Death Row (9 page)

Visiting Kincaid was a start, maybe, but only that. She was haunted by what he had said. You need to go to the DA. Tell them. At some basic instinctual level, she knew he was right. But what would be the result? Most likely, they would totally disregard what she said and do nothing. As the lawyer had pointed out, the law enforcement community was never anxious to admit that they had made a mistake, much less that they came perilously close to executing an innocent man. They would be more likely to write off what she said to the histrionics of a guilt-ridden girl. A sole survivor. A born-again babe trying to do her good deed for the day. There was no way she could make them act, could force them to listen.

Wait a minute. Maybe there was. She didn't have to start with the prosecutors. What if she started at the
Tulsa World
? She could call up Debbie Jackson at the city desk, tell her what she knew. If the
World
heard that an innocent man was about to be executed, they would almost certainly run a story. Maybe several stories. The anti-death-penalty faction would take up the banner. This would be a dream case for them. A tormented young woman-and quite attractive, if she did think so herself-trying to prevent a gross miscarriage of justice. If they stirred up enough trouble, the law enforcement people would have to do something.

Now that was a plan, she thought, and she took another deep and satisfying drag. The hot water soaked into her skin. She could feel the tension-some of it, anyway-melting away. She did what she did, all those years ago, and there was no way she could justify it-not even to herself. All she could hope to do was make it better by telling the world her secret. One of them, anyway. Perhaps revealing the one would make it easier for her to live with the other.

That was the right thing to do, she realized. That's what would make her daddy proud. Daddy was not... a perfect man. He did things that were wrong. Very wrong. But he would never have stood idly by and let an innocent man be killed without trying to stop it. She had been silent far too long already. She would do whatever she could and perhaps she would finally-

Erin 's head jerked to one side. Did she hear something? Downstairs.

She would've heard a doorbell. Did someone knock? She wasn't expecting anybody. She tried to remember whether she'd locked the door. Sheila was always hassling her about that. But she just never thought about it, not until she was locking up to go to sleep.

She sat up. The movement made the water in the bath slosh around, just enough noise to prevent her from hearing anything downstairs. But there was something. Wasn't there? She wasn't imagining it. She hit a button on the remote to shut off the CD player. Now if the water would just stop moving...

It was faint, but she was certain she heard a squeaking noise. A slow, continuous squeaking.

Someone had opened the back door.

Erin pushed out of the bath, grabbed a towel, and headed for her nightstand. It was hard to walk without her cane, but she had to get there, and she had to get there fast. Because that was where she kept her gun.

It was just a little thing, a snub-nosed pistol. But after everything she had seen in her short life, she liked having it around. She needed to know it was right beside her, all through the night.

She lurched to the far end of her bedroom, water dripping from her, holding the towel with one hand-and the gun with the other. There was another noise. Or did she imagine it?

Sheila had asked a million times if she wanted a roommate. Erin had always said no, that she preferred to live alone. Which was only half the truth. She was still so messed up, so insecure and... downright weird, that she thought it would be embarrassing to share a place with someone, even her best friend. For that matter, if she hadn't been so screwed in the head, she'd probably have a husband by now. Maybe James, if not for his... eccentricities. Either way, she wouldn't be living alone. She'd have someone to protect her. But she never allowed that. Everyone who came near her got rebuffed in strong and certain terms. She didn't let them get close.

That had been a mistake.

Did she actually hear someone coming up the stairs, or was her imagination out of control? She couldn't be sure. There wasn't much noise-if there was any at all-but there was something.
Wasn't there?

She extended her gun arm. "Look, whoever you are. I'm armed. I'll shoot."

Silence. Absolute silence.

Erin 's heart was beating like a jackrabbit's. She felt so vulnerable, so... naked. If she could get to her clothes closet, she could throw something on. But she knew that would be dumb. If there was someone else in the house, that would give whoever the perfect opportunity to... do whatever they wanted to do. She would not be stupid, like some bimbo teenager in a horror film. She would be strong. She would be smart.

Then the lights went out. Erin started hyperventilating, gasping for air. She couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything.

The breaker box was in the hallway, next to the heater. So now she knew two things for certain: There was someone else in the house. And they were not far away.

Maybe she should take the offensive, she thought-run out in the hallway, gun firing. She didn't know if she could make herself do it, though. Walking was always a challenge, and at the moment her legs were shaking so profoundly she could barely stand. At least here, in the bedroom, a tiny amount of light came through the window.

Wait a minute! How could she be so stupid? There was a phone on the night stand! Watching the door, still holding the gun in one trembling hand, she picked up the receiver.

There was no dial tone. But it had worked just fine half an hour ago.

Her visitor must have taken the phone off the hook downstairs.

She pounded her fists against the bed. Why was this happening to her? Why was it happening-
again
? What had she ever done to deserve this?

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch!" she screamed. "I'm carrying a gun. And I
will
use it!" Just to prove the point, she fired at the ceiling.

The recoil sent her tumbling backward into the night stand. She lost her balance and fell to the carpet. Her hand hurt. She instinctively dropped the gun.

After that, it was all over. A dark shadow at the other end of the room told her the visitor had entered the room. A black shoe darted out and kicked the gun away. An outstretched hand ripped away her towel.

Erin crumpled, curling up in a fetal ball pressed against the wall, quivering with fear. "Y-y-you're going to hurt me, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so."

She moved her hands over her exposed body with frenzied, almost spasmodic awkwardness, trying to cover herself. "P-p-please don't. I beg you. I'm still a virgin. Sort of."

"It won't be like that."

Erin pressed harder against the wall, as if somehow she might dissolve through the plaster and rematerialize on the other side. She stared at the visitor, and then, a moment later, her blurred, watery eyes widened with horror. "You? I know you."

"Yes," came the voice hovering over her. "That's why I'm here."

Ben had heard somewhere that wardens and corrections officers went out of their way to make the visiting room the garden spot of a prison-that extra cleaning details were assigned, extra chemicals were used-so that visitors wouldn't come away with a negative impression. If that was true, Ben thought as he noted the dried bloodstains on the wall, the almost tangible haze, the smell of vomit and human waste in the air, then he never, never, ever wanted to be incarcerated in the state penitentiary.

"So," Ray said, speaking into the telephone receiver, "should I get excited? Because I'm inclined here to get excited. But I won't do it unless you say so."

Ben suppressed a smile. He didn't want to mislead or create any false hopes. "As I've told you all along, Ray, getting a jury verdict reversed is a tall order. Statistically almost impossible. But having the primary witness for the prosecution recant can only help us. Her testimony was what convinced the jury."

"Hey, I testified, too. What was I, chopped liver?"

Ben didn't pull any punches. "She was the one they believed." He paused. "And none of it was true."

"They made that girl lie," Ray said. He clenched his fist so tightly his skin turned white. "Bastards."

"I don't think they made her lie. Not exactly. But she was young and easy to lead. And prosecutors like to win."

"Don't make excuses for your brethren, Ben. They're scum and you know it."

"Jack Bullock firmly believes that he had an obligation to-"

"I've been in this hole for seven years!" Ray rose out of his chair, eyes wide and angry. He gripped the table before him, his arms trembling with rage. "Seven years!"

"Ray! Cool it! We have more to talk about!"

Ray calmed himself, settling down before the guard on duty had to do it for him. He ran his hand through his thick curly hair. It was all gray now, unkempt and dirty. He was wearing the standard-issue uniform for maximum-security prisoners: green Levi's and green work shirt. His eyes had deep black bags underneath and his skin seemed loose and translucent. Prison had not been kind to this once handsome man. Not that it ever was. "So have you recorded her statement? And made a thousand copies?"

"Not yet, but I will. She was too upset yesterday. She's going to come back tomorrow and swear out an affidavit."

"I just... can't believe it. All these years. Because one fifteen-year-old was badgered into a lie." Ben saw his fists tightening again. "Do you know what it's like in here?"

"Not like you do."

"These past seven years I've watched them systematically take away everything that gave me pleasure in life." Ray fell back into his chair, eyes closed. "I used to love food. I mean not just to eat it. To try new things. Culinary adventures. I was a pretty decent cook, did you know that? I wasn't just some garden-variety dull-as-hell chemist. I was a gourmet chef. I specialized in seafood."

Ben nodded. "I remember. You had me over for dinner once." You and Carrie, he thought, but did not say.

"I haven't cooked in so long I can't remember how it was done. The only food I get in here is low-bid high-fat slop. I haven't had a glass of wine in seven years." He looked down, seeming to focus on the countertop. "I used to love to entertain, to have friends over, eat well, have stimulating conversations, spend the evening playing Scrabble or some other board game. You know what the hot entertainment in here is? Racing cockroaches for cigarettes."

"Not quite as stimulating?"

"No, but the happy thing is, we never run out of cockroaches. Not by a long shot. And Scrabble would never catch on here, because most of my fellow inmates can't spell. Three-fourths of the guys in here are high-school dropouts. A lot of them never finished the fourth grade."

Ben nodded silently. He knew it was true.

"Stimulating conversations? Forget it. Not going to happen. Most of the conversation revolves around women-although that isn't the word they typically use-and how they got screwed by the courts."

"Everyone is innocent, huh?"

"Actually, no. Most of the guys admit they did the crime. They just shift the blame to someone else, their girlfriend or mother or homeboys. Or lawyers. Almost everyone hates their lawyers."

"It's gratifying work. What about the guards?"

Ray raised a finger. "Be careful. They don't like to be called guards. They are corrections officers. And damned particular about it."

"Well, they do a lot more than just guard," Ben offered. "It's a fairly miserable, high-stress job, but the benefits are decent and there is the possibility of promotion. Better than some state jobs, anyway. Assuming you get out of here without being shanked." Ben paused. "How do the cons treat you? You're not exactly the typical inmate."

"I've learned to survive. You have to. You learn to look out for number one, 'cause it's sure as hell no one else will. Fortunately, the good time regs keep down a lot of the worst behavior. The cons know good time can cut their sentence by as much as half. So no one wants to get stuck with disciplinary action. The main problem is boredom. There's nothing to do. We go through the same tedious routine day after day after day." Ben watched as the light slowly faded from his eyes. "I had so many plans, Ben. So much I wanted to do. I was going to be a big name in industrial chemistry. I was going to get married, have a couple of kids. I was going to climb Kilimanjaro. And what did I get? Nothing. For seven years. Down the drain. Totally wasted. And I'll never get them back."

When his head rose again, Ben saw that his eyes were puddling. "I guess you know that Carrie left me."

He did, but the news still cut like a knife.

"She was faithful to me. For so long. She waited and waited, through the entire initial appeal. Two years almost. But eventually..." He pushed his chair back and looked away. "I kept trying to tell myself she'd come back. I even deluded myself into thinking she'd show for my execution. But it's all a fantasy. I haven't seen her for years."

"I'm sorry," Ben said quietly.

"I just-I don't know how this happened to me." Ray ran his fingers through twisted gray curls. "Do you know the story of the Wandering Jew?"

"Rings a vague bell."

"Old Hebrew myth. It was actually originally cooked up to reconcile some New Testament prophecies that didn't happen, or so the scholars say. The part where Jesus tells a group of people that some of them will still be alive when He returns, which He obviously hasn't done yet. The story is that this one guy was punished for committing some horrendous sin-punished with immortality. Doomed to walk the earth forever and ever, never resting, never dying. Just going on, day after day, a wandering life with no meaning. That's how I feel. My life continues, but it has no meaning. It's just another twenty-four hours wasted." He threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. "And I can't figure out what the sin is I committed that I'm being punished for. What did I do?" he shouted. "What could I possibly have done to deserve this?"