The prison guard is unsure of his next move. Surely, he wants to give Burgos at least this much, the chance to make it right or find some peace. Maybe he likes the guy, in a weird way, having spent the last seven years with him on death row. Most of these guys, sitting in solitary confinement, turn to God or simply lose the will to fight, end up being pretty good inmates.
The guard finally looks at the warden, who holds up a finger, and we all wait.
Terry Burgos clears his throat with a struggle. One guy, out west somewhere, rambled on for almost twenty minutes when given the chance to have his last words.
Another agonizing minute passes, as the prisoner and I stare at each other. I look for a smirk, for an indignant scowl, for fear in his eyes. What I receive, instead, is nothing but childlike wonderment, a hypnotic gaze.
The warden moves closer to the glass cell. “Terry, do you have anything to say?”
Burgos shakes his head slowly, as much as he can with his restraints. His eyes still on me, his mouth parts again. He speaks to me silently, his lips moving in coordination with his tongue and teeth. I’m not much for lipreading but I know what he’s saying.
The warden, who is not facing Burgos, takes the silence as a negative answer and motions to the prison guard, who will now order the officials to begin the process.
“The prisoner has declined any final statement,” says the prison guard.
Sobbing, behind me. Some of the family members wanted to hear contrition. Others probably expected something self-serving and are relieved at the lack of a statement. But the guard is wrong. Terry Burgos didn’t decline a final statement. He mouthed it to me, the man who put him in that chair.
The same thing he said to me yesterday, in his cell.
June 2005
The Second Verse
9
THE CHANGE in the picture quality on the television is notable, going back, as it does, eight years. In the top right of the screen is the date: JUNE 1, 1997.
Carolyn Pendry, in a blue suit and cream silk shirt, sits professionally, her legs crossed, a notepad in her lap. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Burgos,” she says.
The screen cuts to him. Convicted murderer Terry Burgos is seated, his posture poor, shoulders slumped forward, in his orange jumpsuit. His thinning hair is in place. His face is rounded from the added weight, damaged from poor nutrition. His eyes are deep-set, a penetrating black; otherwise, his expression is utterly noncommittal.
“Mr. Burgos, you are scheduled to be executed in four days. The appellate defender’s office is attempting to reinstate your appeal in the federal courts over your objection. What do you say to that?”
Burgos blinks, his eyes moving away from the reporter. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips.
“Are you ready to die, Mr. Burgos?”
His body reacts slightly, jerking, a semblance of a smile playing on his face. Like he’s amused by a long-forgotten memory. His eyes still far away. “How do you know I’m gonna die?”
“Are you saying you can’t die?”
His face goes serious, his eyes opening wider. Like he’s day- dreaming.
“Mr. Burgos?”
“You can kill a body. You can’t kill the truth.”
A pause. A change of topics, perhaps. The subject is not making this easy. Like talking to an infant.
“Did those women deserve to die?”
Burgos leans back in his chair. He’s enjoying a thought. Like the reporter isn’t even there. “It’s not for me to decide.”
“Who decides, then?”
“You know.” Burgos rocks in a chair that doesn’t assist him. Back and forth, the first sign of animation.
“God decides,” says Carolyn Pendry. “Did God tell you to kill those women?”
“‘Course He did.” Burgos punctuates it with a jerk of his head.
“You said Ellie Danzinger was a ‘gift from God,’ Mr. Burgos. What-”
“God gave her to me.” The gentle rocking of his body accelerates.
“How did God do that?”
Burgos raises his hands for emphasis, two hands slicing the air, the shackle connecting his wrist dancing in the air. “You all think I’m crazy because I see things you don’t. But that don’t make me crazy. You all believe in the Creator and in the Second Coming, but if Jesus came down you wouldn’t believe Him.”
Camera cuts to the reporter, Pendry. A thoughtful expression on her face.
“You’d say He’s crazy.” Burgos keeps rocking.
“Did Tyler Skye tell you to kill those women?”
Burgos brings up his knees, puts his feet up on the chair. Arms around his knees, a round ball, rocking back and forth.
“Did-”
“God did.” He nods his head emphatically.
“Tyler Skye’s song didn’t tell you to kill those women?”
“Tyler was a messenger. So am I.”
“Mr. Burgos, according to that song, weren’t you supposed to kill
Burgos takes a breath. Blinks his eyes slowly. Keeps rocking back and forth.
“Why didn’t you kill yourself, Mr. Burgos? Why did you kill Cassie Bentley instead?”
Like he’s in a fog. He doesn’t respond.
“You said Cassie ‘saved’ you, Mr. Burgos. What did-”
