death at the hands of the state became inevitable.
I was one of the 11 journalists who witnessed his death.
At about 11:45 p.m. Monday, we are shuttled to an employee lounge and assigned individual guards as escorts.
They conduct an all-body pat-down. They take our notebooks and pens and give us prison-issue loose-leaf paper and sharpened pencils. The female reporters are assigned to female guards. As I stand around with mine, waiting for the okay to head over to the execution chamber, she talks a little about her job. She changes assignments in the prison, never staying in one section long enough to form any kind of connection with the inmates. She has worked on death row, even on Anderson’s cellblock, but she does not remember him. ”Usually I don‘t recognize them unless I see them on TV,“ she says.
K.J. Williams was a guard when Anderson first came to death row and is now in charge of managing the day-to-day activities of the nearly 600 men on the row. He goes by the informal title ”condemned captain“ and said he spoke with Anderson a few hours earlier in the evening. He is well aware that Anderson, now 48, was convicted of the shooting death 20 years ago of retired piano teacher Elizabeth Lyman as he burglarized her home in San Bernardino County.
Anderson’s attorneys believe their client never meant to kill Lyman, that he regretted the act and repented. They point to the dozens of poems and stories he wrote while in prison as examples of his rehabilitation.
Williams said that he ”never read any of that stuff.“ And he would have none of the sympathy talk. ”If you let him out of here,“ he said, ”he‘ll do the same thing again.“
Just before midnight the group starts getting antsy. All of the reporters have been here for hours, and they are anxious to get on with the main event.
A guard glances at the clock. ”It’s kinda like, you shoulda been in there already,“ he says. Someone responds: ”Unless there was a last-minute stay.“
”Nah,“ the guard replies. ”He‘s gone. There’s no hope for this guy. He‘s a done deal.“ He pauses, then continues. ”It’s pretty scary though. Knowing you‘re gonna die. Weird stuff.“
Anderson spent his final days in quiet solitude. He gave away his television and cassette player to fellow inmates and refused all phone calls and visits from attorneys and spiritual advisers. The guards watching over him were his only company as he ate his last meal: grilled cheese sandwiches, cottage cheese, hominy, peach pie, chocolate-chip ice cream and radishes. His attorneys, meantime, launched a series of last-ditch appeals, arguing that Governor Gray Davis, who has never commuted a death sentence, is incapable of justly considering a clemency plea. The appeals, to the U.S. District Court, U.S. Court of Appeals, and the U.S. Supreme Court, were rejected.
At 12:02, we are summoned. It’s a short, cold walk to the death house, a small, high-ceilinged chamber that opens directly to the outdoors. The centerpiece is an octagonal, sea-foam-green room -- the gas chamber turned lethal-injection cell. It looks like a giant fish tank. Seven of the tank‘s sides are paned in thick Plexiglas secured with heavy, dungeonlike bolts.
The tank’s eighth side holds a curve-topped door. The observation area, set back from the tank by a white-painted iron rail, wraps around it on three sides. In front is a row of metal folding chairs where the victim‘s family members customarily sit. But for the first time in the 10 executions and 10 years since California reinstated state-sanctioned killing, no family members of the victims are here.
In late December Elizabeth Lyman’s son-in-law issued a signed statement saying the family did not ”want or need Stephen Anderson to pay with his life for the death of our beloved mother and grandmother.“ Their chairs are filled with representatives from the District Attorney‘s Office and other ”official“ witnesses who support Anderson’s death.
Behind the folding chairs is a narrow aisle, and behind that, lining the back walls, two wooden steps for additional witnesses to stand on. One wall is designated for the cluster of San Quentin and California Department of Corrections employees and friends. On another, the journalists. Along the final wall stands by far the smallest group: Anderson‘s supporters. There are only his attorneys, Margo Rocconi and Robert Horwitz, and a psychiatrist who testified at his trial.
The room is silent. We have been warned by the guards that talking is an ejectable offense. Anderson emerges through the curve-topped door at the back of the death tank, shackled at the wrists and waist and flanked by five guards. His brown hair is buzzed short.
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