The following is a journal kept over the course of sixteen hours on the night before Timothy McVeigh was executed. There are and will be many stories and articles about McVeigh, his crime, the death penalty, and the tragedies that befell the 168 people in Oklahoma City. But this piece is not about those subjects; rather, it is simply a record of my own experiences outside the penitentiary gates on the night leading up to the official pronouncement of McVeighs death.
Sunday, June 10th, 2001
I arrived in Terre Haute, Indiana, moments ago. I followed one of the handmade signs directing me to a place to park my car, where one guy, acting no differently than other locals that night, charged the out-of-towners to park on his lawn. I walked up Route 63 to Springhill Road, the entrance to the penitentiary. State and local police were all over the place, outnumbered only by members of the media.
Im sitting cross-legged on the grass outside the main gate to the federal prison camp. There are hundreds of cars passing along Route 63 for a glimpse of the signs and the media tents and the entrance and the watchtower in the distance. Several traffic cops control the ebb and flow of vehicles, hurrying them along but mainly allowing the media to cross back and forth safely. They go to the iron gates of the prison and are met by young women in golf carts that will move them closer to, though not inside, the prison.
Most of the media representatives seem younger than McVeigh. It is rather like being on the set of a film: a slew of fast-moving, metropolitan hipsters descend on an unassuming town and bend it to fit their needs. The TV crews are unshaven, wearing T-shirts and shorts, following behind the on-air personality with the requisite power suit and perfect hair.
So far, there are only 4 or 5 protesters. They stand at this intersection, Route 63 and Springhill, which is for all intents and purposes the nexus of the news universe for the next 24 hours. Two men, with scruffy longish hair stand with placards that read, "Anger Begets Anger" and messages of Jesus capacity for love and forgiveness. As I write this, two local reporters have approached them for an interview. One of the men begins to sing Amazing Grace.
A mobile sign generator at the gate reads: Pro-demonstrator=Vorhees Park, Anti-demonstrator=Fairbank Park. I learn that the protesters will meet up at one of these two locations, sign in, and be bussed over to the fenced-in, separate designated protest areas about 3000 yards from the prison entrance. One cannot enter the protest area unless he or she comes from the only location by the bus.
The rest of the media have press passes issued by the Bureau of Prisons. As I dont have one, Im not able to get inside the prison where the other national reporters are, which puts me in the rather ridiculous position of lamenting that I cant go to jail.
It is all quite odd, how Timothy McVeigh is sitting inside a solitary cell not more that 5000 yards from me, yet nobody is allowed to see him or even enter the building where he is located. This is one of the biggest media stories of the year, if not the decade, and yet there is essentially NOTHING TO SEE. This is why the coming protests will be successful: the media outlets are starved for new footage after a steady diet of stock McVeigh and Oklahoma images. The media wants to put on a show, and the performers are on their way.
Earlier I was approached by a woman named Deborah who is a journalism grad student at a Midwest university. She came not to cover the events for any specific periodical but to see the history here and to explore how local Terre Haute residents are dealing with it all. Specifically, she came to observe how they are discussing death with their children. She is interviewing subjects now, in anticipation of using it for a future project. We discuss the ideas of martyrdom that McVeigh seems to want, complete with his being 33 years old, the age that the Christian Bible reveals Jesus had reached when he died on the cross. She speaks of the cult of personality and how, in a sense, McVeigh has already won because hes getting the attention, the very national forum for his message that he desired with the bombing in the first place. It isnt much different from the film Seven.
Deborah and I walk over to one of the houses on Route 63, directly across from the prison. The people there are selling burgers, pizza, hot dogs and such from a food truck, which is what they normally do at events such as the Indy 500. Only this time the venue itself is their front yard. We speak with them for quite awhile, friends and relatives of all ages sitting and running around. The old man, Tom Norris, tells me that this sort of traffic is unheard of. He speaks with a drawl that is half rural dialect, half just a man whos too tired to wrap his mouth tightly around the words. He tells me that most nights, kids can play soccer right there on Route 63, uninterrupted for hours. He says that most of the cars were seeing tonight are people from the town with nothing better to do than drive up and down the same stretch of road. There are comments about how convenient this is for business and jokes about preferring to work the foodstands for weekly executions rather than going to the Indy 500 and other festivals.
I had to come all the way to a federal penitentiary on the eve of an historical execution of a mass murderer in order to watch my first sunset in over a year. A little while later, I hear that McVeigh watched it as well, and a fine one it was, setting behind the Wabash River.
Deborah and I drive into the town area to look around. The main drag has the major chain restaurants, and we have dinner at a place called Garfields, which is much like a Chi-Chi's or T.G.I. Fridays. We sit at the bar and talk to the waitress/bartender about the last month in Terre Haute. She explains that its been mellow lately and that few people are talking about the execution. It was different last time, she says, echoing a comment that others have said as well. This time, people just aren't as interested about it either way. The Lakers have just won the third game of the NBA finals. We ask the bartender to switch the TV to CNN, and when the story comes on, the few people left in the restaurant stop talking and listen, watching images of their own town being beamed around the world. Its the same stuff theyve been watching for months, but its actually going to happen this time, come to an end, which must make the report seem fresh somehow.
Returning to the strip of Route 63 in front of the prison, Deborah and I are shocked that there are still so few people about. Where are the hundreds of protesters, the religious pilgrims, the political fanatics? I maintain that daybreak will bring them, since a TV camera cant quite record a vigil or protest very well in low light. It seemed to me that aside from a select few, for many the protest doesnt exist in a vacuum, and if there is no TV crew, the falling tree in the forest does not make a sound. Weve heard that midnight will bring in the busloads of protesters, but that remains hearsay. I find a tattered and dog-eared business card in the dirt that reads, "Citizens United for Alternatives to the Death Penalty." It has the directors name and contact information. On the left side of the card are the words in capital letters, "I OPPOSE THE DEATH PENALTYDONT KILL FOR ME."
We stand at the Route 63 and Springhill intersection for a while. Media reps go back and forth, in and out of the prison gates, as people drive by and police and security mill about. Deborah speaks to the two men with placards, who have a family near them as well; a young child is doing some kind of workbook activity while sitting with her mother and younger sister on blankets in the field that starts at the corner of the intersection. One of the men is wearing a "What Would Jesus Do?" shirt. The other, now being filmed by a camera crew, begins to sing another verse of Amazing Grace. With a burnt-out but passionate voice, he concludes with an entire verse, repeating the phrase, "Praise God, Praise God." He continues even after the camera goes off.
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