After the Execution (5 page)

I
STARED UP
at Aaron Vance, my alarm clouded with confusion. Was this really happening? How could I possibly be alive? It made no frigging sense.

My head started spinning with questions. I felt disoriented and only half coherent.

‘What’s going on?’ I blurted. ‘I should be dead.’

I gazed up at the FBI man’s face in disbelief. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth and I could smell tobacco on his breath. He was well groomed and expensively dressed. ‘To all intents and purposes the execution took place, Lee,’ he said. ‘As you can no doubt remember. But the audience were conned. And so were you. What happened in that chamber was an elaborate illusion.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’

And I didn’t. How could I? The memory of what had happened to me was now so clear. It couldn’t possibly have been an illusion.

‘It wasn’t deadly poison that was pumped into your bloodstream,’ Vance said. ‘It was a cocktail of drugs that rendered you unconscious and in effect simulated death. The heart monitor was rigged to flat-line at the touch of a button and the drugs made it look like you’d stopped breathing.’

I hauled myself to a sitting position. But it was difficult. A wave of nausea washed over me. I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. When I opened them again Vance was holding out a glass of water.

‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

I took the glass but my hand was trembling so he helped me raise it to my mouth. The water was cold and fresh and it tasted good.

I noticed for the first time that I was on a double bed in a large, bright room. I was still wearing the prison jumpsuit. Vance was
standing
next to the bed and there was someone else over by the door. A hulking guy with a boxer’s nose and a black crew-cut. Dressed in a loose sweater and jeans. He was sitting on a chair with his arms folded across his chest.

I wiped spilled water from my chin with the back of my hand and said, ‘There were witnesses. They all saw it happen.’

Vance put the glass down on the bedside table and shook his head. ‘As far as they’re concerned you died on the gurney. They saw you lose consciousness and assumed you were dead. It was up to the
physician
to examine you to provide confirmation. And the physician was installed by the FBI. So was the official who administered the drugs in the other room. The warden who oversaw the proceedings is also on our payroll. A lot of planning went into it, Lee, and in the end it was pretty easy to pull off. You see, people tend to believe what they see. And after the witnesses saw you fry they didn’t hang around. Your body was moved out of the chamber and away from there in minutes. A van was waiting to bring you here.’

I sat there in reverent silence, my back against the headboard. It was difficult to separate emotion from logic. A second chance at life, the man had said. Was it really possible? Should I feel elated?

Or was there a catch?

I just couldn’t get my mind around what was happening. My
execution
had been faked, for Christ’s sake. After almost ten years on death row the authorities had only pretended to kill me. It was extraordinary. Mystifying. Beyond fucking belief.

‘I can tell you’re bewildered, Lee,’ Vance said. ‘That’s only to be expected. I know I would be.’

He took something from his inside pocket. A sheet of paper. He held it in front of me. I could barely focus, but it looked like some kind of official document.

‘In case you’re in any doubt that the world at large believes you’re dead you should take a look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s a copy of your death certificate. Because it was a legal killing your death is recorded as
homicide
. That’s normal in these circumstances.’

I took the certificate from him. Ran my eyes over it. Certain words and phrases stuck out.

Court ordered lethal injection
.

Manner of death – homicide
.

Lee Martin Jordan
.

I felt goose bumps crawl up my arms and my pulse started to race. I tried to swallow but my throat clicked dry.

‘There’s more,’ Vance said. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s now three in the morning. You officially died seven hours ago. In four hours from now an empty coffin supposedly containing your body will slide into the furnace at a crematorium a mile from the Walls. Your remains will be scattered in the grounds of the prison cemetery where more than a hundred other inmates are buried.’

It was all too much to take in. My thoughts were burning like a fuse, but they were muddled and abstract. I looked at Vance. He had intense brown eyes and a coating of stubble on his chin. His body beneath the suit looked stocky and toned.

‘Where am I?’ I said.

‘You’re in an FBI facility near San Antonio,’ Vance said. ‘We’ll provide you with everything you need while you come to terms with what has happened. There’s an en-suite bathroom through that door. You’ve got a refrigerator with some food and drink. In the closet you’ll find some clothes. There’s a TV, books and magazines. There’s also a button next to the door. If you need something just press it.’

He gestured towards the other guy. ‘That’s Daniels. He’s my right hand man and he’ll be looking after you.’

I tried to rein in my thoughts so that I could formulate what I wanted to say. But the words got stuck in my throat.

‘The door will stay locked and the window is barred,’ Vance said. ‘You won’t be going anywhere, at least not right away. But I can assure you that you will find this place far more comfortable than the cell you’ve been in for the past ten years.’

Vance reached down and picked something up off the bedside table.

‘We retrieved these from the death house,’ he said, handing me my Bible and the photograph of Marissa.

At last I found my voice.

‘Why did you save me?’ I asked.

He smiled, revealing straight bone-white teeth.

‘Obviously we had a good reason,’ he said. ‘There’s something you’re going to have to do for us. In return you’ll be given a new identity on our witness protection programme and a new life. You’re a very lucky
guy.’

‘What do I have to do?’ I said.

‘All in good time, Lee. For now just rest up and relax. You need to get your thoughts together. I’ll be back to have another chat later.’

Vance and his side-kick left me alone then. As they closed the door behind them I passed a hand over my face and pressed my eyes shut.

Then I prayed that what was happening was real. And not a dream that would soon come to a sudden, gut-wrenching end.

I
OPENED MY
eyes, letting my senses soak up everything in the room. The beige carpet. The black leather sofa. The yellow curtains on the window. The TV on a stand. The dressing table with a coffee machine on it. The small refrigerator. The stand-alone mahogany closet.

I drank in the colours, the soft tones, the aesthetic contours. It was a world away from the dung heap of a cell I’d lived in on death row.

I got up off the bed and started to explore, enthralled by a sense of wonder. I hadn’t watched TV in years. I could barely remember what it was like to open a fridge. So being here was nothing less than an
emotionally
charged adventure. Like suddenly being cured of blindness.

I opened the fridge door and gasped. There were several bottles of Bud. A carton of milk. A plate of white-bread sandwiches. Even a bottle of red wine with a screw top. One of the shelves contained candy bars and pastries. I blew out a whistle and felt my face crack a wide smile.

I grabbed a beer. There was an opener on top of the fridge. My hands shook as I levered off the top. The first slug was amazing. The ice-cold nectar exploded in the back of my throat and the sensation almost moved me to tears. I downed the whole bottle in about five seconds flat and helped myself to another. Jesus, it was good. I then picked up a sandwich. Ham and sweet pickle. Bit into it. It was quite the best thing I had ever tasted.

I walked over to the en suite bathroom, opened the door, turned on the light. The tub was white and pear-shaped and there as a separate shower cubicle with a frosted glass door. On a shelf next to the sink was a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit and soap. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was long and dark and untidy. My eyes were deep set and bloodshot. The skin sat in folds beneath them. People used to say
I looked like my grandfather, a half Mexican who had moved across the border from Tijuana when he was a teenager. From the photos I had seen he had clearly been a handsome young man, but right now I looked like he did when he was in his late forties and dying from
pancreatic
cancer.

I couldn’t resist the urge to take a bath. I’d forgotten what it was like. The thought of a long soak in hot scented water made my heart beat faster. Steam rose as I started to fill the tub. It was a beautiful sight, almost sensual. On death row the water never rose above lukewarm.

I went back into the bedroom to get another beer and sandwich. The TV beckoned. I turned it on with the remote and clicked through the channels. It was intensely thrilling. A simple, everyday task that had been denied me for so long.

I was mesmerized by the images and colours and sounds. There were half-dressed women, men with guns, wild animals, baseball games, commercials, talking heads, riots, speeding cars….

And suddenly there was me. Staring out of the screen.

My photograph was being shown as part of a news report. I cranked up the volume and heard the newscaster tell his audience that Lee Jordan had been executed at the Walls prison in Huntsville, Texas.

‘Jordan always claimed he was innocent, but all his appeals were rejected,’
the newscaster said.
‘After the execution we spoke to congressman Gideon Crane, whose wife Kimberley was Jordan’s victim.’

Crane gave his reaction outside the prison. As he spoke I could see veins throbbing across his forehead. He said he was relieved that it was over and he wanted to look to the future and concentrate on trying to become President. He ended by saying that I would now have to answer to God for murdering his wife.

And that’s when it really hit me. I was alive. Drinking beer and watching TV. And Gideon Crane and the rest of the world thought I was dead. It was ridiculous. Insane. Beyond comprehension. No wonder I could feel a strong sense of unease building up inside me.

Just how high was the price I would have to pay for this second chance at life?

O
N THE
T
UESDAY
before Thanksgiving, Gideon Crane woke up at seven and could not get back to sleep. There was just too much racing around in his head.

He left Pauline in bed and got up to shave and shower. Then he made himself a coffee and carried it into his study. Outside, the sun had just broken through the patchy clouds. There was the promise of another fine day.

He planned to spend it with his wife because he’d told her that he would. She’d made a lunch reservation at a local restaurant. This
afternoon
she wanted to do some light shopping. He was OK with that. But then tonight her asshole brother Travis and his girlfriend were coming over for dinner and he most definitely wasn’t looking forward to that.

Travis was a seedy, arrogant loser and Crane had never liked him. He tolerated him for his wife’s sake and was grateful that they did not have to socialize on a regular basis.

Crane booted up his computer and checked his various email accounts. Lots of congratulatory messages following the New Orleans debate. A few alluded to the execution of Lee Jordan. One fellow
congressman
wrote that when he was next in Washington they should go out and celebrate.

The execution was prominent in most of the online news pages. Crane scanned through them. There were photographs of him and Kimberley and Jordan, plus shots of their old home when it was a crime scene. There were syndicated quotes from an Associated Press reporter who described in detail what had happened in the execution chamber.

Crane sat back and compressed his lips. The words and pictures had stirred up his emotions to the point where he felt his eyes dampen. He
drew a sharp breath and pinched the bridge of his nose between
forefinger
and thumb. He was about to go outside to clear his head when he had a thought.

He clicked on Google and typed two words in the search box:
Aaron Vance
. He’d been curious about the FBI agent since the governor
mentioned
him. He wanted to know why the Bureau had been so keen for the execution to go ahead.

There were a few hits of guys with the same name. But the one he was looking for came up on the news search. Aaron Vance, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s San Antonio field office. He was featured in a couple of dozen news stories going back four years. Usually it was because he had given evidence in a trial.

Crane then went on to the San Antonio field office home page which had a picture of Vance. He looked to be in his forties. He had neat brown hair and high cheekbones. Clicking on his name brought up a short bio that had been produced by the FBI National Press Office. It said that Vance had been appointed to his job four years ago and had previously worked in the Criminal Investigation Division in New York.

His first assignment had been to the Miami Division, where he worked general criminal and organized crime matters. After that he was transferred to Los Angeles and was made team leader of a violent street gang task force.

His experience with gangs had helped him secure his promotion to his current position as SAC in San Antonio. The city was one of several in the state where criminal gangs – in particular the Texas Syndicate – were causing major problems for law enforcement agencies. Only eight weeks ago four men had been shot dead and dumped in an alley close to the iconic Alamo. The killings had prompted calls for more to be done to curb the power and influence of the gangs who thrived on drugs,
extortion
and prostitution. Vance would no doubt have been in the firing line along with the San Antonio police department.

But none of what Crane read gave a clue as to why Vance had told the governor not to grant Jordan a stay of execution. As far as Crane knew, Lee Jordan had nothing to do with the Texas Syndicate or any other gang. And he was pretty sure he had no connection with San Antonio.

Crane made a note of the field office phone number and jotted down a few details from Vance’s bio. He would make a few inquiries and perhaps give the guy a call just to satisfy his curiosity.

Just then his cell pinged with a text message from Beth. He expected it to be about the execution, but instead she’d written:
Call me asap – we might have a problem.
He didn’t like the sound of that because Beth wasn’t one to get anxious over anything trivial. So he rang her straight back.

‘Gideon?’

‘I got your message,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

He heard her draw breath. ‘Someone broke into my apartment while I was out jogging this morning.’

‘What? Are you serious?’

‘Deadly. I realized as soon as I got back. Stuff had been moved and I think I might have disturbed whoever it was because the balcony door was left open.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well there was a car parked out front when I left the apartment. A guy sitting behind the wheel. He was watching me, I think. But when I looked at him he turned away. I didn’t think anything of it. I couldn’t even describe him – or the car.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m a little shaken.’

Beth’s apartment was on the ground floor of a block set back from the road and close to Bendwood Park. The balcony overlooked a small landscaped garden.

‘I was only out for about an hour,’ she said. ‘I stopped at a juice bar on the way back.’

‘Then that left plenty of time for someone to break in. Was the door forced?’

‘No, and before you ask, it was definitely locked when I went out. It always is.’

‘So have you informed the police?’

‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘Well I think you should call them right away. What’s been stolen?’

‘That’s what’s so strange about it. The burglar left all my jewellery and even a wad of cash that was in a purse on the kitchen table.’

‘So what the hell did he take?’

Beth left it a beat, said, ‘My diary. I was writing in it in bed this morning and I left it on the pillow. But it’s gone. I’ve searched
everywhere and it’s not in the apartment.’

‘I didn’t know you kept a diary.’

‘I’ve always kept one. And that’s the problem. I take it very seriously and fill the pages with details of what I get up to every day.’

An alarm sounded in his head. He felt a shiver of apprehension.

‘Please tell me that’s an exaggeration, Beth. Surely you’ve not been stupid enough to write about us.’

Another long pause, then, ‘I’m sorry, Gideon, but that’s what diaries are for.’

He felt an angry fire flare up inside him.

‘Are you insane? Do you realize how serious this could be if that diary ends up in the wrong hands?’

‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Why’d you think I called you and not the police?’

‘If it’s a dirty trick by one of the other candidates then they’ll use it against me for sure.’

‘I know that.’

He shook his head. ‘Before we go into panic mode I want you to have another look for it. Turn that fucking apartment upside down. Then call me back in an hour. If you don’t find it I’ll make an excuse and come over.’

‘OK, but what about the police? Should I call them now?’

‘Not on your life,’ he said. ‘Don’t do anything until you hear from me.’