36: A Novel (3 page)

The two men continued watching as the boat sailed out of the visual frame of the security camera.  Workers adjusted the traffic cones and cars began to queue up, preparing for the arrival of the next ferry.  When the stopwatch reached 2:54:38, the camera violently shook, then the image blurred when the lens shattered from the pressure wave of an explosion.

“Almost six seconds early,” he said, turning to look at Agent Johnson.

“She affected it.”

“Yes, it appears so.  But, she didn’t stop it.  And the window has closed.”

“Don’t forget she just died,” Johnson said, anger creeping into his voice.

“So did over 2,000 other people,” Patterson said, turning fully to face the FBI agent.  “And frankly, I’m a little concerned that you may have grown too close to the asset.  Should I be worried?”

The two men stood staring at each other for a long pause.  Patterson noted a light sheen of sweat forming on Johnson’s forehead.  It gleamed brightly against his ebony skin under the fluorescent lights.

 “She was a person, not an asset.  If you’d ever had a conversation with her, you’d know that,” Johnson said. 

“It’s not my job to have conversations with assets,” Patterson said sternly.  “It’s my job to make sure this project does
its
job.  Perhaps you are having too many conversations with them.”

“You know better than that,” Johnson said. 

“Very well.  Just make sure you keep your relationship with the next asset strictly professional.  What is his status, by the way?”

Johnson took a deep breath, calming himself before answering.

“My team is in place to interdict.  They should have him in hand within twenty-four hours and will bring him directly here.” 

“I’m not happy about this one,” Patterson said.

“We don’t have much choice.  He’s all that’s available,” Johnson replied, earning a curt nod of agreement.

“Get started on him the moment he arrives.  We’re out of assets until he’s operational.  The way things are going in the world, I’m afraid it won’t be long before we need him.”

Agent Johnson nodded, turned and left the room.

3

It was hot.  Not the kind of heat you find in Georgia or Alabama in the summertime, where the air is so thick with humidity you feel like you could cut it with a knife.  This was desert heat.  Everything was baking under a relentless sun which was almost directly overhead in a perfectly cloudless sky.

Randy Palmer removed his sunglasses long enough to mop the sweat off his face, keeping his eyes averted from the harsh glare.  With them back in place, he turned a slow circle to survey the area, not surprised when he didn’t see anyone moving.  When it was this hot, people didn’t venture outdoors if they didn’t have to.

“Car coming,” Jim Olsen, the man on duty with Randy, commented.

Randy turned and looked in the direction Jim was facing.  From the glass walled guard tower he had an unobstructed view of a four-year-old Buick slowly approaching on a narrow strip of asphalt that was bordered on each side by twenty-foot high, security fencing.

The access road ended at the first of two gates that controlled entry into the state’s maximum security prison in Florence, Arizona.  At the other end was state highway 79.  The highway had broad, gravel shoulders where it passed the penitentiary. 

On the near side, a dozen news vans were haphazardly parked.  All of them had their antenna masts high in the air as reporters smiled for the cameras in between dashing into the air conditioned interior of the vehicles.

On the far side, close to twenty cars were parked nose to tail, sunlight glinting off their windshields.  The people who had arrived in them stood on the blistering ground, waving signs at passing motorists and shouting slogans.  They were protesting the impending execution of a death row inmate.  Five state police cruisers sat idling, keeping watch, the troopers inside not leaving the air conditioning unless they had to.    

 Randy glanced down to make sure the guards at ground level had spotted the approaching vehicle.  They had, one of them already standing in the sun to meet the driver.

“It’s his attorney,” Jim said, leaning close to the glass for a better view.  “Looks like he’s got some others with him, too.”

“Probably family,” Randy said, returning his attention to scanning the area for anything out of place.

“Family?  What do you mean?”

Jim was new, hired only a few months ago.  The State of Arizona hadn’t put an inmate to death since he had begun working at the prison.

“The inmate’s family,” Randy sighed.  He knew this had been covered during Jim’s initial orientation.  “They have the right to witness the execution.  Not sure why they’d want to, but some show up.”

“Right,” Jim said.  “Now I remember.  That’s some fucked up shit.  Why would you want to see someone die?”

Randy shrugged his shoulders and made another scan of the barren prison yard.  All of the inmates were on lockdown, which was normal in the hours leading up to an execution.  There shouldn’t be anyone moving that wasn’t wearing a guard uniform.  He didn’t see a soul, just dun grey buildings and glittering, silver fences.

Below, the guard had finished checking the IDs of the people in the Buick.  He motioned to his partner and the outer gate trundled open.  The attorney pulled through, stopping with his front bumper several feet from the next portal.  As the outer gate rolled shut, another guard with a dog on a short leash appeared. 

The man walked the dog around the perimeter of the vehicle.  Randy didn’t know if this was the team that sniffed for firearms and explosives, or the drug K9.  They were randomly rotated so visitors never knew what to expect.

The dog finished without alerting, the guard walking him away as a second man appeared with a pole mounted mirror.  He stuck it under the Buick and quickly checked for contraband, then briefly spoke to the driver.  The hood and trunk both popped open a moment later and he thoroughly inspected each area of the car.

Search complete, he slammed the lids closed and nodded to an unseen guard who controlled the inner gate.  With a loud buzz, it began opening.  The attorney waited until its motion had stopped before slowly driving through to a parking spot near the visitor’s entrance.

The attorney stepped out, opening the rear door on his side of the Buick.  An attractive Hispanic woman in her mid 30s got out and followed him to the passenger side where together they assisted an elderly couple out of the car.  Once everyone was standing, and the ladies had adjusted their clothing and hair, they moved slowly across the pavement to a heavy steel door.

Inside, they were met by the Assistant Warden who expedited another check of their IDs and the issuance of visitor badges.  He didn’t speak to the family, and only to the attorney when necessary.  Accompanied by two guards, the group moved through three security checkpoints, finally arriving at the viewing room.

The Assistant Warden escorted them inside.  The room was small and terraced downwards, like a movie theatre.  Every seat had an unobstructed view of the large window at the front that was currently covered by a heavy curtain.  When it was open, the execution chamber would be revealed.

The viewing room was full to capacity, but four seats in the front row had been reserved for the new arrivals.  As the group slowly made their way down an aisle, all eyes watched them in silence.  Family members of the victims occupied over two thirds of the available chairs, and had been warned ahead of time that any disturbance would result in their removal and arrest.

Several women were softly crying, the only other sounds coming from the pens of a handful of reporters as they documented the event in their notebooks.  No recording devices were allowed in the viewing room.  The small contingent of press scribbled furiously as they attempted to describe the feel in the room as the inmate’s family entered and took their seats.

After several minutes, a muted tone sounded.  There was a hum of electric motors and the swish of fabric as the curtain opened.  The lights were low in the viewing room, but the stark execution chamber on the other side of the window was brightly lit.

Robert Tracy, convicted murderer, lay strapped to a gurney.  His eyes were closed and he was barely conscious, the result of a sedative he had requested.  A display that monitored his vital signs was connected, his heart rate and blood pressure clearly visible.  IVs were already in place in each arm, the tubing snaking up to bags of saline.  Each was also connected to a large red tube that disappeared in the wall, out of sight of the witnesses.  The red line would introduce the lethal combination of drugs that would end Tracy’s life.

Two guards and a doctor stood behind the gurney, the Warden to the side, near the glass.  A member of the clergy was noticeably absent, having been refused by the inmate.  After nearly a minute of silence, the Warden reached out and pushed a button that activated a speaker in the viewing room.  The speaker was connected to a microphone in the execution chamber and would allow the witnesses to hear what was being said.

“Robert Hammond Tracy,” he intoned.  “Having been found guilty of the crime of capital murder, you have been sentenced to death by lethal injection.”

The younger woman who had accompanied the attorney sobbed loudly as the words were spoken.  The elderly woman slowly put her arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.  Unable to hear what was transpiring, the Warden continued.

“Before your sentence is carried out, you may say a few brief words.”

The crying woman caught her breath and looked up.  Everyone’s attention was riveted onto the restrained prisoner.  There was a long pause before Tracy opened his eyes and lifted his head off the gurney.  The window was clear glass, but due to the difference in lighting between the two rooms all he could see was his own reflection.

“I’m innocent,” he said in a drug slurred voice.

He lay his head back and closed his eyes.  The woman began sobbing again.  After a brief pause, the Warden spoke.

“Robert Hammond Tracy, by order of the Supreme Court of Arizona, your sentence shall now be carried out.”

The Warden turned off the intercom and nodded to someone that could not be seen from the viewing room.  At first it seemed as if nothing was happening.  Then, the heart rate displayed on the monitor began to drop.  Slowly at first, just a few beats per minute, then it quickly declined.  Robert Hammond Tracy never moved, never indicated he felt anything amiss.  Ten minutes later the attending physician pronounced him dead.

4

Six Weeks Later

I woke up with a splitting headache.  The kind that feels like a splinter of molten steel is being driven into your temple.  What the hell was going on?  Was I in the infirmary?  Then it came flooding back.

The final meal.  The uncomfortable visit by the Catholic Priest who I had sent on his way.  Then the small pill that had made me relax before being wheeled to the execution chamber.  The pinch on first one arm, then the other, as IVs were started.  The warden saying something, to which I think I responded, then darkness.  I was dead!

With a sharp intake of breath, I tried to sit up.  Something was restricting my movement.  I couldn’t see, either.  Was this death?  But if I was dead, why could I feel my body and the restraints that were holding me down?  Why was I thirsty?  Why did my face itch?  And what the hell was that beeping sound?  Was I just not dead yet?  Was I still on the table in the execution chamber?  Oh fuck me!  Please just let it be over with.

There was a sucking sound, like a door with a tight seal being opened, then a set of footsteps approached.  I jumped when someone lightly touched my shoulder.

“What’s happening?  Where am I?”  I croaked, feeling my upper lip split open as it moved.

“You’re safe,” a female voice said.  “Just lay still.  I’m going to put some balm on your lips.  They’re very dry.”

The sound of a metal lid being twisted off a glass jar.  A moment later she lightly rubbed something that felt oily onto my lips.  The burning from where the upper one had cracked immediately eased.

“Who are you?  What’s happening?”

“You’re being taken care of,” she said.  “Don’t try to talk.  Just rest.  The Doctor will be in to see you in a moment.”

I heard the lid twist back onto the jar, then her footsteps began to retreat.

“Wait,” I wailed.  “What the hell is going on?  Where am I?  What happened to me?”

She didn’t respond, and by the sound I could tell her steps didn’t falter.  The door closed with a pneumatic hiss and I was left alone with my thoughts and the goddamn infernal beeping.  I didn’t know what it was, but it was driving me nuts.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again.  This time, two people entered.  Both were wearing harder soled shoes than what I assumed had been a nurse.  And by the sound, I was guessing both were male.  I didn’t know how I could tell this by ear, but I was pretty sure.

“Who are you?  Where am I?  What the fuck is going on?”

I was shouting in a hoarse voice.  Fear was leading to panic and I yanked against the soft restraints that kept my arms at my side. 

“You’re fine,” a gentle male voice said.  “My name is Doctor Freeman.  You’re in the hospital.  You’re alive and well.  I’m going to touch your face now.  Don’t be frightened.”

Despite the warning, I sucked in a breath and flinched when his fingers came into contact with my head.  I didn’t
feel
the touch, rather only the pressure.  There was the sound of tape being pulled free.  Then something that I hadn’t realized was wrapped around me began being unwound. 

It seemed like it took him forever to finish removing what I now thought was a bandage.  Cool air caressed my skin as the last turn came off, but I still couldn’t see.

“Get the lights,” he said.

The other person walked away a few steps, then I heard a faint hum from overhead.  I recognized the sound light bulbs make when they are dimmed.

“There is a shield over each of your eyes,” the Doctor said.  “I’m going to slowly remove one at a time.  Close your eyes until I tell you to open them.  OK?”