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New Year’s Eve | Adamsville State Penitentiary

Knowing he would be there until well after midnight, Thomas didn’t arrive at work until early afternoon. Protesters were out in full force, marching in circles outside the fences and huddling around fires in fifty-five-gallon drums. They displayed banners and waved posters for the ubiquitous press.

One long, painted sheet proclaimed, “If murder is wrong, murdering the murderer is wrong.”

Thomas saw an interview he was hearing live on the radio as he pulled up to the guard tower. One of the protesters was telling a reporter, “No one believes Trenton is innocent or that he should be freed. But killing him is hypocritical.”

Warden Frank LeRoy was in his office for one of the few times since Thomas had joined the staff. Thomas asked if he had a moment, and the warden waved him in.

“Been on the phone most of the morning,” LeRoy said. “Press wants to know if I expect a call from the governor. ’Course I don’t. Trenton’s one of the reasons we’re here. I want to see him hang, and so does George and anybody else with a brain in this state. The Deacon is what the death penalty is all about.”

“Surely you’re not saying that publicly.”

“Not in so many words, but people know where I stand. What are you telling the press, Thomas?”

“Nothing so far.”

“No calls?”

“I just got here.”

“Aah. Gladys! Any phone messages for the Reverend Thomas Carey?”

“Just one,” she called out. “One stack.” She bustled in with an inch-high pad. “I tell ’em you’re busy, you know, with preparations.”

“Well, that’s true,” Thomas said. “I’m certainly not looking forward to this.”

“It’s a valuable service, Reverend,” the warden said. “Just do your duty.”

“Has the Deacon asked for me?”

Gladys shook her head.

Thomas turned to the warden. “We both know he needs counsel and some sort of company today. Can I just take the initiative and visit him?”

“Yeah, no. We can’t start bending the rules now.”

“Can’t make an exception even on a man’s last day on earth?”

The warden shook his head.

This was going to be a long day. Besides praying and reciting and planning what he would say when—and if—he was finally given the opportunity, Thomas couldn’t free his mind of his own dread of what was to come. He was going to watch a man endure an ugly death. He shuddered every time he thought of it and used it as a trigger to pray for a miracle—not that Trenton would be spared or justice thwarted. Just that God’s unconditional love not be spurned.

Thomas began to watch the clock as he knew Henry had to be. For the latter, the second hand must have seemed to speed. For Thomas, the day dragged. He took two media calls and felt overmatched in both, finally telling Gladys he would accept no more. Death, even in this circumstance, was a decidedly personal affair, and Thomas had nothing to say.

Reporters did not want to hear of a God who would forgive such a subhuman creature, and short of that, anything Thomas said sounded absurd.

Strangely, Thomas felt most concerned for Henry when he heard that the man had asked for a huge last meal of all kinds of treats. It didn’t sound like him at all.

When the workday was over, the only lights burning in the administrative offices were the warden’s and Thomas’s. Yanno eventually moseyed in and sat on Thomas’s desk. “So this’ll be a first for you.”

Thomas nodded miserably.

“They’re never pleasant. It won’t make my day either, but there’s something fundamentally right about it.”

“I know. But it’s sad. As you can imagine, I believe I have comfort, even salvation, to offer Trenton. I can only pray a man in his position will listen.”

“Salvation? For him?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m a Christian, Reverend, but I don’t buy that.”

“Really? You’re saying God’s grace and love are limited?”

“Yeah, no. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t know that I’d want to share heaven with a guy like that. Doesn’t seem fair to me. Does it to you?”

“Of course not. That’s the point. There’s not one thing fair about grace.”

“Well,” Yanno said, “if God forgave Henry Trenton and let him into heaven, that would sure not be fair.”

“You think he’ll call me, Warden? Before the walk to the gallows, I mean?”

“They usually do. The Deacon’s a hard one to read, though.”

Touhy Trailer Park

Brady’s chat with Stevie Ray did not go well. Stevie said he needed to stay away from troublemakers. “I told you, man. Pepe’s my supplier. I know what’s going on. I’d be a hypocrite to tell you not to use when I’m a user. But dealin’? You gotta get out of that. Keep your nose clean.”

“I will. I just got to pay him off is all.”

“Well, I got no money for you and I can’t hire you, and I don’t know anybody who’s hiring.”

Back home Brady wished he could get drunk or high, but he still hated the taste of booze and didn’t have any weed. Besides, he didn’t want to do anything in front of Peter, who kept begging to go out with him somewhere.

“Nah, there’s nowhere someone your age can go tonight. And I gotta go to work.”

“This late?”

“Yeah. I’m closing up. I’ll be home after midnight.”

“I’m staying up. Gonna watch the year change on TV.”

Adamsville State Penitentiary

At a little after 11 p.m., the warden left Thomas’s office at the sound of his phone.

He returned a minute later. “The process has begun. We’d better go.”

It surprised Thomas that even being with the warden didn’t get him through the security envelopes any faster. With all the media surrounding the place, nothing was left to chance. By the time he and Yanno reached death row, Henry Trenton had been dressed to kill.

The Deacon smiled self-consciously at Thomas. “Haven’t worn a diaper since I was a baby. How do you like my new jumper?”

The man’s khakis and tee had been replaced by a pea green jumpsuit that made him look like a hospital orderly.

“You look fine, Henry.”

“Doc’s been here. I’m healthy and 170 pounds. Know what that means?”

Thomas shook his head.

“Means the drop will be exactly seven feet five inches so I go instantly from a broke neck. Any shorter, I suffer. Takes a while to strangle, you know. Nice of them not to want me to suffer, eh? If the drop is any longer, I could be decapitated. Wouldn’t that be a mess?”

Thomas didn’t know what to say. Was this normal, this macabre conversation just before the end? “Can I do anything for you, Henry?”

Trenton looked irritated. “Do anything for me? Short of getting me out of here, no.”

“You know what I mean. I could read to you, er, recite for you, anyway. Pray for you. Whatever you want.”

“I told you, Reverend. You know what I want. No Bible. And no prayer.”

“If you change your mind—”

“I won’t be changing my mind.”

“People are praying for you, Henry.”

“I don’t need to hear that either. Most people are praying something goes wrong and this is the most inhumane sentence ever carried out. They hope the rope snaps and I survive the drop, only to strangle to death on the floor with my legs broken.”

“No, no—”

“Oh, stop. It’d be too good for me and you know it.”

“Do you want to discuss what I know, Henry?”

“No! Let’s talk about something else.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“My family.”

“Tell me about them.”

Henry called them vile names. “They abandoned me. Can’t blame them, I guess.”

“When was the last time you heard from them?”

“Got a letter about seven years ago from a nephew I’d never met. Said he wanted to come visit me. I actually looked forward to that. Got it all approved and set up, and then I got word that he had not cleared it with the rest and they were refusing to allow it. The kid was of age, could make his own decisions. Guess he finally did. Decided to obey. Never heard from him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Henry said.

Thomas looked in his eyes. “Are you?”

“That they turned their backs on me, sure.”

Corrections officers arrived and asked Henry to slide his hands through the meal slot so he could be cuffed. Then they entered his cell and manacled his ankles. He emerged, led by one officer, flanked by two, and trailed by another. The warden hung back, allowing Thomas to follow the last officer.

Dreading the final moment, Thomas decided the mere sight and sound of the approach was awful enough. Henry Trenton didn’t look so monstrous now. A thin, pale, aging man, he shuffled along in that telltale shackled way, chains around his waist and between his legs tinkling in cadence with his gait.

The shouting and catcalling of all the other prisoners died away, and all that could be heard over the footfalls of the entourage was a light, rhythmic tapping on cell walls with pencils or slippers. That was how the only acquaintances Henry Trenton had had for years said their good-byes.

Thomas, his throat constricted, prayed desperately for a chance to somehow minister to the Deacon beyond simply being there at his end.

When they arrived, all but one officer peeled away, and the warden joined the witnesses on the other side of the window. The executioner, a stern-looking old man, stood on the platform. He nodded to Thomas and motioned with his head that he should ascend the gallows stairs and join him.

Finally the remaining officer put a hand gently on Henry’s back and guided him slowly up to the tiny platform. There was room for only the four of them, and Thomas found himself wishing the corrections officer were not so large.

Thomas could not keep himself from shaking as he prayed desperately for Henry to somehow falter, to break down and ask for something, anything—a prayer, a verse. The condemned was shaking now too, which gave Thomas hope.

Finally Henry spoke, whispering to the executioner, “Can I thank the chaplain?”

The old man nodded, and Henry awkwardly turned to face Thomas. Raising one hand to shake Thomas’s made him raise both because of the cuffs.

Thomas shook the Deacon’s hand and found it frigid. He held the grasp for as long as Henry Trenton would allow.

“Thanks for coming,” the Deacon said, finally letting go and turning away. Thomas found himself staring at Henry’s back.

Suddenly the curtain opened and Thomas saw over Henry’s shoulder a dozen or so witnesses, including a man in a physician’s smock, stethoscope around his neck, bag on the floor at his feet.

Henry snorted. “So they came after all. I recognize at least three of ’em, Reverend.”

Thomas put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and found it bony and cold.

With a tiny shrug, Henry shook him off. “Family reunion. Maybe they’ll have meat loaf and potato salad after.”

The executioner pulled from his pocket a black hood. “Any last words, Mr. Trenton?” he said.

“Let’s just do it,” Henry said.

The old man lifted the hood above Henry’s head.

“Do I have to wear that?”

“I believe you do,” the executioner said. “It’s for the sake of the witnesses.”

“Ask the warden. These sons-a-guns come to watch me swing, they can see it all.”

The old man peered out at the warden, who waved his permission to skip the hood. He stuffed it back into his pocket and lowered the fat hangman’s knot over Henry’s head and down onto his neck. Thomas was amazed how thick the rope was. It seemed much less would have done the job.

“About sixty seconds, sir,” the executioner said.

“Don’t rush on my account,” Henry said, but no one so much as cracked a smile.

Please, Thomas prayed silently. Please!

Addison

Brady stood in the shadows beyond the Burger Boy parking lot, watching the night shift stream out to their cars. Soon the only two left in the place were Red and Big Mike. Red seemed to be giving the young man last-minute instructions, including how to set the burglar alarm.

Soon the supervisor donned his jacket and hurried out to his car. When he had pulled out of sight, Brady jogged toward the entrance.