Bradley Denton - Blackburn

"Well, after all," Blackburn said, "I did it."

"That doesn't matter. Your case was rushed to trial, and your counsel presented no defense. So regardless of what the Texas court says, we have constitutional grounds for a U.S. Supreme Court review, and then for habeas corpus appeals if that fails."

Blackburn didn't like what he was hearing. "Look," he said, "my lawyer accomplished the only thing I wanted him to accomplish. The state was saying that I raped and killed a woman, and he got them to admit it was a lie. Then they said that I shot and killed a DPS trooper, which was the truth. The guy had it coming, but apparently that isn't a legal consideration. So I pled guilty, and they sentenced me. Then my lawyer said he'd argue an appeal of the sentence, and I told him to get lost. I knew it'd be pointless."

"You didn't have a choice," the attorney said. "Texas law requires an automatic review by the Criminal Appeals court whenever capital punishment is imposed. So when your counsel resigned, I was appointed to your case. I sent you a letter informing you of that. Didn't you receive it?"

Blackburn shrugged. "Maybe. I get a lot of mail. Some of it's from people who want to preserve my life, and some of it's from people who want to see me fry, even though Texas doesn't do that anymore. But most of it's from lawyers who want to use me to get movie deals."

The attorney adjusted his glasses again, and they fell off his face and clattered on the counter. He picked them up and shoved them back on, then glared at Blackburn. "I took your case because a judge ordered me to," he said, "but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do my job. And my job is to keep you alive."

"Why?" Blackburn asked. "So I can spend my life here?"

"There's parole," the attorney said. "Sometimes even for cop killers."

"You think you can get me parole?"

"It wouldn't be for a long time, but it could happen."

"How long a time? Minimum."

The attorney grimaced. "Given the nature of your crime," he said, "and given that you have another murder trial pending in this state and have confessed to killings in other states, I would say that the soonest you would be eligible for parole would be in twenty years. Now, I know that sounds like forever. But it beats dying."

Blackburn stared at the attorney. The man looked sincere, but sincerity was irrelevant. Blackburn stood.

"I've seen enough death to know more about it than you do," he said. "And I've been in one cage or another for most of the past year, so I know more about incarceration than you do. I've also done extensive reading about the execution procedures in this state, and about the psychological effects of long prison terms. Therefore, given my superior knowledge of these matters, my decision is this: The only way I will stay in Huntsville for twenty years will be as a stuffed mummy in the Texas Prison Museum, perched on Old Sparky. So unless you're going to help make this thing quick and easy, you can take your habeas corpus and stick it."

The attorney stood as well. "Mr. Blackburn, I can understand that you're upset. But you have to realize that you have legal options that could save your life. If you refuse to take advantage of them, you'll be killing yourself." He fumbled with his glasses. "I'll try to come back tomorrow, so you'll have tonight to cool down and think. I might even be able to arrange a consultation without a wall between us, so we can talk more comfortably."

Blackburn fixed the attorney with a steady gaze. "Please do that," he said. "Then I can tear you open where you're soft, hang you up, and watch you drain."

Blackburn didn't really do that sort of thing, but the attorney didn't seem to know that. He went away and did not return.

The execution warrant was issued on Wednesday, April 1, 1987. The execution was scheduled for Thursday, May 14, Blackburn's twenty-ninth birthday. When Blackburn saw a copy of the warrant, he thought someone was playing an April Fools' joke. But the warden sent him a letter the next day, confirming the warrant, and Blackburn knew it was serious. Two days after that, he received a letter from the attorney who had visited him, offering to apply for a stay of execution. He wrote back to the attorney, offering to have people blow up the attorney's home. He received more letters from that attorney and from other lawyers in the weeks that followed, but did not open them.

Then on Monday, May 11, Blackburn received a letter from Heather.

Dear Mr. Blackburn: I have not written you before because my parents and friends say I should not. They say you are a killer and as such do not deserve communication from me. But my heart tells me that since you are a condemned man, you should know that you have a son. This past September, I gave birth to a boy I named Alan. I named him after the man I thought you were when I knew you in December 1985. I hope I have done the right thing in telling you. I hope it will be a comfort. Your son will be eight months old this Thursday.

Blackburn was horrified. He'd had a vasectomy in 1982.

The child was Roy-Boy's.

He grabbed pen and paper and wrote furiously.

For the love of Morton drown it drown it now it is the son of a psychopath and will grow up to torture people but especially people who love it believe me it is not mine I am sterile but his the one who cut you and

Blackburn stopped, breathing hard, his chest thundering. When he could, he read what he had written. Then he tore the paper to shreds.

"You okay, Blackburn?"

Blackburn looked up. A guard was looking in through the bars of the cell door.

"Yeah," Blackburn said. "I'm fine."

"Whatcha doing with that pen?"

Blackburn looked at the pen in his hand. "Writing," he said.

"Let's have it," the guard said.

"Why? I've had pens all along."

"Let's have it."

Blackburn surrendered the pen. A few minutes later he was taken from the cell, and two guards went through it while he watched. They brought out two more pens and three pencils.

"We don't want you hurting yourself," one of them told Blackburn as they put him back into the cell.

Blackburn was confused for a moment, and then he realized what they were talking about. He was to be executed in three days, and they didn't want him beating them to it.

"Don't worry," he said. "For verily, Morton saith: I'd do it myself, but that would queer the deal."

The prison chaplain tried to visit Blackburn that evening. Blackburn mooned him, and he went away.

At 5:00 P.M. on Wednesday, May 13, four guards removed Blackburn from his cell and took him to another building. There they put him into a holding cell. Two of the guards remained outside that cell, watching him. He lay down on the bunk and traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. An hour later, one of the guards who had left returned with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. It smelled delicious. Blackburn sat up. The meal was on a metal tray on the shelf in the cell door. Steam rose between the bars.

"Is this my last meal already?" Blackburn asked.

"That's not until tomorrow evening," the guard who had brought the food said, "but they need to know what you'll want. I'll write it down now, if you're ready."

Blackburn grinned. He knew about sphincter relaxation in freshly killed bodies, and had decided that he wasn't going to die without making sure he was remembered. He asked for a pot of chili, bran cereal with milk, celery stalks, asparagus spears, bran muffins, a half gallon of prune juice, a quart of beer, and a carrot cake with "Happy Birthday" written in pink script on white icing. The guards looked puzzled.

"Fiber," Blackburn said. "It's good for you."

He ate the fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and then slept. He awoke late in the morning with no memories of dreams. Breakfast was bacon, eggs, hash browns, and coffee. Afterward, he asked for the current issues of Superman, The Flash, Batman, Hawkman, Spider-Man, X-Men, and Green Lantern. One of the guards made a call from a wall phone, and two hours later, Blackburn had his comic books. He read them slowly. He was in the middle of Hawkman when lunch arrived. Lunch was a cheeseburger, french fries, and a pint of chocolate ice cream. The ice cream was good, so he asked for more. But the pint had been brought in from outside, a guard said, and there wasn't any more.