If a man is dehydrated the veins are not firm. Maybe Luther Dunphy had not drunk liquids in a while.
In the right arm I tried with a large ropey blue vein running the length of his arm but I had forgotten to use the rubber strip so I wrapped that tight around his upper arm and tried again—no luck. Damn vein just rolled away from the needle. Sweating bad now and poor Luther was trying not to groan with pain from the fucking needle. And he was bleeding bad from me sticking him.
Finally after eight stabs it looked like the line was in, at the crook of his arm, that soft skin at the elbow, and we could start the first drug—the barbiturate.
This is the sleep drug—the anesthesia.
The containers are clearly labeled. There is number one and there is number two and there is number three.
The instructions are printed clear in steps. From this point onward there would be an estimated ten-eleven minutes at the longest before the man is dead.
But then, the fucking line came out! The needle sunk into the skin at the crook of the elbow just popped out and started bleeding.
(At this point the assistant warden entered the room with a curse yanking the black curtains shut so the witnesses could not see anything further. On his face a special look of disgust for me.)
Had to start again and this time my hands were not too steady. And Luther Dunphy white-faced and trying not to gag. And I tried to keep my hand from shaking, holding my right hand with the needle with the left hand though I had not had a drink in many hours—not since driving to the prison.
In the glove compartment of my car there’s a quart bottle of scotch. All I can think of is getting back to my car, opening that glove compartment and drinking from the bottle which I will do as soon as this is over.
I will feel the warm liquor in my mouth, going down my throat and into my chest like the warmth of the sun. I will want to cry, I will be so grateful.
How many stabs it took, I don’t want to remember.
Gave up on the right arm and tried the left arm again and both arms bleeding from the damn needle. (Which was maybe blunt and dull now from so much use.) And so, we cut open Luther’s trousers, to try for a vein in the inner thigh, there’s a vein there (I knew from past experience)—a kind of a big fat vein. But by this time I’m shaking pretty bad. So I’m fucking that up too.
But just keep trying. That’s all you can do. How many stabs of the needle until finally I got in a line—must’ve been an hour, or more. My fingers are numb and my neck is stiff from the tension. And Luther Dunphy squirming on the gurney trying not to groan, or scream. Finally now the anesthetic is dripping into the vein, or should be—(unless we screwed up the order of the drugs)—Luther is praying aloud Our Father who art in Heaven and suddenly he is crying I’m on fire, I’m on fire—like it’s the wrong drug, it’s the poison drug not the anesthetic—but we are certain that it is the right drug—but still Luther is crying and groaning and then he is screaming and writhing and vomit leaks from his mouth and his eyes roll back in his head but he doesn’t lose consciousness—he is not being put “to sleep”—the line has to be removed because some mistake has been made and a fresh vein will have to be found.
Sick to death. So sick! Telling myself God damn you knew you should have told the warden to find somebody else and fuck that three hundred dollars.
TWO HOURS, EIGHTEEN MINUTES were required for Luther Dunphy to die from the time he was strapped to the gurney to the time he was declared dead by the attending physician Dr. E——.
His brain was extinguished by degrees. His soul was extinguished by degrees like a panicked bird fluttering in a small space being struck by a broom again, again, again.
Into a vein in his left ankle the hot poison entered and once it began to stream inside it could not be stopped.
It was astonishing to him—he could feel the hot poison entering. Yet still he could not believe that it was his death that was entering him.