On Death Row, There's No Such Thing As Closure
It is August of the year 2000, and I am cold. I know the sun is shining outside, but there are no windows in the courtroom.
The lighting is subdued, darker in the back where spectators sit and lighter in the front where tragedies play out—like a theater. The chairs are made of dark leather, and the floor is heavily carpeted, muffling sound, creating a somber effect.
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The prosecutor sits at a table on one side of the aisle, the defendant on the other. The jury box is off to the side—closest to the prosecution.
I sit at the defense table, charged with two counts of first-degree murder.
The term “closure” was used by the prosecutor to justify giving me a death
