Present Day San Quentin, California San Quentin State Prison houses more than five thousand inmates, including America's biggest Death Row population. Every day brings some kind of incident. Today is no different.
Landing guards slip the shutter on Lars Bale's Death Row cell and are horrified to find him flat out on the floor.
His face is corpse-white.
Blood has seeped from his eyes, nose and ears. A gush of vomit lies across his lips, chin and neck.
The alarm is triggered. Medics alerted. The cell door hurriedly unlocked.
Officer Jim Tiffany is first in. He bends to take a pulse.
The dead man groans softly.
'He's alive!' Tiffany falls to his knees and rolls the inmate on to his back.
He's about to perform first aid, when suddenly the convict convulses – with laughter.
'Jesus H. Christ! What the fuck?' Tiffany shuffles off him. His wingman, Officer Pete Hatcher, almost drops his radio.
Bale struggles to his feet, laughing like a five-year-old who's been told a rude joke.
Then they get it.
The crazy fuck had painted his face to look like he was dead.
Bale grins. 'Just a joke, fellas. Thought I'd give you a sneak preview of the big day. Coming soon, the end of mortal me. But don't cry – I'll be back. Oh boy, will I be back.'
Tiffany gets into Bale's face. 'You fucking crazy son-of-a-bitch! The world will be a better place when you're dead and buried, you piece of shit.'
Bale makes his eyes bulge. Spreads his arms wide. Flares his lips and hisses like a snake.
'Motherfucker!' Tiffany slams him against the wall and Hatcher jumps in to fix manacles to his hands and feet. They're as rough as hell with him, but he keeps laughing and hissing throughout.
'Shut the fuck up,' says Tiffany, getting in his face again. 'The governor wants you to take a call. If we weren't under instruction to get you there and make you take it, then you'd be spending the rest of the frigging morning spitting teeth into a bowl in the hospital wing.'
They bundle him out of the cell. Make him chain-waddle so fast he's close to falling over.
In the phone area, they push him into a corner and wait for the call to be routed.
Bale and Tiffany stare at each other. The officer is obviously spooked, but he stands his ground.
Bale smiles and talks in his friendliest voice. 'Officer Tiffany, may I tell you something?'
'You ain't tellin' me nothing, you no-good motherfucker.'
'Your wife, Susan – you might not know this yet – but she has cancer in her cunt. It's going to kill her. Nice and slow.'
Tiffany snaps. He doesn't know how Bale is aware of his wife's name. Doesn't care. He punches him so hard in the stomach the prisoner doubles up and falls over. He's about to plant a boot in Bale's head when Hatcher manages to haul him back. 'Jim! For Christ's sake!'
The phone on the wall rings and they all stop and look at it. It's like an end-of-round bell in a boxing match. Hatcher gets a chair and hauls the winded Bale on to it, one eye on the still raging Tiffany. He picks the phone off the cradle and covers the mouthpiece. 'You say nothing about what just happened, Bale.' He gives him a final stare, then talks into the mouthpiece.
'Yeah. Yeah, he's here now. Hang on. I'll pass you over.' He holds out the receiver and waits for the inmate to raise his cuffed hands from his injured stomach.
Bale can barely speak.
'Lars, Lars Bale?'
The con manages to get his breath back. 'Yes.'
'Lars, this is Tom Shaman. We met some years ago when I was a priest.'
Bale brightens up. 'Aaah, Father Tom.' He sucks in some air. 'I've been wondering who God would get to do his dirty work.'