Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [62]
The Deacon, gray-haired and looking late sixties, sat gazing at the two men. “You wanna meet the new chaplain, Deke?”
The old man shrugged.
“It’s up to you,” the warden said.
The Deacon stood, and the two approached. Thomas took his cue from the warden and stayed back from the door.
“Child murderer,” the Deacon said, as casually as if calling himself a member of the local Jaycees.
“Sorry?” Thomas said.
“Murdered three kids so they wouldn’t rat me out. But here I am.”
Thomas introduced himself.
“You can’t replace Russ, I hope you know.”
“I wouldn’t even try. I’ll just be myself. But if you’d like to continue your weekly meetings—”
“That will be totally up to you,” the warden said.
“Yeah, well, not likely,” the Deacon said. “But I’ll think about it.” He sat back down and looked away.
“Did I offend him?” Thomas said.
LeRoy chuckled. “Did you offend him? He offended society and God and children and every rational human being. Don’t you worry about offending him. His execution is scheduled before the end of the year, and all his appeals have been exhausted.”
“How awful.”
“Yeah, no. It’s long past due. Now, come on, I’ll show you the contraband sample room. The execution chambers are on the way.”
“Chambers, plural?”
“Oh, yeah. We’re the only facility in the United States that’s a full-service death provider.”
Yanno’s attempt at humor made Thomas shudder.
“Yep, we let the condemned decide. Hardly any place has a gallows anymore, but we do. And even fewer have electric chairs. Barbaric, they say. Ours sits in a gas chamber—another dying breed. Guy can sit strapped in that chair and take the juice or the gas. Then there’s the hospital room, as our guys call it. That’s supposedly the humane way to go, you know. They paralyze you, then pump you with poison.”
They came into view of three glassed-in rooms that looked out onto a bank of two dozen chairs for viewers. The warden flipped a switch, and the blinds raised in all three rooms. The first was about double the size of a phone booth, with an ancient wooden stairway leading to a platform with a four-by-four beam extended horizontally above it. “Just enough room for an officer, an executioner, and a chaplain, besides the condemned. Noose goes around the beam. Spring-loaded trapdoor gives way. Bingo.”
The next room bore the ugly chair with its metal skullcap, leather straps, and cords running everywhere. “Our multipurpose room,” Yanno said. “You get your choice, but you have to pick one. And then there’s the fancy room, with the gurney and all the comforts of a hospital. This is the one Washington wants us to use, if any at all, though you know even this has come under fire as inhumane. What do they think murder is? The press hates that we offer the menu of four options. Other states are jealous. We agree some of these methods are more gruesome than others, but as the result is the same, and justice is the game, we don’t much care which a guy chooses.”
“Has the Deacon chosen?”
“He’s old-school. Wants the noose. I think it sounds glamorous to him. Maybe you’re lucky he doesn’t seem to take to you. Maybe he won’t ask you to stand up there when he drops.”
Lord, spare me.
“Hey, you wanna sit in the chair, get your picture taken?”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely! Lots of people have done that. Just say the word.”
“Warden LeRoy, I need to ask you a serious question. Your answer will not change my mind—and I might as well tell you up front that there is nothing I’d less rather do. . . .”
“There’s no danger! Power’s off. We strap you in, even put the cap on you, put a mask on—”
“No, sir. Thank you.”
“But you had a question.”
“I’m just wondering if it makes me look soft for not wanting to.”
The warden studied him. “No. No, it doesn’t. Makes you look mature. Sensible even. I don’t show off the picture of me, though my family gets a kick out of it. You can imagine what the press would do with it. If it makes you feel any better, Russ was just as dead set against it as you.”
“That does make me feel better.”
“I respected him for it. You too.”