More doors were unlocked, and we found ourselves outside in the yard, a square of browning grass surrounded by ugly cell blocks. There were no trees. Guard towers rose from each corner of the wall, the men inside wearing heavy coats and holding rifles. We moved quickly and in silence as sleet stung our cheeks. Down several steps, we turned into another opening leading to an iron door more massive than any of the others I had seen.
“The east basement,” Roberts said, inserting a key in the lock. “This is the place where no one wants to be.”
We stepped inside death row.
Against the east wall were five cells, each furnished with an iron bed and a white porcelain sink and toilet. In the center of the room were a large desk and several chairs where guards sat around the clock when death row was occupied.
“Waddell was in cell two.” Roberts pointed. “According to the laws of the Commonwealth, an inmate must be transferred here fifteen days prior to his execution.”
“Who had access to him while he was here?” Marino asked.
“Same people who always have access to death row. legal representatives, the clergy, and members of the death team.”
“The death team?” I asked.
“It’s made up of Corrections officers and supervisors, the identities of which are confidential. The team becomes involved when an inmate is shipped here from Mecklenburg. They guard him, set up everything from beginning to end.”
“Don’t sound like a very pleasant assignment,” Marino commented.
“It’s not an assignment, it’s a choice,” Roberts replied with the machismo and inscrutability of coaches interviewed after the big game.
“It don’t bother you?” Marino asked. “I mean, come on, I saw Waddell, go to the chair. It’s got to bother you.”
“Doesn’t bother me in the least. I go home afterward, drink a few beers, go to bed.”
He reached in the breast pocket of his uniform shirt and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, “Now, according to Donahue, you want to know everything that, happened. So I’m going to walk you ,through it.”
He sat on top of the desk, smoking. “On the day of it, December thirteenth, Waddell was allowed a two-hour contact visit with members of his immediate family, which in this case was his mother. We put him in waist chains, leg irons; and cuffs and led him over to the visitors’ side around one P.M.
“At five P.M., he ate his last meal. His request was sirloin steak, salad, a baked potato, and pecan pie, which we had prepared for him at Bonanza Steak House. He didn’t pick the restaurant. The inmates don’t get to do that. And, as is the routine, there were two identical meals ordered. The inmate eats one, a member of the death team eats the other. And this is all to make sure some overly enthusiastic chef doesn’t decide to speed up the inmate’s journey to the Great Beyond by spicing the food with something extra like arsenic.
“Did Waddell eat his meal?” I asked, thinking about his empty stomach “He wasn’t real hungry – asked us to save it for him to eat the next day.”
“He must have thought Governor Norring was going to pardon him,” Marino said.
“I don’t know what he thought. I’m just reporting to you what Waddell said when he was served his meal. Afterward, at seven-thirty, personal property officers came to his cell to take an inventory of his property and ask him what he wanted done with it. We’re talking about one wristwatch, one ring, various articles of clothing and mail, books, poetry. At eight P.M., he was taken from his cell. His head, face, and right ankle were shaved. He was weighed, showered, and dressed in the clothing he would wear to the chair. Then he was returned to his cell.
“At ten-forty-five, his death warrant was read to him, witnessed by the death team.”
Roberts got up from the desk “Then he was led, without restraints, to the adjoining room.”
“What was his demeanor at this point?” Marino asked as Roberts unlocked another door and opened it.
“Let’s just say that his racial affiliation did not permit him to be white as a sheet. Otherwise, he would’ve been.”