When I first left my job at TDCJ, I was in a state of mourning—confused about what had happened to me, who I was and what would become of me. Compounding that state of grief was the bombardment of memories of all that I had seen, suddenly hitting me from all sides—and I didn’t know exactly what to make of it. I only knew that I needed to try and put it in some order, so I could work through it and move on.
Cue my dear friend Pamela Colloff, then a reporter with the award-winning Texas Monthly magazine. While speaking with the extraordinarily talented Pam on another story for which she was gathering information, I mentioned to her all the thoughts I had been having about these executions I had seen—all the pictures and scenes that kept crossing my mind and how the same thing had been happening to Larry for years. When Pam suggested a story, I knew it might be my opportunity to get the tangled mess out of my head and into some shape that might make sense. We spent hours chatting, the result of which became the article “The Witness,” published in Texas Monthly’s September 2014 issue. I will be eternally grateful to Pam for putting our story to paper—it was such a cathartic experience just telling some of those stories out loud, both for Larry and myself, and I know I speak for both of us when I say that we love you dearly.
In February 2016, Ed Hancox directed and produced a beautiful segment on our dear Larry Fitzgerald for the BBC, called The Man Who Witnessed 219 Executions, which was viewed by Nick Walters, the man I now know and adore as my brilliant agent with David Luxton Associates. After watching this BBC documentary, Nick found our Texas Monthly article, and then he found me. He introduced himself and asked the magic question, “Have you ever thought of writing a book?” And the rest is history. Thank you, Nick, for your vision, and for working so tirelessly on behalf of Larry and myself. You have been our advocate and, truly, this book would not have been were it not for you.
Thank you to the wonderful Kelly Ellis, editorial director, and the amazing Beth Eynon, editor, with Blink Publishing. You both have been so dedicated to this project and your enthusiasm has been infectious. I have always known we are in good hands and have trusted you every step of the way—thank you for making this possible and for taking such good care of us.
And then there’s Benjamin Dirs, who had one of the trickiest tasks of all as my ghostwriter, in that you had to transcribe hours of interviews with me after realizing that I speak twice as fast as any other American. Between copious amounts of laughter and alcohol, we managed to forge a bond I have no doubt will last a lifetime. From alligator farms to absinthe houses, tapas bars to beer gardens, voodoo shops to some of the shadiest bars one could ever set foot in, we have had some wonderful adventures. When you miss me, play some Glen Campbell and think of me, knowing that I’ll beat your ass at Scrabble every single time. Thank you for all your work on this—I know you gave it your all.
To my mom and dad, who have always been the foundation upon which I have built my life. I kept putting off writing this because of you, because how do you find the words to thank the two people who gave you everything? Every time things have fallen apart, you have been there to put me back together. And every time things have worked out, I’ve always seen you right there, cheering me on. I love you both more than words can say, and I thank you more than I can ever express, for all you have given me, all you have taught me and for all of your love. Just know that everything I am is because of you… except the cursing—that’s all me. I love you so very much.
To my brother, my best friend, who has always been DSD1 (if you don’t know what that means it’s okay, because it wasn’t meant for you). You always know exactly when I need a kick in the ass to keep me going—you never let me feel sorry for myself for too long. And I always know there’s no one more proud of me than you—I hope you know that it goes both ways. There’s no one who makes me laugh like you, and no one who will ever know me like my little brother does. Love you, ’mano.
To my daughter, my heart, you are my reason for living and why I do everything I do. When you were little, you told me that you thought God had a cabinet full of little drawers and he pulled each child out and put them with the parents he thought they should have, and that’s how he picked you for me—and I couldn’t agree more. You were always meant to be mine, and I was always meant to be yours. I am so proud of you, and so proud to be your mother—there are no words to express my love for you. I love you.
To the rest of my family and dear friends, I have always believed we are shaped by those we love and who love us, and I have been very lucky to be surrounded by a wonderful and supportive family, and some of the greatest friends. Thank you all for loving and accepting me for all my quirks and flaws—for having my back and loving me even when I’m not my most lovable.
And lastly, to the men and women of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, who do a mostly thankless job in the interest of public safety: thank you for your hard work and your sacrifice, protecting the people of the great state of Texas. You work long hours with little pay, you miss holidays with your families and you put your lives on the line to protect ours. Thank you for your service.