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The witnesses milled about the white, sterile viewing room like they were at a macabre cocktail party, though barely a soul touched the refreshments offered in the adjoining lobby. Too sick with nerves to eat, they mainly took advantage of the strong, institutional coffee that brewed in a monster of an urn.
The most nervous person there was reporter Ian Jeffreys. It was he who had nicknamed Wilhemina Morecroft 'Wicked Willie'. As a cub crime reporter, he'd broke the story. It had made him, with the help of a bit of sensationalism. Now, as his editor had suggested, he had to follow it to the end. Only problem with that was, this was his first execution, and just looking at the gas chamber made him queasy. But he forced himself to look.
The gas chamber sat at the far end of the room and was a great deal smaller than he thought it was going to be. But then, how much room was needed to kill someone? In the
center of it was a high back, steel chair, complete with restraints. He moved closer to the windows and peered in, but there was not much more to see, apart from the
mug shots that lined the walls, almost out of view from the outside of the chamber. He had to put his head at an odd angle to see the eyes of the 'previously executed' staring back at him. Shuddering, he looked away and saw the door at the rear of the chamber that would soon bring its next victim. His concentration broke as Senior Warden Howell's voice boomed through the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please take your seats."
A hush came over the whispered conversation, and the only thing that could be heard for the next few moments were witnesses' feet shuffling on the linoleum floor to take one of the forty seats that had been arranged carefully like a theatre. Ian tried to take a seat in the back row, but Warden Howell led him to the front and took a 'Reserved' sign off the closest chair to the gas chamber windows. Ian Jeffreys shuddered at the bizarreness of it. Instead of dwelling on it, he pulled out his pad and pencil and tried to concentrate on the empty lines he saw in front of him. He knew he should have been taking notes on what was happening in the viewing room leading up to the execution, but just couldn't bring himself to look up. He wished now that he hadn't had that coffee. Even that miniscule amount of sustenance was making his belly turn. He focused his eyes on the railing in front of him and noticed the neatly stacked paper cups, and
realized now what they were for. It made him feel even sicker.
© Cynthia M. Piromalli 2003
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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