“Well, I hope I’m not getting one,” Martin said, and downed the concoction in three swallows.
“Mr. Sloan,” Barbara said, a little hesitantly, “I know it’s not my place to ask, but is everything all right at home? Please don’t think I’m prying, but I’ve worked for you for nearly a year now, and I feel I’ve gotten to know you pretty well. For the past couple of weeks you’ve seemed, I don’t know, kind of tense. I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all, Barb,” Martin assured her, giving her a friendly hug as he handed the glass back to her. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned.” He allowed himself a quick glance down the front of her dress as they parted. “Tell you the truth, I have been a little on edge for a while. My stepdaughter is engaged and she and my wife are involved in planning the wedding, and it seems like that’s all that gets talked about around the house these days: the wedding this, the wedding that, the reception, the honeymoon.” He sat down at his desk and tried to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know my mood was that obvious.”
“Oh, I’m sure no one else has noticed anything,” Barbara tried quickly to assuage him. “Listen, if there’s anything I can do to help you through your problem, anything at all—”
His telephone began to ring and Barbara hurried out to her own desk to answer it.
Help me through my problem, Martin thought, grunting softly. His stepdaughter’s wedding was nothing compared to a real problem that had begun two weeks earlier when he had run into his ex-wife, Vivian, at a local mall and ended up back in her apartment in bed. They had arranged to meet twice more since then. And now, on top of that, he had a prison warden calling him at home about hanging a man—
“It’s a Mr. Harvey Manlow,” Barbara said on the intercom. “He says he’s with the state attorney general’s office.”
“Okay. Will you close my office door, please, Barb.” He waited until she had reached in and pulled his door closed before answering the call. “Martin Sloan speaking—”
“Good morning, Mr. Sloan. Harvey Manlow here. I’m deputy attorney general down at the statehouse. I understand that you and Warden Lawson up at Barnaby Prison are having a little dispute.”
“Not really a dispute, Mr. Manlow, not to my mind, anyway,” Martin said. “He wants me to perform an execution, something I gave up many years ago, and I simply said no, I wouldn’t do it.”
“I’m afraid you can’t say no, Mr. Sloan,” the deputy attorney general said. “I’m looking at the original contract of employment you signed when you first agreed to take on the responsibility of performing executions in our state. The contract has an annual automatic renewal clause, so it is still in effect. You’re still legally obligated to perform that duty.”
“But I haven’t worked for the state since you started using lethal injection for executions—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Sloan,” Manlow interrupted, “but to put it more accurately, you haven’t performed for the state since then. Legally, you are still obliged to do so, if called upon, until the contract is terminated, which requires notification from you. Thirty days in advance. In writing. Notarized.”
“But this is crazy,” Martin protested. “Isn’t there some way we can compromise on this matter?”
“I don’t see how, Mr. Sloan. Bottom line is, the state needs a hangman — and you’re it. We don’t have anyplace else to go.”
“Well, I suggest you find someplace else to go, Mr. Manlow,” Martin snapped angrily, “because I simply am not going to do it! If you don’t like it, take me to court! Sue me for breach of contract! Go to hell, for all I care!”
Later that day, Martin called Hazel and told her he had to work late that night, and called Vivian to tell her there was a problem at work and he had to cancel their meeting in her apartment. That evening, for the first time, he took Barbara, his secretary, to dinner.
The next morning, Martin was summoned to the office of Isaac Stockman, the company owner.
“Sit down, my boy,” Stockman greeted him cordially. “Want some coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir. Just had some.” Martin had a nervous feeling that someone had seen him with Barbara at dinner, and Stockman was calling him on the carpet about executives fraternizing with their secretaries. He was preparing himself to talk his way out of that, and silently promising himself that from then on he would be more circumspect about where he took her. Because after last night he definitely was going to be seeing her again; everything above and below the waist that Hazel and Vivian had individually, Barbara had collectively. But at the moment, facing Isaac Stockman, Martin was prepared to be as contrite as he had to be.
As it turned out, that was not necessary.
“Martin, I had a call from the governor last night,” Stockman said. “He told me all about this problem that has arisen regarding the condemned man who insists on being hanged. Damned nuisance, if you ask me. Don’t understand why the fellow can’t be reasonable and just let them inject him. Probably been a troublemaker all his life, which is why he’s where he is today.” Stockman leaned back in his big leather chair and lit a cigar. “I understand the prison warden and someone from the attorney general’s office have already contacted you on the matter,” he said around his first big puff.
“Yes, sir. And I flatly refused to do as they asked,” Martin stated emphatically. In spite of his first memorable experience with Barbara, she was now completely out of his mind.
“I’m told there’s some sort of binding contract involved,” Stockman said.
“Apparently there is, yes, sir.”
Stockman gazed up at the ceiling. “As you know, Martin, we do a substantial amount of business with the state procurement office. Ninety percent of every length of rope or twine that gets tied in a knot in this state comes from Stock-man Cordage.” He lowered his eyes from the ceiling to Martin. “That aside, however, the governor happens to be an old family friend; we played college football together way back when. He was good enough to telephone me at home last night to discuss this matter. He said his attorney general’s office is prepared to obtain a court order requiring your performance under that contract you signed.”
“Can they do that, sir?” Martin asked. “I mean, is that legal?”
“Oh, yes. When one party sues another party in civil court for breach of contract, the party filing the suit — the plaintiff, that is — can ask the court either for monetary damages, or for what is known in tort law as ‘specific performance.’ In other words, instead of asking the court to make you pay monetary damages for breaching the contract you signed, the plaintiff asks the court to order you to comply with the terms of the contract.”
“The court can order me to hang this man?” Martin asked incredulously.
“Absolutely. And if you fail to do so, you can be held in contempt of court and sent to jail.”
“This is unbelievable,” Martin said, as much to himself as to Isaac Stockman. He rose and took a few steps around the office. “One of the main reasons I said no to these people is that I didn’t want to embarrass the company, embarrass myself in front of my coworkers. And put some kind of stigma on my family. For God’s sake, my own wife doesn’t even know about that part of my past life.”
“Sit back down, Martin,” the older man calmly directed. “This predicament might not be as bad as it seems. Would you be willing to carry out this assignment if you could do it with complete anonymity?”
“Anonymity?” Martin stopped pacing. “That’s impossible. We’re not talking about the electric chair here, where some unidentified hand throws a switch, or the gas chamber, where a couple of lethal chemicals are mixed together in a lead container under a chair. We’re talking about a hanging, Mr. Stockman. Up close and personal. The hangman has to meet the condemned man, examine him, take his measurements, weigh him. When it’s time for the execution to take place, he has to bind the man’s ankles, position him on the trapdoor, put the hood over his head, put the noose around his neck—” Martin abruptly sat back down and blotted his brow with a handkerchief. “There’s nothing anonymous about it, sir. Believe me, there isn’t.”