The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [17]
One morning I’d awakened to another day, when a guard called down the tier, “Masters, you have a medical escort. We’ll be down in five minutes to pull you out!”
What medical escort? I thought to myself. Can’t be me! I’m not sick! I couldn’t help but feel suspicious. It was June again, always the hardest month.
“Wait! Hold up!” I yelled as the guards opened the front gate of the tier. “I never asked to see a doctor!”
“Are you going or not?” was the cold response. “It’s up to you, Masters! Are you refusing?”
A few seconds passed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” I answered. “Whenever you guys are ready, I’m ready.” And to myself, Let’s just get whatever this might be over with.
Two guards came onto the tier and ordered me to undress. I pushed my clothes through the slot and turned around, naked, in front of them. After searching through the clothes, they pushed them back in. Then they reached through the slot and placed me in hand restraints. They called out my cell number to another guard off the tier who controlled the switch for the door to come open.
As I was being escorted off the tier, all my senses panned for even the slightest of unusual vibes that would tell me something, anything. But there were no clues. They placed me in a “waiting cell” without saying a single word to me, and I began reciting the Buddhist Red Tara mantra, Om Tare Tam Soha.
My Vajrayana Buddhist teacher Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche had given me many meditation prayers to say in moments just like this. I thought this prayer to Tara, the female Buddha, the embodiment of wisdom, might help the most. Om Tare Tam Soha—“Please be aware of me; remove whatever obstacles I’m here to face.” As I said it, my eyes welled up as the image of Chagdud came over me.
On death row your closest fear is of your own death. This can be so consuming that it seems as if everyone you love on the outside is guaranteed to outlive you. They seem immortal. But Chagdud Rinpoche had recently died.
I adored him as both my teacher and my father. I felt so blessed that he had walked inside San Quentin to sit with me. In later years, through all his illnesses, Chagdud had rolled his wheelchair into the visiting room. He was the one who gave me my spiritual path. His students and other Buddhist practitioners had become my friends, forming the core of a support group that has worked tirelessly to appeal my death sentence.
A guard I’d never seen before took off my hand restraints and handed me an orange jumpsuit. It looked like a carrot costume. “What the hell is this?” I asked. “Where am I going?”
“Put it on,” he commanded.
The words Om Tare Tam Soha struggled against What the fuck is going on?! The last time I had worn a jumpsuit was over a decade earlier, during my death penalty trial. So where was I going now? I had heard rumors that some death row prisoners were transferred to Pelican Bay, another prison many hours’ drive north.
I was placed in a waist-chain—a chain fitted around the waist with hand restraints welded to it. It kept my hands close to my sides, but allowed more movement than handcuffs.
Three guards escorted me out the front door of the adjustment center. A small car was waiting for me, its four doors already open. As I sat down in the back seat, a guard reached over me and pulled a strap across my chest. I felt like an astronaut being prepared for liftoff. I’d never worn a seat belt before.
One guard took the driver’s seat, one took the passenger’s seat, and the third got into the back seat with me. The driver spoke into his handheld radio, and off we drove toward the back of the prison. Unfamiliar sights—the general population lower-yard, the prison industry buildings—passed by my window like a movie. I hadn’t been in a regular car in over twenty-two years. The ride was so smooth, without the slightest sound—only by looking out my window could I tell