Dead Man Walking by Helen Prejean Read Free Book Online

wariness of prisoners to heart. I could never call inmates “scum,” but I know I’m inexperienced and he’s right — I do need to be on guard against being conned. Until today I have never been inside a prison, except for a brief foray into the Orleans Parish Jail in the late sixties during the days of the “singing nuns”
(“Dominique-nique, nique”
— that crowd). I could plunk out a few chords on my guitar and another Sister and I had gone once or twice to entertain the prisoners. When I suggested “If I Had a Hammer” for our opening number, the inmates sang it with great relish, and, as the song progressed, made up spirited verses of their own: “If I had a crowbar; If I had a switchblade …” The guards rolled their eyes.
    And I think again of the sliver of fear I felt when I first saw the photo of Patrick Sonnier, the cruel slant of the eyebrows. What will he be like in person? My heart tightens. How did I get involved in this bizarre affair? Where is this going to take me?
    Early in September I receive approval from prison authorities to become Elmo Patrick Sonnier’s spiritual adviser. I set a date for our first visit: September 15, 1982.
    Along with the letter of approval, I receive the Louisiana Department of Corrections regulations for visitors. The most alarming rule is that by entering the corrections facility, you are subject to “searches of your property, automobile, and person” including “pat-down searches, inspection by dogs, and strip searches of your body, including your body cavities.”
    Maybe I’m an exception since I’m a nun. But I can’t be sure. I have heard ugly stories of strip searches of visitors in Georgia. But I remind myself that I have been in other scary situations. Shootouts in the neighborhood, for instance. I am learning to face things as they come, not stepping out ahead of grace, as one of the spiritual maxims of my community counsels.
    On September 15 I drive to Angola for my first visit with Pat. The summer heat has not yet lifted, though some of the trees alongthe highway are looking dry and yellow. I have a thermos of coffee. I have my approval papers and a picture ID.
    I arrive at the prison at about 10:00 A.M . There are mostly women guards inside the visitor center, and they seem friendly, respectful. There are several bouquets of plastic flowers on the wall, probably their warming touch. A sign on a trash can catches my attention. It says, “It will be grateful if you throw your butts in the butt can.”
    I show the guards my ID and letter of approval. One of the women searches my billfold (no purses are allowed) and the pockets of my suit. She does a few quick pats of my front and sides. Not bad. I breathe easier. I notice my fingertips are cold.
    Death row is located in a building near the prison entrance. I walk past the guard’s station and wait outside the gate of the fenced-in yard surrounding the death-row building. A woman guard in a nearby watchtower opens the gate electronically from a control switch. I hear a loud click. I walk through and the gate clangs shut behind me. There are flowers along the sidewalk leading to the building, and a small pond with ducks swimming. It looks like a quiet little park.
    Inside the building I am accompanied by a guard through a series of gates down a hallway. “Woman on the tier,” he yells, warning prisoners to steer clear of the hallway. Gate one,
clang
, gate two,
clang
, gate three. Metal on metal, it is all green and cement and bars. And it is stiflingly hot. Too many blocked-off spaces. No way for the air to circulate. I see a green metal door with a barred window and above it red block letters: “Death Row.”
    The guard is unlocking a door to my right. I am to go inside. “Wait here. They’ll get your man for you,” he says, then closes the door and locks me in the room.
    I look around. I feel a tight band of ice around my stomach. In the room are six visiting booths the size of telephone