The Execution of John Doe
September 12, 1978, dawned bright and clear with a promise of an early Fall coolness to counteract the oppressive heat that had lingered sullenly over the countryside.
In his prison cell, John Doe ate his last breakfast, savoring each bite of the crisp bacon, fluffy eggs, and buttery grits. The scalding hot coffee, laced with real cream, tasted like the nectar of gods as he swirled it around in his mouth before swallowing it with gusto.
He had arisen early, showering and shaving in the pre-dawn hours before his daily reading of the Scriptures. Today's reading was the 23rd psalm, copied from several online translations he'd found on the prison library computer. It was funny how he had done all those routine things automatically, refusing to allow himself to think about the fact that he would never do them again. Not in this life, anyway.
How does a person go on, knowing that today, this day, would be his last on earth?
Finishing his breakfast and sliding his tray and plastic utensils to the guard, John Doe lay on his cot and relived the memory of that night 10 years ago that had forever changed his world, his outlook, his raison d'etre.
Why had he gone along with Jimmy Joe when he knew that there was no chance of their pulling it off? True, they had done a number of hits before and had gotten away without even a description from their terrified victims, but his gut instincts on that fateful night told him to leave well enough alone.
Well, no need for soul searching and recriminations now. Alea jacta est - the die had been cast. Tonight at 9:01 p.m. Central Daylight Saving Time, he, John Philip Doe (his real name), would be started on an IV drip containing a lethal dosage of sodium thiopental.
Why 9:01? Because he'd been allowed to choose the time, and he'd chosen the numeric of the house where he'd lived and been happy with his maternal grandma for the first 12 years of his life. After his grandma's death, he'd drifted, working at odd jobs, getting into occasional brushes with the law, always telling himself that one day he would settle down and start doing the right thing.
"You'll be settling down for good now, boy." He chuckled sardonically as he shifted his position on the narrow cot.
John Doe was roused from his reverie by the clanking of chains as the guard opened his cell door. Time for his mid-morning walk around the prison perimeter. The guard averted his gaze as he manacled and shackled Doe's hands and feet.
The 15-minute walk was over almost before it began. The day, as prophesied earlier, was all too beautiful. Doe drank it in like a man dying from thirst before heading back to the cell to await lunch and a copy of the little town's newspaper.
His nose told him when lunch was on the way, also its contents - pepper steak, mashed potatoes/gravy, steamed carrots, and a huge kaiser roll. A frosty glass of sweet tea rounded out the meal which he ate absentmindedly while perusing the paper.
After the guard had removed his lunch stuff, John Doe went to the restroom, taking a long time. No use in rushing things; besides, his stomach was torn up, anyway.
He washed his hands thoroughly, thinking bemusedly, "What does it matter now?" Back to the cot and his thoughts - the afternoons were the worst; they stretched interminably.
He picked up another sheaf of papers which fell open to the 22 psalm.
Psalm 22:1 My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?
He read the words dispassionately. After all, who had forsaken whom? Had not his grandma taken him upon her knees, read the Bible to and with him? Had she not taken care to teach him right from wrong?
In light of all of this, he tried manfully to resign himself to his fate, refusing to allow the E word to worm its way into his consciousness. As far as he was concerned, the E word for him had happened at his grandma's death.
He rolled onto his left side, facing the wall, and fell fast asleep. Next thing he knew, the guard was waking him for dinner, or as his grandma would have said, supper. His last supper! He'd given careful consideration to what it would be, and the cook had honored his request.
Pork tails smothered down in the trinity - bell peppers, celery, green onions - whipped sweet potatoes with lots of butter, rice and gravy, mile-high cornbread, ice-cold grape koolaid. His grandmother would have smiled her approval.
He ate slowly and methodically, sweet potatoes first, rice/gravy next, meat and bread last. Each mouthful was washed down with a generous slurp of the koolaid.
As he was taking his last bite, the guard startled him by barging into his cell, breathing heavily. Doe stared at him, not knowing what to expect. "Come with me."
Apprehensively, he held out his hands for manacling, but the guard hurriedly pushed them aside. "No need for that - just come!"
Doe followed him out, puzzlement and suspicion furrowing his brow. "Where are we going?"
The guard either didn't hear him or pretended he didn't. They headed toward the warden's office at a fast clip. The guard knocked, and not waiting for an acknowledgement, pushed the door open and herded Doe into the small room.
The warden stared at Doe from head to toe. "Mr. John Philip Doe, I've got some good and unexpected news for you. Pending investigation of corruption and cover-ups in the police department, the Governor has ordered a stay of execution for all inmates on death row. Beginning tomorrow, you will be placed in the regular prison population."
Doe's knees buckled; he had to be helped to a chair. The warden shook his hand. The guard hugged (hugged!) him. After righting himself with a mighty effort, Doe was led back to his cell. The guard, once again his reserved self, banged the cell door shut, looked long and hard at Doe and gave him a V sign.
The End
Sylvia
