Detective (7 page)

As it was, Doil remained abusive
and hostile. Even during jury
selection he blurted out such remarks
to his counsel as, "Get that fucking
grease monkey out of here!" speaking
of a garage mechanic whom Willard
Steltzer had been on the verge of
approving as a juror. Because a de-
fendant's wishes count, Steltzer was
forced to reverse himself, then use
a precious peremptory challenge for
dismissal.

Again, when a dignified black woman
showed some em

52 Arthur Halley

pathy toward Doil, he shouted, "That
dumb nigger couldn't see the truth
if it ran over her." The woman was
excused.

At that point the judge, who until
now had refrained from comment,
cautioned the accused, "Mr. Doil,
you had better settle down and be
quiet."

There was a pause while Willard
Steltzer, visibly disturbed and
clenching his client's arm, spoke
seriously into Doil's ear. After
that the interruptions ceased during
jury selection, but resumed when the
main trial proceedings began.

A Dade County medical examiner,
Dr. Sandra Sanchez, was on the
witness stand. She had testified
that a bowie knife, bearing the
victims' blood and found in Elroy
Doil's possession, was the actual
weapon that killed Kingsley and
Nellie Tempone.

At that point Doil, his face
twisted with rage, rose from the
defense table and shouted, "You
fucking bitch, why you tell them
lies? All lies! It ain't my knife. I
wasn't even there."

Judge Olivadotti, a martinet with
lawyers but known for giving a
defendant all the latitude he could,
now warned sternly, "Mr. Doil, if
you do not remain silent, I am going
to have to take extreme measures to
keep you quiet. This is a serious
warning."

To which Doil responded, "Screw
you, Judge. I'm tired of sitting
here, listening to all this
bullshit. This ain't no court of
justice. You already made up your
minds, so execute me, goddammit! Get
it over with!"

Flushed with anger, the judge
addressed Willard Steltzer:
"Counsel, I order you to talk some
sense into your client. This is my
final warning. Court is adjourned
for fifteen minutes."

After the adjournment, Doil was
fidgety but silent while

DETECTIVE 53

two crime-scene specialists
testified. Then, when Ainslie took
the stand and described the arrest at
the Tempone murder scene, Doil
exploded. Leaping from his seat, he
raced across the court and hurled
himself at Ainslie, screaming
obscenities. "Crooked conniving cop
. . . I wasn't even there . . .
fucking priest, disgraced. God hates
you! . . . Bastard, liar. . ."

As Doil pounded with his fists,
Ainslie barely protected himself,
raising one arm as a shield, and did
not strike back. In seconds, two
bailiffs and a prison officer threw
themselves on Doil. Pulling him
clear, they locked his arms behind
him, wrestled handcuffs into place,
then slammed him face forward to the
ground.

Once more, Judge Olivadotti adjourned
the trial.

When it resumed, Elroy Doil was
tightly gagged, and handcuffed to a
heavy chair. The judge addressed him
sternly.

"Never before, Mr. Doil, at any
court proceeding, have I ordered a
defendant restrained as you are now,
and I regret this action greatly. But
your disorderly behavior and abusive
language leave me no choice. However,
if your counsel comes to me tomorrow,
before this trial resumes, with your
solemn promise of good behavior for
however long these proceedings take,
I will consider having the restraints
removed. But I caution that if your
promise is broken, there will be no
second chance; the restraints will be
reinstated for the remainder of this
trial."

The next day, Steltzer did make the
promise on behalf of his client, and
Doil's gag was removed, though the
handcuffs remained. Before the day's
proceedings were an hour old, Doil
leaped up in his chair and screamed
at the judge, "Go fuck your mother,
you asshole!" after which the gag was
reinstated and remained in place for
the duration of the trial.

54 Arthur Halley

On both occasions when the
restraints were ordered, the judge
cautioned the jury, "The
restrictions I have placed upon the
defendant must have no effect on
your verdict. You are concerned here
solely with the evidence presented."

Ainslie remembered thinking how
impossible it was for the jurors to
ignore the image of Doil's courtroom
histrionics. But whether that
influenced a decision or not, at the
conclusion of a six-day trial, and
after five hours of deliberation,
the jury returned with a unanimous
verdict: "Guilty of murder in the
first degree."

A sentence of death inevitably
followed. Subsequently, while still
insisting on his innocence, Doil
refused to cooperate in any appeal
process and stubbornly denied others
the right to appeal on his behalf.
Even so, substantial paperwork was
needed before the legal machinery
ground out an execution date. The
law's tedious process between sen-
tencing and execution took a year
and seven months.

But now, inexorably, the day had
come, and with it the tantalizing
question: What did Doll want to say
to Ainslie in the closing moments of
his life?

If they made it in time. . .

Jorge was still speeding north on
Highway 441 in the mist and rain.

Ainslie checked the time: 5:48.

He reached for his notepad and the
cellular phone, then tapped out the
number. There was a curt answer on
the first ring.

"State Prison."

"Lieutenant Hambrick, please."

"This is Hambrick. Is this Sergeant
Ainslie?"

"Yes, sir. I'm about twenty minutes
away."

DETECTIVE 55

"Well, you've cut it fine, but
we'll do our best when you get here.
You understand, though nothing can
be delayed?"

"I understand that."

"Do you have your escort yet?"

"No . . . Wait! I see a traffic
light ahead."

Jorge nodded vigorously as two
green lights came into view.

"Turn right at the light," Hambrick
instructed. "Your escort is around
the corner. We're alerting Trooper
Sequiera now. He'll be rolling when
you get there."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Okay, listen carefully. Follow
Sequiera closely. You're already
cleared through our outer gate, the
main gate, and two checkpoints after
that. The tower will spotlight you,
but keep moving. Stop at the front
entrance to Administration. I'll be
waiting. Got all that?"

"Got it.''

"I presume you're armed, Sergeant."

"Yes, I am."

"We'll immediately enter the
control room, where you'll hand over
all weapons, ammunition, and police
ID. Be ready. Who's driving you?"

"Detective Jorge Rodriguez.
Plainclothes."

"We'll give him separate
instructions when you get here.
Listen, Sergeant. You've got to move
fast, okay?"

"I'll be ready, Lieutenant. Thank
you."

Ainslie turned to Jorge and asked,
"Could you hear all that?"

''Got it all, Sergeant."

The traffic light ahead turned red,
but Jorge ignored it. Barely
slowing, he entered the four-way
intersection and swung right.
Directly ahead, a Highway Patrol
black-andyellow Mercury Marquis,
bristling with roof antennae and

56 Arthur Halley

flashing emergency lights, was
already moving. The Miami
blue-and-white fell in behind, and
within seconds the two were a single
eye-catching coruscation hurtling
headlong through the night.

Later, when Ainslie attempted to
recall that final portion of the
four-hundred-mile journey, he found
that all he could remember was a
vague flashing montage. As best he
could calculate later, they covered
the last twenty-two miles of minor,
twisting roads in less than fourteen
minutes. Once, he noticed, their
speed reached ninety-two miles per
hour.

Some checkpoints were known to
Ainslie from previous journeys.
First the small town of Waldo, then
Gainesville Airport to the right;
they must have passed both so fast
that neither registered. Then
Starke, the dismal dormitory town of
Raiford; he knew there were modest
houses, prosaic stores, cheap
motels, cluttered gas stations, but
he saw none of them. Beyond Starke
was an interval of gloom . . . an
impression of trees . . . all lost
in a miasma of haste.

"We're here," Jorge said. "There's
Raiford, up ahead."

5

Florida State Prison looked like a
mammoth fortress, and it was. So
were two other prisons immediately
beyond.

Paradoxically, the State Prison
was of ficially in the town of
Starke, not Raiford. The other two,
which were in Raiford, were Raiford
Prison and the Union Correctional
Institute. But it was Florida State
Prison that contained Death Row, and
it was here that all executions took
place.

Looming ahead of Ainslie and Jorge
was an immense succession of high,
grimly austere concrete structures,
a mile-long complex punctuated by
row after row of narrow and stoutly
barred cellblock windows. A
functional onestory building,
jutting forward, housed the State
Prison Administration. Another
concrete mass to one side, three
stories high and windowless,
contained the prison workshops.

Three heavy-duty chain-link fences
enclosed it all, each fence thirty
feet high and topped with rolls of
concertina barbed wire and a series
of live electrical wires. At inter-
vals along the fences, tall concrete
towers, nine in all, were manned by
guards armed with rifles, machine
guns, tear gas, and searchlights.
From there they could view the en-
tire prison. The three fences
created parallel twin enclo

58 Arthur Halley

surest Within the enclosures,
trained attack dogs roamed, among
them German shepherds and pit bulls.

Approaching the State Prison, both
the Highway Patrol and Miami Police
cars slowed, and Jorge, who was
seeing the complex for the first
time, whistled softly.

"It's hard to believe," Ainslie
said, "but a few guys have actually
escaped from here. Most of them
didn't get very far, though." He
glanced at the dashboard clock 6:02
A.M. and was reminded that Elroy Doil
would be escaping in less than an
hour, in the grimmest way of all.

Jorge shook his head. "If this
were my home, I'd sure as hell try
to escape."

The State Prison's outer gate and
a large parking lot beyond were
bathed in lights. The parking area
was bustling unusual for this time
of day, but public interest in the
Doil execution had lured many
reporters to the scene, and at least
a hundred others now milled around,
hoping for a hint of the latest
developments. Several TV mobile
trucks were parked nearby.

As usual, demonstrators stood in
small groups, chanting slogans. Some
bore signs denouncing today's
execution and capital punishment in
general; others held lighted can-
dles.

A new breed of protesters held
placards reading YOUR TAXES ARE PAYING FOR THIS
SUICIDE and STOP STATESPONSORED SUICIDE. These
were mainly young lawyers or their
supporters who objected to condemned
murderers like Elroy Doil being
allowed to decide against the
prolonged process of appeal.

After every death sentence, one
appeal went automatically to the
Florida Supreme Court, but if that
was rejected, as most were, further
appeals could take ten years or more
of legal effort. Now, instead, some
prisoners accepted the death penalty
for their crimes and let it happen.
The state

DETECTIVE 59

governor had wisely ruled that if a
condemned prisoner made that
decision, it was part of his or her
freedom of choice and not "suicide."
As to the objecting lawyers, the
governor commented acidly, "They are
less concerned about condemned
prisoners having another day in
court than about having their own
day in court."

Ainslie wondered how much thought,
if any, the demonstrators gave to
the silent: a murderer's victims.

Driving past the parking lot,
Ainslie and Jorge neared the main
gate, a two-lane entranceway with
uniformed figures standing guard.
Normally at this point all arrivals
were asked for identification
documents and questioned about their
business at the prison. Instead,
uniformed guards in distinctive
kelly green pants and white shirts
waved both police cars through. At
the same time a tower searchlight
encompassed the two cars and tracked
them toward the prison buildings.
Ainslie and Jorge put up hands to
shield their eyes.

They were similarly cleared through
two other checkpoints and, within
seconds, were approaching the Admin-
istration building. Ainslie had
visited the prison several times
before, usually to interview crime
suspects, and once to arrest an
inmate on new charges, but never had
he reached the interior so quickly.

The Highway Patrol car stopped at
the Administration entrance, and
Jorge maneuvered the Miami
blue-and-white alongside.

As Ainslie stepped out, he saw a
tall, slender black man, wearing a
prison guard's uniform with a
lieutenant's rank badges, move
forward. Probably in his
mid-forties, he had a trim mustache
and wore half-glasses over
penetrating eyes. On one cheek was a
long scar. His speech was brisk and
confident as he put out his hand.
"Sergeant Ainslie, I'm Hambrick."

60 Arthur Halley

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Thanks
for the arrangements."

"No problem; let's just keep
moving." The lieutenant led the way
inside, walking quickly down a
brightly lit hallway a tightly
controlled linkage between the
strict security outside and the
formidable cellblocks ahead. The two
paused briefly for clearance through
two separate sets of electrically
operated steel gates, then a thick
steel door opening to a main
cellblock corridor, as wide as a
fourlane highway and running the
length of the prison's seven
cellblocks.