The conditions on Death Row aren’t that bad. I’ve got plenty of books, a steady correspondence with forensic psychologists, criminal justice researchers, and true crime writers—and the food’s even slightly better than in county.

I’ve become something of a public expert on the link between mental health issues and criminal behavior, as well as an influential advocate for improved access to mental healthcare for historically marginalized populations.

I do media about once a month. I’ve become highly sought after by true crime podcasts over the last year or so.

People are treating me like I matter for the first time in my life. Feels nice. If only I could shake the needle hanging over my head.

The appeals court is due to rule on my case any day now. On the advice of my current public defender, I’m claiming that my first public defender was negligent in failing to file for a change of venue in such a highly publicized case and in barely visiting me in jail. Apparently, I have a good chance of winning a retrial.

Waiting for the judge’s decision makes time go by even more slowly. I’ve read 67 pages of Ulysses since lunch at 11:30, so it’s about half-past noon. Another half-hour and I’ll be let out into a caged corner of the yard to shoot hoops.

I’ve become quite well-read, but Ulysses just seems like gibberish to me. I don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Cormac McCarthy, now that’s my sort of writer.

Maybe I should turn on my crappy little TV. But 12:30 on a weekday, there’d only be soaps and news. I’d rather read gibberish.

I scan the pages, but the words aren’t registering.

If I get a new trial in a different city, I’d almost certainly get off the row. We could definitely get at least one juror to vote against the death penalty. Maybe the prosecution would just offer a plea deal instead of wasting taxpayer dollars on a trial that won’t end with a death penalty verdict anyway.

I put Ulysses down and turn on the TV. ABC is showing a rerun of the morning’s newscast. The war in Korea is still in a stalemate around the 38th parallel, with China pouring in troops through the North and the US matching them with deployments to the South. Funny how history always repeats itself.

“Hey, McKennie.”

Arce, one of the less friendly COs. Won’t so much as look at me.

“Rec time. Let’s go.”

Time to work on my jumper for an hour. Then another hour of trying to read or watching news reruns and it’ll be time for my session with Dr. Holub.

Arce takes me down the Row, past the other condemned men. All reading or quietly watching TV. There isn’t much else to do on the Row.

Past Kisner, the pedo serial killer in the last cell—kind of a relief to know there are pieces of shit worse than me in here—and down three flights of stairs to the mess hall, except for two black guys on clean-up duty. They both take long, hard looks at me before going back to their work. Guys in gen pop rarely see inmates from the Row.

I stop in front of the side door leading to the Row’s corner of the rec yard and Arce steps in front of me to unlock it.         

    This would be the time if I wanted to fuck him up. My hands are shackled behind my back, but I could hit him with a foot sweep and stomp his head in.

I’m not going to, but someone might. I guess leg shackles like they use in the supermax are the only way to stop an attack like that.

I let Arce open the door without incident. He waves me through, unaware of my graciousness.

It’s unseasonably cool and a swirling wind is dancing through the yard. There’s a soft black wall approaching from the east. I might not have much time to work on my jumper.

I’m walking home from another lonely day at my high school. Back corner of the classroom, back corner of the lunchroom, back to the corner of the classroom, the final bell rang, and I started home.

I can smell the drenched trees in the oak hammock beyond the last row of houses. The rain will probably beat me home. That’s okay. As long as it doesn’t start pouring until I’m inside.

Aunt Emma will be waiting for me with mint tea, like she always is when I get home. I’ll feel better as soon as her tea hits my taste buds.

Arce slams the chain link gate behind me and I stick my shackled hands back through the slot so he can unlock the cuffs.

The basketball isn’t here. Whatever. I’ll just jog around a bit.

Arce finally gets the shackles off and I immediately start doing laps. Gotta get my exercise in before it starts pouring, which’ll be in 10 minutes at most.

Wonder what happened to the basketball. Maybe it sprang a leak. More likely Arce took it away for some non-existent infraction.

That’ll be one benefit of getting off the Row. Only the toughest guards work this unit. Some are strict, but fair. Others are just pricks.

But I can’t assume I’m going to get off the Row. I’ve seen guys do that, and they’re totally crushed if their appeal gets rejected. I think I have a good chance of winning this appeal, but I still have options if it gets rejected. Like Dr. Holub said, I have to be mentally prepared for whatever happens.

           The storm moved in faster than I thought—the rain is nearly upon me. Must be at the outer walls by now.

I do one last lap and stop in front of Arce, who eyes me with the usual contempt.

“We need to go in. We’re about to get soaked.”

“You’ve still got at least 45 minutes left. Keep running. I’ll let you know when you can go back inside.”

Motherfucking asshole. He’d let me get drenched for the entire hour if he didn’t have to be out here with me.

The officer at the gate ducks inside the guardhouse as the rain sweeps over the outer walls and closes in. Arce seems oblivious. Finally, he hears the rain drumming on the pavement and turns to get blasted in the face by a fistful of wind-blown drops. I wipe a little smile off my face as he spins back around and the rain soaks me instantly.

“Get over here and give me your hands!”

I snap off a little salute and shuffle over. I know I shouldn’t provoke him, but what’s the point in being respectful if he’s going to be a prick anyway?

Arce cinches the cuffs so tight that my hands start to go numb instantly. Fair enough. He opens the door and we hurry back inside.

As soon as I’m in my cell and uncuffed, I strip and put on my spare jumpsuit. The guys on laundry duty already came by today, so I’ll have to keep these wet clothes in my cell for a while.

The call from D’Amato could come any day now. It could come today. Probably not, though. He said it was unlikely the judge would make a decision until next week.

This appeal is the only real chance I have of avoiding the death penalty. D’Amato says almost no one gets off the Row through the federal habeas petition. If the appeal gets denied…

The guards on the Row aren’t as vigilant as I’d expected. It wouldn’t be too difficult for me to off myself. For one, there’s a 30-foot drop over the railing fronting the Row and onto the concrete floor beneath. Surely hitting head-first would be fatal.

But the method I’ve most often imagined is hanging myself from the bars of my cell using a noose made from my sheets. The cameras can’t see into my cell at night, and the guard only comes by every 15 minutes. According to a medical textbook I found in the library, the brain can only survive without oxygen for four minutes.

I’m getting ahead of myself again. Even if my state appeal is rejected, my federal appeal gives me a chance.

Time to just shut my brain off and look in the direction of the TV.

Images flashing at me, guys on the lower floors hollering, guards marching past every few minutes. At some point, I get up to take a piss and sit back down without breaking the trance.

“McKennie! McKennie!”

It’s Hathaway, a skinny tattooed hick who would fit right in as an offender. One of the nicer COs here.

“Call from your lawyer.”

“Oh. Umm… okay.”

I stumble a bit as I back up to the bars. Hathaway puts the cuffs on and opens the door. I take one step outside and stop for Hathaway to take hold of me.

This is it. Time to learn whether I live or die.

It’s all I can do to stay upright as Hathaway leads me down three flights of stairs and through a narrow corridor into the tiny room set aside for legal calls.

He takes the cuffs off, nudges me into the room, and shuts the door behind me.

The handset is laying on the little folding table next to its receiver. Might as well get it over with.

I stride over to the table, grab the handset, and put it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Mr. McKennie?” The secretary’s voice.

“Yes.”

“One moment, please. I’ll transfer you to Mr. D’Amato.”

“Okay.”

Beep.

“Hello, Mr. McKennie?”

“Yeah.”

“Good morning. How are you?”

“That depends on what you have to tell me.”

“Right.”

He sighs and I know what’s coming.

“Unfortunately, the judge denied your appeal. He agreed that your previous counsel was incompetent, but he ruled that your sentence would have been the same even with competent counsel.”

I brace myself against the table and close my eyes.

“Mr. McKennie, are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“So our next step would be to file a federal appeal.”

“Didn’t you say those have a really low success rate?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Especially when it’s the same argument that state judge shut down. And it would have to be, because you don’t have any other solid grounds for appeal.”

“What are the chances the federal appeal is successful? Be honest.”

D’Amato sighs deeply. “Statistically speaking, about five percent.”

“I see.”

“Don’t lose hope. Five percent is still better than nothing.”

“Am I going to get a new attorney for the federal appeal? I know you work for the state.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to get an attorney who’s been admitted to the federal bar.”

“Okay.”

“My office will put you in touch with your new counsel some time in the next couple of months.”

“Right.”

Another sigh. “Sorry we didn’t get the outcome we wanted. I thought we put together a strong case, but not many death penalty appeals are successful in Florida.”

“Alright. Well, hopefully I’ll have better luck with my federal appeal.”

“Yeah. Good luck, Mr. McKennie.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

I hang up the phone and rap on the door.

I’m fucked. It’s over. No way a federal judge will approve the same appeal rejected by a state judge. Especially not in such a notorious case.

Hathaway opens the door and I turn around stiffly so he can put the cuffs on.

“Bad news?”

“Just routine.”

He grunts and nudges me down the narrow corridor. I’m finally descending into hell.