It took me two damn decades working my way up through the slow, painfully boring ranks of bureaucracy to get a cushy desk job here on death row in San Quentin... it took me another three decades of working here (plus a lot of awkward, insistent questions) to finally learn that those sentenced to die at the government's hands aren't really dying... at least, not when the papers say they are, anyway. Reporters aren't so hard to bribe, and even on those rare occasions when we DO have an execution viewed, it's simple enough to get the prisoners to play along with promises of a new life in return for cooperation... after all, it's not like most of 'em want to go back where they came from.
So, always less than half an hour after The Man of the Hour has pretended to have a seizure in the chair or taken a shot of saline solution in the arm, a van shows up. It's not the same van every time, but the man who steps out of it never changes... nor do the two well-armed, well-armoured soldiers at his side (at least, I think they don't. but who the hell can tell?). And once the inmate is in their custody... well, I'm afraid that's something I've got too few decades left to find out.