“Of course.” The guard’s name is Harvey and we’ve chatted before, but not tonight. Tonight Big Wheeler is locked down and there is a thrill in the air. It’s execution time! Across the road, some protesters with candles sing a solemn hymn while others chant support for the death penalty. Back and forth. There are TV news vans lining the highway.
Harvey scribbles something on a clipboard, says, “Unit Nine,” and as we’re about to drive away he leans in and whispers, “What are your chances?”
“Slim,” I say as we begin moving. We follow a prison security truck with gunmen standing in the back; another one trails us. Floodlights nearly blind us as we inch along, passing brightly lit buildings where three thousand men are locked in their cells and waiting for Link to die so things can return to normal. There is no sensible reason for a prison to go nuts when there’s an execution. Extra security is never needed. No one has ever escaped from death row. The condemned men there live in isolation, and thus do not have a gang of friends who might decide to storm the Bastille and free everyone. But rituals are important to the men who run prisons, and nothing gets their adrenaline pumping like an execution. Their little lives are mundane and monotonous, but occasionally the world tunes in when it’s time to kill a killer. No effort at heightened drama is to be missed.
Unit Nine is far away from the other units, with enough chain link and razor wire around it to stop Ike on the beaches of Normandy. We eventually reach a gate where a platoon of jumpy guards can’t wait to search Partner and me and our briefcases. These boys are far too excited about the evening’s festivities. With escorts we enter the building, and I’m led to a makeshift office where Warden McDuff is waiting, chewing his fingernails, obviously wired. When we’re alone in a room with no windows he says, “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Ten minutes ago, a bomb went off in the Old Courthouse, same courtroom Link got convicted in.”
I’ve been in that courtroom a hundred times, so, yes, I am shocked to hear it’s been bombed. On the other hand, I’m not at all surprised to discover that Link Scanlon does not intend to go quietly.
“Anybody hurt?” I ask.
“Don’t think so. The courthouse had just closed.”
“Wow.”
“Wow’s right. You better talk to him, Rudd, and quick.”
I shrug and give the warden a hopeless look. Trying to talk sense to a gangster like Link Scanlon is a waste of time. “I’m just his lawyer,” I say.
“What if he hurts somebody…”
“Come on, Warden. The State’s executing him in a few hours. What else can it do to him?”
“I know, I know. Where are the appeals?” he asks, crunching a sliver of a thumbnail between his front teeth. He’s about to jump out of his skin.
“Fifteenth Circuit,” I say. “A Hail Mary. They’re all Hail Marys at this point, Warden. Where’s Link?”
“In the holding room. I got to get back to my office and talk to the governor.”
“Tell him I said hello. Tell him he still hasn’t ruled on my last request for a reprieve.”
“I’ll do that,” the warden says as he’s leaving the room.
“Thanks.”
Few people in this state love an execution as much as our handsome governor. His routine is to wait until the last possible moment, then appear somberly in front of the cameras and announce to the world that he cannot, in good conscience, grant a reprieve. On the verge of tears, he’ll talk about the victim and declare that justice must be done.
I follow two guards dressed in full military gear through a maze and come to the Boom Boom Room. It’s nothing more than a large holding cell where the condemned is placed precisely five hours before his big moment. There, he waits with his lawyer, spiritual adviser, and maybe some family. Full contact is allowed, and there can be some pretty sad moments when Momma arrives for the final hug. The last meal is served precisely two hours before the final walk, and after that only the lawyer can hang around.
In decades past, our state used a firing squad. Cuffed and bound, the condemned was strapped to a chair, a black veil was dropped over his head, and a bright red cross was attached to his shirt, over his heart. Fifty feet away, five volunteers waited behind a curtain with high-powered rifles, though only four were loaded. The theory was that none of the five would ever know for sure that he killed a man, and this was somehow supposed to assuage his guilt later in life, in the event that he had a change of heart and became burdened. What a crock! There was a long list of volunteers, all eager to put a bullet dead center in another man’s heart.
