How can any man walk bravely to his own death? Christian or criminal, how heavy is his burden when he knows the exact date, hour, and minute that he will die? Can you imagine going through the day knowing that tonight you will die one minute past midnight?

     In the late evening of December 13, 2005, I watched a news broadcast of Stanley �Tookie� Williams�s death penalty proceeding during the last few hours of his life. Journalists reported activity of prison staff prepping the 51-year-old convict to die by lethal injection a minute after midnight inside California State Penitentiary, San Quentin.

     His supporters called him Tookie, a name that caught on in the media, as well. Mutantly buffed with graying hair and goatee, and wearing round spectacles on a handsomely aging, dark brown face, Tookie waited out the last hours of his life as his entourage of lawyers, protestors, activists, and celebrities rallied to persuade the powers-that-be to grant him a reprieve. But twenty-six years of trials and appeals had not found Tookie innocent of the four counts of murder that he had steadfastly denied. To the bitter end, Tookie never expressed remorse for the slayings.

     At thirty-five degrees, execution night was unpleasantly cold by California standards. Nevertheless, news cameras captured a racially-mixed crowd of people from all walks of life, demonstrating with homemade signs, songs, and candlelight vigils as they swarmed the only street that led to the prison gates. Celebrities and activists stood on makeshift stages with microphones, offering prayers and messages about why Tookie�s life should be spared and why the death penalty, in general, should be abolished. Tookie seemed to receive more compassion than his victims; a point that reporting journalists brought to light every chance they got.

     I didn�t know the man called Tookie, nor did I have any feelings about him one way or the other. But the media frenzy surrounding his execution, mere hours before his death, kept me glued to the television. As midnight drew closer, I became nervous at the thought of counting down the minutes of someone�s life.

     I looked past the crowds, celebrities, protests, and kick-off-like commentating, and wondered, more out of curiosity than compassion, what was on the mind of the man who was scheduled to die in less time than it would take to watch a movie.

     Had he gotten any sleep the days and nights before his execution day, or had sleep-deprivation nearly numbed him to the reality of his fate? Although he reportedly put up a brave front, surely Tookie had some extraordinary thoughts and feelings during the minutes ticking away till his demise.

     As he made the death march, shackled and escorted by prison guards, he must have pondered what he had made of his life, what he was leaving behind, and what was waiting for him on the other side of death. Unlike a soldier going off to war with a hope and a prayer of survival, the condemned man had no hope. There was no survival; his death was certain.

     Did his legs go weak as he took his final walk? If he never believed in God before, did he reconsider his faith as he stepped over the threshold of the death chamber? Did he whisper a small prayer just in case?

     A small team of prison staff purportedly strapped Tookie to a gurney and consoled him as they struggled to find veins in his massive arm to insert intravenous needles that would transport the death serum into his blood stream. What did Tookie think of them as he lay there, knowing they were his executioners, people who at that very moment were killing him? I imagined Tookie wanted the proceeding to go as quickly as possible to put his anxieties to rest.

     And what about the prison medics who took on the responsibility of legal killing? Had they slept peacefully on the nights prior to Tookie�s date of execution? Did any one of them have a conscience? Did they go home afterwards and talk to their families about the details of the execution, recalling Tookie�s last words and demeanor? Or did they need some alone time to sort through feelings about their role in taking a life?

     With all the media coverage surrounding Tookie�s execution, I wondered whether his victims� families turned off their televisions because they couldn�t stand the sight of him; or whether they sat and watched in morbid fascination like so many others. Did Tookie�s death give the families a sense of closure or revenge to know that the person who brutally murdered their loved ones was being put to death himself? Or did the execution reopen old wounds causing them to re-live painful memories of the way their loved ones died?

     I even wondered about Tookie�s family. Although he had lived on condemned row for more than twenty years, did his family mourn his death? Did they miss the mere thought of him being alive despite being locked out of their reach?

     More than thirty men and women, mostly journalists, personally witnessed Tookie�s death. Media debriefings immediately followed the execution with panels of journalists taking turns, like sports analysts reading from their notes, carefully choosing words to interpret their observation of Tookie�s lethal injection. An audience of their colleagues with notepads and news cameras hung on to their every word and expression.

     Obviously affected by what he saw, one journalist said he �felt physically ill� from the sights and sounds in the death chamber. He stated that Tookie�s was the first execution he ever witnessed, and he vowed to never witness one again.

     Some journalists wore the experience like a badge of merit, emitting opportunist airs as they recounted, matter-of-factly and without compassion, minute-by-minute, their procession�from entering the death chamber to watching the last rise and fall of Tookie�s chest, and an outburst by Tookie supporters as they exited the room. Every witness, however, no matter their opinion, will undoubtedly remember the execution as long as they live.

     When the announcement reached protestors outside the prison gates that Stanley Tookie Williams was dead, news cameras panned a solemn crowd. Some people cried and hugged each other; some simply hung their heads; while others raised their candles in the air and sang sobering songs. Although news cameras showed one man setting an American flag ablaze in protest, there were no other visible acts of violence as the crowd slowly dispersed.

     I turned off the television feeling like I had just witnessed a historical event: Stanley Tookie Williams�s last stand. I imagined I would see an A&E Biography special on television some day with Bill Kurtis delivering a play-by-play account of Tookie�s dramatic plight. And as I nestled into bed, I couldn�t help wondering which of the many people associated with Tookie�s life and death would be first to cash-in on the controversy by writing a tell-all book about their experience.

     As night turned to morning, Tookie�s execution was headline news. Journalists interviewed people in the city where Tookie grew up while commentators analyzed the man, his crimes, condemnation, and death by lethal injection.

     But a mere two days later, Tookie�s story had been demoted to a smaller degree of commentaries and opinions buried deeper in the news.

     I suspected that peeps and quibbles from activists and those closest to Tookie would circulate on the talk show arena for a while. But for the most part, life had gone back to normal, and interest in Stanley Tookie Williams and his death had faded from the news like a day of bad weather. ?