“Luther Dunphy”—his name was spoken harshly.
Was it the death warrant? But the death warrant had already been served to him.
It was the commutation from the governor!
In the past Luther Dunphy had been informed by his lawyer that the execution had been stayed. But this time, there seemed to be no call.
“Luther.”
The wheel of the car, he had not turned sharply enough. If he had turned it more sharply, and more quickly, he might have avoided the pickup truck. But already his vehicle was skidding on the pavement damp from falling snow and in the backseat Daphne was screaming Da-da! Da-DA!
There had not (yet) come the call from the governor. Some men would not walk to the execution chamber, or could not walk. Of course, Luther Dunphy could walk for he was remarkably fit and strong and agile for a man of his age.
There came Reverend Davey to walk beside him. The chaplain was breathing hoarsely as if he had hurried. His parchment-colored face lightly oozed perspiration. His large hand fitted into Luther Dunphy’s hand as in a warm handshake that became a handclasp to bring solace to Luther, and comfort.
In a lowered voice that startled Luther, for it was so close to his ear, Reverend Davey said, “They are here, Luther. Two of Timothy Barron’s adult children.”
To this, Luther had no reply. A strange numbness had settled upon him like a thin mist.
Reverend Davey said: “I’ve spoken with them. They are still—both—aggrieved about the loss of their father.”
“But none of my family is here?”—Luther was concerned to know.
“No, Luther. They are not.”
His heart lightened. This was a relief to hear. He could not bear to disappoint them further.
“Will my body be sent to them, then? For—burial?”
“Yes.”
Still it was not too late for his sentence to be commuted. And there was the possibility of—what was the word?—clemency. Well before this time in the past the call had come to stay the execution but still it was not too late.
A test from God. As God had tested and tormented His only begotten son. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?—Jesus had cried on the cross.
“There are many protesters outside the prison, Luther. Some are carrying picket signs with your name and picture on them, and some are carrying picket signs protesting capital punishment—‘A Civilized Nation Does Not Execute.’”
Luther felt a twinge of guilt. Who were these people, and why did they exert themselves on behalf of him? It was only God’s intervention that mattered and if there was not God’s intervention, the exertions of these others were in vain.
“It is very touching, Luther. To see so many protesters.”
But Luther was not listening closely. He was being led along a windowless corridor. And then, along another windowless corridor. His pride was somewhat wounded, the COs who urged him along did not allow him to walk at a quickened pace—as Luther would have done, voluntarily—but pushed him forward as one might push forward a recalcitrant man or one who is unsteady on his feet.
Some men had to be carried to the execution chamber, it was said. Refusing to walk, or paralyzed and unable to walk—carried in chairs, or pushed in wheelchairs, or carried on stretchers.
Recalling then he had not finished signing the copies of the New Testament left for him by Reverend Davey in his cell. Half-consciously he’d been thinking he would finish the signing later that night, or in the morning, but when he tried to explain to Reverend Davey, Reverend Davey interrupted as if unhearing.
“It isn’t much farther, Luther. Jesus is with us now.”
His footsteps slowed—what was this room? The ceiling was low and the lights were very bright inside as in an operating room. Luther hesitated and was gripped by both arms rudely and walked through the low-ceilinged doorway.
“There is no need for that!”—Reverend Davey spoke reprovingly to the COs.
Luther was beginning to feel light-headed. Barely could he see for the brightness of the lights in this cramped space that smelled of disinfectant and something sweetly chemical. Barely could he hear Reverend Davey ask if he had any final words as he handed Luther a small microphone.
Final words!—the thought was so strange to him, his lips lifted in a smile.
Final words. He had never been one to make others laugh (like certain of his friends at school) yet a wild impulse came over him, to pat at his pockets as if searching for final words. But there were no pockets in his clothing.
Luther could not speak for it seemed to him that he had used up all of the words of his life.
And how strange, Reverend Davey had handed him a microphone. It came to Luther, the first time he would hold a microphone in his hand, and the last time he would hold a microphone in his hand, were one and the same time.
Shyness came over him. His throat had shut up tight.