Life on South Carolina death row: months of ‘barbaric’ isolation before execution

For 135 days, Marion Bowman Jr has been locked in a solitary cell narrower than his arm span, cut off from nearly all human interaction, counting down the days until the state of South Carolina executes him.

The 44-year-old is scheduled to be killed by lethal injection on Friday, the third man on South Carolina death row to be executed in rapid succession as the state aggressively revives capital punishment. The cases have sparked outrage over concerns about wrongful convictions, the racist application of the death penalty and the painful, drawn-out method of killing.

As the state resumes killings following a 13-year-pause, the men on death row and their advocates are raising alarms about the brutal conditions they endure once placed on “execution watch”, forced into nearly 24/7 isolation for months on end as their scheduled execution nears.

“Inhumane is an understatement,” said Bowman in a recent conversation with his lawyer, which was summarized for the Guardian. He has been singing spirituals and reciting scripture to himself, and re-reading notes other men have written him as they suffered the same conditions before their executions. One note reminded him, “Don’t let the prison turn you into the animal they think that you are, the monster they think you are … We are not what the state portrayed us to be. We are kind, caring, loving people, and it’s a shame the world can’t see that.”

‘All of a sudden, I’m something other’

Bowman has been incarcerated for 24 years, convicted of the 2001 killing of 21-year-old Kandee Martin, a childhood friend. He has maintained his innocence. The primary witnesses implicating Bowman were two men also charged in the crime, who testified in exchange for reduced sentences. A third witness had separate pending charges by the same prosecutors, which were subsequently dropped, his attorneys say.

Bowman’s lawyers have sought to overturn the conviction, arguing the state withheld evidence impugning the witnesses, including a memo outlining a claim that one of the witnesses confessed to the shooting. They’ve also argued Bowman had ineffective counsel “infected by his own racism”; his trial attorney repeatedly referred to the victim as a “little white girl” and Bowman as a “man” (even though he was younger at age 20) and told his client he should plead guilty because a jury would “see a Black male v a white female victim” and convict him.

“I was not guilty and would not say I did something I didn’t do,” Bowman said in a recent statement.

On death row for the majority of his life, Bowman has endured by writing poetry and staying as connected as possible to friends and family, including a granddaughter he was able to hold for the first time last week.. Bonding with those imprisoned alongside him, through Bible studies, prayer groups, and games, has been vital.

Typically, men on South Carolina death row live in single cells with a bed, desk and locker. They can eat meals in a communal area and do group recreation, including handball. But when the state declares that defendants have exhausted their appeals, it can place them on “execution status”, removing their few basic privileges.

In September, Bowman was transferred to this placement, also called execution watch, moved to an isolated cell, with policy dictating he would “not be allowed to associate with other inmates at anytime”. He is locked behind two doors – an outer one with a window that guards can peer through and an inner one of bars. There’s a slot with a tray that slides in and out with meals, which must be eaten alone. If he wants a toilet brush to clean, it goes on the same tray as his food, said Boyd Young, his lawyer and friend of 15 years.

There’s no desk. He had to give up many possessions, but what he was allowed to keep all sits on the floor – clothes, food, towels, an antenna television that plays a few local channels. The only place he can sit is his steel bunk. At 6ft 4in, he can touch both cell walls at the same time. He never has privacy as a guard is consistently watching him, making him reluctant to wash his body by hand. At times, the lights have been on 24/7.

He is supposed to get one-hour recreation time five days a week, but it is inconsistent, and when he does go out, he exercises alone in a cage resembling a dog kennel enclosure.

Young can now only visit him behind glass, with Bowman wearing leg shackles, a belly chain and handcuffs. When Bowman walks through the facility, a guard holds onto him with an attached dog leash. Even though he has no physical contact – his lawyers can’t even directly hand him paperwork to sign – he is subject to a full-body strip-search when leaving and returning to his cell.

Before execution watch, he was often called upon to help staff. “Now, I’m put behind these two doors, being led around on a leash whereas the day before, I was your friend helping you out. All of a sudden, I’m something other,” Bowman said, according to Young.

South Carolina bans media interviews with incarcerated people, a policy the ACLU has challenged.

While in isolation, Bowman has reflected on how the men of death row take care of each other when they aren’t kept apart – remembering birthdays, helping people prepare for difficult family conversations, sharing commissary items, offering grief support: “These people have helped me survive this – people who never would’ve gotten together on the outside, who are so different, but still have so much humanity in common. Some say they never had a friend until they came here. There’s no such thing as unredeemable.”

When he now has brief moments to communicate with others in passing, “I tell them to keep their heads up”, he said. “They are going to be left to grieve me, but I need to make sure they continue to have the courage for their own fight.”

‘The greatest degree of cruelty’

South Carolina ceased executions in 2011 when pharmaceutical companies stopped supplying lethal injection drugs amid public pressure. But in 2023, legislators passed a law to keep the identity of suppliers secret, allowing the prison to obtain pentobarbital, a sedative.

In August, the state supreme court said executions could proceed with at least 35 days between each killing and announced the first six defendants to be targeted. Two were killed last year, and Bowman is next on the list.

Execution watch was hard on Richard Moore, who was killed in November, in part because it was his third time being there after two previous execution dates were postponed, said Dr Janis Whitlock, a psychologist and Cornell research scientist emerita. She evaluated him in 2015 and stayed in contact over the years.

“He said it was ironic and a sign of humanity’s lack of evolution that the greatest degree of cruelty he ever experienced in the system was the weeks before he was slated to die,” she said, noting the men are constantly surveilled for signs of suicidality. “You’re taking draconian and barbaric steps to keep somebody from ending their own life, so you can execute them. I can’t wrap my brain around that.”

Chronic isolation and lack of movement can lead to muscle atrophy, gastrointestinal problems, a compromised immune system, changes in brain function, difficulty controlling emotions, psychosis, irritability, rage and severe depression, Whitlock added: “These conditions are used to torture people. Guards talk about the potential for a violent, dysregulated person, but you’ve created these conditions.”

Compounding the suffering on execution watch is that they have also been losing their friends one by one while isolated. Moore was a father figure to Bowman: “He credits Mo [Moore] with having raised him. Mo taught him how to do time, encouraged him to read and play chess and taught him not to worry about the stuff you can’t control,” said Young.

Knowing the day you will be killed is agonizing, but facing that alone in a tiny cell for weeks or months on end is unfathomable, said Lindsey Vann, an attorney for Moore and Bowman: “To be locked in that room, it’s like you’re thrown away even before the execution date.”

‘People have invested a lot in him’

While on execution watch, Bowman had to choose his method of death: lethal injection, firing squad or electrocution. He didn’t want to subject any staff to the trauma of shooting him, so he chose lethal injection, which seemed the least painful option, Young said.

His attorneys, however, have asked for the execution to be halted due to concerns about this method, noting that in last year’s execution, Moore required two large sedative doses. An anesthesiologist who reviewed his autopsy found fluid in the lungs suggesting it appeared likely Moore “consciously experienced feelings of drowning and suffocation during the 23 minutes that it took to bring about his death”.

The state’s attorneys responded: “If Bowman’s concerns about lethal injection were genuine, he could have elected another method.” The state has also argued in recent filings that his appeals were exhausted and that lawyers were recycling arguments already litigated.

Chrysti Shain, corrections spokesperson, declined to answer specific questions about execution watch conditions, saying, “Our security protocols are in place for a reason.”

Young said Bowman had become a close friend, reminding him not to forget his wedding anniversary and sending his children drawings they could color: “He tries to remember that people have invested a lot in him by staying in contact and just caring … All Marion ever wanted was an attorney who listened and believed him.”

On a recent visit, Bowman gave Young letters he had received from others before their executions, one two decades old that read, “I really enjoyed being your neighbor and friend. You’re a great guy … and I’ll miss you for sure.” Another read:

There were days in here that I thought I would never make it, moments where I was filled with so much doubt. No matter how I sought to encourage myself, I failed. At times, fear seemed to consume me. Anger boiled below the surface and tears glistened in my eyes. Nothing could comfort me. I found no solace in tomorrow. The day our paths crossed, I felt renewed comfort, a sort of peace in not what’s said, but just your presence.

God has truly given me a gift in your friendship … your smile, the glow in your eyes, the compassion in your words. Tomorrow holds no promises, but today, I take comfort in your friendship. I thank God continuously for you. Thank you for being my friend.

Logo-favicon

Sign up to receive the latest local, national & international Criminal Justice News in your inbox, everyday.

We don’t spam! Read our [link]privacy policy[/link] for more info.

Sign up today to receive the latest local, national & international Criminal Justice News in your inbox, everyday.

We don’t spam! Read our privacy policy for more info.

This post was originally published on this site be sure to check out more of their content.