Crossing the Richmond Bridge to San Quentin State Prison, the fog-shrouded compound looks ominous. It is the biggest, most expensive death row facility in the Western Hemisphere.
As I walk the long walk from the entrance of the prison to the condemned visiting block, a sign reads, "Walk, Don’t Run." I walk slowly. “Halt,”, a guard yells, holding up his right hand. I stop, heart pounding. A phalanx of guards with automatic weapons walks across my path to the guard tower. I am signaled to go on. I walk past the death chamber on my way to see “J.” That was over 21 years ago. J was 27 years old, the same age as my eldest son.
After my first visit with J, I felt sick to my stomach. I ventured to a bar in the City in Little Italy, took a couple shots of Jack and felt a little better. I still get a bad a feeling when I visit death row; you don’t get used to it.