Who wants to think what their last words are going to be? Could you imagine what it would feel like sitting in a cell 15 feet away from the room where you’re supposed to be murdered? As time ticks away, what would be going through your head? I don’t know how a normal human being can stay sane just knowing the time that they’re supposed to be murdered?

It all starts off with a 4-hour visit with my loved ones. Many people handle this last visit differently, some laugh and enjoy, others cry and can’t control themselves, but I guarantee it will be the fastest 4 hours of my life. This visit starts at 8:00am-12:00pm on the day of my murder. Around 11:55am, a 6-man riot team approaches my visiting cage, fully equipped with crowd control gas, led by the warden waiting to escort me to my last ride. The warden asks, “Are you ready?” Now with everything that’s going through my head, how in the hell am I supposed to answer a question like that? What if I tell him no? Will he let me stay?

So now they cuff me up for well over the 1000th time, and lead me down a long walk way to a van that will transport me to my final cage. Before I enter the van, I am shackled with about 15 extra pounds of chains from waist to ankles. I then am strapped in the van and we’re on our way to the Walls Unit - where Texas murders men and women an average of 20 times a year.

As myself and 5 other guards, including the warden from the unit I’m being transported to, ride down the country roads, I enjoy the scenery as it flies by. I know this can be the last time I see nature, so I take in the clouds and pastures the best I can.

We arrive at the Walls Unit that’s right in the middle of the city of Huntsville, Texas, and I see protestors that oppose and spectators that support my murder. The guards lead me inside the prison toward my small 5 ft. x 9 ft. cage and unshackle me to let me loose like the animal they’ve been trying to breed over the years.

I sit on the bunk with a million thoughts going through my head, as a pastor walks up to the bars and asks, “Do you want to accept Christ in you life?” I sit there and stare at him for a second and shake my head, not because I don’t want to accept Christ, but the man didn’t even ask me my religion, let alone have I already accepted Him! I tell the pastor, “I’m OK, we have a great relationship.”

I sit there with nothing to do for about 3 hours. The guards come to escort me to prepare for my final meal. I stare at the state-issued food that they have to offer. It’s not what I asked for! I wanted some of Mama’s homemade chitterlings, hogmaws, cornbread, collard greens, and fresh peach cobbler. But instead I’m looking at the same old pork chop and what they would call greens, but I call spinach. I didn’t eat the pork chop the whole time I’ve been incarcerated.

I decline the meal and ask to be put back in my cage. It’s not going to digest anyways! I’m led back to my cage and a state-issued radio is there awaiting me. I don’t want to listen to music, so I try to catch the news and hear something about the final rulings on my case.

Then the guards ask if I want to make a 5-minute phone call. A 5-minute phone call! Hell, it would take 5 minutes just to connect with whom I’m calling. So again I decline the so-called “friendly treatment.”

The warden then comes to my door with what he called “The Riot Act.”* The Riot Act is the procedure that the prison officials have to go through to make sure I get to the execution chamber. It says any force necessary can be used to ensure the process is carried out. Before I let him start reading, I interrupt him to ask, “Do I look like I can start a damn riot? You’re the one with the riot team! I should be reading you the riot act!”

He continues on with his procedure. I pay him no mind since it’s almost 5:30pm and my murder is supposed to take place at 6:00pm.

A million thoughts flow through my head and it’s hard to just focus on one, so I think of my daughter. I haven’t seen her in over 5 hours, and her beautiful smile is seared in my brain. This brings a much-needed smile to my face, as my mind switched thoughts. How will my mother break the news to her of how her daddy died? How will she react? This wipes the smile completely off my face and hurts me worse than thinking about my murder that’s about to take place.

I’m snapped back into reality by marching footsteps and a riot team standing in front of my cage. The warden says “it’s time.” I just look at him because the words came out of his mouth with such ease, I get the feeling he wants to do this. So I’m handcuffed and taken to a room where I’m fitted with an anal plug and penial catheter or an adult sized diaper**. This is to make sure my bowels don’t make a mess. Don’t want spectators to see feces everywhere while the life is sucked out of me!

I’m then placed on a stretcher because I will not walk to my own murder, and rolled toward the chamber. This is the longest ride of my life, and I notice the last. I’m transported to “the Gurney” and strapped down at my ankles, waist, and chest. My arms are spread out to make me look like a cross and strapped at my wrist and upper arm. The needles are then inserted into place.

Once everything is set for the murder, the warden signals for the curtains to be drawn. I now see the victim’s family on one side standing with the District Attorney that convicted me. He’s smiling! I can’t believe he’s smiling! I turn my head to the other side of the room and notice my family crying.

The warden then says the speech that I can tell has been recited over a hundred times.

“Christopher Young #999508, you are about to be executed by the State of Texas. Do you have any last words?”

Once I begin to speak, I start to taste a salty fluid in my throat and notice no words are coming out my mouth! It feels like I can’t breath, that I’m suffocating. I can’t tell anybody because I can’t talk. Everything is going blurry. I notice my mother waiting on me to at least say “I love you” but I can’t talk!

Everything goes black…

Jasiri Kilinda Watu

aka Christopher A. Young

________________________

*There’s no specific name for this document.

**There’s no law that says one or the other had to be used, and it’s not the inmate’s choice. The diaper is mostly used in recent executions.