First Annual Wild Violet
Writing Contest (2003)

Fiction — First Place

Robert Johnson is a professor of justice, law and society at American University in Washington, D.C., with an interest in creative writing. His poems and stories have appeared in Black Bear Review, Pleasant Living Magazine, Tacenda and the National Catholic Reporter.

The Practice of Killing
By Robert Johnson

They came for Bill Donovan at midnight. He knew they were coming, and he was ready, as ready as he could be. He'd been waiting for this moment for some time now, dreading it but drawn to it, a kind of final test, a measure of character. Now the time had come, his time, his turn.

He rose as the warden approached, two hulking officers in tow, gripping the bars with his hands. For a moment, he had the crazy idea that he was in a B movie, but the thought passed quickly. This was no movie. This was "the real deal," as one of the officers had told him. Captain Greer, that was his name. A monster of a man, physically, Green had a head as big as a watermelon, but was an okay guy. Greer had said, "This is what's going to go down. Let me break it down for you. This is the real deal. You've got to hold yourself together." The cold metal between Donovan's fingers somehow helped, as if clinging to them helped him hold his emotions in check.

The warden looked Donovan in the eye and said, in a fatherly tone, "Son, I've got a job to do," and then proceeded to read the death warrant. The language was formal, stilted, and sounded almost foreign. Donovan didn't hear the warden, couldn't follow his words; he could only look at the officers and think, "this is it." His emotions were flat, his face expressionless, his thoughts almost dull. There was no turning back. As much as anything, it was now a matter of pride for young Bill Donovan. He was going to handle this like a man. That much was certain. At least that was the plan.

The warden finished reading the warrant. "It's time to go," he said. By now, a third officer had arrived, making four in all outside the death cell. Death cell! Good God, he wondered, isn't it hard enough without so many macabre touches — the final meal, the last will and testament, the death cell, the last walk, the death chamber. His head ached. He wondered, not for the first time, how he'd gotten himself into this situation.

One officer, he recognized him but couldn't remember his name, opened the door and the others entered, again familiar but somehow anonymous, filling the narrow cage, each eyeing Donovan warily. Donovan had heard tales of men who'd cracked under the pressure. Not many, to be sure, but enough to make officers careful. Two officers stood at his side, poised and ready. The third, Captain Greer, positioned himself behind Donovan, placing his forefinger through the belt loop in Donovan's prison issue trousers, which had been ripped at the left leg to allow for easy placement of the electrode. Who had last worn these pants, he wondered, then shuddered.

Greer spoke soothingly, "You can do this. No problem. You can do this." The words had a slow, syrupy, hollow sound, floating down to Donovan from the watermelon with eyes and a wide, slightly crooked mouth, oddly comforting. Donovan wasn't so sure he could do it, but he started to move forward, walking slowly, almost shuffling his feet. His legs felt leaden, numb. It was like he was sleep walking, with the officers at his sides lifting him ever so slightly off the ground, guiding him along the twenty-foot path to the death chamber, then maneuvering him through the door and on down to Old Sparky, the antiquated but fatally effective electric chair that was entering it's 85th year of use. A lot older than him, Donovan thought, ruefully.

There, waiting with grim expressions, cast in shadows from a single hanging electric light bulb, were five more officers, the remainder of the execution team, each with his eyes on Donovan, each with a job to do and, Donovan knew, plenty of experience doing it. "I do the left leg," he'd heard one man say. The left leg! Donovan thought of a butcher with a special affection for a cut of meat. "I'm a second joint man, ma'am." "Jesus," he sighed.

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