San Quentin, California The weatherman says it's going to be a hot one, a high of nearly ninety degrees across the San Rafael city area where California's oldest prison is preparing its latest execution.
Twelve official witnesses walk through San Q's cold, silent corridors, heading to the witness viewing room, trying to make small talk. Most are parents, girlfriends, husbands and children of those Bale has killed. A couple are anti-death-penalty campaigners.
Some of the witnesses are thinking of going straight to church after this, down to the distinctive pink-roofed St Raphael chapel where a golden cross gleams against the cloudless blue sky and distant green hills. Others will meet with friends and try to drink the scene they're about to witness clean from their memories. Others will go out to Miller Creek or walk in the forests and quietly reflect on it all.
Seventeen media witnesses are brought from another direction. They look less concerned. Trained eyes desperately devour all detail, colour, background – anything that will make their stories longer. News that Bale passed on a last meal, and instead bizarrely requested a crystal glass to drink his own urine from is the current report being uplinked from the dozens of TV vans crammed in the car park.
Inside the execution wing, eight of the prison's most senior security staff are already in position to make sure nothing untoward happens.
Bale has no one present.
No family.
No friends.
No lawyer.
Certainly no spiritual advisor.
It's the way he wants it.
His people have more important things to do.
And right now they should be doing them.
Bale walks to the glass and points at his wrist.
The guard opposite him raises two fingers.
Two.
Just two hours to go.