Not in the Heart (18 page)

She laughed. Short and abbreviated, but there it was.

“Things are going to get better,” she said. “I really believe that. I don't know why and I don't know how, but I believe it.”

She put a hand on my leg and something electric shot through my body. Maybe it was the smell of the shampoo in her hair. Maybe it was the combination of all my senses. Our eyes met for a moment, and then I turned away as the door swung open.

“Mom, why are you here?” Abby said. “Has something happened?”

Ellen stood like an embarrassed schoolgirl and embraced Abby. She explained that she was headed back to the hospital. I stood and moved past them.

“I hope I didn't interrupt anything,” Abby said sheepishly. “I heard voices.”

“You didn't interrupt anything,” I said, heading back to my room, back to my air mattress, back to my self-imposed cocoon, back to my thoughts and confusion.

Thirty minutes later the Sequoia's engine fired to life. I dreamed about us on the beach in some exotic locale, locked in an embrace, a gentle breeze through the palm trees, water lapping and enveloping our bodies, our mouths finding each other.

It was only a dream.

C
HAPTER
28

13 DAYS BEFORE EXECUTION

Terrelle Conley stared at me through the Plexiglas, holding the phone to his ear. Three pages of scribbled recollections sat before me. A meaningless, rambling concoction of words and memories filtered through the sweat and hysteria of death row.

“I got more stuff about the early days if that will help,” he said.

“This is good,” I lied. “Background gives a context for who you are. It helps the reader identify with you.”

“So you've been writing it?”

“Yeah. It's actually going well.” I pulled out my notes and asked some questions Oleta wasn't sure about. Details of a life slipping quickly away. We were down to counting the grains in the hourglass.

“How's your son?” he said.

“Not good. He's had a couple of setbacks.”

“Sorry to hear that. I've been praying for him.”

I nodded and looked Terrelle in the eyes. “I've been trying to figure out how to ask you this and I haven't come up with anything. I work with words like a bricklayer works with mortar and stone. But I don't know how to say what I'm about to say.”

He squinted at me and sat up straight. “Best way is just to say it.”

“Okay. The governor called my wife and me. Had us come to the mansion last night. He said he's up against some opposition with the organ donation.”

“Doesn't surprise me. Let me guess. He wants to help but his hands are tied. He wants to be president.”

Smart man. “Sort of. There's opposition and support on every side. But even though his presidential aspirations are big, he wants to help. He thinks he can get this pushed through.”

“Do you believe him?”

“He's an astute guy politically. If he says it can be done, it can.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“There's something he needs if he's going to take the risk. One thing he needs from you to make it happen.”

“From me? I'm giving my heart. What else does he want, my liver?”

I smiled. “He wants to make sure there won't be last-minute appeals, last-chance efforts to drag this out.”

“I can give him that. The attorney we hired gave up a long time ago. The professor at Florida State has appeals ready to file, but I'll give them up. We all know what's going to happen here; no sense fighting for a month or two, especially with your son's condition.”

I shifted in my chair and leaned toward the glass, wondering who else had used this phone in the past and who might use it after me. “Terrelle, he doesn't just want promises.”

And then a cloud of knowing came over his face as if the curtain had parted and he had looked behind, where the wizard worked the controls.

“He wants a confession,” I said.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, his eyes fell like the sun sinking into the ocean. He took the phone away from his ear and held it by his side. This was the part I wasn't sure about. Do I follow up with an explanation, try to make him understand the gravity of this request, or just sit in silence? I wanted to keep going, explain more, but something inside told me to wait.

He stared at me with the hollow eyes of the condemned, and I had seen those same eyes before, years ago on another death row watch, a stare that still haunted my dreams. This is one of the visions I was sure I would have in the future—this place, the sounds, sights, and smells of this room.

He lifted the phone and spoke in guttural tones, like this news had taken everything out of him. “I confess to this and nobody will believe what you're putting in that book.”

“I promise I'll tell it straight, just like you want it.”

“But signing a confession would be an out-and-out lie. And I can't do that. Plus, there's somebody out there walking around free who deserves to be in here. What happens to that guy?”

I nodded, searching for words that wouldn't come.

“What would my kids think of me? My mama? My wife?”

“They'll know. We'll explain it to the media, in the book, to anybody who will listen. The governor forced your hand. This was the only way to save my son.”

“Is that true? You think this is the only way?”

“He was forceful. My guess is there are other people behind the scenes telling him to stay away from this. It's too messy for them.”

Terrelle shook his head. “It's not enough that they take my life. They take my dignity, too.”

“From what I've seen, nobody can take that, Terrelle.”

He looked off into the distance, or maybe into the past, as if he couldn't have imagined this choice. “There isn't anybody going to listen to a guy who changes his story at the last minute. If I lie now, everything I believe in goes down the toilet. The only thing I have left is my self-respect. The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that someday people will know the truth. This cuts the legs out from under me.”

“Yeah. And while you keep your dignity, I go to a funeral.” I said it with my teeth jammed together. But I said it.

“To you it's just signing a piece of paper. You get your son back.”

I shook my head and looked away. “There's no guarantee the operation will work anyway. He may not last until your execution. Something could go wrong with the procedure.”

He smirked. “Procedure. Makes it sound like I'm having my tonsils out. It's funny how people use words to make things you can't imagine doing seem normal.”

I nodded. “The only thing I really know is that Aiden's not getting another chance. This is it.”

Terrelle sat back again and ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. He muttered something under his breath I didn't catch. Finally he said, “You go back to the governor and tell him I'll sign a paper that waives every right I've got to any other appeal. He can move up the execution. He can cut my chest open personally if he wants to. But I can't admit to doing something I didn't do.”

I stared at him for as long as I dared. “He's gonna say no, Terrelle.”

“I'm sorry. Tell him he can string me up to a tree. Use the electric chair.” His face was contorted with pain, sweat beads popping out on his forehead. He leaned into the glass. “You gotta know this, Mr. Truman. I want to help your boy. I'd let them rip my heart out of my chest right now if it would save him. But I can't confess. I can't see how telling a lie would honor God.”

The guard behind Terrelle stepped forward and I knew I was running out of time. “Terrelle, listen to me. Nobody knows the kind of pressure you're under. And I don't blame you for sticking to your story, but—”

“It's not my story. It's the truth.”

I couldn't answer. I couldn't speak.

“You tell him I'll swear on a stack of Bibles that I won't fight this,” Terrelle said. “Oleta won't sue the state after I'm gone, my children won't say anything—I'll even cancel this book idea. Tell him I'll do anything but confess. I just can't do it.”

The call came from Reginald as I was driving back on I-10, the roadway stretching between trees bursting with green. I had borrowed Ellen's car for the trip. Traffic was light, so I had time to think of how I might respond to the governor.

“The governor is very interested in your conversation with Conley,” Reginald said. He had that superior tone like a stenographer at a court proceeding. Just the facts. “How did it go?”

There are no guardrails on that stretch of I-10. Sometimes roads are like life.

“I need to talk with Townsend.”

“That's not possible right now, Mr. Wiley. The governor is a busy man.” There was a slight laugh as if old Reg was rolling his eyes at my naiveté.

“Well, tell him to call me when he gets a spare minute or two. You've got my number.”

“Mr. Wiley, I assume by your tone that Conley refused the governor's request. He's not going to confess.”

I knew if I told Reginald the gist of the meeting, I would have less than a good chance with Townsend. I also knew this guy had a job to do and that was get information so the governor didn't have to. “He's probably sitting right there in the room with you. Just pass the phone to him.”

Smarm seeped through the phone line. “I can assure you he's not here, Mr. Wiley. The governor is on his way to a press conference and you already know about the meeting he has with members of the legislature.”

“Yeah, sounds like a few shrimp will lose their lives today.”

“Mr. Wiley, the meeting this afternoon is vitally important in moving your son's case forward. I suggest you cooperate.”

“I am cooperating. I've done everything the governor asked. He can call me himself so I don't have to filter.”

“I assure you that you can trust me.”

“Just tell him to call me. I have news.”

I clicked the End button and wondered if I had just created more problems. Ticking off the governor's right-hand guy probably wasn't the best way to get what we wanted.

I flipped on the radio and watched 18-wheelers pass and tourists from the north make their way back home in minivans stuffed to the gills with suitcases and trinkets. Mothers with their feet on the dash, passed out in the passenger seat while dads struggled to stay awake. Kids firmly plugged in, staring out at me with headphones or earbuds or playing mindless video games to pass the time. Kids have it way too easy these days.

The radio station was preparing for the arrival of Rush Limbaugh's program like it was the Second Coming, pummeling each break with teasers and well-crafted promos. The news sounder ushered in the latest traffic and weather—mostly sunny (what a surprise) and watch out for an accident on US 90 near Capital Circle. Another Florida service member had paid the ultimate price in some distant country. There was bleak economic news coming from another report just out, as well as surprise at the latest unemployment numbers. And the governor was still deciding on the fate of a death row inmate who wanted to donate his heart.

The reporter set up the story, giving as many details of the case as he could in twenty-five seconds—one of the drawbacks of TV or radio reporting—then played a sound bite from a Miles somebody who represented an evangelical think tank and spoke with a British accent that gave me the feeling he would do well on NPR.

“The problem, of course, is the complexity of issues surrounding the transplant. We don't want to diminish any life, so the idea of harvesting organs from a condemned man is problematic, even if the man is willing to be a donor.”

My blood pressure rose. It sounded so academic coming through the speakers. So reasonable and carefully thought out. Maybe that was my problem with Christians to begin with: it wasn't about doing good to other people; it was about figuring out what was
right
. That sounds fine on the face of it, but when people try to judge what the Almighty wants, things get more complicated. That's why there are Catholics and Protestants and Jews and Muslims and every other religion. We all want to believe we have the truth about God and know exactly what he wants us to do.

Just thinking about it made my speed increase, a reflex of my foot. If Miles had a son dying in a hospital, I wondered if he would feel the same way. If his view of God would change. It's a lot easier to talk about ethical issues from the ivory tower or the pulpit than it is in the waiting room or on death row.

My phone vibrated and I gladly hit the Power button on Miles and his willing journalistic accomplice. I didn't bother looking at the screen. “This is Truman.”

There was a slight pause, then a click and a deep whirring that sounded like it came from a limousine lined with leather and a well-stocked minibar.

“Truman, I don't have much time but I wanted to hear how things went with our man.”

He said it like Terrelle was a second-string running back just returning from a hamstring pull. “Thanks for calling me, Governor. Yeah, we had a good talk this morning.”

“And . . . ?”

“He was totally on board with the idea of waiving any delays or last-minute appeals. He'll swear on a stack of Bibles or whatever you want him to swear on. No lawsuit from his family. He said you can even move up the execution date because of Aiden's condition. This is a guy who is resigned to this eventuality. He knows it's going to happen.”

“But? No confession?”

“I explained your position; I told him this was the best way to make sure Aiden gets a new heart. But he has this thing about not lying in a sworn statement.”

Townsend cursed. “And I have the legislature boys all ready to sign off.”

“Terrelle got religion. God's a big part of his life. I don't pretend to understand it, but he feels like this would be an affront to the Almighty.”

“Truman, you have to go back and put pressure on him. Get him to understand.”

“He understands. He offered to let you rip his heart out with your bare hands, pull out old Sparky from the back room, do whatever. He's not afraid to die, to give somebody he's never met his own heart. But what he does seem to be afraid of is letting Jesus down. That's important to him.”

“I don't understand these people,” Townsend said, almost spitting out the words. “You need to go back there and push him. I can't get this done without a confession.”

“With all due respect, sir, this is his last request. To die with dignity. You may get some flak on the campaign trail, but you can charm your way out of that.”
Just hold up a few orphan porpoises with rickets.
“This is all he's got.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Excuse me?”

“About his innocence. Do you think he's telling the truth?”

“He sure believes he's innocent if that means anything. Bottom line, I don't know.”

“It's a sticky wicket, Wiley. If he maintains his innocence, I have to wash my hands. Deny the transplant.”