Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  “I don’t know,” Ben said, and reluctantly he let his eyes return to the fifteen-year-old girl who would now walk with a cane for the rest of her life. “I just don’t know.”

  “We’re winning, right?” Ray said as he reclaimed his chair at the defense table beside Ben. He kissed Carrie again, squeezed her hand, then let her return to her own seat in the gallery.

  Ben wouldn’t play. “I never make predictions.”

  “I respect that.” He paused. “But we are winning, aren’t we?”

  “Ray—”

  “Carrie thinks we’re winning. I realize she’s not impartial. But she thinks you tore the prosecutor’s heart right out of his chest.”

  Ben tried to resist the mental image. “The last witness went . . . very well for us. I agree. But anything can happen. Juries are unpredictable.”

  Ray faced the front of the courtroom. “You’re right. Of course you are. That’s fine.” He glanced almost impishly at Ben out of the corners of his eyes. “But we are winning. Aren’t we?”

  Ben gave him a small smile. “I hope so.”

  Packed as it was, the entire courtroom fell silent as Erin Faulkner hobbled to the witness stand. Ben knew her left leg had been so severely damaged in the assault that for months she had not been able to walk at all, and even now could only do so with supreme effort. Her struggle to cross the courtroom underscored the inherent drama that her presence, and her testimony, would lend the proceedings.

  Slowly, painfully, she led the jury through her first-person account of the night of horror. She told them how she and her mother and siblings had returned home to find a brute in a ski mask torturing her father. How he had held them all at gunpoint, had beaten and abused and cut them, one after the other. How she had watched helplessly as her family was brutalized. And finally, how he had broken her leg and knocked her out.

  The account of her time locked in the basement was perhaps even more riveting. The story of a fifteen-year-old girl, naked, disoriented, suffering from a broken leg, nonetheless mustering the presence of mind and the courage to break her own thumb in order to escape was a resounding testament to the indomitability of the human spirit. Ben knew she was making a profound impression on the jury.

  At last she reached the end of the tale, how she fought her way out of the cellar and up the stairs only to be greeted by a bloody tableau worse than anything Edgar Allan Poe ever dreamed about: her entire family dead, butchered—with their eyes cut out of their skulls.

  “After the police arrived,” she said, in a quiet but steady voice, “they called the ambulance. I passed out soon after that and didn’t wake up until three days later in the hospital.”

  “I see.” With a solemn expression, DA Bullock closed his trial notebook. “Miss Faulkner, I know this will be painful for you, but I am required by the court to ask. Do you have any knowledge regarding the identity of the man who invaded your home? Who killed your parents and your six siblings?”

  “I do. I know who it was.”

  Bullock paused. Ben felt his pulse quicken. “And what is the basis for your identification?”

  “I was there. I saw him.”

  “Wasn’t he wearing a mask?”

  “He was. But I could still see his eyes, his lips. I have a very good memory.”

  “And is that the basis for your identification of the killer?”

  “Not entirely, no. The main basis I have is . . . his voice.”

  Ben sat up straight. He hadn’t heard anything about this before.

  “You heard his voice?” Bullock asked.

  “Of course. Repeatedly. At length. It’s a very distinctive voice.”

  “And you remember it?”

  “How could I forget?” Erin leaned forward, gripping the rail. “This is the man who slapped me across the face and said—I apologize for the language, but this is what he said—‘I’ll get to you later, you little cunt.’ This is the man who hit me, groped me, all the while calling me names and making disgusting remarks. ‘I’ve got something that’ll cool you off but good, you li’l bitch.’ That’s what he said. ‘I’ll hurt you till you scream for me to stop. But I won’t stop.’ That’s what he said when he pressed his knife against my throat. When he broke my kneecap.” She lowered her head. “You don’t forget something like that.”

  Ben swore silently. He’d been planning to cross on her identification of a man who was wearing a ski mask the whole time she saw him. But this voice angle complicated matters—because it made her ID seem so much more credible.

  “When did you have an opportunity to make a formal identification?” Bullock asked her.

  “About a week after the incident. The police prepared a lineup. There were six different men. They had them all step forward and say the same thing—about how he was going to cool me off.”

  “And were you able to make an identification?”

  “I was. Almost immediately.” She folded her hands and sat up straight. For a young woman who had been through as much as she had, she was remarkably composed. “I thought it was him as soon as I saw him. But after I heard the voice, I was absolutely certain.” She raised her hand and pointed. “The man who killed my family is sitting right over there, at the defense table. Raymond Goldman.”

  The stir in the courtroom was audible. Judge Kearns rapped his gavel several times to quiet the gallery.

  “Are you certain about this?”

  “Absolutely. Without a doubt.” She turned and looked directly at the jury. “Please listen to me. I know what I saw. And heard. I remember what happened. Much as I’d like to forget it, I will never be able to.” She paused. “Raymond Goldman was the killer. There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever.”

  Ben rose slowly. “Your honor . . . I think she’s answered the question.”

  Erin continued unabated. “I’ve lost my home, my family,” she said, and all at once her voice began to crack. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve lost everything I ever had. All I have left is my faith. My faith that you will do the right thing. That you will not let my family die unavenged.”

  “I object,” Ben said, loud and forcefully. “This is grossly improper.”

  “Sustained,” Kearns ruled. He pounded his gavel. “The witness will be silent and wait for a question.”

  Erin ignored him. She rose to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “Please. Please!” She reached out toward the jury, pleading with them, begging them.

  “Bailiff!” Judge Kearns gestured toward the witness stand. “Mr. Bullock, take control of your witness!” He slammed his gavel. “The jury will disregard the last remarks from the witness. And we will take a fifteen-minute break. At the end of that time, I expect the witness to be prepared to follow the instructions of the court.”

  Kearns was doing his best to sound harsh, but Ben knew his heart wasn’t in it. How could anyone help but empathize with a girl who had lost every member of her family? As he looked at the jurors, as he stared into their eyes, he knew that they had been as moved—and influenced—by her testimony as he had been. As everyone had been.

  Beside him, Ray sat silently, not saying anything, not asking the obvious question. And Ben was grateful for that. Because he still didn’t like to make predictions. But whether he did or he didn’t, he knew with absolute certainty that the trial had just taken a dramatic—and irrevocable—turn. And not for the better.

  One

  The Death Watch

  Present Day

  Chapter

  1

  The scene confronting Erin outside the penitentiary both startled and disturbed her. Who were all these people? There must be hundreds of them, she guessed, people from all walks of life. Some just children. What were they doing here?

  A large group of teenagers passed her, carrying candles. Some were chanting softly. A high-powered searchlight burned down from the top of the penitentiary. This would be the perfect time for a jailbreak, Erin mused. The guards are all watching the teenagers.


  She moved slowly toward the building. It was still hard walking, even after all these years, especially on unpaved surfaces. The cane helped some, but not that much. The letter jackets some of the kids were wearing told her they were from Bishop Kelly High School. It was a Tulsa private school, a Catholic school. She wasn’t surprised. The Catholic bishop had vociferously protested the death penalty, as had the Episcopal bishop and even some fundamentalists. An offense to humanity, they said. Legalized murder. Contrary to everything Jesus ever taught. DNA evidence has proved wrongful convictions occur, they argued. With every execution, the death penalty seemed to become more controversial, and this was the fifth execution in this state this year. Oklahoma was one of the top states in the union for executions. It was a political hot potato.

  Erin didn’t care about politics. She didn’t care about religion, or morality, or What Jesus Would Do. She just wanted it to be over.

  But did she want it to be over this way? She pressed her hand against her temples, trying to ease the pounding that had almost incapacitated her these past few days. That was the difficult question, the one that was tearing her apart.

  Where was Sheila, anyway? Somehow, in this mass confusion, she had lost Sheila. Moving toward the north entrance, she saw another group of demonstrators, smaller and quieter than the anti-death-penalty crowd. A placard informed Erin that they were a homicide survivors group. Presumably that meant they were gung ho for the death penalty. So why were they here? Just to make a show of support? And what did they call themselves? she wondered. Friends of the Big Needle?

  One of the demonstrators noticed her, looked once, then looked again, this time not turning away. Damn. Erin moved rapidly toward the door. She hoped she hadn’t been recognized. The last thing on earth she wanted was to be proselytized by some victims-rights group. What a coup she would be for them—a young woman who had lost eight family members. What airplay they could get out of that.

  As she approached the visitors entrance, she sensed another person moving behind her in the darkness.

  “Kind of revolting, isn’t it?”

  Something about the voice gave her an eerie feeling. Which camp was this one with—the pro-deaths, or the anti-deaths?

  “That all these people would turn out to be near an execution. To be a part of it.”

  “I didn’t want to be here,” Erin said quietly.

  “Really? Pardon my intrusion, but—I recognized you. And I would’ve thought you’d be the first in line.”

  “I didn’t want to come at all. But my friend Sheila kept saying I should. That it would make me feel better. Give me a sense of closure.”

  “And has it?”

  “No. It’s made me feel—like I can’t live with myself any longer. Like I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “But how?”

  “I’ve . . . done something horrible. Something—unforgivable.”

  “You can’t blame yourself because a killer will be punished. You are only—”

  But Erin never heard the rest of the sentence. She turned and headed across the front lawn, back toward her car. She couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t bear it.

  Closure? That was a laugh. She would feel nothing but anguish and anger and . . . and guilt. Horrible, physically gut-wrenching guilt. After tonight, she didn’t know if she could live with herself any longer.

  And worst of all—she didn’t know that she wanted to.

  He saw the gurney.

  On the other side of the bars, in the corridor. With its leather straps stretching from one side to the other, its metal frame and thick padded wheels. Waiting for him.

  Five guards and the warden flanked it, trying to look professional and relaxed. It was some small comfort to Ray to see that they weren’t bringing it off. As often as they had done this of late, it still wasn’t coming easy. They weren’t jaded. Executions hadn’t quite become mundane.

  That was something, anyway.

  “Ray,” the warden said, stepping marginally closer to his cell, “we have some clothes we’d like you to put on. It’s required, actually. That includes some . . . special underwear.”

  Ray glanced at the bundle of clothing in the warden’s arms. The underwear looked like some kind of rubber diaper. Wasn’t hard to figure what that was about. Simplified the cleanup afterward, no doubt. Made it more hygienic. Well, thank goodness for that, anyway. Wouldn’t want to have a messy murder.

  “Is this going to be a problem, Ray?” the warden asked. “Because if it is . . .” He glanced ever so slightly toward the guards. Because if it is, he didn’t say, I’ve got five guards here who will put the clothes on you whether you like it or not.

  “It’s not a problem,” Ray said. “Where’s my rabbi?”

  “He’s waiting for you. Get the clothes on and . . . we’ll take you there. I would also recommend that you go to the toilet now, Ray. Thoroughly. You’ll be glad you did. You probably won’t have a chance . . . later.”

  The cell door opened, and for a fleeting moment Ray fantasized about breaking out, knocking over the guards, grabbing the keys, and racing down the corridor. A few well-placed martial-arts kicks to the attendants and he’d be free. He’d hot-wire the prison van and race down the highway, so fast and furious no one could possibly catch him. He’d tear off into the night and soon, in no time at all, he’d be back in Carrie’s arms, and she’d be holding him, and they’d tear off their clothes with animal urgency, caressing and pleasuring each other, letting the rest of the world fall away because there was nothing left but the two of them, just the two of them, together and close, forever and ever and . . .

  “Take the clothes, Ray.”

  Silently, tears tumbling from his eyes, Ray did as he was told.

  “Thank you,” the warden said, looking away. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  Andrew Fowler was the head man. He hadn’t asked to be. He would’ve preferred to be the left-leg man, or the right-arm man, or anything other than the head man. But that’s what he was, just the same.

  Andrew was a member of the tie-down team in the unit of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester that contained the death house. And tonight, they were on death watch. The five persons on the tie-down team were each assigned a part of the condemned man’s body—the right arm, the left arm, the right leg, the left leg, and the head. It was their responsibility to strap that part to the gurney. When the warden gave the signal. When it was time for the condemned man to die.

  And Andrew had the head. Which was good, in a way. A thin, wiry young man, Andrew was not renowned for his strength. Since the neck was so weak, the head was generally the easiest part to strap down. And the hardest to look at.

  Andrew was a relatively new member of the tie-down team. He’d only been around a few months, only done four executions. He’d replaced Wilson Fox, a thirty-five-year veteran who’d done over forty executions—till he suffered a complete mental breakdown earlier this year.

  That wasn’t unusual for men on the tie-down team. In fact, Fox lasted a lot longer than most. Killing people—even people you knew were butchers and sadistic murderers—was an intense, traumatizing job. Most of them stayed calm and professional while they did their work. Stoic expressions and all that. But afterward, when they were alone, when Andrew was in bed in the dark talking to his wife, it was different. Killing shouldn’t be anyone’s job, he had told his wife more than once. Not anyone’s.

  But jobs were hard to come by in McAlester these days, and though his salary was modest, it was twice as much as any salary Andrew had ever had before in his life. If they wanted to have children—and they did—he couldn’t afford to quit. Now that was ironic, wasn’t it? So that he could bring new life into the world—he was helping kill people.

  Andrew had gotten to know this one a little bit—a bad mistake. He tried to avoid all contact with the prisoners on death row. But Goldman had been in the library so often, and had been so courteous and . . . gentle, that Andrew had not been able to a
void talking to him. Learning what he was like. Learning to like him.

  Which did not in any way mean Andrew thought he was innocent. He assumed all these guys were guilty. He had to. But it disturbed him—all these accounts of men being released from prison after DNA evidence provided proof of their innocence. It didn’t happen all that often, statistically, his wife told him. But so what? If it happened once, it was too often. What if some of the people here were really innocent?

  What if some of them were executed?

  Goldman had asked him, during their last conversation, “Do you believe in the death penalty?” Andrew hadn’t answered. He didn’t really know, and frankly, it was beside the point. It wasn’t about whether the death penalty was right and it wasn’t about whether Goldman was guilty. It was about whether human beings, who screwed things up far more often than they got them right, had any business killing people. It was about whether killing ought to be a man’s job. Any man’s job.

  He saw Goldman emerge from the back of the cell, fully dressed in the designated execution wardrobe. Now they would strap him down. They had learned that the moment when the condemned man saw the gurney for the first time was the hardest. That’s when he knew it was really going to happen, that there was no escape. That was when he was most likely to panic, or God forbid try to make a break for it. So the tie-down team had learned to get it over with in advance, to strap him down before they got to the death chamber. It just made it easier, that was all. As easy as it could possibly be. To kill someone.

  Ray felt the leather strap cinched tightly across his chest. He couldn’t breathe. What was happening here? He wasn’t supposed to die yet. Not yet!

  “Can’t breathe,” he gasped.

  “You’ll get used to it,” said one of the guards. Fowler, that was his name. Ray had talked to him a few times in the library. He seemed like a decent sort. How could he stand this work? How could he stand there calmly and help these people murder him?