My
Last Hanging—Thoughts on an Execution
(Juneau, Nov. 10, 1939)
by John L. Gaffney
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| Last
night when I walked home from work I had a little blue card in my shirt
pocket. It might have been a theater ticket or a football ticket, but it
wasn't. It was a ticket to admit me to a room so I could see a man die.
I took the card out of my pocket several times to read the words.... The next morning I awoke 15 minutes earlier than necessary; it was still quite dark at 6:45. When I was younger, I used to wake early whenever I was going hunting or on a camping trip. It was the same with this. I awoke and tossed about a little, wide awake. At 7 I rose and drew back the shade to look out the window. Outside the sky was gray and depressing. It was raining a little, and it seemed right that the sky should be overcast, that rain should be falling, especially that no sunlight should be playing anywhere about the streets or the hills. I turned away from the window and began to dress. While I put on my clothes, I had thoughts of him — putting on his own clothes for the last time. It seemed so pointless to get dressed just to die. To tie your tie about your neck, to draw it up tight into a fine knot. To feel it about your throat, like a rope. Hah! What might have been a laugh died away in a shiver, from the cold perhaps but more from my thoughts. When at last I had made myself ready to walk downtown to the newspaper office, I picked up the little pale blue ticket, placed it firmly inside my shirt pocket again — peered in after it to be sure it was there — and left the house behind me. Al was already at the office, looking over the early wires. It was 10 minutes before 8. We were to be at the courthouse before 8:30. Then they were to lock us in jail — inside, just like him. But we would come out again. We would walk out and breathe the air into our lungs and see the overcast skies. For a few minutes Al and I went about the office, quietly, talking a little now and then. Then we walked across the street to get a cup of coffee; we had planned that, too. "I would rather eat a little something," I'd said, thinking, " '...The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast.' " We didn't talk much while we drank our coffee and ate our rolls; instead, we watched the clock on the wall. Pretty soon a man across the room rose from his seat, paid his check, put on his coat and paused at the end of the counter where Al was sitting. They exchanged a few words. When he'd gone, Al said to me, "He'll be there, too. He's one of the eight." It was 10 minutes past 8 now. At 8:30 they would lock the doors. No one else would be allowed in; no one would come out. We paid our bills and walked back to the shop. The rain had stopped. After a brief stop in the office, we started walking the four and a half blocks to the jail. At the big wire gate were three or four men from the marshal's office. They were moving about in little circles to keep warm. As we passed through the gate, one of the men reached out and we handed him our little blue tickets, just like entering the stands to see a game. That door over there, he said, pointing toward an ordinary white-painted door at the front of the old building. Upstairs was the old courthouse; downstairs was the federal jail. We opened the door and stepped inside. In the dim light we could see a group of men standing silently in a kind of haphazard row. Most of them were holding their hats in their hands; their coats were still on. The stage is all set, I thought momentarily; we're in the very room. Al thought the same thing for that first instant; he told me so afterward. But we were wrong. A glance or two around the interior told us that. We heaved out our breath in the relief that there would be a few minutes to take it easy. A man just didn't walk into a room from the world outside and watch a man die; there had to be some formality, some walking stealthily from room to room, down dimly lit corridors, hearing strange sounds, seeing the shadow of the noose on the wall high up on the gallows. We looked and saw a door that said "Main Tank." We saw another door that said "Marshal's Office"; inside, a brighter light was shining. A little man in shirt sleeves wearing an eyeshade came up and asked our names. We told him and he seemed immediately satisfied with our reply; we were expected. "Come in here and sign your name," he said, moving toward the marshal's office. We followed him in and saw that the marshal was wearing shirt sleeves and a vest. On a table were some papers. An attorney — another witness, like ourselves — was signing his name. You can sign now, the marshal said. Al picked up the straight pen and dipped its point into the ink bottle. He signed once and made as if to lay the pen down. "You're not through yet," the marshal said. "There are three to sign." Al signed the other two and handed the pen to me. I thought at once that my hand was sure to shake a little. I hated that, for they would watch me. I started to sign the first one and I felt their eyes on my hand; it was trembling a little. Not bad, though. Probably theirs shook worse than mine. Deliberately, I took plenty of time. I put the one I had signed under the other two, slowly. I signed the others the same way. When I stood traight again, another fellow was there to sign. He peered cautiously over his glasses at the writing on the top paper. "What's it say, Bill?" he asked the marshal, half joking. "How do I knowI'm not signing your note?" He went ahead and signed then, while we smiled at his joke. We walked slowly back into the outer office and stood idly about near the others. There were about 10 of us all together then, counting the marshal and his men. Federal law says that 12 shall witness the execution; that includes the doctors and all. Doctors — to feel a man's pulse and tell you he's dead. Hardly anyone talked now. We just moved about, or stood still and looked at our watches. I made sure mine was wound and ticking. I was to note the time it took him to walk to the gallows, the time before he was pronounced dead. We needed that for the stories; the people would like that. And I was to time his last breaths; they would like that part especially. I laid my hat down on a little table toward one side of the room where I had noticed a couple of others. As I put it there, I noticed a sort of chart above the table listing the number of prisoners: number of men, number of women. I think there were about 40 altogether. I turned around again and just stood leaning against a post. I felt better when I leaned against something. It was warm in there, and so quiet. I looked at the man standing to my left. He worked at the theater and I'd seen him many times, but I didn't know his name. He looked around and after a while he looked at me, only half seeing me, and muttered, "I don't know whether I'm going to like this sort of thing or not." His lips moved in a half-smile. I said nothing. Every now and then one of the marshal's assistants would pause in his walk past the main tank and peer through a hole in the wall. That is, I guess he peered through a hole. I couldn't see a hole, but he was doubtless seeing inside when he looked like that. "Where is he?" a fellow said, whispering to anyone who heard. "Right in there," answered the man from the other daily. He motioned toward the main cells with his hand, which still held his hat. "Oh," the first man said, and as one we all looked toward the doorway. From the rear of the jail came the sound of several men laughing, as men laugh over a joke at the breakfast table. We looked at one another and said nothing. One of the two doctors was late. It was a few minutes past 8:30. The door was to have been locked by now. The marshal was cursing, angry. I was only disgusted with a fellow who kept nearly 15 men waiting at a time like this. "What's his phone number?" one of the deputies asked. He picked up a directory and found it and phoned. Yes, he was just leaving; he would be right there. So we stood and waited. I grew restless again and began walking about, pausing near the marshal's open doorway. A deputy was at the filing case by the desk near the other door. He pulled open one of the drawers, reached in his hand and brought up a little ball of black cloth, which he handed to the marshal. The marshal tucked it hurriedly up under his vest. That was the hood, I thought to myself. I wondered how many times it had been used before; never in this jail, but somewhere else, perhaps. I wondered who had worn it last, if it'd been washed since then. I thought it must have an unpleasant, musty smell. In a few minutes there was a sound outside the door and the doctor had come. He was barely inside when the marshal said, "Let's go — let's take these fellows around to the other side." I picked up my hat, put it on slowly and marched outside with the others. We walked single-file around to the side of the building. The gallows had been erected under the big wooden stairway leading up to what had once been the courtroom. Now we saw a square of new-looking boards that had been tacked loosely onto the side of the stairs, covering what would have been the open side of the stairwell. The deputies quickly loosened a couple of nails, and the entire section of new boards shielding the staircase fell away. We saw then a small space, no larger than a small kitchenette, under the stairs. On a platform between a flight going up and a flight going down were two benches, one in front of the other. Each bench was long enough for four men to sit. There was room under the stairwell to stand if you were careful. Without words we pulled our coats around us to avoid catching them on the sides of the entrance; we stooped our bodies forward and half-climbed into the cubbyhole. Then they raised the temporary wall back around the stairwell to shield us from the outside an nailed it in. I saw a water pipe at the far end of the back bench. I touched it, and it was cold and wet. Water dripped from somewhere near its top. Sit here, I thought, and there will be something to hold on to if you want to. I looked at the watch on my arm and sat down. The backs of the men on the bench in front of me were so close my knees touched them. I was thankful it was almost like outdoors — cold and damp. In the movies it had always looked warm; you could easily feel faint there. But this was fine. A few words went around then as we settled ourselves. "Hasn't anyone a drink," the attorney asked. No one had. "Has he had anything to drink this morning? Any dope?" somebody asked. Not a thing, someone else said. The marshal said he ate a good breakfast, but he slept only about an hour and a half last night. He's taking it pretty well. Directly in front of the first bench there ahead of me was a wire screening, not fine wire, but wire with holes big enough for eggs to go through — big enough so that if you didn't think about it you forgot it was there. Below that was a stairwell pit perhaps 15 feet deep, formed by the stairway and the basement. The floor of the basement was concrete; it was black-looking and wet. Then, opposite us, across the pit, was a little platform, about 12 feet by 5 feet. In the center of the platform was the trap. Showing a scant few inches of itself around a wide plank nailed to the side wall was the rope. It looked new and strong and thick. Off to the right of the platform was a door leading to the jail and the office from which we had come a few moments before. Now the sound of someone walking came from near the door. The marshal appeared. "There is to be no talking after he comes out," he said. Then he went off again. "What did he say?" someone asked, leaning forward. "No talking after he comes out," I answered, and at least two others answered with me. Then we all fell silent. We looked at our watches; I put my wrist to my ear to hear the ticking. It was 17 minutes before 9 o'clock. I looked first at the trap, then at the pit. It looked a long way to the bottom, and so damp and dark, like a dungeon. He would fall four feet, they'd said. That was a long way, too. Now there was another sound outside the door. Two clergymen appeared and took their places on the platform, just a foot behind the trap. There were more sounds at the doorway. This would be it. First the marshal appeared, his arm holding someone else's arm, his body half-hiding another man. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, three of them were there: the marshal, a deputy, and between them a man — a Native — I had never seen before. He was the man. Then I learned I had been wrong about one thing: I'd decided he would not face us, but stand sideways; but it was not that way. He stood there, not more than 15 feet away, looking at us. He looked as we had expected, like the full-blooded Native he was. He wore blue serge trousers, black shoes, a white shirt, and a dark tie, well-knotted and in place. His hands and arms were bound tightly to his sides with canvas bands. Seconds ticked away. A few inches behind me, at my right side, water dripped and struck the boards. Like drops from a faucet: steadily, just so fast, no faster. The marshal shook out another long canvas strap and stooped to adjust it about the man's legs. As he finished his task, he stepped back a little. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Nelson?" he asked. We expected a brief negative nod of the dark head, but he spoke — his voice a half-sob — whispering, barely more: "I am innocent of killing my mother-in-law," he murmured. "I don't want to hang. I still say I am innocent." His head was bowed forward. You could feel if not see the hot tears in his eyes. You could feel his trembling in your own body. Had I any thought of a criminal about to pay for his crime? Any thought of a disreputable and dangerous killer about to give his life for the one he had taken? No — nothing like that. Only that a man was about to die. That there — almost within reach — was a man like ourselves. A young man. Who somewhere had a wife, had once slept an untroubled sleep, had only the day before laughed and hoped for life. I was aware as I sat there of some unusual feeling that was strange to me. It was vague then, with no time to fathom it. But now I know: It was the certainty, the sureness of it. I knew for the only time in my life that within minutes this man who now lived as I lived would be dead. A stone. Lifeless, cold and stiff. Men have been stricken with fatal diseases and we have known they would die. We have held our buddies in our arms at the front and watched the last breaths spend themselves. But even then there had been hope, and when not hope, the awareness that death might stay away awhile. But none of that now; nothing less than a miracle could save this fellow and there are no miracles in this life. Soon he would be a stone. From under his vest the marshal brought out the black hood. With the deputy standing on the other side, assisting him, he began to draw the thing onto the man's head. I had not felt too bad until the priest had appeared in his long, black robes; I had seen those robes and tears had come. Nothing like tears came now, but still I hated the black, hated the hood. Take it easy now, you fool, I thought to myself. Look away for a few seconds. So I dropped my eyes and looked into the pit; then up again. They were having trouble with the hood. It was too small. Halfway on, its edge caught onto the man's right ear. "Fix my ear," he said quietly. His last words. Like a small boy who is about to be punished and, with a half-sob, begs his parent to be careful not to break the toy in his pocket. Now, all was ready. The marshal and his deputy stepped back nearer the clergymen. The marshal reached up and released the rope from its peg and began at once to place it about the man's neck. The rope looked even stronger now as it was drawn tighter and tighter about the neck. The noose looked as it should have looked — the movies had been faithful here, all right. The marshal stepped back, raised an arm toward his deputy, and his lips formed a half-audible "OK." The deputy reached somewhere toward the back wall, and at once a clicking noise began. It was loud in the quiet, widely spaced clicks, which seemed seconds apart — loud yet muffled. The water near me dripped on: Drip, drip...click, click...drip...click...drip...click..... Then the louder sound of the trap's springing. There it was: The square of wood on which he stood fell away and he fell toward the pit. Fell — then swung. Not a movement. Just swinging, turning, now right, now left, like a stone on a string. For bare seconds no one moved. We stared, not blankly, not in terror, not sick — just sadly, silently, a little wondering. We roused ourselves then to move a little, as the marshal and the others walked off the platform and started downstairs to help the doctors. The body swung, still some distance from the floor of the pit. Boxes were brought over, and one of the doctors climbed up finally. And then said one word: "Dead." We looked at our watches again: six minutes had gone by since the clicking had stopped. It was 8:56. Directly we heard men outside our cubbyhole and the nails were drawn out, the partition fell away and we crawled out into the cold air. We stretched and brushed off the backs of our coats. "All the witnesses leave the yard," the marshal said. As we went through the big gate, a long, black hearse turned up the driveway. It was jet-black, the blackness shining even without sun. Al and I hurried toward town again without talking. We trembled a little, perhaps, but there was nothing else unusual. It was not so bad. In the bar to which we'd made our way, we called for scotch and soda. "Easy on the soda," said Al. And I felt the same way. We drank and returned at once to the street. The rain had begun again. Al turned up the street, heading back to the shop. I made my way toward the waterfront. A boat was whistling and there would be people aboard. People who moved and did not turn and twist, like a rock on a string. |
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Gaffney, John L. (1995). "My Last Hanging—Thoughts on an Execution (Juneau, Nov. 10, 1939)." In Melissa S. Green, compiler (1998-2009), Focus on the Death Penalty (website). Justice Center, University of Alaska Anchorage. <http://justice.uaa.alaska.edu/death/alaska/hanging.html> (accessed date). [First published in We Alaskans, Sunday magazine of the Anchorage Daily News (23 Apr 1995)]. |
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