The Weatherman (44 page)

Rick sensed a few watts of cynicism. “Warden Johnson, do you really believe in the death penalty?”

Oliver J. Johnson was every bit the image of Joe DiMaggio, tall and slender with thick silver hair. He had a soft demeanor and a kind face. His silver suit, European-cut, tailor-made, matched his hair. He spoke with professorial rectitude. “When I accepted this position I swore an oath to carry out the duties. I’ll do so without hesitation.”

That didn’t answer Rick’s question. They continued moving through Cell Hall A-West, Receiving and Orientation. It was noisy, the hallways crowded with inmates, like a school during the hour break. Suddenly they stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes drawn to an ominous black sign above a tall steel door.
DEATH
ROW
. All conversation ceased. Warden Johnson held up his hands and issued a fair warning. “To date only one man in Minnesota has been sentenced to death. In the meantime we’ve decided to use this special block of cells to house the worst of the worst … the serial killer, the sexual psychopath, the slayers of women and children. Anybody who does not wish to enter this area can wait out here. We’ll only be a few minutes. Absolutely no talking to the inmates. Once inside I’ll answer no questions.”

A guard checked every badge as the group marched through the steel door to a double-barred entrance. One set of steel bars slid open and the warden and a dozen reporters squeezed into a small holding area. The bars behind them slammed closed. They were locked in. Everyone was straining to see down the block. Then the bars in front of them slid open with a spooky clang and they shuffled into death row.

Warden Johnson again raised his hands. “For your own safety as well as the security of the inmates, this is as far as I can let you go.”

They were about a quarter of the way down the row. Rick Beanblossom stepped to the front. The cell block was stone quiet, the hallway clean and spotless. It smelled of Spic ‘n Span. The cells were locked tight. Tall windows had so many bars across them they kept the sun at bay. A big television set fastened to the wall was dark. Unsmiling guards, uniformly neat, stood back against the yellow brick wall, a safe distance from the inmates. Down the row a few murderous hands could be seen dangling out of the cell doors. Now and then a stream of cigarette smoke would flow like dragon’s breath between the bars. The eerie silence that pervaded the block was in stark contrast to the noisy prison outside. A cigarette butt shot across the hall and landed at the foot of Warden Johnson. Rick saw no sign of Dixon Bell.

“This,” said the warden, “is where we coddle the prisoners. If any of you care to spend the weekend, we have a couple of empty cells.”

There was some nervous laughter. Then from way down at the end of the row came the most horrifying sound imaginable. It was human for sure, but with the ring of a hyena-a crazy yelp between ecstasy and torture that bounced floor to ceiling, then echoed off high walls.

The reporters stepped back. Rick thought he saw the warden roll his eyes.

“I think we’d better leave now.” With that Warden Johnson ushered them out of death row.

Safely outside the block there was a collective sigh of relief. As many times as he had come to visit him, it was still hard for Rick Beanblossom to believe the Weatherman was locked up inside there.

Warden Johnson continued his spiel as they left the cell hall and marched down the main hallway. “We are adopting the basic method of execution that has been used in the states of Florida and Louisiana for years, though we think we’ve improved on it to make it less routine and more humane. A lot of thought has gone into this. No detail has been overlooked. Several officials from Florida and Louisiana have been hired as consultants.”

Redd Battlemore, a veteran reporter from the Pioneer Press, muttered to Rick, “Think of it, Minnesota, we’re going to be just like Florida and Louisiana.”

They stopped at an exit door. “We’ll be going across the prison yard now to Industry. That’s where the actual Death House is being built. It’s ninety percent complete,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’ll remind you again that prison construction is the most expensive construction there is. If taxpayers want to lock up criminals and throw away the key … please let them know the dollar cost. It’s billions.”

Stillwater was an old-style fortress prison built circa 1910. It housed one thousand four hundred prisoners. Seven guard towers surrounded the high brick walls. As they walked out of the drab building and into the welcome April sunshine, Rick Beanblossom peeled through his reporter’s notebook, jotting notes. The prison yard had a blacktop running track and a baseball diamond with a weed-littered outfield. Inmates were taking advantage of the spring weather. Ten days earlier it had snowed. Today the temperature was nearing 80°. The inmates jogged around the track, oblivious to the visitors. Several of them stopped to shake hands with Warden Johnson in genuine respect. Rick watched as one inmate after another handed the warden a letter or a legal form, or asked him to look into something for them. He seemed to say yes to every request. The tour group worked their way across the yard to the Industry buildings.

The warden leaned into the masked newsman and pointed. “Do you see that little fat guy waddling around the track? He’s been here since 1967.” Rick watched the balding old man in the dirty T-shirt and sweat pants work his way around the blacktop.

“He’s a drifter,” the warden said. “They don’t even know how many women he killed around the country. At the last parole hearing we just said, ‘We’ll talk to you again in ten years.’ ”

“What prisoner has been locked up at Stillwater the longest?”

“We have one who came here in 1952. He’s been here ever since. And we’ve got an old janitor who did twenty-five years before joining the custodial staff. Say, before I forget, I have a copy of your book in my office. I’d appreciate it if you’d sign it before you leave.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“How’s it selling?”

“Well, it didn’t make the New York Times best-seller list. But the reviews were good, and my publisher wants a second book.”

It stood unmarked, like something out of a Nazi death camp. This Death House had been constructed beneath the prison’s west wall, which ran along Stagecoach Trail. It was right behind the electric shop and next door to the wood shop. The new red brick exterior and the spotless white trim seemed oddly out of place beneath the rustic bricks of the fortress wall. Rick remembered riding his bicycle up Stagecoach Trail when he was a boy. He’d always had a strange feeling about this place, always stopping his bike to stare at the long, imposing walls with the barbed wire and the guard towers.

The press left the sunshine behind and crowded into the Death House. They stood before a prison cell that was smaller than anything they’d seen in the main complex.

Warden Johnson continued. “When, and if, the governor signs the prisoner’s death warrant, the commissioner of corrections will then set an execution date in consultation with the trial judge. Approximately three weeks before that date the condemned man will be brought here to the Death House and housed in this isolation cell. He will not be allowed out of this cell until he walks to the chair. This is to prepare him mentally and physically for execution. It is in this cell the prisoner will be served his last meal, three hours before the execution. We’re told most condemned men request a favorite meal from their childhood. Something Mom used to make. This one particular prisoner may be fond of southern cuisine, so the cook is studying southern recipes.”

Rick Beanblossom stepped into the tiny cell, bone bare. He’d seen better cages at the zoo. He carefully studied the bare necessities as the warden talked on.

“After the meal, about two hours before the execution, the prisoner’s head will be shaved and a conducting gel will be rubbed into his skull. His eyebrows will also be shaved. Hair is a poor conductor of electricity and it burns. The last thing anybody wants in the death chamber is a fire. He will then be dressed in all-cotton clothes.” A guard joined them from the death chamber and handed the warden what appeared to be a medieval torture device. Warden Johnson held the metal and chains up for display. “When the prisoner walks to the chair he will be wearing these special four-point handcuff restraints. They are specifically made for escorting death row prisoners on their last walk. As you can see, they have large screws on top. If a struggle were to ensue, the guards could simply turn these screws, instantly breaking the prisoner’s wrists.” The handcuffs were passed among the group.

Then they proceeded down a short corridor. The warden stopped in front of a small room. The door was open. It resembled a sound booth from the Sky High newsroom. “This,” said Warden Johnson, “is the executioner’s room. The steel door is locked and secured from the inside. Only the executioner can open it. He will be wearing a hood during the execution. All of this is for his security. In here are the voltmeter, the ammeter, and the switchboard. As you can see, there are actually two switches, a red one and a green one. When the yellow light above the switch goes out and the green light comes on, the executioner throws the green switch. This throws power into the circuit breaker box. Then when the other yellow light goes off and the red light comes on, the ex-throws the red switch. The red switch is the power out of the circuit breaker box. Out of the box and into the condemned man.”

“Who’s the executioner?” asked a field producer from
CNN
.

“We hope we can get a volunteer from the prison staff. If not, we’ll go outside the prison system. If necessary we’ll recruit from outside of the state. Nobody outside my office will ever know the identity of the executioner.”

The gathered press looked skeptical. Rick brushed by the warden and into the executioner’s booth. He scribbled more notes. “Warden, how much of NSP’s electricity will you actually use to kill the man?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Beanblossom, the prison’s own generator will take over from Northern States Power just prior to the execution, causing all of the lights in the prison to dim. When it is over the lights will dim again, as power is returned to the utility.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“We will use a fluctuating cycle two minutes in length. The initial jolt of electricity will be two thousand volts. Brain death will be instantaneous. The voltage is then dropped to one thousand volts, then to five hundred volts, this to prevent the burning of the body. Then back to a thousand volts, and ending with another two thousand volts to complete a one-minute cycle. Then the procedure is repeated. It’s all over in two minutes and all of this is done automatically. The executioner only needs to throw the two switches. The executioner can override the automatic cycle on a simple hand signal from me, should anything go wrong.”

After everybody had peeked into the executioner’s booth, Warden Johnson led them through another steel door and into the death chamber. What they had all come to see: the chair.

Big and fat and made of oak, it had a glossy finish and sat on a black rubber mat. The dark grains running through the chair were buffed to a shine. On the top of the back brace was a wood headrest. Adjustable. A leather strap dangled from the headrest like a noose. Holes were drilled into the heavy arms and legs. Other straps had yet to be attached. The chamber the chair sat in was unfinished, cluttered, and dusty. Workers, none of them inmates, flitted about.

“As you people reported with your usual overkill, the inmates in our furniture-manufacturing building did refuse to build the chair. In retrospect, I regret giving the order. It was a mistake. The chair was constructed by an out-of-state private contractor after several other prisons refused to build it. Now, the chair itself is not electrified.” Warden Johnson stepped up to the chair and explained. “The electrical current will run into the prisoner’s head and out his right leg. Let me show you.” He lifted a metal helmet that looked like it matched the handcuffs. “This is the headset that will be strapped onto the prisoner and connected to the executioner’s booth. As you can see, this ‘death cap,’ as it is sometimes called, is lined with copper. The wire mesh inside will be covered with a natural ocean sponge that has been soaked in a saline solution. This damp sponge under the headset will sit directly on top the prisoner’s head. It is used to convey the two thousand volts of electricity into his skull. Everything is designed to conduct electricity quickly and smoothly. Anything that is not a good conductor of electricity or is highly flammable, such as hair and synthetic fibers, is removed beforehand.”

Someone asked, “Who hooks him up?”

“A special squad of guards will strap him into the chair. A certified electrician will connect the electrodes to his right leg and to the headset. On a signal from me the electrician will then throw that switch behind the chair. That’s the switch for our generator. It also triggers the lights inside the executioner’s booth.”

While Warden Johnson stepped forward to explain coming features, Rick Beanblossom walked up and plopped himself in the electric chair.

The warden didn’t see him and continued. “A telephone connected directly to Governor Ellefson’s office will be installed on that wall. And that, ladies and gendemen, pretty much concludes today’s tour.” Warden Johnson turned back to the chair, now occupied. “Mr. Beanblossom, what the hell are you doing?”

The man in the mask ignored him, lifted the death cap from the floor, and placed it atop his head. He sat dead still in the electric chair in a Lincolnesque pose. Then Rick Beanblossom began singing a jingle he remembered

from a television commercial when he was a boy: “Electricity is penny cheap from
NSP
to you.”

Nobody laughed.

If it was the most bizarre sight Warden Oliver J. Johnson had ever seen in his years at Stillwater, he wasn’t admitting it. “By the way,” he told the reporters, savoring the thought of it, “all of you must undergo a full rectal exam before you will be allowed to leave.”