by James Raven
Two people were killed in the bloodbath that followed. I managed to get away, but I was arrested three days later and charged with murder.
That was how I ended up on death row. And it was why today was going to be my last.
The execution was scheduled to take place at 6 p.m. I figured the time would fly past, unlike the last nine years, eleven months and twelve days – a lost decade cooped up in a cell just ten feet by six. No TV. No physical contact with anyone other than the guards. Just a bed, a small window, a combo washbasin and toilet, a few books, and an old radio with poor reception.
The cell was cold and claustrophobic. Barely enough room for pushups, sit-ups and squats. I’d seen better accommodation in a zoo. The one small window to the outside world was never cleaned so it was thick with grime.
The State of Texas doesn’t believe in making condemned prisoners comfortable. They keep us in solitary confinement in a special segregation area of the Alan B. Polunsky Unit near Livingston. And they leave us alone for up to twenty three hours a day, with only an hour’s recreation in a caged courtyard. Nothing to do except read and think. Just mind-numbing boredom. All part of a routine designed to break the spirit.
It’s why some inmates go crazy. It’s no secret that prolonged isolation can lead to severe mental illness. Somehow I’d managed to stay sane, despite the sheer monotony and the emotional deprivation. At least that was according to the prison shrinks who had been monitoring me since I arrived. They described me as strong and resilient. They said I’d found a place within myself to hide, whatever that meant.
Until now I’d never given up hope of getting out, but the countless appeals had gone nowhere and my lawyer had failed to drum up sympathy in the outside world. For him it was an uphill battle. A month ago his latest request for clemency had been rejected. But then the case against me had been overwhelming from the start, which was why the jury had taken less than an hour to convict me of murder.
So today, society was going to exact revenge. I was going to pay the ultimate price. They were going to kill me over in the town of Huntsville, sixty miles away. Huntsville is known as the prison capital of the USA because it has no less than five jails, including the State’s execution chamber, which is housed in the notorious Huntsville Unit, more commonly known as ‘the Walls’.
It’s a strange set-up. All male death row inmates reside at Polunsky. But their exit from the world takes place at the Walls. So this afternoon I’d be taken there in a van and put in a holding cell until 6 p.m. when I’d be escorted into the death chamber and given a lethal injection. It was a tried and tested method of capital punishment and Texas was top of the league when it came to numbers. Already this year fifteen men and three women had been executed.
It’s a wild concept to think that you’re going to be put to sleep like a dog. At first your mind is totally consumed by your impending fate. Gradually you find a way to push it into the background so that you can embrace the primal part of the human spirit that wants to keep on living. But the fear and dread is always there below the surface, like some creature waiting to drag you back to reality.
I was trying hard to focus on the positive side of things. And believe it or not there was a positive side. During my incarceration I’d found comfort in a dog-eared copy of the Bible. I now believed in God and Jesus and all the other stuff that I’d previously dismissed as claptrap.
So it followed that I also believed in the hereafter – and that my darling wife would be waiting for me when I got there.
Marissa had died seven years ago in a fire. They said it was a tragic accident. She apparently fell asleep in her apartment after a heavy drinking session and dropped a lit cigarette onto a pile of newspapers. According to the medical examiner she would have succumbed to smoke and fumes within minutes.
We were still married at the time because Marissa had refused to divorce me. She’d always known I was no murderer and she’d clung to the hope that I would eventually be exonerated. She’d been coming to see me once a month and told me on each occasion that she loved me and had forgiven me for screwing up our lives. But I could tell that the strain was getting to her. Her face became gaunt and pasty and I knew she was drinking even though she denied it.
The guilt I felt back then was bad enough, but after she died it became unbearable. That’s when I sought refuge in the Bible that Marissa had given to me only six months before she died.
‘I know you’re not religious, Lee,’ she’d said. ‘But it will help you get through this ordeal. I promise. Just open your heart to it.’
Marissa had been a committed Christian and I’d mocked her for it when we were together. But she’d been right. It was the first time I’d read the Holy Book and what I learned from its pages helped me to deal with all the grief and despair. And it had dulled the fear of death. But it didn’t stop me from missing her. And it didn’t dilute the guilt that still hung around my neck like a heavy weight. After Marissa died the only people to visit me were my sister Emily and my lawyer Marcus Zimmerman.
Emily had been making the three-hour journey from her home near Austin about every two months. She was all the family I had now and thankfully she still believed in me. But her life had been blighted by what had happened. Her marriage broke down and she was forced to move away from Houston because she was being constantly harassed by the media and some members of the public. She was now single and living alone in a house at Mountain City, south of Austin.
It was Emily who had talked Marcus Zimmerman into taking on my case two years ago. He was a well-respected lawyer working for the Texas Defence Group, a non-profit firm that represents death row prisoners. My original lawyer had been appointed by the court and was incompetent and inexperienced.
Zimmerman was supposedly in a different league. He had managed to overturn twelve death sentences. But he was ever the realist and had cautioned me against optimism. When I last saw him he’d said, ‘The odds are stacked firmly against you, Lee. But I’ll do my best. Just hang on in there.’
I didn’t want to die, but the alternative did not appeal to me either – life without parole in this hell hole. The buildings were dilapidated, the cells grim and run down. The prison regime was set up to dehumanize and humiliate the inmates and living conditions were desolate.
But as Zimmerman had frequently pointed out: Keep on breathing and there’s always the chance that one day you’ll eventually get out.
2
TEXAS CONGRESSMAN GIDEON Crane had only been awake for half an hour, but he was already exhausted. He had the woman who was lying next to him to thank for that. Morning sex was Beth Abbot’s favourite kind. It made her wild and wet with passion. As soon as she opened her eyes she was up for it.
This morning she was on him the moment he began to stir, running the tips of her fingers across his chest. Her touch was electrifying, and as always she’d shown a degree of enthusiasm that put his second wife Pauline to shame. Beth was thirty five, ten years younger than Pauline, and her libido was still firing on all cylinders.
Pauline had stopped wanting sex with him a year ago, a couple of months before she took a non-fatal overdose of sleeping pills. Even after she was put on anti-depressants she was never in the mood. There was always a ready excuse. The curse of the menopause. She was too tired. She had a goddamn headache. But that suited him fine because Beth satisfied all his needs in that department now. She was the one who rocked his boat – the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
Their love-making this morning had been fast and furious. She’d ridden him into the mattress. Then she’d got him to mount her from behind. And when she’d finally come he was pretty sure that her scream must have been heard by every guest in the hotel.
Now he was lying back against the pillows, breathing hard and thinking that sex with Beth was better for his fifty-three-year-old body than any physical work-out in the gym.
‘That was just sublime,’ Beth said as she rolled on her side to look at him. �
�It was even better than the performance you put in last night.’
He furrowed his brow at her. ‘We didn’t have sex last night.’
She laughed. ‘I’m talking about the debate, silly. You were absolutely terrific.’
She was referring to the latest televised debate between him and the four other candidates seeking the Republican Presidential nomination. He was pleased with the way it had gone and there was no doubt in his mind that he had come out on top. The studio audience had responded well to his campaign pitch, which was focused on the preservation of social values and the need to crack down on filthy rich tax dodgers.
‘It’ll give us a boost in the polls,’ Beth said. ‘I guarantee it.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘Switch on the TV and let’s check out the reaction.’
She sat up and grabbed the remote from the bedside table, flicked on the TV and channel-hopped to Fox News. They were reporting on yet more gang-related murders in Texas. A man and a woman had been shot dead outside a nightclub in Austin. An FBI spokesman pointed the finger at the Texas Syndicate, who had been responsible for a spate of gruesome murders in recent months.
‘We should react to this,’ Beth said, suddenly all business-like. ‘We’ll condemn the killings and trash law enforcement spending cuts. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he said.
‘I’ll write it up as soon as I’ve showered then.’
The texture of her voice was rough and rasping. For him it was part of her appeal. She sounded as sexy as she looked. When she’d started working for him just over a year ago he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist her charms. She was pretty, intelligent, ambitious and selfish enough not to ever want children. Great qualities all wrapped up in one delicious package.
He was looking forward to the day when they could finally be together and their relationship made public. He didn’t like pretending that she was just his press secretary and that his marriage to Pauline was anything but a sham.
‘I need to pee,’ Beth said, dropping the remote and sliding off the bed.
Crane watched as she padded naked to the bathroom, her long auburn hair falling about her shoulders. She moved with a sinewy grace that he found captivating. She had the face and body of a much younger woman and every part of her was natural. No Botox or collagen fillers. No silicone implants. It was all beautifully real.
He felt a stirring between his thighs and wondered if he had time for some more action. He checked the bedside clock. It was 8 a.m. He was due to fly to Houston at ten. Before that he had to do a couple of interviews. Then he had to get from New Orleans city centre to Armstrong International Airport. He shook his head and heaved a heavy sigh. More sex was out of the question. It would take him at least forty minutes to revive his manhood – too long by far if he was to stick to his schedule. It was a shame, but today of all days he couldn’t afford to fall behind.
‘You look good,’ Beth said as she emerged from the bathroom and gestured towards the TV.
The Fox newscaster was now talking over a clip from last night’s debate. Crane was one of five candidates standing behind lecterns in an over-lit studio. Four men and one woman. He was in the middle, head and shoulders above the others. And Beth was right. He did look pretty good. The dark blue suit went well with his grey hair and healthy tan. It made him look leaner than he actually was. And younger.
‘You’re coming across as very presidential,’ Beth said as she threw herself onto the bed next to him. ‘Keep it up and you’ll be ahead of the field in no time.’
After the clip, various pundits were asked for their reaction to the debate. To Crane’s delight he was declared the outright winner. He was described as articulate, decisive, confident and well briefed. One said that his rhetoric and demeanour would appeal to middle-class Americans.
The response was better than he had dared hope for. The debate had almost certainly reinforced his position as the early-stage front-runner. But he wouldn’t be complacent. There was a long way to go. More debates in more cities. If the party finally chose him as their candidate to go up against the Democrat who currently occupied the White House then he would have an even tougher fight on his hands.
On screen the newscaster suddenly adopted an altogether more sombre tone as he looked into the camera. Crane knew what was coming next and he felt the blood stiffen in his veins.
‘Gideon Crane is also in the news today for a different reason,’ the newscaster said. ‘The man who murdered the congressman’s first wife will be executed at six o’clock this evening at Huntsville in Texas. Thirty-eight year old Lee Jordan has been on death row for almost ten years. He was convicted of gunning down Kimberley Crane during a bungled raid on the couple’s home near Houston.’
A photo of Jordan appeared on the screen. It was the same one that had been shown a thousand times before. It had been taken after his arrest and in it he looked pale and haggard. His thick dark hair was dishevelled and his eyes were large and vacant. He had a narrow face and slightly crooked nose.
Crane bit into his bottom lip and tried to supress a huge surge of emotion. But his heart lurched and his breath caught in his throat. Beth reached out and put an arm around him.
‘Take it easy, hon,’ she said. ‘After he chokes you won’t have to keep seeing his ugly mug.’
Crane was glad that the day had finally arrived. Lee fucking Jordan had haunted him for a decade. Even now he had frequent flashbacks to the night Jordan and his accomplice Sean Bates burst into the house. He and Kimberley were watching a movie when the pair appeared at the back door and tried to force it open. Crane managed to arm himself with his own pistol just as they came crashing inside wielding revolvers and wearing ski masks. He got off a single shot that struck Bates in the head, killing him instantly.
But Jordan was on him before he could pull the trigger again. There was a brief struggle during which he managed to rip off Jordan’s mask and get a look at his face. But then the bastard smashed the butt of his gun against his head, rendering him unconscious. When he came to fifteen minutes later Jordan was gone and Kimberley was lying on the floor in the hall covered in blood.
The cops had no trouble tracking Jordan down and building a case against him. The fool had fled in such a panic that he’d dropped his gun which was covered in his fingerprints. It was more than enough to get him convicted despite him insisting that he was innocent.
‘Are you OK?’ Beth asked.
Crane closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. The air suddenly felt heavy around him. He took a deep, ragged breath and nodded slowly.
‘I’m fine,’ he said.
Then he opened his eyes and blinked away those hideous memories. He looked at Beth and a sardonic smile twisted his lips.
‘In fact I’m better than fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time and I intend to make the most of it. After I see that bastard die I’m going home to crack open a bottle of champagne.’
‘I wish I could be with you,’ Beth said.
He reached out, took her hand. ‘One day, sweetheart. We just have to play the long game now. Any whiff of scandal or divorce will derail the campaign and ruin my chances. You know that. So be patient and we’ll be together before you know it.’
He pulled her to him and held her tight. Her warm, soft body banished the dark thoughts that had gathered in his mind. He had every reason to be upbeat and positive. Not only was he in love again, but he also had a good chance of becoming the next president of the United States.
And to cap it all he would soon witness Lee Jordan taking his final breath.
3
I WAS GIVEN breakfast at 8.30 – much later than usual because it was my last day. The tray was slipped through the little metal opening in the door. But I had no appetite so I didn’t eat it. I drank the coffee though, which was lukewarm and stewed, and tried to shut out the prison noise. It was always worse in the mornings. Shouting, screaming, crying, howling – a grati
ng cacophony of protest and suffering that was a form of torture in itself.
After breakfast I was cuffed and my legs were shackled. I hobbled in truncated steps to the shower area, a guard on either side of me. There were another three hundred inmates on death row and a few of them called out to me through the little grills in their doors as I shuffled along the corridor.
‘Way to go, Jordan. Keep smiling.’
‘Show the fuckers you’re not scared, man.’
‘See you in hell, asshole.’
Showering, as always, was an unpleasant experience. The water was cold and discoloured, but I was used to it so I didn’t make a fuss. After drying myself off with a damp towel I slipped back into my prisonissue white jumpsuit and was marched back to my cell.
I sat on the bed and tried not to acknowledge the fear and sense of panic that was growing inside me. I could hear the guy singing in the next cell. His name was Michael Ortiz and he was one of about forty inmates who had been on death row for over twenty years. Once a formidable member of a street gang, he was now a mental wreck whose idea of fun was to spread faeces over the walls of his cell.
I didn’t want to end up like him. And I knew I would if I had to put up with the pain and drudgery of life in this tiny cement box for much longer. But that didn’t make the prospect of dying any less scary. Humans are hard-wired to survive. It’s a basic instinct in all of us. No matter how bad things get most people find it impossible to let go. We hang on by a thread to the belief that something will happen to make things better.
But we’re usually disappointed.
At ten o’clock I was told that my sister had arrived to see me. I’d been expecting her and was looking forward to the visit.
It was our last chance to say goodbye to each other. We’d agreed long ago that she should not witness the execution. I didn’t want her to see me die. It would be too upsetting and traumatic. I also didn’t want her to claim my body afterwards or pay for a funeral. The state might as well bury me in the prison cemetery.
