by Dirk Patton
After I had finished half the bottle, I started talking. Told her everything. Even about the cop who’d given me a ride. As the story progressed, she began crying. Softly. Tears running down her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked when I finished.
She reached out and pulled me into a hug, burying her face against my shoulder.
“They will find you,” she said, her voice muffled. “They will find you and take you away from me.”
We talked as the storm raged, buffeting the small car so hard it felt like it was going to flip us over. I stated my case, arguing as much with myself as her that there was no evidence to link me to the murders. She listened, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced. Finally, we were talked out. Unable to keep rehashing the events and possible outcomes.
After a few minuets, Monica dried her eyes, drank some of my water and picked up her phone. She dialed a number from memory and had a brief conversation in Spanish that I couldn’t hope to follow.
“What was that about?” I asked when she ended the call.
“Making sure Manny could stay over again tonight. I don’t want to sleep alone.”
The storm had passed by now, moving on to the Phoenix metropolitan area. Half an inch of dust had been deposited on the exterior of the car. As we pulled out of the parking lot and accelerated onto the freeway, it was blown away. We drove in silence, frequently having to slow for traffic as the DPS worked to clear accidents from the roadway.
I was exhausted from the stress of the day and my panicked flight across the desert. Within minutes of leaving the truck stop, I was asleep. It should only have taken an hour to reach our apartments from Casa Grande, but with the snarled traffic in the aftermath of the storm it wound up taking close to three.
Pulling in and parking near our doors, I realized I was starving. I had worked all day yesterday, with only a sandwich for lunch. There hadn’t been a dinner with the events of the previous evening, and today hadn’t exactly presented many opportunities for a meal.
“I’m starving,” I said. “I’ll get cleaned up then let’s go out to dinner.”
Going out to dinner was an extremely rare luxury for me. I just didn’t have the money. But I still had some of the cash the dirty cops had given me and I couldn’t think of a better use for some of it at the moment. Monica nodded and told me to meet her at the car in an hour.
We each went to our own apartment. I shaved and showered, dressing in my last set of clean clothes. Only half an hour had passed and I was ready, but knew Monica wouldn’t be. She was probably showering, putting on fresh makeup and I expected to see her in one of the sexy little dresses she liked to wear. As tired and hungry as I was, all I wanted was to see her.
Leaving the hot box apartment, I stepped out into the evening to wait for her. It was still hot, but the sun had gone down so it was tolerable. Better than the furnace inside and listening to the wheezing air conditioner. Leaning my ass against the front fender of her car, I pulled out my phone and dialed my parent’s number. My dad answered on the fourth ring.
He was glad to hear from me, as he always was, and I didn’t let the conversation drift into discussions of the latest political news. I knew that once he got started, there would be no stopping him. Getting his attention, I told him about Tim’s current predicament. I answered the questions I could, but didn’t tell him anything about my involvement.
“How much do you think it will take?” He asked.
“I don’t know, Dad. Probably a lot. You and I should drive down there tomorrow morning. You stay on the US side and I’ll go talk to the warden. When I have a number, I’ll call you and you can go to the bank. When you’ve got the cash, I’ll come back across and get it, then take it to the warden. And hopefully come back with Tim.”
There was silence on the other end for a long time. So long that I thought the call had dropped. Not unusual with my shitty prepaid phone.
“Dad? You still there?”
“I’m here,” he said, sounding older than I’d ever heard. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. Six too early?”
“No, that’s good,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”
With nothing else to discuss, I hung up and let out a big sigh. I turned my head when I heard a door open. It was Monica, looking even better than I had predicted. Her thick hair was pulled back, spilling across her shoulders. Her make up was fresh, applied carefully to accent her nearly perfect features. And the dress. Low in front and short in hem, it was enough to stop traffic two streets away.
I straightened up to meet her, smiling. She saw me and started to smile, her face suddenly registering fear as she saw something behind me. I whirled in time to see a dozen cops dressed in black, wearing body armor and carrying rifles.
They were only a short distance away and immediately began screaming at me to get on the ground. My stomach dropped and I slowly sank to my knees as they surrounded me, weapons trained on my heart. By the time I was prone on the crumbling asphalt, a helicopter was overhead. A brilliant spotlight illuminated the whole area as about a hundred cop cars screamed into the parking lot with roof lights flashing.
15
“It was the fucking lighter,” I said to Agent Johnson.
“Yes,” he said, flipping a page. “I saw that was the key piece of evidence used to convict you. Your prints were on a plastic butane lighter found in a ditch next to the truck you torched. That was a grave mistake, leaving it behind.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I said, with as much sarcasm as I could put into it. “So, did I tell you anything you didn’t know?”
“Only the part about Monica Torres,” he said. “She’s not mentioned anywhere in the records. You did a good job of protecting her.”
“She didn’t do anything,” I said, suddenly realizing the stupidity of having told the complete story. “I held a gun on her and made her drive me.”
“No need to worry, Mr. Whitman,” he smiled. “I’m not the least bit interested in what Ms. Torres may or may not have done. That’s ancient history, as far as I’m concerned. I’m much more interested in the here and now.”
“Tell me something first,” I said.
“If I can.”
“Those two dirty cops. I told my story to my defense attorney. At first he said that should be enough to get me off. A clear case of self defense. But nothing ever came of that. It didn’t come out at trial, even though I told that reporter I gave the interview to. And even when I fired my lawyer and got a new one, nothing ever came of it. Why not?”
“You didn’t know?” He looked surprised.
“Know what?”
He leaned back and took a moment to check the crease in his pants.
“The judge that presided over your case. And sentenced you. Do you know what became of him?”
I shook my head.
“He’s now the governor of Arizona. In his second term. There’s talk that he’s going to be a candidate for the White House in the next election. And guess who his staunchest supporters are?”
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Law enforcement unions. They very nearly bankrolled his first campaign.”
“Motherfucker!” I exploded. “You mean my trial was fixed?”
“I don’t know that I’d use that term,” he mused. “But when we began looking at you, there were several things that jumped out. Evidence that was suppressed at the prosecutor’s request. A prosecutor who, by the way, is married to the Sheriff’s sister. Too much evidence ruled inadmissible by the judge. Then, there are bank records that show way too much money floating around the sheriff’s department, and the two men you killed in particular. Money that can’t be accounted for.
“Certain prisoners being released after the investigators “lost” key evidence against them. Prisoners that were facing very long sentences for everything from drug and human trafficking to murder. It’s a tangled web and there’s a whole team of federal and state agents about to descend and start going thro
ugh everything with a fine toothed comb.”
“That’s just great,” I groused. “But it doesn’t help me. I’m dead. Right?”
“No, Mr. Whitman. You’re alive and well. Robert Tracy is dead. No one is looking for him and no one will. That’s what matters.”
“OK,” I said with a huff of resignation. “You’ve got me. I get that. Maybe I should be grateful, but I’ve grown cynical over the past ten years as a guest of the state. Now how about telling me what’s really going on?”
“How about we get some fresh air?” He asked, standing and straightening his jacket sleeves after adjusting his tie. “Ready to get out of that bed?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised, and at the same time expecting him to laugh and say he was just kidding.
But, he didn’t do anything of the sort. Dragging his chair out of the way, he leaned down and released the restraints on each of my ankles. Moving up, he undid the strap across my chest before freeing my hands.
“OK, easy,” he said, slipping a giant hand beneath my upper back. “You haven’t been on your feet in a long time. You’re going to be weak and unsteady.”
He helped me sit up on the edge of the mattress. I looked down at my pale legs sticking out of the hospital gown, amazed at how skinny they were. Johnson pushed a small button on the outside frame of the bed before he helped me stand. I swayed and would have fallen backwards if not for his steadying grip on my upper arms.
The door opened a moment later and the nurse stepped in.
“Agent Johnson? You buzzed?”
“Let’s get Mr. Whitman some clothes,” he said.
“Of course. Right away,” she said and disappeared.
While we waited, he held on to me as I took a few tentative steps. He was right. I was weak as hell and if not for his assistance wouldn’t have been able to walk a straight line. We made a couple of slow laps around the room before the nurse returned and placed a neatly folded pile of clothing on the foot of my bed. A pair of simple, white, rubber soled shoes sat on top of the stack.
Johnson eased me into the chair he’d occupied and began handing me the clothes. It took some doing, but eventually I was dressed in a set of scrubs and slipped the shoes on my feet. Standing, I swayed dangerously, holding a hand out to stop the Fed from helping me. I had to learn to do this on my own again.
Gaining my balance, I slowly followed him as he led the way out of the room. Outside was a circular nurses station, equipped with monitors to help them keep an eye on their patients. There was also apparently a live video feed, and I could see the room I’d just exited on a large screen.
Five other rooms were arranged around the central area, the nursing station at the core of the circle. All of their doors were open. Each room, other than mine, was dark. I was apparently the only patient on this ward. Still getting used to being upright, I wobbled and reached out to steady myself against the wall. When I touched it, my fingers felt like they had just contacted hot acid.
“What the hell’s wrong with my hands?” I asked, looking down at them.
“New prints,” Agent Johnson said. “We changed your face, but if someone fingerprinted you the ruse would fall apart.”
“What do you mean they’re new?”
“A rather complicated process, actually,” he answered, motioning me to walk with him. “Several layers of skin are removed. Not just your fingertips, but your palms as well. Once we’ve gone deep enough to ensure they’re completely erased, new skin that was grown from your own cells is grafted in place.
“There’s no rejection because it’s your skin. It takes nicely, and at key times throughout the healing process a computer controlled laser is used to etch new prints into the virgin flesh. It’s all quite detailed, and I’m told extremely painful. That’s the main reason you’ve been kept sedated. To spare you the pain.”
I had come to a stop at a pair of doors that exited the ward. Standing there, I stared at my hands and carefully touched each fingertip with my thumbs. It hurt like hell at the slightest pressure. Lifting my hands, I peered at them and could make out the loops and whorls on the end of each finger.
“So you’re telling me I could walk into a police station and have my prints run and they wouldn’t come back as Bob Tracy, convicted murderer?”
“Correct. They’d come back as JR Whitman, truck driver.”
Johnson smiled and motioned again for me to keep moving. I followed him through the doors and into a stark corridor. It ended at a T intersection and he turned right. A few steps farther and we reached a blank, steel door.
A flat key card reader with a single red light was on the wall next to it. He pulled a plain white piece of plastic, about the size of a credit card, out of an inner jacket pocket and held it against the reader. With a loud click, the lock released and he pushed the door open.
It was dark outside, which was probably a good thing as my eyes were bothering me just from the fluorescent lighting in the hallway. As the door swung open, fresh air smelling of the sea rushed in and I immediately felt rejuvenated. Johnson stepped through and I followed, looking all around as I emerged into the night.
We took several steps on a steel deck and I came to a stop, turning my head in all directions, examining my surroundings. Looking up, I saw a soaring superstructure, a red light at the apex flashing regularly to warn low flying aircraft. There was a steady breeze that was warm and humid, and I breathed deeply of the clean air as I followed Johnson to a waist high rail.
Looking down, I saw the dark surface of an ocean, visible in the light of a full moon. It must have been a hundred feet, or more, below our level. Looking in every direction I saw nothing other than a dark horizon. I was on a massive, offshore oil rig.
16
“Hello, Mr. Whitman. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the thin woman said as she breezed into the conference room.
The room was small, but not cramped. A table occupied the center, half a dozen well upholstered chairs surrounding it. Agent Johnson and I were seated on the side opposite the entrance, waiting for her arrival.
It was three days following my brief stroll around the outside of the oil rig. I still didn’t know any more about what was going on, and curiosity was driving me nuts. I’d spent the past two days meeting with a psychiatrist each morning and most of the afternoons on treadmills. Getting my strength back.
The conversations with the shrink had been odd. At least to me. I’d never talked to one before. Some of the questions he asked were just weird. And he seemed to be obsessed with my sex life. I had to disappoint him. I hadn’t had a sex life for a very long time.
People seem to think that when you’re in prison, you’ll inevitably succumb to need and find a willing, or unwilling, partner of the same sex. Sure, a lot of guys do. But there are a lot that don’t. I was in the second category, and he almost seemed disappointed with my answer.
We’d had a lengthy discussion about the two murders I’d committed, though I refused to acknowledge that I considered what I’d done as murder. The fuckers were going to kill my family, and I had little doubt they planned to leave my body in the desert for the vultures and coyotes. They started the chain of events that led to their deaths. All I did was finish it, and my only regret was the impact on my nice, quiet life.
He asked what I felt about Monica. I was honest when I answered that there hadn’t been a single day in prison that I hadn’t thought about her. Missed her. Hoped she’d found someone who was treating her right.
She had visited me regularly during the first couple of months leading up to my trial. That was when I actually had hope that the truth would come out and exonerate me. She had met with my lawyer and offered to testify, but she only knew what I’d told her. He rejected her offer, explaining why she couldn’t help, and when I found out I exploded. The last thing I ever wanted was for her to get dragged into my mess.
I told her to stop coming. It was one of the hardest things that I’ve ever done, and I’m sure I broke her hear
t. But she honored my wishes. Not that I didn’t cherish every second I got to see her face and hear her voice, but there was no point. At best, I could hope for life in prison. At worst? In Arizona, murder of a peace officer is a capital crime. Punishable by death if the jury unanimously arrives at that sentence.
Once I was convicted, the penalty phase began. I wasn’t really sure which sentence I wanted. Would death really be that much worse than rotting in a cell until I died of old age? I’d already seen some of the lifers, a couple of them so old and decrepit that they were no longer a threat to anyone. They weren’t even capable of harming a fly. But they were going to die in prison. Not a dignified way to spend your waning days.
So, despite numerous problems which caused a mistrial of the penalty phase, the court finally got its shit together and empaneled a jury of my peers that decided I deserved to die for what I’d done. By the time this was all over, seven years had passed. I’d already been in prison, and the only thing that changed for me was when I was transferred from a shared cell in the general prison population to a private cell on death row.
The shrink wanted to know about all of this. What I had been feeling. What I thought. Even what I fantasized about. He didn’t appreciate my first answer that I had fantasized about his mother. But we got past that. And I had another appointment with him this afternoon.
“Doctor,” Agent Johnson said, getting to his feet when the woman entered the conference room.
He smacked my shoulder and gestured for me to get up. I hadn’t had a lot of opportunities to practice my manners over the past decade or so. Feeling sheepish, I stood and looked at the new arrival.
She was not just thin, she was painfully thin. My atrophied arms were larger than the sticks she called legs, which stuck out of the bottom of what I think used to be called a pencil skirt. Today, who the hell knew what the name for the style was.