A few minutes later the coffee, doughnuts, and a bagel for the officer were delivered to the room. Laura was wide awake; I couldn’t be sure she’d slept at all. “You okay?” I asked. “I mean, considering.”

“I’m fine, I’m good.”

Hicker continually checked his watch. I assumed he was anticipating the arrival of the agents. I was wrong. At nine A.M. he turned on the TV. “This is gonna be something to see,” he said. He opened the door and waved the second cop inside. “Come on in, it’s starting.”

I shot a quizzical glance at Laura, who shrugged. “What’s going on, guys?” she asked.

Officer G. Hicker pointed toward the TV with his coffee cup. “The execution’s on.”

As if on cue Aaron Copland’s stirring Fanfare for the Common Man blasted through the room. Officer Hicker flicked through several channels to see if there might be a different view, but they were sharing the same feed. The establishing shot was directly in front and above the stage—in the balcony, I guessed. The scene was somewhat reminiscent of Hunger Games, although rather than taking place outdoors, this was in a theater. I recognized it right away, having spent a lot of hours there. “That’s the Kennedy Center,” I said, “the concert hall.”

The second Lake City officer looked like he was younger than Gunn. He was tall and so thin that his uniform hung on him as if it were still on the hanger. His name was Stillman. He sat down in the desk chair, which now was facing the TV, and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was so completely absorbed in the broadcast we could have walked out.

By now most of you have probably seen this live or online. The ratings rivaled the Super Bowl. Obviously many people wanted to watch it several times, as the video broke every YouTube record. This was my view from room 117 of the Good Night Motel. The stage was dimly lit. Three people dressed head to toe in black stood together on the left side of the stage, with their backs to the camera. A sleekly designed minimalist burnished metal gallows had been set up centerstage. A series of mirrors were arranged diagonally behind it, making it appear as if the gallows faded into infinity. A small sign was affixed to the front of the gallows, but at this distance, on that TV, it was impossible to read it. Everything on the stage was monochromatic, which made the large American flag at either end stand out boldly. Whoever was choreographing this had done a great job; it looked like a rock concert for ghouls.

“This is unbelievable,” Laura said.

“Isn’t it?” Stillman replied with excitement, looking over his shoulder at her and grinning broadly. His face was pockmarked, and several protruding teeth were chipped—a look that suggested he excelled as a human beer bottle opener. “Like, amazing, right?”

The anonymous announcer asked the audience to rise and join him in reciting the New American Pledge. Stillman stood; Hicker looked at him, then looked down at his own shoes. Following that, the announcer introduced the president, drawing out his name as if this were pro wrestling. “Eeeeee-yan Wrightman!”