Muriel and I reached the town of Starke at a quarter to five and had breakfast in a greasy spoon on Main Street. A note on the menu said, “We shur hope ya’ll have a nice day.” Sitting in a plastic booth, I ordered black coffee and poached eggs on toast. Muriel chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick. She was not a cheerful woman today.
After breakfast I followed the signs and turned west on the Raiford road. Some scruffy palm trees thrust themselves against a lemony dawn sky. Concertina wire stretched between electrified fences and machine gun towers.
Birds began to warble. In the growing light we noticed that a halfdozen RVs, some pickup trucks and a few station wagons were parked in front of the prison on the crabgrass. People had set up picnic tables with plastic cloths. The women were making coffee and flapjacks, the way they used to do during lynchings. The smell of maple syrup drifted through the early-morning air.
“Death penalty groupies,” Muriel said. “Come from all over Florida, camp all night here. They can’t get in to see anything, but the lights dim when the dude inside throws the switch. They stomp and cheer. One less bad guy to threaten the good life in the U.S. of A.”
A man was selling doughnuts and T-shirts. I couldn’t see the printing on the T-shirts, but I could imagine it.
In a gun tower a telephone sat in a niche. Muriel spoke into it, and a voice on a speaker told us to proceed to the first gate. Beyond it was a moat of stainless-steel barbed wire. I looked up, and in the pale light could make out the faces of men in the upper windows of a cell block, staring down. Like panthers, they had eyes that seemed to glow in the gloom.
We passed through a series of gates into an indoor reception area with peach-colored walls. The linoleum floors smelled of fresh wax. The air was chilly and musty. While we waited for our escort, I read items on the staff bulletin board. One of the guards offered a mobile home for sale: “3 BR 2 BA $3500 OBO, with 5 acres, $24,000.” This was a long way from Longboat Key.
Identities were checked. Our hands were stamped with a glowing violet mark, as in a nightclub. We passed through a metal detector. We left our keys and Muriel left a Llama .32 Blackhawk that she brought forth from her handbag. She smiled a little, as if in apology. “You never know,” she said.
Our escort was a clean-shaven, thin-lipped young FSP administrative assistant, who introduced himself as Fred Olsen. He wore a pale- gray suit, a pale-gray tie, and shiny black shoes.
“I’ll be taking you through the procedure,” he said quietly, “and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. Right now we’re going to breakfast.”
“Thank you, we’ve eaten,” Muriel said.
“It’s part of the procedure,” Olsen explained.
He led us down a long waxed hall, through a door into a cafeteria with light-green walls. Two large flags dominated the room: the Stars and Stripes, and the red-and-white flag of Florida with the state motto, “In God We Trust.” The other witnesses were there: half a dozen reporters, various state and FSP officials, the lawyer who had handled Sweeting’s appeals, the father of one of Sweeting’s victims, and an uncle of the other one. One representative of each victim’s family was invited, and the condemned man was allowed one relative. Sweeting’s mother sat with the appeal attorney. All of these people except Mrs. Sweeting were eating scrambled eggs, bacon, grits, and hash browns.
“Coffee?” Olsen asked. “There’s no charge.”
When Olsen left to get it, I asked Muriel if she knew the appeal attorney.
“Sure.”
“What kind of a job did he do?”
“Thorough. But he didn’t stand a chance.”
“Do they ever?”
“Sometimes. Weird things happen.”
“Like clemency?”
“That would certainly be weird. Well, if it’s ever going to happen it might happen with Sweeting, because he’s white.”
Olsen came back with the coffee and his own plate of eggs and bacon. I noticed then that another young man in a gray suit sat at the table with the other witnesses, taking care of them in the same way that Olsen was taking care of me and Muriel.
“Would you like me to tell you the rest of the procedure?” Olsen asked. “It’s what we recommend. It spares you any surprises.”
I heard myself say, “All right.”
“My colleague, Mr. Crocker, has already explained it to the other group. May I?”
Muriel finally nodded. There were dark smudges under her eyes today.
Olsen said, “For the last thirty days Mr. Sweeting has been in a program we call Death Watch. There are two phases. Phase One of Death Watch begins when the governor signs the death warrant. Mr. Sweeting was moved at that time to Q wing, which is a good deal closer to the place of execution—it’s completely isolated from other inmates. He was permitted to read any religious books or tracts he chose, and he continued to receive any magazine or newspaper subscriptions he previously had. He was still fed three meals a day, and any dietary restrictions—that is to say, for medical reasons—were strictly observed.”
“You want him in good health,” I said.
Olsen nodded, glad that I understood. “He still can receive approved visits, but all contact visits terminate. That’s in Phase One of Death Watch. In Phase Two, which began five days ago, Mr. Sweeting was permitted to retain only the following items.” Olsen reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and consulted an index card. “ ‘One black-and-white TV, located outside the cell, one radio, one deck of cards, one Bible, one other book, periodical, or newspaper.’ “ Olsen put the card away. He waited.
Muriel and I both nodded our approval.
“During Phase Two, the condemned is under constant surveillance by a trained officer, who sits outside the cell and records in writing every fifteen minutes what the condemned is doing. Four days ago, Mr. Sweeting was asked to inventory his property and indicate its disposition, and asked to specify his funeral arrangements. Mr. Sweeting requested standard burial. He was therefore measured for a suit of clothing. Two days ago, he was allowed an interview with a media representative of his choice. He declined this interview. Yesterday, twenty-four hours before execution, our chef took Mr. Sweeting’s order for his last meal. Would you like to know what he ordered?”
Muriel grunted softly, a word or two that I couldn’t understand. I found that no words formed on my own lips, or even in my mind.
Olsen looked at another card. “Mr. Sweeting ordered a sirloin steak dinner, a pint of chocolate ice cream with hot fudge, a CocaCola, and a large-size buttered popcorn—all of which we were able to provide. This meal was served at approximately four-thirty A.M. this morning, following the condemned’s final visit with a clergyman of his choice. In this instance Mr. Sweeting met for one hour with the prison chaplain. … Do you have any questions thus far?”
Muriel and I shook our heads in the negative.
He was spooning up his hot fudge sundae, I calculated, when I was chewing my poached eggs in that Starke diner.
Olsen said, “The rest has to do with the execution procedure, which you’ll witness shortly. Witnesses will be escorted at five forty- five A.M. to the witness room of the execution chamber in Q wing. At six A.M. an FSP administrative assistant, namely myself, three designated electricians, two FSP correctional officers, a physician, and a physician’s assistant will be assembled in the death chamber. Mr. Crocker will establish telephone contact with the office of the governor, in case there should be any last-minute clemency.”
“Will the governor be awake and in his office at six A.M.?” I asked.
“That’s a good question,” Olsen said, “and frankly I don’t know the answer. Meanwhile the condemned will have his head and right calf shaved to better conduct the electrical charge. He will take a supervised shower, and he will be dressed in his new burial clothes, omitting the suit jacket and shoes. Conducting gel will be applied to his scalp and shaved leg. The prison superintendent, Mr. Tate, will read the death warrant one final time to
the condemned. The condemned will be strapped into the chair. He will be permitted to make a last brief statement. A conducting sponge and cap will be placed on his head. I might mention,” Olsen added, “that last night I and my colleague, Clive Crocker, who as I’ve said is over at the other table with those other folks, noticed that the sponge to be used this morning was, to say the least, dirty. So we went out and purchased a brand-new clean sponge to be used for this occasion. I don’t think they ever had changed that other sponge, if you can believe such a thing.”
Under the Formica table I dug my fingers into the muscles of my legs.
“Mr. Wright, the assistant superintendent of this facility, will then engage the circuit breaker. The chief electrician will activate the panel, Mr. Tate will signal the executioner to throw the switch, and the automatic cycle will begin. Once it’s run its course, the physician will pronounce the condemned as dead. You will all exit the viewing chamber, to the rear.”
“Who’s the executioner?” Muriel asked quietly.
“An anonymous local private citizen dressed in a black hood and robe,” Olsen said.
“Jesus, a volunteer?”
“Yes, except that he’ll be paid one hundred and fifty dollars for his services.”
“How many volts?” I asked.
“Two thousand four hundred.”
“And it takes?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“How long to kill him?”
“Oh, instantaneous. Perhaps a few seconds. You may see some movement in the condemned’s body, but I assure you, consciousness ends instantly.”
Fred Olsen excused himself to go to the bathroom.
I stared into Muriel’s eyes. The pupils were dilated. She said, “I don’t know if I can go through with this.”
“Then let’s skip it.”
“No, I’ve got to do it. I took a vow on the Virgin. Chinga la madre! What was I thinking? This man Olsen is certifiably insane. Will you come with me? Can you do that for me?”
I shook my head. I had come this far, but it seemed far enough. She gripped my wrist. She had thin fingers, and strong. “Please. Help me.”
“All right,” I said, my stubbornness melting before the heat of her plea.
A van took us in a group to Q wing. A rosy sun was inching above the pines to the east. During the ride, no one spoke. The appeal attorney nodded at Muriel Suarez; he knew who she was, even though they had never been in court together.
I whispered in Muriel’s ear. “Can you see Mrs. Sweeting? Next to the appeal attorney?”
“Yes.”
“She stumbled getting on the bus. She’s brought her coffee along. Just poured something into it from a flask. How old a woman is she?”
“Sweeting’s twenty-seven. She’s probably in her fifties.”
“She looks seventy, for Christ’s sake.”
“Dios mío. I hate this.”
“Let’s get the hell out when the van stops.”
“I’ll be all right. Just hang tight with me. I’ll shut up, I swear I will.”
Inside Q wing we were led by Clive Crocker to rows of white wooden chairs. The chairs faced a glass wall. On the other side of the glass, about fifteen feet away, stood a high-backed, solid oak chair with black straps—as large as a throne. Behind the chair an open panel contained coils and lights. Two domed light fixtures hung from the ceiling.
I shifted in my chair, pulled my suit jacket a little closer. The witness room was damp.
The condemned shuffled into the death chamber. He was manacled at his ankles, and his wrists were cuffed to a chain.
Sweeting looked like a freckled boy dressed for an adult party. He wore a red and blue striped tie that hung well below his waist, a white button-down dress shirt that was too big for him, baggy dark-blue suit trousers, black socks. He was about five feet four, thin and sinewy. His ears stood out at right angles to his head, like a mongrel dog. His knobby shaven skull glistened where it had been rubbed with gel.
His mother waved to him.
Our guide, Fred Olsen, was in the death chamber, as was a doctor in a white coat, the doctor’s assistant, the prison superintendent, the assistant superintendent, three electricians, two bulky correctional officers of the Death Watch squad, and a small man dressed in a black gown and a hood with a slit for vision.
For some time I had been hearing a regular rhythmic sound, like a feebly ticking drumbeat. Now it grew louder. I looked to my left, two seats away, where Olsen’s colleague, Clive Crocker, was seated. I raised my eyebrows by way of inquiry.
Crocker leaned over to whisper. “The men on death row know our schedule. They tap on the bars with plastic spoons. I think we can assume it’s a form of saying goodbye.”
The correctional officers unchained Sweeting. One of them said, “Sit down here, please.” Through the glass, although a trifle blurred, the words were still audible.
The men helped Sweeting up into the chair. His stockinged feet dangled in the air. The men cinched the various leather straps around his waist, legs, and arms.
We heard Olsen ask him, “Would you like to say a few words now?”
“Yes, please,” Sweeting said, and turned toward the visitors.
“You’d better speak up to be sure they hear you,” Olsen cautioned.
Sweeting nodded. “Goodbye, all. Goodbye, Mama.”
“‘Bye, son,” Mrs. Sweeting called. “Give my love to Jesus. Tell him to take good care of you.”
“Merciful God,” Muriel murmured.
I took her hand, gripped it as if we were husband and wife.
“Is that all?” Olsen asked Eric Sweeting.
“Well, I’m sorry for what happened,” Sweeting said. “But I guess y’all know that. I have no hard feelings, and I want to thank everyone, what they done for me. So … I’m ready to begin my journey.”
Muriel groaned. I clasped her other hand as well.
The superintendent read the death warrant a final time. The distant sound, the rhythmic beating of the plastic spoons against the bars, continued without pause. One of the correctional officers tilted Sweeting’s head back and fastened a chin strap around his small jaw. The other correctional officer placed a black rubber hood on Sweeting’s face. The new sponge was wedged inside the top of the hood. Electrodes led from the hood to the control box set in the wall. The first man parted Sweeting’s right trouser leg; it had been slit up the side, almost to the knee. He fastened a second set of electrodes to Sweeting’s slender and shaven milk-white calf.
He signaled to the hooded executioner. Thumbs up. The executioner pushed the button in the control box.
The automatic cycle began. Lights dimmed. Sweeting’s body jerked, and he moaned softly as if in sleep.
Blue-and-yellow flames shot from Sweeting’s head, firing radiantly upward and outward like the corona of the sun during a total eclipse. Sweeting screamed like a pig being slaughtered. The flames crackled, while his flesh sizzled audibly. We couldn’t smell it, but we did hear it.
In the witness room with us, Clive Crocker, Fred Olsen’s associate, jumped to his feet. In the death chamber, two of the electricians were tugging at the sleeves of the prison superintendent.
… Perhaps a few seconds. You may see some movement in the condemned’s body, but I assure you, consciousness ends instantly.
Sweeting kept screaming. The flames continued to leap upward from his head. His toes stretched and tapped angrily on the concrete floor. The skin of his leg, as everyone could see, began to scorch and turn black. In the witness chamber, Mrs. Sweeting started to blubber.
The executioner released the switch.
“We seem to have a problem,” Crocker said quietly to the rest of us in the witness room. “But I’m sure it will be remedied.”
The electricians busily readjusted the straps and the electrodes. In a minute or so they seemed satisfied. They signaled to the executioner. Thumbs up a second time. The executioner didn’t see the signal. One of the electricians c
ame over and whispered in the ear of his hood. Nodding, the executioner pushed the switch a second time.
The flames jumped forth from Sweeting’s shaven skull and out on all sides through the rubber hood. A video record kept by the physician’s assistant later demonstrated that these flames varied between three inches and fifteen inches in length. Their color was mostly blue, although they were interfused with yellow streaks. Sweeting’s piglike screams became the baying of a hurt dog. His little body twisted against the straps; at times he seemed to be dancing in place. A thick dark-brown fluid flowed out from under the rubber hood and down the front of his white shirt. Liquid, as well as bloodied white and yellow kernels of popcorn and bits of chewed, charred sirloin, landed in his lap, then spattered on the floor in a pool of undigested CocaCola, ice cream, and black fudge.
Through it all, the other men on death row beat with their spoons against the bars. Mrs. Sweeting buried her head in her arms and whimpered prayers to her Jesus.
The electricians shouted something again at the executioner, and again the executioner removed his finger from the button.
Sweeting shrieked, “My eyes are on fire! … I can’t breathe! …”
“Stop this!” Muriel yelled. She jumped to her feet. “In the name of God, stop it!”
Clive Crocker rushed over. “Ms. Suarez, please don’t interfere. Control yourself!”
She began to curse at him, and Crocker tried forcefully to jam her back down into her seat. I half rose from my own chair, felt power in my thighs, bunched my right hand into a fist, and drove it straight into Crocker’s face.
On the third try, fourteen minutes after the first jolt of electricity had surged into his body, Sweeting was pronounced legally dead.
Olsen entered the witness room, wiping sweat from his neck. “The sentence of the State of Florida has been carried out. Please exit from the rear and proceed to the van.”
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller Page 11