Present Day 3rd June San Quentin, California Three days to go.
Seventy-two hours.
Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes.
Just over a quarter of a million seconds – you count every one of them when your Execution Notice has been issued.
Lars Bale gets moved from the cell he's known as home for more than a quarter of his life. He's pushed unceremoniously into the execution unit lock-up, just a wince away from the stab of lethal needles.
Bale won't miss the tiny cell. He doesn't even mind the fact that he's no longer allowed to paint.
His work here is over.
It is time for greater things.
His paintings have been removed, donated at his request to a Death Row charity that will sell them to raise funds to appeal for pardons. He's even sent a log of his works to the press and the governor, to ensure guards don't steal the canvases and sell them to collectors. He's about to become the most famous artist the world has ever known.
Bale takes stock of his new – and very temporary – home.
A single bunk. Fixed to the floor.
Mattress. Stained.
Pillow. New.
Blanket. Rough.
Radio. Old.
TV. Small.
Pants. Grey.
Underwear. Old and grey.
Socks. Faded black.
Shirts. White.
Slippers. Cosy.
And one other thing.
A guard. Sour-faced and permanent. There outside the bars, like a never-blinking owl, staring in, twenty-four seven. Always watching but never seeing.
If he so much as had a clue what was going on inside Bale's head, he'd already be pressing the Panic Button.
Three days to go.
Bale sits on the hard bunk and smiles contentedly.