Sample from The Devil's Chaplain by Bruce Hartman
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Union Correctional Institution, Rayford, Florida Tuesday, May 8th 2012 1 p.m. The crowds begin to gather in a special section of the parking lot reserved for protesters. They formed two groups separated by a wooden barricade, both motivated by the same concern for the sanctity of human life. Save Chris Ritter, shout the placards of one group. Send a murderer toe ****, demand the others. When the media are absent, the two groups get along well enough, even enjoy a certain camaraderie. But when the TV news vans pulling the battle lines are drawn ritual marching, chanting, shaking of placards, shaking of fists on this rainy Tuesday. There special cause for excitement, the arrival of the condemned demands new attorney, a tall, striking African American woman named Charlotte Ambler. They all know who she is. They have seen her on TV. She climbs out of her rented Honda Accord, ignoring both groups and walk solemnly to the guard station, where she surrenders her briefcase and undergoes a security search. In spite of the wet weather, the protesters climb out of their Volvos and Subarus, their pickups and four by fours. Toe watch Charlotte Ambler is she has escorted into the prison, a middle aged white woman with puffy blond hair and a sad, defiant expression stands beside her pickup truck with a homemade sign. Pro life, pro gun, pro death penalty. Beside her, a man with a beer belly down to his knees stands with his fists clenched as if to protect her from Charlotte Schiegl hours at the lawyer and snaps a picture of her with her cell phone. A black woman with her head shaved and wearing a T shirt that says Take Back the night, shouts obscenities and a high pitched voice. Hard rain falls in. The crowd takes refuge under their umbrellas, with one solitary exception. A balding Asian man wearing a clerical collar who stands apart from both groups of protesters. In a lonely vigil, he faces the building where the execution will be carried out, clasping his hands and what appears to be silent prayer. The rain splashes against his bald head and drips over his blotchy face. His black eyes were unblinking, even in the rain. Both groups dislike him for refusing to take their side and for having certain privileges they don't have. Sometimes, instead of standing in the parking lot. He presents himself at the guard station and has admitted inside to visit death row. He's the only religious figure that condemned a man will talk to even the other inmates on Death Row Hatem. They call him the Devil's chaplain, Chris Ritter. If the state of Florida has its way, I will soon be deprived of the illusion that I exist. 18 days from today, at exactly six PM, I'll be strapped on a gurney and wheeled into a windowless room where a cocktail of toxic chemicals will be pumped into my veins. Only a miracle can save me. Not that I believe in miracles. I taught my students that the universe is matter and energy, acting in accordance with physical laws and constants that never vary. I still believe that nature is what exists, and it's all that exists. But as my life went on, I became acquainted with something I wouldn't have recognized When I was a student, I became acquainted on intimate terms with evil, not is a supernatural force but is part of the world and is part of myself. Like most academics, I started out naive and idealistic, hardly aware that there might be flaws in human nature or my own. My innocents wouldn't last long until the day of my arrest. I lead an outwardly productive, exemplary life. I was even famous in my own small way. People with my credentials and accomplishments don't end up on death row, do they? Yet here I am, the exception that proves the rule beneath the surface. I had much to be ashamed of, but I didn't commit the crime they're going to execute me for I didn't kill **** lean varga. As my last day approaches, I feel my sense of self disintegrating and spinning off in 1000 different directions. I'll try to hold it together long enough to meet the new lawyer they sent down for the final appeal. Charlotte Ambler. Not that there's any hope of survival in a system where innocents isn't a defense. I spend day in night rethinking the story of my life and how it might have turned out differently. It's a harrowing tale with enough might have bins to stock a parallel universe, and the crowning irony is that it all began with a stupid prank