Today You Die

by Herschel Cozine

If anyone deserved to die, it was Hack Jensen. Convicted of the brutal murder of a child, Hack had shown no remorse. Indeed, he had no conscience. It showed in his eyes. Soulless, cold, cruel eyes that looked out at the world with hatred and contempt. The man was truly a monster.

Manny wouldn't throw the switch that sent the fatal surge of electricity through the condemned man's body. Nonetheless he would be a participant in the death of Hack Jensen by his mere presence. As a result, he would be vilified by many and thanked by no one. He had long ago accepted the unpleasant—some would say barbaric—duty. As a guard at the State Penitentiary, it was part of his job.

And today was Hack's day to die.

Putting a man to death, even a man as evil as Hack, was not a task Manny looked forward to. However deserving of death, Hack was still a human being. And somehow that made the task that much more distasteful. Manny would never get used to it.

These thoughts tumbled around his head as he walked down the hall toward Hack's cell, accompanied by another guard and a priest. He squared his shoulders and mentally prepared himself for the next hour. It never got any easier.

Manny unlocked the door of Hack's cell and stepped inside.

“It's time,” he said softly.

Hack grunted at the guard, looked past him at the small man by the cell door.

“Get him outta here,” he said.

“That's Father Terrence,” Manny said.

“I don't care if he's Jesus Christ. Get him outta here.”

“Hack…” Manny started.

Hack swung around. “I don't want no weepy eyed Bible thumper prayin' over me.” He spoke directly to the priest. “Get the hell outta here!”

The sad eyed priest studied Hack for a moment. Then, with a slight bow, he crossed himself and left. Hack glared after him, cursing under his breath.

“Goddamn preachers.”

Manny shook his head. “Hack,” he said. “Today of all days, couldn't you show a spark of humanity?”

Hack snorted. “Today I die,” he said. “Why the hell should I care how some sawed off religious jerk feels?”

“Father Terrence is not a ‘religious jerk'. You could….” Manny stopped in mid sentence. Shaking his head again, he glanced at his watch. “It's ten-thirty,” he said.

“Yeah,” Hack replied. “Time to get ready for the big event.”

Manny nodded mutely. He motioned to the bunk in a silent order for Hack to sit. Hack sat down heavily and eyed Manny with a hint of a sneer.

“How many guys have you seen fry, Manny?” He said.

Manny shook his head. “Too many, Hack.”

“You like watchin' ‘em?”

“No,” Manny said. “Not at all.”

Hack snorted. “The hell you don't. Why would you take this job if you didn't like what you do?”

“I like what I do,” Manny said. “Most of it, anyway. But I'm not sadistic. I don't enjoy this part of my job. Not a bit.”

Hack snorted again. The second guard was shaving the top of Hack's head. Hack swore and stood up. He grabbed the guard's wrist and twisted it savagely. “Watch what you're doing for Chrissake!” he said. “Just because I'm a dead man don't give you the right to mangle my head.”

The guard winced in pain and pulled free from Hack's grasp. Manny put his hands on Hack's shoulders and pushed him back down on the cot.

“Take it easy, Hack. He didn't mean it.”

“How do you know?” Hack growled.

Turning back to Manny, Hack appraised him with a scowl. “What's so great about what you do? Do you like carryin' a gun and ordering us cons around like we're dogs? Does that make you feel like a big man?”

“Is that what you think this job is all about, Hack?”

“Yeah,” Hack said in a growl. “That's what it's all about. Little assholes with big guns and power over guys like me. Pricks like you who would never make it on the streets. But in here, you're God.”

“If you say so, Hack,” Manny said. He turned away from the condemned man and stared out the barred window to the yard below. It was deserted now. A spotlight bathed it with an eerie glow as it swept over the blacktop. The scene matched the mood of the moment. Desolate, lonely, depressing. The high walls, topped with barbed wire, stood foreboding in the cold dark night. Beyond the walls Manny could see a small crowd carrying signs and singing. They appeared like clockwork on days such as this. The gathering, mostly women, but a few men and one or two children, walked in a tight circle by the prison gate.

Another, smaller crowd, those who wanted Hack dead, stood a short distance from the others, watching in silent disapproval. It would stay that way until the execution was over. Manny had seen it many times. There was seldom any violence among them. He wasn't sure which group he would join if he were out there. He didn't allow himself to think about it. Whether it was right or wrong, it wasn't a pleasant thing to watch. The groups outside, though philosophically opposed, had one thing in common. They were not required to watch the execution. Manny envied them that. He always found it difficult to sleep afterward. Tonight, he knew, would be no different.

“You guys are as bad as the cons you're guardin',” Hack was saying. “You beat us for no reason, steal from us. But you got the uniform, so that makes it all right.”

“No. It doesn't,” Manny said.

Hack waved a hand impatiently. “The hell it don't.” He eyed Manny for a moment, then gave another wave of the hand. “Never mind. You ain't one of them.”

“Who beat you, Hack?”

“It don't matter. After today it will be all over. Nobody can touch me.”

”It does matter. There are the others here. Think of them.”

“Why should I? What did they ever do for me?” He shrugged a shoulder and looked to Manny. “You got a cigarette?”

Manny reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Although a nonsmoker, he had learned to carry them on occasions such as this. He handed one to Hack, struck a match and held it to the cigarette.

Hack inhaled and let out a stream of smoke. His glower slowly softened. Taking another drag on the cigarette, he leaned forward.

“Guess what I had for dinner,” he said. “My last meal.”

“What?” Manny asked.

“Lobster. Ain't that great? I never had lobster in my life.”

“Did you like it?”

Hack shrugged. “It's OK. But I wouldn't pay no fifty bucks for one in a restaurant. Crab's just as good and a helluva lot cheaper.”

Manny smiled. “I guess you're right, Hack.” He checked his watch.

The second guard turned off the electric shears and stepped away. Hack ran his hand over his freshly shaven head.

“Hair gets in the way, huh?” he said.

Manny raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“The thingamajigs that you put on a guy's head. You know. To fry him. They don't work if the guy's got hair?”

Manny frowned and looked away. “I don't know.”

Hack snorted. “You don't want me to talk about it. Well ain't that too bad?” He stood up and crossed to the window. “It's my funeral, pal. If I want to talk about it I guess you just have to listen.”

“Hack, I…” Manny started. “Make it easy on yourself.”

“Easy, hell. I been on the row for eight years now. I got used to it. Y'know?”

Manny nodded. “That's a long time.”

Hack grunted and looked around the cell. “I sure won't miss this place. I'm glad I'm gettin' outta here. Let some other poor bastard have it.”

He nodded to the window. “Get a load of those people out there. Bleedin' hearts. They don't want me to die.” He grunted. “I'm all choked up.” He laughed a hollow, coarse laugh. “Hell, I coulda killed one of their kids. Then I bet they wouldn't be out there wavin' signs and singin' hymns. Nope. They'd be with that other group of vultures, callin' for my head. What a bunch of hypocrites!”

Manny started to say something, thought better of it, and looked away.

Hack looked at Manny and frowned. “I know what you're thinkin', Rodriguez. You wanna know what makes guys like me tick. Ain't that right?”

Manny didn't answer.

“Do we gotta have a reason to do the things we do? Maybe we just like it.”

Manny shrugged. He had seen condemned cons before on the day of their execution. Each one had his way to deal with it. Hack was no different. Today, execution day, the condemned man should be allowed to cope with it however he wanted. If he wanted to talk, let him talk. If he wanted to cry, let him. Manny kept silent.

“Yeah,” Hack went on. “Maybe we like seein' them die. Y'know? Guys kill every day. Hunters. They take their guns out into the woods and shoot them defenseless animals. Then they come home and brag about it to their friends. They like it. Right?”

Manny nodded. “Yeah.”

“But guys like me are different. We kill people. We're bad.” He studied Manny with a sardonic grin. “C'mon, Rodriguez. Tell me what a bad guy I am.”

“I'm not here to lecture, Hack. That's not my job. It's a good thing, too. I'm not very good at it.”

“Hah!” Hack snorted. “You're a punk, Rodriguez. I could wipe my feet on you if we were on the outside.”

“You're right, Hack. You're right.” Manny agreed. He thought back to his own childhood in the inner city with hoodlums and addicts. Hardly a day went by when he wasn't beaten up by a bigger kid. He fought back, of course, and even came out on top occasionally. But he never looked for trouble. Thugs like Hack were a dime a dozen where he grew up.

“Yeah,” Hack said. “You're a piece of shit, Rodriguez. You'd be sliced up like a chunk of dog meat where I come from.” Hack's cold laugh echoed down the hall.

Manny remained silent. Hack was baiting him. It wasn't the first time. Others in the past had tried fighting with him on their execution day. He supposed it was their final act of defiance at a world they never understood. He would probably do the same thing if he were in their place. They had nothing to lose.

“Did you hear me, Rodriguez?”

“I heard you, Hack.”

Hack glared at Manny for several seconds, fists clenched, eyes hard with hatred. Then he relaxed and motioned to the cell door.

“Who's comin' to the big event?” Hack asked.

Manny shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Mama, I bet. What's-er-name. Betty.” He let a low chuckle escape. “She wouldn't miss this for the world. Watch Hack the Butcher fry. Watch him squirm. Watch the good guys send his soul to Hell. Yeah. Betty'll be there for sure.” He grunted and rubbed his chin. “I killed her kid. Yeah, I croaked him and got my kicks watchin' him die. Now little old Betty's gonna get her kicks watchin' me die.”

Manny exchanged glances with the other guard. They shook their heads in unison but said nothing. This wasn't the time.

“Y'see that's different,” Hack went on. “It's OK for her to get off watchin' a man die. But it's not OK for me. Y'know what I mean?”

Manny listened to the twisted logic and wondered if Hack believed what he was saying. He probably did. How could a man like Hack live with himself if he felt any other way?

At the sound of footsteps in the hall Hack tensed. His steely eyes narrowed as he saw Warden Haines and a distinguished, well-dressed man approach the cell.

“The warden,” Hack said in a disdainful voice. “Now I know I'm gonna die.”

The two men entered the cell. The warden looked past the prisoner to Manny.

“Is he ready?'

Before Manny could answer, Hack let out a snort. “Hey. I'm still alive. I can answer for myself.”

Warden Haines ignored Hack. His eyes on Manny, he waited.

Manny nodded. “Ready, Sir.”

Warden Haines turned toward the man next to him. This time addressing Hack directly, he said, “this is Mister Grayburn. He is from the Governor's office and is here to decide if the execution proceeds or not. As you know, it is scheduled for 11:30 tonight. It can be cancelled at any time if the Governor should so decide. There is a phone in the…”

“I know all that shit, Warden,” Hack interrupted. “Let's get it over with. To hell with the governor and cancellations and appeals. I'm tired of all that.”

”Understood,” Haines said. “But it's the law. It's out of my control.”

“The Governor ain't gonna call this shindig off,” Hack said. “He wants me outta his hair. Hell, there's more votes for him with me dead. Y'know?”

Haines didn't respond. He turned to Manny. “Let's go,” he said.

Manny stood on one side of Hack while the other guard took his position on the other side. Haines and Grayburn fell in behind. They started out the cell door and down the bare, cement walled hallway. Two guards stood by an iron door at the end of the hall. Seeing the small group approaching, they opened the doors and stood back.

The clock struck eleven.

Manny sighed inwardly. Looking around the small room, he tried to avert his eyes from the plain ugly chair. But there was no avoiding it. Manny knew the ritual. too well. The condemned man would be strapped into the chair, fitted with wires to monitor his vital signs, and offered a hood to put over his head. Many of them refused the hood. Manny would be surprised if Hack didn't refuse it. Through the years he became pretty good at this guessing game.

He peered through the window to the small room outside. There were only a few people seated in the hardbacked chairs that faced the execution room. Most of them were regulars. A policeman. Reporters. Prison officials who were required to attend and, like Manny, were only doing their duty.

Manny looked at the woman in the first row. Dressed in muted clothes with a scarf around her neck, she sat with her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were riveted on Hack as he was strapped into the chair. It was too dark for Manny to see her clearly, but he knew who she was. Elizabeth Martin, mother of the boy who had been brutally murdered by Hack Jensen. Jimmy had been his name. Manny remembered that from somewhere. He wondered if Jimmy had ever tasted lobster.

The minutes passed slowly. The executioner, a small middle-aged man who Manny only knew by his last name—Harkins—checked the straps holding Hack's arms and legs and placed the metal cap on his head. Then he stood back. There was nothing more to do until 11:30.

Hack was hoodless. Manny had been right about that. He watched as the condemned man lifted his eyes and squinted at the window. The chair was situated so that it was bathed in light while the witness room was almost dark. Manny knew that Hack could not see who was out there. It was designed that way.

Hack said something to the executioner. Harkins shook his head. Hack's voice rose, but Manny could not make out what he was saying. Reluctantly Harkins crossed over to Manny.

“He wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Manny looked to the warden in silent appeal. The warden nodded. Manny approached Hack slowly.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Is she out there?”

“Who?”

“You know who,” Hack growled. “Mama.”

“I don't know. I think so.”

“Where?”

“First row. Middle chair.”

Hack squinted at the window. His cold malevolent eyes took on an evil glow.

“Tell the bitch I'll see her in Hell,” he said.

Manny said nothing.

“Did you hear me, Rodriguez?”

“I heard you.”

“Tell her.”

Manny stepped away and returned to his position against the far wall.

The hands on the clock above the chair moved steadily toward the appointed time. Manny's eyes fell on the telephone on the wall next to Grayburn. It would not ring tonight. Everyone knew that. Still, they would wait.

11:30. An air of expectancy filled the room. Manny tensed as he watched Haines cross slowly to stand next to Grayburn. The two exchanged words. Haines nodded to the clock on the wall. Grayburn, grimfaced, returned the warden's nod.

Haines walked over and stood facing Hack. Manny was familiar with the routine. State law required that the sentence imposed on the condemned man be read at this time. The warden read from a paper in his hand, ending with the obligatory line: “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Warden Haines stepped away from the chair and looked to Harkins who was standing by the switch. He gave an almost imperceptible signal.

The lights flickered, and a hum filled the room. It was over in a matter of seconds. The prison doctor pronounced Hack dead, noted the time on the certificate, and left.

Manny breathed a sigh of relief. Hack's last words to him had made the execution a little easier. As unpleasant as it was to witness, Manny felt nothing for the man he had just watched die. Hack deserved what he got. Manny would save his sympathy for Elizabeth Martin and her son.

While two attendants removed Hack's body from the chair, Manny walked into the witness room. Elizabeth was weeping quietly. Manny wanted to console her. He wanted to say something that would make her feel better. But there were no words. What could he possibly say that would ease her suffering?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

The clock struck twelve. Manny's day was over. It had been a long, stressful day. He walked across the room, pausing briefly by Elizabeth Martin's chair. He felt an overwhelming sympathy for the woman, sharing in her loss; knowing that the scene she had just witnessed brought back painful memories along with the feeling that justice, however inadequate, had been served. But it was a hollow act. Perhaps it provided closure for her. If so, Manny felt the depressing experience had served a purpose.

As he started to walk away, she reached out and touched his arm.

“Excuse me, officer,” she said.

Manny turned to face her.

“What did he say to you?”

Manny winced inwardly at the question. He shuffled his feet and looked at the floor.

“He wanted me to give a message to one of the other inmates,” Manny lied. “Nothing important.”

Elizabeth studied Manny's face for several moments, deciding whether or not to accept his story. Then she looked away.

“Can I do anything for you, Ma'am?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Thank you. I'm fine.” She dabbed at her eyes and smiled wanly.

Manny left the room. He didn't say his usual goodnight to the guard who relieved him. Nor did he stop to visit with his fellow workers. He would never get used to these executions, no matter how deserving of them a man might be. And, he guessed, that was a good thing. Otherwise he was no better than they were.

Manny crossed the gloomy parking lot and got into his car. Ellie would be waiting up for him. She always did on days like today, knowing he needed her there even though he would not talk about it. She accepted his silence, or, if he chose to talk about—whatever—she would listen. He loved her for that.

As he drove through the prison gate, a woman carrying a sign made a fist and shouted, “murderer!” Manny drove slowly by the woman, eyes straight ahead. He wondered if she would shout at Elizabeth Martin as well.

Hack's sullen face danced in Manny's thoughts as he drove the deserted street toward home. He had paid the supreme penalty for his crime. The scales of justice had been balanced. Hadn't they? Manny shook his head and sighed. Some questions didn't have answers. Perhaps the woman at the prison gate was right. There was a fine line between a state sponsored execution and a wanton murder. Was “an eye for an eye” true justice, or was it mean spirited vengeance? Manny had never come down on one side or the other. Both philosophies had their virtues and weaknesses.

Meanwhile life goes on; at least some lives do. And there would be more Hack Jensens and more Elizabeth Martins. That was as certain as sunrise. The human condition. It was a damning reality that Manny faced every execution day.

Manny had a difficult time getting to sleep.