By the Stroke of Twelve

Tolover Perez was alone. Nothing but his thoughts, his fear and the eerie echoes of the darkened prison to kept him company. He sat stiffly on the edge of his cot, hands on his knees, and stared at the peeling pea green wall in front of him. He didn’t want to move, didn’t even want to blink. He controlled each breathe with the determination of an asthma sufferer.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the same position though he knew by the lack of feeling in his extremities it must have been quite some time. His mind was fuzzy around the edges like he’d had too much to drink and although he was damned tired he knew he could not lay his weary body down on the prison issue green cot and rest. He dared not. He knew what would happen if he let his guard down.

If he slept he would be vulnerable, defenseless.

They would come.

And they would too. All of them. Each would visit him like a scene straight out of Dickens’ Christmas classic.

He knew what they wanted. Revenge. They wanted bloodthirsty justice. But most of all they wanted him.

Perez could feel the panic rising within him like a virginal blush as it covered his body. Every time he thought about them or the waking nightmare in which he found himself he was in danger of losing control. To keep the panic at bay he concentrated on his rhythmic breathing and forcing his eyes from blinking.

But deep down he knew he was a fool for thinking he could fight them off. Soon it would be time and he would be forced to confront them. He knew they waited for him to drop his guard, for his body to relax, for his mind to drift. He could feel them just at the edge of his consciousness; see them just on the edge of his peripheral vision.

The first of them had made his presence known not long after lights out had been called. Perez had stretched out on the flimsy mat that was a poor excuse for a mattress, his fingers laced behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankles. He had closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep hoping against hope that he’d go peacefully in his sleep.

His conscience first became aware that something wasn’t right when he noticed the chill that hung in the air. The temperature felt ten degrees cooler and goose pimples broke out on his arms. He opened his eyes and looked across the cell to the rusted bars that blocked his escape and toward the old woman who stood there. He looked at her, seeing her clearly in the faded light from the hall light all the while knowing he shouldn’t be seeing her.

Her wrinkled pale face was covered in scratches and framed by disheveled white curls. Her zippered floral housecoat hung in bloody tatters on her plump frame. His mind captured the bruises on her knobby knees and the way one dirty white sock rose to mid-calf while the other crumpled around her ankle. It also saw that one of her fuzzy pink slippers was missing. But his eyes never left her face. He couldn’t stop staring into the pitch black holes where her eyes should have been.

Perez was frozen with fear and awe unable to move, to even blink. She was dead. He had killed her. He knew logically that he could not be seeing her and yet here she was right in front of him ten years after he had murdered her. Rationally he knew that she couldn’t have survived the torture he had put her through.

Perez closed his eyes tightly and gasped a strangled breath as the memory of that night rushed at him. He had been high as a kite on a crystal meth one night ten years ago and itching for another fix. He had been walking through a strange neighborhood looking in car windows for things to steal that he could sell for more drugs. Looking up from one of the various cars on the street that offered him nothing of interest he saw he was in front of a small dark bungalow tucked farther back from the street than its neighboring homes. In his drug fueled mind he half formed a plan to ransack the house for drugs, money and valuables.

He crept through the side yard to the back of the house and onto the little back stoop. He popped open the screen door and jimmied the flimsy lock open with his pocketknife. He slowly entered the home and stood inside the entryway waiting for his eyes to adjust to the new darkness and sense his surroundings. After a few moments he surmised he was in a kitchen and could vaguely make out the table ahead of him. He slowly walked on the balls of his feet to the left toward the doorway in the back of the room. Halfway around the table his foot caught the leg of one of the chairs. He jumped back into the cabinets and counter behind him as the chair made a loud scratching sound on the floor as it moved.

His heart hammered in his chest as he stood stiff as a board where he was waiting and listening to the sounds of the house to see if the noise had awoken anyone. After a few nerve-racking moments he took a step forward. Just then the light turned on and he looked up to see a plump little old woman standing in the doorway. She gasped at the sight of him, her age spotted hand going to her chest as she reached out to steady herself on the doorjamb. Without thinking he lunged at her knocking them both to the ground.

For a fragile looking old bird she put up helluva fight. Perez struggled with the old woman to pin her on her back on the linoleum floor. It was a struggle as she fought like a hellcat half her age. She flailed her arms about, her hands curled into talons searching for connection with his face and neck as her knees tucked up under him in an attempt to knee him in the groin.

His muscles strained with the exertion of trying to force her into submission. Sweat dripped down his face and neck and stained his dark t-shirt at the back and armpits. The voices in his mind fueled by the drugs were screaming at him that he was in big trouble if he were to get caught.

Perez had no idea how long they struggled. Much of that night is a blur in his mind. He did remember hearing her cry out in pain, anguish washing over her panicked face as she went limp beneath his heavy form. With his breath coming in large raspy gasps, he sat back on his knees next to her still form and looked down at her. Her eyes looked strange, faded, as though they were looking at something beyond his shoulder. She wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving, and wasn’t fighting him any longer. He saw a welt that was forming on her right cheek and a trickle of blood leaking from her left nostril, an indication that her nose had broken during the struggle. And then he saw his knife as it stood up from the center of her chest and noticed the warm dark blood seeping from the wound and watched in mild horror and awe as it pooled beneath her on the linoleum floor.

Perez opened his eyes and hoped the old woman was gone. His heart constricted in his chest when she was still there staring back at him. With slow precision she raised her right hand and pointed one arthritic finger at him. Perez was numb with fear; his breathe stopped cold in his lungs. Suddenly her mouth opened in a silent scream and she rushed at him. His eyes the size of golf balls he leaned back on his cot as she passed through his body with a terrible chill that seemed to reach deep down into his bones. She was gone having dissipated after passing through him.

Tolover Perez had wept for better part of an hour curled up in a ball in the corner next to his stainless steel toilet. When he felt able to move he stood on legs like wet noodles and moved over to his cot. He felt dampness to his backside and looked down to realize that he had wet himself. Fear and shame overwhelmed him as he stripped off his prison issue pants and boxers and rinsed them in the sink before he laid them across the bars on his bed to dry.

He perched on his bed, his back against the cold cement cell wall and wrapped his arms around his knees resting against his chest. Perez rocked his body back and forth and fought the sleep that threatened to overwhelm him. He was afraid to close his eyes after witnessing the apparition of the old woman. The sight of her brought back so many memories, memories he wished he could forget forever. Once the booze stopped making him numb, he tried every conceivable narcotic cocktail to obliterate his feelings and the past. He bounced from drug to drug alternating heroine and crystal meth, acid and marijuana. For days on end he didn't sleep, didn't eat, barely left the couch in his filthy living room. Eventually the money ran out as did his drug supply. He again prowled the streets peeking in car windows for an easy smash and grab. When the rash of car burglaries forced his neighbors to start locking their doors and hiding their valuables from plain site he agonized over breaking into homes. The memory of what happened the first time still haunted him and there were nights he would wake up in a terrified sweat as the echo of the old woman's cry reverberated in his brain.

It didn't take long for him to go from petty thief to professional burglar. Within two years he had perfected his craft and became a master at planning and executing his jobs. He would drive neighborhoods looking for a house that caught his eye. Then he would spend days, sometimes a week at a time, watching the movement of the occupants. He looked for patterns, opportunity, the perfect time to strike. He also became more aware of things like fingerprints and physical evidence. He now wore skin-tight leather gloves that protected him while they allowed him freedom to move, to touch, to grab. He also made sure to cover his head so no hair could fall out and be left at the scene for some hot-shot crime scene technician to find and from it obtain his DNA.

His coke supply ran dry as had his bank account the afternoon he decided it was time to hit the big house on the hill several blocks from his apartment complex. For several days he had watched the family as they went obtusely about their boring middle class lives. A father, a mother, a daughter and a young son; the epitome of the American Dream all wrapped up inside with a two story house complete with a backyard swimming pool and family dog. It was middle of the afternoon and he knew that on a typical day such as this the kids were either at school or a babysitter's and the parents wouldn't be home for a couple hours providing him plenty of time to pick the home clean of valuables. He was dressed as like a run-of-the-mill delivery man: dark blue slacks, matching blue work shirt HAL stitched upon the left breast, brown hard soled work shoes, standard navy baseball cap, and a clipboard holding what appeared to be a work order. He walked straight up to the door and peered in the glass windows. He was well aware that no one was home but he wanted to give a good show in case any nosy neighbors happened to be watching. He pretended to ring the doorbell, waited a few seconds, then followed the cobblestone path around the side of the house to where he knew there was a back door. Out of sight from prying eyes he had placed the clipboard on the ground and removed his pocket knife. He slowly opened the screen door mindful of any squeaks the rusted hinges may betray. He used his knife to manipulate the flimsy lock and pop the door open with barely a sound.

He stepped into what appeared to be a small mud room: a coat rack with various sized clothing hung to his left; a shoe stand overflowing with various sizes and styles of shoes sat beneath it; a container beside the rack held miscellaneous canes and umbrellas. The tiled floor was partially covered in a grimy rug best used in high traffic volume areas and lay askew in front of the shoe rack. The little room was an auditory nightmare and as he made his way toward the door leading into the kitchen he tried not to touch anything.

All through the night he had been visited by the tormented souls of his victims. They’d all come to him – the young blonde he’d loved whose heart he’d ripped from her chest; the old woman with all the cats whose house he’d burned down; the bald man whose head he’d scalped and left to bleed to death; and the freckled young boy he’d shot mistakenly yet mercilessly. They’d all come to taunt him, to haunt him in these, the last hours of his life. The visions had scared him tremendously and he’d been too terrified to close his eyes and envision the demons in his dreams again. In the end his terror had drained all sleepiness from his body and he’d sat up, dressed, and waited for morning to come. It would be the last morning he’d ever see because by the stroke of twelve that night he would be dead.

Slowly the prison around him began to come alive. Muffled groans of fleeting sleep began to float through the ward. Creaking springs reverberated off the cold metal bars as inmates rose from the bunks. The sharp, confident step of the guards sounded a warning of their inevitable arrival as they made the ritualistic morning rounds. Death Row was awakening.

Tolover Perez slowly became aware of a presence outside his claustrophobic cell. He turned and stared at the men standing uniformly outside. He knew why they were there. He’d seen the spectacle too many times to be so naïve. Yet he could still do nothing more than sit staring dumbly at them.

Joshua Gogh didn’t mind his job. But the final day of an inmate always made him rethink his occupation. Today was no exception as he took out his giant key ring and, after searching for the right key, unlocked Perez’s cell. On full alert the accompanying guards watched as Joshua stepped inside.

“Today’s the day, Perez,” he said simply.

Perez stood and held out his arms, wrists close together. “So it is,” he replied his voice dull, devoid of emotion.

Joshua handcuffed the prisoner and ushered him out into the corridor. Jaxson Gaetano nodded greeting to Perez then bent to shackle his ankles and bind them to the handcuffs. Jax was usually unmoved by inmates and his work. But there was something downright disturbing about being involved in a man’s death that sometimes made Big Jax wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Grasping one elbow with Joshua on the other side, they made the familiar trek to the prep room.

Once inside, Arnold Chase cleaned his razor blade and began the last hair cut Tolover Perez would ever have. Perez cracked a weak smile. “Just a little off the top, huh?”

Arnold Chase nodded. “Sure thing, son.”

After a few minutes a now bald Perez dropped to his knees in front of Reverend Peter Paul and began repenting for his sins. The Reverend placed a hand on his open bible and recited in a quiet voice, “ . . . Pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our deaths . . .”

When he was done he asked the condemned man if he wanted one last confession. For several minutes Perez was silent. Raising his head, he looked at the robed man with empty eyes. “Soon, all will be set right with God. Peace will come after the unrest and then all will be forgiven.”

The Reverend nodded, knowing deep down in his soul he would forever be haunted by that hollow voice, the dead eyes, and the haunting words of this man.

Tolover Perez requested nothing special for his last meal. And he was actually surprised when it was brought to him: A steak fit for a king with a baked potato smothered in sour cream and butter, a large piece of cornbread with jam, steaming coffee, and a piece of homemade apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream. Perez looked up at Joshua Gogh with questioning eyes.

Joshua shrugged. “I figure a man should have at least one last home cooked meal before he goes.” Perez nodded and choked out thanks before digging into the food.

Eternity seemed to pass in the few short hours since the dinner dishes had been cleared and when Jaxson Gaetano came to his cell to announce it was time. Joshua unlocked the cell door and stepped inside repeating the events of earlier that morning. Shackled and chained, Tolover Perez walked between the two men to his inevitable fate, the good Reverend Peter Paul and several guards followed closely behind.

The corridor seemed miles long as Perez slowly made his way toward the pea green door at the end of the hall. Death lay at the other side of this door he knew. Tolover Perez was afraid of death. He was afraid to die because he had no idea what lay ahead for him on the other side. And the not knowing terrified him. It caused his breathing to become almost labored, caused his blood to rush through his veins so quickly it was almost painful, caused the beat of his heart to echo loudly inside his ears.

Sweat broke out in tiny beads above his top lip and on his forehead. His eyes became bloodshot – they were wide with terror now. The tortured souls were back again. They lined the hallway; their arms outstretched reaching for him. Their fingers were curled into talons ready to sink into his flesh.

Perez wanted to stop, to turn and run screaming from the visions before him but his feet would not obey the urgent commands of his horror-numbed mind. Instead he turned to look over his shoulder at the Reverend. “Pray for a miracle, father. Pray for a miracle cause where I’m going a miracle is the only thing that’ll save me.”

Joshua Gogh and Jaxson Gaetano exchanged curious looks. Neither man was very religious but it was each of his experience that most Death Row inmates somehow knew something about what was going to happen to them when they passed over. And it usually happened just before they reached the pea green door. Usually it also meant that there would be crying and praying by the prisoner right up until the chair was lit.

Tolover Perez was no exception. As soon as the door was opened Perez began to say Hail Maries over and over until the words were no longer words but long chains of consonants and vowels. Tears trickled slowly from his dark eyes as he was pulled into the room. Perez’s voice rose to a notch just short of hysterical as the deadly wooden chair loomed in front of him. Finally unable to hold back the tears, he fell silent great body wracking sobs making it difficult for his reciting to continue.

Jaxson Gaetano gently pushed Perez into the chair and began methodically strapping his torso and wrists to the chair. Joshua Gogh strapped his ankles to the legs of the chair and stood to begin placing the cap and hood over the sponge one of the other guards had placed wetly on his head. It was practically an unwritten rule for Death Row guards that one must never look into the eyes of a prisoner once he’s in the chair. It was said that the condemned prisoner’s fate in the afterlife could be seen in his eyes just before he died. Luckily for Joshua Perez had tightly squeezed his eyes shut while attempting to shut out his surroundings.

After placing the black hood over Perez’s head he stepped back to his post on the right of the chair. His clear blue eyes went to the clock and patiently waited for the stroke of twelve. It seemed an eternity passed as the clock finally struck midnight. In a voice that was quiet but commanding he gave the first order. “Roll on one.”

The lights in the cell – as well as throughout the prison – visibly dimmed. A loud humming noise came from the generator. Jax nodded to the priest who closed his bible from which he had been quietly reading and left the cell. Then turning his attention back to the prisoner he said, “Tolover Perez, it is so ordered by a jury of your peers that electricity pass through your body until you are dead. Do you have any last words?”

When Perez said nothing but continued sobbing, Jax nodded to Joshua. Joshua took his cue and signaled to one of the guards. “Roll on two.”

There was a loud heavy click as the switch was thrown. Suddenly Tolover Perez became very animated as ten thousand volts of electricity flowed through his body. His fingers curled and his nails dug into the wooded chair arms. Veins in his forearms, neck, and calves throbbed and pulsed visibly as he twisted and thrashed in his straps. A blood curdling, spine tingling shriek filled the room then died off. After a minute Joshua again signaled to the guard this time to cut the power. One of the guards – a doctor – appeared with a stethoscope and checked for a pulse. He stood, shook his head indicating that amazingly Perez was not dead. For the second time Joshua called for a roll on two. Electricity once again passed through Perez. His voice was strained, hoarse as another shriek burst from his lips. His body strained at the straps holding him securely in place. The smell of death began to permeate the air.

Tolover Perez stopped moving. The guard killed the strong current. If Joshua Gogh had been able to look into Perez’s eyes as he was being strapped into the electric chair he would have seen the scene that began to take place as the guard announced Perez was dead. A dim light lit over his body and then his spirit stood up from his body. Curiously the specter stared at the body it just left. Brilliant light filled the doorway suddenly. The specter looked toward the light. There, huddled together in a small crowd were the tormented souls of Tolover Perez’s victims. The spirit tried to scream and held its hands in front of itself to ward off the vengeful souls as they rushed toward it.

Unaware of what was happening on another plane, Joshua Gogh and Jaxson Gaetano began removing the straps that bound Perez’s lifeless body. A gurny appeared and Joshua, Jax, and two other guards placed the body onto it. As the dead body was wheeled away, his condemned soul was dragged through the door by the souls of his victims to its damned fate.

Joshua Gogh and Jaxson Gaetano began the unpleasant task of cleaning up the remnants of the execution, each lost in his own thoughts, each again trying to stomach the scene they’d just witnessed and wondering if another occupation might not be a bad idea.