The Front Gates Test

By: Olivia Rogers

About 12:00 sharp, I get ready for an honest day’s work. I clock in, fill out some paperwork, and suit up in a white protection suit. I clear my mind of any emotions or breach of conscience. Taking a deep breath, I walk into a dark chamber where a large, tattooed man is sprawled out on a table with all his limbs strapped down. He has sweat beads rolling down his neck and cheeks. He also has an IV tube sticking out of his arm. I walk over to the table like a professional and take a single glance at the man’s red face, he failed the test. I look away and slowly push down a pump of a transparent liquid. Within minutes, I take out the end of a stethoscope which I put to his chest. No heartbeat. I zip him up in a bag and sign a death warrant as more people in suits come in to take him away. I fill out a few more boxes on the form before looking away from my clipboard and through the glass at a brunette woman about this man’s age, next to an older, wrinkled woman who has tears streaming down her cheeks. My guess is that’s the mother and his wife or sister. I don’t know if I will ever understand the comfort or pleasure of having an audience when you die. Whoever they are, I’ve only been in their position once and I immediately declined the opportunity to watch. No emotions belong in this field of work, but I naturally sympathize with those women and want more than anything to comfort them personally. I get my mind out of the pits of pity and back to work as I walk out of the chamber, refusing to look back. 

Am I a killer? That’s a question I struggle with whenever I get up in the morning. If you consider the literal meaning to be a person who ends the life of another, then the answer is “yes.” My job in our proud American society is to literally end the lives of others. I have no say in their fate, I am simply tasked in pushing liquid out of a tube. I have what the state has deemed an “evil unredeemable being” laid out in front of me, with their lives in my hands, but I did not put them there. 

There is no way around it, I am an executioner. No fancy title like “lethal injection administrator” or “death row head officer.” I’m just former officer Aurnia Pressner, the executioner for the state of Idaho. I’m only 35 and law enforcement has decided that this is the best use of my talents. Even my loving husband, Doyle Pressner, the prosecutor for many of my “victims,” couldn’t be more proud of me. He’s actually my third husband. I’ve seen convicts on their fifth spouse, until they decided to shoot them in their sleep to avoid the hassle of another divorce which is how they ended up on my table. I’m not that extreme. My first husband, Hiram I had the guts to divorce. Technically, our marriage was annulled. I don’t come from a particularly religious background (more on that later), but he did. The only way out of a marriage other than death had to be on grounds for annulment. So often I hear of women murdering their husbands because of those corners they are placed in. I’ve executed women like that. I obviously don’t agree with what they did but I can’t help but sympathize with their position. What he or I did to qualify for an annulment is our business, but I’m glad it happened. He was thirteen years my senior and we weren’t as happy as a life-long relationship needs to be.

My second husband, Carl was (ironically) given the death penalty. Killed his sister, Hunith, her boyfriend and their unborn child. For the longest time, I claimed that it was the biggest shock to me and that I never saw it coming. Looking back on it now years later, the signs were there. He was my rebound from Hiram and that’s all I thought it would ever be. But, we didn’t use protection and I got pregnant. I had reservations about having a child with a man I hardly knew, but I was unable to have children with Hiram and the maternal potential at my fingertips engulfed me. Carl had always wanted to be a father and was completely in support of me. He wanted more than anything to make our relationship work. We dated throughout the entire pregnancy and decided to get married once our little “Liam Carl Jansen” arrived. Poor Liam was stillborn, but Carl wanted to marry me anyway. We did and planned on having more kids the right way once we got our lives settled, that’s around when I joined the force. Carl had always been very possessive of his little sister, Hunith, ever since they were kids. He would not take to any boyfriend she ever brought home. The one she decided to move in with after we married, he hated more than any of them. He was a junkie, had a kid with another girl, and had a bad attitude on top of it. Hunith staying with this guy was not just to defy Carl but in his mind, a betrayal. To him, she was choosing this low life over him. He brought that anger home with him every day. He was never abusive per say, but he did hit me one night after a very loud phone conversation with Hunith. If I could turn back the clock, I’d check him into counseling or anger management right then. Against my better police judgement, I let it go. “Family matter,” I told myself. A few days later, I noticed a grocery bag of ammo in his truck for his hunting rifle. He said he was going rabbit hunting with a buddy from work, another glaring sign. He came home with a bloody bag of “animal guts” to put in the dumpster. Not more than 24-hours later, we got the call that Hunith and her boyfriend were found dead in their trailer. Carl didn’t know she was pregnant. I had a choice right then and there about which role to take: supportive wife or dutiful cop. Knowing that he was guilty, I chose the latter. Realistically if I was the executioner at the time, I would not have been allowed to administer his dose. But so often I wonder, if I had, would I have done it?

More ironic still, Doyle was actually the prosecutor for Carl’s trial. A detail that we avoid sharing with new friends when they ask us how we met. We usually say we went to high school together, even though he was already in college when I was in high school. We’re the same age but he skipped a grade. I only share my real occupation with the people I love and trust the most: family, my husband, and lifelong friends. It’s like having a secret identity. My usual response to “what do you do?” is my title position: guard for the state prison or just officer. 

When you hear the word “executioner,” what do you think of? A man, right? A tall man in a black hood, with huge muscles. That’s because before the French innovated and invented the guillotine, only men were executioners back in the day. They had to be in order to effectively swing that giant ax. Now all that’s needed, is someone who knows how to push liquid out of a tube. One old fashioned characteristic of an executioner stuck, the hood.

Technically, I do have a secret identity. Every day I walk in the death chamber looking like a member of the DCA, a dark suited figure emerging from the shadows to claim the convict’s soul. I can see their face but they can’t see mine. The condemned used to wear something to cover their face too, but our particular institution has gotten a tad complacent when it comes to my ethical security. How do my ethics play into this line of work? My family asks me about that all the time. How can I mentally and spiritually prepare myself to literally take the life of a stranger every day? My parents always ask me if it feels wrong or right even. The best way I can describe it is like putting down a cute dog who viciously attacked a little kid. It hurts to literally kill this person, but you “know” that they are a danger to society and that it’s probably for the best. I honestly don’t know how much of a threat they really are. I don’t know their names, who they are, or what they’ve done. Ever since I started this position, I’ve been told over and over again that it’s not my job to judge the condemned, just to put them to rest. As mentioned earlier, I didn’t grow up religious but I read the Bible everyday. No offense to my loving husband, but it’s the most comfort I get after a rough days work. Doyle was never a church going man himself, but he applauds me for making that a habit as he knows it’s good for me. The parts I refer to the most are the details about the afterlife. What does someone have to do to get into Heaven? From what I understand, my superiors are right: it’s not my job to judge these people, it’s God’s. But at the same time, how can I not? Whenever I walk into the death chamber to do my job, I am assuming that the person on the table is there for a reason. If I doubt that then I have to question their guilt from the start. So basically, I have to judge them to do my job. This is probably the most simultaneously complicated and simple job on Earth. 

A couple of people who know what I do have asked me how I cope. How do I willingly end someone’s life with no idea who they are or what they did to deserve this? I know nothing about them, right? Not necessarily. Ever since they stopped covering the convicts’ face, the one thing about them I do know is the last expression they give the world. Sometimes it’s scared, sometimes it’s peaceful, sometimes it’s angry, and sometimes it’s just… nothing. I use that characteristic to subject them to something I call: The Front Gates Test. 

The Front Gates Test is a test I run in my head to decide whether or not this person deserves to be on my table. From the images of Heaven described throughout the Bible, gates are usually mentioned. So if I was the border patrol of the Gates of Heaven, and I dictated who got in based on their expression when they showed up, would I let them in?

I came up with this test after I executed my first convict with a face. Once my superiors explained to me that they were no longer putting masks on the condemned, it came with a few rules. One which I was not allowed to speak to them unless the situation called for it. I usually have someone in the chamber to assist me and sometimes the condemned even has an audience of loved ones. This time, it was just the two of us. Whoever inserted the lethal tonic in the tube didn’t screw on the cap entirely. So I had to take a few minutes to fix it. The convict was a girl, a young girl. If I had to guess, the youngest on death row at the time. She was obviously scared, sweating and breathing rapidly like I had a needle next to her face. Breaking my superior’s orders, I said to her through my Darth Vader sounding mask “don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon.” Tears began to pool in the corners of her eyes and she lightly smiled. I put my gloved hand gently on her shoulder. She nodded slowly and closed her eyes as a tear rolled down her cheek, reciting the Lord’s Prayer. This was the only execution I’ve ever performed where I nearly got choked up myself. But being the professional that I am, I swallowed that lump in my throat and pushed down on the pump as her vitals ceased. She passed the Front Gates Test. She may have shot up a school, she may have lured her best friend to the woods to cut her up as a human sacrifice, she may have murdered her whole family for all I know, but I do not believe that she was a purely evil soul. 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve subjected myself to the test. Aurnia is an Irish name that means “golden lady.” My parents did not know that when they picked it. Actually my mother just wanted to name me after a character in her favorite romance novel. Regardless, I think about that name often. Whenever I hear something being described as “golden,” I think pure, strong, and beautiful. While Doyle seems to think so, I would never use any of those words to describe myself. Christ said that humility is a righteous quality, but I can’t help but feel unworthy that I’m not any of those things. Not to mention that I make a living out of ending the lives of others. Why would I let myself in? John in Revelation mentions a vision of “gold, clear as glass” twice. Ever since I read that, I’ve struggled to interpret it. Transparent gold? Real gold? Never seen or heard of such a thing. Arlo Duarte, whom I consider my closest male friend, is a priest and we’ve had a very insightful conversation about this particular detail. He says that it’s most likely a metaphor for how much clearer and valuable life will be either in Heaven or after Christ’s return and something about gold being transformed into a clear state when altered by a craftsman and Christ is our craftsman or something. But when I think of that phrase, I can’t help but apply it to my convicts. Are their lives valuable? Are they transparent when they’re on my table? How accurate is the Front Gates Test? Maybe I can’t rely on last expressions if I don’t know how authentic they are. By just following orders, am I soiling my soul?

My aunt on my father’s side, Carter Evelyn Jameson (Jameson’s my maiden name) or as I’ve always called her, Aunt Carter Evie (or sometimes CE) is an author in Seattle, Washington. Her bestselling book, The Morals of the Mind explores a world where everything humans have known to be right and good is bad and everything we’ve known to be bad is good. Religion doesn’t exist, philosophy is shaky, basically the center of morality comes from animal instinct instead of faith and emotions. What a bleak world this would be if that was the case. I’ve also talked to her about my ethical dilemma. Where’s the line when it comes to taking a life? What separates an executioner from a murderer? Carter Evelyn studied both English and Criminal Justice in college and she told me this, “Capital punishment is a chair that has four legs to stand on: retribution, deterrence, rehabilitation, and prevention of re-offending. The hatchets that can hack off those legs are: value of human life, execution of the innocent, right to live, anti-retribution, brutalizing society, expense, and free will.” I said, “that’s a lot of hatchets for four legs.” She told me not to think about the ratio and more about the controversy itself. Our country will never come to a unanimous conclusion as to whether the death penalty is just; there’s just too many variables. The only way I can be at peace with my work is if I choose to put my faith in our government and justice system instead of the infinite abyss of moral and ethical questions and possibilities. My family is split when it comes to the Christian faith; half are religious and half aren’t. Carter Evelyn herself is agnostic but she has said that she believes I would benefit from officially converting. It would ease my emotional turmoil and baggage and I would have a larger support system like Arlo and whatever congregation I joined. Even Doyle has said he would still love and support me if that’s what I decided. There’s one more complication holding me back from making a decision.

Aside from the constant ethical battle I fight on a daily basis, my life is seemingly great. I’m close with my family, I make a decent living, I have great friends, the best husband I would have wished for, and we’re expecting our first child, a girl this time. Skylar Aurnia Pressner is what we’re thinking because even though I haven’t met her yet, she will always be my little golden lady no matter what decisions she will make in life. I’m not due for maternity leave for a few more weeks, but Doyle is insistent on constant follow-ups with the doctor to make sure Skylar’s born healthy. As troublesome as this may sound, that’s not my biggest concern. Of course I am taking measures to avoid a stillbirth repeat, but my biggest fear is how my career will play into her life. What will she tell her teachers and classmates at school when asked what her mommy does for a living? What will she think of me when she’s old enough to understand what it is I do? Whenever Doyle sees me come home from work emotionally drained, he reminds me that I don’t have to do this. I’m not confined to this profession. He can hook me up with a receptionist or secretary position at his firm or I can just be a stay-at-home mom when the baby arrives. I know that, so why am I still doing this? Honestly, I don’t know. 

I came home from the execution of the tatts guy around 4. I usually get off at 6:30, but I was coming down with nausea and lightheadedness so I was dismissed early. Doyle was in the back of the house with my mom painting the nursery. I put down my coat and purse and went to check on the progress. The three of us agreed on a lilac purple coat with periwinkle hummingbirds scattered around the room. The purple was finished and they had gotten started on the stencils. Doyle told Mom that he could take over and she took off her stained corduroy overalls, washed her arms, and came into the living room. I put on pajamas and curled up on the couch while Mom made me some soup. I turned on the TV and Mom noticed that I was passing any channel that had to do with death, crime, or law enforcement. I eventually settled on the History channel and she came over with my food on a tray and sat down next to me, stroking my hair. 

“How is my Aurnia and Skylar today?” she asked.

“Tired, bored” I responded.

She noticed I was holding something back.

“What is it?”

I slowly set down my spoon and unloaded everything that has been on my mind. Everything I’ve unloaded on you.

“Wow, I’ve always known that this position would be an emotional strain for you, but not that complicated.”

I tried to think of a way to change the topic but still tie it back to this one.

“Mom, be honest, did you like Doyle when I first brought him home?”

She thought for a moment.

“I suppose, I was a little surprised that you were moving on from Carl so soon. However, your dad and I were both happy to see you with someone your own age for once.”

I giggled. She was right. Hiram was a little too old for me and Carl was a little too young, but Doyle and I just had a six month difference. 

“When he told us that he was going to propose, we were ecstatic. He’s been nothing but good to you, even though he helped convict one of your husbands. He loves you more than Hiram or Carl ever did and is more than ready to be a father. I gotta say sweetie, catching that fish was probably the best decision you ever made.”

“You don’t think I’m a killer?” 

Her expression quickly turned from gleeful to shocked.

“No, never would I ever think that. Unless God forbid you did go out and murder someone.”

I felt my face heat up and my vision became saturated in water. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, but having the comfort of my mother next to me was enough to lower my defenses. I felt a tear roll down my face, followed by another, then another. Within seconds, I my face was red and my cheeks were sticky with drying streams. My mascara was a mess and my lipstick was caked. I haven’t had an emotional break down since Liam’s death.

Mom leaned in to hug me.

“Was it something I said?”

I shook my head quickly. 

“Why am I doing this? Why do I willingly kill people I don’t know and don’t know if they deserve it? I’m not supposed to judge them, but I have to.”

“Don’t!” Mom snapped. “Don’t you dare do that to yourself! You didn't sign up to be an executioner. You signed up to be an officer. You transferred to the prison because they pay was better and you needed the money since you were recently widowed. You do this because you are following orders.”

I sniffled a bit. “I know that I should quit, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to walk away.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” I picked up a tissue from the coffee table and wiped my nose and my tears. “...whenever a convict passes the Front Gates Test, I feel relief knowing that I can accompany them in their last moments and be at least someone who has some sort of pity on them. If I leave, my replacement might not.”

“So what?” Mom clearly doesn’t get it. “Who cares whether or not they deserve pity? Sympathy for a murderer is not worth your mental stability.”

“Why do I feel like it is? I’m not sure if I believe in God, but I feel like if he is out there, he wants me to observe these people. Like he wants me to understand that their fate is his to command, and I am the witness.”

We were both silent for a minute and Doyle came in, wiping his hands with a rag. He saw my face and immediately rushed over to me.

“What happened, honey?”

“I’m pregnant Doyle. I’m an emotional wreck!”

“Honey, if you won’t resign than you need to get help. Talk to Arlo, or schedule an appointment with Della.”

One of Doyle’s colleagues at the firm is married to the highest recommended therapist in the city, Dr. Della Sinclair. 

“There’s nothing they could tell me that they haven’t already.”

Doyle scootched in between me and Mom. He wrapped his arm around me and kissed me on the head. “There’s one place that a wise man once said will never run out of advice.”

He turned to Mom. She knew what he was talking about.

We cuddled together in front of the TV for another hour. After Mom went home, Doyle went back to painting and I got into bed. After getting myself situated with my comforter and my baby, I turned on the lamp and reached under my bedside table for the Bible Arlo gave me. He told me that the best way to find answers, or just comforting advice is to leave the bookmark in a random spot and open to that page the next time I read it. I found the bookmark and flipped open the Book.

Ecclesiastes 7:1, “A good name is better than fine perfume, and the day of death is better than the day of birth.”

Arlo was right, if God doesn’t exist then the Bible is magic. It really does know how you’re feeling. Last Thursday was my day off and while I was at the store, I saw on clearance a book titled: 7 Prayers for Pregnancy by Sarah Coleman. I bought it, but haven’t read any yet. It was lying next to my Bible. I picked it up, turned to a random page, checked to see if Doyle was coming, took a deep breath and began…

“God, you see my baby in my womb. You know her every detail, every muscle, every bone, every bit of her beautiful body, mind, heart, and soul. No matter how she is formed, she is beautiful and she is beloved by you. Grant me peace throughout this pregnancy, that I would surrender every worry or fear to you. May I take heart, knowing you have overcome the world and made a way for us to be near to you in heaven someday and on earth here now. No matter what comes, be near, Jesus. Bring comfort and peace, bring blessed assurance. In your name, Amen.”