I can't remember his name or his crime. What I remember is the nothingness. No family members, no friends, no comfort. Maybe he didn't want them to come, maybe they didn't care, maybe he didn't have any in the first place. It was just a prison official and two reporters, including me, looking through the glass at this man strapped fast to the gurney, needles in both arms, staring hard at the ceiling.
When the warden stepped forward and asked if he wanted to make a last statement, the man barely shook his head, said nothing and started blinking. That's when I saw it: a single tear at the corner of his right eye.
A tear he desperately wanted to blink away, a tear he didn't want us to see. It pooled there for a moment before running down his cheek. The warden gave his signal, the chemicals started flowing, the man coughed, sputtered and exhaled. A doctor entered the room, pronounced the man dead and pulled a sheet over his head.
