The Walls

by Hollie Overton

  She couldn’t bear seeing Lance smiling up at her. Kristy had taken that photo on their first weekend away, a spur-of-the-moment trip to Corpus Christi. She was just about to toss the paper in the trash when Ryan ambled in, wearing wrinkled jeans and his worn DON’T HATE, DEBATE T-shirt. He poured a bowl of Frosted Flakes and sat down, eating wordlessly. Kristy reached out and squeezed Ryan’s hand and his eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry, Ry. I know how hard this is.”

  “Think we’ll ever know what happened to him?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”

  His eyes darted up from his bowl, quizzically.

  “You’re hurting too, aren’t you, Mom?” he asked.

  Kristy faltered, searching for the right thing to say.

  “Yes … I am. It’s just … I’m your mom. I can handle it. But you …”

  “I guess it’s different for you ’cause you’ve been around death and dying all these years,” Ryan said, as if the idea had presented itself for the first time.

  “Yes, but the men who get executed, I’m not married to them.”

  “Then why are you …”

  “What? Why am I what?”

  She could see Ryan’s wheels spinning. He shook his head. “Never mind.” A part of Kristy wanted to ask Ryan to finish his sentence. The other part was afraid of what he might say, questioning Kristy, wondering why she wasn’t more devastated. Shouldn’t she have been crippled by grief, instead of just … moving forward? But maybe that was just Kristy’s own paranoia seeping in. Ryan remained quiet, eating slowly, each bite pained as if he had to force down the food in order to survive. She would always regret causing him pain, but the math was simple. One death to avoid three.

  Ryan gulped down the last of his food and grabbed his backpack.

  “Gotta run. Ella’s almost here.”

  She wanted to stop him, to hug him and tell him everything would be okay, but she couldn’t promise that. Ryan had opened himself up to Lance, and now he was gone. She’d lost her mother—she understood the kind of pain he was feeling at losing the closest thing he had to a father. Ryan left and Kristy sat at the table, trying to brace herself for the day ahead.

  It wasn’t standard protocol to visit inmates before they went to death row, but it wasn’t something so out of the ordinary that it would raise attention. Kristy made her way to Polunsky and found Clifton sitting in the visiting area, his family sitting across from him, in the spot Kristy usually sat. He was sitting up tall, hair shorn, clean-shaven, his uniform gleaming white. Clifton had spoken so much about his sister Fiona and his niece Nina that she recognized them instantly.

  Fiona was a regal woman in her early fifties with a short Afro and red-rimmed eyes, clutching at a tissue. Her daughter, Nina, was sixteen, with long, pencil-thin dreads and a permanent frown. They were both clad in black as if already in mourning. Fiona saw Kristy watching and she stood to greet her.

  “Ms. Tucker, hello. We’ve been talking about your troubles. I hope you know that we’re all praying for your husband’s safe return.” Kristy saw Clifton staring back at her. He knew what she’d done. She wasn’t sure how she could tell, but he knew. Kristy swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on Fiona.

  “That’s very kind of you. I’m not here to get in the way. I wanted to speak with Clifton, but take your time. And I hope y’all know that I’ll be here until the very end …”

  “Thank you,” Fiona said, her voice cracking.

  “If you need anything,” Kristy said, stepping to the side, wanting to give them their privacy.

  Kristy couldn’t hear what Clifton was saying, but Fiona’s sobs filled the visiting area, and Nina was softly whimpering. Kristy stared down at her hands, absorbing their grief, wishing she could offer them some kind of comfort. Another twenty minutes went by, and Bruce appeared, signaling the end of visitation.

  Fiona’s and Nina’s faces fell, an awkward, pain-filled final good-bye unfolding as they tapped at the glass and whispered their final “I love you’s.” They headed out, turning back every few feet to wave good-bye to Clifton. He waved back until they were gone, his posture erect, gaze steady, looking more like a soldier heading off to war than a condemned man only a few hours away from his execution.

  Kristy held up ten fingers to Bruce, and he nodded his approval and moved a few feet away. Kristy knew that the transport team would be here shortly, so this visit with Clifton would have to be quick. She would have one more face-to-face at the Walls, but the warden would be there. This was her last chance at a private good-bye. Kristy sat down and picked up the phone. Clifton did the same.

  “You doing okay?” Clifton asked.

  She smiled grimly.

  “That’s my line.”

  He shrugged. “I’m real sorry about everything you’ve gone through. All that’s happening … everything you had to do. But you’ll get through it.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” she said.

  “I am. If I can survive almost ten years in this place, you can survive this.”

  “Kind of hard to believe you’re giving me a pep talk,” Kristy said.

  “With everything going on, I didn’t think I’d see you again. The fact that you’re here, that you came today …” Clifton trailed off, closed his eyes, tried to compose himself. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “I wasn’t gonna leave you. Not without saying good-bye,” Kristy replied. “I have to head to the Walls soon, and I’ll see you there. We’ll go over everything with the warden and you’ll get to spend time with the chaplain. And then, Clifton, I’ll be on the other side of that glass. You’ll be able to see me. I’ll be there with Nina and Fiona until the very end.”

  Clifton’s composure was faltering, tears welling in his eyes.

  “I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness, Ms. Tucker. It made these last few years a lot more bearable.”

  “You’ve been a good friend, Clifton. I won’t forget that,” she said.

  Bruce raised his hand, pointing to his watch. It was time.

  “I have to go.”

  “Good-bye, Ms. Tucker, and thanks.”

  “Clifton?”

  He nodded, waiting for her response.

  “Call me Kristy.”

  Her words registered, and a giant smile illuminated Clifton’s face. He nodded in appreciation, an understanding that though they would never sit on a patio and share a beer together, their friendship was secured. He placed the phone on the cradle and allowed Bruce to escort him out. This time he didn’t bow his head or shuffle but held his head up high, shoulders back.

  The guards would return him to his cell, where he would spend his final hours at Polunsky waiting for the transport team to arrive. They would cuff his wrists, shackle his ankles and waist, and whisk him down the halls of death row as the inmates called out their good-byes.

  “Keep the faith, Cliff.”

  “Don’t give up.”

  “See ya, baby killer.”

  Once Clifton was secured in the van, a three-unit convoy would depart from Polunsky, their routes a secret from everyone except the warden. Forty-five minutes later, if traffic cooperated, they would arrive at the Walls. The guards would lead Clifton through a back gate, down cavernous halls to a holding cell, his final stop-off before he was escorted to the death chamber. That’s where Kristy would greet him.

  There was no way for Kristy to know what Clifton was thinking as he made that final drive past the lake, tall grass fluttering in the breeze, vacationers in minivans passing him by, truckers on their way home after a long-haul trip, knowing this was the last drive he would ever make.

  Kristy climbed into her car and made the familiar drive to the Walls, the miles ticking by, her mind crowded with thoughts of Lance and Clifton. At the gated entrance, over ninety protesters, old and young alike, had gathered. From idealistic students from the criminal justice program at Sam Houston State to elderly grandmothers to
devout Christians, they had arrived to register their disapproval. They carried signs that read, TEXAS KILLS INNOCENT PEOPLE and AN EYE FOR AN EYE MAKES THE WHOLE WORLD BLIND. On the opposite side of the gate, a smaller group of around thirty pro–death penalty protesters were eager to see Clifton get his comeuppance. DIE BABY KILLER DIE was one of the many creative signs Kristy clocked as she found her parking space.

  Celebrity inmates always drew big crowds, and Clifton was a celebrity with a capital C. As she walked toward her office, she could hear the on-air reporters testing their microphones, most of them using the same absurd intro: “Two lives cut short finally receive justice today.”

  Kristy wanted to defend Clifton, but there was no proof, no evidence that would exonerate him. Kristy’s instincts had failed her before. Maybe she had to believe in Clifton, had to believe in something. She wasn’t a shrink so she wasn’t about to start analyzing the situation. It didn’t matter what she thought anyway. The state had made its decision. In just a few hours, it would all be over.

  She returned to her office, greeting Carmen, and found herself inundated with coworkers stopping by to offer prayers and well-wishes for Lance’s safe return. She finally settled in at her desk but she didn’t do a single bit of work. Instead Kristy sat at her desk, motionless, unable to concentrate, clicking on her e-mails, the words nothing but a blur.

  At one thirty, she headed over to the holding cell adjacent to the death chamber. Warden Hal Casey, a sweet and slightly bland Christian from Waco, ran through the details about what to expect; then it was Kristy’s job to brief Clifton on final PR protocols.

  “If you’d like, you can write out a statement for the press and I will make copies to distribute,” Kristy said.

  “No, ma’am, I think I’ve said enough. I’m good,” Clifton said. He’d already told her that he wouldn’t be issuing a statement, but they went through the motions anyway.

  Kristy’s role in this part of the process was to gauge Clifton’s demeanor so that she could answer the reporters’ questions.

  Was the inmate nervous?

  Scared?

  Remorseful?

  How did he act?

  Did he cry?

  What was his final meal?

  It was exhausting, pretending that this was just another execution. Clifton was quiet and obedient. He promised to cooperate and they were soon joined by Chaplain Gohlke, a onetime felon who had spent his life working with inmates. The chaplain promised to stay with Clifton and offer him comfort until the very end. The warden asked Clifton if he had any other questions.

  “No, sir. I think y’all have covered it.”

  “Good-bye, Clifton,” Kristy said, unable to make eye contact in case she burst into tears.

  “Good-bye, ma’am,” he said, and as she walked away, she knew those were the last words he would say to her.

  The execution was at least five hours away. She stopped off at victim services to see if anyone in Janice’s family had expressed interest in holding a press conference after Clifton’s execution. As she made her way to the office, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Janice waiting outside. Despite her moneyed appearance, Janice’s ice-blue eyes were dull, flitting about; an anxiousness seemed to radiate from her. Kristy hadn’t seen her in months, not since she’d spent all those nights parked outside her home. This wasn’t the woman she’d seen, manicured and coiffed. Everyone played a role, Kristy thought. Some just better than others.

  It was protocol to keep families of inmates and the victims’ families separate for obvious reasons. Victim services would spend the afternoon with Janice and her mother, briefing them on what to expect. Someone from the chaplaincy would offer the same support to Clifton’s family.

  The state allowed five media witnesses to observe the executions. Three spots were “Texas first,” which meant that press from Texas were prioritized over out-of-state or foreign correspondents. The reporters would camp out in the press office, drinking coffee and gossiping, until the call from the warden or the attorney general came through signaling the execution would proceed.

  The day crawled by, Kristy trapped in the room with the reporters, many of them eager to explore all of their theories on Lance, each one more ridiculous than the last. Alien abduction and CIA spy were two options that were floated. Kristy had enough of the probing and questioning and she told Carmen she would be in her office waiting for the call to come. She kept darting nervous glances at the clock. By six o’clock, Kristy wondered if maybe Clifton might be spared, at least for today. The seconds ticked by, then minutes.

  Six ten.

  Six twelve.

  Six fifteen.

  Six thirty.

  Seven ten.

  The tension was unbearable. She could hear the reporters in the lobby bitching and moaning about missed deadlines, Gus grousing about missing his dinner reservation at the country club.

  At seven forty, Kristy’s office phone rang. She heard the warden’s voice. “It’s go time.” Her heart ached for Clifton but she had a job to do. She texted Gus that it was time and walked into the main waiting area. The reporters saw her and leapt to their feet, closing laptops and grabbing their notebooks. Gus greeted her, clapping his hands together gleefully.

  “Showtime, y’all,” he joked, his standard response before each execution. It had always seemed so matter-of-fact, but today it struck Kristy as downright heartless. Kristy gathered the witnesses and they made the trek across the street to the death house. She would oversee one group of witnesses, which included Clifton’s family. Gus would be in another room with Janice, her mother, and the other state witnesses.

  Kristy had briefed all the guests about where they would stand, and everyone found their assigned spots. The mood was somber, but routine. For most of the reporters, this was old hat, just another story to file. For the politicians in attendance, they’d use tonight as a way to brag to their constituents about their tough-on-crime stance.

  The curtain opened to reveal Clifton, strapped to the table, an audience gathered around to observe. Such a macabre scene for civilized society, Kristy thought. The tie-down team, all volunteer guards who believed in capital punishment, had already done their part. One person had secured the head, another the right arm, another the left arm, and so on until there was no possible way to escape. The only people that remained in the death chamber with Clifton were the warden and Chaplain Gohlke. In an adjoining room, the IV team was working to get the lines in place as they prepared the precise amount of lethal drugs needed to inject into Clifton.

  Kristy hadn’t thought to ask Clifton if he was afraid of needles. Kristy actually had an irrational fear of needles. Every time she needed a shot or blood work she told the doctor about her phobia, hoping that by stating it out loud, she might conquer it. It wasn’t the actual needle prick; it was the anticipation. The first injection would contain sodium pentothal, which put the prisoner to sleep. The second syringe had pancuronium bromide, a skeletal muscle relaxant, which paralyzes the prisoner’s lungs. The death knell would be the third and final injection of potassium chloride, which would cause cardiac arrest, stopping Clifton’s heart.

  Chaplain Gohlke stood at the edge of the gurney, his hands lightly touching Clifton’s feet, enough pressure to say, I’m here. You’re not alone.

  On the gurney, Clifton lay motionless, eyes glued to the ceiling, hands strapped down, facing outward. A reporter once described the final image of an inmate before an execution “like Christ at the crucifixion.” Kristy thought it was hyperbole, used to sell newspapers. “What a load of shit,” she’d said to Carmen, but tonight that’s how she saw it. An innocent man dying for someone else’s sins.

  Her hands tingled, a million tiny pinpricks stabbing at them, her breath coming out in spurts. She wondered what was running through Janice’s mind. Was she thanking God? Celebrating the fact that she’d destroyed Clifton in every way possible? Or was she innocent and Kristy’s empathy misdirected? She shook her hea
d, forcing away any doubts. I’m with you, she thought, hoping he could feel her support. I’m right here with you.

  The stale, musty air was clogging Kristy’s pores. Fiona was already wailing, her daughter stoic, tenderly rubbing her mother’s back and assuming the role of caretaker. The boom mic descended from the ceiling. Some inmates attempted to lift up their torsos to reach the mics, even though it wasn’t necessary to be heard. But not Clifton. He lay motionless, bound to the gurney. He swallowed nervously and licked his lips. The warden’s slow southern drawl came through the speakers.

  “Clifton Harris, do you have any final words?”

  He nodded and turned toward the glass, staring right at Janice.

  “I loved Rosie and Mikey, my precious babies. I did not kill them and I will meet my maker with a clear conscience. Janice knows the truth. One day so will everyone else. To my family, Fiona and Nina, and all of the Harris family that stuck by me and believed in me, to the friends who kept me going, I will not forget you. And I hope you will never forget me.” Clifton’s voice cracked but he didn’t cry. “I’m ready, Warden,” he said.

  His gaze had landed on Kristy and she gave a slight nod, wanting him to see that she had kept her promise. She was here for him. She’d be here until the end. It was eight fifteen. Kristy blinked and was back in that desolate, rain-soaked field, clutching the pistol, firing the .38 over and over again, Lance staggering backward, his body falling down on the wet, muddy earth. She shook away the haunting image, watching as the warden reached up to take off his glasses, his signal to the executioner that it was time to administer the drugs. Kristy wanted to run from the room and just keep on running, but instead she simply closed her eyes. She had seen too much death already. She sat there, waiting to hear the warden’s time-of-death confirmation, waiting for Clifton’s pain to end, waiting for it to all be over. Then the phone rang …