The Needle and the Damage Done

5:30 p.m.

The men hurried into the 18th street Albertson’s. It was Saturday, 3 am, and there were only a few stragglers left in the store.

The two men looked around and silently gestured to one another. One of the men walked over to an employee who looked to be the night manager, while the other one walked over to a cashier. Simultaneously, they grabbed their victims.

“Nobody move.”

There were several screams, but no one tried being a hero. The man who held the manager dragged her to the cubicle that over-looked the entire store and housed the safe.

“Open it.” He dug the gun into her temple.

“I can’t. I don’t have the combination.” She cowered, trying to get away from the gun.

“Bullshit. I watched you open it at 11 when the shifts changed. Don’t lie to me anymore.” He yanked her hair, causing her head to be pulled back painfully until he could get nose to nose with her. “Understand?” The manager nodded. Her mascara ran freely down her face.

The manager fumbled with the combination of the safe. She was only supposed to know the first three of the six digits, with the other manager possessing the rest, but laziness and a false sense of security caused everyone to relax the proper procedures. She leaned over and opened the safe. The gunman held out cloth bags and said, “Fill them up. Fast.” She complied.

A shot thundered behind the gunman. He whirled around. His partner was flying backward, a blotch of red mushrooming on his chest.

Time slowed.

“Freeze! Police!”

Oh, shit. An off-duty cop. He turned and fired his own weapon. The sound of his shot deafened him. The officer flew backward in the opposite direction of the injured gunman. The two bodies looked like crazy bookends, housing the frightened faces of the onlookers.

Time stopped.

He screamed.

He screamed.

Rushing up from sleep, struggling with his blankets and his dreams, Isaac finally awoke. He sat up in bed, wiping the sweat that trickled into his eyes, and buried his face in his hands.

A voice said, “You alright?”

“What do you think?” He did not look up. “How would you be if you were me?”

“Pretty fucked, I’d say. But that’s where we differ: I wouldn’t be in your place. Anything you need?”

Isaac finally lifted his face. “Careful, your humanity is showing. You don’t want the other guys to think you’re soft. You’d end up as dog meat, Stokely.”

“I’m kinda sorry it’s your turn, Isaac. I'll miss your lip.”

“Yeah? Tell that to the governor, will ya?”

Stokely laughed and walked away. “Sure thing, Buddy.” He spat the word out. “Just what we need running loose, a cop killer.”

“Hey, I’m a hero in here.”

“Not for long.” Stokely cackled again as he walked down the corridor.

Isaac got up and walked to the sink. He splashed copper-colored water onto his face. He contemplated going back to sleep but decided the effort would be too great. Besides, he was facing the Big Sleep as it was.

He sat on his bunk and pulled a well-worn little black notebook from under his pillow. Isaac's attorney promised to take the book to Rosa. After.

Isaac opened the notebook to the first word and started reading.

Son, I’m writing all this down because I don't know how else to help you grow into a man from in here. Isaac knew every word by heart. Was there anything left to say?

They had come for him the morning before, explaining that he had to be moved to the only cell in the other building. Prison officials didn’t want to have to drag him out on the day of the execution with all the other death row inmates watching. Bad for morale.

He had strutted out of the cell that had been his home for eight years with a cockiness that everyone had recognized as nothing but bravado. He called his goodbyes to the fellow inmates and left with a smile on his face and a swagger in his hips. They called back their farewells, relieved it wasn’t their turn. Yet.

Isaac left his cell the way they all claimed they would; with pride. He vowed to face his death the same way.

The generous visitation from the days before had ended. He said goodbye to his wife and son in the family visiting room, which they had to themselves. His one demand of his wife, back before the trial, was to keep paying on his life insurance, and she had. He reminded her to get the $20,000 owed her. She only nodded. Not much of a consolation prize.

A noise startled him from his musings. He hastily wiped his face and turned to see Stokely standing at the bars with a tray of food. Behind him stood the chaplain and another guard. Stokely put the tray on Isaac’s table. “Enjoy,” he said.

Isaac stared at his food, remembering that he had requested steak with mushrooms, a baked potato with lots of butter, and fresh broccoli for his last supper. He almost laughed. I couldn’t eat if my life depended on it, he thought, then really laughed.

The padre, who had just begin walking into Isaac’s cell, looked up sharply. Isaac snapped, “Get out.”

The chaplain stopped, startled, then silently backed out.

“Take the food.”

Stokely retrieved the tray and left the cell. As he walked away, he reached into the tray, pulled a mushroom off the steak, and popped it into his mouth.

Isaac sat on his bed and waited.

8 p.m.

He was pacing the floor. It was a short walk. “I wanna see the warden.”

Isaac’s lawyer was sitting on the bunk. He was shaking his head. “The warden is where he’s supposed to be. There’s a direct line to the governor in his office. Relax.”

“Relax? Are you smoking crack? I have four hours to live!” His pace increased.

“You can ask for a sedative any time.”

“I’m going to have my fill of sedatives soon enough. No thanks.”

James Crowley nodded. He’d been down this road before. He hated this - deathwatch - slowly watching a man die hours before the actual act. “Look, I know you’re feeling pretty helpless. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that my staff is making calls and going through the precedents. They’re good at their jobs. Do yours. Take a seat.”

Isaac slowed, almost stopped, then began walking again.

“What next?” he asked.

“The prison doctor will come and give you a physical.”

“What for? To see if I’m alive enough to kill?”

James snorted. “It does sound strange, but they do it just in case you drop dead from a heart attack or something 10 minutes before a stay of execution. Procedure. You want to hear something even stranger? They check your fingerprints after your execution.”

“Figures.”

“Come on, Isaac, sit down. We have stuff to go over.” James scooted to the far edge of the bed. Isaac relented and sat.

“Have you gone over funeral arrangements with your wife?”

“Rosa’s taking care of everything.” Isaac reached for his notebook and held it to his chest. “You promised to give Rosa this notebook.” Crowley nodded.

11:15 p.m.

The doctor had come and gone. Apparently, he was alive enough to kill. Where’s appendicitis when you need it? He could almost feel the pain in his side. Perhaps it was just boiling in his bowels; his body’s way of evacuating reality. The sound of footsteps broke Isaac from his thoughts. Ice water ran through his intestines. He needed to use the toilet but didn’t want to be caught sitting there when the footsteps stopped. He threw up, instead.

The cell door slid open.

The hall was full of guards. The warden had to elbow his way through. “I’m sorry, Isaac. It’s time.”

A guard stepped forward and reached for Isaac’s hand. No! Not like this, he thought. If they want to kill me, they can put a bullet in my back. He lunged backward, pushing the guard off balance and into the men standing behind. Isaac moved forward, legs pumping. He could feel a surge of adrenaline as he prepared to run to freedom.

The crowd moved forward as one. Before he could move even a step away, he found himself face down on the floor. They pushed a needle into his arm, and slowly he stopped struggling. He rested his cheek on the cold cement floor, waiting for the pressure on his back to ease. He noticed that the guard on his right was a little lax in polishing his shoes.

They lifted Isaac to his feet, and he tried to walk. At some point, his legs stopped working. He didn’t think it was the sedative they had given him that had caused his legs to rebel. The guards never broke step, though. They simply half-lifted, half-dragged Isaac the rest of the way into the execution chamber.

Isaac learned an important lesson: There is no walking into death proudly.

11:45 p.m.

Isaac was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. It needed paint.

The nurse had inserted a catheter into his penis, and a plug into his rectum. Both of his arms were strapped down, as were his legs. The nurse carefully inserted the IV needle into his arm and started the saline drip. Two lines were piggy-backed to the tubing. One carried more saline solution, the other held the lethal cocktail of sedatives. By that point, it didn’t strike Isaac as odd that his arm had been carefully swabbed with alcohol before they had inserted the needle.

The nurse continued with her work as if treating a regular patient, rather than a man who was meant to die. Electrodes were stuck to his chest, and from across the room, Isaac could hear the steady beating of his heart. He held on to that sound. Finally, they covered him with a sheet from chest to foot.

11:55 p.m.

A curtain at the far end of the execution chamber opened. Behind it was a rope partition. Twelve chairs, in two rows, were placed behind; four were reserved for the press, and the rest were for the observers. Isaac had requested that none of his family attend the execution.

He looked at the faces behind the rope. Most of the people stared back; only a couple had the decency to look away.

His stomach jumped into his mouth.

Rosa.

What was she doing here? She sat in the last seat, next to another woman. She was holding his little black book to her chest. The other woman had a smile on her face. She was the dead cop’s wife. He remembered seeing her give a witness impact statement. She was the only person in the room smiling; she looked almost sexually excited. She looked like a vampire. Poor Rosa. How could they have seated her next to the victim’s widow?

He concentrated on Rosa’s face. I didn’t want you to be here, but I’m glad you came. I could die in peace if only my last image is of your face, he thought.

Somehow, he was sure she heard him. She mouthed, “I love you.” He mouthed it back.

12:01 a.m.

“Do you have any last words?” asked the warden.

Yeah, why isn’t the fucking phone ringing? Isaac held back his impulse to be snide and shook his head. Faintly, he heard clanging. It was his prison friends showing solidarity.

He heard a click and knew that they had activated the buttons in the other room. One was a ‘dummy’ switch, the other worked the killing machine. There were two buttons so that no one would know who had thrown the fatal switch.

The last thing he felt was a single tear slide off his cheek.