by David R. Dow
The truthful answer was yes, but I might have been in a bit of denial. When Reinhardt had come to visit, he asked about my cough. I shrugged it off. I was getting more easily winded, but I was no longer a young man. If I had known this doctor better, I might have recognized the alarm in his voice, but his question gave me hope. If I had pneumonia or an infection of some sort, bed rest and medicine would restore me in no time.
I said, Why can’t you just order the tests here? He said, Son, I’m mostly retired. I just keep my license as an AME to keep guys like you in the air. You need to see a certified internist. It’s very important. So I did. I spent three days in the woods, feeling mostly pretty good, and on the way back home, I stopped at a public health clinic in Wolf River. I explained I had been coughing and was short of breath. A nurse took a complete medical history, but given that I had not had a checkup in more than a decade, there was not a baseline of comparison. He took my blood pressure and gave me an EKG. The results were normal. When the doctor came in, I told her I sleep well, I’ve never smoked, I drink in moderation, I avoid fast food, and I still wore the same size jeans and T-shirts I had since college. She asked about exercise. I told her I used to take long walks but lately they’d grown shorter.
I did not tell her that climbing the stairs after visiting my prisoners left me breathing hard. I knew the explanation for my shortness of breath, and the explanation wasn’t medical in nature. The stress of being a jailer was something I hadn’t anticipated, and my quick visit with Irene Johnson had not revealed any useful coping mechanisms. I remembered how, on the first day I locked up Judge Moss, I told her I was indifferent. Looking back, I might not have known myself quite so well as I thought I did.
I stripped down to my boxer shorts and the doctor examined me. She checked my patellar reflexes and the bottoms of my feet. She had me bend over and touch my toes. She peered in my ears and nose and throat. She was making small talk, asking me about my life, and I told her I was retired. Then I discovered she wasn’t a poker player, or a good one anyway. When she asked me to take deep breaths with the stethoscope pressed against the back of my rib cage, I felt the fingers on her free hand stiffen.
She said it might be an infection. I could have pneumonia or bronchitis, or perhaps a small obstruction. There were many possibilities, so the first thing I needed was blood work and a chest X-ray. She gave me the name of a doctor at the university clinic in Kansas City.
She said, If I were in your position, I wouldn’t wait.
After the X-ray, they sent me for a CT scan and had me spit into a cup when I hacked up phlegm. Two days later they gave me a short-acting anesthesia and performed a bronchoscopy: The doctor slid a lighted tube down my throat and into my lungs. While I was still under, she used the images from the CT scan to guide her as she pushed a needle through my chest wall and gathered cells from my lungs. Three days later I sat in an overstuffed leather chair in her office while she told me I had stage IV non–small cell lung cancer.
I said, I’ve never smoked a day in my life.
She said, I know. I’m sorry.
She told me they could drain the fluid around my lungs and that would improve my breathing a bit. Chemotherapy might extend my life, but there was no known cure.
I said again, But I am not a smoker.
She said, We’ve discovered that around twenty percent of lung cancer patients never smoked.
I asked questions. I asked how often I would need chemo and about side effects and how much longer it would give me. She said they’d use a two-drug cocktail, and I might lose my hair and notice food tastes different. In the short term, I might be even more tired than normal. I’d receive four sessions of treatment that would last two days each, with a week of recovery in between. I noticed she did not say anything about whether it would help.
I said, And if I go that route, what are the odds?
She said, The five-year survival rate for people with your kind of cancer is less than one percent. But everybody is unique. Many people live far more than five years.
When I said, I don’t guess I need a doctorate in math to understand what you’re telling me, she looked down at her hands folded in her lap and whispered, No, I don’t suppose you do.
I stood up and shook her hand. She asked whether I had someone who could take me home.
I thought to myself, Unlike most cancer patients, this is not the worst thing that has happened to me.
I said to the doctor, Thank you for your kindness, but I can drive myself home. I will let you know what I decide.
* * *
• • •
The piece of pop psychology about how most criminals have a secret desire to get caught is a bunch of crap. Criminals get caught because they make stupid mistakes. I got away with my first, but I wasn’t so sure I’d be as lucky the second time around. The letters had been a huge blunder born of hubris and undeserved compassion—or maybe unconscious guilt. Either way, if they caught me after all this time, I would have only myself to blame.
Shortly after I was exonerated, Olvido called and told me Detective Pisarro wanted to apologize. She asked whether I was willing to talk to him. I said, Go ahead and give me his number, and I called him that night. He said he knew it probably wouldn’t matter, but he still wanted me to know how sorry he was. I said, Actually, it does matter. In my experience, most people in your profession seem to think if they do not admit the existence of a mistake, the mistake will not exist, law enforcement’s answer to Heisenberg. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, then he said, I’m not sure I know what you mean, but I’m not going to make any excuses for my own failure. I should have figured this out. I didn’t know what Cole was doing, but in hindsight, I blame myself for missing the clues. I said, I appreciate your willingness to reach out to me, Detective. I do not blame you at all. He said, I’m grateful, sir. I expected I’d never talk to him again.
But ten days after I mailed letters to Moss’s husband and Stream’s son, local and national news outlets reported the astonishing development. I carried a cup of coffee downstairs one morning when the news was on CNN. Moss said, I don’t understand. They’re saying the letter my husband received was anonymous. I said, Are you still surprised the media gets practically everything wrong? I felt a stab of guilt for misleading her. Stream didn’t believe me. He said, Every judge learns after a week on the bench a universal truth. I told you before, fuckups fuck up. It’s only a matter of time. I said, How long do you guess you’d live if I turned off the food and water supply?
He said, If some lowlife murdered my loved one the way your wife was killed, I’d peel off the guy’s skin a layer at a time. You seem more interested in skipping over the puddles.
Give the guy credit. He did know how to push my buttons. I left without answering and headed to Mesa Verde National Park in southwest Colorado. I spent two days exploring cliff dwellings, sleeping under the stars, and wondering whether I was mad at the wrong people. I wondered what Sargent would say. I worried I was betraying Tieresse yet again.
Late the following Sunday afternoon, as I was lining up to land back at home, I saw a black sedan parked next to my house and a man wearing a sport coat sitting on the porch. Who was there? In this part of the country, people don’t just drop by. I came in too fast and too high and had to abort the landing. Circling around for my second attempt, I thought I saw backup units on the way. Backup units for what? My brain was playing tricks on me. I told myself to stay calm. I read the items on the checklist out loud. I kept my eyes glued to the runway and my instruments, and by the time I touched down, I had assured myself nobody else was there.
But in fact there was. Detective Pisarro met me at the hangar and asked if I could use a hand. He had aged, but I recognized him instantly. He made a note on a pad, the plane’s N-number I think, then slipped it into his breast pocket. Without my asking, he helped push the plane inside. He didn’t pay any no
tice to the rubber pad covering the sealed passageway leading below. He said, They told me in town you usually come home Sunday afternoons. Your face is red. Do you feel okay?
I said, I’m surprised to see you, Detective.
He said, Two years ago I retired from HPD and took a job as an investigator with the SPU. Lots of travel, more than I care for, but pay is good, and I’ve got two kids in college. Can you believe that?
I was making notes in the plane’s logbook and shutting everything down while he was talking. I said, This is all very interesting, Detective, but you are telling me this why?
He said, You know what the SPU is?
I said, Of course I do. I was an inmate, as you may recall.
He said, Right. Well, I guess you heard the news about the letters sent to the husband and son of the missing judges.
Pisarro was waiting for a response. I was not going to help him. I didn’t fill the silence.
He said, My captain got the idea a guard at Polunsky mailed the letters. The reason is that both letters had a Livingston postage stamp from the same day.
I hung my headset over the yoke and closed the plane’s door. I pointed at the hangar door and said, You want to help me with this?
We walked back toward the house. I said, I have to go into town for some supplies, but can I offer you something to drink before I head out?
He came inside. We sat at the kitchen table with two bottles of beer. He said, Did you know they have video cameras at that post office?
I thought he might have been bluffing, but I quickly reconsidered. He was here after all. If he was here, he had to have a reason. My going to see Sargent couldn’t have been enough. He must have been telling the truth.
I said, No I didn’t. Is there a reason I should care?
He said, A few days ago, I was looking to see if I could find video of a CO mailing a letter from downtown, and imagine how surprised I was when I saw you.
I said, I went to visit a friend of mine. I’m guessing you know that already. He asked me to send a couple of letters to his pen pals in Europe. Is that against the law?
He said, Were you worried they might have germs?
I didn’t answer.
He said, You probably know the prison records conversations death row inmates have with their visitors.
I thought to myself, Thank God. And I said to Pisarro, The whole time I was there, the only visitors I had were my lawyers. You’re telling me the prison is listening in to those meetings?
He said, No, not legal visits. You mind if I have a look around?
I said, I don’t mind at all. Help yourself.
He said, Anybody staying in the guesthouse?
I said, Not right now. But the door should be unlocked. If it’s not, the key is in the planter.
He said, Interesting that you’re a pilot. Been flying long?
I said, Since childhood. Want to go up sometime?
He said, Seems like you’ve been traveling a fair amount.
I said, I’m trying. It’s a big country. Lots to see.
He put down his beer on the counter. I sat at the kitchen table and pretended to read through my e-mail. I watched Pisarro go into the guesthouse, the greenhouse, and the hangar. He walked around back, and I lost sight of where he was going. Fifteen minutes later, he came back inside. He said, Mr. Zhettah, do you know anything about the disappearance of Judge Stream and Judge Moss?
I said, Detective, I don’t expect you to understand, but I could not possibly be less interested in the goings-on of the Texas criminal justice system.
He said, I understand. I’m sorry to bother you, sir. Maybe I’ll see you again. You have yourself a good day.
I stood to walk him to the door. He placed his card on the table and shook my hand. He said, My cell number is on the back in case you want to reach me.
I said, Good luck at the new job.
He got in his car and drove away. I heard gravel crunch beneath the tires. I was breathing slowly through my nose. My heart rate was sixty-two. I poured a glass of ice water, sat down at the table, and drained it in a swallow. I replayed our conversation in my mind half a dozen times. I had answers for everything. It did not matter what he suspected or knew. He couldn’t prove a thing. I felt bulletproof.
I made a list and drove into town. At the grocery store I bought a grass-fed rib eye I intended to stuff with blue cheese and grill over oak, a russet potato to roast, and spinach I’d braise in butter and cream. The day I learned of my cancer was the day I quit worrying about my diet. While the fire burned down I mixed a pitcher of martinis and had my first sitting on the deck. I wondered what Stream and Moss had been doing while Pisarro and I were standing on top of them talking. In the morning, I intended to ask.
* * *
• • •
People take risks because they do not see them as risks. Consider my father, for instance. He put his life in danger by speaking frankly to homicidal drug dealers who had as much regard for other human beings as they did for roaches or ants. He confronted armed men twice his size if they insulted or disrespected someone he loved. He flew in canyons where the distance between sheer shale walls and the tips of his wings could be measured in inches. Some people won’t even wade into the ocean if they don’t know how to swim. Others will strap on a life vest and get on a raft in class VI whitewater. It’s not that people we call risk takers weigh the danger-reward balance differently from people we think of as prudent; it’s that they are oblivious to the danger. When I woke up the morning after Detective Pisarro had stopped by to visit, I finally knew how they felt. I heard my father whisper, Cuidado, hijo, and I said out loud, It’s okay, Papá. They cannot hurt me.
Moss said nothing when I told my prisoners about Pisarro’s visit, but Stream did. He said, If you made the mistake of getting yourself caught on video, you made others. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that bad guys don’t make just one mistake. That means the detective will be back. The walls are closing in on you, Zhettah.
I said, I bet you were one of those Little League baseball coaches who told your players they still had a chance when they were behind by fifteen runs with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning and two strikes on the hitter.
He said, You bet I was. Ain’t over ’til it’s over.
I said, It’s a paradox, John, but sometimes it is.
Moss said, Can you explain to me about the letter?
I said, I don’t know. Maybe the police were putting out bad information so someone with knowledge would come forward and correct them. Unfortunately, I might call too much attention to myself if I tried to learn the answer, so I am afraid we are going to have to live with the uncertainty. I learned a bit about Buddhism during my years of incarceration, thanks to a polymath who lived across the way.
Stream said, A polymath on death row, huh?
I said, One night Tieresse and I were watching a documentary about the Boston Strangler. She could not get enough of those true-crime shows, but they tended to make me morose. I said to her, Don’t these programs make you think our species is irredeemable? You know what she said? She said, Amor, the price we pay for Bach and Shakespeare is Manson and Dahmer.
Stream said, I’d happily trade Bach to get rid of Dahmer.
I said, That is a terribly bad trade, John, but you’re missing the point. Picasso was a misogynist, Eliot and Wagner were anti-Semites. Genius and evil can coexist. That’s the point. People are not either good or bad. They contain both good and bad. So, to answer your question, yes, a polymath on death row, a man who is superior to you in every possible way.
He said, Do you even know the details of what your friend did? I bet you don’t, because then you would have to justify calling him a friend. Say what you want about me, but I did not commit murder.
I said, You did come close, though.
Strea
m’s ears grew red. He said, It took me a while, but I finally understand why the jury convicted you. They looked at your face expecting fury. Instead they saw a flat line. Maybe you can explain why you hate Judge Moss and me more than the man who murdered your wife.
I said, I don’t hate either one of you, John.
Stream said, As usual, your narcissism blinds you to the central point.
I said, Which is what, exactly?
He said, People who do not hate the murderers who slaughter their loved ones are not advanced or superior; they’re enablers of evil.
Moss was silently biting her lip. Stream was staring at me, waiting for my response, looking almost feral. If the night I heard cries coming from Demerest’s cell as he was being raped was the first time I felt capable of murder, standing four feet from Stream right then was the second.
I left without saying a word.
That evening, swinging in the chair by the creek, I wondered whether the only way to evict them from my brain was to stop going downstairs.
* * *
• • •
Three months passed. If Pisarro was still investigating me, it was without my knowledge. The reporters appeared to have moved on. Moss was devouring three or four novels a week. Stream had been requesting biographies of Civil War generals and a multivolume history of the First World War. I still went to town most days but hadn’t taken a trip away since Colorado. Some days I spent fourteen hours in bed.
My cough grew worse. I hacked up blood-laced mucus and occasionally teaspoons of frothy blood. Pain spread from my chest to my shoulders, and then to my back, and to ease the pressure, I took to sleeping in a chair. I had pain in my throat and upper chest when I swallowed, and pain in my belly after I ate. I met with the doctor to tell her I had decided to do nothing further.
