It was an unusually quiet night, the normally blaring TV’s and radios were quiet. The typical long-distance conversations between inmates yelling back and forth from several cells away, or the blusterous sound of someone triumphantly declaring “Checkmate!” – were not heard on this night. On this night, some of us were preparing to say good-bye to a friend for the very last time.
Hashi was ‘making his rounds’, saying his final farewells to those that mattered to him. It was a ritual that played out each time someone’s ‘death date’ was upon them and upon all of us, like some Shakespearean tragedy. Thus is life on Death Row – a series of greetings and farewells. And my turn to say good-bye was approaching faster than I wanted it to.
I could hear Hashi drawing ever closer to my cell, and I steeled myself against the emotional onslaught that was certain to come when I looked into the face of my friend – a dead man walking. I needed to be standing when he got to my cell. I felt it would be inappropriate and disrespectful to be sitting, but I also felt like I had a ton of bricks strapped to my back, and I struggled to rise to my feet. As I did, my solid resolve began to melt away like ice cream on a summer day.
Within seconds, Hashi was at my cell, his hand thrust through the bars in search of mine, and in that one gesture, my resolve dissipated to nothing. I grasped his hand with mine and reached my other arm between the bars and hugged him. “I love you, brother,” is all I could manage. The dam broke, and my eyes flooded with tears.
Hashi squeezed my hand one final time and told me, “I love you too, little brother,” and walked away. In that moment, there was a dignity and grace to him that I had never seen. Even in what were to be his final days, he was still teaching, and I was still learning. I sat back down feeling a little lighter and sat vigil for the next three days.
We all knew that Hashi had about 72 hours to live. And as it is with all who are transported to the ‘death house’, we prayed for that last minute stay of execution, but God decided to say “no” this time, and at 12:07 a.m., Hashi was pronounced dead by lethal injection.
Several years later, God would say “yes” to me, and I am alive today and no longer on death row. Now, if I could only get him to say “yes” to easing this never-ending pain and loss.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Tony Enis does not write for WITS often, but I always look forward to hearing from him, and he never disappoints. He is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-years, was at one point on death row, and he has always maintained his innocence. He can be contacted at:
Anthony Enis #N82931
P.O. Box 1000
Menard, IL 62259
