At six A.M. the Huntsville "Walls" Unit went to full lockdown.
Outside the redbrick walls, protesters were already gathering for Texas's first execution in thirteen years. Inhumane, picket signs read. Cruel and unusual. The "Texas thunderbolt" should never have been brought out of retirement. The death penalty was capricious and irresponsible.
An equal-sized crowd begged to differ. Cruel and unusual was still too good for Russell Lee Holmes. Send him to the chair. Let him fry. Execution candidate number 362 was worth bringing back the electric chair—in fact, they should bring back hanging.
Inside the Death House, where he'd been brought just the night before, Russell Lee Holmes settled his sparse frame more comfortably on the lone bunk in his cell and ignored them all. He had watery blue eyes, a thin face, and a hunched, lean frame. After thirty years of chewing tobacco and drinking soda, his teeth were crooked, stained, and half-rotted. He liked to pick them with his thumbnail. He definitely wasn’t a pleasant man or a brilliant man.
What he was was quiet and, for the most part, indifferent. Sometimes it was difficult to remember just what his small, finely boned hands had done.
In January, when Utah had ended the Supreme Court’s moratorium on executions by throwing Gilmore in front of the firing squad, there hadn’t been any doubt that Texas would reenter the death business. And there hadn’t been any doubt that Russell Lee Holmes would be the first man up to bat.
Maybe that’s because when the sentencing judge had asked him what he had to say about kidnapping, torturing, and murdering six small children, Russell Lee had said, “Well, sir, basically, I can’t wait to get me another.”
The warden arrived at Russell Lee’s cell. He was a fat, barrel-chested man, nicknamed Warden Cluck due to jowls that reddened and shook like a rooster’s when he was angry or upset. Russell Lee knew from experience that it didn’t take much to get Cluck upset.
Now, however, the warden seemed kind, even benevolent, as he unrolled the warrant and cleared his throat so the other four men in the Death House could hear.
“Here’s your sentence, Russell Lee. I’m gonna read to you your sentence. You listenin’?”
“They’re gonna fry my ass,” he said casually.
“Now, Russell Lee, we’re all here to help you today. To get you through this with less fuss.”
“Go to hell.”
Warden Cluck shook his head and got to reading. “It is the mandate of this court, that you, Russell Lee Holmes, shall be executed for the following crimes.”
He ran down the list. Six counts of murder in the first degree. Kidnapping. Rape. Molestation. All-round sadistic badass deserving to die. Russell Lee nodded to each charge. Not a bad list for the kid his mama had simply called Trash, as in “filthy white trash,” as in, “no betta than yer father, that piece of no good, filthy white trash.”
“You understand the sentence, Russell Lee?”
“It’s a little late if I don’t.”
“Fine, then. The Father’s here to meet with you.”
“I only want to speak with you, my son,” Father Sanders said soothingly. “To be with you in this time of crisis. To allow you to unburden your soul and understand this journey you are about to take.”
Russell Lee, always cordial, said, “Fuck you. I don’t want to meet no pussy God. I’m looking forward to meetin’ Mr. Satan. I figure I can teach him a thing or two about how to make babies scream. Don’t you got a kid, Warden? A little girl . . .”
The warden’s pudgy face had suddenly turned beet red. He stabbed a thick finger in the air while his jowls started shaking.