The Hanging

All that I know and all that I ever will know will be taken from me in less than an hour. I was convicted in 1956 for killing a Kansas State Trooper. My trial lasted three days and I was found guilty after only forty-five minutes of deliberation. The judge sentenced me to be hung by the neck until dead in January of the following year. I gained a few years through the appeals process but I was denied a new trial. The only thing that can stop this now is a stay of execution by the governor based on new evidence, but this won’t happen. I am guilty of the crime and will face the punishment that draws nearer by the moment. So what can I do while awaiting my death? I guess I can tell you my story so you will better understand who I am and how this came to pass.

I was born in 1934 to Methodist parents. My father was a Kansas corn farmer and my mother looked after my five siblings and me. I was the last child. Before me came three brothers and two sisters. My father was able to eke out a meager living through farming. He always had the sweetest corn in the county but was still paid the same price per bushel as every other farmer. Our farm was much smaller than most in the county. Because of this and the fact there were eight mouths to feed, we had little money to use for pleasure. When I was six, my father had me working the fields with my brothers and sisters.

From the beginning I hated everything about farming. My father would have us up at five in the morning in the spring and in the fields again after school. During the scorching days of July, we would be out all-day tending the field or performing other necessary chores. My father was a tough taskmaster and I found I hated work from an early age. Hard work with little gain did not seem the way to go. I knew there had to be a simpler way. The other kids followed in my parents footsteps but I was not going to get pulled into that trap.

When I was nine years old, my parents took us into town to do some shopping. When we went to the five and dime, I split off from the group. I wandered around the store looking at all the toys and games, watching the hamsters in their cages, and making sure to keep as much distance from my family as possible. A bright, shiny silver object caught my eye. I stared at it from a distance. I could not take my eyes off it. I walked toward the rack that held it and saw that it was a pocket watch. I removed the watch and closing my hand around it, walked back toward my parents shoving it into my pocket as I approached them. I was terrified.

After we left the store and no one had stopped us, I had a feeling of jubilation. It was followed by the realization that if my parents found the watch, I would be interrogated like a prisoner of war. I could take the usual whipping and grounding which was fine, but I would then be watched closely everywhere we went. I threw it into the trashcan. I continued my little crime spree for many years but it would not turn into a serious gig until many years later.

When I was thirteen, I discovered both alcohol and girls. I flirted with girls in my class but nothing really came from it. I would steal an occasional kiss behind the gym but that was about it. My looks came from my father, who in the right light might be considered a handsome man. I was not unattractive but rather something closer to ordinary.

Alcohol was another story. From the time I had my first beer, I was hooked. I drank at every opportunity. I would sneak out at night, meet with my friends, and drink until the beer ran out. Most of the beer was stolen from parents, but some of it was purchased by anybody with a soft heart walking into a liquor store.

I was never able to contribute my share of alcohol, as my parents did not drink. I sometimes wonder if they knew what they were missing. I would scrounge up as much change as possible for payment, but they mostly let me drink because I made them laugh. I was rather surly when I was sober, but alcohol would bring out the comic in me.

I came home about four in the morning one night and found my parents sitting on the sofa waiting for me. My father got up and moved in close to me. He told me to breathe in his face. He accused me of being drunk and I made some half comic, half wiseass remark. His fist connected with my jaw in a seismic manner. I fell to the floor trying to readjust my jaw, which he knocked out of line. I looked up to see my father with his head bowed, shaking it back and forth. He told me to go to my room but surprisingly he did not ground me. The next night, I snuck out and returned home about three thirty in the morning. There was no one waiting up for me this time, so I climbed the stairs and made my way to bed without incident.

At fifteen, I discovered both whiskey and Rosalie Boyd. Rosalie was special. Although no great looker, she made up for it in other ways. Her disposition was always sunny, almost the opposite of mine. She was attracted to many of the same things I was and we made a good couple. The one thing she did not approve of was my nightly consumption of alcohol. I would go out drinking and where the beer made me happy, the whiskey made me surlier than normal. When I drank during the day I would see her at night and there would usually be an argument. I had a way of bullying people when I was drunk and Rosalie was no exception. At other times our relationship was good and somehow we managed to preserve the relationship for four years.

I went into the service when I was seventeen. I did not see any fighting, as all my duty was stateside. I worked in the motor pool on the day shift. Rosalie and I rented an apartment off base. Everything was fine for the first year but my drinking increased and we were arguing every night. I’m sorry to say that one night I hit her. The punch was enough to blacken her eye. Rosalie and I were destined to fail. She was far too good for me. She moved out shortly after that and I went on a two-week drinking binge. I ended up at a flophouse where the Military Police picked me up for being AWOL. I was assigned extra duty and restricted to the base for one month. Soon after that I went AWOL again turning myself in after three weeks. There was no extra duty awaiting me this time, only a dishonorable discharge.

I walked away from the service with a sour taste in my mouth. I found a lousy apartment and job as a mechanic in my hometown. The boss was a pain in the ass. I could never do my work either good enough or fast enough according to him. I soon quit this job and went to work for a competitor a couple of blocks away. The boss was better but I hated the job. To be honest, I just hated work in general. It seemed to me there was so little to be gained by it. My life was a crappy existence in a crappy apartment, eating crappy food, and swilling crappy whiskey because I couldn’t afford anything better. I made a friend at work that was as disappointed with the way his life had turned out as I was with mine.

We often found ourselves in a bar after work complaining about our lives, jobs, and lack of romantic interests. There was a lot of bitching to be done but little to gain from it. We discussed alternate ways to make a living with bank robbery always being at the top of the list. We would have a sardonic laugh as we compared ourselves to Frank and Jesse James. We would picture ourselves riding up on horseback, plumes of dust trailing behind us. We would dismount from our horses and pull out our Colt revolvers. We would walk into the bank and announce our intentions to rob the bank and people would cower. The teller would stuff bags full of cash and we would run out, laughing at the wanted posters that bore our faces. Off we would go into the sunset not needing to rob another bank for at least a month. We would live large and take what we wanted.

One night while sitting in the tavern, our drunken fantasies started to turn into a reality. Why just dream about something and never do it? We sat and talked of robbing the bank a few towns away. We discussed both the down and upside to it. When we were finished, we decided the upside was worth the risk. We talked about recruiting a get away driver. I thought of Daryl, a much bigger hell-raiser than I could ever hope to be. After running into him a few nights before, I saw that he hadn’t changed and if anything he had gotten a little worse. We decided that I would talk to Daryl and if he agreed, we would do it.

I spoke to Daryl the next week and it did not take long to convince him. He jumped onto the bandwagon after about ten minutes of discussion. The problem was, he did not want to be relegated to the job of driver - he wanted to be inside where the action was. I told him since it was Sam and I who thought up the caper, it would be us who went into the bank. I assured him the money would be split evenly and we needed a driver with nerves of steel. It took about another fifteen minutes to convince him but he came around.

Sam and I took turns watching the bank to see when money was transferred in and out. We decided we would go all the way and not just rob the registers but also gather up what was in the safe. We decided to steal a car for the robbery itself. We took turns walking into the bank, scouting the best position for Sam and the best for me, the sentry. I thought it best if Sam committed the robbery while I stood guard. Sam found this agreeable and we decided the next Friday would be the day.

When Friday came, Daryl pulled up in a maroon Mercury that he had stolen a couple of hours earlier. Sam and I jumped into the car and we were all quiet for the thirty-minute ride. Daryl pulled up in front of the bank as Sam and I donned our ski masks. We looked around and saw nobody on the street, so we jumped out of the car and ran into the bank. We knew from our surveillance of the bank that there was no guard. Sam immediately told the customers to lie down on the floor. They did as he said and I took up my position to watch the customers and for anyone who might come in during the robbery.

I heard Sam barking orders at the tellers and manager. He told the cashiers to bag up any money that was in the register and pushed the manager towards the vault. The manager was opening the safe when the front door to the bank opened. In walked an off duty Kansas State Trooper. He recognized the situation immediately and raised his hands. I swear to you now that I did NOT willfully kill that officer. The hammer on the gun was cocked and the sight of him set off a trembling in my body. It reached my finger, which involuntarily pulled the hair trigger. I watched the event as if it was in slow motion.

The cop never knew what happened. The bullet left the chamber and hit the officer in the chest. It pierced his heart and made a exit wound the size of a baseball before it embedded itself in the wood paneled wall behind him. He slumped forward and fell to the floor, blood running out on either side of his body. Sam wheeled around and looked at me. I didn’t know what to do. He immediately took the bags the tellers had gathered up and hurried towards me.

We ran out the door to make for the getaway car and saw two police cars coming up the streets – lights on – sirens blowing. Daryl gunned the car trying to escape but was run off the road by one of the police cars. By this time another car had joined in the chase and as we ran down the street, cash flowed from the bags. We made it about half a block and knew it was futile. Dropping our guns, we turned to face the officers. They were out of their cars and on us before we had a chance to lie down. They threw us to the ground and handcuffed us. They lifted us up and threw us on to the hoods of their cars. I do believe if they had known a fellow officer lay dead in that bank, they would have killed us on the spot.

We were taken to the Atchison county jail and put into a holding cell. We were soon separated and interrogated. I confessed to killing the officer. Why not? Every witness would point to me as the gunman. My father came to visit me once while I was in jail. He wanted to know what he and mother had done wrong. I tried to explain it was none of their doing. I tried to tell him I was bound for this all of my life. Since the day I saw the watch, I was hooked on stealing. I told him that I took complete responsibility for my actions and all the harm I had caused them, the police officers family, Rosalie, and all the others I had hurt through the course of my life.

Tears welled up in his eyes and I wanted to reach out to him. My parents were good people. They always thought of family first. I guess I had pretty much done everybody wrong during the short period of time I had been alive. I often lie awake at night replaying the incidents that took place on that Friday afternoon. When I was able to sleep, I would find myself waking up abruptly, bathed in sweat. Seeing that police officer falling to the ground was a memory that was etched into my mind. It was a memory that could not be healed. I looked at my father and he gave me a weak smile. He assured me that he and mother would be in court everyday and that they would pray for me.

“Knutson, it’s time to go.” I heard one of the guards saying.

So my date with The Black Tie Room has finally arrived. As I speak, the guards are shackling my wrists and ankles. I cannot move my feet more than eight inches at a time. This will make the final moments of my life agonizing. How long can a second last? An eternity? We are starting the longest walk of my life. Less than the length of a football field but it may as well be on the other side of the world.

The guards are talking among themselves. If I were taken out of the equation they would still be carrying on the same conversation. It is as if I do not exist, which after a few minutes I won’t.

We’re walking into the room and I see the gallows off to the left. I switch my attention to the right and see two rows of seats. The first row is filled with people with looks of hatred, waiting for the retribution that is about to come. I am guessing that any one of them would gladly trade places with the executioner. They would pull the lever that opens the trapdoor with a smile of satisfaction on their face. I can’t blame them - I would do the same if I were they. But in this case, they will have to be happy with a front row seat.

“Do you have any final words?” the warden asked.

I searched my soul deeply but the best I could come up with is, “I’m sorry.”

The warden replied, “Then you are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Proceed.”

I am led up the stairs. With each new step my legs buckle a little more. I’ve reached the platform and I am able to get a good look at the executioner. He has a sullen look on his face and it is one that says I have been here many times before. My palms are sweaty and my entire body is trembling. If only I could have a shot of whiskey to help me get through this. I am being led to the trapdoor and one of the guards is taking the shackles off my ankles. They are placing a black hood over my head and I can feel the rope around my neck. The guard is tightening it up leaving no room for error.

I hear them backing away and I am standing here alone. The sound of the lever being pulled is deafening. I am free-falling to my death. I feel the tautness of the rope searing into my neck. The fall did not break my neck. I am just hanging here, my feet desperately trying to find the ground below.

The pain is unbearable. I can feel my body in spasms beneath me and my lungs feel like they are about to burst trying to get a breath that will never come. My brain is fading into a void. There is a blackness I will never escape from. I guess it is time to say good-bye to a life that never was right for me.