“No party hats inside,” a police officer’s radio crackles. State troopers in brown uniforms are frisking and questioning four Guardian Angels standing near a wooden snow fence with their hands behind their heads. One of them’s wearing a pink cardboard cone decorated with little clowns holding presents and a birthday cake.
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We’re waiting in a fenced-in area far from the prison, surrounded by unsmiling troopers and hundreds of revelers. Nobody’s drinking here, but for the mile or so leading up to the entrance the side of the road was littered with Bud and Miller Lite cans and bottles. Cars and trucks were lined up along the shoulder and we drove at least a mile before finding a parking spot. People were streaming along like tailgaters heading for the stadium after the keg runs dry. Judging from the raucous honking and hollering, most of them didn’t appear to have come, as we had, for the candlelight vigil. We wonder if they’ll identify us as death-penalty opponents.
A handmade sign proclaims WE HOPE YOU DIE LIKE YOUR LAST MEAL–CHICKEN! Another says KILL THE CLOWN!
I WON’T CRY.
It’s a mixed group of 40 or 50 people–young and old, black and white, a few ministers and priests. Some hold candles and wear anti-death-penalty stickers. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” a woman with bleached blond hair and heavy makeup screams at us. “What if your son or brother had been killed?” As she pushes closer state troopers suddenly appear and form a wall of brown, forcing her back, but the jeers continue. “Save some whales while you’re at it!” “Whaddaya belong to WTTW?” “See you later homoboy.” A teenager blows out a middle-aged woman’s candle, laughs, then lights his friend’s cigarette.
Across the street a cluster of death-penalty supporters hold signs reading “Finally Justice Prevails” and “Hasta la Vista Gayce!” A friend thinks the misspelling’s intentional.
