With Love from the Inside (11 page)

Ben Taylor, in Sophie's mind, had slicked-back, jet-black hair; his face would be ruddy and intense, his voice fast and boisterous. Instead, when his secretary escorted Sophie into his office, she found him to be quite the opposite, a fatherly type. Strong, capable, good-natured, keeping his children from taking that first puff on a cigarette because they would just know it was wrong.

“Sophie, I'm so glad to finally meet you.” His hand extended as he met her at the door to his office, his welcome warm and his tone disarming. His hair had just enough silver to look distinguished and his face enough lines to seem wise.

“Mr. Taylor, I'm sorry I've not been in contact with you earlier. I hope you can understand I've tried to move on, put this part of my life behind me.” Her words rushed to keep up with her defenses. “So if you wouldn't mind, please tell me how much my mother owes you and I'll pay the balance. I have a long drive back home.”

“Have a seat, please.” He motioned to a charcoal leather tufted sofa against the office wall. Sophie abided and took a seat as he walked over to his desk and grabbed some papers, presumably containing her mother's account information. She could only imagine what the invoices would read:
Consultation with Grace Bradshaw—still on death row—$1,500.00. Another consultation with Grace Bradshaw—conviction stands, still on death row—$1,500.00.

Her cynicism was on full speed today. Underneath it all, she was trying to figure out how to hide this bill from Thomas.

Ben sat down on the couch beside her. “I apologize if I've given you the impression the letter was my attempt to get paid. Your father's church provided him with quite a substantial life-insurance policy. It paid your mother's legal fees, and with your mother's instructions, I've used the surplus to keep up the house. The balance is dwindling, but there's some money you're entitled to, if you'd like.”

“I don't need the money, Mr. Taylor.” Sophie's two-carat emerald-cut diamond ring showed him that. “And I'm sure my mother could still use your services.”

“You were a hard one to track down,” he said, smiling and seemingly pleased he'd found her. “I've been trying to get in touch with you for the last five years. Your mother for longer than that. She misses you.”

Sophie didn't smile back. “Mr. Taylor, as I said to you when I walked in, I have put this part of my life behind me. I wasted my middle and high school years loving someone who was supposed to love me back, love my brother back.” She dug through her purse for her car keys and started to stand. “I was so stupid. Stupid to believe her, all while the whole town knew she was guilty.”

“I can't imagine the pain you've endured.” He put his hand on her shoulder with just enough pressure to prompt her to sit back down.

“You have no idea.” She bit her lower lip. “I lost my brother and my father, all because of her. My entire life has been altered because of my mother. Pain doesn't begin to describe what I have endured.”

It had been eleven years since Sophie had had a real conversation about her mother, one that acknowledged her existence and conveyed her hurt. Part of her liked the release; the other part of her felt like she was perched at the top of a large roller coaster, then plummeting down fast without the bar secured.

Ben paused, giving her a minute to regroup. “Sophie,” he said, “I'm not trying to stir up old wounds.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“I wanted . . . well, your mother wanted to contact you and let you know what is going on with her case.”

Sophie put her hand on the arm of the sofa. She didn't want to know. She didn't want him to confirm what Carter had said at Thanksgiving. She wanted to believe her mom and her past were both still locked securely behind iron bars, where they belonged.

“I took your mother's case about five years ago. It seemed her state-appointed attorneys weren't doing much and had basically stopped pursuing anything of relevance to the case after her conviction. Before your father died, he made two provisions: one was for you and your education, and the other was for your mom to secure a different legal team if she so desired.” He watched for her to acknowledge this.

“Okay,” she said. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I took on your mother's case after I received her letter. I drove to Lakeland and visited with her. She's not at all what I expected.” He shook his head and smiled.

“No,” she said, “you wouldn't think someone with Betty Crocker hands and a Martha Stewart smile could do such a thing.”

Ben's smile disappeared. “The thing is, Sophie, I don't believe she did.”

A tap on the door. “The clerk at the courthouse called. Judge wants you in his office ASAP,” said Louise, who today was wearing a black belted pantsuit. She sneezed, then wiped her nose with a lavender handkerchief.

“I was afraid that would happen,” Ben said, glancing at his watch, then at Sophie. “How long are you in town?”

“As soon as I leave here and check out of my room, I'm on my way.”

“My meeting with the judge shouldn't take more than an hour and
a half or so. Meet me at the café, say around one-thirty, and I'll buy you lunch. You need to hear what I have to say.”

“I'll think about it.” Sophie pushed a piece of string lying on the shiny hardwood floor around with her tennis shoe.

“Louise,” Ben yelled—unnecessarily, since she was still listening at the door. “Wash your hands and then give Sophie that envelope—you know, the one from her mother.”

—

S
OPHIE LEFT THE ATTORNEY
'
S OFFICE
still in her jogging suit. Her plan was to go to the B-and-B, shower, check out, and then be on her way. She had bantered back and forth in her mind all the reasons she wasn't obligated to stay. After all, her father had paid the bill, and she certainly didn't owe her mother anything. She'd made her clean break years ago, and even if her mom was going to be executed, what could she do about it? Her mother—the mother she'd known—had died a long time ago, along with the rest of the Bradshaws.

Ben Taylor could go on believing her mother was innocent all he wanted to; after all, that was his job.
My responsibilities are to Thomas, myself, and the family we may (but probably shouldn't) someday create.
She thought about Max sitting alone in his hospital bed, his mother out living her life without a care in the world. Abandoning him just like her mother had abandoned her. If she left now and moved forward, that at least would be justice, not only for her, but for William and Max. She congratulated herself for a decision well made.

When she got back to the B-and-B, her room had already been cleaned, her bed had been made, and new towels had been placed in a wicker basket by the sink in the bathroom. The curtains covering the sliding glass window had been pulled open and spider plants were in full view. Sophie tossed her keys and her purse on the bed. The manila envelope Louise
had handed her was still sealed. The contents, Sophie suspected, were things the prison needed to get rid of. Probably her mom's wedding ring, driver's license, things of that sort. Items usually given to a next of kin.

She decided to shower first, and then pack her clothes. She'd wait until later to open the envelope—much later, after she did the only other thing she needed to do before she left the tiny town of Brookfield.

—

T
HE CEMETERY LAY ON THE
eastern part of Brookfield and bordered the only highway leading into town. A twenty-five-acre piece of land covered with towering oak trees and untold stories of lives cut too short.

On Saturday mornings during high school, Sophie would dump out her composition notebooks from her backpack and fill the front pocket with items her mom needed, like underwear and cotton socks. In the other pocket she'd put items she needed for the stop she made on the way home. Little Golden Books to read to her brother when she visited him at the cemetery.

After she left for college and stopped visiting her mother, the trips to see William and her father at the cemetery subsided. She placated her conscience with every-other-week floral deliveries she placed using her one and only pre-Thomas credit card.

The last floral arrangement stopped after she married Thomas and he questioned the bill. “Who are you sending flowers to?” he had asked one day, after getting the mail before she did.

“My parents' grave site,” she'd answered, without thinking her response through. “I can't bear the thought of it looking lonely since I can't visit.”

“That's sweet,” Thomas said, kissing her on the cheek before moving on to the next piece of mail.

The subject never came up again. Thomas didn't object and money certainly wasn't an issue, but Sophie decided moving on meant letting
go, releasing the burden she had placed on herself to look after her dad and brother. It wasn't as though flower arrangements could change their destinies or make their final resting place more comfortable.

She parked her car near the front of the cemetery. If she remembered correctly, her dad was buried ten rows back from the first row of stones and seventeen markers over.

Sophie began to count out loud just like she had as a kid: “One, two . . .” If she kept her head down and concentrated, she wouldn't have to think about the fact she was the only one present aboveground.

“Ten. Now sixteen over. One, two, three . . .”

Number seventeen, exactly as Sophie remembered.

W
ITH
L
OVE
W
E
R
EMEMBER

P
AUL
W
ILLIAM
B
RADSHAW

The inscription wasn't very creative, but Sophie hadn't known what else to write at age eighteen. The wings of an angel adorned the top of the stone.

Right beside him lay William, his marker much smaller.

W
ILLIAM
J
OSEPH
B
RADSHAW

G
OD'S GREATEST GIFT RETURNED TO
H
IM.

A
BSENT FROM OUR LIVES BUT FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS.

Sophie bent down and traced William's name with her finger.

“Hey, baby boy,” she said. The cold grass around his headstone crunched as she sat down. “I'm sorry I haven't been here in a while to see you. I've missed you.”

Weeds had grown in around the sides, making the date of his birthday disappear.

She tried to pull some of them away, but the deep roots held firm.

“I'm married now. I wish you could meet him. His name is Thomas.”

The wind started to blow. Dried leaves blew and covered his gravestone. Sophie wiped them off as fast as she could. She then used both hands to jerk every unwelcomed weed from the firm ground until her cold fingers bled.

“Please forgive me for not saving you,” she said to him, as she laid her head down on top of his.

“What do you want done today?” I asked Roni. It was three and a half weeks since I'd been allowed to work in the salon. My hands were a little shaky. Several women had put in requests for haircuts, so today was going to be busy. I was glad for the distraction and thankful for the work.

Death row inmates took the first appointments of the morning so the officers could minimize the interactions they had with the general population. Kinda strange, I thought, since I was the one holding the scissors, but rules were rules.

“I want something different,” Roni replied, her face branded with resolve. Her disposition had changed since she started corresponding with her father. One might even describe her as chipper these days.

“Give me some layers.” She handed me a picture she'd torn out of
People
magazine. Jodie Foster was standing on the red carpet in a shimmering beaded gown.

“My dad said he loved her in
Silence of the Lambs
.”

I took the picture and studied it. I was all for a good makeover, but I wasn't a miracle worker. Roni's hair was short on the sides and long in the back, and vaguely reminded me of a serial shoplifter I'd once seen on
The
Jerry Springer Show
.

“You realize I'm going to have to cut your length and let the top grow out some before your hair can look exactly like Jodie Foster's?” I
emphasized the word
exactly
so she didn't lose the newly found glow in her cheeks.

Roni looked at her reflection in the plastic-coated mirror in front of her swivel chair. With a heavy sigh, she grabbed Jodie out of my hands and said, “Damn it, Grace. Just give me the usual.”

After a few minutes of reverent negotiations, I was able to talk her into taking a few inches off the length and softening the long gap between her bangs and the middle of her back. She also allowed me to cut in a few soft angles around her face.

Roni seemed pleased when she left. “Do you want a tip?” she asked me. An off-center grin started to emerge.

“Sure,” I replied. “Think this will be a first.”

“Get a different job.”

She was still chuckling at her own joke when the officer handcuffed her and led her out of the beauty salon and back to her cell.

I was on my twelfth haircut of the day when the officer interrupted and said, “Last haircut, Bradshaw. The warden wants to see you.”

This was my seventeenth year in Lakeland and I can say I'd seen Warden Richards only a handful of times. I heard him announce things over the loudspeaker and saw his name at the bottom of memos . . .

ALL INMATES FROM THIS POINT FORWARD ARE ONLY ALLOWED TO USE THREE-INCH TOOTHBRUSHES. NORMAL-SIZE TOOTHBRUSHES ARE AGAINST POLICY AND ARE CONSIDERED CONTRABAND. THREE-INCH TOOTHBRUSHES WILL BE ISSUED IMMEDIATELY.

WARDEN ELROD RICHARDS

It was weird to think I would
never, ever
use a normal-size toothbrush again, but hey, we all had to adjust.

I closed the salon as instructed. The two officers put my hands and feet back in shackles and I shuffled, sandwiched between them, to the waiting area outside the warden's office.

“Take 'em off,” the female officer said to me. I dragged my feet behind the curtained area and forced myself to think about the taste of roasted marshmallows smothered between chocolate and graham crackers while the officers inspected me. They handed me a different uniform when they finished. This new waistband pinched my skin.

“Prisoner 44607 on deck,” the male officer yelled as he opened the door into the warden's office.

Warden Richards was sitting behind a scratched metal desk. Ms. Liz sat across from him in a folding chair. Neither looked at me when I entered. I asked them if something awful had happened to Sophie.

“Please take a seat,” the warden said, motioning to the seat beside Ms. Liz.

He didn't believe in pleasantries, nor did he look like he could be in charge of a maximum-security prison. His total weight with firearms couldn't have exceeded 130 pounds.

He slid a paper across the desk to me. Ms. Liz didn't say anything to me. Her eyes were closed. I think she was praying.

I bent over the desk to read the paper. I needed my reading glasses, but I could clearly see at the top of the page the paper read:
DEATH WARRANT
.

I took a deep breath and sat back in my chair. My vision blurred and I needed a minute to think.

Ms. Liz finally spoke: “Grace, the warden told me your final appeal had been denied. You are aware of that, right?” Her words were quiet and thin.

“My attorney told me. I met with him a few weeks ago.”

“I know this is difficult for you to do, but the warden needs you to read the paper. You have to be aware of what is going to happen.”

I bent over the paper again. The small print moved around.

Ms. Liz took the paper from in front of me. “Do I have your permission to read this out loud to her?”

“This has to get done some way,” the warden replied. A framed picture of him shaking the governor's hand sat on the bookshelf behind him.

Ms. Liz inhaled slowly and started to read. “The South Carolina Department of Criminal Justice has ordered that on February 15—
”
Her voice cracked and she stopped reading long enough to take a drink from her bottled water. “That on February 15, Grace Margaret Bradshaw be placed in a room arranged for execution—” She stopped reading again.

“For God's sake. Give me the paper,” the warden ordered. He pushed his silver-rimmed glasses up on his nose.

“That on February 15, Grace Margaret Bradshaw be placed in a room arranged for execution and be injected with a substance or substances in lethal quantity sufficient enough to cause death and to continue with injection until such time until the said Grace Margaret Bradshaw is dead.
”

He read the words without stopping. “Do you understand the order as it has been given?”

I answered yes. And that was the last thing I remembered.