Mountain Justice

Chapter 1Find the truth I turned the folded note over in my hand for at least the fifth time since sitting down. Mr. Allen had given it to me two days before, with the stern instructions not to read it until he had been executed. I looked around the room at the others, all called together for the same reason, to witness and authenticate the execution of Floyd Allen. Many were jurors from the original trials. A commotion on the other side of the one-way glass commanded my attention. I watched a very frail, but still proud, Floyd Allen, hobbling to the center of the room. Was the limp from the bullet still partially lodged in the old man’s hip, or from the shackles around his ankles? I watched as the 2-inch leather straps secured him to the thick wooden chair. I watched his body shudder as the electrodes were secured to his shaved arms. I grimaced as a hood was slipped over his head. Mr. Allen’s fingers began tapping the arm of the chair, as if tapping out a tune. A familiar tune. I saw his chest heave a few times. Then the lights flickered, as 2000 volts surged through the man seated before me. Floyd Allen’s fingers splayed, stretching as if trying to throw each knuckle out of its socket. I felt my own body jerk in response. His fingers twitched twice more. A puff of smoke gushed into the air. The body became flaccid, as if all essence had been drained. I felt light-headed as if I might actually faint, but then realized I had been holding my breath for several seconds. I tried to exhale, but the air caught in my lungs. My chest ached, burned. My God, am I having a heart attack? Finally, my breathing returned, in short, quick pants. I tried to stand, afraid I was going to vomit. Instead I slumped back into my chair, trembling. I felt numb, as if the life forces had been burned also out of me. The others began departing, some laughing, joking, but most silent, dumbstruck, like I at the horrific sight we had served witness to. I watched as the prison doctor placed a stethoscope to the man’s chest. He nodded his head, indifferently, looked up at the clock overhead, and apathetically signed the form that was placed in front of him. “You need to leave now,” a gruff voice interrupted me from my observations. “What?” I said, with a start. “You got to get out now,” the prison guard said, “the other witnesses need to come in for the boy’s execution.” I stood, took a step cautiously, praying my legs would carry my weight, and then I exited the room. After entering the hallway, a man approached me. I recognized him as being someone who had been ministering to Mr. Allen the last several months. “Are you Jeremiah Haynes, the journalist?” “Yes Sir, I am, and you’re Mr. Allen’s pastor, Dr. Scherer?” “Yes, I am,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve offered Mr. Allen spiritual guidance since he’s been here in Richmond.” He opened his Bible, removed several pages, and handed them to me. “Floyd said to give these to you. He said you’d know what to do with them.” “Thank you sir,” I said, slipping the papers into my coat pocket. “After you read them, you might have some questions,” the pastor said. “If so, I’ll be glad to meet with you.” The journalist in me wanted to sit down and immediately read them, but all I could think about was getting back to the newspaper, where my life could return to a hectic normalcy. There I would be away from the most horrific experience of my life. It was only then I remembered the folded note I still held. Slowly, I opened it. Scribbled in Floyd Allen’s childish handwriting were three simple words, FIND THE TRUTH Little did I know that my life, as I knew it, would never again be the same.