Part 32 (2/2)
I stood, armed with Father Michael's citation. ”It's in Isaiah, Your Honor,” I said.
During the lunch recess, I drove to my office. Not because I had such an inviolable work ethic (although technically I had sixteen other cases going at the same time as Shay's, my boss had given me his blessing to put them on the back burner of the largest metaphorical stove ever ever), but because I just needed to get away from the trial completely. The secretary at the ACLU office blinked when I walked through the door. ”Aren't you supposed to be-”
”Yes,” I snapped, and I walked through the maze of filing cabinets to my desk.
I didn't know how Shay's outburst would affect the judge. I didn't know if I'd already lost this case, before the defense had even presented its witnesses. I did know that I hadn't slept well in three weeks and was flat out of rabbit food for Oliver, and I was having a really bad hair day. I rubbed my hands down my face, and then realized I'd probably smeared my mascara.
With a sigh, I glanced at the mountain of paperwork on my desk that had been steadily growing without me there to act as clearinghouse. There was an appeal that had been filed in the Supreme Court by the attorneys of a skinhead who'd written the word towelhead towelhead in white paint on the driveway of his employer, a Pakistani convenience store owner who'd fired him for being drunk on the job; some research about why the words in white paint on the driveway of his employer, a Pakistani convenience store owner who'd fired him for being drunk on the job; some research about why the words under G.o.d under G.o.d had been added to the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954 during the McCarthy era; and a stack of mail equally balanced between desperate souls who wanted me to fight on their behalf and right-wing conservatives who berated the ACLU for making it criminal to be a white churchgoing Christian. had been added to the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954 during the McCarthy era; and a stack of mail equally balanced between desperate souls who wanted me to fight on their behalf and right-wing conservatives who berated the ACLU for making it criminal to be a white churchgoing Christian.
One letter sifted through my hands and dropped onto my lap-a plain envelope printed with the address of the New Hamps.h.i.+re State Prison, the Office of the Warden. I opened it and found inside a pressed white sheet of paper, still bearing its watermark.
It was an invitation to attend the execution of Isaiah Bourne. The guest list included the attorney general, the governor, the lawyer who originally prosecuted Shay's case, me, Father Michael, and several other names I didn't recognize. By law, there had to be a certain number of people present for an execution from both the inmate's and the victim's sides. In this, it was a bit like organizing a wedding. And just like a wedding, there was a number to call to RSVP.
It was fifteen days before Shay was scheduled to die.
Clearly, I was the only one who found it remotely hilarious that the first and only witness the defense called-the commissioner of corrections-was a man named Joe Lynch. He was a tall, thin man whose sense of humor had apparently dissipated along with the hair on his scalp. I was quite sure that when he took the job, he'd never dreamed that he would be faced with New Hamps.h.i.+re's first execution in more than half a century.
”Commissioner Lynch,” the a.s.sistant attorney general said, ”what preparations have been made for the execution of Shay Bourne?”
”As you're aware,” Lynch said, ”the State of New Hamps.h.i.+re was not equipped to deal with the death sentence handed down to Inmate Bourne. We'd hoped that the job could be done at Terre Haute, but found out that wasn't going to happen. To that end, we've had to construct a lethal injection chamber-which now occupies a good corner of what used to be our exercise yard at the state penitentiary.”
”Can you give us a breakdown of the costs involved?”
The commissioner began to read from a ledger. ”The architectural and construction fees for the project were $39,100. A lethal injection gurney cost $830. The equipment a.s.sociated with lethal injection cost $684. In addition, the human cost included meeting with staff, training the staff, and attending hearings-totaling $48,846. Initial supplies were $1,361, and the chemicals cost $426. In addition to this, several physical improvements were made to the s.p.a.ce where the execution would occur: vertical blinds in the witness area, a dimmer switch in the chamber, a tinted one-way mirror, air-conditioning and an emergency generator, a wireless microphone and amplifier into the viewing area, a mono plug phone jack. These ran up to $14,669.”
”You've done the math, Commissioner. By your calculation, what do you estimate you've spent on Shay Bourne's execution so far?”
”$105,916.”
”Commissioner,” Greenleaf asked, ”does the State of New Hamps.h.i.+re have a gallows that could be used if the court ordered Mr. Bourne to be hanged?”
”Not anymore,” Lynch replied.
”Would it be correct to a.s.sume, then, that there would be an additional outlay for the taxpayers of New Hamps.h.i.+re if a new gallows had to be constructed?”
”That's correct.”
”What specifications are needed to build a gallows?”
The commissioner nodded. ”A floor height of at least nine feet, a crossbeam of nine feet, with a clearance of three feet above the inmate being executed. The opening in the trapdoor would have to be at least three feet to ensure proper clearance. There would have to be a means of releasing the trapdoor and stopping it from swinging after it has been opened, and a fastening mechanism for the rope with the noose.”
In a few short sentences, Gordon Greenleaf had recentered this trial from the woo-woo touchy-feely freedom-of-religion aspect, to the inevitability of Shay's imminent death. I glanced at Shay. He had gone white as the blank sheet of paper framed between his chained hands.
”You're looking at no less than seventy-five hundred for construction and materials,” the commissioner said. ”In addition, there would be the investment of a body restraint.”
”What's that, exactly?” Greenleaf asked.
”A waist strap with two wrist restraints, made of three-thousand-pound test nylon, and another leg restraint made from the same materials. We'd need a frame-basically, a human dolly that enables the officers to transport the inmate to the gallows in the event of a physical collapse-and a hood, and a mechanical hangman's knot.”
”You can't just use rope?”
”Not if you're talking about a humane execution,” the commissioner said. ”This knot is made from a Delran cylinder and has two longitudinal holes and a steel U-clamp to fasten the rope, as well as a noose sleeve, a rope in thirty-foot lengths, knot lubricant ...”
Even I was impressed at how much time and thought had gone into the death of Shay Bourne. ”You've done a great deal of research,” Greenleaf said.
Lynch shrugged. ”n.o.body wants to execute a man. It's my job to do it with as much dignity as possible.”
”What would be the cost of constructing and purchasing all this equipment, Commissioner Lynch?”
”A bit less than ten thousand.”
”And you said the State of New Hamps.h.i.+re has already invested over a hundred thousand on the execution of Shay Bourne?”
”That's correct.”
”Would it be a burden on the penitentiary system if you were required to construct a gallows at this time, in order to accommodate Mr. Bourne's so-called religious preferences?”
The commissioner puffed out a long breath. ”It would be more than a burden. It would be d.a.m.n near impossible, given the date of the execution.”
”Why?”
”The law said we were to execute Mr. Bourne by lethal injection, and we are ready and able to do it, after much preparation. I wouldn't feel personally and professionally comfortable cutting corners to create a last-minute gallows.”
”Maggie,” Shay whispered, ”I think I'm going to throw up.”
I shook my head. ”Swallow it.”
He lay his head down on the table. With any luck a few sympathetic people would a.s.sume that he was crying.
”If you were ordered by the court to construct a gallows,” Greenleaf asked, ”how long would it delay Mr. Bourne's execution?”
”I'd say six months to a year,” the commissioner said.
”A whole year that Inmate Bourne would live past his execution warrant date?”
”Yes.”
”Why so long?”
”You're talking about construction going on inside a working penitentiary system, Mr. Greenleaf. Background checks have to be done before a crew can come to work inside our gates-they're bringing in tools from the outside, which can be security threats; we have to have officers standing guard to watch them to make sure they don't wander into insecure areas; we have to make sure they're not trying to pa.s.s contraband to the inmates. It would be a substantial burden on the correctional inst.i.tution if we had to, well, start from scratch.”
”Thank you, Commissioner,” Greenleaf said. ”Nothing further.”
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