Free Eye of the Beholder by David Ellis Page A

Maybe I owe him that much. Maybe every prosecutor should have to look in the eyes of the person he has condemned. Maybe that’s why I’m here, and why I agreed to visit him yesterday.
    His tongue peeks out from between his thin lips. His eye winks but it seems involuntary. No human being, no matter how psychotic, could approach this punishment without some reaction. His fingers drum along the arm pads. His toes dance. His chest heaves. He is perspiring heavily, which is not an appealing sight on a man almost entirely naked.
    “... are entitled to make any final statement at this time.”
    Absolute silence. Terry Burgos has never apologized, never offered a single word of contrition. This is what the families are waiting for, I suspect—something, anything, to make this better.
    His lips part but he says nothing. We are still staring at each other, so it seems that the families will not get what they wanted. Whatever he has to say, he will say to me.
    The prison guard is unsure of his next move. Surely, he wants to give Burgos at least this much, the chance to make it right or find some peace. Maybe he likes the guy, in a weird way, having spent the last seven years with him on death row. Most of these guys, sitting in solitary confinement, turn to God or simply lose the will to fight, end up being pretty good inmates.
    The guard finally looks at the warden, who holds up a finger, and we all wait.
    Terry Burgos clears his throat with a struggle. One guy, out west somewhere, rambled on for almost twenty minutes when given the chance to have his last words.
    Another agonizing minute passes, as the prisoner and I stare at each other. I look for a smirk, for an indignant scowl, for fear in his eyes. What I receive, instead, is nothing but childlike wonderment, a hypnotic gaze.
    The warden moves closer to the glass cell. “Terry, do you have anything to say?”
    Burgos shakes his head slowly, as much as he can with his restraints. His eyes still on me, his mouth parts again. He speaks to me silently, his lips moving in coordination with his tongue and teeth. I’m not much for lipreading but I know what he’s saying.
    The warden, who is not facing Burgos, takes the silence as a negative answer and motions to the prison guard, who will now order the officials to begin the process.
    “The prisoner has declined any final statement,” says the prison guard.
    Sobbing, behind me. Some of the family members wanted to hear contrition. Others probably expected something self-serving and are relieved at the lack of a statement. But the guard is wrong. Terry Burgos didn’t decline a final statement. He mouthed it to me, the man who put him in that chair.
    The same thing he said to me yesterday, in his cell.
    I’m not the only one.

June 2005

    The Second Verse

Sunday
June 5, 2005
     
    9
    T HE CHANGE in the picture quality on the television is notable, going back, as it does, eight years. In the top right of the screen is the date: JUNE 1, 1997.
    Carolyn Pendry, in a blue suit and cream silk shirt, sits professionally, her legs crossed, a notepad in her lap. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Burgos,” she says.
    The screen cuts to him. Convicted murderer Terry Burgos is seated, his posture poor, shoulders slumped forward, in his orange jumpsuit. His thinning hair is in place. His face is rounded from the added weight, damaged from poor nutrition. His eyes are deep-set, a penetrating black; otherwise, his expression is utterly noncommittal.
    “Mr. Burgos, you are scheduled to be executed in four days. The appellate defender’s office is attempting to reinstate your appeal in the federal courts over your objection. What do you say to that?”
    Burgos blinks, his eyes moving away from the reporter. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips.
    “Are you ready to die, Mr. Burgos?”
    His body reacts slightly, jerking, a semblance of a smile playing on his face. Like he’s amused by a long-forgotten memory. His eyes still