Becoming Juliet

by Paula Marinaro

  “Bet my life on that? That’s a good one!” Beast slapped his leg and laughed like he had the front seat in a comedy club. Then he called out to the warden who was standing against the wall just outside the cell. “You know what they call that, Captain? That right there is gallows humor. Safe to say though, those fucking veins are the only things that have given up on me, that’s for sure. Once a beast always a goddamn beast. Older than dirt and I can still bench press my own body weight. Haven’t lost my way with the ladies either. Female guards love me and male guards wanna be me. Ain’t it the truth, Captain?”

  The warden gave Beast a small, indulgent smile. “It’s the truth, Billy Bob.”

  Beast nodded with satisfaction. Then he leaned in to P.J. and said, “He’s not such a bad fucking guy. Dealt with me straight, honest, and fair all these years.”

  “Glad to hear it, brother. Nothing less than you deserve.” P.J. told him and he meant it. Despite the truly brutal nature of Beast’s crime, P.J. would always hold the man in high esteem. As far as P.J. was concerned, Beast was a member of a dying breed of tough, heroic, and righteous men. Vietnam Vets whose young lives had been interrupted, their moral compass compromised by the insanity of war. Men who had had the courage to pick up the shattered bits of their lives and move on. Marginalized by society, they had found each other and formed an unbreakable bond, a brotherhood built on a solid foundation of trust, respect, and the strength of their convictions. The thought of Beast dying in a cold, cement room, his last moments on this earth being spot lighted for all to see, sickened P.J. And the fact that Beast was gonna die by the chair? That made it all the worse.

  “You were a fine little lad, P.J. McCabe.” Beast’s words rang out and echoed in the dim, dank cell. “We were all real proud of you. Just the right amount of sass, and sizzle to get you through. We talked it over quite a bit, your granddad and me. When the club took a vote to let you prospect, we all grabbed our own nuts. We knew that bringing you into the brotherhood was gonna mean hell to pay from Claire. You remember how that feisty, pain in the ass, mother of yours shit a brick when she found out that you were prospecting? Damn if that woman didn’t make it hard on everyone, especially your old man.” Beast let out a soft chuckle. “Still scratch my head to think of how Reno survived all those months of Claire having a fit about it. But a mother’s wishes? That for sure is something to be respected, and we knew we were crossing a line messing with that. Prosper never would have gone up against his own daughter if he hadn’t felt in his heart that it was the right decision. As his only grandson, he considered the club to be your destiny…to the manor born he used to say. I guess it’s from some Shakespeare shit meaning birthright or some crap like that. Anyway, he got his way and here you are, president of the whole damn organization.”

  P.J. didn’t say anything because really there was nothing to say. In truth, he hadn’t felt to the manor born for some years now, but he was not about to tell Beast that. P.J. had no desire to shatter the illusions of a condemned man. But suddenly, Beast’s eyes blazed with fire and he grabbed on to P.J.’s arm with crushing force. His words burst forth with maniacal intensity. Beast’s face contorted into a frightening mask. “We thought we were doing right by you, son. Your grandpa and me? We thought we were doing right, but instead we done you wrong. Never should have brought you into outlaw nation… to a life lived in the shadows. Look at what we done! Look at what your goddamn birthright has got you!!” Beast cried out. “You got blood on your hands, a target on your back, and nothing but sleepless nights and trouble around every corner ahead of you. We done you wrong, Prosper and me, we done you wrong! We done you wrong!! I’m sorry, boy. I’m sorry!” Beast yelled out in frantic sorrow.

  P.J. was horror struck by the sudden change in Beast. But before P.J. could respond, before he could lend an ounce of comfort, the door opened and a half dozen, muscled, uniformed men entered. The extraction team had arrived.

  “What the hell just happened?” P.J. demanded. He watched on in alarm as Beast continued to babble tearfully as the team chained him up.

  “Billy Bob requested a sedative. The doctor administered it right before we entered the row. Sometimes it puts the condemned at ease …other times it makes them…well… emotional. I know it can be a painful thing to see, to hear. But it doesn’t last long. These types of outburst seem to give another focus, and it takes an edge off the terror.” Warden Cartwright explained.

  Beast continued to sniffle and mutter while his hands were cuffed together in front of him. But by the time they fastened those cuffs to a chain around his mid-section, he had stopped crying and babbling, and his chin had fallen to his chest. Although it was all done with swift, efficiency, to P.J. it seemed like hours before they fastened the series of chains around Beast’s large body. The end of the midsection piece of the chain was handed to a guard to be used like a dog leash.

  P.J. had thought the next part to be urban legend. But, as they began the macabre parade, Warden Cartwright started the death march by yelling out a hardy Dead Man Walking. As Beast shuffled to the kill room, each step was measured, and every movement carefully observed. It was obvious that this was a well-rehearsed, thoroughly laid out plan. P.J. knew that execution protocol demanded that the practice sessions be conducted in the exact same way as the real thing, minus of course the ultimate step. P.J. followed behind the procession and wondered which of these guys had had the balls to play Beast’s part in the death exercise.

  When they turned the corner, Beast cried out and his knees collapsed under him. Before the officers picked him back up, P.J. got a glimpse of what had caused Beast’s courage to fail him.

  The Chair.

  It stood like a demonic throne in the center of the close walled room. Made of wood, it was medieval looking with a high, straight back, and sturdy armrests. Tentacle-like leather straps sprouted out from its back, arms, and legs waiting to bind and carry its next passenger to hell.

  The chair was fully wired and ready to kill.

  “You there? You still with me?” Beast craned his head backward and called out weakly to P.J.

  “I ain’t going anywhere.” P.J. flexed, drew himself up to his full height and sent a challenging glare to the warden. The deal the club had made should have seen P.J. gone at the kill room doorway, but there was no way he was leaving Beast now.

  Cartwright hesitated, sighed, then called out the order.

  “Ready Prisoner 462 for execution by electric chair.”

  At the warden’s grim command, the team began to release Beast quickly and methodically from his chains. Then they transported him to the hard, wooden seat. With Beast now slumped in the chair, it took the officers several long minutes to complete the gruesome task of fastening all of the straps and belts that were necessary to bind the prisoner to his fate. Then they attached all the electrodes. When the next part came, P.J. paid real close attention. He had seen “The Green Mile” too many times.

  Fearing another Eduard Delacroix- type fiasco, P.J. stood at full attention as the large sponges were soaked with salt water before being placed between the metal contact plates and Beast’s skin. P.J. was grateful that his godfather had been talked into taking the sedative. But still, although Beast seemed dazed and confused, his eyes lit with intermittent terror before the look was washed away into a godsent stupor. That look made P.J wonder just how aware Beast was, how much he felt, and what his last thoughts would be.

  When all the water, buckets, and wet cloths had been removed, Warden Cartwright walked over to P.J. and said in a tone filled with a sad and strange sort of apology, “The room has to be cleared now, son. You’ve brought a comfort to him. But it’s between Billy Bob and his god now.” With those words the warden turned his back on P.J., and the guard ushered him into the adjoining room.

  P.J. had been in viewing rooms before. They were all almost identical. Small, dark, windowless caves with theater seating. Windowless that is, with the exception of the large plate glass that sat inche
s away from the front row. Its black curtains were shut tight, waiting to be pulled back in order to provide the audience with its very own close encounter with death. The red phone …a literal lifeline…hung on the wall with a guard standing next to it. The big faced, analogue wall clock with its minute hand clicking out the sound of a death beetle. P.J. moved to the back of the room and took the last seat in the third row, closest to the exit.

  The room was half filled with newspaper reporters who had arrived earlier. They were impatiently looking at their watches, talking to each other and scratching their prison issued number 2 pencils on yellow legal pads. At Beast’s request none of his family members were present. P.J. knew that Beast’s two ex-wives had come down earlier in the week to say their goodbyes. He knew because the club had paid for their flights and had put them up together in a real nice hotel.

  Beast’s wives had both been old ladies or motorcycle mamas as Beast used to get a kick out of calling them. Which meant that they had each been as ingrained in the MC as he had been. It had been well known in the club that Beast hopped between their beds like a dog looking for a bone. He divorced the one, then married the other. He did that a couple of times. Everyone wondered why they put up with him. But those two hellcats gave as good as they got. Beast got bashed over the head with more than a few frying pans and beer bottles. Matrimonial bliss would turn quickly into wild fights that resulted in restraining orders, quickie divorces in Vegas and drunken reconciliations. It happened so often that after a while it wasn’t clear anymore who was married to who. Finally, the two women had had enough of Beast, but apparently not enough of each other. One night they simply left town together. They hopped on another flight to Vegas, but this time instead of divorcing Beast, they got married to one another. P.J knew that they sent care packages frequently and money for Beast’s prison till every month. The two ex-wives also had made sure to call him every Christmas.

  Go figure some shit out.

  Now, P.J.’s eyes volleyed quickly to the front of the room as the black curtains suddenly flung wide open. A bright, artificial light illuminated Beast in an eerie glow. The scratching sound of pencils began in fury as the ladies and gentlemen of the press strained their necks to write down every detail. When a woman reporter in the back stood up to get her chance at the million dollar view, she was firmly commanded by the guard stationed near the phone to sit her ass down.

  P.J. felt as if he had been caught up in some virtual reality horror show. He blinked several times in an attempt to alter the vision of this final scene. A large, black microphone hung low from the ceiling like a vicious and deadly spider waiting to feed. It took a bit of adjusting by a guard to reduce the crackling hum. The viewing room reverberated with a sound that was both eerie and uniquely haunting. The kill room seemed overly crowded, which was comforting to P.J. in an odd sort of way.

  There was a guard on each side of the chair with Beast seated and strapped tight in the middle. The warden was near the door, and there was a small group of men in white coats standing beside him. With a nod from the Cartwright, the guard on the left placed a large, water soaked sponge and metal headpiece (which looked like an old-styled football helmet) on top of Beast’s skull. When some of the water spilled down over his forehead, Beast let out a low growl. P.J. was distressed to see that the mixture of cortisol and adrenalin that had to be racing through Beast’s body had begun to overpower the calming sedative. P.J. could see Beast’s strong arms flex against the restraints. He could see all that ink jump and ripple as Beast’s body tensed with the prospect of what was to come.

  “Does the prisoner request to be blindfolded?” The warden’s voice was rigid in its formality. Beast’s response was to look at Cartwright as if Beast were a small child asking for guidance.

  “No shame in it. Billy Bob” The warden’s tone gentled. “The darkness can be a comforting thing.” Beast then nodded his consent. A large black shroud, which looked a lot like a welder’s mask, was fastened to the helmet.

  Between the leather and metal restraints, the electrodes, and the heavy black mask, there was nothing left of Beast’s face to see. The man now looked like something dark, menacing, and unworldly. P.J. wondered briefly if maybe that was the intention. He wondered if it somehow made it easier for the executioner to pull the kill switch if the condemned appeared as something less than human. One by one the evacuation team left the death chamber. Beast was alone now, and P.J. leaned forward as if trying to reach him. The atmosphere was heavy with morbid fascination while an almost maniacal anticipation hung in the viewing room. The voices had all hushed, the scribbling had stopped. The quiet settled heavy and thick like a wet woolen, blanket. Suddenly, the sound of a heavy exhaust fan came barreling out from the kill room. It was followed by a loud BANG!

  Beast’s body began to convulse, he was pinned to the back of the chair like he was strapped into a grotesque carnival ride. The woman reporter, who was so eager to get a good look, let out a small cry and jumped back as if the electricity had reached out and grabbed her. The impact of the voltage should have killed Beast instantly. But sparks and flames erupted from somewhere along the circuit. There was another loud bang as an electrode on Beast’s leg exploded and blew out a hole in his shin. While the reporter in the back of the room screamed, the sparks jumped in ominous delight searching for someplace new to land. Beast’s lap blazed with orange flames while a firestorm burst out from under the hood in the area of Beast’s left temple.

  P.J. shot straight up in his chair with murderous intent. His body coiled tight in rage. But two strong hands grabbed P.J.’s shoulders and shoved him back down in his seat. The voice of the guard behind him was a low growl in his ear. “Any ruckus you make now is just gonna take attention away from the matter at hand. You behave yourself so we see this done. For the sake of that man in there, you stand down.”

  Somewhere in his raging anger, P.J. knew the guard was right. P.J. stayed in his seat and watched on in abject horror as two physicians entered the chamber. One felt for the pulse on the right side of Beast’s neck. The other searched for proof of life by pressing on Beast’s thick wrist. Both of the doctors had large pads of white cotton held up under their noses. With a nod, they each confirmed to the warden that there was still a heartbeat.

  How can there still be a heartbeat? P.J. felt as though he was trapped inside of a nightmare. The reporters all made a quick and sudden move to rush out the door. And honestly, P.J. didn’t blame them. In truth, the execution gone wrong would be too much for the most hardened man to handle. But their effort to flee was thwarted as the guard blocked the exit. He bellowed out a sharp command to all; Do not distract from the proceedings and sit your ass down! The reporters, who were shame-faced, did as they were told. But the scratching of their pencils had stopped. They sat with their shoulders hunched, and their eyes cast downward. But P.J kept his eyes focused on the man in the chair. P.J. McCabe would defy the devil himself and hold Beast in his eyes until the gory end. He would hold that stalwart and steady gaze because if there was any chance, the slightest possibility, that Beast was still alive in that heaping lump of burning flesh, P.J. wanted to make damn sure that Beast knew he was not alone.

  In the end it had taken four thousand volts of electricity and fourteen minutes to kill Beast.

  With finality, the curtains closed, and a voice came over the speaker; it declared that the legal execution of Billy Bob McKenna had been carried out. After that, it was only a matter of seconds before P.J.’s head exploded in blinding pain. Well, that’s a fucking understatement P.J thought, while a scene from the Wizard of Oz flashed through his mind. P.J. could just see the coroner of Munchkin Land proclaiming to all the citizens of Oz that the Wicked Witch is not just dead, she’s really quite sincerely dead.”

  To everyone’s profound relief, the guard opened the exit door. P.J. found himself being rushed through by the pressure of the people who had filled the room just moments before. Once out into the cool night air they collec
tively bend down with hands on their knees and breathed out their relief. The female reporter in row three dropped straight to her knees, while other members of the press leaned against the cool, chain link fence for a moment to steady their shattered nerves.

  On P.J.’s part, he walked straight to his bike and revved up the engine. With his body tense and his heart racing, P.J. rode at full throttle until he had cleared the corn fields that surrounded the prison, then he kept going. Stopping only for caffeine, nicotine, gas or to take a piss, P.J drove for three straight days until exhaustion finally overtook him, and he found himself losing the battle against white line fever and rumble lines. Feeling despondent with the realization that he could never run far enough or long enough to escape the memory of Beast’s final fourteen minutes, P.J. gave up.

  After registering himself into a hotel room, the first thing he did was take a very long, very hot shower. Then he put in a call to his V.P. Jet Mathison. The conversation with Jet was quick, to the point, and one sided.

  P.J. told Jet that he would not be coming home, and that Jet was now in charge. Then he gave Jet instructions to call Reno and fill him in. After that P.J. opened the sliders to the balcony, sat in the deep cushioned chair, had himself a smoke, and waited for his father to call him.

  That conversation had not been an easy one.

  Reno had arranged a conference call that included P.J.’s uncles, all of whom were dangerous, intelligent, and morally compromised HSMC royalty. P.J.’s family was comprised of a rare breed of badasses whose roots in the club ran deep. It had been a long, loud conversation filled with violent outbursts (those mostly from P.J.’s hot- headed, stubborn, irretractable Uncle Diego). There had been a demands for an explanation and the answers had satisfied no one. After a very long fifty-eight minutes, the conversation was over. The exchange had left P.J. exhausted and made him glad that he was hundreds of miles away.