We got to death row by golf cart. It seemed unusual, but natural.

We were in Ohio's Mansfield State Prison — called "Manci" by employees and prisoners — a sprawling campus of brick and cinder-block buildings surrounded by layers of chain link fences topped with razor wire. After going through security, we hopped on the back of a little white golf cart with two information officers in the front.

The inside of Manci is like a sinister college campus, with criss-crossing footpaths between small one- and two-story buildings with bars on the windows. As we rode, a group of employees joked about the information officer's driving. Co-workers are the same everywhere.

Surveillance and security is omnipresent. From miles away, we knew Manci by the tall lights, like a football stadium's, that glare down at night. Unseen corrections officers opened the gates, one by one, until we arrived at death row, a high-security cluster of star-shaped buildings separated from the rest of the prison.

It was a clear, blue-sky day with just a slight summer breeze. It was wonderful golfing weather.

Rocky Barton on July 7 during an interview with CourtTVnews.com.

After showing our pass at another security checkpoint, we walked down a long corridor with tall, thin windows about five inches wide. I wondered if a person could fit through that window frame, and then wondered if the windows were designed for people not to fit through. Death row had me thinking of how I could get out.

We interviewed Rocky Barton in a cream-colored conference room that reminded me of a warehouse break room, with cinder-block walls, six chairs, a sturdy fold-out table, a microwave oven, and a short refrigerator. Unlike most other conference rooms, however, there was a large padlock on the floor under the table, where Mr. Barton would be locked down for the interview.

When the refrigerator made too much noise during the interview, I opened it to turn it off. There was only a pitcher of water and a half-empty jar of mustard inside.

There were several small offices for administration and corrections officers outside the conference room. A woman answered the phone while we were setting up. "Death row," she said. It was matter-of-fact and informative, how anyone answers their phone at work.

Mr. Barton hobbled in, followed by a corrections officer. His legs were chained together, and his arms shackled to a chain around his waist.

I shook his hand, which was thick and rough from years of manual labor as a carpenter, maintenance man, and racehorse groom. But his handshake was soft and resigned. Because his prison uniform had no pockets to clip his wireless microphone to, I hooked it to the chain around his waist.

The door was closed. The two public information officers sat to the side and observed the interview. The nearest guard sat outside the door of the conference room.

Mr. Barton was polite, and answered our questions deliberately and patiently.

Although his manner was resigned — and he said he's "ready to die" — he spent the entire interview clutching the bottom of his shirt under the table, worrying the edge by twisting and rolling it in both of his shackled hands, as he answered very personal questions about his wives and family.

After the interview, Mr. Barton faded quietly out of the room, following the officer who had sat by the door. He shook our hands goodbye. There were about a dozen large drops of sweat on the floor by his chair.

As we left, a phone rang. Someone answered it. It seemed normal, but strange.