by Steve Thayer
“He’s that burned guy married to Andrea Labore.”
“Is she going to be here tonight?”
The room had the stale atmosphere of a bad party. Soft voices and whispers were the unwritten rule. A full meal was being served, everything but a roasted pig with an apple stuffed in its mouth. Witnesses shuffled through the cafeteria line ordering their free food. Rick wasn’t hungry. He grabbed a Pepsi and downed a pair of aspirin. He checked his watch. It was 10:30. Andrea would remain in the newsroom until it was over.
He sat at a table away from the others, an old habit that was hard to break. Redd Battlemore came and sat beside him. Redd was the old salt from the Pioneer Press.The crime beat was his life. “Never thought I’d live to see this in Minnesota,” he said to Rick. “But then I never thought I’d see casino gambling here, either. Or a domed stadium. Or a snake like Per Ellefson in the governor’s office. The Nordic Nixon. He’ll let him fry, Rick. You mark my words. He’ll let him fry.”
The man without a face reflected a moment on all that was lost. “Not exactly the land we inherited is it?”
“The wife and I, we’ve been looking at some property in Wisconsin, up by Hayward. Pretty country. Might build there when I retire. Of course the wife wants to retire to Florida, but I’ll be damned if I’ll live in a state that does this kind of thing. And you, Rick?”
“No, I’ll never leave Minnesota.”
More than an hour later, 11:40, uniformed guards along with the deputy commissioner of corrections arrived to usher them across the prison yard to the Death House.
It was still drizzling. Rick was wearing only his blue sport coat and faded jeans. The temperature kept falling. The wet cold cut to his bones. As they walked across the muddy, floodlit prison yard a strange feeling came over him, as if a thousand angry eyes were watching them pass. They were. Nasty shouts began to rain down from the dark windows.
“Write the truth for a change, you assholes!”
“You gonna throw that switch, Masked Man? Even in war it’s against the law to kill a prisoner!”
“If they can kill him, they all can kill you too!”
It began as a single chant from a lone inmate in the north wing—a prisoner who had done his homework. In seconds there were several prisoners chanting. Then it seemed the entire prison population was at their bars chanting, a violent, passionate chorus that chased the group of witnesses as they solemnly paraded to the Death House. It was a spooky chant from inside the walls that mixed with the eerie version of “Amazing Grace” being done outside.
“Human rights! Human rights!”
“Human rights! Human rights!”
It was a proud, defiant chant that grew louder and louder, almost terroristic in nature, and it didn’t reach its zenith until they were inside the Death House and the steel door was sealed and locked.
When they had taken the tour in the daytime the death chamber had looked stark and stuffy. Now in the hour before midnight in the cold rain it was bright and foreboding—blizzard white and ominous.
In the left corner of the room stood the American flag. In the right corner stood the flag of Minnesota with the state motto showing: L’Etoile du Nord.The Star of the North. Rick thought the Spark of the North would be more appropriate. Between the two flags, on the black rubber mat on the linoleum floor, sat the big, fat oaken chair. Hot white lights shone down on it like on an anchor chair in a television studio.
Thirty folding chairs were set up on three raised platforms, almost like a showcase theater. There was nothing but a few feet of space to separate the witnesses from the electric chair. A sign on the back wall said NO SMOKING. A red phone hung on the wall next to the door. Fire extinguishers were lined up beside the entrance.
None of the witness seats were assigned. Everybody moved about in an awkward game of musical chairs. The seats up front were the last to be taken. Rick walked up the aisle between the chairs to the back wall and stood. The large round clock read 11:45.
They waited patiently; the minutes seemed like hours. It was the longest Rick could remember a group of reporters ever going without one of them cracking a morbid joke.
Then they heard him coming down the hall, the way Marley’s ghost came for Scrooge. The haunting echo of the rattling chains passed unimpeded through the walls of the Death House. Warden Johnson stepped into the chamber. He was followed by the Weatherman. Audible gasps slipped out of those who had known Dixon Bell. His head and face were totally hairless and sickly white. His once sharp eyes were bloodshot and raw. His fat had melted away, leaving the big man starved in appearance. He was manacled at the ankles. His hands were clamped into that horrid pair of handcuffs which were locked to a chain around his waist. His chalky face showed more confusion than fear. The death squad guided him to the chair and sat him down beneath the spotlights.
The electric chair faced the witnesses dead on. Dixon Bell raised his head and squinted. Rick couldn’t tell if he’d been spotted or not. He watched as they strapped the Weatherman into the chair the same way doctors had once strapped the charred Marine into a bed. The chair seemed to have three straps for every appendage.
When they were done dressing him for slaughter, an electrician wired his right leg. Then they placed a stand before him and pointed a microphone up at his mouth. It looked like a chrome erection.
Warden Johnson stepped forward. “Dixon Graham Bell, would you like to make final a statement before the will of the people of Minnesota is carried out?”
Rick wanted to cry as Dixon Bell asked for water. Then the Weatherman mumbled his final forecast and said good-bye.
They took the microphone away. The death squad pushed his head back and fastened a strap across his chin. His head was locked into place. He was almost choking. Then for a second, only a split second, Rick Beanblossom was sure he had caught the Weatherman’s eye. He was begging him for help. But Rick had done all that he could. The winds were against them. He tried to convey that message as they buckled a piece of black leather across the sorry white face of Dixon Bell. Now only the top of his glossy scalp was showing.
The death squad lifted the death cap and fitted it over the shiny bald spot. It was a ghastly-looking helmet. The electrician stepped forward again. Another heavy-duty power line was plugged into the brass electrode protruding from the top of the crown. The electrician stepped behind the chair to a power box.
Now it was 11:57 and there was nothing left to do. Rick Beanblossom had never known such silence. Over and over again he swallowed his hurt. His anger was building. He folded his arms to squeeze away the chills.
11:58. Nobody was talking. Nobody stirred. Only the Weatherman fighting for air. They could hear the falling rain. Rick stared at the red telephone on the wall.
11:59. Rick thought he heard a man swear under his breath. A woman up front began sobbing.
The clock struck midnight. And Warden Johnson nodded to the electrician.
When Old Jesse arrived at the prison on the night of the execution the crowd had just begun to gather. He’d been picked up in an unmarked state car by two plainclothes prison officials. He thought this was silly since he only lived four blocks from the prison and he enjoyed walking to work. But on this night this is how they wanted things done.
He was kept under wraps until 11:00 P.M. Then they escorted him to the Death House. Old Jesse sensed from the beginning how different things were. Nobody would talk to him—Old Jesse, the friendliest man in Stillwater. When an inmate was given the silent treatment, that inmate still had a friend in the night janitor. But now he felt as isolated as the Weatherman.
Just before they started for the Death House, the ritual got even sillier. They handed the old man a black hood and told him to drape it over his head.
“What’s for?”
“Just do it, Jess.”
Old Jesse put the hood over his head. It was too big. The eyeholes fell down to his cheekbones. He looked ridiculous. He pushed the holes up to his eyes with his fingers an
d held them there as they took the long walk across the prison yard.
Even with the stupid hood over his head, even with the night sky black and rainy, Old Jesse knew the Electric Star was up there. He could feel its savage spark in his bones. Terrible memories came flooding back to him, memories of love and jealousy, and of another man whose life he had snuffed out more than three decades ago. He thought of his pretty momma lying dead in the back of the bus. Of Eleanor Roosevelt coming to inspect the conditions. Of granddaughter Shelly pinning on that badge that said Edina Police, then slipping that prison-made billy club through her gunbelt.
“He’s guilty. He’s guilty. I was at the trial every day.”
Old Jesse was mumbling a prayer as he walked into the Death House.
Warden Johnson was waiting for him.
The warden calmly explained the procedure one more time. Then he asked the executioner to step into the booth and wait patiently. At 11:30 P.M. Old Jesse took his place in the electric closet ten feet from the chair. He closed and secured the door, wiped a speck of dirt from the Plexiglas. He sat down behind the executioner’s control panel. He pushed the hood’s eyeholes back up to his eyes. Two amber lights were glowing, staring him in the face like cat’s eyes. He examined the switches below the lights.
CIRCUIT BREAKER CONTROL TRIP
CLOSE PULL
LATCH
CANCEL
MADE IN USA
Over the next fifteen minutes Old Jesse relived his entire life, from the low country of South Carolina to the lake country of Minnesota. From the railroad tracks of St. Paul to the long halls of the state prison in Stillwater. From husband and father to convicted murderer. Inmate to executioner. It all passed before him, as if he himself were the one scheduled to die.
Like most men Old Jesse had loved his dear wife. And like many a man he had also loved his lover.When he found the woman with that other man he went into a rage, a rage that resulted in the poor man’s death. Funny thing was, the man probably had more rights to the woman than Jesse: he wasn’t married. Jesse was. It all happened so many years ago that both of the women had long since passed away of old age and broken hearts.
Out of the corner of his eye Old Jesse saw the passing parade. The Weatherman entered the death chamber. A winter chill overcame the janitor. He was sorry he had volunteered for this. What was God’s plan that made him do such things?
Before heaven could provide him with an answer Warden Johnson stepped up to the window and raised two fingers. Two minutes. Old Jesse nodded his head and turned to the amber lights above the switches. He was shaking. Since he didn’t expect to see the warden again until it was all over, he pushed the hood up to the top of his head so that he could see what he was doing.
The seconds ticked by. His heart was pounding so loud it killed the sound of raindrops on the roof. The ghosts of his past wouldn’t leave him alone. He wanted to weep, but he couldn’t decide in his mind who he’d be weeping for. For Momma? For granddaughter Shelly? My God, could he shed tears for the Weatherman?
Suddenly and without warning one amber light went off and the green light came on. Old Jesse nervously threw the green switch on the right hand side. The power surge kicked in with a loud dull crunch that startled him. Then the other amber light went off and the red light came on. Old Jesse paused a second. He blurted out, “Forgive me, my sweet Lord.”
And the executioner grabbed hold of the big red handle on the left-hand side and tripped the switch.
At first there was no unusual noise. Nothing unexpected. No buzzing or frying. No sparks flying along the wires. Just a dull clunk and the lights dimming. Other than that, execution by electrocution didn’t sound any louder than a microwave oven. Until the screaming began.
As the first current passed instantly through his brain, the Weatherman bolted upright in the chair. His barrel chest heaved. He pulled at the straps until it looked as if they were going to snap. He appeared to be shivering.
They were less than thirty seconds into the electrocution when Rick Beanblossom’s burn-victim instincts sensed something was wrong—something was terribly wrong. It started as a sizzling sound. Then blisters began popping on the exposed right leg. Next came the unmistakable sound of oral and nasal fluid gurgling. Rick took a step forward.
White sparks flew from the electrodes. Steam escaped the death cap. Still, nobody knew whether that was normal or not. The Weatherman’s hands changed colors, flesh tones to ashen tones. A purplish saliva came drooling out the bottom of the black mask and ran down his neck and into the white shirt.
Rick Beanblossom kept moving slowly down the aisle between the folding chairs, inexorably drawn by the repugnant memory of burning flesh.
Forty-five seconds into the electrocution a small blue flame appeared under the death cap and did a jig across the forehead. There were gasps in the crowd.
Rick Beanblossom screamed—screamed almost as loud as he had that fiery day in Vietnam. “No!”
And just when it looked as if the little blue flame had heard the Marine’s order and was ready to flicker out—the Weatherman’s head burst into a fireball. Flames climbed to a foot above the death cap. Smoke and fire erupted from beneath his right leg, burned up his trousers to his lap.
Everybody in the chamber lost their wits. Sharp explosions sounded like bombs. Glass flew through the room. The lights above had popped. Now it was only the glow of the Weatherman’s burning body lighting the death chamber. A human torch.
Folding chairs were knocked over as the witnesses fled to the back of the chamber. Rick Beanblossom kept screaming as he dropped to his knees before the flaming Weatherman.
Warden Johnson jumped over to the executioner’s booth and slashed his finger across his throat. But to his horror Old Jesse didn’t appear to be in there. He stepped up to the Plexiglas. The needle on the voltmeter was stuck at 2,000 volts. The automatic cycle had failed. The old man was curled over in his chair, his hoodless head buried against his clenched fists. The son of a bitch was praying.
Warden Johnson pounded on the glass. “Turn it off! Turn it off!”
But Old Jesse went right on begging for forgiveness.
“Override! Cut it, Jesse, cut it!”
The executioner bowed his tearful head even further and prayed the most beseeching prayer of his life.
The warden finally lost his composure. He was frantically trying to force open the door. “Override! Look at me, you stupid old man!”
Back in the death chamber from hell the Weatherman did the physically impossible. Driven by a power far greater than his own, his big right arm, the arm convicted of killing seven women, ripped the leather straps from the chair. Hot rivets ricocheted off the walls. His right arm was free now and he was beating the flames on his head with his hand. His muffled groans could not be heard above the screams of the witnesses. His white shirt caught fire.
Reporters would later write how the fiery execution seemed to burn on for an hour, flames reaching for the ceiling in slow motion. But the killing lasted only minutes. Two minutes. The automatic cycle failed to cycle down and back up, but after 120 seconds of 2,000 volts the electricity did cut itself off. The flames engulfing the Weatherman began to flicker and die. Warden Johnson returned to the chamber area just in time to see Dixon Bell’s last violent jerks before his body slumped in the chair. The stench and the sight nauseated him. He motioned to the death squad. “Extinguish him!”The warden placed his hand over his mouth and nose.
The death squad, coughing and choking, stepped toward the fiery chair with extinguishers and coated the Weatherman with a white cloudy foam.
Through it all Rick Beanblossom, down on his knees, had closed his watery eyes and covered his eardrums. Still he could smell the burned flesh. He could hear the shouting.
“He’s still alive!”
Indeed, his chest was still heaving, as if the Weatherman were struggling for every last breath. The fleshy remains of his free right hand were twitching.
�
�He’s dead—they’re muscle spasms! Get away from him!”
“Don’t touch him, you’ll burn yourselves!”
“Get back! For God’s sake, get back!”
Rick finally opened his eyes. Dixon Bell’s foam-covered body was slouched and quivering in the big oak chair. Flecks of ash fell like black snow from beneath the headset to his shoulders. The back of the electric chair was still smoking. The headset was charred, the wires melted. The black leather mask had fused with his facial skin. The fingers on his strapped left hand appeared broken where they had dug into the wood.