The Political Dynamics of Justice Reform in The U.S.

Chestnut’s departure was devastating because he’d always treated us fairly, even
favorably, going out of his way to treat us as equals and as parishioners. Before and
after executions, he provided counsel when no one else bothered. “We may never
understand God’s plans,” he’d say, “but rest assured the deaths of our friends and loved
ones — however unjust — do not go unnoticed.”
Chestnut grieved with us, shedding tears in the privacy of his office after each of us was
put to death.
But some of the other guards hated the way he felt about us. “Time’s up, Chaplain,” one
said, during another of our grieving sessions, before hustling me down the hall to my
cell.
Chestnut left in 2004, and was replaced by a series of chaplains who behaved more like
the guards — sticklers for the rules more interested in making the staff feel comfortable.
Nobody sought their counsel.
At the time, none of us connected his departure to any unwritten rule guiding
interactions between inmates and staff, of which there are many in prison. The written
policy against romantic or other fraternization between us and the guards is
understandable. But human beings just insist on being social creatures, and no matter
how much you indoctrinate or denigrate them, they remain as much. Officers are not
emotionless robots any more than death-row prisoners are reducible to the crimes for
which we have been convicted and sentenced.
Some other staff members have gone out of their way to be kind, patient, respectful and
compassionate. Ms. Johnson always gave us extra time for outside rec, waiting until a
sergeant radioed her.
Mr. Sutherland liked talking about fishing — with anyone. If you could discuss the
difference between saltwater and freshwater fly-fishing, he’d turn a blind eye in the
chow line if you wanted another tray.
These were the simple courtesies that made our time and their job easier. TVs allowed
to stay on after curfew, cell doors left open a bit longer than usual, maybe even a movie
that a unit manager would bring us from home.
Before my friend Earl was put to death in 2005, Ms. Williams got transferred to the
kitchen — because she couldn’t stomach the thought that her employment might equate
to a kind of participation in his execution.
Months after his death, Mr. Beryl quit too, because he wouldn’t follow Lt. Wallace’s lead
in writing us up for petty rules violations.
Wallace enjoyed charging us the $10 write-up fee (a fortune for people in prison) and
giving us extra “work” duty, which, since most of us didn’t have actual jobs, meant
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