She nodded with a weary smile, knowing that being “welcome” meant she was expected to attend. Last of all they reminded her about the funeral tomorrow at Arlington Cemetery of a person whom they called “one of this conflict’s great heroes.”
It rang hollow when they said it, but yes, Doggie nodded, she’d be there. Donald Beglaubter was “one of this conflict’s great heroes.” Did they think he’d already been forgotten?
They’d said she would be driven home but hadn’t arranged for a chauffeur. Empty promises already seemed typical of these two men. So she went to her office and found some extra outerwear. She thought a moment about her Fendi bag and that she missed it. You must be crazy, she told herself.
When she made it down to the control post, the same guard was sitting there who hadn’t recognized her the day before. Now he did. “There’s been a call for you, Miss Rogers. You are to go back, through the building, and down to the fountain. A Mr. T. Perkins is waiting for you.”
* * *
—
The glow of the fire had finally died out, and the floodlights that had been illuminating the area were soon to be switched off. The throngs of people had dispersed, leaving only filthy, exhausted firefighters and rescue personnel—plus, of course, the ever-present FEMA agents and the reporters. She saw T standing by the fountain, in the process of lighting a cigarette. He appeared thinner than ever as he looked over and noticed her. Approaching him, his eyes held so much sympathy that she broke into tears before reaching his embrace.
“I’ve arranged for transportation down to the prison,” he told her quietly when she’d settled down and nodded towards a helicopter standing on the lawn with its slowly whooshing rotor blade. “Shall we take this? It’s your decision, Doggie.”
“Do I get to see my father?” she whispered.
“That’s the whole idea, girl.”
She looked at the chopper. She’d wanted to do something like this all her life. To ascend from precisely this spot in a helicopter with the American bald eagle on its side. To see the White House disappear under her feet and glide over the Washington Monument, the Mall, and the winding Potomac. She had imagined gravity releasing her as she pondered the weighty words of great Americans. Instead all she was feeling was spite and a defiled soul. Living out this dream was going to be a rude awakening. Washington was a shadow of itself, and so was she.
An officer led her to the aircraft and showed her to her seat. A nurse who was standing behind the pilot nodded to her. What was she doing there? Were they afraid she would fall completely apart at the sight of her father?
She could understand if they were.
“That’s where you sit,” said the officer, pointing to an empty seat.
A bulky plaid blanket had been thrown onto the seat next to her. She sat down and pulled the blanket towards her to wrap around herself and get some rest. Then came the shock, for under the blanket, there lay Wesley, dozing. He was pale, and the sight of his strong arms with rolled-up sleeves made her want to touch him. But then she noticed the needle in the crook of his arm and the tubing leading to a plastic bag hooked onto the wall of the helicopter.
She looked at the nurse.
“He’s okay,” the woman said. “He’s tired, of course, but he demanded to be brought along.” She smiled. “We tried to make him change his mind, but you can imagine how much luck we had.”
“What about his injuries?”
“He’ll be all right; we’re taking good care of him.”
She looked over at T, who was nodding his agreement. She couldn’t have asked for two better escorts on this dreadful journey.
She placed her hand cautiously on Wesley’s arm. It was nice and warm now, thank God.
He gave a little shiver, then his eyes opened, and he looked at her so tenderly, she was ready to cry again.
“I’m so, so sorry, Doggie,” he said weakly. His eyes were lusterless, and for the first time she noticed the contours of all the bandaging under his loose clothing.
Then she put her head next to his, feeling his breath on her cheek.
CHAPTER 45
They landed on Sussex State Prison’s enormous parking lot with the white aura of the morning sun rising behind the depths of the forest. Dew was still glistening on the flowers behind the silver-gray fence.
Wesley squeezed Doggie’s hand and told her things were going to be okay. Nobody hoped he was right more than she.
They stepped out onto the asphalt and were greeted by a little deputation that was standing before a row of official-looking vehicles, including those of the local police and FBI.
A man rolled a wheelchair out to the helicopter in spite of Wesley’s protests. Those were the conditions, the nurse said, if he hoped to come inside.
“We’re not finished with our investigation,” said a man in a police uniform, stepping forward. He shook their hands. “There are still plenty of fingerprints that need registering, but if you just follow Sergeant Laurel here, you should be able to get into death row by now. We’ve been instructed by Secretary Billy Johnson and former vice president Lerner to help you with whatever you need. I can see I needn’t emphasize that you mustn’t touch anything since you’ve brought a professional along.” He greeted T. Perkins like an old friend, which he probably was.
Doggie looked over at the flat cement blocks where human beings were kept out of sight the rest of their lives. Her father had lost his life somewhere inside this hideous, infamous monument to “justice.” Once, as a teenager—lost in Victorian romanticism—she had asked where he would die, given the choice. She’d hoped he would say the Taj Mahal or atop Mount Ararat, and she had cried when he said he would like to die in his mother’s arms. She remembered how his answer had made death so real for her.
Now death had come, with no arms to hold him.
* * *
—
They were led down a long hallway where Doggie had never been before. Behind her, Wesley was still going on about being able to walk by himself as T pushed him along. In the meantime Sergeant Laurel tried to explain in as mild terms as possible all the bloodstains they encountered along the way.
Doggie had tried to imagine Sussex’s death row many times, but she wasn’t prepared for what she saw. None of them were.
The corpses had been removed everywhere else, but not here. Even though it was cool in the cellblocks, the stink of dead bodies was already pervasive. There were remains of blood everywhere on the floor and walls.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, and grabbed Wesley’s hand behind her.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” said the sergeant. “Obviously no one told you how far we’d gotten in the cleanup. This is the last area that hasn’t been reached yet. I’m afraid we’re lacking manpower these days.”
T mumbled something to himself and shook his head. Apparently, even he wasn’t used to sights like this. He gave her a somber look. “Are you sure, Doggie? You don’t have to come in.”
She just nodded, and T walked over to a group of white-clad technicians. They had bloody plastic bags on their feet and blood far up their arms. Walking around, taking pictures of corpses from every angle—it was all the same to them. Her father was just another entry in their journal.
Her chest felt tight. How was she supposed to be able to go and look into the cells? What was she supposed to see? And how could they just let people lie like that for so long?
“Hey, T, you owe me a cell phone,” called out one of the technicians, who then stuck out his hand. T rummaged around in his pocket, pulled out the cell phone, and gave it to the man. This little, everyday exchange seemed grotesquely out of place in the midst of such a hellish scene.
A new wave of paralyzing despair washed over Doggie, and for a moment she had to stop and lean against the bars of the first cell.
“Your father’s down here, Miss Rogers,” said the police ser
geant, fifteen feet farther along the corridor.
She let go of the bars hesitantly, got a quick hug from Wesley, and strode past a row of empty cells with wide-open doors.
“There’s nothing to see at this end. There were militiamen in these first seven or eight cells, and the rest of them were vacant, down to number fourteen, where your father was.”
“Vacant?”
“Yes, vacant. These ones had already been executed,” he said. “Space had to be made for new condemned men; the tempo of executions had been speeded up, you know. Excuse me for saying it, but your father was to be the first one executed under the new two-executions-per-day quota.” He looked at his watch. “In fact he was scheduled to be executed five minutes ago.”
Now he had said that loathsome word five times in a row. One more time and she’d scream to high heaven. She fought to control her trembling lower lip and forced herself to keep walking.
T. Perkins was already standing in front of her father’s cell and raised a cautioning hand as she approached. “I don’t know if you ought to see this, Doggie,” he said.
But she clasped his hand tight and made herself take the last couple of steps. Her father was lying squeezed up under the sink against the far wall. A solitary, little, crumpled orange-red bundle with one stuck-out arm that had left a bloody trail on the wall. An indeterminable organic red-and-gray mass lay spread out on the bed next to him. She heard herself sob and felt Wesley take her other hand.
“Oh, God, T, we came so close,” she sobbed. “We were so damned, damned close!” Sheriff Perkins remained silent. For once words failed him.
“I’m sorry you had to see your father like this,” the cop interjected. “We haven’t touched him yet; the technicians have just finished going through all the cells, and next it’s the police pathologists’ turn.”
“But I assume we can go in now,” said T. The officer nodded.
“Are you sure you want to come in, Doggie?” asked T.
She watched him enter the cell, as prudently and respectfully as he possibly could. It was clear he was on familiar ground. He stepped over the pool of blood, squatted down, and carefully took hold of the orange jumpsuit. “I’m going to turn him over,” he informed her. “It won’t be a pretty sight. He’s been shot in the head.”
She felt Wesley’s hand tighten.
Then T shook his head, and Doggie suddenly felt she was about to faint.
“I can’t look at him, T. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to, actually. It’s not him, Doggie. It’s not your father.”
Still she took a deep breath and looked directly at the corpse’s face. It was an appalling sight: a quarter of the skull was gone along with one eye, and the nose was an unrecognizable, bloody pulp. Stunned as she was, she smiled briefly.
“No, it . . . It’s not him,” she stuttered in amazement.
“I don’t understand this!” exclaimed the police officer. “It says ENEMY OF THE STATE on the front of his jumpsuit, so he must be one of the militia.” He looked around. “Someone must have made a mistake with this inmate list. It says here Bud Curtis was supposed to be in cell number fourteen.”
T bent over and picked up a bloody metal object from under the sink. It was a cell phone. He looked at the display. “The battery’s dead,” he said. “Now I can see that phone wasn’t of much help to your father. Come, Doggie, we’ll have to look in the other cells.”
“I can’t do it, T,” she said, feeling hope fade.
He nodded. “Okay, I’ll take care of it, then.”
She followed slowly behind T, together with Wesley, and glanced into the adjoining cell where a lifeless black face peered back at her, looking innocent as a child’s.
Then there were four cells with white inmates, none of whom could have been older than fifty. Then two more cells—one black man, one white, both in their twenties.
Doggie’s breathing came heavier and heavier, and she gripped Wesley’s hand tight as she watched T inspect one pen after another.
Finally he reported that there was only one white man in the six remaining cells, and he definitely wasn’t her father.
He swung the last cell door shut and turned to the police sergeant. “Do you think there’s anyone present now who had guard duty here at the time of the attack?” he asked.
“Here? No, there’s only one guard in here,” the man replied, pointing at the body lying at the end of the corridor, “and he was on afternoon duty.”
T’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “No, no. I don’t mean in here, I mean a live one, someone who’s somewhere in this prison at the present time who was on duty here the night before last.”
“Just a minute.”
He made inquiries over his walkie-talkie. “Someone’s on the way down. He’s one of the reserves we’ve had to call in. He just arrived for his shift. He had no idea what had happened.”
* * *
—
Five minutes later a very distraught prison officer appeared. Totally disheveled and with cuts on his knuckles, he had been drinking and partying ever since his last shift, and now his pickled brain was struggling to fathom the sight that greeted him.
“I . . . I . . . I . . .” he stammered as he stared at the body of the prison guard, lying at the door to the death chamber. “I got off around six o’clock yesterday morning. We . . . We were always changing the work schedule around. God, it could just as well have been my shift. Wow . . . This is enough to really make you t . . . twisted.” He tried to smile, but seeing how inappropriate it was, he quickly took off his cap and looked apologetically at the body of his dead colleague. “He . . . That was Lassie,” he said, mostly to himself. “That’s what we called him.” He pointed at the guard’s thick, golden-red hair by way of explanation. “Wh . . . Why haven’t they taken him away yet?”
“Where is Bud Curtis?” asked T sharply.
The man waved his hand towards cell fourteen. “O . . . Over there, I assume.”
“Come,” said T. They entered the cell and went over to the body. “Well?”
“That . . . That’s not Curtis.”
“No, I’m fucking well aware of that! But why is he here, and where is Curtis? Was Curtis in this cell while you were on duty?”
“Hell, yes,” said the guard, and slipped into a more collegial tone of voice. “Look.” He showed T his battered knuckles. “I was in here myself, teaching him a little discipline, know what I mean? Hell, yes.”
Doggie felt like teaching him a little discipline herself.
“Why?” T demanded.
“Because . . . Falso said we should.”
T turned to Doggie. “There’s something here that is a hundred percent wrong,” he said. “I know Falso in and out. He’s not like that.”
“But . . . But he did. And him . . .” He pointed at the dead man in the cell. “He’s the one from cell seven. He was a late arrival. He cut the heads off some . . . some soldiers up in . . . in Richmond,” he said.
“And he was from one of the militias?” asked T. The guy nodded.
“Were there any transports?”
“Trans . . . ports?”
“For Christ’s sake, you feebleminded bum. Yes, transports! Were there condemned men transported to other prisons yesterday?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “M . . . Maybe later. I left at six in the morning, you know.”
“Have there been any the past few days?”
He shook his head.
Doggie heard Wesley in the wheelchair behind her. “Are there other places where they carry out executions?” he asked the officer, but T answered instead.
“They do in Greensville Correctional Center, down by Jarrett. I know the number.” He dictated it to Wesley, who punched it into his cell phone, then handed the phone to T.
Doggie could sense T’s gravity.
It was almost six thirty, a half hour since her father was to have been executed. Was to have been. Thinking of it that way still allowed her to cling to hope.
“Give me Gordon Hinkley,” said T to the person who answered the phone, then he put his hand over the receiver. “The warden isn’t there; he’s sick,” he whispered. A moment passed, then he put his question to the warden’s deputy.
“You received a transfer yesterday, you say?” He nodded, then his face darkened. Again, Doggie felt ready to faint.
“Hmm . . . uh-huh . . . okay.”
“Say something, T!” she shouted. “Is it him?”
T frowned. “It happened at six A.M., you say. . . . Are you certain . . . ? No, you can’t check the name when you don’t know where the prisoner’s been transferred from, for God’s sake. You get them all the time, don’t you?”
Doggie wanted to cover her ears but couldn’t.
“You say you don’t know where the journal is? You son of a bitch, I’m standing here in Waverly with people from the White House, waiting to pick up a prisoner, and now I want a plain answer, or else you can take your employment contract and stick it where the sun never shines, got it? Yes, that means up your ass! How dim can a person be? Now get going!”
He leaned over and stroked Doggie’s hair. “We’re waiting. . . . Take courage, girl.”
She held her breath.
“A Steven Stoklosa, you say. Are you sure?” She raised her head.
“Good! And there are no more scheduled? Okay. Listen: You’re not to execute more inmates until you receive new directives, do you understand. . . . ? On who’s authority? The attorney general and Michael K. Lerner! That’s right, the one who was vice president before Sunderland. And on top of that, you can add the chairmen of all the fucking committees you can think of—got it? You do? Good! And one more thing: Are they executing people other places apart from your prison and Sussex? Yes, here in Virginia, fool. . . . Thank you.” He hung up and dried the sweat off his brow.
The Washington Decree Page 60