Although they didn’t pass it, the Chaplain knows that they are directly beside the execution room. The final chair the Prisoner will sit in – be strapped into – is right next door. It’s an eerie feeling, being separated by only a wall.
Not every prisoner requests a chaplain. He feels lucky. And also cursed. Sometimes a man’s last twelve hours are spent on the telephone with family. Or alone. Or with the corrections officers. Watching. Always watching.
“Too bad about him,” the Warden had said earlier, before the Chaplain met COs 1 and 2 and escorted the Prisoner to his cell. “Who’d have thought he was sick? I mean, the guy was the picture of health. And then he’s down for the count.”
“Cancer,” the Chaplain said. “You never expect it, I suppose.” His mentor, the Prisoner’s original chapla
