Always

by Timmothy B. Mccann

  “There you are,” Henry said loudly so the brother would understand in the noisy studio. “I’m sorry . . . but I have to get ready for the taping.”

  “See!” the Muslim replied with a smile. “That’s how it always is for the black man in America! First to die . . . last to be heard!” As the section laughed, the brother sat down and Henry Louis Davis the Second walked down the stairs holding his wife’s hand and my heart almost returned to normal. And then he quickly looked over his shoulder back in my direction, and while our eyes did not meet, I knew he was looking for me.

  Phil assumed his position at what looked to be a wooden dinette table, and Henry spoke to even more staffers with index cards before it was obvious he was telling them that he’d heard enough. Then a cosmetician came onstage and started to apply a few more dabs of makeup. As she was finishing, Leslie walked over to Henry, and we all watched as she told her to take off some of the makeup from certain places on his face. Then she looked up at the lighting and assumed the role of Henry Davis’s personal lighting director as well. As the light shining directly on top of his head was dimmed, she returned to her seat just moments before the producer gave Phil a countdown.

  “Hello, America, and hello, Atlanta!” The large orange portable applause signs beamed, and just as one of the producers had instructed us before the show, we all started to clap wildly. “I’m Phil Donahue and today”—he paused for effect—“we are going to discuss an issue that has been with us as long as we’ve had taxes. That’s the death penalty. As many of you may know, in two weeks Juarez Bechuanas will be put to death in Florida’s electric chair. We thank the warden at the Florida State Penitentiary for granting us the opportunity to speak with Mr. Bechuanas live via remote.” At the back of the stage and on several smaller monitors for the audience appeared the light-brown freckled face of a thirty-year-old prisoner who faced death. His eyes were closed. Other than the small tattoo of a dagger in a heart on his neck, and the bright orange prison attire, he looked just like the guy next door. However, he sat uncomfortably in a chair with his fingers laced and hands cuffed in shackles bound to a chain around his waist. After a short pause, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Donahue, for having me.”

  “I should also explain,” Phil added in a deaconlike somber tone, “that Mr. Bechuanas was accosted by several inmates the first year he was incarcerated, and the brutal beating left him blind.” As Phil spoke, Juarez looked upward at a light in front of him and for the first time allowed the audience to see his disfigured eyes.

  To my right I heard, “You see this man. This is foul.”

  “We also have,” Phil continued as Mr. Bechuanas’s face on the monitor was replaced by a curly-headed, olive-complexioned gentleman, “a professor of journalism from Northwestern, Professor David Protess. I am sure Mr. Profess would be proud of the fact that according to the American Bar Association, he and his class have been victorious in more death-row appeals than any other group of individuals in the country. Please welcome Professor David J. Protess.” The lights flashed and the crowd gave its approval. “And last but not least, we are also joined by a man who is from your neighboring state of Florida. He was . . .” And then he looked at Henry and asked, “Do you ever get tired of hearing ‘the first since Reconstruction’ before you are introduced? I know that would drive me out of my com-plete mind.” The audience chuckled as Henry smiled. “We have as our guest the distinguished senator from Florida. Senator Henry . . . Louis . . . Davis!” The crowd clapped loudly as the neon applause light flashed rapidly and a few of his staffers stood in an attempt to incite a standing ovation that did not occur.

  “Let’s just dive right into this topic, because we have much ground to cover,” Phil said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his palms on the wooden armrest.

  Looking at his note cards occasionally as well as the TelePrompTer, Phil laid out the facts surrounding the case against, and the appeal for, Juarez Bechuanas. And then he looked up at the monitor, and said, “Mr. Bechuanas, you have twelve days, sir. Less than two weeks before the state of Florida requires you to pay the ultimate penalty for a crime you still claim you did not commit. Please tell us, sir, the facts, and why you think the Republican governor of your state, Robert Martinaro, should grant you a stay of execution.”

  As he spoke, I watched Henry the entire time. I had no idea what his position would be on the case, but I watched him with an impassive look in his eyes watching the monitor and then with compete confidence, he sat taller, crossed his legs at the ankle, and rested his hands in his lap. From his posture he looked like a cheetah in tall grass ready to pounce on its prey.

  Bechuanas spoke to the camera and his eyes moved from down to up just as a sighted person would read text left to right. He spoke calmly and respectfully, as if he’d accepted the fate that appeared to lie before him. “So, Mr. Donahue, suh,” the condemned man continued, “yes, I think the gov’na should grant the stay for at least another six months, and then if the facts are not as Mr. Protess and his class say, then although I did not commit these here crimes I’ve been charged with, at least the process would have run its course and I’ll accept whatever happens.”

  As he finished speaking, the room was pin-drop silent. And then Phil said, “On that note we will be back right after this message.” The red light went off on top of the huge cameras on tiny wheels and Brandon leaned over and said, “It’s a damn shame.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I was there the night of the murders. I saw the place and I tell you, it was a weird feeling just standing in that room. Blood was splashed on the windows, even dripping from the ceiling fan,” he said as he grabbed my hand more for support than for comfort. “I was never a really religious person before walking in that room. But as I stood in there and saw them put pieces of flesh in the a bag, you felt like it wasn’t a person who’d done that. It seemed like the devil himself had been in the room. There was a heat in there even though it was below twenty that night,” he said, shaking his head. “The room had this satanic feel to it that . . . it’s hard to explain. The way bro is talking up there, I would like to believe he didn’t do it, but they found his skin under her nails, his blood mixed with hers in his car, and the murder weapon with only his prints on it. Besides, what no one even talks about is the fact that he signed a confession the day after he was caught. He signed an affidavit saying he committed the murders, but that was before Anmesty International or the ACLU or whatever came into the picture and got the confession suppressed. I ain’t buying it. Plus, when you add to that his police record, which was not even entered into evidence, if he don’t fry, no one should.”

  I saw the producer give Phil the countdown. Five, four, three, and with a silent count he waved his fingers down, two, one. After the applause and theme music subsided, Phil looked into the camera and said, “We’re back.”

  Then Phil reintroduced the journalism professor, who seemed to want to talk as much as Henry. He gave statistics of how many men claimed to be innocent in the past years and were put to death who he and his students felt without a shadow of a doubt in his heart were innocent. He brought up each questionable point surrounding the case and why he and his honors class who’d investigated the case for the past two semesters thought that Mr. Bechuanas should not only be given a stay, but clemency as well.

  And then there was a pause as Phil looked at Henry and smiled dramatically. “Well, well, well. Mr. Democrat-Senator-from-Florida. This crime was committed in your state. Actually, in the district from which you were once elected to Congress. You and your democratic brethren and sisters who have supported every liberal cause since the creation of your party are typically on Capitol Hill championing the charge against the death penalty. But you are here to tell us that you support the Republican governor’s decision. I must say to you,” Phil said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head with a look of bewilderment on his face, “for a senator with your voting record, sir, and, in all
due respect, with forty percent of the individuals on death row being black men just like you, more than a few people around this country are surprised by your view on . . . this . . . issue.”

  The brother next to me caught the attention of one of Phil’s assistants holding a microphone. As the young lady walked toward him he said, “Y’awll just wait till I hit them with this. I can’t believe you got a devil fighting for this brother’s life and a brother trying to kill him!”

  Henry’s demeanor was somber and much different from the one the audience had witnessed signing autographs earlier. He turned to the people in the audience and spoke to them as if we were friends invited over to his home for a cookout and the subject just happened to come up.

  “First of all, Phil, I’m honored to be a part of this important debate. And let me say from the outset that I’ve never spoken publicly against a convicted person’s attempt to get a stay of execution. But I thought and prayed about this case long and hard before making my views public.” With those words, Henry stood up and brought his fingers thoughtfully to his lips. As he did, we could see the producer’s surprise that he had not remained seated as a crew member with handheld camera ran to a point on the floor to get a better view. Henry continued. “But if there has ever been such a case, this unfortunately is the one, and now is the time to make my opinions known.” Henry spoke to the audience of the ills of the death penalty and agreed with the professor that there were many imperfections in the judicial system. He briefed the audience on the mountain of physical evidence against Mr. Bechuanas, including the eyewitness who was a member of the clergy and a couple who worked together throwing newspapers who testified that they saw him in bloody clothes the morning of the murders. As he spoke, I thought back to the first night we talked on the phone and how he always seemed so in command of himself and others.

  Then Senator Davis sat back down in front of Phil and told us how Mr. Bechuanas had put his wife in the hospital on seven different previous occasions.

  “Seven times,” he said passionately. “Seven times this lady was treated for broken bones and lacerations. Seven times the system had an opportunity to save this woman’s life. He served time for beating her only once because she would always leave the hospital and bail him out of jail. According to court documents, once he beat her because she bailed him out too late. This woman has already paid the ultimate penalty that society can demand. Why? Because she loved Mr. Bechuanas more than the system or even he loved her and their child.

  Something went horribly wrong here, Phil. Seven times,” he repeated, then paused. “Tell me, when do you stop beating someone who loves you? Four times? Five times? How about after six times? Well, for Mr. Bechuanas it was the seventh time, because now she’s dead.

  “The court records show Mr. Bechuanas out drinking on one of the coldest nights of the year. He walked into their two-bedroom apartment and, according to the pastor who overheard the fight, started arguing with his wife. This time he accused her of cheating on him. The autopsy shows he punched her and then he took three bullets, put them into the chamber of his .22-caliber pistol, and placed it at the base of his daughter’s skull. After he shot her, he tried to shoot his wife, but the gun jammed. So what does he do? He pistol-whips her to within an inch of her life, although even that was not enough because she was a witness to a murder. So then he did things with a knife that even I cannot repeat on this show.”

  Phil tried to say something, but Henry was fully in control. He held up his palm and said, “Phil, I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry that we even have the topic on the table today. But in my opinion, if such laws are going to be on the books, the state has no other recourse but to follow through with its duty. My wife and I,” he said, looking back at Mr. Bechuanas’s face on the monitor, “will pray that your soul finds peace, sir.”

  Phil nodded his head and then looked for one of his assistants and a question from the audience. As a man across the aisle from us spoke into the mike, the Muslim near me whispered in the associate’s ear and quietly returned to his seat. If Henry had moved this brother, I knew that afternoon he had indeed moved many people across the country and around the world.

  Forty-five minutes later the cameras went black, the oversized white lights over the stage dimmed to gray all at once, and people headed for the exits. I immediately looked to see where Henry was going. Would he head back into the audience? If he did, this time I would not let him get away without at least saying hello. But he didn’t. As soon as the TV lights went out, he and Leslie were whisked away by their entourage. Brandon held my hand and asked if I wanted him to use his security clearance to get us backstage.

  Finally I would have my opportunity to see Henry up close and personal. What would I say to Leslie? What would she say to me? How would Brandon react knowing that Henry and I were more than simply classmates? “No,” I replied. “Let’s just go.”

  As we walked through the crowd and a couple of women spoke aloud about how fine Henry was, I thought about the day I’d seen him running the stadium steps. How he ran to the top as hard as he could, full speed, never looking back and never taking a break. With the image of an eighteen-year-old dreamer replaced by one in the present, I knew he was still running full speed to the top and in regard to our for always, he was unfortunately not looking back.

  Chapter 5

  Washington, D.C.

  November 8, 2000

  NBS News Studio

  1:45 A.M. EST

  “This is NBS News continuing election-night coverage, and I am Franklin Dunlop giving you the news on two late-breaking stories.

  First, it was leaked to the press approximately two hours ago that there is allegedly an assassin somewhere in the vicinity of the Fountainebleau Hotel with the intention of assassinating the Democratic candidate for the presidency. We must note that the story has not been confirmed by the Davis campaign, Secret Service, or the FBI. This network, as well as others, was advised by very reliable sources that this individual has followed the Davis campaign for months and may have been the party responsible for the firecracker-mixed-with-gunfire attack on the candidate in Omaha several months ago, but we have not had a confirmation of that story as of yet.

  “Also Governor Tom Baldwin of Arizona is trailing badly and is at the statehouse in Phoenix to deliver what we expect will be his concession speech. We will send you now to our West Coast correspondent, who has done an exceptional job for us all night long, Vincent Winslet. Vinny, what’s the word from Phoenix?”

  “Well, Franklin, as can be expected, the mood is somber. The governor’s supporters knew if they had any chance to pull out a victory, they had to win in New York and carry either Ohio or Pennsylvania. When both those states went into the Democrat and Republican pockets, they knew for them California was irrelevant.

  Now, as you can hear, the crowd is starting to chant “Tom-oh-four, Tom-oh-four!” Obviously an indication that they would like the governor to run in the year 2004. However, I think the chances of that happening at his age of seventy-three are unrealistic. Now I am told that Governor Tom—”

  “Vincent, I must cut you off. We have a late-breaking story from—. Judy! Judy, are you still there!”

  “Yes, I am, Franklin. About three minutes ago a helicopter was perched on the top of the Four Seasons Hotel, supposedly to take the vice president and his family to another location, and there are reports that gunfire was exchanged. That’s right. Gunfire! We do not know if there were any casualties at this time. Apparently an individual or individuals were positioned on the roof and as the vice president and his family came out and got into the helicopter, they were ambushed. The helicopter carrying Steiner’s family took off for an unknown destination, and soon after, several police choppers descended on the rooftop.”

  “Judy, were there clues earlier that this might happen?”

  “No. In fact, we here in Chicago were listening to the news reports out of Florida and wondering how that situation was going to play
itself out. People here are now speculating that the FBI created a diversion on purpose to throw off the assassin or assassins here. We don’t know at this point because that’s just a rumor and it is much too early to tell. As I speak, Franklin, a fifth—count it, fifth—helicopter has just landed on the top of the hotel. I am going to try to get outside to speak to the head of the FBI for the state of Illinois if I can. As soon as we have more information, we will let you know.”

  Fountainebleau Hotel

  Presidential Suite

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you love me, Henry?”

  “Cheryl, you know you taught me the true meaning of the word. To this day I say your name and feel a shiver, and I know I will love you for always. What we shared was magic. But I have—” There was a pounding at the door. Cupping the receiver, he said, “One second, I’ll be right out.” Staring at the Monet replica on the wall, he continued, “But I have a wife now. What we had was so long ago, Cheryl. Yes, I love you and I always will. But I am in love with Leslie.” It was the first time he’d said her name that night.

  “Henry, open the goddamn door. They think Steiner was shot!” Herbert yelled.

  “What!”

  “Yeah, they’re showing it live on NBS! Get out here!”

  “Cheryl, I gotta go. Baby, I’m sorry for coming back into your life . . . and hurting you this way. You didn’t deserve this. I love you.”