“So you tell me... did this execution really make you feel safer? Did it bring us all closer together? Or did it drive us further apart?”

“I don't have children. I can't say I'd feel the same way if one of them was killed. And I don't have the answers-believe me, if I did, I'd be a lot richer-but you know, I'm starting to think that's okay. Maybe instead of looking for answers, we ought to be asking some questions instead. Like: What's the lesson we're teaching here? What if it's different every time? What if justice isn't equal to due process? Because at the end of the day, this is what we're left with: a victim, who's become a file to be dealt with, instead of a little girls, or a husband. An inmate who doesn't want to know the name of a correctional officer's child because that makes the relationship too personal. A warden who carries out executions even if he doesn't think they should happen in principle. And and ACLU lawyer who's suppose to go to the office, close the case, and move on. What we're left with is death, with the humanity removed from it." I hesitated a moment. "So you tell me...did this execution really make you feel safer? Did it bring us all together? Or did it drive us further apart?”

“Please tell me you did not bring me out here so you could tell me a very boring story about your sister.”

“So, Buckley, huh?" he asked, pulling away from me. "You think he deserves that much credit?""Well, he did bring us together and all," I said."Oh, is that what brought us together?" His brown crinkled together. "I thought it was that ten minutes of unprotected passion in a cheap Manhattan hotel room.""I'd give it six at most.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you I loved you when I knew I did. Most of all I'm sorry I gave up on us when you never did.”

“It was you and me, Tom. We did this to them. To us.”