My name is Henry Wadsworth. Most prisoners call me Hank. I am proud of that moniker. Rare is the prison wherein there are any guards not loathed by the inmates. To be called Hank means I am an exception, one of the good guys, known to be decent and fair. It’s because I’m a man of faith.  I don’t proselytize, though. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. I don’t force my faith on others. I think that’s why the prisoners like me.

To be sure, there are many times when my hands are tied, and I must perform duties that seem unChristian. I’ve heard it said that prison guards are prisoners, too. That’s not true. Conversely, what we guards do is all for a greater good and glory. Plus, when our shifts end and we leave the walls each day, most of us leave the ugliness behind as well.

I have been a federal prison guard for seventeen years and the senior prison guard for seven years. Currently, I am the man assigned to the prisoners on death row at USP-Clearwater Maximum Security Facility. Among my responsibilities, I supervise the men who have exhausted all their pleas and are within twenty-four hours of death by execution. And so it is, in and of the procedure of the execution of Tommy Lee Wurmann by the U.S. Department of Corrections that I’ve decided to narrate the proceedings in real time in order for the public to perceive the fairness of the process as well as understand the rules and regulations we must follow.

Before I begin, though, please note the following four facts for reference:

(1) Relocation:  The first change for a person on death row is that of location. In the last twenty-four hours of their lives, death row inmates are moved to a separate area within the prison known as the Death Watch Area, which is a reserved area specially used as the last living space for inmates on death row.

(2) The Final Meal:  Generally, the request must fit under a limited budget that the prison sets for the prisoner. The meal should also be accessible and manageable for the prison to procure without any hindrances. In other words, a prisoner doesn’t get any damn thing he wants.

(3) Spiritual guidance: Near their last moments, the prisoner is encouraged to spend time with the prison chaplain, who is supposed to take care of any religious preferences that the death row inmate may have. After the final few moments with the chaplain, the prisoner changes into a specially designed jumpsuit and is sent on his way to the final stage of every Clearwater execution.

(4) Final Moments: The final step in the transfer process is moving the prisoner to the execution chamber. The prisoner is kept restrained with shackles. The shackles ensure that the prisoner’s movement does not injure the people implementing the execution, like the warden, medical professional, or the chaplain.

(5) The prisoner is allowed to say his final words. (I use “his” throughout because Clearwater is a maximum-security prison for men; women are not housed here.) The prisoner is given thirty seconds to speak his final words, then a button is pushed, and the fatal cocktail of chemicals is released into the prisoner’s bloodstream. That causes a cardiac arrest, ending the life of the death row inmate.

Wednesday, January 22, 2025 – 11:59 P.M.

“I had the weirdest dream just now, you know that, Hank?” Tommy says after I’ve arrived at his solitary holding cell and awakened him for his relocation to his deathwatch cell. “I mean, the weirdest dream. You’d think I’d be dreaming about, I don’t know, regret or fear of the afterlife, you know, meeting up in hell with the people I killed or wherever, but instead ... instead, I dreamt I bought a church for eighty dollars. A church! For eighty dollars! And then I somehow woke up and I was sitting on a bench across from my church and some greasy bum next to me had his hands in my pockets and he was trying to steal my eighty dollars with one hand and groping me with the other, and then I woke up more and realized the bum wasn’t real but was only in the dream of me buying a church for eighty dollars. How goddamn weird is that?”

“Pretty weird, Tommy. Turn around, arms up, hands on the back wall, spread your legs,” I say in my unemotional, prison guard voice. Then I call out, “Open six.” An electronic whirr sound is followed by the heavy click of the cell’s locking bolts, and the cell door snaps open. I motion to the two guards who accompanied me to Tommy’s cell on death row. Both guards carry shackles. “Go ahead,” I say.

“What’s going on, Hank?”

“We’re moving you, Tommy, to your deathwatch cell.”

“I get that. I meant, why you, Hank? I thought you were my friend.”

“It’s my job, Tommy. I’m senior guard on death row. You should be pleased it’s me and not someone else. Go ahead, Gary.”

Gary, a six foot six inch, two hundred fifty pound, ex-linebacker, drops leg shackles to the floor behind Tommy. They hit with a loud clank. Rex, the other guard and almost as big as Gary, kneels and shackles the ankles. Gary then pulls Tommy’s arms down and bear hug immobilizes Tommy from behind. Rex cuffs Tommy’s wrists, circles the connecting chain around Tommy’s waist and click-locks the drag chain to the leg shackles. Tommy offers no resistance.

“I’ve always been good, haven’t I, Hank?” the prisoner says once the shackles are secure.

“What do you mean by good, Tommy?”

“By good I mean, I’ve never tried nothing, have I? Not in years, anyway. Never took a swing at you or nothing. Why do I have to be shackled? I’m ready to die. I ain’t dangerous no more.”

“We’re moving you to another cell. You’ve lost all your appeals. The President has not intervened; in fact, he’s the one who sped up the process. I know you’ve been a model prisoner, but as I told you yesterday, twenty-four hours before your execution, we move you to a death watch cell. You will be personally guarded from now on. We shackle you because you might try to bolt, or grab one of our weapons, or in some other way try to commit suicide. After all, you have nothing to lose now.”

“What, you’re going to kill me in twenty-four hours, but I can’t kill myself? How does that make any sense?”

“The death penalty is meant to be a deterrent. You die from a lethal injection mandated by law. If you die by your own hand, there’s no justice. Your victims’ families feel cheated. So, we kill you. You don’t get to kill yourself. Now, all your personal possessions, pictures, books, toiletries – anything you don’t want with you in the death watch cell we’ll burn. What do you want to take with you?”

“Uh, well, my toothbrush, soap, you know, stuff like that. Oh, and the Spinoza book.”

“Seriously? That’s it? Not any of the pictures?”

“Why would I want the pictures?”

“Because you drew them? You’re the artist!”

“So? I can’t take them with me.”

“Well, then, your sketchpad?”

“Naw, just what I said and some extra underwear for, you know, in case I shit myself.”

“Tommy, trust me, we have a special jumpsuit designed for when the time comes. It’s got a built-in diaper.”

I turn to the two guards. “Gary, you get his book and toiletries. Rex, you take the rest of his stuff and bag it for the incinerator. Tommy, let’s go.”

“You gonna be my guard, Hank? The one watching me so’s I don’t kill myself?”

“I’ll do the transfer, Tommy. And then I’ll be back tomorrow night. I’m your watchman for the last six hours of your life. One of the last half-dozen or so people you’ll ever see.”

“Good, so we can talk about my dream then. What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea what it means. That’s why I suggested you bring your sketchpad. You could draw the church and the bum and maybe figure it out.”

“Hey, yeah, that’s a good idea. Bring the pad and the sketching pencils ... oh, and the deck of cards. I like to play solitaire. Thanks, Hank. You’re smart. But you know that, don't you?  For a guard, I mean, you’re smart. You know not to buck the system.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Tommy. I do know, when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil.”

Thursday, January 23, 2025 – 6 P.M.

“So, to begin,” Tommy grins as he hands me a piece of paper with his last meal request. “I think a bottle of 1945 Chateau Mouton to drink and some white chocolate and raisin brioche would be perfect with that. For the main course I’ll have Alaskan king crab, fall vegetable salad, fennel and beets coulis, and white truffle risotto. Serve the salad at the end of the meal since that’s how the French do it. You know, to aid digestion. In that case could I get barigoule sauce on the side? And for desert I’d prefer to go light since I may not have time to digest it. Let’s try the citrus compote with mandarin & elderberry emulsion, unless of course the elderberries are out of season.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so. You have a better suggestion?”

“Your French was actually passable. Who taught you? How long did you rehearse that speech?”

“Who taught me? I taught myself. I’ve been on ice for twenty-nine years. The studying I’ve done, I’d have a law degree and a Ph.D. in philosophy if I were on the outside. I’ve stalled off my execution up till now. And then, surprise, the big orange fat man gets re-elected and damn near the next day the rug is pulled, the floodgates opened; it’s retribution time. All the brown shirt and jackboots get pardoned with a sweep of a pen, but death row guys like me are raw meat. He didn’t get to kill us at the end of his last term; now’s his chance to pull the plug and flip the switch. By the way, which one am I? Number one? Top five I bet. Leonard, God bless him. Hank? You listening?”

“Be careful how you speak about our President, Tommy. The walls have ears.”

Tommy’s discourse has caught me off guard. The resourcefulness of criminals on the inside never ceases to amaze me. Too bad they didn’t turn their creativity to good use on the outside. Still, I am surprised he knows about our President’s order to immediately execute all death row federal inmates.

“I honestly don’t know which number you are,” I answer. “Tommy, I told you. I am allowed only minimum conversation with you. I’m just here to watch, make sure you don’t harm yourself or do anything desperate.”

“The walls have ears? Seriously, Hank? You think I care? If there’s anyone who can get away with threatening the life of any President, it’s a guy on death row,” Tommy continues. “Anyway, back to the food. You know that psychiatrist, Weigenberg, who comes around once a month? I asked him to bring me a menu from some super-expensive French restaurant. Hell, I know I won’t get that shit. You know what one bottle of Chateau Mouton costs? Thirty-three grand ...  for one goddamn bottle of wine! I’ve never had that much money in my whole life. My parents didn’t neither. You know what that shrink told me? I chose them, my parents, according to the shrink. He says his school of thought believes we select our bodies, our parents, and the circumstances of our childhood to suit our soul’s necessities in this life’s go-around. Can you imagine that? I can’t. Good Lord, my soul would have been some kinda warped genocidal sociopath to choose my parents and submit to their maniacal reckonings.” Tommy picks up his book about Spinoza, looks at it, tosses it down again onto his cot. “My parents – I curse them. I’ll curse them with my last breath. The way they raised me is the reason I’m in here. My old man, every night, he’d come home drunk, and like as not beat me with a belt until I was black and blue. Goddamn dogs were lucky. They only got kicked. If a dog ran off, he’d get another one. My mother was no better. Stuck me in an orphanage and got herself into a shelter, then turned a blind eye when the priest raped me. I had to wait till I was eighteen to get out of there. No way I chose all that. No goddamn way ... who thinks like that? No wonder he’s a prison shrink. Couldn’t make a dime on the outside. Speaking of choices, how about liver and onions?”

“Say what?”

“Liver and onions for my final meal. Along with a baked potato, lots of sour cream and chives, and green beans with some bacon chips on them. But the green beans have to be fresh, no canned crap. And if they have to take the liver out of a freezer and thaw it in a microwave, then to hell with it. If it’s not fresh calves liver, I might as well eat shoe leather.”

“Well, Tommy, if that’s the case, and the microwave part I imagine will be, then what’s your second choice?”

“I’ll have a baked potato, melt some cheese on top, chives and sour cream on the side, four thick slices of bacon, and green beans. Fresh green beans.”

“Dessert?”

“Caramel ice cream.”

“I imagine your choice will be vanilla or chocolate.”

“Then a scoop of each.”

Thursday, January 23, 2025 – 10 P.M.

Tommy spreads the sketch he’s worked on for the past hour against the bars of his cell so I can see it. “What do you think? It’s my dream. I think the church represents a priest I killed and the bum is the witness who saw me. I had to off him too. It’s funny, it took me a while to get the park bench right, considering how many of them I’ve slept on in my time. Of course, I haven’t seen one for real in thirty years.”

Stunned at first, I ask, “What priest, what bum? You’re in for kidnap and for killing an FBI agent. Wait a minute, are you confessing to murders we don’t know about?” Tommy smiles and it hits me. “Oh yeah, nice try, but no go. Nobody here has the authority to stop your execution to look for more bodies. And even if we did, it’s too late. Your P.D. is off the clock.”

“Aw Hank, it’s just a dream, right? Imagination, I made it all up. Dreams aren’t real, you know that ... don’t get your shorts in a twist. Hey, I’m about to die, so why make a fuss just because I slit the throat of a child-abusing priest?”

Thursday, January 23, 2025 – 11:30 P.M.

The chaplain arrives along with two guards. One guard is carrying Tommy’s final jumpsuit and the other has the shackles. The chaplain sports a Bible.

“What’s he doing here?” Tommy snarls. “I didn’t request a chaplain. Spinoza’s God is all I need. Self-caused. God and Nature are one. Cause and effect – flip sides of the same coin. I don’t need him praying for me!” Tommy raises his fist and menaces the chaplain. “Pray for yourself, you superstitious poof. Quit pounding your chest like some great ape; go out in the world and enjoy life. It’s the likes of you took enjoyment from me.” He points at the jumpsuit in the guard’s hand. “Gimme that. Let’s get this over with. Shackles, really? I’m gonna die in, what, fifteen minutes.”

“My hands are tied, Tommy. Federal law requires that we must ask you if you have any last minute spiritual needs or wish to pray for redemption. Or any last rites, in case you’ve had a Catholic change of heart. Federal law also requires the prison chaplain accompany you on your last walk and attend as one of the twelve witnesses. So that’s why the shackles. You are a danger to this man. Put the jumpsuit on, then turn around, hands on the wall.” I drone-recite the reason, as I know it by rote. “Shackles ensure that your movements inside the execution chamber do not injure people like the warden, medical professional, or the chaplain.”

Tommy laughs and then shakes his head. “Son-of-a-bitch, a silver lining. I finally escape the do-gooder Christians, fer Chrissake. Nope, no needs and no prayers. Clearly you guys have never read Spinoza.”

“I’ve heard of him. I know he’s from the 1600s. Never been one to be bothered by anachronisms,” I say.

“Jesus is not divine. God is identical with nature. Everything is necessitated by the laws of nature, which means miracles are impossible. You think that thinking is archaic? Spinoza was a total rad, still is.”

“God will be the judge of that. Let’s go. Dead Man walking.

Thursday January 23, 2025 – 11:55 P.M.

Twelve witnesses watch from behind a one-way glass window as Tommy is strapped prone on a steel gurney. He doesn’t resist; in fact, he’s smiling and the smile appears to be genuine. When the needles that inject the three chemicals that will stop his heart from beating are inserted in each arm, he stops smiling, but just for a moment. Is he cursing his parents, or his fate, I wonder?

Thursday, January 23, 2025 – 11:58 P.M.

The prison warden recites into a recorder’s microphone a long paragraph of legalese that sets the tone and justifies the execution. Finally, the warden says, “Thomas Lee Wurmann, do you have any last words?”

Tommy turns his head toward the window behind which we’re are all watching and says, “Free at last.” Then he looks directly at the point on the one-way glass behind which I am standing, grins, and says, “Unless Spinoza’s wrong, then I’ll see you in hell, Hank.”

How he knew where I would be in the room, I can’t say. And why would he think I, too, would end up in hell? He was one of the first to call me Hank. I’m one of the good guys around here. I thought he liked me.

My thought is fleeting however, and I do my duty. I push the button.

Tubes run from the needles to a small electric pump. The chemicals do not drizzle in; they are pumped one after the other. Midazolam for sedation is first. Pancuronium bromide that causes muscle paralysis and respiratory arrest is second, and then the third dose, potassium chloride, seizes Tommy’s heart.

Friday, January 24, 2025 – 2:30 A.M.

Unobserved, I cross the one hundred feet to Tommy’s death watch cell. The steel door is wide open. Inside the cell, I feel around in the folds of his blanket until I find the book on Spinoza. I pick that and the sketch of his dream from among his other belongings and walk back to the duty room.

Friday, January 24, 2025 – 2:38 A.M.

Seated at my desk in the duty room, I allow the book about Baruch Spinoza, Dutch, Jewish, post-Cartesian philosopher, 1632 to 1677, to flop open to what I assume is the book’s most read passage, i.e.:  We may think we choose what to believe, but this is an illusion arising from ignorance. Will cannot be free since infinite chains of external causes are determinative. The pervasive belief in free will arises from a structural limitation of our self-knowledge. Because we are aware of our actions but unaware of their causes; in ignorance we suppose that we alone must be responsible for them. From all this, then, it is clear that we neither strive for, nor will, neither want, nor desire anything because we judge it to be good; on the contrary, we judge something to be good because we strive for it, will it, want it, and desire it.

“Blah, blah, blah...nothing new here. He was Jewish and even the Jews said he was a heretic, which is ironic – heretics calling out heretics. What bothered me more than Tommy’s misguided admiration for Spinoza was the sketch of his dream. Seeing it in better light than in his deathwatch cell, I can’t help but notice that he used my likeness for the bum who was rummaging through his pockets looking for his wallet and groping him. Tommy was a good artist and the bum he called a witness is represented by my likeness. My God, I’m glad I caught this. I’ll burn it myself. I mean, how dare he...