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Eight and a half kilometers is a long way to travel to meet someone for a chat. The morning sun highlights the rust-colored towers of the Golden Gate Bridge as we pass underneath them. I’ve waited for years to see them, but I’m too anxious to appreciate them just now. Today I’ll meet one of my oldest friends for the first time and I’m on edge. My cab driver shows little interest in my drop off destination and I am thankful for this. Suddenly the view looks familiar. I have tracked this quiet residential road many times online in preparation. I recognize the small, egg-blue cottage on the left and I knew we were moments from arrival. At the end of this picturesque cul-de-sac of wood-clad homes overlooking the bay, stands a building that houses the largest death row population in North America. The rather unassuming visitor's entrance to San Quentin State Prison actually puts me at ease. Approaching the only door I can see, I sheepishly knock. A young guard lifts her eyes to mine which are just peering over the glass. She buzzes me in. By the time I’ve entered the room, she’s already looking back down at her paperwork. A sudden and shrill ‘Hello’ bounces around the silent room before I realize it’s my own voice. ‘I’m here for visiting’ I mumble, trying to dodge the still reverberating hello. ‘Stick the yellow line. Follow it to the end’ she instructs. San Quentin is intimidating and it’s presence is all-encompassing. It feels loud, but the courtyard is silent. Inside, my eyes demand a moment of adjustment to the sickly glow of fluorescent tube lighting. Lines of wire-cages that are covered in perspex glass run the length of the room. Within each individual cage is a man dressed in a uniform not too far removed from a mid-90’s Levi’s ad. In reality, the denim garments mark these men as inmates condemned to death. Housed separately and awaiting different fates to the general prison population. Cage 12 is for me, I’m informed. My friend, Carl, is uncuffed once I’m inside and the door is securely bolted behind me. We stand for a moment before hugging. ‘Fourteen years!’ he exclaims in disbelief. We sit at our small cafe style table, open our soda cans and attempt to catch up. ‘He’s a good one’ Carl gestures towards a guard on one of his circuits. Carl sips his soda and nods as if agreeing with his own statement. He’ll be the guard who takes our photograph at the end of the visit. The camera will be pressed against the perspex in an attempt to erase the thin confining wires of the cage from the photograph. So that later, we might just look at this image as two friends meeting for a drink one sunny Thursday morning in San Francisco. From time to time, I glance around at the other enclosures. To the left of me sits an elderly couple visiting their son. The mother holds his hands in hers. She catches my eye and smiles at me wearily. I wonder how many visitors she’s smiled at like this over the years? To the right, a young couple laughs and joke loudly as they munch on snacks, unaware and unapologetic. Opposite us is a smartly dressed lawyer handing over sheet after sheet of paper for her client to read. My two hour appointed visit ends but I’m not asked to leave. Then hour three passes. Nothing. At hour four, I tell Carl that if I don’t leave now, I won’t make my flight. He nods sadly and summons the photographer-guard over. ‘Smile’ instructs the guard, and we do. After all agreeing that the photo is acceptable, the visit ends. ‘Don’t wait for another fourteen years!’ I hear Carl shout as the main door closes behind me. I follow the yellow line back and exit the compound without seeing another soul. On exiting, I notice a small gift shop for the first time. Closed, a sign informs me. Open again at 2pm. A prison gift shop, I muse. Interesting. Perhaps next time.