Read Online The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth L. Silver
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alive without the ability to scream.
I’ve read up about it. I have articles from those habeas lawyers and from Madison McCall. It’s supposed to be painless, and might actually be. But how can that be tested? Honestly, is someone really going to care about any pain we feel on our twenty-sixth mile? They’re going to do it anyway, no matter how many veins they have to test to find the right one, no matter how many people divide up the task, no matter how late in the night they proceed. They’re going to do it anyway.
In the ’40s, they tried to fry some kid for murder and failed twice. They charged his body full of electricity—the metal cap tickling his brain, the straps wound tightly around his arms—but they couldn’t do it. It wasn’t his fault that the incompetent executioners messed up twice. Still, they tried it a third time to make sure the boy was dead, taking pleasure as his body shook in a lightning bolt of momentary seizure until, like the sizzling flicker of a fading lightbulb, he finally turned off.
Like I said, everything has a way of coming out in threes.
“I know that your father left before you were born,” Oliver said to me before “Hello,” “G’day,” or any number of greetings he could have mustered this early in our fledgling relationship. It was only a handful of weeks in, and already he was storming into the visitor’s booth toting a rolling briefcase behind him looking like Marlene Dixon’sfiendish protégé. Part of me wanted to slap him, and the other part wanted, well, the other part wanted the contrary, as I listened to him rambling off an enumerated register of alleged facts from my past that he, no doubt, was proud to uncover.
“I also know that your mother hasn’t visited you in five years. Your brother has visited you only once, as he lives paycheck to paycheck in Encino as a production assistant for a small independent film company. You never met your maternal grandfather, and your maternal grandmother suffered a fatal heart attack when you were arrested. You were never able to go to her funeral. Your paternal grandparents’ absence needs no explanation. I know that you were accepted to Princeton but decided on Penn instead. I know that you wanted to become a doctor and scored exceptionally high on your SATs but never followed through on that goal. You didn’t even attempt to get back into college. You never took driver’s education, once took a flight lesson, are nearsighted and lactose-intolerant.”
A smirk seeped out between my lips like an unsuspecting belch. As if he were the first person to take an academic interest in my life from January 1, 2003, onward.
“All that is in my trial record?”
Amused, I unfolded my arms.
“Shall I go on?” he continued.
“If you must.”
“I know that you chose to sleep through your trial and refused to offer any mitigating evidence at the penalty phase. And of course, that is primarily why we are here in the first place, isn’t it?”
“If you insist.”
“You didn’t help your attorneys at trial or on appeal, and you certainly aren’t helping me to piece together anything that can spare your life now. We have five months remaining, and you’ve done nothing but tell me about your mother’s mustache fetish.”
I sat back in my chair and placed my hands together, slapping them hard in slow motion at Oliver’s Academy Award–winningspeech. It was very melodramatic, if I say so myself. The actress who will play me in the future cinematic depiction of my life will be thrilled to have such rich and hackneyed material from which to base her rendition.
“Well done,” I said. “You’ve reread my record and run a ninety-nine-dollar background check. But before you applaud yourself too earnestly, know that I only have a
half
brother, and he works in the exciting but respectable-ish industry of adult film. I actually attended Penn for slightly less than one semester and dropped out, you’re right, because I
I’ve read up about it. I have articles from those habeas lawyers and from Madison McCall. It’s supposed to be painless, and might actually be. But how can that be tested? Honestly, is someone really going to care about any pain we feel on our twenty-sixth mile? They’re going to do it anyway, no matter how many veins they have to test to find the right one, no matter how many people divide up the task, no matter how late in the night they proceed. They’re going to do it anyway.
In the ’40s, they tried to fry some kid for murder and failed twice. They charged his body full of electricity—the metal cap tickling his brain, the straps wound tightly around his arms—but they couldn’t do it. It wasn’t his fault that the incompetent executioners messed up twice. Still, they tried it a third time to make sure the boy was dead, taking pleasure as his body shook in a lightning bolt of momentary seizure until, like the sizzling flicker of a fading lightbulb, he finally turned off.
Like I said, everything has a way of coming out in threes.
“I know that your father left before you were born,” Oliver said to me before “Hello,” “G’day,” or any number of greetings he could have mustered this early in our fledgling relationship. It was only a handful of weeks in, and already he was storming into the visitor’s booth toting a rolling briefcase behind him looking like Marlene Dixon’sfiendish protégé. Part of me wanted to slap him, and the other part wanted, well, the other part wanted the contrary, as I listened to him rambling off an enumerated register of alleged facts from my past that he, no doubt, was proud to uncover.
“I also know that your mother hasn’t visited you in five years. Your brother has visited you only once, as he lives paycheck to paycheck in Encino as a production assistant for a small independent film company. You never met your maternal grandfather, and your maternal grandmother suffered a fatal heart attack when you were arrested. You were never able to go to her funeral. Your paternal grandparents’ absence needs no explanation. I know that you were accepted to Princeton but decided on Penn instead. I know that you wanted to become a doctor and scored exceptionally high on your SATs but never followed through on that goal. You didn’t even attempt to get back into college. You never took driver’s education, once took a flight lesson, are nearsighted and lactose-intolerant.”
A smirk seeped out between my lips like an unsuspecting belch. As if he were the first person to take an academic interest in my life from January 1, 2003, onward.
“All that is in my trial record?”
Amused, I unfolded my arms.
“Shall I go on?” he continued.
“If you must.”
“I know that you chose to sleep through your trial and refused to offer any mitigating evidence at the penalty phase. And of course, that is primarily why we are here in the first place, isn’t it?”
“If you insist.”
“You didn’t help your attorneys at trial or on appeal, and you certainly aren’t helping me to piece together anything that can spare your life now. We have five months remaining, and you’ve done nothing but tell me about your mother’s mustache fetish.”
I sat back in my chair and placed my hands together, slapping them hard in slow motion at Oliver’s Academy Award–winningspeech. It was very melodramatic, if I say so myself. The actress who will play me in the future cinematic depiction of my life will be thrilled to have such rich and hackneyed material from which to base her rendition.
“Well done,” I said. “You’ve reread my record and run a ninety-nine-dollar background check. But before you applaud yourself too earnestly, know that I only have a
half
brother, and he works in the exciting but respectable-ish industry of adult film. I actually attended Penn for slightly less than one semester and dropped out, you’re right, because I
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