EQMM, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Bobby?"

  Saluting, McWade said, “Hello, Governor. Congratulations on your election, sir."

  "Bobby McWade?” Grant Marlow was smiling widely. “Well, I'll be damned! Bobby McWade!"

  Later that day, after lunching with his director of corrections and Parmalee's warden, Grant Marlow had McWade ushered into a private office. “Bobby McWade,” he said, shaking his head incredulously. “How the hell are you, buddy?"

  "Very well, thank you, sir,” McWade replied formally. “Cut the crap, Bobby. And drop the ‘sir.'” Marlow held out his hand. “The name's Grant, remember?"

  McWade relaxed and they shook hands, friends again.

  From that day on, Bobby McWade was a made man in the administration of Governor Grant Marlow. A week later, the captain of the yard was given a very generous bonus to take early retirement, and McWade was promoted to that job. A year later, the corrections director was given a similarly extravagant offer, and Parmalee's warden was appointed to replace him—with McWade moving into the warden's office. And three years after that, during which time McWade worked tirelessly for Grant Marlow's reelection, the second-term governor retired the director of corrections and gave the job to his old college buddy.

  That was about the time that Carter Graham was convicted of bludgeoning his wife, Loretta Rudd Graham, and dropping her unconscious body into the Tuskey River with a spare tire tied to her feet.

  * * * *

  The morning after he dined with Rose Fuller and the Marlows, McWade's secretary announced that a young woman named Roberta Rudd was asking to see him. McWade had her shown in. He had earlier been reviewing the Graham conviction file, which included several photographs of the victim as she had looked in life. The young woman who entered McWade's office bore a striking resemblance to the late Loretta Rudd Graham. The likeness was so extraordinary that it momentarily unnerved Bobby McWade; it was like seeing the dead woman in the photographs as she had looked as a girl.

  "Please sit down, Miss Rudd,” McWade said.

  "Thank you, sir. Warden Duval at Parmalee Prison said I had to see you to get permission to witness the execution of Carter Graham."

  "I'm sure you know by now that the execution has been put off—"

  "Yes, but he'll be executed eventually, won't he?” she asked urgently.

  "Probably. Warden Duval said you were Loretta Rudd's daughter. Is that true?"

  "Yes. She was my mother."

  "But Carter Graham isn't your father?"

  "No.” Roberta Rudd looked down. “My mother was pregnant when she married Carter Graham. I was born seven months later. Carter must have suspected at once that I wasn't his child, because he insisted on a blood test. That proved he was right. He told my mother to keep quiet about it and get rid of me. Mother sent me to live with my grandmother, Lillian Rudd, in the poor part of town. Eventually she got Grandmom and me a new house, and provided for us right up to the time Carter killed her. The way she died broke my Grandmom's heart; she passed away several months later."

  "I see,” McWade said thoughtfully. “Did you get to know your mother at all?"

  "Oh, sure,” the young woman replied, her voice suddenly cheerful. “Mother visited me every Saturday. We could never be seen in town together, but after I got older she would drive us to nearby towns or into the city and we'd spend the day together doing girl things: you know, shopping, having lunch, going to movies—” Her voice broke then, becoming melancholy. “I loved my mother very much—"

  McWade nodded slowly. “I'm sure you did. Is that why you want to watch her killer die?"

  "Yes, it is,” Roberta Rudd said firmly.

  "Are you certain that it's the right thing for you to do? It won't be pleasant, you know; the memory of it will remain with you forever. Wouldn't it be better for you to just keep all the good memories of your mother, not mix them up with thoughts of the man who killed her?"

  "I've made up my mind, sir,” she reiterated unwaveringly. “That man made my mother's life a living hell. I want to watch him die—and I hope he suffers terribly."

  "The point is, Miss Rudd, he probably won't suffer at all. It'll be like you were watching him go to sleep."

  "But the newspaper stories this morning said the federal court wasn't convinced that the execution would be painless. They said it was possible that he would be aware that he was being killed, and that he would be suffering.” Her eyes fixed unblinkingly on McWade. “That's what I'm hoping for. I want him to suffer."

  "Do you think your mother would approve of what you're doing?” McWade asked quietly.

  Roberta Rudd's expression softened. “I don't know,” she replied. Then, more honestly, “Probably not. My mother was a very kind person, very gentle. It's true what everybody says, that she only married Carter Graham for his money and social standing; she was tired of being dirt poor and having no kind of better future ahead of her. It was that fear of always being so wretchedly inferior to other people that drove her to accept Carter Graham's proposal, and then to stay married to him. I believe the only really immoral thing she ever did was to marry for money. And that was what killed her.” Roberta's voice became warm. “When I was a very little girl, I couldn't pronounce her name; I couldn't say ‘Loretta,’ so I would say her name was ‘Retta.’ Whenever I did that, she would get the most unusual expression on her face, almost angelic, and she would look at me as if I were truly a treasure to her."

  They grew silent then, McWade and the young woman looking into each other's eyes, each of them experiencing a personal emotion that neither thought the other would be able to comprehend.

  Presently McWade pressed a button on the desk and his secretary came in. “Yes, sir?"

  "Edna, please have Miss Rudd here fill out a witness request form and see that she gets a pass to the Carter Graham execution when it is rescheduled."

  "Yes, sir."

  Roberta Rudd rose and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. McWade."

  McWade stood and shook her hand. “I hope I'm not doing you a disservice, Miss Rudd.” He held her hand several seconds longer than necessary, then self-consciously released it.

  After his secretary escorted Roberta Rudd out and the door was closed behind them, McWade opened the file on his desk and looked at the photographs of Loretta Rudd Graham again.

  Retta, he thought.

  * * * *

  Friday came and went with no answer from the federal court about reversing Carter Graham's stay of execution.

  On Saturday, Bobby McWade drove down to Parmalee Prison and found Ross Duval cleaning out his desk and packing up a few personal things he had in his office. There had been a farewell party for him the previous night, attended by McWade and all of the corrections officers not on duty at the time. It was a crowded affair; Ross Duval was as popular a warden as his predecessor, Bobby McWade, had been. Ironically, the party took place at the same time as a more controlled mini-celebration by the prison's inmates when Carter Graham was moved from the execution-chamber holding cell back onto Death Row.

  "Hey, Bobby,” Ross Duval said when McWade walked in. “What's a big-shot governor appointee like you working on Saturday for?"

  "I thought I'd buy you a personal going-away drink,” McWade said, taking a pint bottle of Jack Daniels from his inside coat pocket.

  Duval's eyebrows went up. “That's contraband, sir,” he said with mock solemnity. “It's illegal to bring alcohol into a state prison facility. I'm going to have to place you under arrest."

  "Please do,” McWade said. “I could use a vacation."

  Duval crossed the office and took two coffee mugs from a cabinet. McWade poured, and the two friends sat in adjacent visitors chairs.

  "I'm going to miss you, Ross,” McWade said as they touched mugs.

  "Me too you,” Duval told him.

  "Been a long time since we were rookie officers."

  "That it has, boss."

  "What's this job of yours in New York going to be like?"

  "L
ot of administrative work. Keeping track of executions on the national level, breaking the stats down into age, race, gender, so on. Making speeches at colleges, Rotary Clubs, legal associations, that kind of thing. Lots of fund-raising."

  "Put me on your list for an annual contribution,” McWade said.

  Duval's eyebrows went up again. “You, Bobby? I thought you were strongly pro capital punishment."

  "I am. But when somebody like you, a man I know to be honest, a man I respect, goes over to the other side, I begin to wonder if there might not be something to that position. Enough, perhaps, to make it an issue to merit support.” He smiled slyly. “Just don't tell anybody I'm contributing."

  "Of course not.” Duval's expression became curious. “What started you thinking in that direction, Bobby?"

  "The young woman, Roberta Rudd, that you sent to see me. There was something about her grim determination to see Carter Graham suffer for killing her mother—I don't know, it unsettled me somehow.” McWade shifted in his chair and took a sip from the mug he held. “Don't get me wrong, Ross: I'm still very much in favor of executions for some people: the Bundys and Gacys of the world, the Westerfields and Joseph Smith, men who kidnap, rape, and murder children like John Couey and Willie Crane did, and—who was that animal from Fargo, North Dakota, who held that little eight-year-old girl captive for, what was it, six weeks—"

  "Edward Duncan,” said Duval.

  "—yeah, Duncan. People like that deserve to die. Matter of fact, I think there should be a federal child-murder law requiring hanging for offenses like the death of that little nine-year-old who was buried alive in one of those plastic bags made for grass and leaves, and the little seven-year-old who was kept on a fishing boat until the pedophile who kidnapped her was through with her and dumped her into Tampa Bay—"

  "I get the point, Bobby,” said Duval, holding up a hand. “But where do we draw the line? Where do we say kill this one, don't kill that one? And what about when we kill the wrong person—the innocent person?"

  McWade could only shake his head. “I don't know, Ross. I just don't know."

  "How about Carter Graham? What if he didn't know his wife was still alive when he threw her into the Tuskey River? Should he then have been given a life sentence instead of death? How do you feel about Carter Graham, Bobby?"

  Instead of answering, McWade poured them each another drink. “There are too many questions, Ross—and frankly, not enough answers. Because it isn't enough to say simply abolish capital punishment. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore; I just know what the law is—and for better or worse we have to follow it. It's the only thing that stands between us and a social nightmare."

  "Do you know that we have some thirty-five hundred condemned prisoners in America today?” Duval quietly challenged. “And that sixty of them are women?"

  "I know the numbers are high,” McWade admitted. “I mean, they'd have to be: Thirty-eight states have capital punishment; only twelve don't."

  "Does it matter to you that we are the only Western country in the world that still executes people? All the other capital-punishment countries are in Africa, South America, Asia, the Middle East—"

  "Okay, Ross, okay.” Now McWade held up a hand. “I came to have a farewell drink with you, not to get into a debate."

  Ross Duval took a deep, weary breath. “I'm sorry, Bobby. I didn't mean to lecture—"

  McWade shook his head. “You weren't. I just wish I was as sure of myself on this issue as you are."

  Duval smiled, rather sadly. “Maybe someday you will be, boss."

  "Maybe,” McWade said.

  The two men shook hands finally and said goodbye.

  As McWade was leaving the prison, he thought about Roberta Rudd, and how passionately she wanted Carter Graham to suffer while he died. And he thought of the young woman's mother in the Tuskey River, weighed down by that spare tire. Had Carter Graham known she was alive when he put her there? And did it really make any difference? Ross Duval had asked him how he felt about Carter Graham, and McWade had not answered him.

  Now, driving away from Parmalee, a name kept resounding in his mind like a ricocheting bullet.

  Retta, Retta, Retta—

  * * * *

  On Monday morning, McWade received a call from Attorney General Fred Willis.

  "The appeals court has reversed its previous order, Bobby. The execution is back on—with the condition that we use a brain-wave monitor to make sure Graham is completely unconscious when we kill him. I've already talked to Art Meadows; he'll have one of those electroencephalograph machines sent down to Parmalee this afternoon, with a medical technician to instruct your people in its use."

  "Okay,” said McWade. “I'll notify the captain of the yard to have his execution team stand by for instructions. Has Grant set a new date yet?"

  "Tomorrow,” said Willis. “He's preparing a new death warrant to sign right now."

  At that moment, McWade's direct line to the governor's office lit up.

  "Grant's on the phone now,” McWade told Fred Willis. “Talk to you later.” He pushed a red button on his phone base. “Good morning, Governor."

  "Fred call you yet, Bobby?"

  "Just now. We'll be ready for tomorrow."

  "Good. I'll have a new death warrant over to you in an hour. I want to get this killer done and off our plate so I'll have a clean path to announcing my candidacy for the Senate. With Duval gone, who's going to be running the show at Parmalee?"

  With just a hint of pause, McWade said, “I guess I will. Can't very well appoint a new warden the day before an execution—"

  "And you've done executions before, Bobby—"

  "Yes, when I was warden. Five of them."

  "Okay, good. This will work out fine. The press will like it: State director of corrections steps in to see that justice is finally carried out. I'll emphasize that in the press conference I'll have to hold tomorrow when I deny clemency again. Keep in touch, Bobby."

  There was a click and the line went dead. McWade pushed another button on his phone base that was a direct line to Parmalee. “This is McWade,” he said when the prison switchboard answered. “Get me the COY, please.” Momentarily, Roy Dillard, who was captain of the yard and second in command to the warden, answered, “Yard Captain Dillard—"

  "Bob McWade, Roy. You've heard about Graham?"

  "Got it on the news a few minutes ago. When do we do him?"

  "Tomorrow night. I'll be there to push the buttons; you run everything until then. Get him back in the death-watch cell right away, before the other cons have a chance to get into an uproar."

  "I'll handle everything. Don't worry. This is pretty routine for me now. My execution team has juiced eleven men and one woman since the reinstatement. Five of them were under you, remember?"

  "Yeah. Listen, Roy, the state surgeon general is sending over a brain monitor of some kind, like the electrocardiograph we use. There'll be somebody along to check you and your team out on it."

  "We'll be ready."

  "I'll be out later today to go over the procedure with you, in case I'm rusty. See you then."

  As soon as McWade hung up, his direct line to the governor's office rang again. When he picked it up, he heard Rose Fuller's lazy, sweet drawl say, “Good morning."

  "Hey, Rose. What's up?"

  "Nothing really. I just heard that you'll be pushing the buttons on Carter Graham tomorrow and was wondering if you're all right with it?"

  "Yeah, I'm okay.” A pause. “I think I am.” Another pause. “I'm not sure, Rose."

  "How about dinner tonight and an understanding ear. Think that might help?"

  "Are you asking for a date, Rose Fuller?” he inquired in mock shock.

  "I am."

  "Lucy Marlow would be so proud of you."

  Rose was quiet for a moment, a very brief moment, then said pointedly, “I'm not doing it for Lucy Marlow. I'm doing it for Rose Fuller. How about it?"

  "You're on,” M
cWade said without hesitation.

  "Good. You like Italian?"

  "Love it."

  "Okay, there's a little place on the corner of James and Richmond, called Nicolino's. It's just down the block from my apartment; I'll meet you there. Eight good for you?"

  "Eight's fine. Shall I invite Grant and Lucy?"

  "You do and I'll kill you."

  She hung up.

  * * * *

  Later that day, McWade drove down to Parmalee and found Roy Dillard in his office. Dillard, a strapping black man of fifty, rose from his desk. “Good afternoon, sir."

  "Drop the ‘sir,’ Roy. You trained me, remember?"

  Dillard chuckled. “Did a damned good job of it, too,” he said. “Look at you now.” He was a black black man, and when he smiled, as he did now, he lit up a room. “That was a hell of a party we had Friday night. I'm sure gonna miss Boss Ross."

  "Yeah, me too. Especially tomorrow. You ready to give me a refresher course in Lethal Injection 101?"

  "You bet. But all you need to brush up on is the anteroom, right? The chamber and everything else will be taken care of by my X-team.” X for execution.

  McWade walked with Dillard to a small, separate building that adjoined the prison's Death Row, to which it was connected by a short windowless corridor. The building was divided into five rooms: a death-watch cell, with bars on three sides, in which the condemned person spent their last twenty-four hours; a small adjacent room in which last visits were held and where the last meal was served; a larger room, accessible from the outside, for witnesses to watch the execution; the death chamber itself, which contained the white rubber-padded execution table, complete with arm, wrist, chest, hip, leg, and ankle restraints; and the anteroom, into which an intravenous line would run from a needle in the condemned person's arm through a small metal panel in the wall. On the anteroom side, the line divided and connected with three hypodermic syringes which rested on a shelf, in three open sections painted yellow, green, and red. Between the shelf and the metal plate, each of the three lines had a tributary connection to a container of saline solution to flush the main canal between injections. Below the shelf was a set of drawers, also painted yellow, green, and red, which held extra hypodermic needles for their color-coded lines. A rectangular one-way window above the shelf allowed the executioner to view the person on the table in the chamber. A color-coded, three-inch, elliptical button between the incoming lines and the shelf allowed the executioner to activate each line in turn. Above the shelf was a large clock to tell him when to do it. A second window off to the right, also one-way, looked into the witness viewing room.