of their clerks will deny our petition any minute now.
The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years.
I’m tempted to ask Link, “Who’s next?” but let it pass. We’re playing gin rummy as the clock ticks and Rome burns. He’s told me several times I could leave, but I’m hanging around. I won’t admit that I’m keen to watch his execution, but I am fascinated by it.
No one has been hurt. The three bombs were mainly gasoline, according to some so-called expert CNN dragged in for authenticity. Low-tech time bombs, probably in small packages, designed to make a little noise and a lot of smoke.
At 8:00 p.m., everyone takes a deep breath. All’s quiet for the moment. They knock on the door and wheel in the last meal. For the occasion, Link has chosen a steak with fries and coconut pie for dessert, but he has no appetite. He takes two bites of the steak and offers me the fries. I say no thanks and shuffle the deck. There’s something about eating another man’s last meal that doesn’t seem right. At 8:15, my cell phone vibrates. Our petition has been denied at the Supreme Court. No surprise there. There’s nothing left. All Hail Marys have been thrown and dropped.
We go Live! outside the Supreme Court Building in Washington, where the CNN reporter is practically praying for some type of explosion. Dozens of cops loiter about, their trigger fingers just itching. A small crowd has gathered to watch the carnage, but there’s nothing. Link keeps one eye on the television as he deals the cards.
I suspect he’s not finished.
4.
The prison has a food storage warehouse on the west side of its vast complex and a vehicle maintenance facility on the east side. The buildings are about three miles apart. At 8:30, both mysteriously catch on fire, and the prison goes berserk. Evidently, there are a couple of news helicopters in the area. They are not allowed to fly over Big Wheeler, so they’re hovering above farmland next door, and thanks to their long-range lenses we’re able to watch the excitement courtesy of CNN.
As Link toys with his coconut pie and plays gin rummy, the anchor wonders why the State doesn’t speed up his execution before he burns down the prison. A stuttering spokesperson with the governor’s office tries to explain that the rules and laws do not allow this. It’s 10:00 p.m., period, or as soon thereafter as possible. Link watches this as if it’s a movie about some other guy on death row.
At 8:45, a bomb goes off in the administration building, not far from the warden’s office.
Ten minutes later, the warden bursts into the Boom Boom Room and screams, “You gotta stop this!” Link ignores him as he shuffles the cards.
Two nervous guards grab Link, lift him up, search him, find his cell phone, then throw him back into his chair. His face does not change expression.
“You got a phone, Rudd?” the warden yells at me.
“Yes, but you can’t have it. Rule 36, section 2, paragraph 4. Your rule. Sorry.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“So you think I’m making phone calls to the bad guys? You think I’m a part of the conspiracy, with all my calls being traced? That right, Warden?”
He is too panic-stricken to respond. From behind the warden, a guard yells into the room, “There’s a riot in Unit Six!”
5.
The riot started when an inmate, an old lifer with a history of heart
The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years.
I’m tempted to ask Link, “Who’s next?” but let it pass. We’re playing gin rummy as the clock ticks and Rome burns. He’s told me several times I could leave, but I’m hanging around. I won’t admit that I’m keen to watch his execution, but I am fascinated by it.
No one has been hurt. The three bombs were mainly gasoline, according to some so-called expert CNN dragged in for authenticity. Low-tech time bombs, probably in small packages, designed to make a little noise and a lot of smoke.
At 8:00 p.m., everyone takes a deep breath. All’s quiet for the moment. They knock on the door and wheel in the last meal. For the occasion, Link has chosen a steak with fries and coconut pie for dessert, but he has no appetite. He takes two bites of the steak and offers me the fries. I say no thanks and shuffle the deck. There’s something about eating another man’s last meal that doesn’t seem right. At 8:15, my cell phone vibrates. Our petition has been denied at the Supreme Court. No surprise there. There’s nothing left. All Hail Marys have been thrown and dropped.
We go Live! outside the Supreme Court Building in Washington, where the CNN reporter is practically praying for some type of explosion. Dozens of cops loiter about, their trigger fingers just itching. A small crowd has gathered to watch the carnage, but there’s nothing. Link keeps one eye on the television as he deals the cards.
I suspect he’s not finished.
4.
The prison has a food storage warehouse on the west side of its vast complex and a vehicle maintenance facility on the east side. The buildings are about three miles apart. At 8:30, both mysteriously catch on fire, and the prison goes berserk. Evidently, there are a couple of news helicopters in the area. They are not allowed to fly over Big Wheeler, so they’re hovering above farmland next door, and thanks to their long-range lenses we’re able to watch the excitement courtesy of CNN.
As Link toys with his coconut pie and plays gin rummy, the anchor wonders why the State doesn’t speed up his execution before he burns down the prison. A stuttering spokesperson with the governor’s office tries to explain that the rules and laws do not allow this. It’s 10:00 p.m., period, or as soon thereafter as possible. Link watches this as if it’s a movie about some other guy on death row.
At 8:45, a bomb goes off in the administration building, not far from the warden’s office.
Ten minutes later, the warden bursts into the Boom Boom Room and screams, “You gotta stop this!” Link ignores him as he shuffles the cards.
Two nervous guards grab Link, lift him up, search him, find his cell phone, then throw him back into his chair. His face does not change expression.
“You got a phone, Rudd?” the warden yells at me.
“Yes, but you can’t have it. Rule 36, section 2, paragraph 4. Your rule. Sorry.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“So you think I’m making phone calls to the bad guys? You think I’m a part of the conspiracy, with all my calls being traced? That right, Warden?”
He is too panic-stricken to respond. From behind the warden, a guard yells into the room, “There’s a riot in Unit Six!”
5.
The riot started when an inmate, an old lifer with a history of heart
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