Death Row

Chapter 1

The scene confronting Erin outside the penitentiary both startled and disturbed her. Who were all these people? There must be hundreds of them, she guessed, people from all walks of life. Some just children. What were they doing here?

A large group of teenagers passed her, carrying candles. Some were chanting softly. A high-powered searchlight burned down from the top of the penitentiary. This would be the perfect time for a jailbreak, Erin mused. The guards are all watching the teenagers.

She moved slowly toward the building. It was still hard walking, even after all these years, especially on unpaved surfaces. The cane helped some, but not that much. The letter jackets some of the kids were wearing told her they were from Bishop Kelly High School. It was a Tulsa private school, a Catholic school. She wasn’t surprised. The Catholic bishop had vociferously protested the death penalty, as had the Episcopal bishop and even some fundamentalists. An offense to humanity, they said. Legalized murder. Contrary to everything Jesus ever taught. DNA evidence has proved wrongful convictions occur, they argued. With every execution, the death penalty seemed to become more controversial, and this was the fifth execution in this state this year. Oklahoma was one of the top states in the union for executions. It was a political hot potato.

Erin didn’t care about politics. She didn’t care about religion, or morality, or What Jesus Would Do. She just wanted it to be over.

But did she want it to be over this way? She pressed her hand against her temples, trying to ease the pounding that had almost incapacitated her these past few days. That was the difficult question, the one that was tearing her apart.

Where was Sheila, anyway? Somehow, in this mass confusion, she had lost Sheila. Moving toward the north entrance, she saw another group of demonstrators, smaller and quieter than the anti-death-penalty crowd. A placard informed Erin that they were a homicide survivors group. Presumably that meant they were gung ho for the death penalty. So why were they here? Just to make a show of support? And what did they call themselves? she wondered. Friends of the Big Needle?

One of the demonstrators noticed her, looked once, then looked again, this time not turning away. Damn. Erin moved rapidly toward the door. She hoped she hadn’t been recognized. The last thing on earth she wanted was to be proselytized by some victims-rights group. What a coup she would be for them-a young woman who had lost eight family members. What airplay they could get out of that.

As she approached the visitors entrance, she sensed another person moving behind her in the darkness.

“Kind of revolting, isn’t it?”

Something about the voice gave her an eerie feeling. Which camp was this one with-the pro-deaths, or the anti-deaths?

“That all these people would turn out to be near an execution. To be a part of it.”

“I didn’t want to be here,” Erin said quietly.

“Really? Pardon my intrusion, but-I recognized you. And I would’ve thought you’d be the first in line.”

“I didn’t want to come at all. But my friend Sheila kept saying I should. That it would make me feel better. Give me a sense of closure.”

“And has it?”

“No. It’s made me feel-like I can’t live with myself any longer. Like I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“But how?”

“I’ve… done something horrible. Something-unforgivable.”

“You can’t blame yourself because a killer will be punished. You are only-”

But Erin never heard the rest of the sentence. She turned and headed across the front lawn, back toward her car. She couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t bear it.

Closure? That was a laugh. She would feel nothing but anguish and anger and… and guilt. Horrible, physically gut-wrenching guilt. After tonight, she didn’t know if she could live with herself any longer.

And worst of all-she didn’t know that she wanted to.

He saw the gurney.

On the other side of the bars, in the corridor. With its leather straps stretching from one side to the other, its metal frame and thick padded wheels. Waiting for him.

Five guards and the warden flanked it, trying to look professional and relaxed. It was some small comfort to Ray to see that they weren’t bringing it off. As often as they had done this of late, it still wasn’t coming easy. They weren’t jaded. Executions hadn’t quite become mundane.

That was something, anyway.

“Ray,” the warden said, stepping marginally closer to his cell, “we have some clothes we’d like you to put on. It’s required, actually. That includes some… special underwear.”

Ray glanced at the bundle of clothing in the warden’s arms. The underwear looked like some kind of rubber diaper. Wasn’t hard to figure what that was about. Simplified the cleanup afterward, no doubt. Made it more hygienic. Well, thank goodness for that, anyway. Wouldn’t want to have a messy murder.

“Is this going to be a problem, Ray?” the warden asked. “Because if it is…” He glanced ever so slightly toward the guards. Because if it is, he didn’t say, I’ve got five guards here who will put the clothes on you whether you like it or not.

“It’s not a problem,” Ray said. “Where’s my rabbi?”

“He’s waiting for you. Get the clothes on and… we’ll take you there. I would also recommend that you go to the toilet now, Ray. Thoroughly. You’ll be glad you did. You probably won’t have a chance… later.”

The cell door opened, and for a fleeting moment Ray fantasized about breaking out, knocking over the guards, grabbing the keys, and racing down the corridor. A few well-placed martial-arts kicks to the attendants and he’d be free. He’d hot-wire the prison van and race down the highway, so fast and furious no one could possibly catch him. He’d tear off into the night and soon, in no time at all, he’d be back in Carrie’s arms, and she’d be holding him, and they’d tear off their clothes with animal urgency, caressing and pleasuring each other, letting the rest of the world fall away because there was nothing left but the two of them, just the two of them, together and close, forever and ever and…

“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.

Ray Goldman didn’t struggle, thank God. In the course of four executions, Andrew had seen about everything. One of the men actually told jokes before he was killed. One of them did finger exercises. What the hell he thought he was getting in shape for, Andrew couldn’t imagine. All of them sweated, and all of them cried, eventually. Who wouldn’t? How could they help it?

“Carrie? Are you out there? Are you there, honey?”

No one answered him, and with the tears clouding his eyes, he was having a hard time seeing anything. Was she here? Sure, she hadn’t written in a while, hadn’t come to visit for years, but he understood that. It was hard, waiting, hoping, when time after time their appeals failed and their prayers were squashed. But she was here with him now, even though he couldn’t see her, right? She was, he was sure of it. She had to be.

“I don’t want to die like this,” Ray said, to no one in particular. “I don’t want to die like a dog, strapped to a table. I don’t want to die alone.”

None of the guards would look at him. Even the rabbi didn’t make eye contact.

“It isn’t right!” Ray shouted. “I don’t care what you call it. Killing people isn’t right!” He twisted as much as he could, which wasn’t much. He strained against the straps that bound him to the table. He realized now why they had pinned him down early.

He was helpless to stop this. But oddly enough, Ray felt a calm blanket him. It was over now. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. And for once, that was okay. It was time for it to be over. Relief was on its way.

When Andrew took his position behind Ray Goldman’s head, the man looked up at him, right into his eyes and said, “Thank you.” Andrew just about lost it. Just about lost it once and for all.

The nurse approached the table and slid the EKG pads under the neck of Goldman’s shirt. She flipped a switch on the machine, and they could all hear the steady beep of Goldman’s heartbeat. For now. She instructed Goldman to make a fist, swabbed the inside of his elbow with a cotton ball, and in a mercifully short period of time, managed to slip an IV needle into a vein. With two strips of surgical tape, she fixed the needle into place. For the moment, Goldman received a simple saline solution. But that wouldn’t last long.

The preliminaries were complete. The warden removed the death warrant from his pocket and began to read. “Raymond Daniel Goldman, you have been found guilty of eight counts of murder in the first degree by the State of Oklahoma and have been sentenced to death by lethal injection.” He paused, folded up the warrant. “Do you have anything you wish to say?”

The tranquillity that had embraced Goldman melted away. He began to wail. His voice was frenzied and desperate. “I did not kill all those people. I did not mutilate them. I couldn’t!”

Andrew felt his hands trembling. Whether the man was lying or telling the truth, it was horrible. The tension in the room was all but unbearable.

“I love you, Carrie!” Goldman screamed. “I know you’re out there! I love you!”

The warden removed his glasses, which was the signal to the executioners to let the chemicals flow. The chemical team looked at each other, then stepped closer to the machine and laid their hands on the buttons.

Goldman closed his eyes. The rabbi began muttering something in Hebrew.

“I didn’t do it,” Goldman said, gasping for air in great heaving gulps, his chest rocking. “I didn’t. Tell them, Carrie. Tell them I didn’t do it.”

Andrew looked away.

And then the phone rang. The ring was jarring, strange. Everyone froze. The warden seemed confused for a moment, then he raced to the phone. “Stop!” he ordered. “Don’t do anything.”

“What’s happening?” Goldman cried, his face wet with tears. “What’s going on?”

The warden was on the phone for more than five minutes, most of that time just grunting or saying “I understand.” Before the call ended, a clerk raced into the room waving an extra-long piece of paper.

The warden studied the document for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Mr. Goldman?”

Goldman was shaking so hard he could barely speak. “Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Goldman, it seems you have received a temporary reprieve. Thirty days, courtesy of the federal courts.” He turned to his staff. “Gentlemen, you may stand down. Please unstrap Mr. Goldman and return him to his cell.”

As soon as he was off the table, Goldman fell to his knees. “Thank you!” he cried out, his eyes closed, hands clasped. “Thank you!” His rabbi knelt beside him, and together they said another prayer.

Andrew felt a wave of relief so intense he could barely stand. He placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. When he finally felt he could walk reliably, he inched toward the warden.

“A reprieve from the federal courts, sir?” Andrew said. “How in the world did Goldman manage that?”

“He didn’t.” The warden was still staring at the paper, in particular scrutinizing a signature at the bottom of the page. “Do any of you boys know an attorney named Benjamin J. Kincaid?”