Part 11 (1/2)

Muriel grunted softly, a word or two that I couldn't understand. I found that no words formed on my own lips, or even in my mind.

Olsen looked at another card. ”Mr. Sweeting ordered a sirloin steak dinner, a pint of chocolate ice cream with hot fudge, a CocaCola, and a large-size b.u.t.tered popcorn-all of which we were able to provide. This meal was served at approximately four-thirty A.M. this morning, following the condemned's final visit with a clergyman of his choice. In this instance Mr. Sweeting met for one hour with the prison chaplain. ... Do you have any questions thus far?”

Muriel and I shook our heads in the negative.

He was spooning up his hot fudge sundae, I calculated, when I was chewing my poached eggs in that Starke diner.

Olsen said, ”The rest has to do with the execution procedure, which you'll witness shortly. Witnesses will be escorted at five forty- five A.M. to the witness room of the execution chamber in Q wing. At six A.M. an FSP administrative a.s.sistant, namely myself, three designated electricians, two FSP correctional officers, a physician, and a physician's a.s.sistant will be a.s.sembled in the death chamber. Mr. Crocker will establish telephone contact with the office of the governor, in case there should be any last-minute clemency.”

”Will the governor be awake and in his office at six A.M.?” I asked.

”That's a good question,” Olsen said, ”and frankly I don't know the answer. Meanwhile the condemned will have his head and right calf shaved to better conduct the electrical charge. He will take a supervised shower, and he will be dressed in his new burial clothes, omitting the suit jacket and shoes. Conducting gel will be applied to his scalp and shaved leg. The prison superintendent, Mr. Tate, will read the death warrant one final time to the condemned. The condemned will be strapped into the chair. He will be permitted to make a last brief statement. A conducting sponge and cap will be placed on his head. I might mention,” Olsen added, ”that last night I and my colleague, Clive Crocker, who as I've said is over at the other table with those other folks, noticed that the sponge to be used this morning was, to say the least, dirty. So we went out and purchased a brand-new clean sponge to be used for this occasion. I don't think they ever had changed that other sponge, if you can believe such a thing.”

Under the Formica table I dug my fingers into the muscles of my legs.

”Mr. Wright, the a.s.sistant superintendent of this facility, will then engage the circuit breaker. The chief electrician will activate the panel, Mr. Tate will signal the executioner to throw the switch, and the automatic cycle will begin. Once it's run its course, the physician will p.r.o.nounce the condemned as dead. You will all exit the viewing chamber, to the rear.”

”Who's the executioner?” Muriel asked quietly.

”An anonymous local private citizen dressed in a black hood and robe,” Olsen said.

”Jesus, a volunteer?”

”Yes, except that he'll be paid one hundred and fifty dollars for his services.”

”How many volts?” I asked.

”Two thousand four hundred.”

”And it takes?”

”I beg your pardon, sir?”

”How long to kill him?”

”Oh, instantaneous. Perhaps a few seconds. You may see some movement in the condemned's body, but I a.s.sure you, consciousness ends instantly.”

Fred Olsen excused himself to go to the bathroom.

I stared into Muriel's eyes. The pupils were dilated. She said, ”I don't know if I can go through with this.”

”Then let's skip it.”

”No, I've got to do it. I took a vow on the Virgin. Chinga la madre! What was I thinking? This man Olsen is certifiably insane. Will you come with me? Can you do that for me?”

I shook my head. I had come this far, but it seemed far enough. She gripped my wrist. She had thin fingers, and strong. ”Please. Help me.”

”All right,” I said, my stubbornness melting before the heat of her plea.

A van took us in a group to Q wing. A rosy sun was inching above the pines to the east. During the ride, no one spoke. The appeal attorney nodded at Muriel Suarez; he knew who she was, even though they had never been in court together.

I whispered in Muriel's ear. ”Can you see Mrs. Sweeting? Next to the appeal attorney?”

”Yes.”

”She stumbled getting on the bus. She's brought her coffee along. Just poured something into it from a flask. How old a woman is she?”

”Sweeting's twenty-seven. She's probably in her fifties.”

”She looks seventy, for Christ's sake.”

”Dios mo. I hate this.”

”Let's get the h.e.l.l out when the van stops.”

”I'll be all right. Just hang tight with me. I'll shut up, I swear I will.”

Inside Q wing we were led by Clive Crocker to rows of white wooden chairs. The chairs faced a gla.s.s wall. On the other side of the gla.s.s, about fifteen feet away, stood a high-backed, solid oak chair with black straps-as large as a throne. Behind the chair an open panel contained coils and lights. Two domed light fixtures hung from the ceiling.

I s.h.i.+fted in my chair, pulled my suit jacket a little closer. The witness room was damp.

The condemned shuffled into the death chamber. He was manacled at his ankles, and his wrists were cuffed to a chain.

Sweeting looked like a freckled boy dressed for an adult party. He wore a red and blue striped tie that hung well below his waist, a white b.u.t.ton-down dress s.h.i.+rt that was too big for him, baggy dark-blue suit trousers, black socks. He was about five feet four, thin and sinewy. His ears stood out at right angles to his head, like a mongrel dog. His k.n.o.bby shaven skull glistened where it had been rubbed with gel.

His mother waved to him.

Our guide, Fred Olsen, was in the death chamber, as was a doctor in a white coat, the doctor's a.s.sistant, the prison superintendent, the a.s.sistant superintendent, three electricians, two bulky correctional officers of the Death Watch squad, and a small man dressed in a black gown and a hood with a slit for vision.

For some time I had been hearing a regular rhythmic sound, like a feebly ticking drumbeat. Now it grew louder. I looked to my left, two seats away, where Olsen's colleague, Clive Crocker, was seated. I raised my eyebrows by way of inquiry.

Crocker leaned over to whisper. ”The men on death row know our schedule. They tap on the bars with plastic spoons. I think we can a.s.sume it's a form of saying goodbye.”

The correctional officers unchained Sweeting. One of them said, ”Sit down here, please.” Through the gla.s.s, although a trifle blurred, the words were still audible.

The men helped Sweeting up into the chair. His stockinged feet dangled in the air. The men cinched the various leather straps around his waist, legs, and arms.

We heard Olsen ask him, ”Would you like to say a few words now?”

”Yes, please,” Sweeting said, and turned toward the visitors.

”You'd better speak up to be sure they hear you,” Olsen cautioned.

Sweeting nodded. ”Goodbye, all. Goodbye, Mama.”

”'Bye, son,” Mrs. Sweeting called. ”Give my love to Jesus. Tell him to take good care of you.”