Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (26 page)

He looked again at Patsy, her teeth clenched and face burning with fury, seated in the front row. “I'm sorry what happened to your husband, ma'am. I truly is. But he drew his pistol first. And I drawed mine in self-defense. That's the God's honest truth.”

He looked to the back of the room. “Miz Andi, please take care of my momma. I'm her only son. She ain't got nobody else.” He took a deep breath. “My last words is—is that the system be rigged.” Wendell looked to the guards. “Why don't you just lynch me and get it over with?”

The warden cut him off. “Any reason why this execution should not proceed?”

Maggie had many reasons. She had killed a man herself, in Berlin. And although it might have been necessary to her survival, and the success of her mission, she knew that he had been just a boy. She thought of him every day, just as she knew Wendell thought of Billy Bob Chandler. They had that in common.

She looked back up at the ceiling as the lights flickered again. They were slipping a black silk hood over Wendell's head.
No, I will not stand by while another young man is killed.
Quickly, she rose and walked to the back of the room. “Just say, ‘It's God's will'—got it?” Maggie whispered to Tom.

Tom started and looked up. “What?”

“Just say, ‘It's God's will.' And then get the lawyer to pull out every damn trick in the book.”

Maggie ran from the room.

“Where're you going, miss?” a guard called as she ran into the hallway.

“Oh—” She stopped and looked up at him with big eyes. “It's just too much for me—I need to throw up. Please, where's the ladies' room?”

“Down the hall and to the left.”

“Thanks.” Maggie ran. She bypassed the ladies' WC and ran to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

“Wendell Cotton, electricity will pass through you until you are dead, in accordance with Virginia state law.” The warden swallowed. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

The room quieted, the only sounds those of Wendell's ragged breathing and the raindrops pelting the roof above. There was a flash of lightning and then an echoing crash of thunder. A few in the seats whispered, “Amen.”

“God be angry,” Mother Cotton called in a raw voice, louder this time.

Wendell continued to struggle for breath, his chest straining against the leather straps.

Maggie half ran, half fell down the stairs until she reached the prison basement. Her heart was in her throat, ears ringing from fear.

The walls here were brick, the ceilings low, and there were a few yellowing signs with
DANGER
printed in large red letters illuminated by only a few bare bulbs overhead. She dashed past low-hanging, rusty pipes and hulking machines, her heels striking against the concrete floor. It was damp in the basement, and smelled of mold. A low hum emanated from the machinery.

The concrete floor was covered in puddles from the leaking windows.
Great,
Maggie thought grimly.
Electricity and water, a perfect combination.

In shadows, the huge Westinghouse generator hummed and buzzed as it increased power. The lamps on its control panel lit up, and the needle on the dial rose and fell until it reached 2,000 volts.
Oh, God, they're going to kill him.

There was a loud bang behind her. “Hey, what're you doin' down here?” The voice belonged to a bald, stocky man in denim coveralls, gripping a wrench.

Maggie spun toward him. “I was looking for the ladies' room, sir. You mean it's not down here?” Before he had a chance to respond, her elbow slammed into his forehead. He fell to the floor, unmoving.

Maggie shook out her stinging arm. “I guess not.”

The warden gave the signal for the guard to pull the switch that would allow the electric current to flow to the chair. The guard raised the switch into position.

Electricity coursed through Wendell's body. He convulsed against the straps. Above, the lights flickered from the power surge and again dimmed.

The women covered their mouths and noses. There was a foul odor. Mother Cotton sobbed as Andi held her. The rain beat on the roof, and there was another growl of thunder. “God is angry!” Mother Cotton cried.

The warden stepped over to Wendell and took his pulse. He whispered something to the guards.

The crowd heard, and a whisper rippled through.
“He's not dead….Not dead…Not dead…”
The soul of Wendell Cotton seemed to hover over them in the room, unable to stay, unable to leave.

The warden swallowed and hitched up his pants. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped at his sweating face. He gave the order to turn the current back on, but the guard at the switch shook his head. The generator needed time to replenish its power.

Down in the basement, the lock on the generator was another problem. Maggie went at it with a hairpin, but it wasn't about to give. Her hands were trembling with fear.
Stupid hands.
Then she saw there was an iron key with a fraying red grosgrain ribbon on a hook by the door.
If you hear hoofbeats, it's probably horses, not zebras.
She dropped the hairpin and ran to get the key.

Above her head and to her left, a rusted pipe burst, spraying a fine mist. One of the lightbulbs sparked and then died.

She brought back the key and inserted it in the lock.

It wouldn't turn.

Upstairs, Wendell groaned. The warden nodded to the guard at the switch. “On one,” he said.

The guard flipped the switch, but nothing happened.

There was silence from the onlookers, then a gasp. There was the hum of electricity, and then the lights seemed to burn brighter. One of them flared, and the filament burned, raining orange sparks onto the heads of the onlookers. A woman screamed.

The warden looked to the guard. “What the hell's going on here?”

Prentiss had made his way from the Ku Klux Klan gathering, tossing his wet robe and hood in the mud, then bribing a guard to let him into the prison. He'd waited, standing in the back of the execution chamber, face hidden behind an open newspaper. He watched as Maggie and the reporter, Cotton's mother, and the Martin woman took their seats.

He was looking forward to seeing Cotton burn. The colored man's death meant Prentiss was one step closer to redemption. One step closer to being at the right hand of President King, when he was elected. One step closer to someday being President himself.

But when Maggie left her seat and whispered in Tom's ear, he knew she was up to something. He followed, a few paces behind, down the corridor, then the stairs, and watched as she took out the guard and found the key.

“Miss Hope,” he said, just as she was about to turn the key to the cage protecting the generator's switch.

Maggie turned. “Who—who are you?”

He took long steps toward her, closing the distance. “Byrd Prentiss, ma'am. We haven't met formally. Although I must say you have a decent right hook.” He pressed his fingertips to his jaw.

“You?” she said. “It was
you
outside the jazz club?”

“Who did you think?”

Someone on President Roosevelt's staff.

He performed a courtly bow, ignoring the water spraying from the broken pipe. “Governor King's right-hand man. Why hasn't your friend Tom O'Brian done anything with the letter I gave him?”

“Tom's investigating.
We're
investigating. And we're using our judgment on what's an important story—or not. We think solving Blanche's murder is far more important than hearsay about the First Lady.” As the pieces fell into place just like a mathematical problem, Maggie blinked. “Oh, God.
You
killed her!”

“She committed suicide…”

“No, she didn't.” Maggie's eyes narrowed. “She was drowned, and then her wrists were slit—to make it
look
like a suicide.”

Prentiss gasped. “Surely you don't think…”

“Right now I'm thinking that your murdering a young girl and then setting it up to look like a suicide is the
real
story.”

“You have no proof.”

Water pooled on the concrete floor, reflecting the glowing dials of the generator. In the dim light, Maggie's lips curled into a half smile. “Blanche called you, probably to tell you she couldn't go through with it. You went to her apartment and killed her, making it look like a suicide. And then you called the Governor of Virginia moments after you murdered her.”

A vein bulged in Prentiss's temple. “No!”

“You called the Governor's Mansion here in Virginia.”

He took a step toward her, pushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “You can't know that….There's no way…”

“Except I do. And I have evidence. Tapping telephones is legal now, and there was a tap on Blanche's. I saw the records myself.”

“
Eleanor Roosevelt
is the story!” he insisted. “Eleanor Roosevelt is a
lesbian
. Eleanor Roosevelt has brought
shame
to the White House. She's brought shame to the United States of America!”

As the crowd murmured, Andi stood. She locked eyes with Tom, who gave her a slow nod. Then she made her way out the door and down the corridor.

The warden and the guard at the switch exchanged glances. The guard nodded.
“One,”
the warden repeated.

Still, nothing. Only the pelt of rain and a low roar of thunder.

The warden looked out over the horrified crowd and then tugged at his collar. “We're having some problems with the electricity, folks, but that's all. I'm sure we'll have it fixed in no time.”

Overhead, the rest of the lightbulbs blew out with a series of loud pops and a shower of sparks. Then the assembled group sat, silent, in the darkness.

Andi found Maggie and Prentiss in the prison basement.

“You killed her!” she heard Maggie say over the hum of the machinery and the gurgle of the rushing water.

“
That's
not the story!”

“You did, didn't you? You son of a bitch!” Sparks from the overhead lights fell into the standing water, spluttering as they flamed out. Maggie saw Andi from the corner of her eye and turned.

“What's going on?” Andi said. “What are you doing down here?”

“Trying to save Wendell,” Maggie said. “Oh, and by the way, it was Prentiss here who killed Blanche.”

“No, I didn't,” Prentiss insisted. “You're crazy. You're trying to make it look as if I murdered my own fiancée—”

“You
did
!”

Prentiss laughed, an ugly sound. “You don't have a shred of proof.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“You have proof that a murder occurred and that a phone call was made to the Governor's mansion. That's nothing. Nothing!”

“The note—Blanche's suicide note. How would
you
know she left a note if you weren't in the apartment that night? You told Tom there
wasn't
a note at the scene!”

A muscle under Prentiss's eye began to twitch. “Fucking bitch—” he muttered.

“
This
is the story, the real story,” Maggie said. “You sent Blanche to the White House to seduce the First Lady. Then, when Mrs. Roosevelt didn't take the bait, you two decided you were going to lie about it, to frame the First Lady for so-called indecent behavior anyway. But Blanche got cold feet—didn't want to go through with it. So you killed her—made it look like a suicide and left the note that you knew would spread the scandal you and Blanche had planned for.

“But someone from the White House, someone who had tapped Blanche's phone, knew something was wrong when she didn't show up for work that day.” Maggie was piecing it together even as she spoke. “They saw her body. And took the note.”

“No—”

“So then you had to forge
another
note—”

“No!” Prentiss snarled, his voice distorted by hate and desperation.

“You knew there was a note framing Eleanor Roosevelt,” Maggie insisted. “You couldn't know that if you hadn't been there. The phone call to the Governor's office was made immediately after Blanche died. You were letting Governor King know it was done.”

“King didn't know any of the details!” Prentiss cried out. “He didn't know!”

“But I know. I know you killed her, and now Andi knows you killed her. And someone at the White House who suspected you before I even arrived in Washington knows you killed her—‘White House Secretary Murdered by Virginia Governor's Aide'—
that's
the headline. What do you think, Andi?”

Prentiss lunged. But Maggie twisted away from his grasp, ducking past the spray of water from the broken pipe to reach the back of the generator. Andi grasped a handful of wires.

“Don't!” Maggie cried to Andi. “You'll electrocute yourself!”

As Andi tore the wires from the machine, neon blue sparks flew up into the air.

The execution chamber went black. Tom blinked in shock.
Just tell everyone it's God's will,
Maggie had said. But what was she doing? What was happening?

And suddenly, up in the execution chamber, he knew. “It's God's will!” he cried into the darkness. “It's God's will that this execution be called off,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “Mother Cotton's right—God is angry. He's
angry
! And He wants us to stop!”

“Lower your voice,” the warden rasped. The smell of fear was palpable in the room, along with the stench of smoke. There was a ripple of nervous whispering from the crowd. A guard cursed.

Tom whispered in the ear of Wendell Cotton's lawyer and the man nodded. “This is an Eighth Amendment violation!” the lawyer called to the warden, rising to his feet. “This is
torture
! It's cruel and inhumane!” Around him, the crowd's whispers turned increasingly urgent and bewildered.