In the seven years since I was gone, I never once tried to find out his wife’s name.
“Do you still love him?” Lynette asked as she led me into my old bathroom.
I was silent while I contemplated her question. So many thoughts were running through my mind while I undressed that I was having problems focusing. When I finally answered her, I was standing in the shower and my voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
“I grew up with him. When I look back on the happiest moments of my life, there isn’t a time that I can’t remember him being there, being a part of who I was.”
Lynette inhaled sharply, and I watched, as she forced a smile on her face. She started out of the room but turned and came back. “Everyone’s wondering if you’ll go to him?” she asked quietly. “I mean fight for him?”
I dipped my head back and let the water beat against my face. When I stepped back from the spray, I shook my head, “No.”
She nodded and was about to turn, but I stopped her. “They were right. Our two species shouldn’t be together.”
My mother’s brother, Bishop, told me that you never forget your first kill. He was right. It was a Stray who risked exposure to one of our covens in a small town in Costa Rica. It was the look in his eyes right before I killed him that I’d never forget. He didn’t beg for his life like I expected, like I had done. Instead, he simply smiled and told me to get it over with.
When I killed him, it was as if his anger had passed on to me. I thought about letting it go, but his rage erased the numbness that I had been feeling, ever since Connor and I were separated.
I stepped out of the shower and dried off. There was a deep red silk dress lying on the bed for me, but I walked past it. I pulled out a comfortable pair of black jeans and a matching sweater that was hanging in my closet. I was putting on my shoes, when there was a knock at the door.
It was Thierry. He was no longer dressed in his Ceremonial suit. “Shall we?” he asked.
I told myself that this wasn’t about Connor, this was about justice for a fallen brother. But who was I kidding? I had something to prove—to everyone—and especially to Connor. All those who had laughed at the naïve Princess were in for a rude awakening.
An angry smile crossed my face, as I grabbed my twin short swords from the overnight bag and followed Thierry. Wherever we were going, we were bringing trouble with us.
The Last Mile
by Robert Walsh
Sing Sing Prison, July 1934
The chair sat large and ugly in the brightly lit room, made of light brown oak, heavily adorned with thick leather straps and heavy wires leading to the nearby switchboard. Two huge guards stood on either side of it, in front of the heavy green door, through which the star of the show was about to walk his “Last Mile.”
We had all been searched thoroughly before entering the Death House. Nobody, except possibly the editors of a few papers, wanted a repetition of the time a colleague of mine sneaked a photo of Ruth Snyder in the chair. Especially not a photo like that, which captured Snyder, as the 2,000 volts tore through her body. The prison warden had been lucky to keep his job after that little farrago.
Warden Lewis E. Lawes stepped out in front of the oversized chair and addressed the assembled witnesses. “Gentlemen of the press. Tonight, I am called upon to supervise the execution of Giovanni Agnelli. In most cases, this is a duty I would rather not be mine, but on this occasion, I feel justice is being served.”
“You have been invited to witness this execution, in accordance with Section 507 of the Code of Criminal Procedure of the State, County, and City of New York. State law requires the presence of gentlemen of the press, in order that such an event is properly reported to the general public.”
“You will not smoke, take any photographs, or make any unnecessary noise. You will not leave this chamber, unless you are instructed to do so. Those of you who have not yet witnessed an execution will keep silent, and make no personal statement on what you are about to see.”
This last was directed at me. I had only recently joined the staff at the paper, and this assignment was designed to test my nerve and let my more senior colleagues know that I had arrived, and was no longer merely another wet-behind-the-ears cub reporter. Assuming, of course, that I could stand the sight of it, and didn’t pass out or throw up during the proceedings.
I’d always wanted to see an execution. Or, at least always thought I had, until now. The mob hits and killings that had become such a regular feature on the front page had long ceased to move me, and I was anxious to make a name for myself and prove to my colleagues that I could be trusted with a big story.
“Agnelli burns tonight,” my editor had said in the newsroom that morning. “You wanna see the show?”
I had adopted a suitably grave expression as I replied, “Yeah, if nobody else wants to.” The grave face and serious voice were merely a façade. I was actually elated at the chance of my first big splash. Agnelli and his fate didn’t matter much to me at that point. Or, so I had thought.
But now, in the flesh, I was much less optimistic. The older guys at the paper had warned me. They had told me about the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, about how many rookies barfed at executions, and of some who had even fainted. Now that I was here, the forthcoming spectacle seemed to me to be as cold and calculated as any mob hit.
It suddenly struck me that the administration of a death sentence was, in its own way, worse than a lynching. The lack of compassion for the condemned, the meticulous preparation, the continual game of cat-and-mouse, as the State toyed with its next victim in the courts, raising their hopes and then dashing them with the same casual ambivalence. All of this seemed barbarous, as the hand of popular opinion closed on its victims and crushed them to nothing. At least with a lynching, it was over relatively fast. No months spent in the Death House, with nothing to do but wait, hope, and pray.
I sneaked a glance at Robert Elliott, the State executioner. He was a strange specimen all right. He wasn’t a rabid fan of the death penalty, as were some in his occupation; he even claimed to be an abolitionist, but willing to do the job, all the same, as he had done so many times before. “Rather a dispassionate professional do it, than some thrill-seeking pervert,” he had once commented. This was how he salved his conscience as he pulled the switch, although his logic made no sense to me. Death is death, no matter how caring its agent is or appears to be. His face was grave, as he checked the leather restraints and carefully examined the two electrodes, one for the right leg and another in a leather helmet. This last one was to go over Agnelli’s head, after he had said his last words, if he had any to say.
It wasn’t that I had much sympathy for Agnelli. His crime, strangling his wife after she had refused to get out of bed to attend to their crying child, had been a senseless and seemingly motiveless one. But, who knows what goes through a man’s mind, when he does something like that? It must have made enough sense at the time. I felt more for his soon-to-be-orphaned child than for the man about to walk through the green door. Rather, it was the apparent futility and cold-blooded nature of the punishment that affected me.
Agnelli’s death would not bring back his victim. It wouldn’t help the toddler who was about to lose his one remaining parent. If anything, a childhood of orphanages and foster homes would probably make his situation worse, if that were possible. Maybe it would even set the boy on the same cycle of reform schools, jails, and penitentiaries. And maybe, just maybe, it put him on the same road as his father, into Old Sparky’s lap. It had happened before, often enough.
I felt myself beginning to panic. “Calm down!” I told myself. “This is something that needs to be done, as an example to other criminals. You didn't make the law, and there's no way to stop it now. Just sit tight. And hold on to your dinner!”
I concentrated on taking slow deep breaths of the dank prison air, heavy with the smells of sweat, decaying food, and the bitterness and desperation of those who lived he
re full-time. It wasn’t as though the inmates were unaware of what was happening on this sweat-soaked and humid July night. The silence as we entered the prison, normally so rowdy an environment, with so many hardened inmates crammed together, had made a clear impression on even those used to such midnight excursions. The Deputy Warden had commented, “They’re always nervous on Black Thursday. They won’t even think of trying to sleep until it’s over.”
The long wait wasn’t helping. Executions at Sing Sing are traditionally held at 11 PM on a Thursday, “Black Thursday,” as it had become known. It was only 10:55 PM, and there were at least fifteen more minutes to go until I could leave, get some fresh air, and a smoke to calm my by-now ragged senses.
I immersed myself in small details to fight off the rising nausea. Sitting in front of me was Dana Wallace, Agnelli’s defence attorney. He was an old hand at this sort of thing, having defended Ruth Snyder way back in 1927. He hadn’t won that case either, and Snyder had died hard, screaming, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do!” before the switch was thrown. But he could at least console himself with the fact that he couldn’t have done anything more for either of them.
I asked Wallace about Agnelli’s state of mind during their last visit. Wallace said, “He’s nervous, as I would expect him to be, but he’ll hold up well enough.” I quickly jotted down his reply and then asked him, “What did he have for his last meal?” For some strange reason, readers always seemed to want to know what the condemned had on this, their last day on Earth. Wallace answered swiftly, “Steak, French fries, and a Coca-cola, topped off with a dish of ice cream. He also asked for a bottle of champagne and a whore, but Warden Lawes would only go so far.”
I stifled a nervous smirk that would not have been appreciated by the other witnesses, nor the Warden come to that, and scribbled down the rest of Wallace’s answer. The large clock on the wall now read 10:57 PM.
A moment later, I heard voices from somewhere not too distant. A haunting and ethereal voice started, “Jesus, lover of my soul,” to be answered by a thick, guttural Brooklyn accent, “Let me to thy bosom fly...” The singing continued, and now I could hear footsteps, at least several pairs of them. It was Agnelli, finally walking his Last Mile, and accompanied by the prison Chaplain, Father McCaffrey, and several guards.
The heavy, green door behind the chair was flung open, and the fatal procession entered the brightly lit death chamber.
Agnelli stood at the side of the chair. He had four huge prison guards in close attendance in case his nerve failed at the last moment, and he decided to make a fight of it. Another two stood off to one side with loaded tommy guns, to forestall any last-minute attempt at escape. He looked much as he had at his trial, except that his head had been completely shaved, ready for the leather helmet containing one of the electrodes. Even his eyebrows had been shorn. His tall, bulky frame was adorned with a white, open-collared shirt, black trousers, and black bedroom slippers. The right leg of his pants had been slit to above the knee, to make clamping on the other electrode easier.
Warden Lawes stepped forward, a piece of paper in his hand. This was the death warrant, required by law to be read in front of the assembled witnesses before the execution could proceed and another life could be snuffed out. This was it for Agnelli. This, unless the black telephone on the wall rang, was the end.
“Giovanni Agnelli, inmate number 169-547A, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree, case number A47833-349B, and been condemned to die in the electric chair at Sing Sing at 11 PM, on the eighteenth day of July, in the year of our Lord 1934. The verdict was rendered by a jury of your peers, and sentence imposed by King’s County Court Judge, George W. Martin. God save the people of this great State. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul. Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”
Agnelli sighed, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, then opened his mouth and spoke his last words. “I have something to say, and I want it heard loud and clear. I am guilty of this crime. I had a fair trial, and I don’t deny what I done. If I had been a rich man with a better lawyer, I wouldn’t be here now, but a poor man never has a chance. Let’s get this over with.”
Dana Wallace trembled with upset and anger. There was no way he could have done more for his client, the facts of the case spoke for themselves, but he manfully held on to himself, as Agnelli spoke his final words. Agnelli glared at Wallace, as Warden Lawes strode over to the black telephone mounted on the wall. It was the open line between the death chamber and the State Governor’s mansion in Albany.
Warden Lawes picked up the phone and spoke softly. “Is this line still open?” A voice replied, “Yes, Warden.” Lawes paused for a second before asking the fateful question, “Are there any stays?” he asked. The voice replied again, “No, you are clear to proceed.”
Lawes looked over to Agnelli amid the now pregnant silence, and silently shook his head. Agnelli’s head sank on to his chest in a silent acknowledgement of his fate. This was definitely it.
Agnelli took a deep breath, turned, and silently sank down into the chair. Four guards set to work. One went down and slipped a heavy leather strap around his left ankle. The guard on his right leg did the same, pushing up Agnelli’s pants’ leg as he did so. He scrubbed the shaven flesh with a solution of salty water, specially chosen to conduct electricity with maximum effect, then attached the heavy electrode to Agnelli’s calf.
While the two guards were working on the legs, the other two guards swiftly bound Agnelli’s arms to the polished oak arms of the chair. As they attended to Agnelli’s arms, the two guards on his legs tightly bound the straps around his chest and abdomen.
Elliott strode over from his position at the side of the chair. He gently but firmly scrubbed Agnelli’s shaven head with more of the salty solution and placed a soaking sponge on the crown of Agnelli’s skull. Working quickly but deftly, Elliott pushed the leather helmet over Agnelli’s head, blotting out his last, desperate prayers. Another strap went over Agnelli’s eyes. This last strap would hold his head securely to the chair, and prevent steam pressure from Agnelli’s boiling brain, forcing his eyeballs out of their sockets. A hood of faded green cloth went over the helmet to complete the ensemble. This last item was supposedly for Agnelli, to preserve his dignity, as his last moment came. In reality, it was for us witnesses. It stopped us from seeing the look of wrenching agony, as 2,000 volts locked his every muscle and ripped through his central nervous system.
Elliott stalked back to the switchboard, slipped a pair of heavy rubber gloves onto his hands, and waited. Elliott waited. Agnelli waited. The guards waited. We all waited, tensed, as though we were condemned men ourselves. The clock remorselessly ticked down Agnelli’s last seconds, and finally reached the hour. Lawes raised his right hand and silently dropped it.
Elliott threw the switch. With a loud, humming sound 2,000 volts seared through Agnelli’s body. His fists clenched, his head bucked, his legs strained against the thick leather straps. There was an audible “Slap,” as Agnelli’s body arched and crashed against the back of the chair. His chest leapt forward, straining the straps holding him down, as the current ate into his body and the chair trembled slightly under the strain of his jittering body, as the stench of burnt flesh and hair and boiling sweat filled the chamber.
Elliott watched Agnelli intently, as did the witnesses. He took a hand off the switch and slowly turned a dial on the switchboard, working the voltage up, and then, down. Agnelli’s chest rose and fell as Elliott manipulated the controls.
The cycle was over. Elliott manipulated his controls one last time, and shut off the power. Agnelli lay slumped in the chair, apparently lifeless. Thin tendrils of wispy smoke rose from the electrodes on his head and leg. Dr. Sweet, the prison doctor, put on his stethoscope and waited for Agnelli’s body to cool enough for an examination.
I desperately wanted it to be over. The sight of a healthy man dying before my eyes, coupled with the smell
of burnt flesh made me feel desperately ill, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that I managed to keep my self-control. At least now, it was done.
But it wasn’t done. Dr Sweet stepped forward and applied his stethoscope to Agnelli’s chest. He listened intently, then shook his head before turning to Warden Lawes, and said, “This man is not dead.”
The witnesses paled, as did the Warden. A long-time opponent of capital punishment, Warden Lawes had been at the forefront of progressive penal reform. He held no relish for executions, and supervised them solely out of a desire to make them as quick and humane as possible. His face wrinkled in distaste, as he bade the doctor to step back, then turned to Elliott and raised his hand again.
Elliott threw the switch a second time. Again, the loud humming filled the room, accompanied by the rise and fall of Agnelli’s chest, as Elliott worked his controls once more. The voltage went up, then down, then up once more, then down again.
Elliott turned off the power. Again, we waited, amid the fresh stench and smoke left by the second jolt of electricity. Dr. Squire waited a second time for Agnelli to cool down enough to check him out. We waited in silence, as Dr. Squire crossed the room and again applied his stethoscope.
An almost-palpable feeling of relief swept the room, as Dr. Squire turned to the Warden and announced, “I’m sorry everybody. This man is not dead.”
“We’ll have to go a third time.”
The Warden nodded and turned to us witnesses. He spoke clearly. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. This is distasteful for all of us, I know. Mr Elliott, if you would...”
Elliott shot a long look at the Warden, a stunned look on his face. This very rarely happened and nobody looked forward to it when it did. He turned back to his switchboard and slipped the heavy rubber gloves back on to his hands. His hands trembled, as he took a hesitant grip on the lever and awaited the signal to proceed.
Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 Page 22