The Walls

by Hollie Overton

  “Ugh. Calm down. You’re acting like a total spaz,” Ryan called after her, but she didn’t come back and Ryan didn’t follow. Instead, he aimed his phone at the brand-new car and began snapping photos.

  Ella raced past Kristy, the waterworks flowing, and ran downstairs to Ryan’s bedroom. It was as if Kristy were watching a teenage version of herself, with Ryan cast in Lance’s role. Witnessing Ryan’s indifference at Ella’s distress put her over the edge. This was not the boy she’d raised. She wouldn’t allow it. She couldn’t. Kristy flung open the window even wider.

  “Ryan, get your butt in the house. Right now,” she called out. He jumped, knowing after a lifetime with Kristy her tone meant serious business. He walked into the house, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

  “What the hell was that?” Kristy asked.

  Ryan shifted uncomfortably. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your girlfriend just ran past me in tears. You clearly said or did something that upset her.”

  “She’s literally driving me crazy. Nagging me all day about me talking to Kelly. We were discussing colleges. She’s looking into East Coast and so am I. That’s all we were talking about but Ella wouldn’t listen, and I’m … I’m just over it.”

  “Ryan, do you care about Ella?”

  “Yeah, of course … But—”

  “Jesus, Ryan, there are no buts. You upset Ella. Now you have to make things right. That’s what decent people do. Understand?”

  At last Kristy saw a flicker of embarrassment, Ryan’s cheeks flushing a deep red.

  “Yeah, sure. I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll go check on her.”

  He turned toward the stairs and then stopped, spinning around and throwing his arms around Kristy. He was all muscle, almost a man, but she prayed he would always be her baby.

  “Today was amazing. The ribs, that cake, and I’m still freaking about the car. I hope you and Lance know how much I appreciate it. Thanks, Mom.”

  Those few minutes with Ryan were almost enough to make Kristy forget that Lance had upstaged her. All Kristy wanted to do was crawl into bed and drift off to sleep and forget. She told herself later that she should have known better. If she had continued her judo studies, if she had stopped drinking earlier, Kristy might have been more aware of what Lance was capable of. She would never forget that day. It was Ryan’s sixteenth birthday. It was also the first time her husband raped her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Exhausted, full from too much cake and white wine, and frustrated over Lance’s surprise and Ryan’s uncharacteristic behavior toward Ella, Kristy had collapsed into bed. Lance murmured sleepily, his hands reaching out to caress her back and moving down her stomach, his standard move to signal that he was in the mood.

  “Lance, it’s been a long day.”

  He sighed, his hands more insistent, inching up Kristy’s nightgown.

  “You think I didn’t have a long day?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” Kristy tried to pull away. Lance’s grip tightened.

  “You’re my wife, Kristy,” Lance whispered, but it may as well have been a scream. His hands were no longer gently probing her body. He pinned her wrists against her body. The weight of his words and then the stillness came after, the silence lingering, endless and unbearable.

  Kristy closed her eyes, gathering all her strength. Lance had stolen enough from her. She wouldn’t let him take this. She tried to shove him away, her hands striking his muscled chest. Kristy’s resistance infuriated Lance, adding kindling to the fire. Lance didn’t even need two arms to pin her down. This was why he hadn’t taught her self-defense. He wanted her powerless.

  Flickers of death row flooded her brain, all those terrible moments spilling out: standing in the witness room, cold and dark, staring as one doomed man after another was led kicking and screaming to the death chamber; Clifton’s bloody hand reaching out; Chaplain Gohlke’s soft whisper, delivering the Litany of the Saints: “Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on us. Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, hear us.”

  Kristy wasn’t a believer. Not these days. Before her mother died, the family dutifully attended Presbyterian services every Sunday. Pops hadn’t set foot in a church since, making an exception for Kristy’s wedding. He always said, “I ain’t got no business with the Lord no more.”

  Tonight Kristy longed for faith, for some sign that she hadn’t been forgotten. She didn’t scream. The idea that Ryan and Pops might see her like this, her nightgown pushed up to her chest, was too much to bear. She simply endured.

  A grunt and a moan punctuated the evening. Lance collapsed back onto the bed, loosening his grip on Kristy. He sank back onto the plush pillows, his body thick with sweat and satisfaction.

  “I won’t be in a sexless marriage, Kristy Ann. Remember that,” Lance said breathlessly. “The minute we’re no longer connecting, then this relationship falls apart, and neither of us wants that,” he said. Lance turned over and drifted off to sleep. Kristy lay awake, unable to move or even speak, afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might never stop screaming.

  Dear Ms. Tucker,

  Hope you enjoy the article I’ve enclosed about prison rehabilitation programs. Seemed like something that might be beneficial. While I don’t think there’s anything the suits up in the capitol could do to make my own situation more bearable, I think these programs would help offenders in other units serving shorter sentences better themselves. Would love to discuss when I see you next and hear your thoughts.

  Do you ever wake up and think, despite all signs otherwise, that today might be your lucky day? I woke up this morning feeling a bit more optimistic. I had a visit with Bev and she brought good news. Apparently, the courts are reconsidering evidence and there is a chance they could grant me a new hearing based on flawed investigative procedures. I’m trying not to get my hopes up but you know, Ms. Tucker, some days hope is all we’ve got.

  I hope I’m not overstepping but you seemed a bit out of sorts the last few times I saw you. It’s something in your eyes I can’t quite place my finger on. Whenever I was in the dumps, my mama used to say, “Cliff, who stole your sparkle?”

  I could just be projecting (that’s not my word either, I stole that one from Oprah). Projecting means putting your own stuff on someone else, so maybe I’m reading into something that isn’t there. Maybe I should mind my own damn business. But I do hope you get your sparkle back soon.

  Warm regards,

  Clifton Harris

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After Ryan’s birthday, Kristy tried to talk to Lance about what happened. He had crossed a line, done something unspeakable. Kristy almost couldn’t wrap her head around it. But Lance wouldn’t even acknowledge that there was an issue. That’s what made all of this so maddening. From what she’d read, in most domestic abuse cases, the perpetrator would apologize. But not Lance. Never Lance. He wasn’t sorry. He’d never once uttered those words. It was as if all of his punishments were part of some secret marriage clause Kristy had unknowingly signed.

  She still had Officer Martin’s business card, the sweet kid from that night in the Chili’s parking lot. Lance’s assault, and his refusal to even discuss what was happening were devastating. But before she pressed charges, she wanted to find out what her options were. She had to protect herself and her family.

  Kristy woke up, feeling more determined and focused than ever. She’d called the Conroe Police Department to inquire if Officer Martin was working today, and the woman on the phone told her he’d be in after ten. Now all Kristy had to do was get through the workday and then she’d take the first step toward getting back her life.

  Kristy’s first order of business was a visit to the Mountain View Unit in Gatesville, which housed death row’s few female inmates. It was a three-and-a-half-hour drive, which gave Kristy plenty of time to think. Women on death row generally avoided media attention. Like their male counterparts, they were guilty of unspeakable crimes but the state rarely sentenced
them to death. Currently there were only four female inmates on Texas death row. One killed her boyfriend and his mother in a meth-fueled rage, stabbing each of them seventy times. Another helped stalk, rape, and murder two young college girls. The third murdered her husband and his male lover in a fit of jealous rage. Today Kristy was meeting with the fourth woman, Pamela Whitaker, convicted of kidnapping and murdering her own husband and now scheduled to die in two weeks, the first woman executed in Texas in almost twenty-five years.

  Pamela hadn’t granted a single interview, despite immense public interest surrounding her case. She made headlines in the early eighties when her husband, Roger Whitaker, a respected pediatrician in San Antonio, went missing. A few weeks later, Roger’s dismembered remains were found in Dumpsters across the state. Authorities learned that Pamela and Roger’s happy marriage was a fraud. Pamela had beaten her husband to death with a baseball bat, cutting his body into pieces in her own garage and scattering those pieces near the Mexican border. Video surveillance captured Pamela disposing of the body and sealing her fate. Still, she refused to take a plea deal. She never even gave a reason, forcing her attorneys to claim temporary insanity. The jury didn’t buy it. After all these years, Pamela’s execution was imminent.

  “I’ll do one final interview. That’s it,” Pamela said from across the glass partition. She was in her late sixties now. Once a beautiful woman who received weekly spa treatments and had a private trainer five days a week, she was now dumpy, her hair gray and stringy, her complexion yellow with splotches of red resulting from chronic rosacea and eczema infections that had gone untreated.

  “I can arrange that,” Kristy said. “There’s a long list of interested parties.”

  “Whoever gets the most eyeballs, that’s who I want,” Pamela replied.

  “Sure. I’ll go through all the requests and you can decide who you prefer.”

  “I want to do it the day before the execution, and it has to be a prime-time interview.”

  “I’ll do my best to make that happen.”

  Pamela nodded, glancing over at the guard stationed nearby.

  “I killed Richard and I’d do it again,” Pamela said flatly.

  Kristy shifted in her seat, suddenly very uncomfortable with Pamela’s matter-of-fact confession. “I should go,” Kristy said, reaching out to place the phone on the cradle.

  “Wait! Please don’t go. I want to explain. I’ve never spoken about the murder before but I want to go to my grave with a clear conscience. You know Roger beat on me for so many years, called me all kinds of names that a man shouldn’t call his wife. I tried to leave him, but Dr. Roger Whitaker would never let that happen. ‘Wouldn’t look good,’ he’d say, ‘for a man of my stature to get divorced. Neighbors might gossip.’

  “One day after a particularly bad ‘discussion,’ I told Roger I was going to go to the police and I was going to tell them everything. I’d show them what he’d done. He just laughed.

  “‘I’ve saved their kids’ lives, Pammy. Their flesh and blood. You think they’ll care about some pathetic housewife?’”

  “But you could have told someone,” Kristy said, thinking about Officer Martin’s card in her pocket. Pamela smiled and shook her head, almost amused by Kristy’s naïveté.

  “Right. That’s what I thought too. So the next time he lost his cool and slammed my head into our countertop, I went to the cops. I made sure to go to an officer I was sure Roger didn’t know, but someone must have seen me there, made a phone call. San Antonio is still a small city; everyone knows everyone. In strides Allen Sabrio, one of Roger’s oldest friends, the best man at our wedding and a captain in the department. He sat right across from me, patting me on the leg like I was some kind of German shepherd he could pat into submission. ‘Pam, you’re being dramatic. All couples fight.’ I even tried to show him the bruises, but he wouldn’t have it. ‘Roger is a good man. Whatever happened, you two can work through it. Go home and talk it out.’”

  Pamela scoffed. Kristy wanted to tell her to stop talking, but she’d never heard any of this. Pamela was portrayed as a liar, a black widow. Her all-American good looks had helped her nab a successful doctor, and then the media and the prosecution used that against her.

  “Let me tell you, Roger was never the talking type. He made me suffer that night. So I woke up the next morning and said to hell with it. I had a few grand in cash saved up and the name and phone number of an old sorority sister in Arizona I planned to call when we got there. The boys were little. I was sure we could start over. I’d left them at a friend’s house while I packed, taking only what was needed. In five years of marriage, Roger never came home early until that day. His goddamn spidey sense telling him I might actually escape. That afternoon, he came into the bedroom, going at me with the name-calling and the pushing and the threats. He grabbed the brass candleholder we’d gotten for our wedding and came at me with it. He would’ve killed me. I just beat him to it.”

  She laughed bitterly. “If I’d actually planned it, you think I’d have been so sloppy? But in the court’s eyes, Roger mattered more because he was a doctor and a man. And me? What the hell did I do? I was too attractive, too opinionated. But I don’t regret it, killing him. I never have. Roger was a fucking lunatic. In the end, it was the only choice.”

  Kristy couldn’t meet Pamela’s gaze, worried she might see a piece of herself reflected back. Instead, she thanked Pamela for her time and promised to follow up on the interviews, and then she hurried outside of the prison. Kristy sat in her truck in the parking lot, clutching the steering wheel, willing herself to start the car and drive to the police station. No evidence. No proof. Kristy’s word against Lance’s. He was so charming, so good at lying, no one would believe her, and his retaliation for her speaking out would be merciless. Despite this morning’s bravado, Kristy’s courage failed her. She crumpled up Officer Martin’s business card and tossed it out the window, the wind carrying it as she drove away.

  Two weeks later, Pamela’s one-on-one sit-down with Barbara Walters aired. Barbara came out of retirement to do this interview, a ratings extravaganza in which Pamela told the exact same story she’d recounted to Kristy. The following day, Pamela was escorted to the death chamber and strapped to the gurney. Her sons, Harrison and Micah, stood beside Kristy. Two giant men in their late thirties, they began weeping the minute they saw their mother. They’d never wavered in their support, never condemned what she did. On the Barbara Walters interview, Pamela’s oldest son said he’d told the police about their father’s abuse but they wouldn’t listen. “They just didn’t care,” Micah kept saying. He said his mother refused to tell the police about it. “She spent her entire marriage as a victim. She didn’t want to be one in the eyes of the world.”

  As the minutes ticked down, Pamela looked up at the glass windows and said, “I love you boys more than you will ever know.” The warden gave the signal and the poison was injected into Pamela’s IV. She closed her eyes, and there was nothing but silence. Four minutes and eleven seconds later, she was gone.

  Pamela’s death haunted Kristy for days. She understood what it was like to be with someone everyone else revered. It wasn’t just Pops and Ryan, worshiping at the altar of Lance. It was the newlyweds he helped buy a home, the city official who thanked Lance for charming an inspector to grease the wheels on a housing permit. It was Mac’s constant texts, asking how Lance was doing and when they could all go out.

  Before long, Kristy’s only bright spot was her letters from Clifton and their subsequent visits. It was strange and she recognized that, but when she was with Clifton, there was some semblance of normalcy even though both their circumstances were far from normal. He’d taken her up on her offer, writing her letters each week. He’d share a look inside his daily life and routine, discussing the food, how it was never hot and always gray. Fresh fruits and vegetables were expensive in mass quantities so inmates rarely, if ever, received those. Clifton’s dreams were haunted by endless fields o
f fresh apples that he could pick straight from the trees.

  She’d ask Clifton questions about where he grew up—an old family farm in Bastrop—and he’d share stories. He’d inquired several times about Kristy’s well-being.

  “Tell me, ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?”

  She’d smile and deflect. “My sparkle is still here, just needs to be shined up a bit,” she’d say before changing the subject. Those visits were some of her favorite minutes of the week, a time when she escaped from Lance and the overwhelming uncertainty she experienced when she was with him.

  But today, as she was seated across from Clifton, the truth came tumbling out.

  “Ms. Tucker, can I ask you a personal question?”

  Kristy’s response should have been no. It was inappropriate. Prison guidelines strictly forbade it, but she’d already been skirting the rules, scheduling all of Clifton’s interviews first or last so she’d have more time to speak with him. She wasn’t going to stop now.

  “Okay,” she said hesitantly.

  “It’s none of my business, but how long has it been happening?” Clifton asked softly. He motioned toward her forehead. Stunned, Kristy reached up, touching the spot on her skull, the spot she’d meticulously covered with concealer. Lance’s abuse had, from the start, been calculated and carefully orchestrated and never visible to the public. Kristy’s upper body was a popular target, her legs, her back. But this morning, Kristy was careless and so was Lance.

  “What’s crawled up your butt?” Lance had asked this morning while she was getting dressed.

  “Nothing,” Kristy said. That wasn’t true. She hadn’t slept in months; she couldn’t eat. Lance’s constant aggression was weighing her down.

  “Well, whatever’s wrong, get that damn hangdog look off your face.”