“Take the clothes, Ray.”
Silently, tears tumbling from his eyes, Ray did as he was told.
“Thank you,” the warden said, looking away. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
Andrew Fowler was the head man. He hadn’t asked to be. He would’ve preferred to be the left-leg man, or the right-arm man, or anything other than the head man. But that’s what he was, just the same.
Andrew was a member of the tie-down team in the unit of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester that contained the death house. And tonight, they were on death watch. The five persons on the tie-down team were each assigned a part of the condemned man’s body-the right arm, the left arm, the right leg, the left leg, and the head. It was their responsibility to strap that part to the gurney. When the warden gave the signal. When it was time for the condemned man to die.
And Andrew had the head. Which was good, in a way. A thin, wiry young man, Andrew was not renowned for his strength. Since the neck was so weak, the head was generally the easiest part to strap down. And the hardest to look at.
Andrew was a relatively new member of the tie-down team. He’d only been around a few months, only done four executions. He’d replaced Wilson Fox, a thirty-five-year veteran who’d done over forty executions-till he suffered a complete mental breakdown earlier this year.
That wasn’t unusual for men on the tie-down team. In fact, Fox lasted a lot longer than most. Killing people-even people you knew were butchers and sadistic murderers-was an intense, traumatizing job. Most of them stayed calm and professional while they did their work. Stoic expressions and all that. But afterward, when they were alone, when Andrew was in bed in the dark talking to his wife, it was different. Killing shouldn’t be anyone’s job, he had told his wife more than once. Not anyone’s.
But jobs were hard to come by in McAlester these days, and though his salary was modest, it was twice as much as any salary Andrew had ever had before in his life. If they wanted to have children-and they did-he couldn’t afford to quit. Now that was ironic, wasn’t it? So that he could bring new life into the world-he was helping kill people.
Andrew had gotten to know this one a little bit-a bad mistake. He tried to avoid all contact with the prisoners on death row. But Goldman had been in the library so often, and had been so courteous and… gentle, that Andrew had not been able to avoid talking to him. Learning what he was like. Learning to like him.
Which did not in any way mean Andrew thought he was innocent. He assumed all these guys were guilty. He had to. But it disturbed him-all these accounts of men being released from prison after DNA evidence provided proof of their innocence. It didn’t happen all that often, statistically, his wife told him. But so what? If it happened once, it was too often. What if some of the people here were really innocent?
What if some of them were executed?
Goldman had asked him, during their last conversation, “Do you believe in the death penalty?” Andrew hadn’t answered. He didn’t really know, and frankly, it was beside the point. It wasn’t about whether the death penalty was right and it wasn’t about whether Goldman was guilty. It was about whether human beings, who screwed things up far more often than they got them right, had any business killing people. It was about whether killing ought to be a man’s job. Any man’s job.
He saw Goldman emerge from the back of the cell, fully dressed in the designated execution wardrobe. Now they would strap him down. They had learned that the moment when the condemned man saw the gurney for the first time was the hardest. That’s when he knew it was really going to happen, that there was no escape. That was when he was most likely to panic, or God forbid try to make a break for it. So the tie-down team had learned to get it over with in advance, to strap him down before they got to the death chamber. It just made it easier, that was all. As easy as it could possibly be. To kill someone.
Ray felt the leather strap cinched tightly across his chest. He couldn’t breathe. What was happening here? He wasn’t supposed to die yet. Not yet!
“Can’t breathe,” he gasped.
“You’ll get used to it,” said one of the guards. Fowler, that was his name. Ray had talked to him a few times in the library. He seemed like a decent sort. How could he stand this work? How could he stand there calmly and help these people murder him?
“I didn’t do it, you know,” Ray said. Fowler looked away. Ray was embarrassed for himself. His eyes were streaming tears, like some six-year-old on a playground. Thank God he’d taken the warden’s advice and gone to the bathroom, or he knew he’d have even more to be embarrassed about. The sick feeling inside his gut was spreading like cancer. How could anyone bear this?
“I didn’t,” Ray continued, choking. “I know you hear this all the time, but it’s true. I didn’t kill those people. I couldn’t!”
Without a word, they wheeled him down the corridor. They didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Pardons weren’t within their control. There was nothing they could do to stop it. And nothing he could do. Except lie there, bound and immobilized, his face wet with terror, blubbering like an infant. Wondering how God could allow this to happen. Wondering how human beings could do this to one another.
And deep down, deep within him, desperate for it to be over. For the relief that would only come when the needle fell.
In the death chamber, the phone rang.
The bell made Andrew jump a bit. He knew that would be the governor’s office, calling to give them the go-ahead. A moment later, the warden, a large man with a short haircut and wire-frame glasses, put the receiver down and said quietly, “It’s time.”
Goldman’s rabbi said some kind of prayer over him. Didn’t sound like last rites, and he didn’t hear any Hail Marys. Andrew didn’t know anything about Judaism, but he knew what he’d be praying for if he were the one strapped to the table. Please God-get me out of here. And if You can’t get me out of here, at least give me the strength to get through it without humiliating myself.
On a signal from the warden, the two members of the chemical team-that was the user-friendly name they gave the actual executioners-would each push one of the two buttons on the machine’s control panel. Only one worked, and they didn’t know which. That way, they didn’t know for sure who had pressed the button that put the man to death. One of the buttons would cause stainless-steel plungers in the delivery module to be lowered into the chemical containers, which would force the poisons through the tubes and into Ray Goldman’s vein-first, sodium pentothal, then pancuronium bromide, then potassium chloride-to put him to sleep, then stop his breathing, then stop his heart. A medical doctor and nurse stood in attendance with an EKG, but other than giving notice when the heart had stopped beating, they had little to do. There wasn’t much the doctor could do, since the AMA didn’t allow doctors to participate in executions. The nurse would find a vein for the IV. And that was important. Lethal injection was supposed to be a quick, humane method of execution, but Andrew was all too aware of the Texas case in which it took the executioners forty excruciating minutes to locate a viable vein on a condemned heroin abuser.