Chapter Eight
Leo
Today is the day I die, I’ll be strapped to a gurney, needles in my arms. The executioner will press down on a plunger. If things go right, I’ll fall asleep, never wake again. The poisons flowing into my veins will paralyse my lungs, stop my heart, I’ll die. It should be painless that’s what they tell me.
Texas uses a three drug procedure. Sodium thiopental will begin the procedure, in the right doses it’ll sedate me. Pancuronium bromide will flow into me, paralysing me, suffocating me. If the sedation hasn’t worked properly, I’ll feel my lungs slowly freeze, fight to fill them, my muscles paralysed, unable to cry out for help. Potassium chloride is the final drug. It’ll stop my heart, completing the process. If I’m unlucky enough to be awake and aware, to still be fighting to fill my lungs, the drug will burn through my veins like acid. I’ll die in agony, unable to tell anyone I need more sedation. My last minutes on Earth will be torture.
I’d never regretted being involved in my legal battle more than I did that morning. One of our appeals focused on the drugs used, the potential for them going wrong as they had in the last execution Texas carried out. A triple murderer took twenty long minutes to die, his body twisting, his breath gargled. Witnesses were ushered from the room, it was a sight so horrific the warden called for an emergency stay. He died of cardiac arrest shortly after. That’s what awaited me if things went wrong.
My body ached, my soul throbbed. The last forty-eight hours exhausted me. Special visits had been arranged, each one longer than my usual ones. Everyone turned up, they all fought not to cry, most failed, especially my mother who sobbed painfully through most of our two-hour long visit. I’d longed to hold her, erase some of the pain in her heart, separated from her by glass. She’d never touch me again in life. She accepted the changes I made to my final wishes, agreeing to have me cremated.
Danica turned up, taking some of Laura’s visit, she held back her tears, forgave me, promised she’d never stop fighting for me or for herself. I tried to convince everyone I was guilty, that I deserved this, they all looked at me, shaking their heads. My impending death was killing everyone I loved.
They’d come for me soon, I’d be strip searched, forced to bend over, allowing a guard to stare into my asshole, my final humiliation. It was supposed to be dignified. As if putting a man to sleep like a rabid dog could ever be civilised.
My body jolted at every footstep passing my box. I didn’t know what time they’d come. It could be any second, I might have hours left in this box. Only those who needed to know had the time frame, to prevent any last minute escape efforts.
I sank to my metal shelf, my mind racing too fast to sleep. I didn’t remember the last time I slept restfully. The damn timer ticking down in my head screamed now, it’s second hand racing around, hammering away in my brain like a sledgehammer.
A guard scribbled down notes as I got up, pacing my tiny box again. They watched me constantly now, writing down my every move, etching every word I uttered to their notes. In time, my final minutes on this earth would be made public record. Journalists would pour over every moment, people morbidly fascinated with the death penalty would study every word, wondering what I was thinking. Was I scared? Had I accepted my fate? Did I hope for a last minute stay? If someone had asked me then what I felt, I’d be unable to answer.
My mind jumped from one emotion to another, never stopping for breath, fear, rage, sorrow, self-pity, acceptance, numbness, terror. They all raced through my veins.
I’d been offered a sedative this morning when I woke. It took the edge off, it didn’t help me sleep, its effects drowned by the adrenaline flooding me. If they didn’t come soon, I’d go insane. Maybe that was best, if I lost my mind, I’d die blissfully oblivious to my fate.
They came at 1 pm, an hour after my final heart-wrenching visit with my family, an hour after I took to pacing my cell, feeling the concrete walls shrink in on me.
I knelt at my cell door, my arms stretched out behind me one final time. The metal clicked around my wrists, my arms and legs tethered to the belt around my waist. This was it. My final steps in this godforsaken place were being taken. I was moving closer to my death. The timer roared now, deafening, terror inducing. You will die. You die today. There is no hope. I had five hours of life left.
What appeared to be the entire prison staff surround me, I was shuffled to the box for the final time. At least my final time in this box. It’s a thick, wire cage. The guards gently pressed me forward, closing me in as I stumbled into the cage.
I’m asked to strip. It never gets less humiliating, having grown men study your naked body, peer into your cavities. Clean, white prison overalls are handed to me. My chains are secured around me again. The slippers they gave me slip on and off as I walk, I have to shuffle, my ankles and wrists chained.
The chair comes next. I’m strapped to it. It detects any metal I might have hidden on me, any razors I might have squirrelled away to end my own life. God Forbid I save the state some money by taking my own life. That wouldn’t be justice, the state must kill me.
They lead me to the van, armed guards surround me. It’s bizarre allowing yourself to be walked to your death, not that I had any choice in the matter. If it was anyone but the state planning on snuffing out my life, I’d be expected to fight, scream, cry, beg for mercy. Because it’s the state, they want me to face it like a man, quietly shuffle off to my death. The only choice I have left is whether to make this easy for them. I could fight, I won’t win but it’s an option. Maybe I should. It’s what a normal man would do, isn’t it? I think of my mother, of her hearing her son went to his death a snotty, terrified mess, beaten and dragged to the death chamber. I step into the van, helped by the guards, sit passively while they strap me in. In the next hour or so, I’ll feel the sun on my skin for the final time. This is the last time I’ll ride in a van.
Four guards travel in the back with me, all silent. The air weighs heavy, the van fills with thick, hot tension. I can’t stand this.
“The weather’s nice today,” I say. They look at me like I’ve finally lost my mind. No-one answers me. What a stupid thing to say when you’re about to die, like the weather matters. My eyes scan the guards, they all avoid my gaze. My feet tap the floor, my knees shaking.
“We’ll be there soon,” one guard says softly.
“Oh, good. Wouldn’t want to take the scenic route, drag out my life a few more minutes.”
He nods solemnly, then goes back to gazing down at the floor. Is this as fucking odd to them as it to me? We all know I won’t be heading back with them. They’ll go home to their families tonight, tuck into their dinner, try to put today out of their minds. I’ll be dead, laid out on a slab in a funeral home, my mother weeping over my body, her tears soaking my prison overalls, permitted to touch me for the first time in six years. She’ll comment that I’ve lost weight. I must’ve missed her cooking.
There are no windows in the van. We race through Texas at what seems like ninety miles per hour. I have no clue how much closer to my death I am until the van slows.
Two of the guards jump out first, the others stay behind me, pressing me forward. I pause, my feet on the ground, my face turned up, letting the sun wash over my face. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sky with no bars or wire obscuring my view. Fluffy white clouds float in a sea of blue. A chopper circles overhead, drowning out the birdsong I long to hear.
They graciously give me a few moments to say my goodbyes to the outside world before silently taking my arms, leading me into the imposing building known as the death house. This is where I die. I’m a few short steps away from the gurney upon which I’ll take my last breaths.
I flinch at the sound of the heavy metal door slamming behind me, trapping me inside. A table lines one wall of the corridor, covered in a pristine white cloth, bibles laid out on it. The only person who may visit me now, besides prison staff is the minister who will stay with me while I die. He’ll listen to me, support me, try to ease my fears. His hand will be the last to touch my skin as he places it on my leg, waits for the drugs to start working.
I’m pulled to the end of the corridor, guided silently into the end holding cell. My chains are removed, more sedatives are offered. I guzzle them down.
It’s the silence that’s hardest to handle. I’m in my final cell, four hours away from death, surrounded by silent strangers.
“Is there anything we can get you?” the minister asks.
People have asked that a lot these last few days.
“Soda, please. Am I allowed a soda? And a phone.”
I’m not allowed a soda, but they find me one anyway. I’m handed a styrofoam cup of lukewarm, flat cola, from a bottle found in the guard’s break room. It’s tea, coffee or water after this, I’m told. My heart is pounding so violently it’s hard to breathe and they’re offering me coffee. The timer ticks off another minute.
“Who do you want to call?”
“Danica Milano.”
He taps in the number, handing me the phone through the bars that separate us.
“Hello? Leo?” She slurs.
“You drunk at two in the afternoon Detective?” I laugh.
“Yes. I want to be asleep. I don’t want to see it happen on the news.”
“Watch a movie, Dani. Turn the news off, please.”
I hear people protesting in the background, chanting my name. It’s the same for all death penalty cases. We talk for an hour about her plans for the future, her visit with her dad and the fact he’s now fucking the maid. I beg her to find a way to move forward, to learn to trust again, to love, raise a family, do all the things she dreamed of doing with me. She promises to catch up with Carly, work with Laura to find some therapy.
“I gotta go, Dan. I promised my mom I’d call her.”
She wanted to be one of the last people to hear my voice. It’s the phone call I’ve been dreading the most.
“I love you,” she sobs.
“Me too.”
The guard takes the phone back, dialling my mother’s number. She answers before it reaches my hand again.
“Leo? Leo? Are you there? Leo?”
“Mom, I’m here.”
The sobbing starts immediately, she tries to hide it from me but I can hear her voice cracking, hear the sniffing. Mrs Cobb, the neighbour is with her, plying her with camomile tea. My dad and Theo will be Livingston, waiting to be taken to the witness box, ready to watch me die. They’ll be kept apart from Stacey’s family, held in separate boxes. My mom wanted to be there, I begged her not to be. I didn’t want any of my family or friends watching that but they insisted. Theo, my dad and Laura are all a few meters away in a centre, waiting to be told it’s time.
My final meal arrives while I’m speaking to her.
“What did you get?” She sniffed.
“Beef cobbler, just like you make me,” I lied. Texas inmates don’t get to choose their last meal anymore. I’m served the same flavourless slop as the rest of the inmates, some kind of fried chicken and over boiled, mushy green veg. It goes down hard, sitting heavy on my stomach, every mouthful a chore to force down. I don’t want to die hungry. Absurd isn’t it? I’m about to die and I’m worried about being hungry.
I’ve planned it this way for years, ever since the sentence was read out in court. I’ll eat, shower, make sure I’ve been to the toilet. A guard will watch me excavate my bowels for the last time, scribbling it down in his notes for strangers to read in years to come. I’ll be laid on that gurney, comfortable, fed, toileted and clean.
“Did they make it right, is it like mine?”
“Yeah, mom, it’s perfect.”
“Did they give you creamed potatoes with it?”
“Yeah.”
We talked for an hour. She chatted about the neighbours, Theo’s new boyfriend, my dad’s promotion. Theo once told me she kept a diary of things she wanted to tell me, so she’d never run out of new things to say. Our conversations tended to be one sided, she talked, I listened. What could I talk to her about? Hi, mom, the three inches of the outside world I can see from the slot in my box is sunny today. We ate fried chicken for the third time this week today, it wasn’t burned this time.
“Mom, I gotta go,” I sighed, glancing at the clock. It hung on the wall opposite my cell, above the door to the death chamber. Is it cruel and unusual punishment to trap someone feet away from where they’ll die, force them to stare endlessly at the door to the room they’ll soon die in? It felt like it. I hadn’t been able to tear my eyes off that door since I got here.
“I have some things I need to say you. I want these to be my last words to you, please don’t interrupt me, please just let me have my say.”
Her voice thick with tears, she struggled to speak. I swallowed the lump rising in my own throat. Mrs Cobb sat beside her, shushing and cooing. I imagined her stroking my mother’s silver hair, wiping the tears landing on her wrinkled, drawn cheeks, clutching her hand, listening quietly as she spoke to her son a final time.
“Yes, mom.”
“Leo, my lion, I love you, son, I love you as much today as I did the day you were born, I’ll love you that much until I take my dying breath. I’m proud of you, my lion, of your courage, the way you stand up for what you believe in and fight for what you love. No son has made ever a mother more proud. I don’t regret you meeting Maia, bringing her into our life. That sweet girl blessed us with so much happiness in the short time she was with us. Stacey too. I love them both. You shouldn’t regret them either. You gave them peace and happiness, you offered them love when hope was lost. They didn’t die because of you, if you hadn’t saved them, they’d have died anyway, killed by that awful man. They’d have died without ever knowing happiness and love. I love you, Leo. I love you so, so much. Sleep tight my brave lion.”
“I love you too, mom.”
“Goodnight my brave lion, sleep tight.”
The phone clicked, the dial tone rang in my ear. I’d spoken to my mother for the last time.
They gave me another sedative before locking me in the shower box. They kicked in this time. Were they stronger or was my mind finally succumbing to sheer exhaustion? As the water flowed over my skin, I allowed the tears to fall for the first time, washed away by the shower before they settled on my skin. I sank to my knees, crouched in a ball in my box. An animalistic howl ripped from my chest.
“You okay, Roman?” A guard asked, sliding the slot on the door open. He grimaced at my pathetic form, curled in the dirty shower tray. Am I okay? I’m going to die in little more than an hour and he’s asking if I’m okay. What if I say no? Will he call a doctor? Let me go home? Tell me it was all a sick, twisted joke?
“I can get you another sedative if you need one?”
“Yes, please,” I breathed, dragging myself back to my feet. I had to keep it together, for Theo, Laura, my dad and my mom. She’d quiz them on every tiny detail. For her sake, I had to fight the turmoil gnawing at my insides and walk to my death proud and fearless.
I was left pacing my cell for my final minutes. The sedatives muffled everything, time slowed, except for the clock above the death room, that ticked away faster than ever, screaming its way towards my death.
At 5:45 pm I used the toilet. The guard watching me made a note of it in his notepad.
“Will you note that I’m composed, please, for my mom?”
He nodded, scribbling furiously, impassively on his paper.
The warden came for me at 5:55 pm. Theo, my dad and Laura will be on their way now. They won’t be allowed in until I’m strapped to the gurney with saline pumping through my veins.
Six men flanked the warden, all strangers. Staff from the Huntsville Unit, I guessed. Chains hung from their belts.
“It’s time, Roman,” the warden said.
“Leo.”
No-one had called me Roman my entire life until the day I was arrested. I wanted to die as Leo, not Roman, not the imprisoned, child killing paedophile.
They left the chains off, letting me take my final steps free of shackles. The warden kept his hand wrapped around my arm, pushing me into the death chamber. My breath halted when the door opened.
The walls all blue, the same shade I’d painted Maia’s walls. All that was missing was the pink fluffy clouds I’d stencilled on her ceiling and the nightlights hanging from every available socket. The kind that throws stars up all over the walls. She loved those lights. I’d never see them again, never hear her giggle as they streamed over her sweet, innocent face. Had they been on when she’d died? I knew so little about what happened to her. All I did know had been gathered while Detective Schilling and his old partner barked questions at me, accusing me of stomach-churning acts of violence.
“Sit on the gurney please, Leo,” the warden asked.
I numbly stepped forward in the bare, clinical room. Tubes pressed through a hole in the wall, resting on a metal table by the gurney. Those tubes would soon carry poison to my veins.
The blue walls did nothing to calm my racing heart. How ironic would it be to keel over of heart failure before they got the first needle in? Two of the guards helped me to the gurney.
They worked quickly, expertly throwing the thick leather straps over my body. I was pinned to the gurney, unable to move an inch, my fingers taped down to the padded arm rests.
“Are you comfortable?” The warden asked.
“I’m cold and I feel sick.”
I can’t be cold. I can’t be ill. I’m supposed to be comfortable. It’s all planned.
“It’ll be done soon,” he soothed.
He didn’t understand, he didn’t understand that I needed to feel comfortable, my body needed to be sated of every need.
“Please,” I begged, “I can’t be cold, I can’t be ill, please.”
The minister rested his hand on my leg.
A phlebotomist tightened a rubber cord around my arm.
“You have good veins,” he muttered, slapping the inside of my elbow.
“Thank you.”
Thank you? Why had I said thank you? It wasn’t a fucking compliment, he was telling me my lack of drug addiction, my healthy, clean living lifestyle up until the day I was arrested was making it easier for him to assist in my death. The catheter went in easily, the needle pushing into my vein.
I concentrated on my pounding heart, listening as it took it’s final, panicked beats. The drugs would freeze it soon.
“We’ll settle the witnesses in and then you’ll have the opportunity to say your final words.”
“Will I be able to see them, Sir?”
“Your own witnesses, yes, through that window.”
Stacey’s family and the media would stand behind the second window, the one closest to my head, shielded from view by privacy glass. A digital clock on the wall ticked the minutes off. It was 5:59 pm. If things went right, I’d be dead by 6:15 pm. I had sixteen minutes to live.
The curtains slid open. Theo stood in the middle, his arms around my dad and Laura. Laura sniffed into a white cotton hankie, her face puffy and red. She gave me a wet smile, waving slowly. Theo flashed the biggest, fakest grin I’ve ever seen. My father closed his eyes. I smiled at them, trying to hide the utter, pervasive terror flooding my body.
The warden explained why everyone was here. It was my turn to speak. My voice thick with drugs, I struggled to make coherent sentences, my thoughts jumbled. I’d studied this speech over and over until it burned into my brain. It seemed to come out wrong.
“I want to thank everyone for their support and love. It’s meant so much to me over the last six years. I love each and every one of you more than you’ll ever know. I guess I mostly want to talk to Mrs and Mr Charles, Maia’s grandpa and grandma, Stacey’s mom and dad. We never really got to know each other and you never got to meet Maia. She was, christ..”
Tears choked me. My throat tight, the words stuck.
“She was perfect, just perfect. Always laughing, always happy. She loved school and her friends, math was her favourite subject. And the beach, she loved the beach. Stacey, she was getting clean, she would’ve managed it, I just know she would if she’d be given a chance. She wanted to get back in touch with you once she was clean, show you how much she’d achieved. She knew how proud you would be of her.”
That was a lie. Stacey never believed her parents would accept her back into their lives after what she’d become, drug addled, prostituted, a mother who exposed her child to the man who raped and beat them. They didn’t need to hear that.
I’d met them once, got in touch with them through Laura. We met in a diner just outside town. I gave them a picture of Maia, promised I’d bring her to meet them soon. They were good people, they didn’t deserve to lose their loved ones the way they had.
“They were happy in the end, with me. Loved and safe. I just wanted to you know that. Theo, look after mom and Dani, they’ll need you. Laura, thank you, for letting me become involved in your charity, never stop fighting for those women and dad, I love you and mom. You were amazing parents. I love all of you. That’s all warden, that’s all I have to say.”
The warden nodded to the people in the box, they too hidden from my view by thick privacy glass. A hand tightened on my leg. My eyes locked on Theo's. He smiled, tears pooling his green eyes. God, I missed him so much. The room began to swim, a warmth settled over my body. My vision darkened. It was working. The sedatives were whipping me away from this box, taking me floating on clouds. I'd never wished so hard to believe in a God. A God who'd lift me up, take me to Stacey and Maia, their arms open and welcoming, their smiles bright and forgiving.
"I love you all," I slurred.
I drifted off to sleep to the sound of a ringing phone, Theo's face the last thing I saw before my eyes closed.