73

Death Row

“No TV tonight, brothers!” Skeet said. “Let the man think.”

All the TVs went off. Brady heard quiet conversations but nothing else. “Thanks, Skeet,” he whispered.

He lay on his back in the darkness, pleading with God to make this whole thing be about Jesus and not about himself. Brady found himself naturally petrified at the thought of dying. Lord, don’t let that get in the way.

He knew he should sleep, but there was no way he would be able to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time. His mind raced. Occasionally he had to rise and pace.

About four in the morning, wide-awake, Brady suddenly found himself enveloped in an agonizing fear. He had been so immersed in all the memorizing and reciting that he had somehow shoved from his mind the stark reality of his fate. He was going to die and in one of the most horrible ways imaginable. He had no doubt he was right with God and that he would be with Jesus in heaven, but to be crucified . . . and he himself had insisted on this!

“God, give me peace!” he whispered, realizing when he heard sounds from nearby cells that he had awakened some of the others. He covered his mouth, but his chest was heavy, his throat full.

Could he really go through with this? It was coming too quickly; he had been rash. Everyone said so, even his lawyer. Could she be reached in time to slow this, even stop it? His point had been made, people had heard his message, knew what he was about, knew what Jesus had done for them. Sure, there would be those who would call him a charlatan, a coward, an attention seeker, but he didn’t care anymore.

He rolled out of bed and onto his knees on the cold floor. “Oh, God!” he cried out, unable to stifle himself. Suddenly Brady understood why Jesus had pleaded with His father to let “this cup” pass from Him. But Jesus had also insisted that His Father’s will, not His own, be done. Brady couldn’t do that, couldn’t say it, didn’t want to.

“I want out!” Brady said, sobbing. “God, please!”

He fell silent when he heard others rising from their beds, and he knew they stood at the fronts of their houses, watching, listening.

“We’re with you, man,” someone whispered.

“Yeah, Brady. Hang tough, bro.”

Then Skeet, voice coarse and diction poor: “If any of you wants to be My follower, you must turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross, and follow Me. If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for My sake, you will save it.”

The others tapped and rattled stuff against their cages, and Brady was overcome. He wept bitterly, pleading with God to give him the willingness Christ had exhibited in His darkest hour.

After nearly an hour of mental anguish, as his neighbors gently encouraged him with comments, scraping, rattling, Scripture verses, and even singing, Brady managed to rasp, “Not my will but Yours be done.”

As he collapsed back onto his cot, Brady realized he still had ninety minutes before first count and breakfast. He had been asked what he wanted for his last meal, and he had said he wanted what everyone else was having. The warden told him that was a first. Brady couldn’t imagine caring about food when you were about to die.

He rose and sat at his tiny table, sliding from the envelope his latest letter from Aunt Lois.

Brady,

We love you and we’re going to watch this thing only because you made us promise. I go back and forth between being mad because you made us say we would and knowing that we probably need to see it like everybody else.

Just know we’ll be praying for you all day. Carl and I will be there for the burial, but we know you’ll be in heaven. No word yet from your mama about whether she can make it. You never know.

We’re so proud of you, Brady. Just think, you’ll be with Petey soon. We’ll miss you, but we know we’ll see you again someday.

Love, Aunt Lois

With ten minutes to go before the officers came around for the count, Brady found himself jumpy. One knee was bouncing, and he just wanted to get on with this. He prayed he would be able to be like Jesus, who was at once submissive and authoritative, enduring what He had to endure, willing but not eager.

Brady slipped the latest tape from the chaplain’s wife into his player. He was alarmed at how weak and frail she sounded. She took deep breaths between phrases and long pauses between verses, but to Brady that made it only that much more poignant. Someone called out for him to turn it up.

King of my life, I crown You now,

Yours shall the glory be;

Lest I forget Your thorn-crowned brow,

Lead me to Calvary.

Show me the tomb where You were laid,

Tenderly mourned and wept;

Angels in robes of light arrayed,

Guarded You while You slept.

Let me, like Mary, through the gloom,

Come with a gift to You;

Show to me now the empty tomb,

Lead me to Calvary.

May I be willing, Lord, to bear

Daily my cross for You;

Even Your cup of grief to share,

You have borne all for me.

Lest I forget Gethsemane;

Lest I forget Your agony;

Lest I forget Your love for me;

Lead me to Calvary.

As soon as Brady was aware of the officers approaching, he moved to sit on his cot, ready to rise. But today, unlike every other day, there was no shouting or banging. In conversational tones the officers merely announced the count and moved somberly from cell to cell, noting that each man was alive and well.

“Morning, Brady,” one officer said, quickly looking away.

“How you doin’ today, man?” another said.

“Good luck today, or, you know . . .”

Brady just nodded to them.

The same happened when breakfast was delivered. No barking about standing back, no yelling at anyone. Brady had the feeling that this was what it would be like in an old-age home, staff just quietly making the rounds, delivering trays. The officers even seemed to open and shut the meal slot doors quietly, no small feat.

Not surprisingly, Brady was not hungry, and the food did not appeal. But he forced himself to eat and drink everything, knowing how difficult the task ahead would be.

Adamsville

Thomas had barely slept, while Grace was so quiet all night that he had checked three times to be sure she was breathing. She was either at peace about all this—sad as it was—or failing. He tried not to think about that.

He rose before dawn, knowing the day would be a scorcher. It had to be ninety degrees already, and the sun was just a pink hint on the horizon. Thomas had dreaded this day for so long, he didn’t know how he would get through it.

He began on his knees, then showered and shaved and dressed. Then he read his Bible and prayed again. Finally he went to tap on the den door, where Nellie was sleeping, but the door was open and the room empty. He heard her in the kitchen.

“Poached eggs and toast,” she said. “And I’ll stay till your daughter gets here.”

“Thanks, Nellie.”

“You sure you don’t want any day shift here?”

“No, Ravinia will be able to handle things. She’ll be here by eight or so. A woman from my office will be here by then too.”

Thomas had hoped to have breakfast in the bedroom with Grace, but she was still sleeping.

“I’ll keep hers warm,” Nellie said.

Thomas thanked her and headed out to the car. There, parked at the curb in front, was Dirk’s car, and he was asleep behind the wheel.

Thomas tapped lightly on the window, making Dirk jump.

“What’re you doing here?” Thomas said. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just got it in my head to take the morning off and watch this thing here, if that’s okay.”

“You know Rav is coming.”

Dirk nodded. “It might be a little awkward, but this just seems like the kind of thing you do with people you care about, know what I mean?”

“She know you’re coming?”

“I told her I probably would.”

“Well, go ahead on in. Nellie will fix you something. And I’ll see you later.”

The streets were deserted until Thomas reached the road leading to the penitentiary. Police were already having to direct traffic there, with satellite trucks jockeying for position and protesters emerging from tents and huddling around campfires. Their signs read, “Shame! Travesty! Pardon Brady!”

At the guardhouse, the officer ignored Thomas’s badge and merely patted him on the shoulder. “Parking lot’s full,” he said. “Anybody not sick or on vacation is on the job today. We left a cone in front of your spot. Just set it off to the side.”

Thomas was not surprised to find Frank LeRoy already in his office. What was a surprise was that he was wearing a new suit and had his shirt buttoned all the way up, tie tight at the neck. He clearly expected to be on TV today. He merely nodded as Thomas greeted him on the way by.

Gladys startled him with a “Mornin’, Rev.” He’d never seen her in her cubicle this long before starting time. It was also the first time in seventeen years he had seen her in anything but bright colors. She wore a demure, dark suit. She stood and embraced him. That was something new too, and while any other day it would have made Thomas uncomfortable, today he appreciated it. “You’re still planning—?”

“Yes, sir, I’m about to head over there and spend the rest of the day with Grace. Your daughter too, right?”

“And son-in-law.”

She raised a brow. “Really?”

Thomas shrugged. “Go figure.”

“Surely not Summer.”

“Oh no. Vacation Bible school.”

Thomas looked at his watch. Brady was scheduled to leave his cell in fifteen minutes, and Thomas had promised to accompany him. He made it through the security envelopes in record time, old friends just nodding soberly and waving him through. The place was full of officers, every shift represented, all in crisp, clean uniforms, shoes shining, brass polished.

Normally when Thomas happened to be on the Row this early in the morning, every cell TV was tuned to the Today show. But now the few sets already on showed a silent, still view of the crude cross lying on the floor of the gas chamber. It reminded Thomas of C-SPAN coverage when a camera was just set in place and left on for the duration of whatever they were covering. This was the feed that would encircle the globe for the next several hours.

Thomas found Brady putting the last of his personal effects into a cardboard box on his table. He looked preoccupied and yet relieved to see the chaplain.

“You ready?” Thomas said.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Doc’s supposed to check me over in a couple of minutes; then it’s the whole searching and cuffing thing, then heading out.”

Thomas turned to peer into the observation booth. A supervisor nodded from the other side of the glass. “Can I see you?” Thomas mouthed.

The intercom crackled. “C’mon in, Reverend.”

The door was open by the time he got there and Thomas stepped inside. “Tell me the procedure.”

“Officers will strip-search him, then cuff and manacle him before the doc checks him over.”

“All right, I want that not to happen.”

“But we got to go by the book today, sir—”

“Don’t strip-search this man today, and don’t restrain him either. You know as well as I do he’s no risk. I’ll be right there the whole time, and you can blame it all on me.”

“Reverend, I don’t think you’re authorized to override protocol—”

“I’m asking you man-to-man. And I want to be in his cell when the doctor is.”

“I can’t let—”

“Yes, you can. Now you’ve been here through all this, and you know what Darby’s meant to the Row. Throw him a bone, man.”

The supervisor pressed his lips together and looked past Thomas to where the doctor had arrived, accompanied by an officer. “All right, go ahead.”

“Thank you.”

“Just hurry.”

Thomas met the doctor in front of Brady’s cell, and they shook hands.

Over the intercom, the supervisor said, “Darby, to your cot please. I’m tripping the release here, officers. Admit both the chaplain and the doctor. No search, no restrains, but secure the door.”

The officers looked surprised and hesitant, but the order had been clear. Seconds later, the three men were locked in Brady’s cell.

The doctor had Brady sit at his table while he checked his pulse and blood pressure. “Both elevated,” he said softly, scribbling.

“So I should take it easy today?” Brady said.

The doctor looked like he didn’t know how to react. “I’ll see you in the chamber, son. This is an amazing thing you’re doing.”

The doctor was let out and the door thrice locked again. Thomas was aware that all the officers in the observation unit had emerged, and all but the two officers stationed at Brady’s cell were moving down the corridor away from the pod. What was going on?

Brady stood awkwardly and reached for Thomas. They embraced, and the young man buried his face in the chaplain’s shoulder. “Pray for me,” he said.

Thomas found his voice quavery. “Lord, thank You for Your servant and for what You have prompted him to do. And thank You for the impact he’s already had. We know justice will be served today, but we pray Your greater purpose will be served too and that many will come to know You in deeper ways because of what they see. And thank You for what Brady has meant to me. In Jesus’ name.”

“Guess you heard they denied my request for the crown of thorns and someone to pierce me with the spear.”

“No. Really?”

“Just got word this morning.”

“Believe me, son,” Thomas said, “it will be easy enough for everyone to imagine.”

“I just wish the warden would have allowed it,” Brady said. “The thorns were as much a part of the crucifixion as anything else. They weakened Him, crippled Him. And the fact is, His side was riven.”

Thomas nodded to the supervisor, who instructed the officers to unlock Brady’s cell. “No search. No restraints.”

As they were maneuvering Brady into the corridor, one of the officers said, “Reverend, you know there’s a bunch of us officers who are believers and some who are real interested. You think you could meet with us sometime, off-hours?”

“Absolutely.”

“Proceed” came over the intercom.

With one officer on each of Brady’s arms and Thomas about six feet behind, they slowly began the walk through the cellblock. With Brady’s first step, the men on the Row began a slow tapping on their cell doors, and this continued the whole way.

When the tiny procession reached the end of the pod, Thomas saw that the rest of the way through security and all the way to the exit, officers were lined up on either side, standing shoulder to shoulder, feet spread, hands clasped behind their backs, heads lowered. As Brady reached them, each raised his head, snapped to attention, arms at his sides, feet together.

Thomas could barely breathe.