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bathroom, or he knew he'd have even more to be embarrassed about. The sick feeling inside his gut was spreading like cancer. How could anyone bear this?
    "I didn't," Ray continued, choking. "I know you hear this all the time, but it's true. I didn't kill those people. I couldn't!"
    Without a word, they wheeled him down the corridor. They didn't want to hear what he had to say. Pardons weren't within their control. There was nothing they could do to stop it. And nothing he could do. Except lie there, bound and immobilized, his face wet with terror, blubbering like an infant. Wondering how God could allow this to happen. Wondering how human beings could do this to one another.
    And deep down, deep within him, desperate for it to be over. For the relief that would only come when the needle fell.
     
    In the death chamber, the phone rang.
    The bell made Andrew jump a bit. He knew that would be the governor's office, calling to give them the go-ahead. A moment later, the warden, a large man with a short haircut and wire-frame glasses, put the receiver down and said quietly, "It's time."
    Goldman's rabbi said some kind of prayer over him. Didn't sound like last rites, and he didn't hear any Hail Marys. Andrew didn't know anything about Judaism, but he knew what he'd be praying for if he were the one strapped to the table. Please God-get me out of here. And if You can't get me out of here, at least give me the strength to get through it without humiliating myself.
    On a signal from the warden, the two members of the chemical team-that was the user-friendly name they gave the actual executioners-would each push one of the two buttons on the machine's control panel. Only one worked, and they didn't know which. That way, they didn't know for sure who had pressed the button that put the man to death. One of the buttons would cause stainless-steel plungers in the delivery module to be lowered into the chemical containers, which would force the poisons through the tubes and into Ray Goldman's vein-first, sodium pentothal, then pancuronium bromide, then potassium chloride-to put him to sleep, then stop his breathing, then stop his heart. A medical doctor and nurse stood in attendance with an EKG, but other than giving notice when the heart had stopped beating, they had little to do. There wasn't much the doctor could do, since the AMA didn't allow doctors to participate in executions. The nurse would find a vein for the IV. And that was important. Lethal injection was supposed to be a quick, humane method of execution, but Andrew was all too aware of the Texas case in which it took the executioners forty excruciating minutes to locate a viable vein on a condemned heroin abuser.
    Ray Goldman didn't struggle, thank God. In the course of four executions, Andrew had seen about everything. One of the men actually told jokes before he was killed. One of them did finger exercises. What the hell he thought he was getting in shape for, Andrew couldn't imagine. All of them sweated, and all of them cried, eventually. Who wouldn't? How could they help it?
     
    "Carrie? Are you out there? Are you there, honey?"
    No one answered him, and with the tears clouding his eyes, he was having a hard time seeing anything. Was she here? Sure, she hadn't written in a while, hadn't come to visit for years, but he understood that. It was hard, waiting, hoping, when time after time their appeals failed and their prayers were squashed. But she was here with him now, even though he couldn't see her, right? She was, he was sure of it. She had to be.
    "I don't want to die like this," Ray said, to no one in particular. "I don't want to die like a dog, strapped to a table. I don't want to die alone."
    None of the guards would look at him. Even the rabbi didn't make eye contact.
    "It isn't right!" Ray shouted. "I don't care what you call it. Killing people isn't right!" He twisted as much as he could, which wasn't much. He strained against the straps that bound him to the