Last Accord

From p. 1:

On the row there were no windows to the outside world. No golds and pinks of sunset, no sounds of life rushing past, only the expectant, syncopated rhythms of breath and blood. Roy Travis’s sole possessions were few: hand-written letters from his wife’s mother, Ophelia Warren, in Tennessee, scribbled in blue ink on lined, yellow paper. A photograph of his daughter Annie, sitting on the steps of her Grandma Warren’s bungalow outside Memphis. The dried petals of a blood-red rose his wife, Idel, had once given him, wrapped in a wax envelope from the post office and used as a bookmark on occasion.

From p. 3:

The maw of hell ope’s, to receive its own, Roy thought. Even the Bard had an unnerving take on death and humanity’s prevalence for violent ends. Escorted by a nameless guard wearing a crisp, gray and black uniform, Roy walked quietly to the visitors’ holding area. As he walked, he thought about the excuses his attorney, William Sutton, had given him in the past. At times he felt a grim satisfaction when the lawyer became agitated as he tried to explain another failed attempt at appeal.