The memories didn’t always remain there; sometimes they came roaring back with such crisp clarity, particularly late at night, that what little sleep she got was restless and haunted. But Kristy fought to bury that incident with Lance. She loved being married to him, loved introducing Lance to her coworkers. “This is my husband,” she’d say with pride. She loved the warmth of his body in bed, the nights curled up on the sofa watching Netflix with Ryan and Pops. She loved doing projects around the house, helping Lance paint and garden, watching their home come to life. She’d wake each morning, Lance’s arms holding her tightly, his muscled chest rising up and down as he peacefully slept. Sometimes he’d wake and catch her watching him. He’d smile and ask, “Darlin’, why didn’t you wake me sooner?” and then he’d kiss her and they’d make love. Kristy was experiencing a kind of love she had never believed in, the kind of love Pops shared with her mother. Despite that one flicker of uncertainty at the bar, Kristy’s black-and-gray world was now vibrant, almost Technicolor. Kristy even found it easier to shake the workday off knowing she had Lance waiting at home.
She wanted to believe that Lance’s fuse had been triggered by her ill-timed nicotine craving and nothing more. But deep down she couldn’t silence that nagging voice that said something wasn’t right.
A few months passed. Sure, there were little things, the time he punched the car window when he felt she was driving recklessly, or smashed the jar of peanut butter because she bought the wrong brand and he had decided they should cut back on their sugar intake. But these were all things he was doing to protect her. They weren’t malicious.
Every time she worried about Lance, he would do something to make her fall in love with him all over again. They were lying in bed one night when Lance looked over at Kristy.
“Ryan mentioned that parents’ night was next Tuesday. I’ve got a private lesson at the Y, but I could always get Carlos to cover.”
Kristy didn’t answer, blinking back her tears.
“Darlin’, are you crying?” Lance asked in surprise.
“I’ve just been doing all of this alone for so long.”
“We’re a family. That’s what families do, or so I’ve heard,” Lance said with a wry grin. At parents’ night, Lance held Kristy’s hand, leading her from one classroom to another, charming all of Ryan’s teachers, eagerly inquiring about Ryan’s progress and how he was doing. Liza pulled Kristy aside as Ryan showed Lance his latest project for his 3-D modeling class.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy,” Liza said. Kristy smiled. She was happy. At least until they were leaving the auditorium. Lance gripped her arm, his voice low.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
Kristy didn’t know what he was talking about, his fingers digging deeper. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, glad that Ryan had opted to get a ride with Ella.
“What are you talking about, Lance?”
“Telling everyone I’m not Ryan’s dad. You said ‘stepfather’ fifty goddamn times.”
“I didn’t mean to … I mean, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well, next time you will. If you want me to act like a father to him, then treat me like one,” Lance said as they reached the exit. Almost as if he knew people would be watching, he released Kristy and kept moving toward the parking lot. Kristy stepped out into the humid night air, rubbing her arm, blaming herself for making Lance feel disrespected. She tried to apologize on the drive home, but Lance had already forgotten it, insisting that they grab dinner and drinks at Kristy’s favorite Mexican restaurant.
The weeks passed without incident and she began to breathe easy. She should have known better. One evening Kristy ended up stuck at the office, trying to fix the mess Gus’s new intern made when she sent out a press release announcing the execution of an inmate who wasn’t actually being executed. Kristy spent hours fielding angry calls. The victim’s family was pissed, convinced they’d been denied the chance to watch their family member’s murderer pay. The inmate’s family thought they’d been denied a final farewell.
Exhausted, she rushed out of work at seven thirty and made the long drive home. When she arrived, Lance didn’t even bother to look up from his laptop. When she asked if he was all right, he just shrugged and said, “It was a long day.”
She didn’t think much about Lance’s mood, still fuming over her own work drama while she made dinner, simmering the pasta sauce and vegetables. Ryan came bounding into the kitchen, chattering nonstop about his sixteenth birthday. It was less than two weeks away and Kristy had mentioned to Lance that she wanted to take Ryan to their spot at the Sam Houston National Forest. They hadn’t been there together in years, but when Ryan was in second grade, the first Saturday of every month, no matter how tired or overworked Kristy was, she would pack a lunch—bologna sandwiches, potato chips, and fruit salad—and they’d head off, hiking along the Lone Star trail until their feet ached, stopping midday and sharing a picnic under the shade of the pine trees. Ryan would entertain Kristy with fun facts about the US presidents, and she would tell him stories about Pops and her mother and how they used to hike these trails. As time passed, the tradition faded, but she thought it would be fun to have a picnic, just the two of them. Then they could meet Lance and host a surprise party for Ryan at his favorite Mexican restaurant. Kristy should have known better than to try to get some one-on-one time with Ryan. These days Lance called all the shots.
“Still can’t wait for my brand-new Jeep,” Ryan joked.
“Aren’t you funny?” she said. Ryan laughed.
“Jeez, Mom, a kid can dream,” Ryan joked. She’d looked over at Lance but he was silently sipping his beer. Pops interrupted, asking Kristy if she remembered to order the refill for his inhaler, and she spent the next twenty minutes on the phone with the pharmacy trying to get them to deliver it. It was close to nine before they all sat down for dinner. Lance remained muted. Kristy noticed but was too exhausted to comment, letting Ryan and Pops fill in the silences. The minute Lance finished eating, he mumbled good night and went straight to bed, leaving Kristy to wash up. She didn’t mind, still decompressing from her shitty day.
When she came up to bed, she closed the door. Lance stood by the window, shirt off, clad only in jeans.
“Hey, babe, are you sure you’re okay?”
He didn’t say a word, but took three giant strides until he reached Kristy. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging deeper and deeper, until she yelped. Something flickered in Lance’s eyes; was it excitement or regret? She thought he was going to let go but instead, he reached over and placed his right hand over Kristy’s mouth. With his other hand, he punched her right under her solar plexus. Kristy gasped, the force of the blow activating her entire nervous system, triggering her brain and body simultaneously as she toppled onto the gray carpeting.
No, Kristy thought. No. No. No. She sat motionless on the floor, sprawled out, sucking in air, trying to reconstruct the events that had occurred. Lance stood above her, his expression unreadable.
“I don’t understand. What the hell …? I mean … Jesus …” Kristy gasped, her breath coming out in spurts. She could barely speak, not sure if it was because of the force of the blow, the surprise of it, or both. Lance knelt down beside Kristy, pulling her close so that they were face-to-face. She tried to resist, to pull away, but he held tight, his mouth inches from hers, as if he were trying to breathe the life back into her.
“Darlin’, I was so goddamn worried when you didn’t call or text tonight. No one heard from you. Not Pops or Ryan.”
“My phone battery died. I told you that,” Kristy said. She was constantly forgetting to charge her phone. Lance wasn’t interested in her excuses.
“You work in a prison, Kristy. It’s a dangerous place. I started thinking about all the bad things that could happen. I just got so worried. We’re a team now. You have to remember that.”
“You hurt me, Lance,” she said.
He was silent
for a moment and then he shook his head, kissing her tenderly.
“Fear makes you do crazy things, darlin’. Next time you’ll let me know if you’re going to be late.”
It didn’t even register to Kristy that Lance hadn’t apologized. That there was no remorse. No contrition. She was too busy trying to understand how it was possible that Lance had just assaulted her. That’s what the police would have called it. That’s what it was. She had worked in law enforcement long enough to know that. If this were anyone else, if anyone but her husband had done this to her, she would have called the police. She would have watched as the cops hauled him off to jail. But she didn’t call anyone. She didn’t tell Ryan or Pops. She never said a word to Carmen or Mac. Yes, Lance had hit her, but he wasn’t some stranger off the street. How could she? This was her husband. Her brand-new husband.
Dear Ms. Tucker,
I hope you’re feeling better. I saw Miss Carmen and she said you’d been out sick. Drink lots of fluids and get plenty of rest. That’s what my mama always said and my mama was never wrong. Anyway, I sure do hate to pester you but with my execution fast approaching, my lawyer Bev has been in contact with several high-profile reporters. We would love to schedule as many interviews as possible to get more public support regarding my case. I realize you are a very busy woman but Carmen said you were the person who made all the decisions so I’ve enclosed names and phone numbers of various media outlets. At the top of the list is some hotshot rapper who wants to meet in two weeks to discuss a documentary he’s doing about wrongful convictions. I’ve never heard of him but some of the fellas in here said he’s big-time so hopefully you can reach out ASAP. In my limited experience, them Hollywood types tend to have short attention spans. As always, I greatly appreciate your continued assistance.
Warmly,
Clifton Harris
CHAPTER NINE
On any given day, when an execution was scheduled, Kristy spent the entire morning bracing herself for what lay ahead. Once she was inside, standing shoulder to shoulder with all the other witnesses, the entire room collectively holding their breath, she’d count down the seconds, watching from outside her body as another criminal was dispatched, wanting it all to be over. But today, Kristy was grateful to be here, understanding there was something wrong with preferring a front row seat on death row to being in her own home. Yet here she was, waiting for Marcus Masters’s final moments to unfold, grateful she had a place to escape Lance and his mood swings.
The small room was made up of some unplastered brick walls, all of them painted a confused kind of green. Kristy always wondered if this color was an attempt to render a small amount of calm for the inmate, or the witnesses. Or was it just the color the maintenance crew happened to have lying around? She found these random thoughts filling her head, trying to block out the realities of her own life. She didn’t know Marcus at all. During his time on death row, Marcus had denied hundreds of interview requests. He didn’t write to anyone, didn’t hire new lawyers to appeal his execution. Marcus and the state were in agreement—it was time for him to die.
Marcus was only eighteen years old when his parents were shot and killed in a home invasion, when an errant bullet ricocheted off the wall and lodged in Marcus’s spine. He wound up paralyzed from the waist down. While Marcus lay in the ICU, fighting for his life, police organized a statewide manhunt for the perpetrator. In the end, they discovered Marcus was the mastermind. He stood to inherit his parents’ vast wealth, a total of four million dollars. The buddies he hired were supposed to shoot him in the leg. They missed. Once the police pieced together the crime, his two accomplices ratted Marcus out in exchange for a lesser sentence, sealing Marcus’s fate. Kristy used to wonder how the family had missed the signs that Marcus was unstable, the things he said, the things he did; but then she thought of Lance. She had taken his protectiveness in those early months as considerate. She had believed the stories he told her about his fight training, thinking he wanted to use it to empower people, when really it was about dominating. Love blinds us all, she thought. No matter how much she loved Lance, she couldn’t seem to live up to his expectations.
The toothpaste tube wasn’t properly folded. “It goes upside down or it gets messy.”
She’d forgotten to flush the toilet. “So disgusting, Kristy. What are you, a goddamn animal?”
“The toilet paper points down like the patent. You know it drives me crazy the other way.”
Sometimes it wasn’t even about what she did that morning. Sometimes it was something she’d done days or even weeks before.
“You think I don’t speak right? Is that why you corrected me in front of your friends? Because Mac and Vera are so goddamn special? You think I’m a retard because I don’t read books all the time like you and Ryan? Do you?” Sometimes these verbal assaults were almost more exhausting than the physical ones. Those were over in an instant, Lance moving on like nothing happened. But the onslaught of negative comments left Kristy constantly second-guessing everything she did and said.
Kristy did her best, learning to read Lance’s moods, to anticipate his needs. They had gone almost a week without an incident, life humming along. But this morning Lance reminded Kristy that she needed to work harder. Kristy’s mistake crystalized the second Lance shoved her through the bathroom door and she glimpsed her hot pink curling iron, the light still flashing bright green.
“How many times have I told you to unplug that thing when you’re done? Look at this. Just look! I burned my goddamn hand,” Lance said. He took the hot iron and Kristy held up her hands, trying to mount what would be a pointless defense. She’d come to realize that in the court of Lance Dobson, there was no judge or jury. Only executioner.
“Lance, I promise I won’t forget again.”
“Promises are meaningless, Kristy. Actions are what matter. One of these days you’ll learn that.” Lance shoved Kristy against the wall. Her face smashed into the peeling ivory paint as the sting of the iron sizzled on the back of her legs.
“A real man wouldn’t do this to his wife,” Kristy said. In response, he dug the hot iron deeper into her flesh. Recently, she’d begun pushing back, calling Lance out, hating how cowardly not saying anything made her feel. But fighting made no difference. If anything, it only made the assaults more brutal.
Kristy strained against Lance but she knew it was useless. She could never overpower him, his body finely honed for violence. She softly sobbed as he held the hot wand to her flesh, counting to ten like she was a naughty child. The pain worked its way up from Kristy’s thigh, settling in her throat. When he released the iron, Kristy was moaning in agony, clutching the porcelain sink to steady herself.
“Darlin’, let this be the last time I have to remind you that your carelessness affects us both.” And then just like all those other times before, he was gone, hurrying off to work, to the real estate office where he wowed potential homeowners with his charming tales of family life.
She stood there, waiting for the searing pain to subside. The physical violence was sporadic and unexpected, a smack here, a hair tug there, a raised eyebrow or punishing stare that signified more punishments were imminent if she didn’t satisfy whatever mood Lance was in. Lance didn’t appear troubled by these events. The only time he acknowledged anything was wrong was one night when they were lying in bed. Lance was gently caressing Kristy’s back. She hated that her body still responded to him, hated that she still wanted him. But she loved Lance and he relied on that to control her.
“We’re lucky, Kris. We’ve got a good thing here, and I should know. My parents were never on the same page. My mother didn’t listen to my father; in fact she outright disrespected him. And my dad was too goddamn passive. He wouldn’t make her listen, and then she left us. She ruined everything. But you and me, we get to do things over. We get to do them the right way.”
The right way? Kristy didn’t know what the hell that meant. How could she know what was right when he kept changing the
rules?
“Any last words?” Kristy heard the warden ask, and she was transported back to the death chamber. Usually, Kristy spoke to the condemned before they were taken to the execution chamber, assisting them if they wanted to issue a statement to the press. Marcus had refused to speak with anyone, even Chaplain Gohlke. He was one of the few death row inmates Kristy encountered who hadn’t embraced God while in prison.
Marcus hadn’t put up a fight when the guards came, allowing them to lift him into his wheelchair and wheel him toward the death chamber. That’s what got to Kristy: imagining how powerless you had to be to be physically carried to your own death. Or maybe she understood it more now, feeling like a captive, trapped inside the walls of her own home, no different from these men. As the injection was administered, a flurry of questions ran through Kristy’s mind: Did he miss his parents? Did he regret what he’d done? Was he a good person who’d made a terrible decision? Or was he just born evil? She couldn’t stop thinking about Lance’s lack of remorse, his eyes cold and lifeless each time he hurt her.
Tonight Marcus stared through the glass partition where his sister Elizabeth sat, the same sister who testified against him, actively seeking the death penalty. Elizabeth was attending Baylor University when the murder occurred. She came to the execution as a guest of the prosecution. Elizabeth was vocal in her outrage at her brother’s crime. She insisted that the courts show him no mercy, just like he had shown their parents none. In his final moments, Marcus said nothing. Nothing at all. His last act of defiance was a cold, blank stare, a giant fuck-you to his sister, the recipient of their parents’ millions.
Kristy watched as Marcus’s eyes fluttered closed, and that impending sense of doom returned, so powerful Kristy worried it might consume her. She returned home after the press conference, Elizabeth Masters’s tearful words ringing in her ears: “We just didn’t know what he was capable of. We had no idea.”
The Walls Page 9
