Anyway, prison lingo is vibrant and creative, and over time the execution room picked up its nickname. Legend has it that an air vent was intentionally left open so the cracking sound of the rifles echoed over the prison. When we adopted the needle, for humane reasons, less space was needed. Death row was reconfigured; walls were added here and there. Supposedly, the current Boom Boom Room includes the very spot where the condemned men sat and waited for the bullets.
They frisk me again and I walk through the door. Link is alone, sitting in a folding chair that is leaning against a cinder-block wall. The lights are low. He’s glued to a small muted television screen hanging in a corner, and he does not acknowledge my arrival. His favorite movie is
Our death row has a unique rule that allows the condemned man to die in any clothing he chooses. It’s a ridiculous rule because, after living here for ten, fifteen, or twenty years, these guys have nothing in the way of a wardrobe. Standard-issue coveralls; maybe a pair of frayed khakis and a T-shirt to wear during visitation; sandals; thick socks for the winter. Link, though, has money and wants to be buried in solid black. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with long sleeves buttoned at the wrists, black denim jeans, black socks, and black running shoes. It’s not nearly as stylish as he thinks, but at this point who cares about fashion?
Finally he says, “I thought you were going to save me.”
“I never said that, Link. I even put it in writing.”
“But I paid you all that money.”
“A fat fee is no guarantee of a good outcome. That’s in writing too.”
“Lawyers,” he grunts in disgust, and I don’t take this lightly. I have never forgotten what happened to his last one. He slowly leans forward, tipping his chair onto all fours, and stands up. Link is fifty now, and for most of his time on the Row he’s managed to maintain his good looks. But he’s aging quickly, though I doubt if anyone with a firm execution date worries too much about wrinkles and gray hair. He takes a few steps and turns off the television.
The room is maybe fifteen by fifteen, with a small desk, three folding chairs, and a cheap Army-style cot, just in case the condemned might want to catch a few winks before being sent to his eternal rest. I was here once before, three years ago, when my client came within thirty minutes of getting the needle before we were handed a miracle by the Fifteenth Circuit.
Link will not be so lucky. He sits on a corner of the desk and looks down at me. He grunts and says, “I trusted you.”
“And with good reason, Link. I fought like hell for you.”
“But I’m insane, legally, and you haven’t convinced anyone of it. Crazy as hell. Why can’t you make them see this?”
“I have tried and you know it, Link. No one listened because no one wanted to listen. You killed the wrong person, a judge. Kill a judge, and his brethren take offense.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Well, the jury said you did. That’s all that matters.” We’ve had this conversation a thousand times, and why not have it again? Right now, with less than five hours to go, I’ll chat with Link on any subject.
“I’m insane, Sebastian. My mind is gone.”
It is often said that everyone goes crazy on death row. Twenty-three hours a day in isolation breaks a man mentally, physically, and emotionally. Link, though, has not exactly suffered like the rest. Years ago I explained to him that the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that a state cannot execute a person who is either mentally retarded or who becomes mentally unsound. Soon thereafter, Link decided he should go insane and he’s been acting so ever since. The warden at that time agreed to move Link to the psych unit, where he enjoyed a much more comfortable lockup. Link lived there for three years before a journalist dug deep enough to discover a money trail between various members of the warden’s immediate family and a certain crime syndicate. The warden quickly retired and dodged an indictment. Link got slammed back to death row, where he stayed for about a month before getting moved to PC—protective custody. There, he had a larger cell and more privileges. The guards gave him anything he wanted because Link’s boys on the outside were taking care of the guards with cash and drugs. In time, Link manipulated a transfer back to the psych unit.
In his six years at Big Wheeler, he’s spent about twelve months locked up with the other killers on death row.
I say, “The warden just told me the courthouse got bombed this afternoon. Same courtroom where you got convicted. What a coincidence, huh?”
He frowns and offers a casual, Brando-like shrug, revealing nothing. “I got an appeal floating somewhere right now?” he says.
“It’s at the Fifteenth Circuit, but don’t get excited.”
