“I don’t think so . . .”
“Let me say this, Mr. Cowart. We’ve spoken to almost all the principals here, and we’re real interested in obtaining rights and releases from everyone. We’re talking some substantial money here, and maybe the opportunity for you to get out of newspaper work.”
“I don’t want to get out of newspaper work.”
“I thought all reporters wanted to do something else.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Still, I’d like to meet. We’ve met with the others, and we’ve got all sorts of cooperation on this, and . . .”
“I’ll think about it, Mr. Maynard.”
“Will you get back to me?”
“Sure.”
Cowart hung up the telephone with absolutely no intention of doing this. He returned to the excitement that flooded the newsroom, guzzling champagne from a plastic cup, basking in the attention, all confusions and questions crushed under the weight of backslapping and congratulations.
But when he went home that night, he was still alone.
He walked into his apartment and thought of Vernon Hawkins living out solitary days with his memories and his cough. The dead detective seemed everywhere in his imagination. He kept trying to force the vision of his friend into some congratulatory pose, insisting to himself that Hawkins would have been the first to call, the first to crack an expensive bottle of champagne. But the image wouldn’t stick. He could only remember the old detective lying in bed in his hospital room, muttering through the fog of drugs and oxygen, “What’s the Tenth Rule of the streets, Matty?”
And his reply, “Christ, Vernon, I don’t know. Get some rest.”
“The Tenth Rule is: Things are never what they seem.”
“Vernon, what the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m losing my head. Get the fucking nurse, not the old one, the young one with the knockers. Tell her I need a shot. Any old shot, doesn’t make any difference, as long as she rubs my rear end with an alcohol swab for a couple of minutes before shooting me up.”
He remembered summoning the nurse and watching the old man get a shot, grin wildly, and slip off into a mist of sleep.
But I won, Vernon. I did it, he said to himself. He looked down at the copy of the first edition that he carried under his arm. The picture and story were above the fold: JOURNAL WRITER TAKES PULITZER IN DEATH ROW STORY.
He spent most of the night staring out into the wide black sky, letting euphoria play with doubt, until the excitement of the award simply overcame all anxieties and he drifted off, drugged with his own shot of success.
Two weeks later, while Matthew Cowart was still riding a crest of elation, a second story moved over the electronic wires.
The story said that the governor had signed a death warrant for Blair Sullivan. It set his execution in the electric chair for midnight, seven days from the moment of signing. There was speculation that Sullivan could avoid the chair at any point by opting to file an appeal. The governor acknowledged this fact when he signed the warrant. But there was no immediate response from the prisoner.
One day passed. Then a second, third, and fourth. On the morning of the fifth day of the death warrant, as he sat at his desk, the telephone rang. He seized the receiver eagerly.
It was Sergeant Rogers from the prison.
“Cowart? You there, buddy?”
“Yeah, Sergeant. I was expecting to hear from you.”
“Well, things are getting close, ain’t they?”
This was a question that really demanded no answer. “What’s with Sullivan?”
“Man, you ever go to the reptile house at the zoo? Watch those snakes behind those glass windows? They don’t move much, except their eyes dart about, watching everything. That’s what Sully’s like. We’re supposed to be watching him, but he’s eyeing us like he expects something. This ain’t like any Death Watch I ever saw before.”
“What usually happens?”
“Generally speaking, this place starts crawling with lawyers, priests, and demonstrators. Everybody’s wired up, racing about to different judges and courts, meeting this, talking about that. Next thing you know, it’s time. One thing I’ll say about when the state juices you: You don’t have to face it alone. There’s family and well-wishers and people talking about God and justice and all sorts, until your ears like to fall off. That’s normal. But this ain’t normal. There ain’t nobody inside or outside for Sully. He’s just alone. I keep expecting him to explode, he’s wrapped so tight.”
“Will he appeal?”
“Says no.”
“What do you think?”
“He’s a man of his word.”
“What about everybody else?”
“Well, the consensus here is that he’ll break down, maybe on the last day, and ask somebody to file something and get his stay and enjoy his ten years of appeals. Latest odds are ten will get you fifty if he actually goes to the chair. I got some money down on that myself. That’s what the governor’s man thinks, anyway. Said they just wanted to call the man’s bluff. But he’s cutting it close, you know. Real fine.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Hearing a lot about Him lately, too.”
“What about the preparations?”
“Well, the chair works fine, we tested it this morning. It’ll kill you right quick, no doubt about that. Anyway, he’ll get moved into an isolation cell twenty-four hours ahead. He gets to order himself a meal, that’s tradition. We don’t cut his hair or do any of the other prep work until there’s just a couple of hours left. Until then, things stay as normal as we can make them. The other folks on the Row are mighty restless. They don’t like to see somebody not fight, you know. When Ferguson walked, it inspired everyone, gave them all like a shot of hope. Now Sully’s got them all pretty pissed off and anxious-like. I don’t know what’ll happen.”
“Sounds like it’s tough on you.”
“Sure. But in the end it ain’t nothing more than part of the job.”
“Has Sully talked to anyone?”
“No. But that’s the reason I’m calling.”
“What?”
“He wants to see you. In person. ASAP.”
“Me?”
“You got it. Wants you to share the nightmare, I’m guessing. He’s put you on his witness list.”
“What’s that?”
“What d’you think? The invited guests of the state and Blair Sullivan for his own little going-away party.”
“Jesus. He wants me to watch the execution?”
“Yup.”
“Christ! I don’t know if . . .”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? You got to understand, Mr. Cowart, there ain’t a lot of time involved here. We’re having a nice chat here on the phone, but I think you’d best be calling the airlines for a flight. Get here by this afternoon.”
“Right. Right. I’ll get right there. Jesus.”
“It was your story, Mr. Cowart. I guess old Sully just wants to see you write the last chapter, huh? Can’t say it surprises me.”
Matthew Cowart didn’t reply. He hung up the telephone. He stuck his head into Will Martin’s office and swiftly explained the unusual summons. “Go,” the older man said. “Go, right now. It’s a helluva story. Just go.” There was a hurried conversation with the managing editor, and a rushed trip back to his apartment to grab a toothbrush and change of clothes.
He made a noon commuter flight.
It was late afternoon when he reached the prison, driving the rental car hard through a gray, rain-streaked day. The beating noise of the windshield wipers had added urgency to his pace. Sergeant Rogers met him in the administration offices. They shook hands like old teammates at a reunion.
“You made good time,” the s
ergeant said.
“You know, I can feel the craziness. I’m driving along, thinking about every minute, Jesus, every second, and what it means all of a sudden.”
“That’s right,” the sergeant nodded. “There ain’t nothing like having a time and date for dying to make little moments right important.”
“Scary.”
“That it is. Like I told you, Mr. Cowart, Death Row gives one an entirely different perspective on living.”
“No demonstrators outside?”
“Not yet. You really got to hate the death penalty to want to walk in the rain for old Sully. I expect they’ll show up in a day or so. Weather’s supposed to clear tonight.”
“Anyone else here to see him?”
“There’s lawyers with papers all ready to file on call—but he ain’t called for anyone, excepting you. There’s been some detectives here. That pair from Pachoula came down yesterday. He wouldn’t talk to them. Couple of FBI men and some guys from Orlando and Gainesville. They all want to know about a bunch of murders they still got floating on their books. He won’t talk to them, neither. Just wants to talk to you. Maybe he’ll tell you. Sure would help some folks if’n he would. That’s what old Ted Bundy did, before he went to the chair. Cleared up a whole lot of mysteries plaguing some folks. I don’t know if it counted for much when he got to the other side, but, hell, who knows?”
“Let’s go.”
“That’s right.”
Sergeant Rogers made a perfunctory check of Matthew Cowart’s notepad and briefcase and then led him through the sally ports and metal detectors into the bowels of the prison.
Sullivan was waiting in his cell. The sergeant pulled a chair up outside and gestured for Cowart to sit.
“I need privacy,” Sullivan coughed.
Cowart thought he had paled some. His slicked-back hair glistened in the light from a single, wire-covered bulb. Sullivan moved nervously about from wall to wall in the cell, twisting his hands together, his shoulders hunched over.
“I need my privacy,” he repeated.
“Sully, you know there ain’t nobody in either cell on right or left. You can talk here,” the sergeant said patiently.
The prisoner allowed a smile to race across his face.
“They make it like a grave,” he said to Matthew Cowart as the sergeant moved away. “They make it quiet and still, just so’s you start to get used to the idea of living in a coffin.”
He walked to the bars and shook them once. “Just like a coffin,” he said. “Nailed shut.”
Blair Sullivan laughed hard, until the sound disintegrated into a wheeze. “So, Cowart, you’re looking mighty prosperous.”
“I’m okay. How can I help you?”
“I’ll get to that, get to that. Give me a moment of pleasure or so. Hey, you heard from our boy, Bobby Earl?”
“When I won the prize, he called with congratulations. But I didn’t really talk to him. I gather he’s back in college.”
“That right? Somehow, I didn’t make him for a real studious type. But hey, maybe college has got some special attractions for old Bobby Earl. Real special attractions.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing that you won’t need to remember some time later.”
Blair Sullivan tossed back his head and let his body shiver. “You think it’s cold in here, Cowart?”
Cowart could feel sweat running down his ribs. “No. It’s hot.”
Sullivan grinned and coughed out another laugh. “Ain’t that a joke, Cowart? It’s getting so I can’t tell no more. Can’t tell if it’s hot or cold. Day or night. Just like a little child, I’m thinking. I guess that’s a part of it, the dying. You just naturally head backwards in time.”
He rose and walked to a small sink in the corner of the cell. He ran the single tap for a moment, leaning down and drinking with great gulps. “And thirsty, too. Keep getting dry in the mouth. Just like something keeps sucking all the moisture right out of me.”
Cowart didn’t say anything.
“Of course, I expect when they jolt you the first time with those twenty-five hundred volts, that’s thirsty work for all involved.”
Matthew Cowart felt his own throat tighten. “Are you going to file?”
Sullivan scowled. “What do you think?”
“I don’t.”
He stared at Cowart. “You got to understand, Cowart, right now I’m feeling more alive than ever.”
“Why do you want to see me?”
“Last will and testament. Dying declaration. Famous last words. How’s that sound?”
“Up to you.”
Sullivan made a fist and punched the still air of the cell. “Do you remember me telling you how far I could reach? Do you remember me saying how puny these walls and bars really are, Cowart? Do you remember me saying that I don’t fear death, I welcome it? I think there’s gonna be a special place in hell for me, Cowart. I do. And you’re gonna help me get there.”
“How?”
“You’re gonna do some things for me.”
“What if I don’t agree?”
“You will. You can’t help it, Cowart. You’re in this all the way, ain’t you?”
Cowart nodded, wondering what he was agreeing to.
“All right, Cowart. Mr. Famous Reporter Man. I want you to go someplace for me and do some of your special-type reporting. It’s a little house. I want you to knock on the door. If there ain’t no answer, I want you to go right on in. Don’t you mind if the door’s locked. Don’t you let anything keep you from walking into that house. Got that? I don’t care how, but you get inside that house. You keep your eyes open. You take down all the details inside, hear? You interview everybody there . . .”
Blair Sullivan ladled sarcasm onto the word. He laughed. “Then you come back and tell me what you found, and I’ll tell you a story worth hearing. Blair Sullivan’s legacy.”
The killer put his head into his hands and then raised them up over his forehead, pushing back his hair, grinning wildly. “And that’ll be a story worth the knowing, I promise.”
Cowart hesitated. He felt swept up in a sudden darkness.
“Okay, Mr. Cowart,” Sullivan said. “Ready? I want you to go to number thirteen—nice number, that—Tarpon Drive in Islamorada.”
“That’s the Keys. I just came from . . .”
“Just go there! And then come back and tell me what you find. And don’t leave nothing out.”
Cowart looked at the prisoner, unsure for an instant. Then the doubt fled and he rose.
“Run, Cowart. Run hard. Run fast. There’s not much time.”
Sullivan sat back on his bed. He turned his face away from Cowart but at the same time bellowed out, “Sergeant Rogers! Get this man out of my sight!”
His eyes twitched once toward Cowart. “Until tomorrow. That’d be day six.”
Cowart nodded and paced swiftly away.
Cowart managed to catch the last flight back to Miami. It was after midnight when he dragged himself into his apartment and threw himself down, still dressed, on his bed. He felt unsettled, filled with an odd stage fright. He thought himself an actor thrust onto a stage in front of an audience but not having been told his lines, his character, or what the name of the play was. He thrust away as much thought as he could and seized a few hours of fitful sleep.
But by eight in the morning, he was driving south toward the Upper Keys, through the clear, rising heat of the morning. There were a few lazy white clouds lost in the sky, gleaming with the early sun. He maneuvered past the commuter traffic clogging South Dixie Highway heading for downtown Miami, racing the opposite way. Miami spread out, changing from a city into strips of low-slung shopping centers with garish signs and empty parking lots. The number of cars d
iminished as he passed through the suburbs, finally racing past rows of auto dealerships decorated with hundreds of American flags and huge banners announcing cut-rate sales, their polished fleets of vehicles gleaming with reflected light, lined up in anticipation. He could see a pair of silver jet fighters swinging wide through the crystal air, jockeying for a landing at Homestead Air Force Base, the two planes roaring, filling the air with noise but performing like ballet dancers as they swept into their approach only a few feet apart, in tandem.
A few miles farther, he crossed Card Sound Bridge, driving hard toward the Keys. The road sliced through hummocks of mangroves and marshy swamp. He saw a stork’s nest on a telephone pole, and as he swept by, a single white bird rose and beat its way across the sky. A wide flat green world surrounded him for the first few miles. Then the land on his left gave way to inlets and finally to miles of Florida bay. A light chop curled the surface of the ripe blue water. He drove on.
The road to the Keys meanders through wetlands and water, occasionally rising up a few feet so that civilization can grasp hold. The rough coral-ridged earth houses marinas and condo developments whenever it gains enough solidity to support construction. It sometimes seems as if the square cinder-block buildings have spawned; a gas station spreads into a convenience store. A T-shirt shop painted bright pink takes root and flowers into a fast-food outlet. A dock gives rise to a restaurant, which hatches a motel across the roadway. Where there is enough land, there are schools and hospitals and trailer parks clinging tightly to the crushed gravel, dirt, and pieces of white shells, bleached by the sun. The ocean is never far, blinking with reflected sunlight, its wide expanse laughing at the puny, tacky efforts of civilization. He pushed past Marathon and the entrance to Pennekamp State Park. At the Whale Harbor marina he saw a huge plastic blue marlin, bigger than any fish that ever cruised the Gulf Stream, which marked the entrance to the sports fishing dock. He drove on past a strip of shops and a supermarket, the white paint on the walls fading in the inexorable hot sun of the Keys.
It was midmorning when he found Tarpon Drive.
Just Cause Page 23
