Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

Shale drove to a storage unit he owned under one of the aliases he knew for certain had not been compromised by James’s investigation. He locked the two boxes of handwritten evidence away. Then he drove to the hotel where ex-Texas Ranger Bert James was staying.

James opened the door and—probably for the first time in his adult life—had nothing to say. He stood there in his robe, hair wet from having just showered, and his mouth literally hung there agape.

“Ranger,” Veritas said out of respect. He could only imagine the thoughts racing through the old lawman’s head. Should he arrest him? Close the door in his face? Speak?

“I—I.”

“Invite me in, Bertram,” Veritas said, smiling. “I’m about to make your millennium.”

James motioned for him to enter.

Veritas sat in one of the guest chairs while James, still silent, put on his pants, shirt, socks, shoes, and even his one-gallon hat.

“What’re you here for?” Bert James said from where he’d dropped his butt on the edge of the bed, facing Veritas. “You should know I’m armed.”

“I’m here—unarmed—to turn myself over to you, sir.”

“Well I—that makes no goddamned sense,” James said. “I mean, shit. How the hell do you even know who I am?”

“If you can’t answer that question for yourself,” said Veritas, “I overestimated the relevance of your career as a Texas Ranger.”

“But it still makes no sense. And I can’t arrest you. Not legally. Is that it? You here to taunt me? Or what, taint a confession by giving it to a retired officer of the law who has no earthly right to be chasing you?”

“No. I’m done, Ranger. I’m done with it all. And I admire your resilience and fortitude and I figured if I was going to turn myself in, I’d just as soon have you get credit for the takedown.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

The Execution Suite at the Walla Walla, Washington State Penitentiary had recently been remodeled. When the state stopped using the gas chamber and adopted the lethal injection protocol several years prior, the Department of Corrections simply removed the chair and strap-downs from the cylindrical, windowed room, and replaced them with a medical gurney and strap-downs (along with the I.V. tubes, injection machine, and a new seat for the executioner).

Several human rights organizations had protested the horrific portends of the old, green chamber, claiming it put upon the condemned an inhumane visage as he was walked to the site, prior to execution.

Of course, the groups also protested execution of any kind, but the Washington State Supreme Court had twice upheld capital punishment as allowable under both the State and U.S. Constitution. In what many believed to be nothing more than a door prize, the court voted to uphold the claim that the specter of the original gas chamber as cruel and unusual treatment.

As if to thumb their collective noses at those they openly called “liberal do-gooders”, the Department of Corrections remodeled the rooms, patterning the floor plan after many other similar facilities, but painted every wall the exact same color of dead green and officially named it the Execution Suite, which was manifested proudly above all entrances to the facility.

There was a time when Francis Constantine found the story amusing. In fact, being then a proponent of the death penalty herself, she’d written a tongue-in-cheek column regarding the import (or lack thereof) and the questionable decorum of the highest court in the state in hearing such a claim in the first place.

She no longer harbored such lighthearted feelings toward either the place or the punishment. Having spent the day with the condemned man—a person she considered not only innocent but heroic—she was still unsure of her mettle. Shale Veritas had made it clear that he not only wanted but needed her to be there, be strong, and to keep his gaze from wavering.

Constantine shuffled into the facility with only five other people: the District Attorney, the Lieutenant Governor, and three paid witnesses. No families of the victims had chosen to attend, and no family members of those who Veritas had avenged unbidden were invited.

At five minutes before midnight, the curtains opened to reveal Shale Veritas in navy blue uniform pants, a matched button-down, short-sleeved shirt, strapped to a gurney in the shape of a “T”. The unspoken resemblance of a crucifixion could be lost on no one, particularly when they leaned the condemned man forward to make a final statement.

I.V. lines had been attached beforehand and snaked from his right arm.

The witnesses—including the high-ranking officials—were typically stoic. Constantine found the task of holding back her tears impossible as Shale turned and gazed at her. He looked so very weak—as if he’d finally given over to his inner self; not the self who withstood all the challenges Delta training could give him; not the self who inflicted ruthless vengeance on so many evildoers in the world; but rather, the true, child-like self that hides inside all people with a heart and a soul.

Tears streamed down Constantine’s roundish face, but she did not make a sound—no sobs or breaths or hiccups. She remained as resigned and as supportive as she was able.

The Warden stepped forward at two minutes before twelve and read the death warrant aloud for all to hear:

“Whereas, one Shale Veritas, on the twenty-fifth day of June, two thousand and thirteen, pleaded guilty before the Rainier County Circuit Court of the crime of Murder combined with Special Circumstances and was by the judge of said court sentenced to die by lethal injection here, this twenty-fifth day of July, two thousand and thirteen, at the appointed time of twelve oh-one A.M. and whereas no appeals have been filed, said execution will be carried out by licensed and duly trained personnel of the Washington State Department of Corrections and I, Warden Stanley G. Smith, do hereby certify and concord with this preceding and may God have Mercy on the condemned’s soul.”

The warden paused and then said: “The condemned man is now afforded his legal right to an official statement of record before proceeding.”

Shale kept his eyes fixed steadfast on Constantine and spoke clearly and evenly:

“I willingly accept the legal punishment of the State of Washington, having willfully turned myself over to the system for which I have held the contempt of no confidence. My surrender should not be interpreted as any form of apology for my deeds. I believe in what I have done, and in what I do here today.”

After a moment of silence, Veritas was lowered back to a horizontal position and the warden nodded toward a pane of one-way mirrored glass.

Immediately a loud clacking filled the room. Constantine had memorized the process, hoping it would somehow draw her closer, knowing what Veritas was going through. It did not.

The first of the syringes was a saline push to clean the lines. The second release—sodium pentothal—caused Shale to lose consciousness. One pump fired after the other and as the pancuronium bromide interrupted his breathing, Veritas’ body began to quake slightly. His hands involuntarily opened and closed. Finally, the potassium chloride stopped his heart, and it was over.

The entire process of injection took just over two minutes.

The coroner entered the execution chamber and officially pronounced the death of Shale Veritas; and Francis Constantine, mother of Emily, sister perhaps to justice, wept openly.

_______

Afterword

With this short story begins the Veritas series, and of the character of Shale Veritas—in 2014, the novella continuations of the story and life of this perhaps unlikely hero, his counterparts, and his missions, will be released. The series is intended to have a long life and dig much, much deeper into the man named Shale Veritas, exposing even more of the truth at the center of his universe. You can anticipate this revelatory series of novellas to begin with Veritas: Pugilist, in the early months of 2014!