Just Cause

by John Katzenbach

  Hours slid by horribly.

  Sergeant Rogers brought food. Sullivan waved him away. The traditional last meal—a pan-fried steak with whipped potatoes and apple pie—remained on a tray, congealing. Cowart simply listened.

  It was a few minutes after 11 P.M. when Blair Sullivan finished, a pale smile flitting on his face.

  “That’s all thirty-nine,” he said. “Some story, huh? It may not set a damn record, but it’s gonna come damn close, right?”

  He sighed deeply. “I’d a liked that, you know. The record. What the hell is the record for a fellow like me, Cowart? You got that little fact at your fingertips? Am I number one, or does that honor go to another?”

  He laughed dryly. “Of course, even if I ain’t number one in terms of numbers, why I sure as hell got it over most those other suckers for, what you wanna call it, Cowart? Originality?”

  “Mr. Sullivan, there’s not much time. If you want to . . .”

  Sullivan stood, suddenly wild-eyed. “Haven’t you paid any attention, boy?”

  Cowart raised his hand. “I just wanted . . .”

  “What you wanted isn’t important! What I want, is!”

  “Okay.”

  Sullivan looked out from between the bars. He breathed deeply and lowered his voice. “Now it’s time for one more story, Cowart. Before I step out of this world. Take that nice fast ride on the state’s rocket.”

  Cowart felt a terrible dryness within him, as if the heat from the man’s words had sucked all the moisture from his body.

  “Now, I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver. A dying declaration is what they call it in a court of law. The last words before death. They figure no one would go to the great beyond with a lie staining their lips.”

  He laughed out loud. “That means it’s got to be the truth . . .” He paused, then added, “. . . If you can believe it.”

  He stared at Cowart. “Beautiful little Joanie Shriver. Perfect little Joanie.”

  “Number forty,” Cowart said.

  Blair Sullivan shook his head. “No.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t kill her.”

  Cowart’s stomach clenched, and he felt a clamminess come over his forehead.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t kill her. I killed all those others. But I didn’t kill her. Sure, I was in Escambia County. And sure, if I’d a spotted her, I would have been right tempted to do so. There’s no question in my mind, if I had been parked outside her school yard, I would have done exactly what was done to her. I’d have rolled down my window and said, ‘Come here, little schoolgirl . . .’ That I can promise. But I didn’t. No, sir. I am innocent of that crime.”

  He paused, then repeated, “Innocent.”

  “But the letter . . .”

  “Anyone can write a letter.”

  “And the knife . . .”

  “Well, you’re right about that. That was the knife that killed that poor little girl.”

  “But I don’t understand . . .”

  Blair Sullivan grasped his sides. His laughter turned into a solid, hacking cough, echoing in the prison corridor. “I have been waiting for this,” he said. “I have been so eagerly awaiting the look on your face.”

  “I . . .”

  “It is unique, Cowart. You look a bit sick and twisted yourself. Like it’s you that’s sitting in the chair. Not me. What’s going on in there?” Sullivan tapped his forehead.

  Cowart closed his mouth and stared at the killer.

  “You thought you knew so much, didn’t you, Cowart? You thought you were pretty damn smart. And now, Mr. Pulitzer Prize Reporter, let me tell you something: You ain’t so smart.”

  He continued to laugh and cough.

  “Tell me,” Cowart said.

  Sullivan looked up. “Is there time?”

  “There’s time,” Cowart said between clenched teeth. He watched the man in the cell rise and start to pace about.

  “I feel cold,” the prisoner said.

  “Who killed Joanie Shriver?”

  Blair Sullivan stopped and smiled. “You know,” he said.

  Cowart felt the floor falling away from beneath his feet. He grasped the chair, his notebook, his pen, trying to steady himself. He watched the capstan on his tape recorder turn, recording the sudden silence.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  Sullivan laughed again. “You really want to know?”

  “Tell me!”

  “Okay, Cowart. Imagine two men in adjacent cells on Death Row. One man wants to get out because he took a fall on the shabbiest case any detective ever put together, convicted by a cracker jury that probably believed he was the craziest murdering nigger they’d ever seen. Of course, they were right to convict him. But for all the wrong reasons. This man is filled with impatience and anger. Now the other man knows he’s never gonna get out of that date with the electric chair. He may put it off some, but he knows the day’s gonna come for him. Ain’t no doubt about it. And the thing that bothers him the most is a bit of unfinished hatred. There is something he still wants to get done. Even if he’s got to reach out from the very grasp of death to do it. Something real important to him. Something so evil and wrong that there’s only one person on this earth he could ask to do it.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Someone just like him.” Sullivan stared at Cowart, freezing him into the seat. “Someone just exactly like him.”

  Cowart said nothing.

  “And so they discover a few coincidences. Like they were in the same place at the same time, driving the same type car. And they get an idea, huh? A real fine idea. The sort of plan that not even the devil’s own assistant could think up, I’d wager. The one man who’ll never get off the Row will take the other’s crime. And then that man, when he gets out, will do that certain something just for his partner. You beginning to see?”

  Cowart didn’t move.

  “You see, you dumb son of a bitch! You’d a never believed it if it weren’t the way it is. The poor, innocent, unjustly convicted black man. The big victim of racism and prejudice. And the real awful, bad, white guy. Would never have worked the other way around, neither. It weren’t so hard to figure out. The main thing was, all I had to do was tell you about that knife and write that letter right at the right moment so’s it could be read at that hearing. And the best part was, I got to keep denying the crime. Keep saying I didn’t have nothing to do with it. Which was the truth. Best way to make a lie work, Cowart. Just put a little bit of truth into it. You see, I knew if I just confessed, you’d of found some way to prove I didn’t do it. But all I had to do was make it look for you and all your buddies on television and in the other papers like I did it. Just make it look that way. Then let nature take over. All I had to do was open the door a little bit . . .”

  He laughed again. “And Bobby Earl just walked right through that crack. Just as soon as you pulled it wide enough.”

  “How can I believe this . . .”

  “Because there’s two folks sitting dead in Monroe County. They’re numbers forty and forty-one.”

  “But why tell me?”

  “Well.” Sullivan smiled a final time. “This isn’t exactly part of the bargain I made with Bobby Earl. He thinks the bargain ended when he went down to Tarpon Drive the other day and did my business for me. I gave him life. He gives me death. Nice and simple. Shake hands and walk away. That’s what he thinks. But I told you, old Sully’s got a long reach. . . .” He laughed harshly. The light from the overhead bulb in the cell glistened off his shaved skull. “And, you know, Cowart, I ain’t the most trustworthy man around.”

  Sullivan stood up, stretching his hands wide. “And this way, maybe I can take him right along with me on the road to hell. Number forty-two. Big joke on him. He’d make
a fine traveling companion, so to speak. Traveling right down to hell, all quickstep and double-time.”

  Sullivan stopped laughing abruptly. “You see, ain’t that a last little joke? He never thought I’d add this little wrinkle.”

  “Suppose I don’t believe you?”

  Sullivan cackled. “Someone just like me, Cowart. That’s right.” He looked over at the reporter. “Y’all want proof, huh? What you think old Bobby Earl’s been doing all this time, since you set him free?”

  “He’s been in school, studying. He gives some speeches to church groups . . .”

  “Cowart,” Sullivan burst in, “you know how silly that sounds? Don’t you think Bobby Earl didn’t learn nothing in his little experience in our great criminal justice system? You think that boy got no sense at all?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “That’s right. You don’t know. But you better find out. ’Cause I wager there’s been a lot of tears shed over what old Bobby Earl’s been up to. You just gotta go find out.”

  Cowart reeled beneath the assault of words. He struggled, wrestling with unnameable horrors. “I need proof,” he repeated lamely.

  Sullivan whistled and let his eyes roll up toward the roof of the cell. “You know, Cowart, you’re like one of those old, crazy medieval monks, sitting around all day working out proofs for the existence of God. Can’t you tell the truth when you hear it, boy?”

  Cowart shook his head.

  Sullivan smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

  He paused a moment, savoring, before continuing. “Well, you see, I ain’t dumb, so when we were working out this little arrangement, me and Bobby Earl, I found out a bit more than I used already. I had to have a little extra, just to guarantee that Bobby Earl’d do his part of the bargain. And also just so’s I could help you along the path to understanding.”

  “What?”

  “Well, let’s make it an adventure, Cowart. You listen carefully. It weren’t only that knife that got hid. Some other things got hid, too. . . .”

  He thought for a moment before grinning at the reporter. “Well, suppose those things are in a real nasty place, yes sir. But you can see them, Cowart. If you got eyes in your ass.” He burst out in a raucous laugh.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You just remember my words exactly when you go back to Pachoula. The route to understanding can be a pretty dirty one.” The harsh sound of the prisoner’s voice echoed around Matthew Cowart. He remained frozen, speechless.

  “How about it, Cowart? Have I managed to kill Bobby Earl, too?” He leaned forward. “And what about you, Cowart? Have I killed you?”

  Blair Sullivan leaned back sharply. “That’s it,” he said. “End of story. End of talk. Goodbye, Cowart. It’s dying time, and I’ll see you in hell.”

  The condemned man rose and slowly turned his back on the reporter, folding his arms and staring at the back of the cell, his shoulders shaking with an awful mingling of mirth and terror. Matthew Cowart remained rooted for a few moments, unable to will his limbs to move. He felt suddenly like an old man, as if the weight of what he’d heard was pressing down on his shoulders. His mind was throbbing. His throat was dry. He saw his hand shake slightly as he reached out to pick up his notepad and tape recorder. When he rose, he was unsteady. He took one step, then another, finally stumbling away from the lone man gazing at the wall. At the end of the corridor, he stopped and tried to catch his breath. He felt fevered, nauseous, and fought to contain himself, lifting his head when he heard footsteps. He saw a grim-faced Sergeant Rogers and a squad of strong men at the end of the corridor. They were forming into a tight group. There was a white-collared priest with a line of sweat on his forehead and several prison officials nervously glancing at wristwatches. He looked up and noticed a large electric clock high on the wall. He watched the sweep hand circle inexorably. It read ten minutes before midnight.

  11

  PANIC

  He felt himself falling. Tumbling down, head over heels, out of control, into a black hole.

  “Mr. Cowart?”

  He breathed in hard.

  “Mr. Cowart, you okay, boy?”

  He crashed and felt his body shatter into pieces.

  “Hey, Mr. Cowart, you all there?”

  Cowart opened his eyes and saw the sturdy, pale visage of Sergeant Rogers.

  “You got to take your place now, Mr. Cowart. We ain’t waiting on anybody, and all the official witnesses got to be seated before midnight.”

  The sergeant paused, running his big hand through the short brush of his crew cut, a gesture of exhaustion and tension. “It ain’t like some movie show you can come in late on. You okay now?”

  Cowart nodded his head.

  “It’s a tough night for everyone,” the sergeant said. “You go on in. Right through that door. You’ll see a seat in front, right next to a detective from Escambia County. That’s where Sully said to put you. He was real specific about that. Can you move? You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’ll make it,” Cowart croaked.

  “It ain’t as bad as you think,” the hulking prison guard said. Then he shook his head. “Nah, that’s not true. It’s as bad as can be. If it don’t sorta turn your stomach, then you ain’t a person. But you’ll get through it okay. Right?”

  Cowart swallowed. “I’m okay.”

  The prison guard eyed him carefully. “Sully musta bent your ear something fierce. What’d he tell you all those hours? You look like a man who’s seen a ghost.”

  I have, thought Cowart. But he replied, “About death.”

  The sergeant snorted. “He’s the one who knows. Gonna see for himself, firsthand, now. You got to move right ahead, Mr. Cowart. Dying time don’t wait for no man.”

  Cowart knew what he was talking about and shook his head.

  “Oh yes, it does,” he said. “It bides its time.”

  Sergeant Rogers looked at the reporter closely. “Well, you ain’t the one about to take the final walk. You sure you’re okay? I don’t want nobody passing out in there or making a scene. We got to have our decorum when we juice someone.”

  The prison guard tried to smile with his irony.

  Cowart took a single, unsteady step toward the execution chamber, then turned and said, “I’ll be okay.”

  He wanted to burst into laughter at the depth of the lie he’d just spoken. Okay, he said to himself. I’ll be okay. It was as if some foreign voice were speaking inside of him. Sure, no problem. No big deal.

  All I’ve done is set a killer free.

  He had a sudden, awful vision of Robert Earl Ferguson standing outside the small house in the Keys, laughing at him, before entering to fulfill his part of the bargain. The sound of the murderer’s voice echoed in his head. Then he remembered the eight-by-ten glossy photographs taken of Joanie Shriver at the swamp where her body had been discovered. He remembered how slick they had felt in his sweaty grasp, as if coated with blood.

  I’m dead, he thought again.

  But he forced his feet to drag forward. He went through the door at two minutes to twelve.

  The first eyes he saw belonged to Bruce Wilcox. The bantam detective was seated in the front row wearing a brightly checked sportcoat that seemed a sick, hilarious contradiction to the dirty business at hand. He smiled grudgingly and nodded his head toward an empty seat beside him. Cowart spun his eyes about rapidly, glancing over the other two dozen or so witnesses sitting on folding chairs in two rows, gazing straight ahead as if trying to fix every detail of the event in their memories. They all seemed waxen, like figurines. No one moved.

  A glass partition separated them from the execution chamber, so that it seemed as if they were watching the action on a stage or some oddly three-dimensional television set. Four men were in the chamber: two corrections off
icers in uniform; a third man, the doctor, carrying a small black medical bag; another man in a suit—someone whispered “from the state attorney general’s office”—waiting beneath a large electric clock.

  He looked at the second hand as it scythed through time.

  “Siddown, Cowart,” the detective hissed. “The show’s about to start.”

  Cowart saw two other reporters from the Tampa Tribune and the St. Petersburg Times. They looked grim but mimicked the detective by motioning him toward his seat, before continuing to scribble details in small notepads. Behind them was a woman from a Miami television station. Her eyes were staring straight ahead at the still-empty chair in the execution chamber. He saw her wind a simple white handkerchief tightly around her fist.

  He half-stumbled into the seat waiting for him. The unyielding metal of the chair burned into his back.

  “Tough night, huh, Cowart?” the detective whispered.

  He didn’t answer.

  The detective grunted. “Not as tough as some have it, though.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” Cowart replied under his breath. “How did you get here?”

  “Tanny’s got friends. He wanted to see if old Sully would really go through with it. Still don’t believe that bullshit you wrote about him being the killer of little Joanie. Tanny said he didn’t much know what it would mean if Sullivan doesn’t back out. But he thought if he didn’t, and I got to see it, well, it might help teach me respect for the system of justice. Tanny is always trying to teach me things. Says it makes a man a better policeman to know what can happen in the end.”

  The detective’s eyes glistened with a hellish humor.

  “Has it?” Cowart asked.