Chapter Three
Warden Tummelson knows what it’s like to be God. He controls these men’s lives - he controls their deaths. This penitentiary houses the worst the human race has to offer: the baby eaters, the dismemberment junkies. He’s the gatekeeper on death row. After eleven years here, Tummelson does feel as though he’s the one imprisoned. He does the best job he can, but long ago he stopped being able to get clean. No one knows he has begun to wash compulsively and last week in the shower, he scrubbed the skin off his left elbow. When his sister Amy gave birth, three weeks ago, to his first niece, he stood next to her white fluffy crib in the hospital, but refused to pick her up. He would not. He has been permanently and irrevocably sullied. He walks slowly over to his office window as Wilkins and Doctor Kim stand on the other side of his desk and wait. Tummelson wonders how he wound up here in this room making these kinds of decisions. How he wound up a prison warden at all. It wasn’t something he planned for or worked toward. He thinks most people wind up capriciously in their life’s work - it is a surprise instead of a thoughtful journey to a specific choice. It requires so much focus, and even more importantly, the suspension of derailing events to successfully follow a path all the way. He would love to know how many people, if asked, would say ‘oh, yeah, I’m doing exactly what I planned,’ or for that matter, ‘exactly what I wanted.’ Kids, when asked in grade school what they want to be when they grow up, answer something interesting, something important. All children think they’re important. It will be years before they realize they are a tiny component in a big ugly human machine, and they are easily replaced. Some folks, he believes, never realize that, maybe those are the lucky ones. He would be willing to bet that no child, when asked to speculate on their future, says ‘I want to be a middle manager at a packaging plant,’ or ‘a salesman in a discount clothing store,’ or ‘a prison warden? Tummelson believes most people cannot trace the path that got them where they are. It is circuitous and rife with intervening events, a sick parent, a pregnancy, an application denied, a broken heart, a lack of funds. The immediate necessity of making a living surely led him from one stopgap job (where he never planned to stay) to another, and then another, and so here he is today, standing in this stifling office with a desk drawer full of Purell antiseptic gel. He turns to Wilkins and the frustration shakes in his tone.
“Come on, Wilkins, every damn inmate on death row finds God at the end. Ben Burne? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’ve been watching him for a long time. He saved my life. I’m telling you it’s genuine.”
“During the First National Bank robbery, which he pulled with his brothers, he shot a twenty-year-old teller in the face for sneezing.”
“I know.”
“Two years ago at the Miami Brinks holdup he drove the truck over a three-year-old who got in the way.”
“I’m not saying he’s a good guy, I’m saying he’s a guy with a chance to do something good.”
Warden Tummelson turns his attention to the reserved, small-boned, Doctor Kim who waits quietly in his finely tailored suit. His refinement is an incongruity here. Tummelson is certain he would not last eight minutes on the inside. This is a man, Tummelson thinks, who probably did choose his life and he has a flash of envy.
“Why, doctor? Why can’t you do it here?”
Doctor Kim raises his eyebrows, “In a prison infirmary? Impossible. Even if you could construct an appropriately outfitted operating room, I could never achieve any level of sterility in this environment. The danger of infection would be too high, and so it would not be a feasible alternative.”
Not clean. Yes, that is surely true. No one knows that better than Tummelson. He swings around and paces back and forth while fighting a nearly panicked compulsion to wash his hands. The room feels hot and a drip of sweat crawls down his back underneath his shirt. Tummelson crosses back to the tiny window and pushes it open. Crisp heavy air wafts in. He breathes. It helps. “Doctor, I understand you’re a normal person, and so, you can’t really conceive of what kind of men live here.”
Doctor Kim responds with calm authority, “Look, I don’t care if he found God, lost God, or ate God. There’s a young woman who’s going to die if she doesn’t get that kidney. If your prisoner is willing to donate it’s unconscionable not to find a way.”
“If I agree to this I want armed men inside the operating room.”
“Again, infection. He’ll be unconscious, Warden, under a general anesthetic.”
“Not good enough.”
“The guards could be allowed directly outside the operating theater looking in. There’s a window. What if I arranged for that?”
“Jesus.” Warden Tummelson is torn. He paces with a furious energy. He does not trust. How can this be done without risk? He didn’t mind playing god with these degenerates, but he’s furious and frustrated to be in this position with someone else’s life, someone good and deserving.
“Look.” Doctor Kim plays his trump card. Warden Tummelson looks over. He is holding a 5 x 7 of the pretty, smiling young woman.
“Aw, shit, that’s unfair.”
“No. That’s reality, Warden. You’re going to kill this man in a month and this woman is going to die without his help. This is a no-brainer to me.”
“You don’t live in my world, doctor.” Warden Tummelson rubs his temples; they’re just bursting. He can feel the blood pulsing through the veins. His blood pressure is probably soaring again. He pulls the Excedrin bottle out of his pocket and downs two pills without water. Then, he turns to Wilkins, “Okay, bring him in. Let’s see what he has to say.” Wilkins walks over to the office door, opens it and steps out of the room. Tummelson pulls open his top desk drawer, squirts Purell into his palm and rubs vigorously. He offers it to Doctor Kim who declines.
“You ever been to a penitentiary, doctor?”
“No, Warden, I have not.”
“Not much in the way of curb appeal.”
“No.”
“You and I are alike in some ways, you know. We’re both God.”
“How is that?’
“You intervene to prolong life. I intervene to end it.”
“I suppose. Although, Warden, I am not a fan of capital punishment.”
Tummelson smiles and nods, “Yes, well, folks who spend their lives in friendly company, and who debate the death penalty during nicely turned out dinner parties rarely are.”
“I am sure your perspective is different for very good reason. And while I agree there are those who do not deserve to live, humans are fallible, the legal system is fallible, and so we cannot implement permanent solutions with fallible hands.”
Tummelson lays his eyes on Doctor Kim. Here is a face from the outside, from the other world. He knows Doctor Kim can see the damage in him. He just cannot care about that anymore.
Tummelson speaks in a whisper, as if he is imparting something terribly important, “Doctor, we tell our children, before they go to sleep at night, there are no monsters.”
“Yes, we do.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes, it is.”
“The monsters are us.”
“Sometimes.”
“No. They’re always us. Just not all of us - but us.”
Wilkins returns leading Ben Burne into the warden’s office. Ben’s wrists and his ankles are secured in heavy chains and he shuffles in with his eyes lowered. Ben seems literally smaller and certainly less powerful than he did in the chapel. The palm of his left hand is completely wrapped with white gauze and tape but still a little red seeps through.
Warden Tummelson asks, “So, Burne, you want to donate your kidney?”
“After next month I really won’t be needing ‘em, Warden. You can take ‘em both if you like.”
Tummelson studies Ben: his posture, his expression, his demeanor - all submissive.
“You think giving away your organs is going to relieve your conscience?”
“Nothing can do that. Living with myself is much harder than dying will be.”
Tummelson leans in and Ben can feel the warden’s breath on his face. “You don’t fool me, Burne. There isn’t a civilized cell in your entire pathetic body.”
“I saw the girl on the TV. Said she needed a kidney. Just thought she could have mine is all. Simple as that.”
“You deserve to suffer.”
Ben raises his repentant eyes to Tummelson and a tear forms, “I’m going to hell for eternity.”
The warden exchanges a look with Wilkins who shrugs. “Hell will be a picnic compared to what will happen to you, if I agree to this, and you try something.”
“There are no picnics in my future, Warden.”
Tummelson’s temples throb. He notices that his mouth is dry. Stress. He is pissed beyond rationality to be responsible for this decision. He glances over at Doctor Kim who takes that moment to hold up the picture of the girl.
“Maybe since you’re feeling so holy and contrite,” Tummelson asks, “you’d like to tell me where we can find your brothers.”
“If I knew I’d tell you. I live every day in fear that they will hurt someone else. If I could stop it, I would. But they, too, will answer to God in the end.”
“Right. Get him out of here. I need to think.”
Wilkins takes Ben by the arm and they leave the office.
Doctor Kim, “Warden, I do not see your conflict here.”
“Doctor, no offense, but you have no idea what you’re asking.”
Doctor Kim walks over to Tummelson’s desk and tosses the picture on it. The young woman’s face smiles up at him.
“This is Jennifer Booker. She has three children under seven. Look at this while you’re thinking it over.” Then, he leaves too.
* * *