The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips (26 page)

As he stared at the small Bible in his hand, he noticed his thumb held a page open. “What the hell?” he said. His eyes scanned over the page when a weird-looking name jumped out at him, Zacchaeus. Then his eyes hit a verse in the story of Zacchaeus that seemed to leap off the page, “. . . and if I have taken any thing from any man by false accusation, I restore
him
fourfold.*” Andy stared at the verse for several minutes. He couldn’t seem to pull his eyes off it. Finally he managed to toss the Bible out of his hand. He raised himself up on the bed, .38 shells sticking to his side, where his shirt had pulled up revealing bare skin. Brushing them off, he said, “What is all this?” Then he saw the bullet holes in the wall on the left side of his bed. “What the . . . ,” he said. He let out a long groan. “Now I remember,” he said.

Slowly Andy pushed himself from his bed. He limped into the living room. His two table lamps were both smashed on the floor and he noticed that he’d apparently given his television the Elvis treatment. (In case you don’t remember, Elvis once shot his television. So did Andy.) Shuffling slowly into the room, his right foot nearly slipped on some torn-up pieces of paper lying on his hardwood floor next to the mantel. He looked down and saw the padded envelope from John there, ripped open. “Ouch, dammit!” he growled as he lowered himself to the floor. “Man, I am a world-class idiot,” he said as he gathered each of the small pieces of paper. He wadded them in his hand and reached over to toss them into the fireplace, but stopped himself. Instead, he moved over to the couch and spread the papers out on the coffee table.

Now, I’ve heard this part of the story many, many times, but I never cease to be amazed at how calm Andy was through all this. Think about it. His house is wrecked. There are gunshot holes in his television and in the wall near his bedroom. The way the ammunition was spread out on his bed, you would think he had been under attack the night before, and from the looks of his living room, that would be a pretty good guess. But Andy didn’t react to any of it. He couldn’t remember much after he took his first drink, he downed that bottle so fast, but somehow he could recall that all the damage to his house was self-inflicted. He’d never been a violent drunk before, so something had to set him off, and that something was probably in pieces on top of his coffee table. Yet he sat down and started putting the letter back together like he was working on a jigsaw puzzle. Go figure.

It took him about five minutes to put the letter back together, which is pretty good considering how hungover he was. He sat back and stared at it. “Huh,” he said. “Well, no wonder . . .” He then gathered the pieces of paper together and threw them in the trash. I don’t know what the letter said, but I do know that, whatever it was, it put Andy in his car the minute his doctor cleared him to drive and he headed north to Michigan City. Yep, you guessed it. He drove up for what he hoped would be his last face-to-face with John.

Chapter 20

T
HE DRIVE NORTH
went faster than Andy had anticipated. The state of Indiana allows troopers to drive their cars anywhere within the state, and he took advantage of that little provision for this trip. Although he didn’t want to be one of those troopers who make other drivers mad by blowing past the speed limit, he couldn’t help himself. The drive was so long and boring that he couldn’t bring himself to drag it out any longer than he had to. Unlike the last time he had a face-to-face conversation with John Phillips, Andy didn’t play this one out in his mind ahead of time. He just drove. He emptied his head by cranking up Jackson Browne on the car stereo, and pointed his patrol car north. He didn’t stop until he arrived at Michigan City. Several times along the way he had to pull over, get out of the car, and stretch. Fall was about to give way to winter, although this particular early December day was warmer than usual. Nevertheless, it was still cool enough to make his bones ache, even though his breaks had technically healed.

Andy pulled into the parking lot of Indiana’s primary maximum-security prison nearly an hour before his scheduled time with John Phillips. But then again, he was always early for appointments. He parked in the law enforcement parking section, and climbed out of his car. The old stone walls topped with razor wire grabbed his attention and he felt a cold chill run up his back. This would be his first time to actually walk inside prison gates. He’d helped send his fair share of people there, but he’d never been there himself. Cops usually aren’t huge fans of going to prisons. The odds are too high of running into someone who would be less than happy to see you, if you catch my drift.

Although Andy had arranged to meet with John in one of the prison holding rooms (and, no, that’s hardly standard procedure—being a state cop has its privileges), he wanted to walk onto death row himself prior to his meeting. Not many people are allowed onto death row. The state never meant for it to be a tourist stop for people driving from Chicago to Kalamazoo. But for state troopers, that’s another thing completely. Andy knew the prison would roll out the red carpet for him, and let him see anything he wanted. That was part of the reason why he arrived so early, that and the fact that he hardly slept the night before. He was pretty anxious to have this meeting.

A guard greeted him as he stepped into the visitor’s center through which every outside person who arrives at the prison must pass. Andy wasn’t in uniform, but he must have still looked like a cop because the guard smiled and asked him, “May I have your name please, Officer?”

“Myers. Andy Myers.”

The guard glanced down at his clipboard. “Ah, you’re a little earlier than we expected, Officer Myers.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I know I’m early. It’s a curse my mother inflicted on me. She had an allergic reaction to lateness. Since I’m early, do you think I could take a look around? I would especially like to see where the baby-killing son of a bitch I helped put in here is kept,” Andy said.

“I think we can arrange that, sir.” The guard pushed a button, which allowed Andy to go through the first of a series of steel doors. He still walked with a pronounced limp.

On the other side of the door, a female guard greeted him. “I just need you to sign your name here,” she said as she pointed down to a page on a clipboard with a series of lines on it. After Andy had signed in, she handed him a visitor’s badge. “Are you carrying your sidearm this morning? If so, we will need to lock it up in here for you.”

“No,” Andy said.

“Any pocketknives or any other kind of weapon, sir?” she asked.

“Nope,” Andy replied.

“All right then, please empty your pockets in this dish and go ahead and step through the metal detector for me.” And then she added, almost apologetically, “We have to do this for everyone, no matter who they are.”

“Don’t worry about it. I understand,” Andy said as he walked through the small arch of the machine. He had barely stepped into it when the alarm went off. Andy laughed. “The doctors told me when they screwed my leg back together that I would give these things fits. I guess they knew what they were talking about.”

“That’s not the first time this has happened,” the guard said, “but we have to make sure.” She walked over to Andy with a hand wand. “Which leg is it?” she asked.

“Left. Below the knee. Got hit by a car while I was out jogging.”

The female guard let out a gasp as she passed the wand over his leg. It beeped loudly as it passed the site of the screws. “You’re kidding!” she said.

“Nope. And the car didn’t even stop. We never did catch the guy who did it.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” she said. “How long ago was that?”

“September,” he said.

“I am so sorry,” she said. She stepped back. “Okay, you’re good to go,” she said.

“So where to now?” Andy asked.

“I’m afraid nowhere for a while. The population is locked down for count, and we can’t let you go back until it clears.” Once or twice or three times a day, I’m not sure how many, all the prisoners are pulled in off the exercise yard and work details and locked back in their cells for a head count. That’s what was going on when Andy arrived.

“When will that be?” Andy asked.

The guard sighed. “It should have finished ten minutes ago. Unfortunately, we occasionally run into problems, which make it run longer. Today seems to be one of those days. We will take you back just as soon as we can,” she said.

“Thanks,” Andy grumbled. He looked around the narrow security corridor and imagined that this must be how it feels to be in the limbo of purgatory.
If there was such a thing as purgatory,
he thought. A line of four hard-plastic chairs were shoved up against the eastern wall. “I guess I will wait here.”

“I appreciate your patience. It shouldn’t be too much longer,” the guard said.

Andy glanced at his watch. His appointment was now less than twenty-five minutes away. If they let him through the gate right now, that would give him enough time to tour death row, but not to talk to those taking care of the inmates. And that was his true intent for going back there. He didn’t give two hoots to a holler, as we say back home, about seeing where John spent his days. The guy could spend them in hell for all Andy cared.

Clearing count took much longer than anyone expected, and with each passing minute, the plastic chair became a little harder, and Andy’s butt became a little more numb. He shuffled from side to side, trying to get comfortable. The only reading material he could find was a two-year-old copy of
Outdoor Life
with half the cover torn off. The pages felt a little funky, so Andy dropped it back onto one of the chairs and continued to wait. By the time the all-clear whistle sounded, Andy barely had enough time to get back to the holding area in which he would meet with John.

“An officer will be up here in just a moment and he will take you back,” the guard said.

“Thanks,” Andy said.

A few minutes later a guard arrived, who, to Andy, looked like he should be a little farther down the road in South Bend playing middle linebacker for the “Fighting Irish.” Andy was no shrimp, but he felt like Richard Simmons compared to this man. “Good to meet you,” the guard said in a voice that was far too high a pitch for his tremendous size. From the way Andy described it, the guy sounded a little like he’d swallowed Richard Simmons. A big man with such an effeminate voice struck Andy as an odd combination, and he could barely keep from laughing. The guard stuck out his hand and said, “Steve Jacobs.”

“Andy Myers,” Andy said as he shook Jacobs’s hand.

“I understand you’re a state trooper down south. What brings you up to our neck of the woods?”

“Three years ago I put a guy away for murder. There are still a couple of loose ends I need to tie up in my own mind with the case. I figure he’s been in here long enough to be ready to cooperate,” Andy said.

“Interesting,” Jacobs said. “Follow me and we will get you set up.” Andy did as he was instructed and fell in step behind Steve Jacobs. They passed through a heavy steel door, and passed into a wide corridor that stretched up to the roofline. The polished concrete floor beneath their feet reflected the harsh cathode lights overhead. On either side the walls were made of concrete block. The place smelled like the basement of a very old house. About ten yards down the main corridor, Jacobs led Andy to another locked steel door on their right. A thick window sat off to the side, and Andy could see another officer inside, who pressed a button. A buzzer buzzed. Jacobs pushed the door open and led Andy down another, much narrower and shorter corridor. Actually, it was a normal-sized hallway, but coming out from the giant main corridor, one felt almost claustrophobic. This hallway led to another door, with another buzzer, which led into a suite of rooms. A short, stocky, balding man, waited in the main lobby of the suites.

“Trooper Myers, nice to meet you. I’m Charles Wells, one of the assistant wardens.” He stuck out his hand.

“Good to meet you,” Andy said. “I appreciate your setting this up for me.”

“Our privilege,” the warden said. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable in this room right over here”—and he motioned toward one of the holding rooms—“and we will have your Mr. Phillips brought right in to you.” Again, this was hardly standard operating procedure for visiting a death row inmate.

Andy sat down behind a table and waited. Apart from its location, the room felt very much like the last room in which he’d talked with John. It had the same fluorescent lights overhead, the same institutional smell, the same type of wooden table, and the same uncomfortable wooden chairs. Unlike during their last meeting, Andy stood as John entered the room. He immediately noticed the toll the years behind bars had taken on John. The man was always thin, but now his face appeared gaunt. His clothes hung on him like a hanger, which made him appear much smaller than he actually was. In a way, John now reminded Andy of Gabriel Phillips more than he ever had before. Also, unlike during their last meeting, Andy noticed John didn’t walk with the distinctive jingling slump of handcuffs and leg irons. That struck him as a bit odd. He’d heard stories of death row inmates who had to be put into straightjackets before they were even let out to take a shower.
Someone must be slipping,
he thought.

“Officer Myers,” John said with a smile. “It’s good to see you again. I had a feeling you might come to see me eventually.”

“Glad I didn’t disappoint you,” Andy replied. He didn’t return the smile. “Have a seat.” He motioned toward the chair across from his own and sat down.

“I appreciated the letter you sent and your coming up to see me now,” John said.

“Yeah,” Andy replied with a flat tone of voice. “This isn’t a social call.”

“No. I didn’t expect that it was,” John said. “Did you get my reply and the—”

Andy cut him off. “Yeah, I got it. All of it.
Thanks.
” He said that last word with a tone that said anything
but
thank you. “Let me get right to it, John. You’re out of appeals.”

“Yes.”

“The state will set an execution date soon, and you can bet your ass that the governor will not step in to save you at the last minute.”