Twenty-eight year old Robert Howard paced from one side of the cell to another. He looked at his watch. “Five more hours,” he muttered.
He looked up in time to see a guard walking by. “Hey you,” Robert spoke.
The guard stopped. Turning to Robert, he asked, “Yes?”
“Got a preacher you can bring here?” Robert asked.
“Sure,” the guard replied.
Robert sat down on the cot and waited. Finally the minister arrived.
“You send for a preacher?” the preacher, Bruce Andrews, asked.
“I didn’t send for anybody,” Robert replied.
“The warden said you asked for a preacher,” Bruce answered.
“Well the warden’s wrong,” Robert said sourly. “Maybe it was my forty-four year old mother.”
“Well you can tell your mother that her request has been heard,” Bruce said.
“And how am I supposed to tell my mother? I’m less than five hours away from a lethal injection—”
“Did you send for a preacher?” Bruce asked, when Robert didn’t say anything for a few moments.
“Yeah,” Robert admitted.
“Is there something you want to talk about?”
Robert shook his head.
“Then why did you asked for a preacher?”