Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  Luke shook his head. Charlie said, ‘No. Too late – nobody will believe you now. In fact they’ll probably say you did both crimes, the Long Island murders and Josie’s murder. No, my friend, you should only change your story as the very last resort if your appeal has failed. Then we make an application to reopen your trial because of this fresh evidence and we strike a deal with the New York DA to get immunity in exchange for giving evidence for the prosecution about the Long Island murders. And you’ve got a very good chance of getting off this murder conviction on appeal, remember, because all the prosecution’s evidence is circumstantial – they can’t even prove definitely that Josephine is dead, for Christ’s sake!’ Charlie sighed angrily and shook his head. ‘No, you don’t change horses yet. Agree, Luke?’

  ‘I agree,’ Luke said grimly.

  ‘So all you can do now, pal, is put a brave face on it. And go back up there to the court and be sentenced.’

  On the steps of the courthouse James A. Hunter, CNN anchorman, stood in front of his camera and solemnly told the world:

  ‘This is a very dramatic time. The jury have returned their verdict of guilty. The judge has discretion as to whether the sentence should be death in the electric chair or life imprisonment. But at the eleventh hour, the defendant, Jack Harker, has asked for time to consult his attorney. What is going on in the conference room can only be speculated upon, but it is certain to be charged with life-and-death drama. Amongst the public who has jam-packed the gallery for days and whom you see behind me overflowing on to these balmy streets, speculation and vicarious suffering is rife. This trial has evoked great emotion both against the defendant and in his favour. But now let’s cross back to the studio …’

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, James,’ Donald Booker in the CNN studio said as if he had been done a great and unexpected service, ‘and we have here as always over the last ten days, Professor Alex Stevens from New York University – good afternoon, Professor.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the podgy, middle-aged professor said. He had freckles, a youthful crewcut and a bow-tie.

  ‘What do you make of this eleventh-hour adjournment?’

  ‘Well, the defendant is simply instructing his attorney, Charles Benson, to make a plea in mitigation …’

  Meanwhile the Sky TV reporter was interviewing Josephine’s father at the other end of the courthouse steps. ‘Mr Valentine, how do you feel about the verdict of guilty?’

  ‘Justice has been done,’ Denys Valentine said stonily.

  ‘Did you ever have any doubt about the defendant’s guilt?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘And what sentence do you want to see?’

  Denys Valentine said flatly, ‘Life imprisonment. And I mean life, until his death. The taking of human life in retribution is not acceptable, but the man must rot in prison for the rest of his days.’

  Those scenes were televised around the world. In Pete’s Tavern off Union Square in New York where Josephine’s Anti-Apartheid Leaguers held their daily vigil monitoring the television coverage there had been cheers when the jury returned their verdict. In Harvest House the staff monitored the television in the receptionist’s office, people constantly sticking their heads in seeking updates: there was consternation when the word spread through the building, ‘Jack’s been found guilty …’ From the officers’ mess of the South African Defence Force in Pretoria the news spread like wildfire. In the leafy suburbs of Pretoria, General Tanner cursed, snatched up his telephone and called Felix Dupont in Washington.

  ‘So it’s Plan B. You got that?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  The general groped for words. ‘What a fuck-up!’

  ‘Our advisor was confident of an acquittal, sir.’

  ‘Fucking lawyers!’ Tanner said. ‘And what’s happening now, what’s he telling his attorney? If it’s what I think we’re all in big trouble!’

  ‘Plan B will straighten it out, sir.’

  General Tanner said, ‘It better, my friend, or you’re very dead meat. So get your ass out to Nassau!’

  ‘They’re going back into court now,’ Dupont said. ‘I must get back to the television, sir. Good day to you, sir …’

  Charlie paused outside the courtroom. ‘Okay, stiff upper lip, as the English say. And both lips zipped: “I deny the charge, your honour.” That’s all. Take the sentence on the chin. Repose your confidence in the appeal court. Okay?’

  Harker nodded, ashen.

  They filed into court, following the bailiffs. A buzz went up as people strained to see the man who was about to be sentenced. Harker followed Charlie to the defence table.

  The prosecution team were already at their table. The jury were in their stand. They flitted their eyes guiltily at Harker, then looked away. The public benches were packed. Charlie sat down at his table and nodded at the orderly.

  There was a rap on the door. ‘All rise!’

  His Honour Judge Ludman stalked into court. He glared around, then slowly sat.

  Charlie and Harker remained standing.

  ‘Yes, Mr Harker?’ Judge Ludman said. ‘Having consulted your attorney, do you have anything further to say on the matter of sentence? And how – under oath or in an unsworn statement?’

  Harker had a ringing in his ears. He said thickly, ‘Unsworn statement, your honour.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Harker took a big, fraught breath. He said, ‘I am innocent, your honour.’ He swallowed. ‘That is all.’ He slumped down in his seat.

  Judge Ludman made a note. Then he sat forward.

  ‘Mr Harker, please stand up.’

  Harker got to his feet again, shakily, and Charlie rose beside him.

  Judge Ludman fiddled with his pen, then said, ‘Mr Harker, whether or not I agree with the jury’s verdict is beside the point. By law, I have to accept their judgement, as you do. I must assume that they are absolutely right in convicting you of the cold-blooded murder of your wife, Josephine.

  ‘I repeat, cold-blooded, because the only possible motive for this murder is money. So, that said, what is the appropriate sentence for a man who cold-bloodedly murders his innocent bride for her money?’

  Judge Ludman sat back. He looked at Harker.

  ‘You,’ he said grimly, ‘murdered your lovely bride for filthy lucre … You succumbed to lust for millions of dollars …’ He shook his head. ‘That is what the jury convicted you of, and that is a horrific, dastardly crime. To deter others who may feel tempted to murder their spouses for gain, and in order to satisfy society’s sense of outrage at such a crime, the appropriate sentence is death.’

  There was silence in the courtroom. Harker’s ears were ringing.

  Judge Ludman glowered at them all, then said, ‘The sentence of the court is that you suffer death by electrocution in the Florida State Prison …’

  A section of the gallery broke into spontaneous applause.

  PART VII

  52

  A man being sentenced to death is a dramatic spectacle – the expression on the judge’s face as he passes sentence; the expression on the condemned man’s face, the flicker of an eye, a flinch, the reaction of the lawyers – all these are matters of intense, morbid interest as the public experiences, vicariously, the horror of the death sentence.

  Jack Harker’s sentencing was seen and enjoyed around the world, live, and it was replayed many times in many languages over the next forty-eight hours, from Scandinavia and Russia in the north down to Patagonia in the south; from Japan in the east to Greenland in the west. Around the world journalists sat poised in front of their computers as sentence was passed, to dash down their impressions of the dramatic moment; within seconds wires and the stratosphere were streaming with images of Jack Harker’s shocked countenance, abuzz with the learned pronouncements of law professors, criminologists, journalists and lawyers commenting on the justice or otherwise of the dramatic ruling that had just been made. Within minutes of the sentence of death being passed televisio
n anchormen and newspaper editors around the world, in dozens of languages, were unburdening themselves of profound preprepared pronouncements on the merits of the verdict and the uncertain future of the condemned man’s chances on appeal.

  The spectacle of Jack Harker being sentenced to death was seen on the television set of a big, white motor-yacht that was anchored off deserted Leonard Island, one of many in the Bahamas archipelago. Derek Clements shook his head as he watched Harker being led away. Almost immediately afterwards his telephone rang.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I saw it. Thank Christ he kept his mouth shut.’

  ‘Only for now,’ Dupont said. ‘If his appeal fails, he’s got nothing to lose. So it’s all stations go on Plan B. Have the goods on the jetty in Nassau by dawn the day after tomorrow.’ He added: ‘Does she know the result?’

  ‘She thinks the jury is still out,’ Clements said. ‘She’s on the beach right now.’

  ‘Well, get going. And make damn sure she doesn’t say anything about us.’

  Clements left the wheelhouse. He scanned the long white beach through binoculars. At the far end he saw Josephine jogging along the waterline in the sunset. The dinghy was beached a hundred yards away. Sitting on a sand dune watching her was an American called Donald, with a pistol and a radio-telephone.

  Clements spoke into his transmitter.

  ‘Bring her aboard,’ he said. ‘It’s Plan B.’

  53

  Death Row, where Old Sparky the electric chair lives, is in the Florida State Prison near the town of Starke, several hundred kilometres north of Miami. The prison is in rolling, farming country carved out of forests. It is flanked on either side by two other prisons, euphemistically called correctional institutions: Broward, for females, and Pinewoods for lesser male felons. All three prisons are surrounded by pastures full of fat cattle, lands farmed by the inmates. There is an abattoir with huge freezing capabilities, and extensive vegetable fields. Florida State Prison is for the real bad boys for whom maximum security is necessary, minimum rehabilitation expected. It was to this daunting array of three-storey buildings, surrounded by double rows of high security electric fencing topped with razor wire, which were themselves surrounded by double rows of high security electrified fencing, that Jack Harker was driven, from faraway Miami, the day after he was sentenced to death.

  It was nine o’clock in the evening when the cars escorting him to Death Row pulled up outside the gates of Florida State Prison. Lights were burning in the pleasant administrative building outside those gates, for staff had stayed back to receive the new prisoner, now a famous name. It was with considerable interest that Jack Harker was processed into custody; his body searched, his possessions catalogued and signed for, his health determined by the prison doctor. He was issued with the distinctive orange clothing of the condemned inmate, and heavily escorted up a bewildering array of staircases and corridors, a process involving much opening and clanging of iron doors, to Death Row. Finally he was escorted down a long corridor of barred cells, from which the snores of condemned men emanated. A fat, white, unshaven face appeared at one set of bars, eyes blank.

  ‘Welcome to Hell, pardner.’

  Harker was led into the adjoining cell. It was six feet wide and nine feet long. There was a bed, a washbasin, a toilet-bowl, a shelf, a small table.

  The black warder unlocked his handcuffs. ‘Breakfast at five a.m. You’ll be told your rights after that.’ He walked out, the door clanged shut, the keys turned.

  A voice said, ‘Lunch at ten-thirty, supper at four.’

  Harker turned. He could not see the fat young man standing at his bars, spectacles on the end of his nose.

  The voice continued in a monotone: ‘Two hours’ exercise twice a week. The yard has basketball facilities, volleyball, weights. Otherwise inmates are confined to their cells at all times, except for medical and legal consultations and social visits. Visitors allowed every weekend from nine a.m. to three, all visitors must be approved by prison authorities, members of the media may request interviews with Death Row inmates through the office of Information Services. Shower every second day. Mail every day except holidays, a limited number of magazine subscriptions allowed but no pornography. As many cigarettes as you like, plus a radio and television – but black and white only, no colour in case you get excited. No cable TV, but inmates can tune into church services on closed-circuit television. Chaplain consultations arranged on request.’

  ‘Please.’ Harker slumped down on to the bed and held his face. ‘Please leave me alone.’

  ‘Those, more or less, are your rights. Now for the bad news. Down the end of this line of cells is the Death Watch cell. Beyond that is the execution chamber. The Death Watch cell is where they take you after the governor has signed your death warrant, usually about six hours before your execution. It is slightly more comfortable than your common-or-garden Death Row cell – it is twelve feet long by seven feet wide, so that you can have your priest and your lawyer beside you to hold your hand. But your television is outside your cell, you can only watch through the bars.’

  ‘Please,’ Harker whispered, ‘shut up.’

  ‘Beyond the Death Watch cell,’ the fat young man continued in his monotone, ‘is the room where your actual electric chair sits, Old Sparky as it is affectionately known. Before electrocution became the preferred method in 1923, execution was by public hanging. Old Sparky is a three-legged oak chair built by inmates in 1923 and still going strong if a trifle erratically – a guy who was executed last year burst into flames, took a long time to die. Give me hanging every time. But the electricians say they have sorted out the problem now. The electrocution cycle is two minutes in duration, voltage and amperage levels peak three times, maximum current is two thousand volts and fourteen amps. The executioner who pulls the levers is a private citizen who is paid a hundred and fifty bucks a throw. He is anonymous but reputed to be a perfectly nice Joe who just needs the money.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Harker whispered, ‘leave me alone.’

  ‘Do you play chess?’

  ‘No, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of time to learn, nine-point nine years is the average length of stay on Death Row before execution, what with appeals and all that jazz. Of course, it could be longer – Gary Alvord, just a few doors down, he’s been on the Row since 1974, over twenty-two fucking years. I’ve only been here seven. I’m writing a book about some of the fruitcakes I’ve seen come and go down the corridor to Old Sparky. Maybe you’d like to publish it.’

  ‘Shuttup, Mervyn,’ somebody hollered down the corridor.

  ‘It’s nearly breakfast time, Al,’ Mervyn said flatly.

  ‘Shuttup or I’ll break your goddam neck.’

  ‘Yeah? You’ll have to break a few bars first …’

  54

  In the nightmarish dawn, his first on Death Row, Jack Harker, exhausted and in shock, fell into a stunned, feverish sleep. He was whirled in a dreadful vortex of courtrooms, gallows, electric chairs. Then he dreamed an angel was shaking him and telling him that Josephine was alive, alive … The wonderful words were echoing and swirling, and Harker tried desperately to fight his way up out of the dreadful vortex to reach the angel, kicking and thrashing and clawing himself upwards, but the more he tried the faster the vortex whirled, sucking him down, down, and the angel in white was shouting and trying to grab him, to pull him up and free him from the dreadful suction of the vortex. Then the wonderful angel seized his upstretched hand and started to heave him upwards, all the time his mouth echoing the resounding words that Josephine was alive, alive – but then the angel could not hold him any longer and Harker was falling back into the dreadful vortex, falling and crying out for Josephine – and he crashed onto the floor beside his bunk.

  He scrambled up wildly, stunned, shocked, his fists bunched, chest heaving – and there stood the prison governor in a white suit, saying, ‘Easy, Mr Harker, take it easy. You’re a free man. Josephine is ali
ve. Take it easy …’

  Harker stared at the angel, gasping, heart pounding, wild eyes wide. ‘Alive?’ he whispered. ‘Alive? Is this true …?’

  The governor was grinning, nodding, as were the warders beside him. ‘Yes, she’s alive; you’re a free man, Mr Harker. The Justice Department has called me and it’s been on the news. All we’re waiting for is the official order written to release you …’

  Harker stared at the wonderful man, wild eyes welling with joy. Then he dropped his face into his hands and he slowly sank to his knees.

  ‘Thank God …’ he sobbed. ‘Thank God you’re alive, Josie …’

  It was headline news on almost every newspaper of the western world, the top story on almost every television and radio station.

  Only the Nassau newspapers and Bahama TV got the story of Josephine arriving at the American consul’s residence, looking like a castaway, the pictures of her with long hair matted, the later photographs of her departing in the consular limousine, arriving at Nassau’s little airport in a pretty dress provided by Hassim’s Fashions, her long blonde hair now washed and shiny. But a mob of media people were at Miami International Airport to meet her, the arrivals gate besieged by television crews and pressmen, and there were many, many more on their way to Miami from all over the world.

  Charlie Benson was there to greet Josephine, with Luke Mahoney and a junior representative of the District Attorney’s office: Ed Vance, in a telephone interview, had explained that he was too busy with other weighty matters to attend, though he wished both ‘the defendant’ and Josephine well. (It was leaked by some member of his staff that he spent the whole day in front of his television in his office.) When Josephine came walking down the wide corridor to the arrivals barrier with no luggage whatsoever, not even a handbag, her skin golden-brown, her long hair bleached by the sun, the camera bulbs flashed and the barrage of questions began. But Charlie hurried forward to greet her and she only gave the media men a wide smile and answered, once, ‘Yes, it’s great to be alive!’