MONOLOGUE

SCENE 8

Lights. LANCE DAVIS stands Down Right. He wears an old suit and a dark hat and appears uncomfortable. Before addressing the audience, he humbly takes off his hat and holds it nervously in his hands. He takes a few steps Down Center, and then, in a voice that can’t hide his discomfort, he starts talking.

LANCE DAVIS

My name is Lance V. Davis. For more than thirty years, I worked at Sing Sing prison in the state of New York. My job was to prepare the electric chair for executions of prisoners. During my career, I witnessed more than 387 executions by electrocution. I’m not proud of it; it was a job like any other. I made a living.

                                 (A pause, then he resumes in the same tone of voice)

I remember those years at Sing Sing quite well. I remember every one of the 387 executions. Some were deserved, some others maybe a little less. I don’t know.

                                 (A pause, hesitates before resuming)

I am only giving my opinion. The courts decided in all of these cases, and that means they were guilty, right? I hope so, because it is a terrible death, you know, even though some went looking for it.

(A pause, then he resumes in a more animated voice)

I particularly remember one case, the one involving George Appel, Prisoner # 80562. He was one of the strongest men I ever saw. He was accused of the murder of a police detective in Glendale. When he sat down in the chair, he looked into all the witnesses’ eyes and said, “Well, my friends, you're soon gonna see a cooked apple!” Those were his last words. He died without a fight on January 9, 1928.

                                 (Some time passes)

Of course, there were those who were less brave when facing death. Some prayed; others cried. For some prisoners, several of us were necessary to hold them down in the chair. It was hardest for the family: the parents, the brothers, or sisters. The condemned always had the right to a last visit, and few refused it. I don’t know what I would have done. It must be terrible, that kind of good-bye.

                                 (A pause, clears his throat and continues with his story)

I particularly remember a mother who cried so much when they went to get her son that she fainted. Some waited for a miracle, like the prisoner who, tied to his chair, was asking all of us if the message had arrived. He was referring to a letter or a phone call that could have saved him. The hardest was to tie down those who claimed their innocence. That puts doubts in your head, you know! You can’t cover your ears, and you have to do your job. Once a prisoner is tied down, you leave him and close your eyes. You hope justice did its job right.

                                 (Pause)

I saw Sacco and Vanzetti crying their innocence up until the end. They were sentenced to death for the killing of two men during a robbery. Their trial created quite a commotion at the time—protestations in the US and everywhere in Europe. But nothing worked.

                                 (Pause)

Vanzetti was the first to be executed, on July 14, 1927. I remember because he insisted all the way to the end that he was innocent. It’s hard to listen to that kind of thing. It creates doubt. Nicola Sacco followed the same fate a few days later, on July 21, to be exact. He was much calmer. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were sad.

(A pause, then he continues in a tone that betrays obvious discomfort)

I often think of Sacco and Vanzetti. And fifty years later, when Dukakis ordered their names be cleared, I asked myself if I hadn’t been an accomplice to a mistake after all. But what could I have done at the time? I was only an instrument of justice; I was only doing my job.

                                 (A pause, then he resumes, more self-assured)

One thing is clear, I’m glad I wasn’t there for the execution of young Willie Bane. They had to try twice before he died. The kid was just sixteen when he got arrested for the murder of a white person in Louisiana. The first time they put the kid in the chair, they didn’t kill him. He did receive a shock, though, because witnesses confirmed seeing him make a hell of a leap in his chair. They turned on the current twice in the space of a couple of minutes, but the chair had to be defective, because young Willie didn’t die. They took him back to his cell. They said he was a little groggy. No kidding! That kind of current going through your body, you’ve got to feel it, no? It was in 1946, I think. The event made the top news for weeks. So much so, nobody wanted to take the responsibility of putting Willie back in the chair. He must have regained hope, that kid.

                                 (Some time passes, then in a lower tone of voice)

And then, two years later, they finally came to an agreement, and Willie Bane was electrocuted in a chair in perfect working order.

(Some time passes. He puts his hat back on his head and prepares to go. He hesitates. After a few seconds, he takes his hat off before speaking to the audience one last time)

A lot of people don’t understand why I did this job. I just say that after a few years it becomes a job just like any other. Habit sets in and you don’t even think about it any more. It becomes automatic. You do it because it has to get done. I have a family to feed, and I’ve got to survive, right?

                                 (Blackout)