Transcription
I've never believed in the death penalty myself, but when I think about what you do, I begin to understand why people feel it should be the appropriate sentence for crimes like yours. Do you understand that I do deserve to be executed? Bottom line, I ain't going to candy coat it; I deserve to be executed.
About an hour's drive south of Chicago, in the state of Indiana, is one of America's oldest and most notorious maximum security prisons. The majority of the 1,900 inmates here are serving long sentences for unspeakable crimes. When I came at you, I wasn't just going to stick you an inch; I was going to run something all the way through you.
Cam 12 are due to be executed on the orders of the state. For two weeks, I was given privileged access to this dark and forbidding world. Stealing cookies as a seven-year-old kid in school turned into a 20-year-old killing a cop, landing himself on death row. It went from stealing cookies to shooting a cop. Welcome to Indiana's state prison.
My second week at the prison began back on death row. The 12 men here are locked in their cells for 23 hours a day. They're given a single hour of recreation. This is Frederick Bear; his crime: the murder of a mother and her young daughter. Bear could be next on the list to be executed.
"Is this your exercise routine?" "Yeah, this is my recreation right now." "You going down, mama?" "And how's the cat?" "That's my girl." "So, looks particularly well-fed, always. What's your exercise routine?" "Well, it usually consists of the leg press machine or going outside or hitting the weights or sitting there calling somebody, your loved ones and your family on the telephone. You know, I can just sit up there like I was doing and just write a letter, writing my girl over in Germany." "So, is she in Germany doing what?" "She's probably right now getting ready to fix supper. Her name is Susan, and she's a very beautiful person."
"It must be strange having a relationship when you're so far away and when you are in the circumstances that you are." "Ain't no, ain't going to sugarcoat it. Most of us probably won't get off death row. We'll be executed or we'll die from our appeals running out, you know, whatever health reasons or whatever. I hope maybe one day I might get off, but the reality and the truth of that is I probably won't. There's like 16 levels to a death row appeal, from the start all the way to the finish, and that's not including clemency, asking the governor for, you know, please grace."
"And which stage are you at?" "I'm on 13. I've been here seven years. My appeals have been going since then, and I'm kind of rapid on mine. That's what tells me I don't know if I'll get off or not." "It sounds from what you say and what you admit yourself that time is running out." "Yeah, it is. It is. That's the reality of my situation. When your time runs out, you know, you're handcuffed and you're strapped down; they stick a needle in your arm and they kill you. Might sound cold, but that's the reality."
The last man to be given a lethal injection at Indiana State Prison was Matthew Eric Wrinkles, convicted of killing his wife and two relatives. He spent 14 years on death row. On the night of December 11, 2009, Wrinkles was put to death in this building. Superintendent Bill Wilson, who presides over all executions at Indiana State Prison, is taking me to its death chamber.
"So these are the steps which an inmate who is about to be executed would take into this area, correct?" "Um, there's a process or a time frame in which we do everything, but yes, approximately between 4 and 5 the night of the execution, we would bring the offender over here, and he would be housed in a holding cell until the time of the execution. As the appointed time for the execution draws nearer, the prisoner is kept under close observation. This is usually a very quiet time for the offender, though some make themselves preoccupied with television; others just sit here and meditate and are very quiet for the last few hours. My job is one single event, and that's to put this man to death. That's a very surreal moment in time."
"Now, I knew overnight the state has executed an Indiana man convicted of killing his wife and two of her relatives. Matthew Wrinkles died by lethal injection just after 1 this morning. A jury convicted him of killing his wife, her brother, and sister-in-law inside their Evansville home back in 1994. Police say he wore camouflage and face paint when he broke into the home and shot them. About a half dozen people stood outside the Indiana State Prison in Michigan City last night protesting this execution. He did not try to appeal or ask for clemency."
"How do inmates react right at this point?" "Every execution that I've been a part of, every offender has done it differently. Most have always, at this point, accepted their station, their position, the process, and that's happening. One of them, the first execution that I was ever part of, the offender turned to us and apologized to us about having to put us in this place, and he basically said, 'I'm sorry you guys have to do this.'"
"Do people resist?" "I mean, there's not very much to resist with handcuffs all around and being tied up to the gurney. The only time I've ever had any resistance was one offender who was passive; he didn't actually participate in movement. He didn't participate in getting on the bed, so we had to actually carry him from the holding cell and onto the execution bed."
"Are there any words exchanged? What do you say?" "Well, we do everything we can to make sure that the offender is comfortable. We do talk to him; we make sure that he understands where we're at in the process. We constantly are encouraging him to ask questions or just trying to be there for him. Once he's placed on the gurney, he's allowed to give a final statement. An actual death warrant is read to him so that he understands again why he's in this position, and at that point, then we start the execution process."
"Cool. What's your name, big guy?" Every week, on average, nine new prisoners arrive at Indiana State Prison. The majority are young men; many will spend the rest of their lives behind bars. "Are you suicidal?" "No." "Are you sick or weak?" "No." "No take meds?" "No." "Are you being treated for medical, dental, or mental health?" "No."
Here we go. Lieutenant Gillespie takes me to Cellhouse C, to which some of the new arrivals are assigned. It's the largest block at Indiana State Prison; it holds almost 400 offenders, nearly all convicted murderers. "See Charles, 23." "Morning. This is Sergeant Zimmerman. How you doing?" "I'm Trevor McDonald. He pretty much runs the house."
Yeah, it's just after lunch, and the inmates are returning to their cells. "Yeah, I can just see Chap choking a cat down there." "Yes, how did he come by that cat?" "Well, we have a program, a pet program here at Indiana State Prison that, based on conduct history, each offender can put a request in, and they come by it as a privilege." "Yes, oh definitely a privilege." "Oh yeah, it's not a right; definitely a privilege. And so the thing is, what it does, it gives them a sense of responsibility, helps medicate that, so to speak, you know, that temperament, that stress that they may have throughout the day and not being able to talk to their loved ones or family members. So the cat replaces that which they don't have or lost on the outside."
"What's up, big G?" "Oh, they interested in your cat?" "Hello, how you doing? I'm Trevor McDonald." "Hello, nice to meet you." "Yeah, so you've named him Rosco?" "Yeah, it's a she." "Oh, she actually. I'm sorry, forgive me. I kind of put an order in for a male." "Yeah, when you get put on the list for a cat, they ask you what kind of cat you want, a male or a female. I expected a male because I put in for a male cat, so I had bought all this stuff and got it all already, even named it because I knew what I wanted to name him. And then about a month later, I realized it wasn't a boy. I couldn't change your name then, so that's so Rascal it was, and Rascal it is."
"And you think it's changed the way you look at your time here?" "Well, it helps me get through my time. You know, like I said, if I have bad days or just don't think I can take anymore, I come home and she starts meowing, and she's like my kid. I've raised her since she was a little bitty kitten, and I love her like she's my kid. You know, you use the wood home?" "Well, this has been home for the last 24 years." "So really, I've been here over half my life. So I'll be 45 in August, been here since I was 20." "And how long do you expect to be here?" "Well, right now I get out in November 2040." "2040?" "Yeah, 2040." "So that's a long time." "Real long time. I'll be 72 years old. 20 to 72 is a long time. The worst part is losing the family that you love, all your loved ones and everybody that ever loved me that never turned their back on me. Those are the ones that are gone now. My mom died just a few years ago, and that was probably the worst thing that ever happened to me in my life."
"The pain of that memory must haunt you." "It crushes me every day. I keep a photo of her up on my wall, and she's the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning." "May we have a look at it?" "Yes, you can." "Thank you. Welcome." "This is my mother." "That's your mother?" "Yes, this is my mother, and this is a picture that she had sent me of a cross, and she wrote on the back, 'Put this on your wall where you can always see it. Love, Mom.' And I keep that right there."
Dennis Leir will spend more than 50 years in this prison. That's part for the course for most men here. Coming to terms with that seems almost impossible. "There must be people here who stand no chance of ever getting out." "True. How do they cope with that realization?" "I believe it's an individual thing. Once you come to the realization and to the fact that the possibility is a chance that I'm going to spend my entire life in the Department of Corrections, those offenders who come to the realization of that and embrace that are the ones that continue to live their lives the best way they can."
"You talk about their embracing it; you use the word embracing. It must be very difficult to do that, to come to terms with the fact that this is it; they're never getting out." "Yeah, some of the offenders I talk to, especially the young ones, and that's the problem that we have with the young offenders, have truly not embraced it. They say it's a time frame within one to five years, a high end of eight years, that an offender fully realizes the fact that he's going to be here for the rest of his life."
"And do people ever abandon all hope and give up when they realize that this is it, this is the end; they're never getting out?" "Yes, unfortunately, you have offenders' suicides in the Department of Corrections, and it's predominantly those offenders who realize that there's no more hope."
The closest any prisoner comes to life on the outside is the prison barber shop. It has an appearance of near normality. Convicts who work in it are among the most trusted in the institution. John Swatka is serving life with no possibility of release. "Lieutenant B, how long have you been coming here for your haircut?" "Um, to John, I've been coming for about seven years. He was living in my cell house, so when I came in, it was just kind of a normal face to see. So I sat down, and he's been cutting my hair ever since."
"John, is he a fussy person to have his hair cut?" "No, sir, he's not. Lieutenant is an ex-Marine, so he likes it high and tight, but I was kind of put in check by a certain person in his life that doesn't like it real high and tight; she likes it a little bit faded, so I take care of what his wife wants. He has a very lovely wife, so take care; you be careful."
For six days a week, the barber shop is John Seat's world. It's his escape. "At the end of his working day, the mundane reality of prison life is Dormitory F." "And here we are." "Yes, yes, this is where I live. This is Epor." "Epor?" "You have your different weight machines and stuff like that. This is the West Side." "The West Side?" "Yes, sir." "Yes, this is my cube." "And here we are, West 51." "John, this is a privileged, relatively privileged part of this institution." "Oh yes, sir."
"But how do you find the fact that you have no privacy? I mean, you're living cheek by jowl here with everybody else." "Oh no, there's plenty of privacy. They have this wall here, this wall here, and this wall here; that's plenty of privacy." "But that's all you have?" "Yes, sir, that's enough. I mean, when you realize that that man, whatever he does, or that man or anybody else has nothing to do with me, and I don't want to have anything to do with them, so this is my cell, this is my cube, this is my life, and that's all I need."
"And what kind of trouble did you get into?" "I just happened to commit this one murder. That's it; that's the only time I've been in trouble. I got busted for marijuana one time, but that was it, and that was a slap on the wrist; that was a misdemeanor, and that was it. And then after that, I committed this murder, and I took the lives of two innocent people. It's all there is to it; I'm guilty."
"What were the circumstances, John, in which you took the lives of two innocent people?" "There was a gentleman that I grew up with, and he knew another guy. Well, being that I was a dope fiend, this man presented pictures of my mother, my father, and my brother—my mother in the yard with her chihuahuas, my father coming out of the ice machine, and my brother getting out of his car in our driveway. And he said, 'As easy as it is to take these pictures of your family, that's how easy it is to kill. I can kill these people that are my family.' And I lost it. I don't know where I went, but I lost it, and he says, 'This is what I want done,' and I took the lives of two people."
"When he said to you, 'This is what I want done,' what did that mean to take the lives of these two people?" "Because he was trying to take over the tickets, lottery tickets within this year, within Gary, and I didn't know any better. And when he—I thought he was a big-time hoodlum, and I was scared. I was scared more for my family than I was my life."
"I take your point about being worried about the lives of your own family, but you could have reported him to the police." "I know; the thought never came to my mind. The thought never came to my mind. I don't know why; I don't know why."
"So, John, what was the arrangement about taking the lives of two innocent people? What inducements did he offer? Did he offer to pay you?" "Yes, there was a pay, but it was minimal. I can't remember if it was $700 or $800; it was no money whatsoever. But, you know, I was just satisfied that nothing was going to happen to my family. That was the main thing." "You were offered money to kill?" "Yes, yes, sir." "Now, there's no excuse." "Yes, I mean, what you did is what might be termed horrendous—a contract killing. I mean, you were paid to do it." "Yes, sir, and I took the lives of two innocent people." "Did you know these innocent people?" "No, sir, no, sir." "And how did you kill them?" "They were stabbed to death." "Wow, $700?" "Yes, sir."
The 12 men on death row are linked by a common fate; one day they'll formally be told precisely when their lives will end. When that day and that hour arrives, Superintendent Bill Wilson will carry out the orders of the state of Indiana. "Mr. McDonald, this is Mr. Allen. How you doing, Mr. Allen?" "Yeah, glad the weather changed." "Glad the weather changed?" "Yeah, home's doing all right." "Yes, all right."
The superintendent makes a weekly visit to the prisoners on death row. The last man he sees today is Frederick Bear, who killed the mother and her daughter. "This is the last cell on the row." "Last cell on the block." "You can see Mr. Bear has an infatuation with one of England's most famous people." "She has been a lifelong love of mine since like 10, 11 years old when I saw her get married the first time to Charles, and I've followed her all my life." "Why?" "Because of her heart, what she represents. She's just one of those people like Mother Teresa or Jesus, for that matter, you know, just makes an impact on not only one part but the whole part of the whole world. So that's my second love." "Your cat?"
"Yes, Superintendent, what's your relationship with Mr. Bear like? How would you describe it?" "Oh, I'd say we have a great relationship. As far as a superintendent and an offender, with the death row offenders in particular, our destinies, our course in life will throw us in the same event. And as a result, I think it's important that I get to know these guys as well as I can or as well as they allow me. And Mr. Bear has been one of the offenders we've had some really solid conversations about life, where we're at, why we're here, how our destinies have actually led us to this point where at one particular juncture we'll participate in the same event."
"That event that you talk about is that you will preside over his execution, correct?" "Mr. Bear, what do you think of the superintendent having made, in a compassionate way as he described it, that cultivated that relationship with you, but in the end, he will be the one to take your life?" "Not actually; Mr. Wilson's taking my life. So, you know, it's the state of Indiana that's taking my life. He's a good guy; he's a fair person. He'll listen; he'll understand, and he'll exercise judgment on what he has to do fairly. He's not discriminatory towards anybody, and I got to respect that."
"How do you deal emotionally with the fact that you know you will eventually preside over his execution, his death?" "I've come to grips with it by virtue of meeting with my religious leaders of my particular church and how the church feels about it. I've also asked God for forgiveness for my feebleness in the fact that I may not always understand what his intentions are for us. What I do know is that man has been allowed to create laws; we enforce those laws, and up to and including the death penalty. If I don't understand because I can't, because I'm human, of what God's true intentions are, then I ask for forgiveness for that feebleness."
"I say this with some trepidation, but it seems that between you both, you've made peace with each other about what's to happen inevitably." "Yeah, I don't know that we ever had to say that we've been at peace with one another, but I think we've made the effort to understand where each other are in the process and how our lives are intertwined. One single day will have the most effect on one another. He will always be a part of my life, and I then of his. At some point, I put myself on the path to put him in the position to do what he has to do, again affecting somebody else's life years later by one or several acts of stupidity and indescribable things that I've done in my past, shamefully and regretfully. As much as I love that cat and adore her and one shy step of worshiping her, I would give her up to undo what I've done."
Thank you. Thanks, appreciate it.
I'd now spent almost two weeks at Indiana State Prison. Convicts here face acres of time and limited horizons and a routine that can be crushing in its monotony, but that can change in an instant. I've been alerted to an incident in Cellhouse SE. This CCTV footage shows a prisoner being dragged along the range after he'd been badly beaten. "How badly was the victim beaten up?" "He was beaten up, I could say, pretty bad. You know, when I got there, I actually thought he was deceased because he wasn't moving at all." "You thought he was dead?" "Pretty much, yes, because I had to get his door open. His door was already unlocked because he's a fireman. You know, firemen are out during the day. He was out, and his door was closed at the time. I had to get his padlock off because he was locked. I got in there, I touched him to move him, and he finally showed me that he was responsive. One thing about it, his light was out, so whoever did it, they wanted to make sure that we didn't see it."
"You got to be prepared for anything and everything. That situation yesterday, it could have been me getting walked out on a gurney instead of somebody else. You have to be ready for it all." The prisoners in this block will now be locked in their cells for 24 hours a day. It's an obvious safety measure; the prisoners see it as punishment.
I went to see how Dennis Leir, who I had met earlier, was coping. "Hey, Dennis, how are you?" "Good, how are you?" "Not too bad. All right, how are things?" "They're okay, I guess. They've been better." "Yeah, how would you describe the atmosphere on the cell block when there is a lockdown like this?" "People don't like it. I mean, people have their families coming up, and there's no way that they can notify their family and tell them not to come up to visit. Like right now, I've got a cousin; her stepson was in the hospital, had major surgery the other day. I don't know what happened. There's no way for me to contact home, so I don't know if he lived or died. You know, it was a life or death situation, but I have to sit here and I have to wait until I come off lockdown to find out what happened."
"How many times has that happened to you since you've been here?" "Oh, it's happened a lot. I mean, I've been on stretches back in '90 or '91 where we locked down for like 11 months straight." "How do you cope with being locked down for that period of time?" "Well, you got to deal with it. You find something to do to keep you busy. If you don't keep busy, you keep yourself occupied, you know, you might go crazy. You know, some guys do. You know, I'm lucky; I've got a TV, got Rascal in there, so, you know, she helps me pass my time. I got my guitar."
"How does Rascal cope with being locked in?" "I don't think she likes it. I think she wants to get out on the range, but she's sitting at the bars now, so I think she wants out, get out on the range and run around." "The restrictions apply to her as well?" "Oh, absolutely, yeah, she can't come out either, you know, but yeah, she wants out too. It's hot on her too."
My time at this prison was coming to an end. I was surprised that so many prisoners talked about the possibility of freedom one day. Perhaps it's the only way to survive a long sentence, even if freedom is an impossible dream. Before I left, I asked for one last meeting with Frederick Bear in his death row cell.
I made a final visit to death row. I asked to see Frederick Bear, who might well be the next man to be executed at Indiana State Prison. His crime still provokes outrage and disgust among the other killers here. On February 1, 2004, he talked his way into a house and killed a mother and her four-year-old daughter by cutting their throats. Bear, who lives in Indianapolis, was arrested there last night. He says he got lost, and that's why he was near the Clark home when he was arrested. He strenuously denied any involvement in the horrific crime.
"I'm not a violent person. I cry when a freaking butterfly gets hit on the windshield. That's how soft and sentimental I am because I love life. Why would I want to destroy life? I was driving up and down that road like the witnesses said and everything. Yeah, that was me; I was driving up and down the road. I was aggravated; I was high, I'm not going to lie. But am I a cold, sadistic murderer where I can cut a little girl's throat, a five-year-old girl's throat? I love kids, but that was eight years ago."
"Hello." "Hey, how you doing?" "Hi, good, how you doing?" "I'm all right. I wonder whether I could begin by asking you what you remember about your life growing up." "It's a normal childhood. I mean, I was adopted by my dad about five years old. Wonderful guy, you know, didn't have to, but he loved us anyway, and he adopted me and my brother. Life was okay; it was rough. I didn't know as life went on that a lot of the abuse and stuff would start, but alcoholism and stuff played a part in that. And then my sister passed, and life sort of fell apart after that. But I mean, I learned a lot of good things before that, and you know, hard knocks, hard lessons, but you know, we all have a hard life one way or another, so I'm not the only one that's been beat on and all that, you know. So, relatively normal to some certain extent, you know."
"Do you remember the first time you broke the law?" "Yeah, I was a thief all my life. That's all I've been; that's all I've ever been. I'm not proud of that fact, but that's all it is, you know. I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you; I'm a thief. I've always been a thief. I started stealing Matchbox cars when I was in kindergarten, and then it graduated, you know, stealing cars, Matchbox cars from the store, shoplifting and stuff. I graduated from that to stealing money, you know, then stealing all my life."
"When you look back, what is it you would say that set you on the road to crime, stealing and drugs and so on?" "That's a hard question. After my sister passed away, life sort of fell apart, and I kind of gave up. She was like a big figure in my life. I sort of just gave up, and I stopped caring because, you know, somebody as nice as she was could be done that way, and I ended up being sort of the same people that, you know, did to her what I've done to others to get here."
"Tell me about the incident that landed you on death row." "What did I do to get here on death row? Yep, I broke in a house. I walked up and, under the ruse of being lost, I walked in, and I knocked on the door, asked to use the phone. If nobody answered the door, then I would break in the house. Nobody was home, so I knocked on the door, and a little kid answered the door. My first thought was, 'Could I use your phone?' You know, throw it off. God, her mom came to the door, and I asked to use the phone, being withdrawn from meth. They done seen my face, you know. I just really wasn't there. My intentions were to rape her, and I couldn't go through with it, but I had already gone too far to back out now. I know where I was headed; I was headed back to prison, and I guess I just thought that if I killed them, nobody would ever know. And so I cut their throats. I cut both of their throats."
"Help me to understand that you went in with the intention of raping the mother, but you ended up killing both of them, including slitting the throat of her—was she four years of age?" "Three, four years of age." "Sounds like you already know more than what I have to tell you." "Yes, she was four years old. The mother's name was Corey, and the daughter's name was Jenna. And I was a cold-hearted son of a—you remember their names?" "Yeah, through my paperwork. I didn't know them then, but I know them now through my paperwork. I know everything about them—not everything about them. On my calendar, in my datebook, I've got their birthdays marked." "Their birthdays?" "Yeah, I mean, they're a part of my life, and I'm a part of theirs, whether they like it or not. They didn't want me in their life; I intruded in their life."
"Yes, well, you're not a part of their lives because they've gone on; they've died; they've been killed." "Right, I'm a part of their family's lives. I've killed a little kid in the most horrendous way, in the worst possible way that could be imagined. You just don't know; I wake up from that still, and it's seven years, eight years almost now. I'll be here on death row. Well, no, it is seven years; I'll be here on death row seven years, and I still wake up in a cold sweat when I think of what I've done, especially to that little girl. She was at the beginning of her life, and I stopped that. How do you think I feel about that?"
"No, you can't even imagine how I feel." "I can't. I can't." "I've never believed in the death penalty myself, and I've always been against it, and I probably still am. But when I think about what you do, I begin to understand why people feel it should be the appropriate sentence for crimes like yours." "Do you understand that I do deserve to be executed? Bottom line, I ain't going to candy coat it; I deserve to be executed by the laws in this state of Indiana. I deserve to be executed over there, and the death penalty was put in place for people who did what I've done." "What you did, right? I mean, there's no way around it. If a person does what I've done, they should be executed, bottom line. That's according to the laws of the state of Indiana."
I eventually took my leave of Indiana State Prison and the 1,900 men confined within its walls, but the memory of what I saw and heard here will stay with me for the rest of my life.