“No one but me.”
“I have a question for you, Warden. Why all this secrecy? If Americans love the death penalty so much, why not do the killings in public? They used to, you know. I’ve read about plenty of executions in the old days. Folks loved them, would come from miles around for an official hanging or a firing squad. Great entertainment. Justice was done. Everybody rode their wagons home and felt good about themselves. An eye for an eye. Why don’t we do that now, Warden?”
“I don’t make the laws.”
“Is it because we’re ashamed of what we’re doing?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you ashamed, Warden?”
“No, I don’t feel shame, but I don’t like this part of my job.”
“That’s hard to believe, Warden. I think you like this. You chose a career in corrections because you believe in punishment. And this is the ultimate, the big moment. Your first execution and you are the man. How many reporters have you talked to today, Warden? How many interviews?”
“I need to go check on your pizza.” The warden backs away, his checklist complete.
“Thank you. And it’s pepperoni, not sausage.”
When the warden and Marvin are gone and the door bangs shut, Cody looks around his cell and mumbles, “My estate.” He sits on the edge of his bunk and shakes out two tablets from the small plastic pill bottle Paxton gave him.
He tosses them through the bars.
（3）
The minutes drag by as The Row grows even quieter. Cody tries to read a paperback but has trouble concentrating. He sits on the floor, breathes heavy and slow, and tries to meditate.
The buzzer sounds again and he wonders who’s next.
Like a ghost, and without the slightest noise or footfalls, Padre appears from nowhere and stands at the bars. As always, he wears pointed-toe boots that add an inch or two to his slight frame, and old jeans so faded that college kids wouldn’t wear them. But from the waist up he’s all business, with a black shirt, white collar. It’s June, the first day of summer, but the air is cool so he’s wearing a crisp black blazer.
Padre is a retired priest who’s been counseling the convicts for a decade. His rounds bring him to The Row and he stands outside the cells and whispers through the bars to the few who wish to talk to him. Most do not. Most condemned men have lost faith in everything, with God getting more than his share of blame.
The rules allow the chaplain to sit with the condemned man in the final hour before he’s strapped down, so, in theory, he’s the last confidant available. About half the men choose to confess and ask forgiveness at the last moment. Others just want someone to talk to. A few avoid the ritual.
“How are you, Cody?” he asks softly.
Cody stands and smiles and walks to the door. “Hello, Padre. Thanks for stopping by.”
Father, Pastor, Reverend, Preacher—all the usual names had been used, but Padre stuck when Freddie Gomez was around. He was a devout Catholic, his murders notwithstanding, and he wanted the priest at his cell at every opportunity for a quiet little Mass. He and Padre became extremely close. Everybody loved Freddie and his execution hit The Row hard.
“How are you, my friend?”
“I’m all right, under the circumstances. My lawyer just left and says we’ve run out of bullets.”
“I’m so sorry, Cody. No one deserves this.”
“I’m at peace, Padre. I really am. If given the choice of living in this hole for another forty years or taking the needle, then I’d happily check out. I guess somebody else chose for me.”
“I understand, Cody. Would you like me to sit with you in the holding room?”
“Not really, Padre. I’d rather be alone.”
“As you wish.”
Both men study the floor for a moment. Cody says, “Just curious, Padre. How many men want you to pray with them at the last minute?”
“Most have given up on prayer.”
“Any dramatic last-minute come-to-Jesus conversions?”
“No, never. Men on death row have plenty of time to either grow with the faith or reject it altogether. By the time they get to the end, they are well grounded and secure in whatever they believe. So, no. No last-minute conversions, at least not on my watch.”
“Not going to happen tonight.”
“As you wish, Cody. We once talked all the time, remember those days?”
“I do. We had some pretty serious conversations about God and all his mysteries, and we didn’t agree on much, as I recall.”