by Steve Thayer
You once told me that being from Minnesota used to mean something. You’ve been governor of our state for almost five years. What do we stand for now?
For the love we once shared, and I did love you, I beg you to spare the life of the Weatherman. Andrea
Per Ellefson turned his back on the dispiriting drizzle. He sat down at his desk beside the telephone. He put the letter to his nose and inhaled her perfume one last time. The electronic weather station captured his eyes with its fluorescent digits.
“No matter how wrong you are, Governor, you’ll always be right about the weather.”
The time flashed 23:59. The temperature was 38°. The barometer continued falling. So did the rain.
* * *
"Carol, is it still raining?"
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you know the temperature?”
“No, Dixon, but it’s cold.”
Dixon Bell bent over the sheet of typing paper on the concrete floor and scribbled his final thoughts with the fat pencil. Chills set in. Goose bumps ran up his arms. He tried to concentrate on the letter. The words he was putting to paper were so warm and inviting he wanted to crawl into the written page.
Carol Theguard choked back the tears. “You’re going to have to finish up there, Dixon, they’re coming for you.”
Then the bolts shot open on the heavy steel doors to the Death House. Death squad arriving. The Weatherman hurriedly scribbled his last forecast.
He struggled to his feet, almost too weak to stand. Carol Theguard collected his paper and pencil through the bars. It was 10:30 P.M. The death squad arrived with a black briefcase and chains to prepare Dixon Bell for execution. His regular guards then stepped into the isolation cell one by one. They shook his hand and said their farewells, most of them choking on their words. “Good bye, Weatherman.”Their role in the ritual was thankfully over. Carol Theguard gave him a big hug, tears on her face.
“See that letter gets mailed, please.”
“I will, Dixon.” She turned him over to the death squad and ran from the house.
The death squad entered the isolation cell. They were large men, three of them, and though they were dressed in Stillwater guard uniforms Dixon Bell had never before seen their grim faces. They probably worked the towers. It was time to barber the prisoner for the chair.
They dragged in a stool and ordered him to sit, the way a man would talk to a dog. An apron was thrown around his neck. His unkempt white hair was removed with electric shears. Then they smeared his stubbled scalp with Gillette Foamy. They ripped open a pack of disposable razors and went about shaving his head. Just when he thought they had finished humiliating him, they held his face tight and shaved off his eyebrows.
One of these cold, hard men squeezed a white conducting gel into the palms of his hands and rubbed it into Dixon Bell’s bald head, a gob of it, giving his scalp a thorough massage. The gel dried chalky white, leaving the Weatherman with a hideous, ghostly appearance. They brushed him off and swept out the cell.
“Take off all of your clothes and put on these clothes.”
With so many bodies in the tiny cell it was hard to move. Dixon Bell stripped himself of the prison garb. He had dropped so much weight during his three weeks in isolation that his bones were beginning to show through the colorless cast of his skin. The Weatherman awkwardly crawled into his burial suit. Everything was black and white and one hundred percent cotton. White boxer shorts. White dress shirt. Black trousers. White socks. Black slippers.
When he was dressed he was ordered back onto the stool. Another squad member pulled a pair of scissors from the briefcase, stooped, and cut open the inside seam on his right trouser leg, cut it up to his knee. They shaved his right calf and rubbed in the conducting gel with the same care a trainer would give a horse.
Then the death squad removed the stool, stepped outside the cell, and waited. The door was left open. Dixon Bell sat on his bunk and stewed, naked and cold above the neck. He hugged his Bible like a child with a teddy bear. The Weatherman had refused to see the prison chaplain, saying he would deal with God in his own way.
At 11:30 P.M. Warden Johnson arrived and sat beside him on the bunk. “How are you holding up, Dixon?”
“All right. Did we get a good crowd?”
“Listen carefully. I want to explain what’s going to happen now so you won’t be alarmed by anything.” And with that Warden Johnson talked Dixon Bell through the final steps that would lead to his death. When he was done explaining the procedure, they sat on the bunk like old roommates. They talked about football. The Cowboys were doing well. The Warden was a Packer fan. The Vikings were riding a three-game winning streak into Sunday’s game. After a few minutes of sports trivia the Warden stood and nodded to the death squad.
Oliver J. Johnson stepped out of the cell. The death squad stepped in. “Stand up, please.”
The Weatherman stood. They threw heavy chains around his waist. The way they went about their task it was obvious they had been practicing on each other. “Hold out your hands.”
Dixon Bell did as he was told. “Y’all going to the show?”
They clamped on the four-point handcuff restraints and adjusted the torture pins.
“Not talking, huh? You guys are just pissed off because I got a better seat than you.”
Two of them dropped to the floor and locked the manacles to his ankles.
They stood up and spun him completely around. Then they stepped back so that Warden Johnson could admire their work. The warden nodded his head in approval. Nothing left to do now but listen to the ticking of the clock. Morbid wisecracks were coming to mind every second, but Dixon Bell swallowed them. They stood in silence.
Then came a strange sound from outside. A wonderful chanting sound, unmistakable in its passion. A thousand voices. A choir of convicts. The Death House was sealed tight, and Dixon Bell couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he knew it was a cry for justice, a cry for him.
* * *
11:45 P.M. Warden Johnson stepped back into the cell and placed a hand on his shoulder—a humane little touch. “It’s time, Dixon.”
The long walk.
The Weatherman took a deep breath. The wisecracks were gone. He wasn’t angry, nor was he frightened. He just felt incredibly sad. It was the same type of sadness he felt when he was a little boy and his momma told him the story of how his daddy and his two siblings were killed by the tornado. For the first time in weeks Dixon Bell stepped out of the isolation cell. He looked the thirty feet to the death chamber. The door was wide open. It had been closed when he first arrived. Now it was a bright light at the end of a short tunnel. A death squad guard took hold of each arm. The other guard stood behind him. Warden Johnson stepped to the front and led the way. They passed by the small booth where the old janitor would be sitting, probably paging through this year’s Schwinn catalog. Then, almost as soon as it began, the long walk was over. The Weatherman stepped through the armored steel door and into the death chamber.
Dr. Yauch was standing along the wall in his white robe, his stethoscope dangling from his neck, his hands shoved deep into his smock pockets. The good doctor paid no attention to his star patient. Just stared coldly into space. A prison hospital intern stood beside him, his eyes wide with morbid curiosity.
Dixon Bell’s first view of the death chamber was a real eye opener. He had always pictured it dark and gloomy, but it was a white room, brilliantly illuminated. Strangely quiet. The big wooden chair looked as if it were crawling with snakes; there were enough straps and buckles for a football team. The glossy oak finish had been buffed to a shine. The death squad ushered him to his seat.
It wasn’t until Dixon Bell took that special place reserved for him that he lifted his head to the witnesses, the two dozen ghouls who in the guise of justice or journalism had come to watch him fry. Track lighting hanging from the ceiling and directed at the chair made it difficult for him to see their faces, but it looked as if every seat was t
aken. Standing room only. Mostly men. A couple of women. Some notebooks were open. A few pencils fluttered back and forth. He didn’t see anybody he really cared about.
The death squad worked methodically. The first of the broad leather straps went around his chest and pulled him back into the chair. The second and third straps tied his forearms to the wooden arms. Only when his arms were buckled tight were the special handcuffs removed.
More straps followed. Two straps went over his wrists. One went around his waist and pinched his stomach. Another went over his lap and caused his thighs to bulge. It was beginning to feel like a Houdini stunt. The ankle straps went on last. When they were secure the manacles were removed from his legs.
An electrician kneeled before him as if he were going to wash his feet. The electrician parted his right trouser leg and strapped a leather anklet to his calf. The anklet was lined with cold copper and tied so tight it cut off the blood to his foot. Maybe they were being sadistic, or maybe it was just their lack of experience, but every restraint was skintight. The electrician connected the polished electrodes to the anklet. Dixon Bell glanced down and saw the thick black cord snake away behind the chair. It looked just like the deadly water moccasins that whip through the Delta waters.
The ritual continued. They placed a microphone before him. The last press conference. Warden Johnson stepped up to him, very official. “Dixon Graham Bell, would you like to make a final statement before the will of the people of Minnesota is carried out?”
The Weatherman, bound like an animal, squinted at the strange faces melting into the lights. The most shameful feeling rained down on him. His mouth was parched, his tongue thick and leathery. “I’m thirsty,” he mumbled. “Can I have a drink of water?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Dixon Bell tried to lubricate his mouth with saliva. He thought a second. “Dress warm,” he said, “it’s going to be a long, hard winter.” He felt faint with sorrow and closed his eyes. He opened them. “Y’all take care now.”
They took the microphone away.
The guards tilted his shaved head back at an uncomfortable angle. They shoved a mouthpiece between his teeth. “Bite down on this real hard.”They fastened a fat leather chin strap around his jaw, so taut it was almost choking him. His head was now locked firmly into the wooden headrest. That’s when the Weatherman spotted him.
He was standing in the back row, behind the chairs, his hands tucked into his jean pockets under his sport coat. Maybe it was fate, perhaps it was the mask, but Rick Beanblossom’s blue cotton face was the only face he could see. He locked onto the Marine’s eyes and it all came together—a repeat of that moment in the elevator years ago, the day of the tornado, the day the Weatherman’s world began to spin out of control. But this time the man in the mask wouldn’t be riding up with him. This was the last thing Dixon Bell saw before they blinded him, the faceless face of Rick Beanblossom, his eyes filled with pity, rage, and just a touch of understanding. He had everything the Weatherman ever wanted. Everything but a face.
Then they evened that score.
The guards drew a black leather mask across his face and buckled it like a boot, fixed it so hard he was close to smothering. The mask was to keep his eyes from popping out of their sockets and to hide any violent facial contortion.
The new sponge Old Jesse purchased at Walgreen had been soaked in salt water and stitched into the headset, the death cap that would fry his brain. It was lowered onto the Weatherman’s bald head like a thorny crown. It felt cold and slimy. The saline solution dripped down around his ears and trickled down his back. Lastly, they plugged him in.
Never had Dixon Bell known such blackness. This was as dark as dark gets. The leather mask across his face felt rough and cold and smelled of a new shoe. The rubber in his mouth tasted of his football days at Vicksburg High School. Lisa crossed his mind—not the frumpy woman at the trial but the southern belle he had given his heart to so many seasons past. It was safe to cry now. He thought he heard some people mumbling as the first tears rolled over his cheeks and ran like sweat from beneath the mask.
Dixon Bell sat in the electric chair and waited. And waited.
What the hell are they doing?
Then it got so quiet he could hear the tears streaming down his face. In the final seconds of October he accepted his pathetic fate. But, God, it was so damned unfair.
The Weatherman choked on a sob and thought of Andrea.
The clock struck midnight.
When Rick Beanblossom arrived at the prison on the night of the execution a crowd was gathered outside. Two crowds. On the east side of Stagecoach Trail, on the lawn beneath the prison wall, hundreds of somber and peaceful protesters held candles under their umbrellas. They were all represented—Amnesty International USA, the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty, and the Ecumenical Religious Task Force on Criminal Justice—but most of the candle holders didn’t belong to any organization.
* * *
“We live in Stillwater . . . and we don’t think this is right . . . we just wanted to be here. That’s all.”
They sang chorus after chorus of “We Shall Overcome.”They did a haunting rendition of “Amazing Grace.” The temperature was slowly dropping and their warm breath became visible, rolling out before them as their mellifluous voices wafted over the walls and through the prison grounds.
The west side of Stagecoach Trail, across the street from the prison wall, was a different story. Death penalty cheerleaders outnumbered the candle holders almost two to one. Some waved angry torches that flickered and died in the cold, soaking rain. Some repeatedly flicked their Bic lighters. Others carried signs that read stuff like, ASK NOT FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS, IT TOLLS FOR BELL . . . THANK GOD IT’S FRYDAY . . . BUCKLE UP, BELL. IT’S THE LAW . . . and DON’T MEES WITH MINNESOTA.
* * *
“Hey, this is a hometown crowd. We’ve been waiting for this in Minnesota for a long time. Just wanted to be here.”
The sheriff ’s department formed a line between the two crowds. News photographers paraded back and forth, their klieg lights brightening the dark, rainy night. A hawker was peddling souvenir electric chair pins. Cars, windshield wipers flapping, had to run a gauntlet of state troopers before being allowed to park. Satellite trucks and news vans lined the parking lot, thick black cables snaking over the sidewalks and onto the grass. It was just past 10:00 P.M. TV reporters were doing their live stand ups.
“Stan, I’ve been to a few of these in Florida when I was working for a Tampa station, and this is a good turnout, even by Florida standards. As you can see behind me here . . .”
Rick Beanblossom stood above the media circus, stood on the steps of the main building and watched the rain falling over the dark valley. His valley. God’s country. The wind and rain had stripped the trees of their natural beauty. Fallen leaves lay decaying in wet piles. Despite the news event of the year there was a strange and eerie stillness over this valley named for a saint and a cross. Rick closed his eyes.
The Wisconsin inmate at the state prison in Waupun told Rick Beanblossom a harrowing story, about how he had dressed to kill, then went out and brutally murdered an Indian girl that beautiful autumn morning in the park overlooking the town of Hudson. The problem was he had told a similar story once before. Just prior to the highly publicized execution of an Alabama man, he confessed to that killing in frightening detail. Alabama authorities thought he sounded pretty convincing, but it didn’t stop the execution. Minnesota authorities simply shrugged their collective shoulders. Dixon Bell was never charged with the Hudson murder. Any confession to the killing was irrelevant.
Rick shivered, turned his back to the inclement weather, and ducked in the front door. He brushed the raindrops from his sport coat and stepped up to the glass booth. “I’m here for the execution,” he told the guard.
The big guard at the desk, whom Rick had never seen before, gave him that baffled stare he had grown accustomed to over the years. “What
the hell is going on?” the guard demanded to know. “We were told you’d have a special escort. Top secret and all that shit. What are you doing waltzing in the front door?”
“My name is Rick Beanblossom. I’m a burn victim. I have a media pass to witness the execution.”
The guard threw up his hands in embarrassment. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I thought you were the executioner. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. You wrote that book. Do you got your pass, Rick? I’m sorry about that. Bernie here will take you down to the cafeteria. That’s where you’ll wait until they walk you out to the house.”
Rick had his hand stamped with invisible ink. He signed his name in the log book. Bernie the guard issued him a badge, which he clamped to his coat. He passed through the metal detector and was then escorted down to the cafeteria.
The ritual for the witnesses was almost as bizarre as the ritual for the condemned man. More than two thousand people had written letters to Warden Johnson asking if they could be witnesses at the execution. The warden chose twenty-four of them. They were confined to the cafeteria. The place reminded Rick of the cafeteria at his junior high school, huge, cold, and filled with echoes. Tables and chairs were bolted to the floor. A balcony for guards hung overhead. He recognized some family members of the victims from the sound bites he had seen on the news, but there were only two or three of them. Most of those gathered were news people or state officials. He nodded to the few faces he knew. Others stared at him, as befuddled as the guard at the front desk first was.