by James Raven
When the warden was finished with me he introduced the prison chaplain, a tall guy with a stoop and a shiny bald head. I noticed he was wearing brown tasselled loafers.
‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through,’ he said to me. ‘But I want you to know that you are not alone here. God is with you.’
He recited a couple of prayers and then read out his own translation of Psalm 51 from The Book of Psalms, which began:
‘Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving kindness; in your great compassion blot out my offences. Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my sin is ever before me….’
He then told me he would be with me in the death chamber. His parting words were: ‘You must now make your peace with God.’
I was left alone then to stew in a cauldron of fear and regret.
The guards gathered in the corridor outside the cell just before six. The warden was there too. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes blank. This was routine to them. They were going through the motions.
The warden said, ‘It’s time to go, Lee.’
My breath suddenly roared in my ears and I felt a cold terror in my chest.
The cell door was unlocked and I was told to stand up. At first I didn’t respond because I couldn’t. It was as though I had been unplugged from reality. Then I felt a hand grip my arm and I was pulled to me feet.
‘Come quietly, son, and we won’t have to use cuffs or chains.’
They led me along the corridor to the chamber. A short, silent walk. Tremors started to move through my limbs and my legs felt weak and rubbery.
The heavy metal door was opened. No one spoke. For just a fleeting moment I thought about putting up a fight and making it hard for them. But what was the point? I’d just be making it harder for myself.
As I stepped inside the chamber I felt something cold and solid form in my stomach. The image that confronted me was one that had been drilled into my consciousness over the years by countless TV documentaries, news reports, movies and photographs. The place where hundreds of men and women had come to die.
The chamber was smaller than I imagined it would be. It was bright and sterile, with turquoise walls and a gurney in the centre with arm supports. On one side was a small mirrored window beyond which the drugs team were waiting to do their job. On the other side curtains were drawn across the windows through which the witnesses would observe the proceedings.
A ripple of fear convulsed inside me and a wash of acid scalded my oesophagus. I felt my lips move. No sound came out. But I heard my own tortured words in my head.
Please God let it be quick. And let me be strong.
‘I need you to hop onto the gurney,’ the warden said. ‘Lay your head on the pillow and put your feet at the other end. Then stretch out your arms.’
There were five guards in the tie-down team. It took them about thirty seconds to strap me down in a crucifixion pose. The leather belts went across my chest, arms, abdomen and legs. And then a heart monitor was attached to me.
As this was happening my eyes drifted in and out of focus and I found it hard to breathe. I flinched as two IVs were then inserted, one in each arm. I’d been told that only one was necessary to carry out the execution. The other was a back-up in case the primary line failed. The tubes led through the wall into the drug room next door.
At this point the curtains across the viewing windows were pulled back. One room was empty because I’d told Emily and Zimmerman to stay away. In the other room stood a group of about half a dozen people. Reporters, I guessed, along with the friends and relatives of Kimberley Crane. One of them I recognized instantly.
Gideon Crane.
His hair was greyer now and he had lost weight. He was wearing a dark suit and a bright red tie. We locked eyes. His were wide and hostile. I tried to hold his stare and not to blink, but I found it impossible to focus on even that one small task.
‘Would you like to make a final statement?’ the warden said.
I turned away from Crane but I could still feel the heat from his eyes on me. A microphone was suspended from the ceiling above the gurney. The warden lowered it towards my face. I hesitated for a weighty second before I found my voice.
‘I’m innocent,’ I said. ‘I did not kill Kimberley Crane.’
No one responded, but I didn’t expect them to. Instead I heard the chaplain start to read out a prayer. At the same time the warden must have given the signal because the lethal drugs started to flow through the tube and into my veins.
In seconds my lungs felt like they were being squeezed shut. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I stared at the ceiling as my breathing became more and more laboured.
Then I felt myself letting go.
Just before the darkness took me I heard myself call out Marissa’s name.
6
GIDEON CRANE FELT a cold numbness envelop him as he watched Lee Jordan die. The guy’s body shook a little, his lips seemed to turn blue, and finally his chest stopped moving.
‘Oh, my God,’ Pauline said in a hushed tone, as she grabbed his arm and buried her face against his shoulder.
Crane continued to stare into the death chamber, his heart pounding, his mouth dry. It’s over, he thought. At long fucking last.
Pauline squeezed his hand. He felt a shiver grab hold of his spine. Almost ten years to the day after Lee Jordan invaded his home with his accomplice, he was dead. Thank God.
The congressman watched as a suited physician entered the chamber. He checked the heart monitor, then Jordan’s pulse and eyes. He then turned to the warden and pronounced that Jordan was no longer alive. Time of death was recorded as fifteen minutes past six.
As Crane walked out of the viewing room with the other witnesses he could feel a rush of adrenaline circulating through his system.
‘Are you all right, Gideon?’ Pauline asked him as they stepped outside the death house.
He came to a stop and filled his lungs with heavy draughts of sweet, cool air.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m relieved it’s over,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t an easy thing to watch.’
He gave her arm a squeeze. ‘It was brave of you to come.’
A TV crew and a couple of reporters were waiting outside to get his reaction. He was careful what he said and made a point of not looking too pleased.
‘I’m just glad that after ten years I can put this terrible ordeal behind me,’ he told them. ‘I can at last focus on the future, especially the Presidential nomination race. Lee Jordan can now answer to God for what he did to my darling wife.’
7
MARISSA IS WAITING for me. She’s standing in the front doorway of a small, timber-frame house that has been painted a brilliant white. When she sees me she beams a smile and waves.
My heart leaps and I start to run towards her. She looks beautiful in a lilac-blue summer dress, her long blonde hair framing a face that has not aged in seven years.
But she doesn’t wait for me to reach her. Instead she steps backwards into the house and closes the door behind her. I try to pick up speed, but realize that I’m not getting any closer. It’s like I’m running on a treadmill.
Then I see a dark plume of smoke escaping from an open window on the ground floor. Half a second later the smoke turns into a bright orange flame that seizes the timber framework and spreads with lightning speed. I hear my wife scream. I feel the fierce heat of the fire on my face as the flames quickly engulf the entire building.
And then suddenly I wake up. Just as I always do when my recurring nightmare reaches this point.
‘Welcome back from the dead, Lee.’
A man’s voice. One I don’t recognize. It’s coming from somewhere in the darkness. I move towards it. But it’s slow going. Like climbing up a greasy wall out of a deep hole in the ground.
‘You’re not dreaming, Lee. You really are alive.’
The voice a
gain. Soft. Almost a whisper. Burred with a southern drawl. My eyes spring open. Everything’s a blur. Like staring into a mist. I’m aware of an ache in my head and a soft rattle in my chest as I breathe.
The mist clears. I’m now staring up at a ceiling that’s off-white and flat. A flicker of movement draws my eyes to the left. I see a man’s face. He’s unfamiliar. A square jaw and thin mouth. Brown hair parted with surgical precision. Eyes bloodshot and glassy, with heavy pouches beneath them.
‘It’s a hell of a thing to absorb, Lee,’ the man says. ‘So take it slowly. And try not to overreact.’
I’m drifting in and out of awareness. Not sure what this stranger is telling me. I feel sick. The pounding in my head is growing more intense.
And then an image flashes in my mind, swirling into a mental hologram. A room with turquoise walls and windows on either side. People staring at me through the glass. There’s a gurney in the centre of the room and I see myself strapped on top of it, my arms outstretched as though I’m on a cross.
Holy crap.
It all comes back to me then in a great savage flood of memory that leaves me breathless.
The execution chamber, where they gave me a lethal injection. I can even remember floating into oblivion as the drugs shut down my mind and body.
So why am I still breathing?
‘My name is Aaron Vance,’ the man says, holding up an ID badge. ‘I’m a Special Agent in Charge with the FBI. I’m here to tell you that you’ve been given a second chance at life.’
8
I STARED UP at Aaron Vance, my alarm clouded with confusion. Was this really happening? How could I possibly be alive? It made no frigging sense.
My head started spinning with questions. I felt disoriented and only half coherent.
‘What’s going on?’ I blurted. ‘I should be dead.’
I gazed up at the FBI man’s face in disbelief. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth and I could smell tobacco on his breath. He was well groomed and expensively dressed. ‘To all intents and purposes the execution took place, Lee,’ he said. ‘As you can no doubt remember. But the audience were conned. And so were you. What happened in that chamber was an elaborate illusion.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’
And I didn’t. How could I? The memory of what had happened to me was now so clear. It couldn’t possibly have been an illusion.
‘It wasn’t deadly poison that was pumped into your bloodstream,’ Vance said. ‘It was a cocktail of drugs that rendered you unconscious and in effect simulated death. The heart monitor was rigged to flat-line at the touch of a button and the drugs made it look like you’d stopped breathing.’
I hauled myself to a sitting position. But it was difficult. A wave of nausea washed over me. I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. When I opened them again Vance was holding out a glass of water.
‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
I took the glass but my hand was trembling so he helped me raise it to my mouth. The water was cold and fresh and it tasted good.
I noticed for the first time that I was on a double bed in a large, bright room. I was still wearing the prison jumpsuit. Vance was standing next to the bed and there was someone else over by the door. A hulking guy with a boxer’s nose and a black crew-cut. Dressed in a loose sweater and jeans. He was sitting on a chair with his arms folded across his chest.
I wiped spilled water from my chin with the back of my hand and said, ‘There were witnesses. They all saw it happen.’
Vance put the glass down on the bedside table and shook his head. ‘As far as they’re concerned you died on the gurney. They saw you lose consciousness and assumed you were dead. It was up to the physician to examine you to provide confirmation. And the physician was installed by the FBI. So was the official who administered the drugs in the other room. The warden who oversaw the proceedings is also on our payroll. A lot of planning went into it, Lee, and in the end it was pretty easy to pull off. You see, people tend to believe what they see. And after the witnesses saw you fry they didn’t hang around. Your body was moved out of the chamber and away from there in minutes. A van was waiting to bring you here.’
I sat there in reverent silence, my back against the headboard. It was difficult to separate emotion from logic. A second chance at life, the man had said. Was it really possible? Should I feel elated?
Or was there a catch?
I just couldn’t get my mind around what was happening. My execution had been faked, for Christ’s sake. After almost ten years on death row the authorities had only pretended to kill me. It was extraordinary. Mystifying. Beyond fucking belief.
‘I can tell you’re bewildered, Lee,’ Vance said. ‘That’s only to be expected. I know I would be.’
He took something from his inside pocket. A sheet of paper. He held it in front of me. I could barely focus, but it looked like some kind of official document.
‘In case you’re in any doubt that the world at large believes you’re dead you should take a look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s a copy of your death certificate. Because it was a legal killing your death is recorded as homicide. That’s normal in these circumstances.’
I took the certificate from him. Ran my eyes over it. Certain words and phrases stuck out.
Court ordered lethal injection.
Manner of death – homicide.
Lee Martin Jordan.
I felt goose bumps crawl up my arms and my pulse started to race. I tried to swallow but my throat clicked dry.
‘There’s more,’ Vance said. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s now three in the morning. You officially died seven hours ago. In four hours from now an empty coffin supposedly containing your body will slide into the furnace at a crematorium a mile from the Walls. Your remains will be scattered in the grounds of the prison cemetery where more than a hundred other inmates are buried.’
It was all too much to take in. My thoughts were burning like a fuse, but they were muddled and abstract. I looked at Vance. He had intense brown eyes and a coating of stubble on his chin. His body beneath the suit looked stocky and toned.
‘Where am I?’ I said.
‘You’re in an FBI facility near San Antonio,’ Vance said. ‘We’ll provide you with everything you need while you come to terms with what has happened. There’s an en-suite bathroom through that door. You’ve got a refrigerator with some food and drink. In the closet you’ll find some clothes. There’s a TV, books and magazines. There’s also a button next to the door. If you need something just press it.’
He gestured towards the other guy. ‘That’s Daniels. He’s my right hand man and he’ll be looking after you.’
I tried to rein in my thoughts so that I could formulate what I wanted to say. But the words got stuck in my throat.
‘The door will stay locked and the window is barred,’ Vance said. ‘You won’t be going anywhere, at least not right away. But I can assure you that you will find this place far more comfortable than the cell you’ve been in for the past ten years.’
Vance reached down and picked something up off the bedside table.
‘We retrieved these from the death house,’ he said, handing me my Bible and the photograph of Marissa.
At last I found my voice.
‘Why did you save me?’ I asked.
He smiled, revealing straight bone-white teeth.
‘Obviously we had a good reason,’ he said. ‘There’s something you’re going to have to do for us. In return you’ll be given a new identity on our witness protection programme and a new life. You’re a very lucky guy.’
‘What do I have to do?’ I said.
‘All in good time, Lee. For now just rest up and relax. You need to get your thoughts together. I’ll be back to have another chat later.’
Vance and his side-kick left me alone then. As they closed the door behind them I passed a hand over my face and pressed my eyes shut.
Then I prayed that what was happening was real. And not a dream that would soon come to a sudden, gut-wrenching end.
9
I OPENED MY eyes, letting my senses soak up everything in the room. The beige carpet. The black leather sofa. The yellow curtains on the window. The TV on a stand. The dressing table with a coffee machine on it. The small refrigerator. The stand-alone mahogany closet.
I drank in the colours, the soft tones, the aesthetic contours. It was a world away from the dung heap of a cell I’d lived in on death row.
I got up off the bed and started to explore, enthralled by a sense of wonder. I hadn’t watched TV in years. I could barely remember what it was like to open a fridge. So being here was nothing less than an emotionally charged adventure. Like suddenly being cured of blindness.
I opened the fridge door and gasped. There were several bottles of Bud. A carton of milk. A plate of white-bread sandwiches. Even a bottle of red wine with a screw top. One of the shelves contained candy bars and pastries. I blew out a whistle and felt my face crack a wide smile.
I grabbed a beer. There was an opener on top of the fridge. My hands shook as I levered off the top. The first slug was amazing. The ice-cold nectar exploded in the back of my throat and the sensation almost moved me to tears. I downed the whole bottle in about five seconds flat and helped myself to another. Jesus, it was good. I then picked up a sandwich. Ham and sweet pickle. Bit into it. It was quite the best thing I had ever tasted.
I walked over to the en suite bathroom, opened the door, turned on the light. The tub was white and pear-shaped and there as a separate shower cubicle with a frosted glass door. On a shelf next to the sink was a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit and soap. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was long and dark and untidy. My eyes were deep set and bloodshot. The skin sat in folds beneath them. People used to say I looked like my grandfather, a half Mexican who had moved across the border from Tijuana when he was a teenager. From the photos I had seen he had clearly been a handsome young man, but right now I looked like he did when he was in his late forties and dying from pancreatic cancer.