First Annual Wild Violet
Writing Contest (2003)

Fiction — First Place

The Practice of Killing
(continued)

By Robert Johnson

Donovan shivered as he approached the chair, as if he were in a dream, a bad dream, unfolding in a basement room in an old prison with bad lighting and water stained walls with peeling paint and a smell, an unmistakable smell of mildew, sweat and fear. In fact, he'd dreamt about this moment many times, and awakened in a cold sweat, short of breath. Now, as the dream merged with reality, he took in the details of the scene with a kind of peripheral sense. All he could see was the chair and the human frame around that chair made by the officers with the solemn faces, cast in shadow by the dim light.

Donovan reached the rubber mat at the foot of the chair, placed there to absorb shock, and then turned — or rather, was turned, with surprising gentleness, by the officers at his elbows. He settled into the hard wooden chair, surprised at its cold and unyielding surface, surprised, too, by the sudden view of the witness room, empty, but lined with some dozen seats facing the chair, from behind a picture window, shielded from the smell of violent death. Would there be witnesses? He wasn't sure. He thought so, but his mind was foggy. He'd have to wait and see.

Working like a precision drill team, in a matter of seconds the officers trussed him up and tied him down, like a hog ready for slaughter — first his chest, then his arms and legs, each in rapid sequence strapped and buckled down. Each man knew his part and could do it in his sleep. Last came the mask. Fear welled up in Donovan as the mask covered his eyes and much of his nose, and pressed down hard across his mouth. He could breathe, but it was hard; he could speak, but his voice would be muffled. What would he say? What could he say? Did it matter? He supposed not.

Donovan had thought he was ready for this, but now he was light-headed, limp. His thoughts raced out of control, skidding wildly along the corners of his young life — his wife, his kids, the night he'd said "yes" to the guys and got himself into this chair. He wanted to speak but couldn't get out a word. He pressed against the straps but couldn't move. He was bound, gagged, drowning in darkness, bile rising in his throat, his body racked by fear. He felt utterly helpless and alone. Nothing in life had prepared him for this...

"Cut", said Greer, as if on a movie set. "That's a wrap!" The men laughed, even the warden, who was known for his serious demeanor, even during these grim execution rehearsals, especially when a rookie like Donovan was on the hot seat. Rapidly the officers began to free Donovan, to release him from this hell he'd volunteered for, when he applied to join the execution team that night he'd gone drinking with his fellow officers and boasted that he could handle any assignment in Rock View Prison, home to the state's electric chair.

Donovan was shaken, as the others must have been in their turn, but he sensed he'd made it. He'd shown he could handle the pressure, walk the walk as well as talk the talk, that he was tough enough to join the elite corps of officers who killed killers for the state. This had been his dream, to work with the best officers doing the toughest job a guard could get.

"It builds empathy," someone had said, talking about the macabre experience of taking that last walk, of putting yourself in the hands of trained executioners and letting them bind you securely to that deadly chair. "Empathy, my ass," thought Donovan, though he supposed he'd be a better officer now that he had some idea what a condemned prisoner went through. "Maybe," he reflected our loud. He'd certainly watch the prisoners like a hawk, and maybe that was the real point of all this.

"You're in, Donovan," said the warden. Handshakes all around, Donovan's hands moist, clammy. "No sweat," he said, laughing a bit nervously, very relieved. Bill Donovan, a working class Irish kid from the projects, was now a member of the execution team, already looking forward to his next test, when he would be called upon to take a condemned man to his death, as ordered by the court and sanctioned under law.

Justice can be a bitch, he thought, but that's life. If you can't take the heat, stay out of the death house.

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