A Book of American Martyrs(138)

Shyness came over him. His throat had shut up tight.

A microphone! Like someone on TV.

The execution chamber was much smaller than he had expected—and the ceiling strangely low. He worried that it might be soundproof—(he had heard that it was soundproof)—in which case, if a call came to stay the execution, the ringing might not be heard inside the room.

Nor could he see through the Plexiglas window, that was a horizontal window of about eight inches in height and seven feet in length, with pushed-open black curtains at both ends. But he knew that there were witnesses beyond the barrier—the prison warden and other authorities, law enforcement officers, relatives of the deceased. Strangers assembled to witness a death.

Not his death but a death. A large clumsy bird flapping its wings, a death could happen to anyone in this vicinity.

There, the gurney to which the condemned man would be strapped. It was surprisingly narrow, spare. It did not seem long enough for Luther Dunphy’s body, or substantial enough.

A metal rod with straps extended perpendicularly from the gurney, about twelve inches from the top. Luther stared at this trying to think what its purpose might be

“Luther? Have you anything to say?”—Reverend Davey repeated.

All this while Luther’s heart was beating hard and steady. His heart did not believe that this would happen to him. At last he began to speak slowly into the microphone as if each word were being pulled out of the air with difficulty.

“In Jesus’s name—I repent my sins. The act that I did—that brought death to Mr. Barron—I did not intend. It may have been—the shotgun went off by itself . . .” Luther paused, breathing audibly. His forehead shone with perspiration.

Gently Reverend Davey urged: “Yes, Luther?”

“—yet it is my fault I know. Because the shotgun was in my hands. I—I beg forgiveness from the family of Mr. Barron who—whose life—was taken from him wrongly . . . And if you cannot forgive me I understand . . . It is only Jesus’s forgiveness that matters.” Again Luther paused. He was swallowing compulsively and his eyes had filled with moisture.

“Yes, Luther? And—?”

“May God have mercy on my soul, that I have done such an act. And all other—other—mistakes of my life, that are my fault alone and no one else’s.”

Abruptly Luther ceased as if he had run out of words.

Reverend Davey was deeply moved. Bright tears streaked his ruddy cheeks.

“Luther, thank you! God bless you, my son. Now let us pray.”

His instinct was to kneel but they would not let Luther kneel. Their hands gripped his upper arms tight. He would pray standing as Reverend Davey stood awkward on his feet in the presence of the Lord until at last his knees began to shake.


MADE TO FEEL LIKE SHIT coming to the prison.

Protesters with picket signs in the roadway. Waving signs and shouting at me.

Their eyes on me like they knew it was me—the executioner.

And the shock in Luther’s eyes when he saw who was waiting for him.

Feeling like shit. Like Judas.

In Luther’s eyes there was that thought too—like Judas.

But there was forgiveness in his eyes too. For Luther Dunphy knew that I was his friend.

Asked him to lay on the gurney and he did. When he had to lean on me, to lift himself up onto it, I felt how strong he was, the hard-quivering muscles of his arm. It is always strange to stand so close to a white man. You expect them to shudder away from you. I thought if he tried to fight us we’d need at least four men—two to hold the ankles and two to hold the wrists. But Luther Dunphy didn’t fight us.

Then, we strapped him down. Fumbled with the damn straps. You could hear him breathing like through his mouth and not his nose—like an animal panting.

On the other side of the Plexiglas the sons of bitches watching. Fuckers sitting in seats like in a little theater and the closest seats maybe two feet from the window. Their knees had to be pressing against the window. The way the lights are you can’t see the “witnesses” too clear because of reflections but you know that the sons of bitches are there.

The warden and the assistant warden and officials from the prosecutor’s office. Law enforcement, journalists.

A son and a daughter of one of the victims were there. We had been told.

Now Luther Dunphy was lying on the gurney still-like and strapped down and his left arm stretched out on the rod. And it happened in that way that is what we dread the worst—it was not possible to find a good vein.

Sticking the needle in the man’s arm, trying to raise blood into the hypodermic, and feeling the man stiffen with pain (but not saying anything—like Luther wanted to spare me)—this was damn hard.

Soon, I was sweating.

Tried all the veins I could find in his left arm, and not one of them worked. Or maybe I just did not know how to do it—fuck!

You wind a rubber strip tight around the upper arm to make the veins bulge but a vein can “roll”—just rolls away from the fucking needle.

If a man is dehydrated the veins are not firm. Maybe Luther Dunphy had not drunk liquids in a while.

In the right arm I tried with a large ropey blue vein running the length of his arm but I had forgotten to use the rubber strip so I wrapped that tight around his upper arm and tried again—no luck. Damn vein just rolled away from the needle. Sweating bad now and poor Luther was trying not to groan with pain from the fucking needle. And he was bleeding bad from me sticking him.