When the ovation ended, followed by a few overly enthusiastic hoots, the announcer said gravely, “To officially pronounce sentence, ladies and gentlemen, the Vice President of the United States, Arthur Hunter.”

In contrast to the president, the Hun was somber, reflecting the gravity of the situation. He took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and said to the absolutely silent theater, “Mr. Attorney General, will you reveal the prisoners please.”

The total lack of any musical accompaniment was far more dramatic than any theme might have produced. If there was ever going to be a hanging chic, this was raising the bar, or dropping the noose, to be more accurate. A curtain rose at the top of the gallows revealing two prisoners wearing long-sleeved work shirts and jeans, their heads covered with black sacking. It was impossible to determine anything about them: age, race, gender, even the color of their skin. They could have been anybody. Four men, in some type of shimmering black fabric, stood behind them, one at each elbow. Their hands were clasped behind them, chins jutted upward.

“I can’t watch this,” Laura said. “This is … I can’t.”

I reached across the divide between the beds and took her hand.

“You know what,” Stillman said with some annoyance, twisting in his chair, “maybe you should. Then just maybe people like you would appreciate how good you got it here. I don’t know what you did, lady, but you wouldn’t be here if you’d done what was right.”

Before she could reply I squeezed her hand. She looked at me and I shook my head.

The screen went black, with the exception of the two prisoners, who were illuminated in pin spotlights. Nooses dangled loosely around their necks. Their hands were tied together behind them. “Prisoners,” Hunter read, “after a fair hearing you have been convicted by a legally constituted panel of committing acts of terrorism against the people of the United States. You have been sentenced to be hung by your necks until dead.”

One of the prisoners folded at the knees, but the people standing behind each caught an elbow to prevent the condemned person from falling.

“Look at that coward,” Stillman said derisively, shaking his head in disgust.

That old cliché “the silence was deafening” has never been more appropriate. Occasionally someone in the audience coughed. Hunter said in a surprisingly calm voice, “Bring prisoner number one forward.”

As the prisoner who nearly collapsed was dragged forward on his knees, remote shots from the different locales appeared on the screen, as if they were showing all the nominees at the Academy Awards. A young student in the Hopping, Arizona, gym was leaning forward, his chin resting in his hand, his foot tapping restlessly. In the Aurora bus station, an attractive black woman was watching a monitor with equal intensity. In the bowling alley a group of men were gathered in the lounge, beers for breakfast, their heads craning upward toward the TVs above the bar. In the militia headquarters about a dozen Pistols, wearing ceremonial coonskin caps, were standing at attention saluting the TV.