But it’s hard to blame them. This place is full of beaten men, seeing hope as something too far in the distance to grasp. Many have given up, merely waiting for a rescue rather than fighting for justice. That’s the way the state likes it. That’s the way the state keeps it. They know their psychology well, and they use it. They keep their sheep mindless and complacent. In the end, the sheep are herded to the slaughterhouse, some even willingly, embracing it even, anything to escape this place and the infinite sadness.

What can you say about a place where people are willing to die just to escape it? Barbaric? Inhumane? Despicable? Reprehensible? The overwhelming sentiment here in the United States seems to be: RIGHT ON! KILL ‘EM ALL! Maybe that’s why so many just give up. Being dejected in such a way by ones own country and fellow man is very deflating.

A great American named Patrick Henry once said: "Give me liberty, or give me death!" You cannot imagine the profoundness that statement holds for myself and so many others. Out there in the "Free America" it’s all but been forgotten, taken for granted. But behind the Wall, for some, it’s a daily cry.

Before being sent to Death Row, I had no opinion about capital punishment one way or the other. To me it was something I never even thought about, something that was a million miles away that I’d never have to concern myself with. In fact, the whole time I was awaiting trial in the county jail I didn’t really think about it, even though the state was seeking the death penalty in my case. To me, it was inconceivable that I could be sent to Death Row or even convicted. I thought I would be going home. You see, I happen to be on Death Row for a crime that I absolutely did NOT commit.

After my wrongful conviction, I quickly formed an opinion about capital punishment. If I could be sentenced to death for a crime I didn’t even commit, then it could surely happen to someone else. Little did I know, at that time, of the staggering number of those who have proceeded me in this plight. In a way, I’m glad I’m not alone, but also I wish that I was. No one deserves this.

In the beginning, I still felt that capital punishment was warranted for those who had committed capital murder. My only concern was that innocent people such as myself might be put to death. Then I got to know some of the guys on the Row with me: Robert South, Fred Kornahrens, Michael Torrence, Larry Bell, Cecil Lucas, Frank Middleton, Mike Elkins, Earl Matthews, John Arnold, John Plath, Sammy Roberts, J.D. Gleaton, Bo Gilbert, Louis Truesdale, Ronnie Howard, Andy Smith, Joe Atkins. I knew them all. However, I knew little or nothing about the crimes they were accused of, or whether any of them could have been innocent. They’re all gone now. They were all murdered by the state of South Carolina as an act of vengeance – guilty or not.

Some of them I knew well, others only in passing. But one thing began to stick out: No matter how much it bothered or hurt me to see someone I knew to be killed by the state, it surely devastated those who knew them all their lives, their families and close friends were put through years of pain and suffering, and in the end, left to live with the pain of knowing their deaths could have been avoided. It’s as if the state wanted them to suffer the same pain that the families and friends of the victims were wrestling with. How cruel.

I’ll never forget a documentary I saw a couple of years ago about people who had loved ones on Death Row. Especially one of those people: a mother struggling with her only son’s death sentence. On the eve that the state of Texas was to kill him, she sat quietly rocking in her easy chair at home, listening to the radio for news. She wore a look of resolve on her face, as if she were sure her son would not be killed.

She explained how she had already been through this, how her son had been in the execution chamber before – only moments away from death – and at the last minute the execution was called off by thte courts in lieu of another appeal. She was confident that this would once again be the case. As the time allotted for her son’s killing grew near, the conversation between her and the cameraman became sparse. They quietly awaited news from the radio.

She seemed so calm and collected, apparently prepared for whatever the outcome would be. Every thirty seconds or so, the cameraman would ask her if she was alright, and did she need anything. You could sense his tension, as well. He wasn’t sure what to say, or what to ask this woman whose son may very well be killed by the state any moment. He was trying to be sensitive, and at the same time do his job. Each time she assured him that she was fine, that everything was going to be alright. As the final seconds drew near, it was evident that she was certain her son would survive, that there was hope.

Then the music on the radio broke and the announcer began to speak. Her chair stopped rocking instantly as she attentively listened to his words. She appeared to be frozen in time, ready for the worst. The announcer gave her the news: her son was dead.

Before he had finished the announcement, the long, anguished wails of the grieving mother pierced the air. She bolted from her easy chair and ran out her front door – screaming, knocking the screen door from its hinges as she did. The cameraman was apparently ready for this, as he was right on her heels, not missing a moment of her anguished cries and distress. Over and over she screamed, "Noooooo! Noooooo! Not my baby! Noooooo!"

Once out the front door of her apartment, in what appeared to be a housing project, she ran through a small flower bed onto a patch of lawn beyond. She then fell to the ground as if she were half collapsing, half giving up, seeming to lose her will to stand or run any further. She lay there screaming and crying, rocking from side to side. Then rolling over to face the earth, she clawed at it with her hands, pulling out clumps of dirt and grass. She was lying there, fraught with the pain, sorrow, screams and tears that only a mother who had just lost her child could know – or even produce.

By now some neighbors had come to their doorways and were staring at the spectacle: this grief-stricken mother who seemed to be dying from the inside out. The camera panned the area and spotted two small boys who both looked to be about five or six-years-old. They stood rigidly in front of the house next door. They appeared to have been playing on their lawn when suddenly stunned by the deafening wails of their neighbor. To them, it must have appeared that she was dying, her screams echoing throughout the neighborhood – screams of pain they would never fully know or understand. Screams they will no doubt never forget.

The camera then panned around to the screen door which hung precariously by perhaps a screw or two in the bottom hinge, the top hinge having been completely ripped away from the door frame. Then back to the grieving mother, the one who seemed so calm and prepared for anything only moments before. Her neighbors had rallied around her. She had to be taken to the hospital.

Did she deserve that? Did the courts say: "And you, ma’am, the mother of this man, are sentenced to suffer the greatest pain anyone could ever endure – and you will when we finally get around to killing your only son. In addition, I sentence you to ten or twelve years of fear and concern for your son’s life, which you will no doubt realize every day of your life until we kill him."

No, the courts didn’t say this – not verbally, anyway. Nonetheless, the outcome was the same. They only killed her son. They tortured her. And after years and years of torture, they left her with unspeakable pain, a pain that she will carry for the rest of her life.

I have also seen enough tears shed in the visiting room over the years to last me a lifetime. Once I sat next to Richard in the visiting room and could see the pain his fifteen-year-old daughter was struggling with. She sat there and cried for the whole two hours. But the hardest tears for me to endure are the tears form my mom. Each one seems to produce a mountain of sorrow within my heart, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing I could do or say can ease her pain or relieve the trepidation that she must feel every time she thinks about what the state of South Carolina wants to do to me. Nothing. And they have only just begun to torture my mom.

I am now totally against capital punishment – in any and all cases. It solves nothing and only causes more pain. Now that I realize this, I do my best in the fight to end it. If you agree that the death penalty is wrong, then don’t wait – join the fight now. It doesn’t matter where you live. If you don’t know what to do or where to begin, you can start by writing letters to public officials. Express your opinion Speak out publicly. Convince just one person to change their opinion from supporting it to abolishing it, and you have done a great deal. Join the fight. Help to end the pain and suffering of so many mothers. Help to end the killing of innocent people. Trust me: we do exist. And in far greater numbers than you could ever imagine.

I would like to point out though, that Dan did not run this article without my consent, as it may appear from the way it reads. I write to Dan from time to time about many different things, and on the night that the state of South Carolina took it upon themselves to systematically kill Andy Smith, I wrote about it. But this was not an article submission to PLN; it was merely a personal letter to Dan. His latest letter to me just happened to be the one I was answering at the time, and as usual, I wrote about what was on my mind.

Dan wrote back and asked if I would write a story about Andy and the nationwide/worldwide protest held in relation to his killing. Dan pointed out that, since I knew Andy, I’d be able to add a human interest touch to the piece. So I talked to a few people, trying to gather some information, and the more people I talked to, the more I began to realize that Andy was not pleased in the least about being reduced to a number. The protest around the world and all over America was clearly not about Andy. It was about a number. A nice, big round number.

That got me thinking: When will another such protest take place? When the government reaches 1000 killings? Andy was a human being, and he was also an individual. If those who participated in the protest of the killing of "number 500" truly care and want to end capital punishment, then they would organize such a protest each and every time one of their fellow human beings is in danger of being murdered by a government – no matter where it happens: in America, China, the Philippines, Iraq, wherever. All life is precious. It has nothing to do with where you were born and especially not what "number" you may have been unfortunate enough to draw. We are all God’s children.

So when I wrote Dan back, out of respect for Andy and his family, I declined to write the piece he proposed. In fact, what he printed was only a small portion of the letter I wrote. Then I got Dan’s response. He told me that I had written just what he was looking for without even knowing it. I was even surprised, myself, at how the edited piece he enclosed had turned out (Dan is an excellent editor, and deserves all the credit for bringing this article to light).

During a visit with my mom, I talked to another visitor who knew Andy and his family. I showed them the piece Dan had edited and sent me, and asked for their opinion. It was passed around the visiting room, and everyone agreed that Andy and his family would approve, and that I should tell Dan to publish it. So I wrote Dan back and told him that it was fine with me if he wanted to print the article.

Since its publication in PLN, I’ve received nothing but positive feedback from all the other prisoners here, as well as from everyone else who has read it. They all agree that it honors Andy’s memory. That’s what is most important.

By David Clayton Hill

[Editor’s Note: South Carolina killed Andy Smith on December 18, 1998. He was the 500^th person to be executed in the U.S. since the death penalty was reinstated in 1976. Like a thousand other editors, I wanted to cover it. I asked South Carolina Death Row prisoner David Hill, who knew Andy personally, to write the article. This is how David replied.]

Yes, I did know Andy Smith. But I’m sorry, I will not be able to write an article about him. For several reasons. First of all, I didn’t know him that well, and I knew absolutely nothing about his case or the crime for which he was accused. Nor do I know anything about his family or background. I will, however, say this about Andy: he was one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.ut the main reason I won’t write a story about Andy is because I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have wanted me to. I spoke to the attorneys who were trying to save his life and asked them about the protest and such. They told me that Andy was aware that he was going to be the 500^th execution, and about the protest, and that he wasn’t impressed.

The way Andy saw it (and I agree with him) is that the 500^th execution is no more or less significant than any other. The media and some activists focused on him solely because he was the 500^th execution to take place in the U.S. since 1976. The bottom line is: Andy was a human being. Not a number.

I applaud the anti-death penalty groups for their efforts. I understand why they felt they had to put a spin on Andy’s execution. They were only trying to raise awareness and get the media’s attention. It worked too. But what good did it do when all is said and done? Andy is still dead.

On Friday, December 4, 1998, the state of South Carolina carried out the double killing of J.D. Gleaton and his brother, Larry "Bo" Gilbert. No major protest was held. The next Friday they killed Louis Truesdale. No major protest was held. But the next Friday they killed Andy, and the activists and media came out of the woodwork.

To many, Andy was just a nice big round number. Only a handful of the throng that protested his killing also attended the protests that preceded his, or the ones that followed. Andy’s killing got a big turn out not because of who he was, but because of the number he was tagged with. And that’s sad.

So, no, I can’t write a story on Andy and tie his name and memory to a number. I have too much respect for the dead to say anything about him that he wouldn’t approve of if he were still alive. And from what I gather, Andy would not want me to write the story you proposed. I hope you understand.

But there is something I would like for you to print if you can find the space in your News in Brief section. I would really like you to print the following and set the record straight:

SC: On December 18, 1998, Andy Smith – a human being, not a number – was killed by the state of South Carolina, as an act of vengeance.

Its amazing how profound a statement can be in one setting, and how glib it can be in another. For instance, many times Ive heard people say, Oh, I just wanna die!'ve all heard it, and may have even said it ourselves. But chances are, it was an offhand remark said in jest or out of slight frustration. But in prison, such a statement takes on a whole new light. We

In 1995, while awaiting trial in J. Reuben Long Detention Center, I was moved to an isolation cell in the medical section. It was a bare cell with nothing but a sink, a toilet, and a bunk. However, it was nothing compared to the only other cell in the area: the rubber room, which was right next door.

It was completely bare with padded walls, ceiling and floor, and everything was pitch black. The only view, so to speak, was a 3" x 5" window in the door which had a flap covering it and could only be opened by the guards. In the floor was a 12" x 12" square hole: the toilet. The button that flushed it was outside the door, also controlled by the guards. I also learned that no toilet paper was allowed in this room. 

One day while on my way back from taking a shower, I peered into this...vacuous hole. The door was open, and curiosity pulled me inside. I wasnt in there but a few seconds before I decided to leave; knowing that it wouldnt be long before the Aso, you wanna see what its like mentality came along and slammed the door. I remember thinking, My God! How could anyone put another human being in such a place!? But then I thought, Well, I guess its sometimes necessary. You see, as I'm sure most people would, I assumed that it was used to keep people from hurting themselves. I was wrong. I never saw it used for anything other than punishment.

The first person they put in there while I was next door was a woman in her early forties. She had been arrested for driving while under suspension, and while in the holding cell she lit a cigarette. (J. Reuben Long was a non-smoking facility; except for the guards, of course, who could smoke outside.) For this offense, they stripped her completely nude and tossed her into the rubber room. Never before had I heard someone who sounded so distraught and frightened. She was beating on the door, screaming and begging them to let her out of there. Naturally, her pleas and cries fell on deaf ear. That'll teach you to smoke on my watch! yelled the guard who tossed her in there; a woman who was herself a smoker.

Tortured by her cries, I stood on the sink so she could hear me through the air vent. At first she pleaded with me to let her out. In between her sobs her echoed voice came to me through the vent: Please, sir. Let me out of here. I promise I'll be good. In a matter of seconds that room had transformed this grown, mature woman into a frightened five-year-old child. Her cries of desperation simply tore me to pieces.

I explained that I wasn't a guard, but merely a prisoner next door. She cried, Please tell them to let me out of here.I told her that my word carried no weight, that the best thing she could do is calm down. They would not let her out as long as she was hysterical. But I'm naked, she sobbed. ACan't they at least give me my clothes?

I then did the only thing I could think of: I tried to take her mind off of what was happening to her. I told her my name, and asked for her name. I was able to get her to open up and tell me about herself: her life, her family, why she had been arrested, etc. She soon calmed down, and I spent over four hours standing on that sink talking to her. I shudder to think what would have become of her if someone had not been there to talk to her. I have no doubt that she would, at the very least, have had a nervous breakdown.

When a guard came and let her out she came to the door and looked in at me through the window. Thank you, she said. And good luck. I hope you make it home.@ I said, Now, you wait until you're outside the fence before you light-up. Okay? She laughed and said, Oh, don't worry. I will.

After she left I looked up at the vent I had just spent hours talking into and wondered how many more unfortunate souls I would be talking with in days to come. As I did, something high up in the corner near the ceiling caught my eye. It was something someone had scrawled in pencil. Standing on the sink, I read what it said: I WANT TO DIE. I knew instantly that this was not a glib statement. It was sincere. The surrounding environment was proof positive.

CHRISTMAS OF 1999

Christmas is probably the most difficult time for most prisoners. Its certainly the hardest time for me. The people who deliver the mail and the guards who supervise the outdoor recreation arent here for the days before, during, and after Christmas. That means no mail or out-of-cell recreation for up to a week. Because of this, morale among the prisoners is very low, and the atmosphere is thick with depression.

Let me tell you about last Christmas; the Christmas of 99. On Christmas Eve, Captain Sanders came into the Death Row unit here at Lieber prison and started spreading his own brand of Christmas cheer. Knowing that everyone was feeling depressed and very lonely already, he did what he could to make life even more miserable for us all. He decided that Christmas Eve was the perfect time for a Ashakedown.

For those of you who don't know, a shakedown is when a guard or guards come into your cell and turn it upside-down; taking whatever they arbitrarily decide you are not allowed to have. Captain Sanders loves doing this. Its as if he gets some kind of cheap thrill from it.

As usual, the shakedown was merely a way for Captain Sanders to goad everyone into doing something stupid. He intentionally angers prisoners so he can claim he had a legitimate reason for placing them on lock-down status. A lot of these men have difficulty dealing with their anger as it is, and Captain Sanders is very aware of this. At Christmas time, with no mail or out-of-cell recreation, the tension is very high. On this occasion, most of the men here were able to control their tempers. Most, but not all. One prisoner fell into the trap set by Captain Sanders and decided to talk back. Captain hates it when anyone gives him any Alip, and the next thing you know, the Agoon squad is rushing through the doors, Captain Sanders leading the pack.

Dressed in riot gear, they came with their shields and batons, their stun-guns and mace, and who knows how many other toys of pain sanctioned by the department of corrections. They came to wish someone a Merry Christmas - Lieber style.

In his hand, Captain Sanders held his favorite toy; a canister of chemical agent called pepper mace. It=s not one of those little hand-held canisters of mace that all the guards wear on their belts. Oh, he has one of those too. This one was his favorite one. It=s a special one that he keeps in his office. It looks like a small fire extinguisher and holds at least 1 2 liters of the pressurized burning, irritating chemical agent (if not more). He went to his office to get it especially for this occasion. I guess he wanted to go all out for the holidays. 

Merry Christmas, huh? I wonder whats going to be under the tree this year.