He lost track of time completely shortly thereafter, only to be brutally reminded of the urgency of his circumstances upon feeling the rattle of quickly approaching steps. Thoughts of an atrocious end ran through his head, and suddenly he was hit by the realization that, if he was to make it back to England, he had better act like a man and take decisive action. The steps were just a few yards out. Now!
Out of pure instinct, he sprang out of his grave, bracing himself for a dirty fist fight. The man facing him uttered a squeaky and terrorizing cry, and Teddy launched a ferocious blow that instantly hit home. The man dropped like a shovel on the freshly trimmed grass and cowered like a hurt caterpillar. Without a moment’s pause, Teddy shifted his feet, scanning nervously for the second assailant. His heart was pounding and his biceps throbbing, ready to crash into any further menacing shape.
There was no one else around, and he turned back to face the man lying on the floor. Should I heave the bastard in the hole and start filling it with dirt?
The man’s muffled howls and apparent lack of manliness made Teddy uneasy, as if he was expecting more from a Cuban mobster. And sure enough, Teddy reeled back in disbelief as he took his first proper look at the whiner’s face – the face of a middle-aged white man dressed in gardener’s overall. The third man on the bus.
“Shit!” Teddy said. “Mate, I thought you were…” The man, still in fetal position, was covering his face with the full length of his forearms, like a boxer about to take another hit.
“I don’t mean to…I thought you were…” As Teddy was muddling through his apology, his side vision caught some movement on the eastern entrance. He spun his head and watched with horror his two Cuban followers jog into the park, their heads rotating like sentinels.
In a flash, he plucked a wad of cash from his pocket, hurled the handful without a second look, and just as the banknotes landed on the distressed gardener’s lap, he was on the run again. Aiming for the northern exit, he plowed through thick bushes and ended up in a much more densely packed cemetery.
The washed-out and sinister tombstones contrasted with the vibrancy of the surrounding woods, and Teddy was struck by the ominous irony of the situation. At least, it wouldn’t cost his poor parents much in the way of a burial – he was already on site.
Moments later, the two Cubans marched through some scruffy vegetation and before long they were pressing on cautiously across the graveyard. The two men drew out their guns and slowly made their way further into the park, leaving no gravestone unchecked. A minute later, after scrutinizing the entire graveyard with no success, they came to the conclusion that their prey was nowhere to be found. They paused at the northernmost end of the cemetery for a fleeting instant, and turned around to peer from another angle at the solemn site.
Only fifty yards away, past the outer edge of the Memorial Park, Teddy was waving frantically at passing cars. The improvised attempt to summon a ride was a complete failure, and despite a few intrigued looks, no driver appeared bold enough to dare pulling over and providing assistance to this strangely agitated man.
Worse still, the seemingly good idea had rapidly turned into a treacherous one, as the symphony of horns now coming at him risked attracting the deadly attention of his pursuers.
Fearing that the Cubans stuck their nose out of the bushes any second, he resolved to resort to more aggressive techniques. Out of the blue, he jumped in the middle of the road, landing a few yards away from a small grey passing car. His right hand was motioning downward, indicating to the driver to slow down, while his other hand was raised to the sky firmly gripping to a bundle of cash.
The driver – a pretty redhead as tiny as her car – squashed the brake pedal and the vehicle came to a brutal stop. The girl stared ahead, motionless, her hands clenched on the wheel and her eyes locked on the tip of the hood. Teddy moved quickly to the front door, pounding on the window and waving his wad of notes in perfect synchronization, thereby forcing the incredulous girl out of her startled state.
“Help me out and I’ll give you two hundred dollars!” Teddy shouted across the closed door.
When the two Cubans finally came out of the memorial park, the compact Ford Festiva was already a mile closer to the Miami International airport. As the frenetic dance of incoming and outbound flights intensified before his eyes, Teddy slowly realized that for him, this was almost the end of the road.
The main control tower came into view and both of the car’s occupants breathed a sigh of relief. The lovely ginger girl hadn’t uttered a word during the twenty-minute ride, confused by her passenger’s troubling objectives.
Teddy’s blood pressure finally returned within normal range as the car entered the airport drop-off area. He would only completely loosen up two hours later upon boarding the long-haul jet airliner that was to take him to Dublin, where his uncle Rob Harper was supposed to be waiting.
He made sure to get on the plane last, and scanned every last passenger’s face as he walked up the central aisle. He counted twenty-six Hispanics on board, none of them looked suspicious. He sat next to an obese teenager eating a pretzel with headphones securely screwed over his hairy head. The music blaring in the kid’s ears was clearly audible, and the crumbles on his belly were falling on the neighboring seats. In the row just behind, a toddler was showing sign of disquiet, and his mother holding him was already sweating from the impending tearful crisis. Teddy swiped the crumbles off his seat, sat quietly and fastened his seatbelt. He was smiling broadly. He was going home at last.
EPILOGUE
It was time. The man was escorted to a wooden door left ajar at the end of an austere, artificially-lit corridor. The room they entered was tiny. The olive-green walls were worn-out and ridden with white chuckholes – a testament to the brutal deeds that took place therein over the prison’s hundred-plus years of existence.
The man ran his hand over his shaved skull as he took in the dullness of the enclosed space.
Following close behind, the warden stepped into the room and announced, “It looks like shit, but I’ve finally secured funding to restore the place a little bit.” He glared at the fellow next to him, and added, “Not that it matters to you now.”
The man did not reply. His entire day had felt unreal, even more so since he had set eyes on the filthy letter that had landed in his cell in the morning. Now, the only thing still binding him to the harrowing reality was the noisy gurgles of his stomach.
His last meal had been over ten hours ago, and it had been an outrageous one. An obscene and senseless blend of Cuban and American delicacies – a double-patty burger with caramelized onions, six marinated baby back ribs, a bowl of vacas fritas, two slices of cornbread and a pile of thick pan-fried plantain pancakes. He had only been able to ingest a third of it and when asked if he wished to offer the leftovers to any of his fellow inmates, he replied curtly, “Throw it away. All of it.”
He had managed to circumvent the customary limit of forty dollars for this special meal. Not an unusual feat for a prisoner of his caliber. The man had leveraged his former status in the civilian society to obtain countless privileges and favors over the past two years. But even Joaquin Herrera couldn’t escape death row.
And as he stood absentmindedly in the claustrophobic execution chamber, he was now feeling the withdrawal effect of his final carbohydrate-heavy supper. This, however, was only cause for mild disturbance when compared to the fury he had felt earlier in the morning upon reading that disgraceful letter.
The cold wood and steel throne conveniently built at the center of the room was equipped with five leather straps around its legs and arms, and at the base of the seat. There was also a soft cushion fixed on the straight backrest of the chair to provide further comfort.
In truth, Joaquin Herrera had been unlucky to see his execution scheduled so soon. The state of Florida was rumored to be planning for a ban of the electric chair, opting instead for the cleaner, more human lethal injection as their preferred capital punishm
ent method.
Had his execution been delayed by just a few months, Joaquin Herrera would have experienced a very different death. Four successive drugs would have been sent flowing through his veins. Firstly, a harmless saline solution. Moments later, liquid sodium thiopental would have put him to sleep, before pancuronium bromide would have paralyzed his entire muscle system and stopped his breathing. Finally, the flow of potassium chloride would have halted his heart. Barring some machine dysfunction, he would have died painlessly of respiratory and cardiac arrest while unconscious.
In lieu of this, Herrera was faced with the prospect of a tortuous and excruciating end. A thirty-second jolt of up to two thousand volts crashing through his slim body frame. His hands would likely recruit every last muscle fiber available to grip the armrests. His limbs would shiver with extreme violence, possibly resulting in fractures or dislocations. The unrelenting fury of storming electrons would cause tissues to swell, steam and stretch to the point of breaking.
This was when the execution could take a turn for the macabre. His intestines might react to the vehemence of the electrical tempest by contracting and draining themselves in everyone’s sight. It wasn’t infrequent that the prisoner’s eyeballs popped out of their sockets, and be left hanging on the dead man’s cheekbones as if they were abseiling his face.
The assistant would then turn off the current. And a chilly silence would spread through the room. After a few seconds, the doctor would check the inmate’s heart for a beat. In the unlikely case that the blood-pumping organ was still pounding, another similarly ravaging jolt would be administered.
None of this was unbeknown to Joaquin Herrera as he was prompted to sit on the electric chair by two squat prison officials. The two guards looked unfazed. It was just another execution.
The warden, however, was grossly relishing the scene. He crossed his arms and said, “Make yourself comfortable,” before uttering a cynical, barely-audible chuckle. The two guards raised a forced smile.
Herrera replied straight away, “I wouldn’t play that game, warden.”
The warden giggled. “Oh, you wouldn’t, tough guy?” He glanced at his dozy assistants and said defiantly, “Mister Padrino here believes his empty threats have any effect in this sanctuary of death. Can you believe the nerves of him?” He laughed even louder and lowered his head to bring his mouth at Herrera’s level, “Whatever you say in this room bounces off the walls and hurtle straight back at you.” He leaned further, and whispered in Herrera’s ear, “Sometimes, the power fails to deliver a fatal first bolt, and we have to go at it again two, three, four times. It is not a pleasant sight, to see the spams, the burnt flesh, and the blood oozing from all orifices. It would be unfortunate if this happened today.”
Herrera frowned, as if hurt in the deepest recesses of his ego. He turned his head ever-so-slowly at the warden. The immense depth of his glacial green eyes sent a chill down the warden’s spine.
“Listen, you worthless piece of trash,” Herrera snapped. “All it would take me to have your entire family wiped out from the face of the earth is a wink toward the witness room.” He raised an eyebrow aimed at the window facing them. “This would be unfortunate.”
The warden’s face turned livid. He stood motionless for a second, gulped and turned to his two drowsy assistants. “Please, proceed.”
Behind the wide, opaque window, the audience was anxiously waiting for the execution. Agent Parker bent his leg carefully as he sunk into his seat next to Frank. The bullet wounds he had sustained two years earlier would leave him limping for the rest of his life, but he was grateful to even be alive. The spectacle they were about to witness was the grand finale of years of ho-hum groundwork and irksome investigation.
They were soon joined by some of the leading officers from other federal and state agencies. The electrocution that would unfold before their prying eyes was the highest profile one in recent memory.
In the execution room across the tinted window, one of the assistants tightened the belts around Joaquin Herrera’s limbs and chest, while the other carefully placed a sponge moistened with salty water – not too wet nor too dry – on the man’s hairless head. He then attached a metal skullcap-shaped electrode to his scalp and forehead. Another electrode, moistened with conductive jelly, was tied up to his leg in order to provide further impetus to the current bolt.
The warden stepped forward and asked the ultimate question, “Does the offender have any final word?”
Herrera didn’t want to make amends, as is customary for prisoners about to be executed. He didn’t have a word for his loved ones. He didn’t even have evil intents toward the warden or the rest of the Florida State Prison. All he could think about was the brazen letter he had received earlier that day.
“Offender,” the warden repeated. “Do you have any final word?”
Herrera slowly closed his eyes, exhaling deeply, and said, “I’m ready. Let’s get it over with.”
The warden blindfolded him, and the rest of the execution team withdrew to the observation room. Herrera tried to clear his thoughts, but it was pointless. He was fuming inside. The filthy prose of Teddy Harper was bounced back and forth on the inner edge of his skull relentlessly.
The warden nodded, and as the executioner grabbed the handle that was to deliver the fatal jolt, Joaquin Herrera remembered the young Englishman’s impudent words.
…
Dear Joaquin,
I bloody hope I timed this letter right. It’d be my infinite honor to pervade your mind just as you’re about to give up the ghost, my dear Padrino.
I’m not gonna lie, I was almost shivering with excitement upon hearing the news. You can’t even start to imagine what I’d relinquish to witness first-hand sparkles coming out of your smoky ears. It’s not every day that you get to see the biggest cunt on earth fry like dead meat on a summertime barbecue grill.
I envy good ol’ Franky and Parker so much. They’ll be on the other side of the mirror window, you know. When you’re all tied up on the chair of your demise, just take a moment and picture them. They’re whispering in each other’s ears like children in front of a heap of Christmas presents. They’re pointing at you shamelessly. They’re laughing loudly with complete disregard to any sorrow the rest of the audience might feel. Can you hear them guffaw?
But that’s not why I am writing you. Well not entirely so, my dear Padrino.
My formative years as a man were spent by your side, in the foul enterprise you used to run. Carrying out dirty deeds on your behalf landed me in jail for a while, and I must say I feared for my life a few times, courtesy of your wide-ranging influence. But here I am, stronger than ever, and most importantly, free. And alive.
It must have been heart-wrenching to see the DEA take possession of all your assets. A hard-earned fortune stained with the blood of millions of despairing drug addicts. Let alone those who fell under your command, and those you had executed heartlessly – like Paco. He will watch from above, you can be certain of that. He will watch you endure the ultimate pain, descend into the original underworld and burn for eternity.
My dear Padrino, I am writing you to ensure there is no doubt in your mind as to your present situation. Not only will your existence be nullified, but your legacy will be annihilated entirely. Oh, I made sure of that. Paco made sure of that. Years of diligent covert intel-gathering will give you that. The stupendous villas, the state-of-the-art boats, the cash, the secret bank accounts. On domestic soil and abroad. In New York, Madrid, Havana, Geneva, the Caymans Islands and elsewhere. Even the stash you had put aside for your mother back home – God bless her.
My dear Padrino, I am writing out to say that they took everything from you. And now, they’re gonna take your life.
With love,
Teddy
- THE END –
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In the same series:
BAD BLOOD EMPIRE
For fans of fast-paced epic tales of mafia, vendettas and car chases such as the Godfather, the Outsiders, and Narcos.
London, United Kingdom. The Big Smoke. A constant clash of cultures and beliefs, down to the gutter. And over a million drug users - an alluring market for a bunch of young, ambitious French.
Fast-forward a decade. After years of covert attrition war to gain control of the streets of London, Zakariya Mansouri and his band of brothers are on top of the city’s underworld - the six of them are now stealthily ruling over the largest drug cartel in the British capital.
Beyond shrewd tactics and incredible nerve, it is their unwavering unity - forged during a shared childhood in Paris’s most unforgiving ghetto - that has been their ultimate edge.
But just as they relish their achievements, a storm is brewing in the background. The desperate attempts of aging enemy gang leaders to overthrow the Frenchmen and salvage their legacy promise to test the foundation of their friendship.
As old grudges resurface and threaten to annihilate everything they’ve built, will Zakariya realize that the biggest danger lurks at the heart of his own empire?
Little Havana Exile Page 14
