To Sleep... Perchance to Die

  God. Please not make it have anything to do with Frankie’s murder. “Now, take it easy. What are you talking about?”

  “I had to tell them, Dr. Warden.”

  “Tell who? What?”

  “A private investigator and the Hartford police. They’ve locked me up. I’m not sure where I am, just in a Hartford police station somewhere in what they call the North Meadows.” Taking a moment to swallow, “I told them what we did. Had no other choice. They knew about us.”

  It was Jake’s turn to swallow. He and Mai were going to be charged with the crime they had pinned on Bret. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was ringing in his ears, and he felt lightheaded, but pressed for more information. “What did you tell them?”

  Corrie began to relate what had happened beginning with the money pickup at Union Station. It wasn’t long before Jake stopped listening. He hit End Call on his phone and left Corrie talking into dead air. He had to be with Mai. Not chancing a phone call that might make her panic, he left for Lover’s Lane and the home slated to be his after they married.

  As soon as the decision to book Corrie was made, Bob Dillon called Hubie Santos, “I’ve got important news.”

  “I’m guessing something big has come up concerning my nephew’s case. Go ahead, let me have it.”

  “I’ve broken the Grimaldi murder. It happened pretty much like we thought.”

  “Give me a second,” Hubie said, “I’ve got to sit.”

  The P.I. heard the sniffle and understood. He gave Hubie the moment he wanted before filling him in on the day’s events.

  When Bob finished, Hubie said, “Stay there. I’ll be right down.”

  By the time Attorney Cantor arrived at the North Meadows station, Hubie had developed a plan to get Bret released from prison. The Willimantic lawyer was informed of Corrie’s plight and recognized the best option for his client was to attempt to cut a deal with the State.

  The two attorneys had faced each other in court and had an amicable working relationship. There was mutual respect on both sides. By working together, they had the best chance of freeing Bret and of lessening the life without parole sentence Corrie faced. The problem was to get the State to accept a plea deal in exchange for Corrie’s testimony against her co-conspirators.

  Getting word of the events at the station, Hartford’s Chief of Police, Ty Adams, arrived and met with the attorneys.

  “I want the team that prosecuted the case notified immediately and summoned here,” Hubie demanded of Chief Adams.

  Saul Cantor indicated his agreement.

  Hubie Santos was determined to convince the prosecutors to make the deal with Corrie Hunter that he and Attorney Cantor had discussed among themselves. He would demand Judge Clarke, the Superior Court judge who had presided over the State of Connecticut v Manley case, be contacted. Hubie would ask her to begin the process of freeing Bret from his hellhole at the MacDougal-Walker Correctional Institute.

  Chief Adams turned to Captain Sweeney, his second in command, “See to it,” he ordered. “And call the Willimantic police. Have them issue arrest warrants for Warden and Faca.”

  Within the hour, three members of the prosecuting team were at the station. A tentative agreement between the State and Corrie Hunter was made. For testifying against Dr. Jake Warden and Mai Faca the State would recommend she be given a sentence of seventeen years in prison with eligibility for parole in ten years. If Corrie reneged on her commitment to testify and give a complete accounting of the crimes against Frankie Grimaldi and Dr. Bret Manley, the State would seek a sentence of life without parole. In spite of the irregularities in obtaining her confession, the prosecutors were confident they would get it.

  Jumping at the deal, Corrie agreed to testify and signed a statement chronicling the events of Frankie Grimaldi’s death. In her statement Bret Manley was exonerated of wrongdoing.

  After the signing, Hubie said to her, “If you’re fortunate enough to get out of prison in ten years, you’ll be in your early fifties and should have many years of quality living ahead of you in a place far, far, from Connecticut.

  Mai peered out the picture window and wondered why Jake had arrived before expected. When he walked into the kitchen, she saw by the look on his face that something terrible had happened. She ran to him. Grabbed both his arms and shook them. “What’s wrong?” she cried, “What’s the problem?”

  Jake wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve although there was a chill in the air. He sat in one of the chairs placed around the table. She followed, took a chair opposite him, and waited for bad news.

  “They’ve caught us,” he said. “Corrie told them everything.” He shook his head, “My guess is that they’re looking for us. It won’t be long before they show up here.”

  Mai blurted, “I was afraid this would happen. That bitch.” Forcing herself to maintain control, she asked, “What about us?”

  “We both know the answer. They’ll make us pay for what we did.”

  Standing and staring at Jake who remained seated, “I couldn’t handle it. What we will have to go through.” She put her face in her hands and sobbed, “They’ll take you from me. There is no way I could live without you.”

  “I couldn’t live without you either . . . wouldn’t want to,” he responded.

  In a halting voice she said, “I’ve prepared for this moment, but I need your help.”

  He understood. “I know . . . I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  “It’s just that I can’t live without you,” she repeated.

  Jake stood. Went to her and held her.

  Mai said, “So you know what we have to do. There’s no other choice. Are you willing to die with me?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  They kissed their last kisses.

  Mai went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and removed a jar filled with tablets. Handing it to Jake, she said, “Be sure to give me enough. Make sure I don’t wake up.”

  The label said Valium, ten milligram capsules. It held enough for both to enter the dreamless sleep of death. He counted out ten tablets. “Take these,” he said. “It won’t be painful. Not like cyanide.”

  She filled a glass with water from the tap. Her back was to him, “Don’t watch me do this. It shouldn’t be among your last few memories of me.” She took two swallows, faced him, and said as she handed him the glass, “Your turn to be strong.”

  Jake’s voice cracked. “I will be, darling. I’ll hold you until they begin to take effect, then, follow you.”

  “The sooner you do it, the sooner we’ll be together,” Mai said.

  She went to the living room couch to lie down. “It’s always been comfortable, a secure and good place to sleep, and now to die,” she said. Jake sat so she could place her head on his lap. They held hands and waited. Mai yawned, and said, “Remember, be strong.”

  Jake nodded. It might be an hour or more before the Valium overwhelmed Mai, and Jake was prepared to wait. As promised, he would follow her. Since there was no one to insure he was successful, he planned to take twenty tablets of the tranquillizer. It would be enough to do the job.

  A half hour passed and Mai was in a deep sleep and her breathing was shallow. Evening had arrived and light came from a small living room lamp Jake turned on. A shadow on Mai’s chest showed slight movement with each breath. In the dim light he noted a bluish hue to her skin. It wouldn’t be long before it was his turn to take the Valium. There was no doubt he would be as strong as she.

  The noise of automobiles entering the driveway could be heard. Red and blue flashing lights reflected on the living room window. Laying Mai’s head on the couch, Jake went to the window to confirm what he knew would be there. Police cars were parked on the front lawn. He went to Mai. She didn’t appear to be breathing and had a look of serenity on her face. Even in death her beauty was exquisite.

  Confident he had accomplished what Mai wanted, the moment had come for him to end his life. There w
as little time. Not for Valium to work. They’d pump his stomach before it did its job. Jake looked about the kitchen. There was urgent knocking at the front door. Loud staccato voices emanated from the other side.

  Hastening to a kitchen drawer, he opened it and found what he knew it held. He pulled out the largest of several knives, a chef’s knife with an eight inch blade. It was a fitting weapon. He and Mai used cooking classes as a shield for their clandestine encounters.

  The knocking on the door turned to pounding. Jake heard someone shout to break it. He had to act. He placed the tip of the blade below his sternum. The knife pointed at his heart. Like a samurai warrior committing hari-kari, he held the handle with two hands. Before he could think about what he was doing, he dropped to the floor and onto the knife. The force of the fall caused the blade to penetrate his upper abdomen and slice into his heart. As a surgeon, he would have appreciated the clean and efficient manner with which he did it. A hint of a smile on his face seemed to confirm in his last thoughts he knew he and Mai achieved what they had wanted since falling in love. They were together. In death.

  As two Willimantic police officers were breaking the front door and others were waiting to swarm into the house, Mai arose from the couch and looked at Jake with tears in her eyes. Turning, she said, “Uncles,” and grabbed her phone and purse from the counter and hurried out the back door. As she reached the path between her house and the Grimaldi house, she thought, Sorry Jake, I just couldn’t do it. Entering the pathway, Mai’s hand brushed the bulge of the Valium tablets in her pocket.

  The scene the police burst upon was not to be forgotten. Turning on lights revealed the kitchen floor covered in blood. Care had to be taken not to slip. They recognized the man lying on his side in the center of the darkening puddle with a large knife protruding from his chest was Dr. Jacob Warden. His open eyes saw nothing.

  “Search the place for the Faca woman,” the officer in charge said.

  It was nine p.m. when a conference call was initiated between Judge Clarke, the prosecutors—all seven had arrived at the station—and the defense lawyers. The judge was at her Manchester home. She had been faxed Corrie Hunter’s confessional statement implicating Jacob Warden and Mai Faca as the murderers of Frankie Grimaldi and exonerating Bret Manley.

  “I want to meet with Attorneys Shields and Santos at my home.” Alice Shields was the head prosecutor. “I don’t want the whole prosecuting team here. She can speak for them. We’ll discuss the new findings and decide what to do. I’ll authorize Chief Adams to have you brought here in a police vehicle.”

  The judge lived on a tree-lined suburban street in the city across the Connecticut River from Hartford. The three principals in the case were assembled in the study of her Tudor style home. Judge Clarke was at her desk. Hubie Santos and Alice Shields were sitting at each corner. They had presented the new evidence.

  Looking from one to the other of her visitors, she asked, “Do you believe Dr. Manley is innocent of all wrongdoing in the Grimaldi murder?”

  “Most definitely, your honor,” Hubie replied. “There’s no doubt of it.”

  As if reluctant to admit her numerous hours of work in the case had been for naught, Alice Shields answered, “It seems to appear that way, your honor.”

  “My duty is clear,” the judge said, “I’m going to contact the Attorney General and recommend Dr. Manley be released from prison.” The judge shook her head as she remarked, “We’ve done a grave injustice to an innocent man.”

  Pulling from one of the desk drawers a list of telephone numbers of State officials, Judge Clarke contacted Attorney General Rabin and informed him of what had transpired in the Manley case. It was approaching midnight when the Attorney General woke Governor Lyman.

  After the AG informed her of the evening’s events, the Governor said, “The new evidence speaks for itself. Dr. Manley is innocent. Considering the media thrashing the State is about to take for imprisoning an innocent man, I’m issuing an immediate pardon for him.”

  In one of the fastest bureaucratic movements in Connecticut history, the Governor awoke Warden Connor of MacDougal-Walker and ordered him to prepare for the release of Bret as soon as practicable. “That,” she said, “will be no later than tomorrow morning.” She added, “Dr. Manley is to have all the State’s resources at his disposal. If he has nowhere to go to, you are to arrange lodging for him at a Connecticut hotel at the State’s expense for up to two weeks. In addition, I’m authorizing you to give him one thousand dollars in cash from the prison safe for his immediate personal needs. The money will be reimbursed from the State’s slush fund.

  As the governor spoke, Warden Connor repeated a series of, “Yes, Your Excellency” and, “As you wish, Ma’am,” during verbal lulls.

  “I’m sending a State trooper with the official pardon and a letter confirming all I’ve said.” A final admonition was, “Keep in mind Dr. Manley has been wrongly imprisoned and deserves every courtesy the State can offer.”

  As soon as his discussion with the governor was over, Warden Connor called Lieutenant Spaulding, the head security officer of the overnight shift at the correctional institute. After reiterating the evening’s events, he ordered, “Arrange for Manley to be discharged this morning.” Shouting into the phone, “Do it personally.”

  Early Thursday morning Lieutenant Spaulding approached Bret’s cell and rapped on the door with a flashlight. He shined its beam in Bret’s face. “Manley, get up and come to the door.”

  Now what? Did Skunky rat on me? Tell his superiors I brought in contraband? If they found out about his cocaine business, he would try to make a deal with them and willingly sacrifice me to save his ass.

  Sammy had been awakened and was sitting on the edge of his bunk feeling the effects of his Wednesday evening hit of cocaine.

  Bret approached the cell door. “Yeah.”

  “I was sent to tell you, ahh, the Governor has pardoned you. You’re going to be discharged this morning.”

  Bret did a double take. The unexpected news, unlike what he had become accustomed to, was beyond belief. He half expected Spaulding to laugh and say, “Only kidding, just wanted to see your reaction. You’re needed in the kitchen to peel potatoes for the breakfast hash browns.” When it didn’t happen and the officer’s expression indicated he was serious, Bret was overwhelmed with joy. He thought his smile might split the corners of his mouth.

  Sammy approached the cell door and gripped the bars.

  In unison, they uttered, “Why?”

  Spaulding answered, “All I can say is something big developed in your case. In the morning, the warden plans to see you and fill you in on what happened. After that, I understand you can go whenever you want providing you have a place to stay. We’ll even help with that.” Spaulding extinguished his flashlight and walked toward the guard station beyond the metal door at the end of the hall. His heels clicked and echoed. The cellmates pressed their heads against the bars and strained to watch.

  Bret noted Spaulding didn’t have the decency to congratulate him.

  Neither man moved nor spoke. From three cells to the left, an inmate began a rhythmic banging on the bars of his door with something hard. Other inmates followed, hitting their doors in sync with the first sounds. The cellblock filled with the cadence of objects banging against metal doors creating a rhythmic and deafening din of sound. Word of Bret’s leaving had spread from one cell to the next until everyone was aware of what happened. The banging was the inmate’s way of saluting. Even those who had no hope of leaving prison were striking the bars of their cells in honor of Bret. They celebrated because one of them had beaten the system. If one beat the system, they all had. In MacDougal-Walker’s closed society, no man was an island.

  Except Sammy. Seething with anger, he couldn’t mask his jealousy of Bret’s unexpected news. He returned to his cot and in a nasty voice said, “Get back to bed. I need my sleep.”

  Before going to sleep, he snorted another line and didn’t hi
de it. When he replaced the coke in the toilet paper roll, Bret saw there was a quarter of the drug remaining from the previous delivery. Bret sensed that given an excuse Sammy would have slit his throat. His worst fear was the cocaine would stimulate the natural violence in the man and cause him to do something bad. He wasn’t thinking sexual.

  That night would be Bret’s last chance to slip the mushroom powder into Sammy’s cocaine. If he did, there would be two things to celebrate. It was a matter of waiting for Sammy to fall asleep. Proof of sleep came from the bone rattling noise emanating from Sammy’s throat.

  The packet of the poison mushroom powder was under Bret’s mattress. He removed and opened it taking care not to spill anything. Packet in hand, he slid among the light and shadows created by the nightlights and made his way to the toilet. As practiced, within moments he opened the plastic bag of cocaine. All that remained was to add and mix his flour-like powder into the contents in the bag. He tilted the packet of mushroom powder and in the soft light saw it begin its slide toward the opening of the plastic bag.

  As with the prostitute in Las Vegas, Bret stopped doing what he had intended to do. Although Sammy had done unspeakable things to him, he was unable to extract an eye for an eye. Am I a better person than I pretend to be? Have I been all bravado without substance? He had no answer.

  Sammy’s bag of cocaine was resealed and put into the toilet paper roll. The death cap powder and the torn remnants of its packaging went in the toilet and were flushed. Returning to his bed, he stared at the ceiling.

  It might take a lifetime to understand or justify his actions. Why he completed ninety-nine percent of the plan to hurt Sammy and not the one percent. His confused mind ran in all directions. During the course of that restless night . . . one that should have been among his happiest if he lived for a hundred years . . . he attempted to find an answer.