“Uh … scuse me … Warden.”
Impatience sparked in Luther’s eyes though the bland smile remained in place. It was the chaplain speaking; Shillerman. “Right, right,” said Luther. “The chaplain here’ll be holding a prayer meeting at the end of the briefing which is optional for anyone who wants to stay.” Which would be no one, if it was anything like the last time. Luther pointedly turned away and Shillerman lapsed into silence, picking grimly at the crust of his BLT. Luther went on. “Now at nineteen hundred, Reuben and Pat are gonna be checking all the phones in the chamber, make sure we got the open lines working.”
“So the governor won’t get a busy signal,” Reuben said.
“Right, and Arnold, you’ll make sure the clocks in there are synchronized and the one in the press room too. Seems we left that out the last time and some of our friends got a little exercised at the discrepancy.”
The others nodded, chewed, listened, and Luther went on.
They would give Beachum clean clothes at 23:00, he said, and get him into the special diaper he had to wear to keep the gurney clean. Reuben would check the lethal injection machine and the Strap-down Team would get the gurney ready with Arnold supervising. They’d check the clocks and the phones again and the machine again too, with special attention to the manual override in case both the electrical systems failed. And at 23:15, all six of them would report to the execution chamber where Reuben would load the machine with three canisters of drugs: sodium pentothal to put Frank Beachum to sleep, pancuronium bromide to paralyze his heart and potassium chloride to shut down his breathing. There would be a saline solution injected in Beachum’s arm for about half an hour before the procedure itself in order to keep his vein open and ready to receive the poison. The solution would also include an antihistamine, which would prevent Beachum from coughing and gagging during the procedure, as this was unpleasant not only for him but for the press and witnesses.
“Now the prisoner will be with his chaplain after twenty-two hundred,” Luther said. There was an embarrassed pause after that—embarrassed because everyone realized that the prisoner’s chaplain would not be Stanley B. Shillerman. It was never Stanley B. Shillerman. Not one of the condemned men had ever requested a meeting with him. Luther coughed and added, “It’s that black fellah down from St. Louis. Seems a good enough guy and I don’t think he’ll be any trouble.”
He was about to keep going, but Shillerman apparently couldn’t help but put in, “I, uh … I myself had a personal heart-to-heart with the prisoner myself this morning.” He himself shook his head sadly at the memory. “I can’t exactly say he was filled with spiritual remorse. But, going by my experience with men, I think he’s accepted his fate. I can confirm that he won’t be any trouble, in my opinion.”
They all nodded silently, averting their eyes from him. Old Reuben looked like he was trying not to laugh. Luther knew all about his heart-to-heart with the prisoner. According to the duty officer, Shillerman had nearly set Beachum off like a rocket. Luther held his breath. Reverend Shit-ferbrains, he thought. In his dreams, he could feel the point of his boot going right up the useless blowhard’s ass. In real life, however, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Shillerman, probably sensing the mood, added importantly, “Of course, Sam Tandy in the governor’s office has asked me to keep in personal contact with the prisoner throughout the day.”
Luther smiled more blandly than ever. His gray eyes glinted out from their depths in his putty flesh with a light that was downright metallic. This was the crux of it right here. Sam Tandy. The governor’s aide and, just by coincidence, Shillerman’s brother-in-law. No doubt Mr. Tandy was right proud of himself for having placed his relation in such a good position—that is, in such a good position from which to observe the model prison in action. And to report back to the governor’s office directly. The whole staff knew that Shillerman was the governor’s spy.
The others busied themselves with their lunches while Luther, ever smiling, struggled against the impulse to squash their resident holy man like the bug he was. Then, having mastered himself, he continued.
“Anyway, the chaplain—Flowers his name is—will be in the cell by twenty-two hundred. The prisoner has so far refused a sedative but—” Luther sighed, “—like the chaplain here said, I don’t think he’s likely to offer up any resistance.”
Now, no one spoke again until Luther was finished. He took them all the way through the operation, though they knew it as well as he. The bigwigs from Corrections would arrive soon after the chaplain. The department director himself would recheck the equipment and phones and would even carry a portable radiophone in case the electricity failed. A hearse would be on hand to carry Beachum’s body to a local funeral home from which his wife Bonnie could pick it up for burial.
Shortly before 23:30, the Strap-down procedure would begin. Beachum would be secured to the gurney and rolled into the execution chamber. After frequent rechecks of the phones and clocks and so on—and after the department director called the governor’s representative to ensure there were no last-minute reprieves—the blinds in the chamber would be lifted so that the witnesses could see in through the glass. Luther would read the death warrant out loud; the prisoner would be asked for his last words. At 00:01, the lethal injection machine would be set into operation.
Luther took another bite of his sandwich. It was good—the rye bread was fresh and there was just the amount of Russian dressing he liked. He chewed slowly, swallowed and went on talking. He detailed the cleanup procedure for after the execution, and the meetings with state officials and so on. In spite of their familiarity with the protocol, the men around the table showed their most serious, most businesslike faces. They nodded almost in unison as Luther spoke, Shillerman along with the rest.
Yeah, thought Luther, looking from one to the other of them. This was the way to do it. Just like in the army, just like in battle. The system got you through, the team got you through. You were part of them and you worked together and you got the job done.
The image of Frank Beachum’s face had almost entirely ceased to trouble him for the moment. This was going to be all right, he thought. He thought he was going to get through this just fine.
2
It was about two-thirty when I walked back into the St. Louis News. Bridget Rossiter met me at the city room door, her freckled face urgent. “Have you heard about Michelle? She’s been in a temble accident.”
Being the Trends editor, Bridget always got the news a little later than everyone else. I nodded and patted her shoulder. She shook her head sorrowfully.
“You know, alcohol figures in over fifty percent of all traffic fatalities,” she said.
“Is Michelle still in a coma?” “She’s in a coma? Oh my God,” she murmured, as I walked past.
The city room was busy now. Reporters sat at various places within the maze of desks, leaning toward their computer screens, tapping their keyboards, or kicking back with a coffee in their hand and a paper open on their legs. At the city desk, Jane Marsh and William Anger, the minority affairs editor, stood flanking Bob Findley’s chair, bending over him in conference. For a moment, I thought I might sneak in and out of the place without Bob spotting me. But it was not to be. I’d hardly taken three steps into the room, when Bob raised his head as if a radar blip had sounded. He pinned me, across the long room, with that expressionless stare which told of how his heart had erased me from the Book of Life.
I forced a pained smile and went past the desk, hewing as close to the wall as I could. The door to Alan Mann’s office was closed, but I could see him in there through the venetian blinds. He was talking on the telephone, making expressive gestures with the candy bar in his free hand.
I didn’t knock. I just pushed the door open. I felt Bob’s eyes on my back—drilling into my back—as I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
“Right,” Alan was saying into the phone. “We’ll do a lead editorial on that for tomo
rrow. What’s my opinion?” He listened, his hawklike head bobbing up and down, his candy bar holding fire in his raised hand. “Got it,” he said then. “Sure thing, Mr. Lowenstein.” He rocked forward in his chair and dropped the handset into its cradle. He looked up at me from under his bushy brows. “Stop fucking Bob’s wife,” he said. “He doesn’t like it.”
“Oh Christ,” I said. “What did he do, put it in the company newsletter?”
Alan pointed the candy bar at me. It was a Snickers, the kind with all the peanuts. “If he comes to me and wants your ass, I’m gonna have to give it to him. Then you’ll just be a hole without an ass around it.”
I pulled out my cigarettes and stuck one between my teeth. I hid behind the match flame as I lit it. “She started it,” I muttered lamely into the fire.
“Doesn’t count. You’ve got the dingus.” His big body fell back in the chair. He ripped a hunk of chocolate off and mashed the nuts savagely. He regarded me savagely. “You know what?”
“All right, all right,” I said.
“You’re a fucking womanizer, that’s what. It fucked you up in New York and it’s gonna fuck you up here. You’re fucking up your whole career and you’re fucking up your marriage and if you can’t keep your goddamned prick in your pants I’m not gonna be able to goddamned protect you. How was she?”
“None of your goddamned business,” I said. “Not bad.”
“Lucky bastard. I always liked her.”
“Shut up, Alan. Jesus.”
“Hey, don’t take it out on me, boy. You’re the one who sinned against God and man.”
I turned away from him and walked over to the wall. It was crowded with plaques and certificates, awards and appreciations. They were what he had instead of windows. There were photos too—of Alan standing with the governor, standing with the president, standing with Mr. Lowenstein, who owned the paper. I stood blowing smoke at them.
“Listen,” Alan said to my profile. “Did I ever tell you about the ADA I fell for in New York?”
“No, and if you tell me now, I’m going to throw myself across your desk and rip your throat out with my bare hands.”
“It’s an edifying tale.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“I’ll save it for another time.”
I swiveled around. He had taken another bite of chocolate and was holding the bar up to his face, eyeing a drooping curlicue of caramel with affection.
“I’ve got a problem,” I said.
“Oh, the nickel finally drops.” His beak nose bent down as he grimaced. “Christ, boy. Don’t you know Bob’s been after you since you got here? In that quiet, earnest, morally just way of his. He’s probably glad you fucked his wife so he has an ethical reason to destroy you.”
“Great. I live to make him happy. But that’s not my problem.”
“How can you be so goddamned self-destructive?”
“Practice, Alan. But that’s not my problem.”
“You should’ve fucked my wife. I’d’ve just punched you.”
“I did fuck your wife.”
He laughed. “Lucky bastard. How was she?”
“She sends her love. But that’s not my goddamned problem, Alan.”
“All right. What’s your goddamned problem? Tell papa. You soulless shit.” He popped the last of the candy into his mouth.
“Frank Beachum,” I said.
“The soon-to-be-dead guy?”
“Yeah.”
He crumpled the candy wrapper and laid it up in the air with a flick of his wrist. It plonked into the metal can against the wall. “For two!” he said.
“I’m supposed to interview him this afternoon,” I said.
“A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer. Don’t fuck it up.”
“I think he could be innocent.”
“Is that your problem?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s not,” said Alan. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”
He stretched out in the high-backed chair, folding his hands atop his volleyball belly. I flicked an ash angrily off my cigarette so that it looped into the wastebasket. Alan sniffed, annoyed.
“I’m serious,” I said then.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. Look at my face. This is my serious face, Alan. This is how you can tell.”
“Steven,” he said. “Young Steven Everett. Listen to me a minute. Listen to your mentor and guide. Life is less mysterious than we know. Things are almost always exactly what they seem. The guy was busted, tried and convicted. This isn’t TV. You’ve been in the courts. You know he’s guilty.”
I grinned with gritted teeth. Smoke seeped out between them.
“All right,” he said finally. “What’ve you got?”
I lifted my cigarette hand as if to speak. Then, not speaking, I held the filter to my lips and sucked on it hard. What was I going to tell him anyway? That six years after the event, there were potato chips in my line of vision? That I looked into Dale Porterhouse’s eyes and knew he was lying? That it bothered me that Nancy Larson hadn’t heard any gunshots even though she had a perfectly good reason why she shouldn’t have?
“Oh,” said Alan sadly. “Oh, Ev.”
“No, no, wait …” I said.
“Ev, Ev, Ev …”
“Just listen to me.”
“Ev. I don’t have to listen to you. I’m looking at you, Ev. I’m looking at you and I see a reporter who’s about to tell me that he has a hunch.”
“Alan, I’ve done some checking up …”
“Do you know my opinion of reporters who have hunches?”
“I talked to one of the witnesses.”
“I can’t fart loud enough to express my opinion, Ev.”
“There are discrepancies.”
His chair came forward with a sharp report. He stared at me, bugging his eyes. “Discrepancies? Did I hear you say there were discrepancies?” His thick eyebrows bounced up and down. “After a police investigation? A trial? A conviction? Six years of appeals? You found discrepancies? What did it take you, half an hour?”
“Come on. You know the appeals system. His first lawyer was probably some twelve-year-old Legal Aid guy and if he didn’t object to something at the trial, the replacements couldn’t use it later for the appeal. You can’t even argue proof of innocence anymore.”
“Ev …”
“Alan, for Christ’s sake, they’re gonna kill the guy.”
“Ev …”
“I’m telling you.”
He cocked his big head at me. “Oh, oh, Mr. Everett.”
“All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’ve got a hunch.”
He sat back again. “Ha.”
I pointed my cigarette at him. “But you know my hunches, Alan. They’re based on …”
“A desperate attempt to cover the shabbiness of your personal behavior with a show of professional skill.”
“Right. And this is a strong one. Something stinks about this case.”
“That’s me. I had one of those veal heros for lunch.”
“Goddammit.” I stepped over to the wastebasket. I bent down and crushed my cigarette out against its rim. “Damn it, damn it,” I said again.
There was a chair in front of his desk. I went over and sank down into it. I leaned forward and covered my face with my hands. After a long moment, I guess Alan took pity on me. I heard him shift in his chair with a low groan.
“All right,” he said. “Let me get it straight what we’re dealing with here. If you can turn this routine execution into some kind of big fight-for-justice story, maybe—and I do mean maybe, my friend—maybe I can stand up for you a little when Bob tries to fire you.”
I nodded even before I had lifted my head. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess that’s the idea.”
He regarded me with what, in Alan, passed for compassion. “You’ll still lose the wife and kid, you know. She’s gonna find out.”
“I know, I know.
”
“And you’ll be shit on the floor out there,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the city room. “They love Bob on the floor, man. They’d walk through fire for him. They’ll wipe you off the soles of their shoes.”
“I know. Believe me.”
He lifted his broad shoulders. “But hey, what the hell. I’m not your father. I don’t think I’m your father. Am I your father?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. Because no son of mine is going to use this newspaper for his own sleazy personal motives.”
“No, no, I’ll play it straight.”
Alan snorted. “Don’t pretend to have integrity with me, young man.”
“Sorry.”
“Who knows?” he said, raising his hands philosophically. “There’s always something in a criminal case that didn’t go right. You might work it up into some kind of crusading journalism type thing. Then, when Bob comes in here and asks me to transfer you to the toilet, I’ll be able to say, ‘But, Bob, look at that great Beachum story Steve made up out of practically nothing.’ He won’t give a shit, but I’ll be able to say it.”
“I really think there might be something to this,” I said with as much conviction as I could.
Alan gave a deep chuckle. I avoided meeting his eyes. I was still hunched over in my chair, my elbows on my thighs.
“So what do I do?” I said.
He shrugged again. “Beats me. Just make it sound good, pal. I’ll run it for you, but only if it sounds good.”
“Yeah, but I mean what if I really find something?”
He reared back in his seat. “What, you mean like evidence? Today? You got nine hours before they juice the guy.”
“Yeah, yeah, but what if I do? We can’t just wait for it to run tomorrow.”
Alan made a face as he thought about it. “I don’t know. I guess you could go to Mr. Lowenstein.”
“You think?”
“Why not? He’s the governor’s pal. If he calls the state-house and says it’s important, the gov’ll pick up, no question.”
“Okay. Except Mr. Lowenstein hates me.”
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