Vernon God Little (32 page)

‘On the eighteenth count of murder in the first degree, that of Barry Enoch Gurie in Martirio, Texas – how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?'

‘Not guilty,' says the foreman.

The officer reads a list of my fallen school friends. The world holds its breath as he looks up to ask the verdict.

The jury foreman's eyes twitch, then fall.

‘Guilty.'

Even before he says it, I feel departments in the office of my life start to close up shop; files are shredded, sensitivities are folded into neatly marked boxes, lights and alarms are switched off. As the husk of my body is guided from the court, I sense a single little man sat at the bottom of my soul. He hunches over a card table under a naked low-watt bulb, sipping flat beer from a plastic cup. I figure he must be my janitor. I figure he must be me.

O
n the second of December
I was sentenced to death by lethal injection. Christmas on Death Row, boy. To be fair, ole Brian Dennehy tried his best. In the end, it doesn't look like they'll cast the real Brian in the TV-movie, I guess because he doesn't lose his cases. But my appeal will draw out the truth. There's a new fast-track appeals process that means I could be out by March. They reformed the system, so innocent folks don't have to spend years on the row. It can't be bad. The only news about me is that I put on twenty pounds since the sentence. It keeps out some of this January chill. Apart from that, my life hangs still while the seasons whip around me.

Taylor's eyes flicker brightly through the screen. TV makes them sparkle, but they move strangely, as if she holds them back on a leash. Her grin is frozen like it came out of a jelly mold. I watch her almost-but-not-quite staring at me, until, after a minute, I realize she's reading something behind the camera. Her lines must be written there. After another moment I realize she's reading something about me. My skin cools as understanding dawns.

‘Then, when the big day arrives,' she says, ‘everybody else, including witnesses, will assemble at five fifty-five in the lounge next to the visiting room. The final meal will be served between three-thirty and four o'clock in the afternoon, then, sometime before six, he'll be allowed to shower, and dress in fresh clothes.'

A stray, impassive thought bubbles up through my mind: that Pam will have to supervise my last meal. ‘Oh Lord, it's getting
soggy
...'

‘Right after six o'clock,' says Taylor, ‘he'll be taken from the cell area into the execution chamber, and strapped down to a gurney. A medical officer will insert an intravenous catheter into his arm, and run a saline solution through it. Then the witnesses will be escorted to the execution chamber. When everyone is in place, the warden will ask him to make any last statement . . .'

The host of the show chuckles when she says that. ‘Heck,' he says, ‘I'd recite
War and Peace
as my last statement!' Taylor just laughs. She still has that killer laugh.

I've seen a whole lot of Taylor these last weeks, actually. First I saw her on
Today
, then she was with
Letterman
, talking about her bravery, and our kind of relationship together. I never realized we got so close, until I saw her talking about it. She came out in November
Penthouse
too, real pretty pictures taken at the prison museum. That's where they keep ‘Old Sparky', the State's first electric chair. November
Penthouse
has these pictures of Taylor posing around Old Sparky, real fetching, if it's not too bold to say. I have one posted in my cell, not the whole body or anything, just the face. You can see a piece of the chair too, in back. I guess lethal injection wouldn't look so good for modeling, like with Taylor draped over the gurney or something.

On the bench in my cell I have one of those ole distractions with the metal balls that hang on fishing wire, in a row, and clack into each other. Next to it sits my towel, with my art project tools hidden under. Yeah, I still hide things under my laundry. Some habits are a real challenge to break. Then, next to my towel, is the baby TV Vaine Gurie loaned me. I reach up and change the channel.

‘The Ledesma man is wrong, is criminel, they are many more fax hiden than come out in court.' It's my ole attorney, Abdini, speaking to a panel of ladies on local TV. Lookit ole Ricochet there, my man the underdog. He's dressed like for a Turkish disco.

‘Vernon Little's appeal is in process now, isn't it?' asks the hostess.

‘It is,' says another lady, ‘but it's not looking good.'

‘Police neber fine the other way-upon, for instants,' continues Abdini.

‘Excuse me?' says one of the panel.

‘I think he means they never found that other
weapon
,' prompts her colleague.

The ladies all laugh politely, but Abdini just scowls at the camera. ‘I will fine it . . .'

I flick channels again, to see who else is on the gravy train. On another show, a reporter talks to Lally. ‘But what do you say to those sectors of the community that accuse you of trash-mongering?'

‘Tch, nonsense,' says Lally. ‘First, the broadcast itself is a nonprofit venture. Revenues flow right back to the State, instead of taxpayers' money flowing out to support some of the worst criminals in the land. Second, it upholds our basic right to
see
justice being done.'

‘So you're effectively proposing to fund the State's penal system by selling broadcast rights to the prisoners' executions? I mean – isn't a prisoner's last hour a little
personal
?'

‘Not at all – don't forget that all executions are witnessed, even today. We're simply expanding the audience to include anyone with an interest in the proper function of law.' Lally puts a hand on his hip. ‘Not so long ago, Bob, all executions were public – even held in the town square. Crime went down, public satisfaction went up. Throughout history it's been society's right to punish delinquents by its own hand. It makes plain sense to give that right back to society.'

‘Hence the web-vote?'

‘Exactly. And we're not just talking executions here – were talking the ultimate reality TV, where the public can monitor, via cable or internet, prisoners' whole lives on death row. They can live amongst them, so to speak, and make up their own minds about a convict's worthiness for punishment. Then each week, viewers across the globe can cast a vote to decide which prisoner is executed next. It's humanity in action – the next logical step toward true democracy.'

‘But surely, due process dictates the fate of prisoners?'

‘Absolutely, and we can't tamper with that. But the new fast-track appeals process means prisoners' last recourses at law are spent much sooner, after which I say the public should have a hand in the roster of final events.' Lally lets fly a hooshy laugh at the reporter, and spreads his hands wide. ‘In the tradition of momentous progress, it's blindingly simple, Bob: criminals cost money. Popular TV makes money. Criminals are popular on TV. Put them together and, presto – problem solved.'

The reporter pauses as a helicopter settles in the background. Then he asks, ‘What do you say to those who claim prisoners' rights will be breached?'

‘Oh
please
– prisoners, by definition, live in
forfeit
of their rights. Anyway, cons today can languish in institutions for years without knowing their fate – wouldn't you say
that
was cruel? We're finally giving them what the law has always promised but never delivered – expediency. Not only that, they'll have greater access to spiritual counsel, and musical choices to accompany their final event. We'll even craft a special segment around their final statement, with the background imagery of their choice. Believe me – prisoners will welcome these changes.'

The reporter smiles and nods at Lally. ‘And what of reports that you're gearing up for a shot at the senate?'

I switch off the set. I ain't looking forward to cameras in here. We just have an open toilet, see? I guess that's where the money gets made. Internet viewers will be able to choose which cells to watch, and change camera angles and all. On regular TV there'll be edited highlights of the day's action. Then the general public will vote by phone or internet. They'll vote for who should die next. The cuter we act, the more we entertain, the longer we might live. I heard one ole con say it'd be just like the life of a real actor.

Before lights-out I sit up to play with the clacking metal balls, something I've been doing a lot of lately. Ella Bouchard mailed
me a pome that I sometimes read too, about true hearts and what-all. I know it's spelled
poem
, but she don't, not yet anyway. I avoid the pome tonight, and just play with the cause-and-effect balls. Then Jones the guard brings the phone to my cell. The cell-phone is one good thing about Lally's operation. That, and cubicle doors in the shower block, and electronic cigarette lighters, even though they don't give a flame.

I take the phone from Jonesy. ‘Hello?'

‘Well,' says Mom, ‘I don't know who's been talking to Lally . . .'

‘Who
hasn't
been talking to him, more like it.'

‘Well don't get snotty Vernon, God. I'm just
saying
, that's all. People came snooping about your father, and they've been hassling the gals as well. You'd think Lally'd be busy enough, what with everything. Meantime I have to scrape up the money to do something about that damn bench, it sinks more every day . . .'

‘Snooping?'

‘Well, you know, asking why they never found your daddy's body and all. Lally's been so antsy since he dumped Georgette – even Pam and Vaine noticed it.'

‘Vaine's in your club now, huh?'

‘Well she's been through a lot, what with Lalicom pulling out of the SWAT team. The sheriff's taking all his home troubles out on her, and she's under real pressure to prove herself – you just don't
empathize
, Vernon.'

‘There ain't a whole lot I can do, Ma.'

‘I know, I'm just
saying
, that's all. If he'd only come home, things'd be different.'

‘Don't wait up for him.'

‘Well there's
love
at stake, a woman
senses
these nancies.'

‘Nuances, Ma.'

‘Oops – I have to run, Pam and Vaine just arrived, and I haven't finished the zipper on Pam's pants. Harris's is floating the e-store today and there are specials galore. Promise me you'll be okay . . .'

‘Palmyra's wearing
pants
. . .?'

She hangs up. Taylor's voice oozes out of a TV in the next cell, so I go back to clacking the balls, just watching them. I have too much pain right now to work on my art project. Maybe later.

‘Jeezus, Little,' screams a con up the row. ‘Fuck up with yer cunted fuckin noise!'

He's an okay guy, the con. They're all cool, actually. They all planned a beer together, with ribs and steak, when they get to heaven. Or wherever. I still plan to have some here on earth, to be honest. The truth's still out there, virginal and waiting. Anyway, I don't take much notice of the row. That's one thing about these balls, once you set them clacking. You focus right in. Drop two balls, and an equal two clack off the other side; just this one metal ball in the middle passes on all the shock.

‘Burnem Little you motherfuckin scroted cunt-ass shitsucker,' screams the con.

‘Je-sus Ch-
risst
,' hollers Jonesy, ‘keep it down, willya?'

‘Jones,' says the con, ‘I swear I'm gonna waste my fuckin self if he don't quit clickin them fuckin balls.'

‘Chill out, the kid's entitled to a little diversion,' says the guard. ‘Y'all know what it's like with an appeal pending.' He's actually okay, ole Jonesy, though he's none too smart. Stops by my cell sometimes to tell me my pardon came through. ‘Little, your pardon came through,' he says. Then he just laughs. I laugh too, these days.

‘Jonesy, I ain't kiddin,' calls the con. ‘That fuckin click, click, click goes on day and fuckin night, the kid's losin his sense – fix him a little time with
Lasalle
for chrissakes.'

‘Oh yeah, like you give the orders around here. Gimme a fuckin million dollars and I'll think about it,' says Jones. ‘Anyway, he don't need Lasalle. He don't need no Lasalle at all, now shut the fuck up.'

‘Little,' screams the con, ‘fuck your goddam appeal, I'll ream your ass with a fuckin Roto-Rooter if you don't quit them balls.'

‘Hey,' barks Jones. ‘What am I now tellin you?'

‘Jonesy, the kid's bended up, he need some
Lasalle
to help him face his God.'

‘Take more'n damn Lasalle to straighten this boy out,' says Jones. ‘Git some sleep now, go on.'

‘
I have some goddam basic fuckin human rights in this fuckin joint!
' screams the con.

‘Git to sleep goddammit,' barks Jonesy. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

I go real quiet. Who's Lasalle? The idea of facing my God sticks in my brain like a burr.

A guard comes for me after breakfast and takes me out of my cell.

‘Yeah, yeah,' go the cons as I shuffle along the row.

We go down some stairs into the lower tract of the building, which is like the bowels, if it's not too rough to say, and end up in a dark, wet kind of corridor with only three cells running off it. The cells have no bars or windows, just these bank-vault kind of doors, with reinforced peepholes.

‘If you wuzn't who you wuz, you wun't even be comin down here,' says the guard. ‘Only you celebrity killers git to come down here.'

‘What's down here?' I ask.