Riven (64 page)

Gladys startled him with a “Mornin’, Rev.” He’d never seen her in her cubicle this long before starting time. It was also the first time in seventeen years he had seen her in anything but bright colors. She wore a demure, dark suit. She stood and embraced him. That was something new too, and while any other day it would have made Thomas uncomfortable, today he appreciated it. “You’re still planning—?”

“Yes, sir, I’m about to head over there and spend the rest of the day with Grace. Your daughter too, right?”

“And son-in-law.”

She raised a brow. “Really?”

Thomas shrugged. “Go figure.”

“Surely not Summer.”

“Oh no. Vacation Bible school.”

Thomas looked at his watch. Brady was scheduled to leave his cell in fifteen minutes, and Thomas had promised to accompany him. He made it through the security envelopes in record time, old friends just nodding soberly and waving him through. The place was full of officers, every shift represented, all in crisp, clean uniforms, shoes shining, brass polished.

Normally when Thomas happened to be on the Row this early in the morning, every cell TV was tuned to the
Today
show. But now the few sets already on showed a silent, still view of the crude cross lying on the floor of the gas chamber. It reminded Thomas of C-SPAN coverage when a camera was just set in place and left on for the duration of whatever they were covering. This was the feed that would encircle the globe for the next several hours.

Thomas found Brady putting the last of his personal effects into a cardboard box on his table. He looked preoccupied and yet relieved to see the chaplain.

“You ready?” Thomas said.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Doc’s supposed to check me over in a couple of minutes; then it’s the whole searching and cuffing thing, then heading out.”

Thomas turned to peer into the observation booth. A supervisor nodded from the other side of the glass. “Can I see you?” Thomas mouthed.

The intercom crackled. “C’mon in, Reverend.”

The door was open by the time he got there and Thomas stepped inside. “Tell me the procedure.”

“Officers will strip-search him, then cuff and manacle him before the doc checks him over.”

“All right, I want that not to happen.”

“But we got to go by the book today, sir—”

“Don’t strip-search this man today, and don’t restrain him either. You know as well as I do he’s no risk. I’ll be right there the whole time, and you can blame it all on me.”

“Reverend, I don’t think you’re authorized to override protocol—”

“I’m asking you man-to-man. And I want to be in his cell when the doctor is.”

“I can’t let—”

“Yes, you can. Now you’ve been here through all this, and you know what Darby’s meant to the Row. Throw him a bone, man.”

The supervisor pressed his lips together and looked past Thomas to where the doctor had arrived, accompanied by an officer. “All right, go ahead.”

“Thank you.”

“Just hurry.”

Thomas met the doctor in front of Brady’s cell, and they shook hands.

Over the intercom, the supervisor said, “Darby, to your cot please. I’m tripping the release here, officers. Admit both the chaplain and the doctor. No search, no restrains, but secure the door.”

The officers looked surprised and hesitant, but the order had been clear. Seconds later, the three men were locked in Brady’s cell.

The doctor had Brady sit at his table while he checked his pulse and blood pressure. “Both elevated,” he said softly, scribbling.

“So I should take it easy today?” Brady said.

The doctor looked like he didn’t know how to react. “I’ll see you in the chamber, son. This is an amazing thing you’re doing.”

The doctor was let out and the door thrice locked again. Thomas was aware that all the officers in the observation unit had emerged, and all but the two officers stationed at Brady’s cell were moving down the corridor away from the pod. What was going on?

Brady stood awkwardly and reached for Thomas. They embraced, and the young man buried his face in the chaplain’s shoulder. “Pray for me,” he said.

Thomas found his voice quavery. “Lord, thank You for Your servant and for what You have prompted him to do. And thank You for the impact he’s already had. We know justice will be served today, but we pray Your greater purpose will be served too and that many will come to know You in deeper ways because of what they see. And thank You for what Brady has meant to me. In Jesus’ name.”

“Guess you heard they denied my request for the crown of thorns and someone to pierce me with the spear.”

“No. Really?”

“Just got word this morning.”

“Believe me, son,” Thomas said, “it will be easy enough for everyone to imagine.”

“I just wish the warden would have allowed it,” Brady said. “The thorns were as much a part of the crucifixion as anything else. They weakened Him, crippled Him. And the fact is, His side
was
riven.”

Thomas nodded to the supervisor, who instructed the officers to unlock Brady’s cell. “No search. No restraints.”

As they were maneuvering Brady into the corridor, one of the officers said, “Reverend, you know there’s a bunch of us officers who are believers and some who are real interested. You think you could meet with us sometime, off-hours?”

“Absolutely.”

“Proceed” came over the intercom.

With one officer on each of Brady’s arms and Thomas about six feet behind, they slowly began the walk through the cellblock. With Brady’s first step, the men on the Row began a slow tapping on their cell doors, and this continued the whole way.

When the tiny procession reached the end of the pod, Thomas saw that the rest of the way through security and all the way to the exit, officers were lined up on either side, standing shoulder to shoulder, feet spread, hands clasped behind their backs, heads lowered. As Brady reached them, each raised his head, snapped to attention, arms at his sides, feet together.

Thomas could barely breathe.

74

Moved by the respect and reverence shown Brady as he was escorted to the chamber, still Thomas felt as if he himself were on his way to the gallows. He fought to not show weakness or grief before Brady now, but this was the longest, most difficult walk of his life.

“Just stay close,” was all Brady asked.

The warden appeared behind them. “Time for your good-byes, gentlemen,” he said.

It was too soon. Thomas sensed the clock speeding. When Frank LeRoy retreated and took other dignitaries with him, Thomas and Brady were left with just the officer who would lead them in.

“So,” Thomas said, “I guess this is it. I love you, Brady.”

Brady looked to the officer as if for permission, and when the man nodded, he embraced the chaplain and whispered, “Jesus said, ‘Be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.’”

“It’s time,” the officer said.

Thomas followed the officer and Brady into the chamber, which contained the single camera, four officers lining one wall, a cheap plastic chair for the chaplain, and a rangy man in shirt and tie who had draped his suit coat over the chair. He looked self-conscious standing next to a wood tray filled with spikes and a heavy wooden mallet.

“I’ve practiced this and will do my best is all I can promise,” he said.

“Thank you,” Brady said.

God,
Brady prayed silently,
we both know who I am, but let me be Jesus for these people and everyone who ever sees this, just so they know what He went through.

A technician, the laminated card clipped to his shirt identifying him as from ICN, slipped in and double-checked the camera. “Rolling,” he said quietly, backing out. The door shut and the curtains were opened, revealing the most crowded viewing area Thomas had ever seen for an execution.

“Stand by!” the warden called out. “When you’re ready.”

Brady hung his head, eyes welling. He imagined himself mocked, jeered, beaten, spit upon. He removed his clothes and stood shivering in his underwear. He had studied this and wished he could also have been shoved up against a broad pole and suspended from the top by his bound hands and there whipped thirty-nine times by a cat-o’-nine-tails, leather strips embedded with bits of rock and iron that would lacerate his back from his shoulders to his waist and lay him open.

Experts claimed irreparable damage had been done to Jesus’ body and that parts of His spine and even internal organs would have been exposed. Each new stroke had dug deeper until Jesus had finally been released to crumble to His knees.

I’m getting off easy,
Brady thought. If he could just force himself to go through with this.

“Lie down across the planks,” the executioner said kindly.

Sickened, Thomas stole a glance at the TV monitor to see what was being broadcast. All Thomas could think of was whether Grace yet regretted her decision to watch.

Brady was shuddering, and Thomas leaned forward. “You all right?” he said.

“Fine, Reverend. Let me be.”

“Let me get you a bottle of water,” Thomas said, aching to cradle him.

“Please, no,” Brady said, barely able to be heard. “This has to be authentic as we can make it.”

“It’s too close.”

“Then we’re doing it right. Please. I know you mean well.”

Thomas sat back, gripping both sides of his chair and wishing he could be anywhere else, yet not willing to abandon his friend.

“Final check of vitals,” Frank LeRoy called out, and the doctor stepped in, kneeling next to Brady.

Brady dreaded being nailed to the cross more than he dreaded the end. The state executioner was the only man there licensed to inflict upon Brady intentionally lethal injuries. He alone would drive spikes through Brady’s wrists and feet, and at Brady’s insistence, it would be done precisely so as to remain as close as possible to the scriptural account that none of Jesus’ bones had been broken.

There were few angles and spots where the spikes could be driven to achieve that accuracy, and the man had to be strong enough to strike cleanly and quickly. The spikes had to hold Brady’s weight when the cross was raised by the officers into specially designed supports. Brady knew his pinning to the cross and its being raised alone could kill him if the men weren’t careful.

Was Brady’s own mother watching? He knew Aunt Lois and Uncle Carl were. And Mrs. Carey. And Mrs. Carey-Blanc. And her husband. The guys inside. And much of the world.

God, don’t let this be in vain. Let them see what You want them to see. Your will be done.

The executioner advanced.

When the man grabbed Brady’s arm and stretched it out on the crossbeam, it was all Brady could do to keep from pulling away. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. One of the officers straddled his hand and placed one knee in his palm and the other near Brady’s elbow. His flesh dug into the wood.

The executioner deftly lined up the spike just below the heel of Brady’s hand, and Brady could feel the cold steel and the shift in the man’s weight as he raised the thick wood mallet.

With a loud thunk the hammer drove the spike clean through Brady’s wrist and into the crossbeam.

Brady cried out as blinding pain shot through him. All else was forgotten as flesh and tendon and sinew gave way and nerves fired messages of agony to his brain. With another quick blow, the spike was driven deep into the wood and Brady’s wrist further severed.

He writhed and moaned and cried, his legs spasming as the men shifted to the other arm and repeated the ritual. Brady closed his eyes as everything around him spun madly. He could not imagine worse pain.

When the process was repeated to pin his feet to the vertical beam, he thrashed and pulled, heart thundering and breath coming in great gusts through clenched teeth.

Brady knew he was in danger of going into shock. He fought to stay conscious, determined to see this through. Chaplain Carey looked deeply pained. Brady only hoped his friend and mentor could imagine Jesus Himself enduring this for him.

Deep in another part of his consciousness, a hidden chamber he was surprised even existed, Brady was aware that many people who loved him and cared for him were weeping and saying their good-byes. Such a difference from those who jeered Jesus and called out to Him, demanding to know how He could save others and not Himself.

Even in the midst of His agony, Jesus had not forgotten His mission. “Father,” He had said, His voice certainly as raspy and guttural as Brady’s felt now, “forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”

Brady came close to crying out for relief when the corrections officers gathered and used a rudimentary pulley to lift the cross upright. Everything in Brady cried out, even before they let it drop into the supports, and his whole weight pulled against the torn flesh around the spikes.

It was then that Brady fully understood what it was he was trying to get the world to see. Jesus had not just hung there in beautiful repose. He had to have done what Brady was forced to do now. Brady hung in a position that allowed him to draw breath, but to exhale he had to jerk and hunch himself up until his strength gave out and he slumped again, unable to exhale. He would die of asphyxiation if he didn’t muster the strength to rise a few inches every several seconds. All this while his bloody, pierced body writhed, and every effort to rise and exhale put all his weight on the spike-torn wounds.

His head banged against the wood, and Brady felt himself slipping away. He closed his eyes against the pain and imagined he could hear the thieves hanging on either side of Jesus, one saying, “So You’re the Messiah, are You? Prove it by saving Yourself—and us, too, while You’re at it!”

But the other said, “Don’t you fear God even when you have been sentenced to die? We deserve to die for our crimes, but this Man hasn’t done anything wrong. Jesus, remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.” And Jesus had responded, “I assure you, today you will be with Me in paradise.”

Brady hunched again to exhale, knowing he was fighting the clock. His vision was going, his muscles cramping.