Today has been identical to so many days and were it not for my pending execution at one minute past mid-night this evening, I might well have been overtaken with despair at the thought of spending day number 4324 pondering the unattainable.

My name is James Charles Hopeman. I entered the system as number 6147885 on January 5th 1993 having been sentenced to death for murdering Christie Elinor Pritchard, a young lady of just sixteen tender years. I have never known, seen, touched or harmed Christie Elinor Pritchard. I don’t expect you to believe me, no one ever does, after all this is ‘death row’; there is no room for innocence here.

I can safely say the last 11 years 305 days have been a drag. Many of the joys taken for granted are the ultimate privilege here. Seeing the stars, watching the sun set, being hot, being cold, feeling the rain, sleeping with the light out or privacy, just closing the door would be the joy of joys.

But what of Christie Elinor Pritchard, who was she? It all came out at ‘that’ trial. Christie, a popular school student, had attended her Formal on the evening of May 19th 1992 then somehow finished up lying in a storm water drain on the outskirts of town. She had been raped, mutilated and strangled; her final hours must have been hellish. The evidence was believable and to the jury conclusive, her lifeless body had been delivered to that lonely ditch in my car. There was then a road accident, where it is said I decamped the scene and returned to my temporary bed in a motel 25 miles away.

The arresting officer testified to my guilt by explaining how confused, disorientated and shocked I appeared to be as the police barged into ‘my’ motel room. At the time of my arrest the Sheriff exposed proof of my guilt, he explained while sporting an out stretched finger targeting into my chest, “You don’t know! You don’t know! Don’t insult my intelligence, Boy! We run a peaceful community; folks from around here don’t do these things! You’re going to fry, Boy!”

He was of cause not totally correct, it seems life had passed him by; frying people went out ages ago, since 1973 ‘we’ inject the condemned.

I was remanded in custody, 233 days it took to have my day in court, I heard someone in the gallery comment on my guilt saying, “No innocent man is going to walk into court wearing orange overalls and shackles. This guy is a bad one, he is going to fry!”

There was some logic to his argument, for a moment I almost believed him myself.

The jury believed him they took 27 minutes over coffee to find me guilty, a record to this day I’m told. “We the jury find the defendant guilty,” is all it took to seal my future. Those words were nothing to compare with the outburst of scorn focused upon me from the gallery. Some fixed their stare of glass upon me, while others yelled, cheers and advice. The Pritchard family erupted with a joy reserved for lottery winners. I wonder to this day how they could all exclude their daughters loving memory from the moment, so quickly and completely. I heard the Sheriff congratulating the District Attorney saying, “You got the Son-of-a-bitch; our re-election is in the bag!”

I watched my Momma’s face as she fell to pieces upon the Sheriff’s remark penetrated her psychic. Her form aged 20 years in an instant, a proud Virginian upbringing washing away in a rush of tears.

All I could think of was the effort, the struggle, the journey she had undertaken to raise me to take my place in society, to respect myself and respect others. How she had always reminded me my father, who died in Vietnam before we had the chance to meet, was watching out for me.

As I was led from ‘that’ court house to face ‘my’ future, I couldn’t help but wonder, reminding myself of my darling Momma sitting alone on a bus, crossing a 1500 mile barrier, her hopes and dreams crushed forever.

~~~~

It took two years to stop sulking and telling everyone how innocent I was. They always answered the same; “Sure” they would say. I even refused to exercise preferring to remain permanently in ‘that’ cell then to venture into the exercise cage in shackles.

Slowly, I started to wonder. What if, I hadn’t stopped the night in ‘that’ motel? What if I had completed my journey to Flagstaff, Arizona and started the position of Cadet Journalist with the newspaper. What if, I wasn’t consumed by self-pity; where would I be today?

Slowly I started to calm, change, lift and even respect myself. It took me almost 3 years to impress myself with my first novel ‘When Passion Kills’. My second ‘The Farce’ took only 6 months. My third novel ‘Onion Patch’ was first to be published. It became a best seller almost over night. This in turn sold the first two. They were all written under my pen name ‘H M Lockup’. After 12 best selling novels, rumours about the reclusive Ms Lockup were commonplace on the gossip circuits. My personal favourite was the one about how she lived as a recluse in Alaska 50 miles north of Big Delta.

My novels generated many millions of dollars in royalties. The money couldn’t help my legal plight. There was no evidence remaining from the murder that could be re-investigated or challenged, nothing scientific, even my car was sold by the county three weeks after the conviction. There being no chance of an appeal to overturn the originals conviction the best I could ever hope to achieve was to grovel my way into spending the rest of my life in jail and as I was already doing that, this seemed like a pointless exercise in trading away what remained of my dignity.

Momma was never comfortable with the wealth my novels generated she seemed embarrassed to accept any of the money. She thought it a cruel trick that she had the means to acquire anything but could not have the one thing she wanted.

Just over 3 years ago Momma suffered a massive stroke on the bus travelling home from visiting me; she died instantly. They said she didn’t suffer at all, but it is my guess she couldn’t suffer any more. I had asked her to travel by air but she felt comfortable remaining near the ground. I was not permitted to attend her funeral.

~~~~

The warden and a chaplain have just entered ‘my’ cell. They never seem comfortable with the job at these times. The Warden struggled with his request saying,

“Deep down we know you cannot help; but it is our duty to ask that you confess to the murder of Christie Elinor Pritchard and explain what happened on the night of her murder. The family would be able to find closure and comfort knowing why she was murdered and that you regret your actions.”

I again explained I have no idea what happened to Christie Elinor Pritchard adding that in a little over 30 minutes I intend to ask her myself what happened; if the Chaplin’s after life world eventuates. I also explained it was going to be a real joy talking to someone who is in no doubt of my innocence.

The warden handed me a heart monitor and asked me to put it on under my shirt so the doctor can do his job; I complied. The warden again asked me to allow my solicitor to request consideration of a stay from the State Governor, adding that if I would allow my other identity to be revealed he wouldn’t dare allow the proceedings to continue. I again rejected this explaining, again, that I had had enough. I also politely explained to the Chaplin that he should reserve all his religious mumbo jumbo for someone who believes in it.

The warden struggled with his emotions while wishing me well as both men left me alone with my solicitor who was now also in the cell. We discussed a number of things. He raised the issue of a plea to the Governor, knowing full well what my response would be. We discussed my legacy and in particular the trusts I had set up. There was to be a trust, to avail funds to assist the children of death row inmates receive a college education. I was making a generous donation to help prisoners with disadvantages gain legal assistance and finish their own education.

We discussed tomorrows launch of my 13th novel, titled ‘Death Row – The Final Page’. In particular the solicitor went though a press release he was going to read out after tonight's proceeding are finalized.

It was time: The guards escorted me to the chamber next door where the warden read a proclamation of death out loud and asked if I wished to make a final statement. I said, “It is my hope that any members of the Pritchard family here tonight salvage the comfort they seek.  Those of you who are saddened by these proceedings, please do not be concerned. I have had enough of the sameness of life. There is no more I can discover, this really is the last page.”

With that I climb on the bunk and exposed my receptive veins to the juices of eternity.