Priest?‘Yeah. As long as it’s Father Kennard and not that asshole Chaplain Foster. I think that Stephen King line — the important thing is whether God believes in you— went straight over his head.’
Torvald smiled as he got back to the rest of his check-list. Haveling holding his hand at the last minute? No. Larry could get to God on his own, thanks, didn’t need Haveling’s help. Last meal? Beef Po-Boy. Reminded him of his childhood and good ol’ days in the Ninth. Family and friends to be present at the execution, observing?
‘No… None. That’s why my family came today.’ Fran and Josh had trouble enough accepting his death, let alone watching it. ‘And Roddy and Sal and the rest here, I’ll say my goodbyes to tonight.’
‘Okay. But before ten, Larry — because that’s when you have to go through to the night-before cell. And if you want a shower, last chance is tonight, too. There’s a sink in tomorrow’s cell, but no access back to the showers or anything else this side.’
Larry nodded pensively. It was almost as if as soon as he went through that last gate at the end, he’d already died. No access back to the rest of the world. But perhaps that was just a natural continuance of his life for the past eleven years: gradually diminishing as he was shuffled from one box to another, access denied to family and friends, love and life, until there was only one box left.
Torvald felt his chest tighten as he watched the emotions on Larry’s face. Another part of his duty as death custodian: observe how the prisoner was coping with the situation. Last hours counsellor.
He’d started the meeting with a shrug and an apology. ‘Sorry about this, Larry. Few things to go through… some of them maybe seeming stupid.’ They knew each other too well to try and hide behind bullshit or formality. ‘But, you know, it’s gotta be done.’
‘That’s okay, Tor. Glad it’s you rather than some of those other oafs out there.’
Oafs. Torvald shared with Larry the guards he’d nominated for the execution team, Larry appreciative that he’d been careful to avoid any of Bateson’s clique. ‘Thanks.’
But from then on, Torvald had gone through the rest of his check-list mechanically to help shield his emotions; and he noticed too that Larry answered quickly, offhand, even when talking about his family visiting, who he hadn’t seen for a while.
And he wondered whether Larry too was trying to distance himself from what was happening, and was treating him coolly because, despite their past closeness, Larry now saw Torvald as part of the machinery of his death.
But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.
Because as much as Larry knew how the life had been crushed out of him these past long years, so that now there was only a faint vestige left — he’d also seen it crushing his wife and son that day. The years for it to take its toll on him, he’d seen oppressing them in only a few minutes as they faced what was happening to him the next day, that terrible weight slumping their shoulders. And at the last second, as they realized he might see the last hope dying in their eyes, they made sure to avert them, wouldn’t look at him directly.
And he could see it happening now too with Torvald Engelson. This guard who he’d exchanged more thoughts with than any other guard over the years — had recommended books on Norse and Viking history and Beowulfwhen he’d wanted to learn about his Norwegian roots, and fifteen months back had shared with him how he’d coped with his mother dying when Torvald lost his father — could hardly look him in the eye any more, his shoulders slumped too with what was about to happen to Larry, even though, as death custodian that process should have long ago stopped fazing him.
But Larry didn’t, couldn’tblame them; he blamed the system. The death-penalty machinery that crushed relentlessly all in its path.
In murder cases, premeditation was a vital factor; Larry should know more than most, because it was one thing argued as missing in his own case to try and spare him the death penalty. The final element that transformed random violence to callous calculation.
If a murderer admitted in court that they’d told their victim they were going to kill them at a specific time on a certain day, then left them in a cell to contemplate their impending death — the jury would consider it one of the most chilling, calculating murder accounts they’d ever heard.
And the victim, unwilling to accept their fate, would scream and claw at the cell walls. The family too, if told of that impending fate, would wail and scream and protest.
But prisoners on death-row didn’t. Their shoulders simply slumped, the light of hope faded from their eyes, and they accepted.
Because it was the system.
The weight of it pressing inch by inch down on them. Accept. Accept. Accept. Until they caved in totally in defeat, no hope left for them to cling to.
And as ten minutes later Torvald finished his briefing and the cell door slammed back behind him, Larry had never felt so cold and alone, the impact jarring icily through him, making him shiver. His eyes filled, a single tear rolling out; that too feeling lonely and cold as it trickled down one cheek. Alone.
At the last minute, Torvald had reached out and touched Larry’s arm. ‘If there’s anything you need over these next hours, Larry… just ask.’ And at that second, he did finally meet Larry’s eye, and Larry saw what he’d suspected: that last light of hope had gone from them.
Because as much as at times he’d given up on himself, there’d always been that light and hope and warmth from others; he could see it in their eyes. And now that was finally gone, there was nothing left. No hope. Nothing left to save him.
Within three hours, Bob Stratton had a list of likely MO mug-shots for the 4 thStreet grand-auto theft of twelve years ago, and an hour and a half after that had received an update with current mug-shots of those still active now.
Sixteen photos. But only five looked like they might have a chance of matching the partial cam-shots and the description Ayliss had given him. Stratton looked at his watch: 6.34 p.m. If he was quick and downtown traffic was kind, he just might be able to get them in front of the staff at the Internet cafe before they closed at 7 p.m.
He got there with four minutes to spare, but there was some calling out as to who might have been working the day in question, before a light bulb of recognition came on in the eyes of a blonde-with-a-green-stripe wiping down the espresso machine. Tracy.
‘Yeah… yeah, I remember,’ Tracy said. ‘Lawyer guy that phoned in a panic and ran in a couple of weeks back, just missed the guy. Gave him a cam-video to take away.’
‘That’s the one.’ Stratton had decided to show her all sixteen mug-shots in sets of four at a time, and laid the cam photos to one side as a reminder. ‘Now, out of these… anyone that looks like the guy that was here that day?’
One photo in set two, though she couldn’t be sure; but then she twisted her mouth in the same way over another photo in set three. ‘Uuuh, again, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’
Stratton put the two photos side by side. ‘Strongest bet — if you were forced to choose?’
She pointed to one, but then seconds later became unsure and her finger wavered over the other. ‘I’m sorry… on this one his hair just isn’t right, too wild, too much of an Afro — but the rest, hmmm? Maybe his hair’s changed since this photo.’ Tracy tilted her head, as if to get a better angle. ‘If they were both smiling, I’d know for sure.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s got a big gap between his front teeth.’
Stratton could just imagine how that advice would go down with police departments: ensuring there’s no smiling on mug-shots might make perps look more severe and menacing, more like criminals, but you miss out on valuable dental recognition.