Ms. Allen died saying, “Imma die, Imma die.” That’s what people heard in our prison.
She wasn’t feeling well, but the nurses told her to lie on her side and breathe through her nose. Soon the officers shut her cell door; I heard it from my cell nearby. She died in mid-December, weeks short of her 58th birthday.
Ms. Allen, or Margaret Allen, was one of two women on death row, which we also refer to as “life row.” Her crimes were considered so heinous that the system thought she deserved to die. But for the seven years I knew her, I thought of her as a sweet old lady. It’s hard for me to know she died in pain.
Death row residents are in a constant state of confinement. The only time they come in contact with the general population is when those of us in a nearby cell shout at them over the door. We tell them that we love them, and they yell back that they love us too.
For many years, Ms. Allen and the other lady on death row, Ms. Brown, only had each other for company. People on death row are kept in single cells, but they do share dayroom and recreation time together. As Ms. Allen grew older and her health declined, Ms. Brown was the one who showed her love. But now Ms. Brown is alone. Who will she go to recreation with? Slam root beers with? Talk with, laugh with, cry with and live with?
Unless, God forbid, someone else in the state of Florida is sentenced to death, or until she can have her sentence overturned, the only human contact Ms. Brown will have is when she is cuffed and shackled by officers. No more hugs. No more high fives. Just us screaming that we love her, and prayer.
But there’s still hope for Ms. Brown. When I first came to prison there were actually three women on death row. The third got a breakthrough in her case before the court, and she is now out on the compound as a regular resident. She still isn’t free, but I bet she feels like she is free.