And P.J. McCabe had absolutely no idea which way to turn.
But now, as he set out for the bowels of hell, he was pretty sure he was headed in the wrong direction.
Whoever had coined the phrase It’s a good day for a hanging never had had to sit outside in the goddamn pouring rain at the gates of a federal prison P.J. grumbled to himself as he made his way to the press tent. He stood under the protective canopy while he waited for his connection. P.J. made a quick call on his cell, poured himself a cup of hot coffee, and perused the crowd.
Standing just outside the prison gates were the usual bunch of social reformers and death penalty abolitionists. Protestors huddled together beneath large umbrellas as they held each other’s hands in unity and sang a haunting rendition of Amazing Grace over and over and over again.
A small faction of ACLU members had braved the weather. They held up their homemade, rain soaked posters and spouted off their usual oppositional bullshit. There was a fat man with a long, gray ponytail and a too tight Civil Liberties tee shirt standing in front of the crowd; one meaty fist held a raggedy, black umbrella while the other one held a dirty, yellow bullhorn. He bellowed out a chant about constitutional rights while the protestors behind him clapped in response. To the left of the crowd a rabbi and a priest stood together under a ten by ten tarp and held the usual inter-faith prayer session.
There were balloons. There were always balloons. Black in color and tied with plain brown string.
But still… balloons.
In his role as president of the HSMC, P.J. had witnessed his share of executions. His grandfather had seen it as his duty and obligation to attend the deaths of club members. But P.J. saw no point in attending these macabre dances. He found them a waste of time and resources. The palms that had to be greased, and the markers that had to be called in…all for what? To watch someone take it in the arm?
Besides, once the sentence had been imposed, the actual executions took a while to carry out. The condemned spent years, sometimes decades on death row. As a result, P.J. had had no real connection to any of the convicted men, minus the fact that they had been Saints soldiers. He found executions to be distasteful and…well…tedious.
It was always the same damn thing.
Musty, airless, viewing rooms cramped in with a dozen or so chairs in theater type seating. The loud tick tock, tick tock, of the death clock on the wall. The curtains swinging open, the intravenous tubes starting, the vitals flatlining, and the curtains closing. P.J. would wipe this duty off the books if he could. But he knew it would send his grandfather reeling over in his grave should P.J. make an executive order to throw out this grim task. And while P.J. felt his sense of humanity diminishing on a daily basis, the love and respect he had for his grandfather lived on.
Besides, this time it was different.
This time it was personal.
The dead man walking was none other than Billy Bob “Beast” McKenna. A trusted family friend, Beast was a man of questionable morality, fierce will, indomitable spirit and vengeful heart. He also had the distinction of being a founding father of the Hells Saints MC. He had been as good a friend to Prosper Worthington as any man could hope to be, so it really hadn’t surprised anyone when Prosper chose Beast to be the godfather of his first and only grandson.
Beast had embraced the role with a sense of pride, honor, and duty. He had always made time for P.J. and had been a driving force in his young life. Beast had never missed a birthday or special event, and he always set aside two weeks a year for the Worthington family camping event.
It had been almost two decades ago that Beast had committed the crime that landed him on death row.
The man’s name had been Clayton Russell, a piece of shit heroin addict. He had had a long history of violent assault and burglary charges. His mother had been a federal judge, and his father had been a high profile defense attorney. Russell had led a privileged life of entitlement and excuses made on his behalf, always beating any charge that came his way. The victims and witnesses were either paid off or scared off. But this time, Clayton Russell had gone too far. While in the process of committing a felony, he had killed a young newly- wed couple. Russell had robbed and shot the husband, then had raped, and strangled the wife. The young man had been Beast’s grandson, a teacher named Derek Olson. Derek’s wife, Jenny, had been pregnant with their first child.
Because the Russell family had had vast political connections and very deep pockets, the judge on the case had been persuaded to allow Clayton to await trial in a fancy drug rehab center. When Clayton Russell showed up in the courtroom with a closely shaven face, a two thousand dollar suit, and a signed certificate claiming that he was now addiction free, Beast was there too. Beast sat across the aisle two rows behind the prosecutor’s desk with Prosper Worthington by his side. The prosecutor stumbled through the case, while the dream team defense took shot after shot at each and every piece of evidence that the district attorney’s office presented. Then three days into the proceedings, it was discovered that the chain of evidence had been broken. A vital piece of proof had somehow disappeared. The minute that the judge had finished the last pound of his gravel declaring a mistrial, Clayton Russell had turned to look directly at Beast. Then
