As the noose was being placed around the prisoner’s neck, the camera slowly panned the entire stage, then pulled out of the shot all the way back to the top of the theater so the entire stage and front rows of the audience were visible. “Mr. Executioner.”

Talk about random thoughts. I remember wondering where they had found an executioner on such short notice. I was a bit surprised the executioner wasn’t shown. I wondered if that was in his or her contract. Then I wondered who had negotiated that contract. Do executioners have agents?

The pin light tightened until the prisoner was the only thing visible, as if he or she were standing in their private sun. The noose looked like a thick rope necklace. The executioner waited. The tension grew. The prisoner was sobbing and muttering something unintelligible. Still, they waited.

Without warning, soundlessly, the prisoner dropped out of the spotlight, which remained locked on the suddenly ominous void. My whole body jerked involuntarily. I expected to hear a thump from the trapdoor, but it must have been padded, which made it even more brutal. The audience gasped, then cheered.

Cheered.

“Jesus,” Laura whispered.

“Yes!” Stillman shouted almost simultaneously.

The reaction of the people in the insets was mixed. The Hopping teenager’s mouth hung open. The black woman crossed herself. The men in the bowling alley lounge cheered. The militia members shook hands.

G. Hicker wordlessly crumbled the Styrofoam cup in his hand. It made an odd squeak. He threw it toward the wastebasket but missed. It bounced off the wall and settled on the frayed carpet.

The dangling body was not shown to those watching at home.

As the pin light faded to dark, a second pin light simultaneously came up on the second prisoner. That person took a bold step forward, then stood rigid, defiant, head held high, facing straight ahead as if staring at the audience through the cloth hood. Standing motionless in the spotlight, the prisoner looked like a statue of nobility.

The trapdoor opened. This time the sharp snap of the prisoner’s neck cut through the silence, followed by the straining cries of new rope.

The stage went black—impenetrable black. Seconds later, accent lighting beneath the gallows brightened, backlighting the bodies rotating slowly, as if dancing in the slowest motion. They were reflected in the rear mirrors, creating an infinitely long chorus line of black-clad bodies, hanging, turning in unison. At that moment I had no doubt the director was going to be nominated for an Emmy.

The hall was silent for several seconds. Then one person began applauding, which grew quickly into a great wave of approval. It grew louder and louder in approval. The chant began, Wrightman! Wrightman! Wrightman! It ended when a beaming Vice President Hunter appeared at the podium and waved them quiet. “That concludes our purpose here this morning,” he said, his voice flat and void of any emotion. “I hope this serves as a warning to all who would do harm to this great nation that this is the inevitable fate that awaits you. God bless America.”