DEATH SENTENCE(Darrell Case)  

            “I’m certainly sorry, Mr. Stubbens. As your attorney, it’s very disappointing for the court to decide against us.”

            Slowly, Stanley stared up at the man. Another lawyer. What was his name? Chambers, Chandler, something. They all ran together after a while. Just another hanger on.

            The lawyer snapped his briefcase closed. The sound reminded Stanley of the door to the Death Chamber. He wanted to scream, “me, me, not us! I’m the one that’s going to die tomorrow night.” But he just nodded as if he understood. The man called for the corrections officer.

            Straightening his paisley tie, the attorney twisted around checking the back of his two thousand-dollar suite for crud picked up from the bars. 

            “You got some back here,” Stanley said, pointing where he knew the lawyer couldn’t see.

            The man cursed. “Well, I’ll just have to keep that side away from the cameras.”

            This man left to face his public. Laying his bottle top glasses on the floor, Stanley stretched out on his bunk. The world went out of focus. That was fine. The world hadn’t been in focus since that night three years ago.

            That night, he worked on his fifth model plane of the year. Almost completed. All left to do was put on the decals. There was a knock . His mother stood up when the door burst open. The officer who broke down the door threw his mother on the couch and his 747 on the floor. At the Police Station they worked on him for hours. Why did they believe it was him?

            “We have an eyewitness;” the detective said, leaning into Stanley’s face. She saw you running from the house after you raped and murdered that poor little girl.”

            He plucked Stanley’s glasses from his face. “And you didn’t have these on.”

            Stanley tried to tell them he couldn’t see anything without his glasses. 

            “Yeah, we got a witness,” the uniformed officer said, cuffing him on the back of the head.

            “Who?” Stanley asked.

            “You think I’m gonna tell you?” The detective said, “We want to keep our witness alive.” he pinched Stanley’s nose closed. He gasps for breath.

            The other officer grabbed him from behind, covering his mouth. Stanley struggled after a few minutes of hours. They let him go. Stanley fell to the floor, dragging in great gulps of air.

            “We can keep this up longer than you can,” the uniformed officer said, laughing. In the end, Stanley signed the confession. Surely, when they heard about it in court, the judge would throw it out.

            But they didn’t. Nor did he have time to tell his story. Tomorrow they would put him to death. Stanley glanced at the clock over the officer’s desk. Ten to four. Almost time for Carter. Dave Carter was one of the few kind C. O’s. on the range.

             The man tried to make each offender’s life as comfortable as possible. Last week Billy walked the mile. The warden let Carter bringing a pizza from Pizza Hut for his last meal with all the fixings.

            Billy called it a supreme. Stanley could still smell it, taste it. Before it made his mouth water, now the thought of pizza or food period make his nauseated. 

            Putting his glasses on, Stanley picked up “The Testament by John Gresham.” He wanted to finish it before they... He couldn’t complete the thought, nor could he concentrate on the novel. 

            “How you doin’ Stanley?” Officer Carter stood at the bars. His right hand extended toward the prisoner. Each night at the beginning of his shift, Carter shook hands with each man on ‘the row.’ 

            ‘No Contact.’ That’s what the administration said. But Carter did it anyway. When a new man came in, the officer met him with a handshake and a smile. If they refused, Carter met them each night with kind words until they did. 

            “Fine, sir,” Stanley lied, grasping the warm hand. 

            Carter’s eyes searched the boyish face. Stanley felt his soul laid bare. 

            “No, I’m not sir. I’m scared to death.” He hung his head, tears came to his eyes.

            “I know, son, but I’ll be with you.” Still holding Stanley’s hand, Carter laid his left hand on the boy’s shoulder. A shudder ran through Stanley. Carter sounded just like his father. The officer felt and misunderstood.

            “It’ll be all right.”

      

            An hour later, Arney Atkins brought in the mail. Atkins was as bad as Carter was good. 

            “Hey, Fry Boy, ye got a letter,” he said, waving a white envelope in Stanley’s face. 

            As Stanley reached for it, the officer yanked it away. 

            “Smells good. Maybe it’s from your momma,” Atkins said, running the letter under his huge nose. “Oh, that’s right, your momma’s dead. Just like you’re gonna be tomorrow night.”

            “Give me my letter,” Stanley cried, charging for the bars. Atkins must have had the holder unsnapped. The next instant, the pepper gas canister was shooting from his hand. 

            “Aaach,” Stanley screamed, his fingers digging into his eyes. His glasses flew off, landing on the floor, crushing one lens. He stumbled into the wall. Feeling along it, he found the sink, banging his shins on the commode. 

He held his face over the stream, meant for drinking. 

            Cries of protest rang up and down the row. 

            “Hey, he didn’t do nothin’.”

            “You one mean man,”

            “He ain’t no man. He’s a coward.”

            “He wouldn’t try that was Mr. Carter was here.”

            “You want some of this?” Atkins shouted, running from cell to cell. He pointed the canister at each man’s face. They all backed away, but Little Richey.

            “Yeah, give me some o’ that, White Boy,” Richey said, grasping the bars with his big black meat hooks. Richey was anything but little. Three hundred and fifty-six pounds of muscle. 

            Raised in Harlem, Richey caught his case while visiting relatives in the south. Atkins bullied every man on the range, but Richey.

            “I’ll do it, Richey, I really will,” Atkins said, his hand trembling. 

            “Then go ahead,” Richey barked. It was almost a command. Atkins moved a step closer.

            Stanley never saw a man move so fast. One second Richey’s hand was on the bars; the next it was on the back of Atkins’s neck. The anger on the officer’s face turned to horror. He felt himself being pulled forward.

            Atkins dug his feet in, to no avail. His forehead hit the bars with a resounding whap. The canister of pepper spray fell harmlessly to the floor. He opened his mouth. Before he could cry out, Richey slammed him into the bars again. 

            Atkins’ skull split apart, his brains leaking onto the steel bars. 

            “You ain’t gonna hurt nobody ‘gain,” Little Richey said, with satisfaction. He let Atkins crumble to the worn concrete. Reaching through the bars, he jerked the keys from the dead man’s hand. Holding the rest of the keys to stop their clanking, he selected the right one.

            Fitting it into the lock, he opened the door to his cell. Going to Stanley’s cell, he opened it. 

            “Let’s go, Stanley,” he whispered, waving his big hand back and forth. 

            Calls came from the rest of the cells.

            “Me next, Richey.”

            “Let me out!”

            “I can help you get by the police, Richey.”

            “No,” Richey said quietly, “you some wicked men.”

            They protested.

            “Naw, you shut up or I’m gonna open them doors and pinch your heads off.”

            The range quieted. Footsteps came down the hallway. Jumping back into his cell, Richey pulled the dead officer in with him. He stuffed Atkins under his bunk. In almost one motion, Richey wiped the gore off the bars with his towel, closed the cell door and pulled his mattress on the floor.       

            He flopped down on his mattress just as Carter opened the door to ‘the row.’ 

            “Back bothering you again, Richey?” Carter asked.

            “Just a little,” Richey said, rolling on his side. His bulk concealing the officer’s body.

            “Where’s Atkins?” Carter asked, his eyes roving the range. 

            “Search me, Mr. Carter,” Richey said, not budging.

            Setting on his bunk, Stanley watched the scene played out before him. Sweat ran down his back in rivers. His hands quivered.

            “I don’t have that much time, Richey,” the officer said, smiling.

            Richey laughed, a deep rumbling coming from his belly. 

            “You got that right, Mr. Carter. You sure got that right.”

            Still smiling, Carter reached for his radio. Stanley stood to his feet. He really liked Carter. The man was like a father to him. But he couldn’t let the officer reach for his radio. Stanley’s life hung in the balance.

            Silently, he opened the cell door. A step. Two steps. He was right behind him now. He jerked the nightstick from Carter’s belt. 

            “Stanley, no!” Richey shouted, but it was too late.

            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, hitting the officer again and again. 

            Surprise filling his face, Carter fell. But not before his finger pushed the reset panic button. The radio squeaked. 

            “Attention all staff. Emergency. Lock down. Weapons team to range five.”

            Officers in black suited riot gear poured onto the range. The officers in black suited riot gear poured onto the range. 

 

            The next day, things returned to normal. As normal as they could be with two officers laid out at Garrison’s Funeral Home. 

            At meal time three officers took up position at each man’s cell; one serving, two ready in case of trouble. They needn’t have worried. Stanley’s heart was broken. He had killed his only friend. Richey’s word echoed in his ears.

            ‘You killed him, you killed Mr. Carter.’ Stanley didn’t eat or sleep. He just sat on his bunk, staring at the floor. 

            “Here’s your letter, animal,” Carter’s replacement said. A young officer with no regard for prisoners, let alone those who killed fellow officers. He flipped the white envelope at Stanley’s feet. For the next half-hour, Stanley stared at the object that caused Carter’s death.

            Finally, he ripped it open. 

            ‘Mr. Stubbens,

You may hate me. I don’t blame you if you do. The truth is, I never saw you that night. My boyfriend was the one who raped and murdered that poor little girl. He said he would kill me if I said anything.

So when the police asked me to ID the killer, I chose you. I’m truly sorry. The reason I’m coming forward now is he died in an auto accident yesterday. I will be glad to testify for you. Please give this letter to your lawyer. Please forgive me.

Lou Ann Elkins’

 Stanley jumped to his feet. 

            “Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter!” He shouted. A broad smile breaking over his face. 

            “Carter ain’t here. You killed him, you moron,” the officer said, hitting the bars with his club.

            Stanley leaped back. It was true. He was a murderer. He deserved to die! Slowly, Stanley walked to the stainless steel commode. Meticulously, he tore the letter and envelope into tiny pieces. When it was done, he pushed the button and watched his life go down the drain.

            At 11:45 they came for him. He stood quietly as they shackled his arms and legs. The men on the range were silent. Only Richey reached out to him. One of the officers raised his baton, but the chaplain put a hand on his arm, restraining him. Stanley turned to Richey. There were tears in the big man’s eyes. He laid his hand on Stanley’s shoulder.

            “Walk tall, Stanley. Remember, Mr. Carter? He said he gonna walk with you.”

            Stanley straightened his shoulders, held his head high, and walked into the death chamber. Somehow, it seemed as if Officer Carter was walking with him.

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