San Quentin prison guards shackled Keith Doolin’s hands behind his back and escorted him to a small cage. It was 8am on a Saturday in early March, and Doolin, along with a dozen other men – all condemned to be executed by the state of California – sat in roughly 6ft by 8ft cells. There were metal bars on all sides and overhead, giving the death row visiting room the appearance of an animal shelter.
Doolin, 50, smiled as he explained why he chose to wear a tattered blue shirt that the prison had given him more than two decades ago. Unlike newer prison uniforms, his outfit has no “inmate” label or “California department of corrections and rehabilitation” (CDCR) marking: “I’ll wear this shirt until it falls off … Here, they strip you of your name and give you a CDC number. It’s part of the psychological warfare – tearing you down, making you feel worthless and not even acknowledging you as a human.”
