“You asked, Your Honor, if I wished to say anything on my own behalf. I’m not sure what others say when they stand in this position. Perhaps they plead for mercy, or maybe they defiantly thumb their nose at you and dare you to throw the book at them. I won’t do either. When I stood before you for the first time, you told me that you held my life in your hands. You are mistaken. My life rests in the hands of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I entrusted myself to him nearly eight years ago, and He has not failed me yet. All I ask is for His will to be done. I prayed for you as you considered my sentence. I asked God to give you wisdom, and I asked that whatever you now decide, it will work to give God glory.
“That’s all I know to say. I thank you for letting me speak freely. I pray that you and all of the others in this courtroom will experience the peace and freedom that only Christ can give. Amen. And amen.”
Andy didn’t really know what to think as John spoke. At first, he became angry at John’s audacity to rattle off a sermon while still refusing to accept responsibility for what he had done. But, as John kept talking, Andy’s anger gave way to pity. He could tell John really believed what he said, yet he wondered how someone could believe this so strongly and do what John had done. Of course, Ted said it best. They don’t call these guys cons for nothing. Most are really good at fooling other people, and they are all experts at fooling themselves.
By the time John got to the end of his little speech, Andy just wanted the guy to shut up so the judge could pronounce his sentence and everyone could get back to their lives. Gabe Phillips’s death consumed my father for a very long time. He was long past ready to crawl out of the jaws of this beast and reclaim something approaching normalcy. That’s not to say Andy didn’t listen to John. He did, even as he tried not to. The things John said about being free struck a chord with him, and Andy got mad at himself for letting it. He’d wrestled with his own demons for a while, and he felt anything but free. A thought jumped into his mind so quickly that he let it take root like a dandelion in a lawn before he could pull it out. The little thought said, “I wish I could be free like that.” He quickly squashed it and reminded himself that the man talking was a convicted murderer who most likely was on his way to death row. Even so, the thought stuck around, like a sliver in his brain.
Andy also watched the other people in the courtroom while John went on and on. The man directly behind John never moved even one of his very large and very numerous muscles. He sat stock-still, head down, eyes closed, lips moving. Judge Houk just looked annoyed. Leaning back in his chair, with a pen tapping his desk, his body language seemed to say, Let’s get this over with. Reginald Chambliss, Esquire, seemed to enjoy John’s speech. He turned in his chair and watched John, a little smile on his lips. Rachel Maris had told Andy that the only thing that might persuade the judge to go easy on John would be some sign of genuine remorse. The more John talked, the less remorse he showed, and the happier Reginald Chambliss became. Loraine was another story. She never once looked in John’s direction. From where Andy sat, she looked like she’d gone to another world. At one point she laid her head on her male companion’s shoulders, and he gently stroked her hair. The sight didn’t make Andy jealous. In fact, he felt a little relieved by it.
Once John finally finished talking and sat down, the judge straightened himself in his chair and said, “Does either counsel wish to address the court before the sentence is pronounced?” Andy loved it. Here John gives his grand oration, and the judge basically passes it off with a “Yeah, whatever. Next.”
“No, Your Honor,” Chambliss said.
“No, Your Honor,” Donald Edmonds also said.
“Very well,” Judge Houk said. “Mr. Phillips, would you please rise?” John stood up, as did his attorney. Only then did Andy notice that the public defender had actually dressed himself in what appeared to be professional attire. He wore a navy blue suit, the kind a real lawyer wears. “Mr. Phillips, the state of Indiana mandates that murder in the first degree be punishable by life in prison or by death. Given the nature of this case, both the cold-blooded premeditation that you showed, as well as the tender age of the victim and your relationship with him, it is the opinion of this court that you have shown a complete disregard for life, as well as for the proceedings within this courtroom. Therefore, I hereby sentence you to be remanded to the state penitentiary in Michigan City, where you will be put to death in the electric chair at the soonest date possible. May the God about which you talk so freely have mercy on your soul.”
“He already has, Your Honor,” John said.
“You better hope so,” the judge replied. “Court dismissed.”
The gavel fell, and that was the end of it. The ensuing scene in the courtroom wasn’t nearly as chaotic as one might expect. John’s supporters wailed in protest while the prosecution team shook one another’s hands and slapped each other on the back. Chambliss’s face could barely contain his smile. One look at the guy and you knew he couldn’t wait to get outside and speak to the camera crews. He had his headline case that would make his name known from right here on the shore of Lake Michigan all the way down to the Ohio River, and Terre Haute to Richmond, and every point in between. If he’d scripted the case himself, it couldn’t have gone any better. He’d probably already started writing out his change of address cards for the big move he planned to make into the governor’s mansion after the next election. Voters love the tough, law-and-order types.
Andy fully expected to see or hear some sign of joy from Loraine, but he didn’t. She didn’t let out a peep when the judge pronounced John’s sentence, and she didn’t say a word as she got up out of her seat and walked out of the courtroom, her male companion in tow. At one point she passed very close to Andy. He started to say something, but thought better of it. They seemed to be exactly what they were back before they met that night in a bar: strangers, nothing but strangers. Deep down Andy wished that was all they’d ever been.
Ted came over and shook Andy’s hand. They exchanged some small talk, nothing important. Before he left, Ted asked Andy, “So what are you going to do now that this is all behind you?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Andy said. “I’m just glad it’s done. I go back to work next week. Hopefully, life can get back to normal pretty quick.”
“I hope so. For your sake, I hope so,” Ted said as he patted his friend on the back and they walked out of the courtroom together.
You would think my story would end here. John Phillips goes off to prison for killing his son, the only child my father ever loved. In a perfect world, Gabe’s death would make my dad reconsider how he’d walked away from me before I was ever born. After seeing the error of his ways, he would drive over to Saint Louis, where he and I would have a tearful reunion that would be the beginning of a beautiful father son relationship. Sorry. This world is far from perfect and that’s not how the rest of the story played out. I wish it had. But then again, life is funny. You never know where it’s going to take you.
Chapter 17
TED JACKSON HAD TOLD my old man to put this case behind him. It didn’t take long for Andy to realize that the only way he could do that was to get a completely fresh start. He put his house up for sale and started looking for a place in the country with some acreage around it, but that didn’t feel like enough of a change. Driving to work one day, he decided he should quit the Trask police force to become a Harris County deputy sheriff, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he needed to do something bigger. He found himself attracted to one of the women in his AA group, and even went so far as to get her phone number. Yet on the afternoon he picked up the phone and punched in six numbers, he hung up before he dialed the seventh and threw her number away. A new relationship wouldn’t take him as far as he knew he needed to go, especially a relationship with someone who potentially had as many problems as he had.
That is why in the spring after John’s conviction, Andy applied for a job as a trooper with the I
ndiana state police. Ed Spence gave him the highest of recommendations, as did his friends on the Harris County sheriff’s department. Good ole Reginald Chambliss, Esquire, even wrote a letter of recommendation for him. It may have been overkill, but Andy didn’t want to take any chances. He officially resigned from Trask the week before the Indy 500 (which is always the last Sunday in May) and started basic training with the state police the first of June.
I don’t know about other states, but in Indiana, the six months of training to become a state trooper is tougher than military boot camp. Laugh if you want, but that’s what Andy told me. And since he went through both, he ought to know. For twenty-four weeks he ran and trained and sweat off more pounds than he thought he had to spare. Every day of training was basically like the day before in that it left him so exhausted he didn’t have time to think about John or Gabriel or anyone else with the last name of Phillips. On his occasional weekend off, he was only home long enough to wash his uniforms; then it was back to Bloomington and more training.
Halfway through basic he had to fill out a form requesting where in the state of Indiana he would like to be stationed. Andy put down anywhere but Harris County, and the state gave him his wish. He was assigned to the Columbus area, down in southern Indiana, which meant he could look forward to days spent patrolling Interstate 65 and State Highway 46. After graduation from the academy, he sold his house in Trask for less than market value, furniture and all. He didn’t just want to put the Phillips case behind him. He wanted to be free of everything that was his life the night he found Gabe’s body. In early January he moved to Brown County, the tourist center of the state, which lies just to the west of Columbus. People come from all over Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, and Ohio to see the leaves change in Brown County every fall. It was cold and snowy when Andy moved in to his one-thousand-square-foot house that was more cabin than house, halfway between Nashville and Columbus. By this point he’d also gone nearly a year without a drink, which was the longest stretch he’d managed to put together in fifteen years. Andy had his fresh start. From his job to his circle of friends and even the sheets on his bed, everything in his life was new.
About the time the snow finally melted and farmers started plowing their fields to get them ready to plant corn, Andy stopped at a Denny’s just off mile marker 43 of Interstate 65 for a Grand Slam breakfast. It may have been half past two in the afternoon, but that didn’t matter. Denny’s served the Grand Slam all day. Since he was in uniform and on duty, he received great service. Businesses along the interstate liked having state troopers drop by. The sight of their car in the parking lots made the management feel a little safer.
As he walked into the restaurant, Andy stopped and bought an Indianapolis Star from the vending machine next to the front door. He intended to read the sports page with his meal. Baseball season would begin soon, which would help fill the void the Hoosiers’ failure to make the NCAA tourney had created in his life. He tossed the paper on the table of a corner booth and sat down.
“How are you this afternoon, sir?” a smiling, rail-thin, middle-aged waitress asked. She smelled of coffee and cigarette smoke. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Pepsi, please,” Andy said.
“Is Coke all right?” she asked.
“Sure, Coke’s fine,” he said. “And I don’t need a menu. Give me a Grand Slam breakfast, eggs over medium.”
“Bacon or sausage?”
“Sausage.”
“All right, sir, we’ll get that right out to you,” she said, and walked away.
After she was gone, Andy opened up the paper and started to peel away the top few sections when a front-page story caught his eye. The headline read: “APPEAL PROCESS BEGINS FOR CONVICTED CHILD KILLER.” Andy decided the recap of yesterday’s Reds-Dodgers exhibition game could wait. He dropped the rest of the paper back onto the table and began reading. The story started off with a line that said something like, “The first of the state-mandated appeal hearings is scheduled to begin Monday in Indianapolis for John Phillips who was convicted of the June 1978 killing of his son, Gabriel Phillips.” What followed was a brief recap of the Phillips case, along with an explanation of the new death penalty laws the state had adopted to put it in compliance with recent Supreme Court rulings. Nothing in the story was particularly earth shattering, and Andy almost stopped reading until he came to a quote from a death penalty opponent who said something along the lines of, “John Phillips is a classic example of everything that is wrong with capital punishment. The poor guy got railroaded in the courts, and now he will hardly cooperate with his court-appointed attorneys who are fighting on his behalf. Since he won’t fight to save his own life, we’re going to fight to save it for him.”
Andy finished reading the story about the time his glass of Coke arrived. He took a long drink, grimaced (he much preferred Pepsi), and picked up the sports section. Before he got to the Reds score, he put the sports section back on the table, and went back to the quote from the death penalty opponent. “He won’t fight to save his own life,” he read again. “Who was there to fight for Gabe on the night he killed him?” Andy asked.
“Excuse me?” the coffee-and-cigarette-odor-emitting waitress asked as she passed by his table.
“Sorry, ma’am, I was just thinking out loud,” he said.
“Well, if you need anything, you just let me know,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I will,” he said.
The waitress walked away, and Andy went back to the quote. “He won’t fight to save his own life.” Those words seemed to jump off the page at him. I wonder if he’s finally cracked? I mean, come on, how long can this guy live in denial? A smile crossed his lips as he took another long drink of his Coke. Maybe, just maybe . . . The thought made the two eggs, two links of sausage, and two pancakes the waitress slid in front of him taste even better. For over a year Andy had convinced himself that justice had been served with John’s conviction, but now he realized he hadn’t so much convinced himself as he had pushed the whole case out of his mind. Once he started thinking about it again, he realized he still wanted to hear a confession. He still needed John Phillips to say the words “I did it and I deserve whatever happens to me now.” Gabe’s killer didn’t just need to be caught and convicted. He had to feel the full weight of the guilt for what he had done, and that weight had to break him in two. A year on death row just might have been the trick, he thought as he placed the eggs in between the pancakes and covered them with syrup. And even if it didn’t, the sooner the appeal process runs its course, the sooner justice can be served. He smiled and wolfed down his meal.
After Andy finished his afternoon breakfast, he told himself he wouldn’t give John Phillips another thought. And he didn’t. At least not while he wrote a ticket to the driver of a red 1966 Mustang convertible he clocked doing seventy-two in the southbound lanes of I-65.
And he didn’t think about John while he assisted a car filled with Indiana University coeds whose car had run out of gas just north of the Bloomington exit. Andy had to work hard to keep his eyes from wandering to places they shouldn’t go and to think like a cop. Their shorts were way too short and their shirts were way too tight and Andy was way too old to stare at eighteen-year-olds the way his eyes wanted. He called for a wrecker and stayed with them while they waited for it to arrive. However, he spent most of that time in his patrol car filling out paperwork, or doing anything to keep his mind on his job.
And Andy didn’t think about John Phillips or the events that caused him, Andy Myers, to completely remake his life at the age of thirty-two as he assisted the Brown County Sheriff’s Department search for twin four-year-old boys who had disappeared from a mobile home that sat at the end of a dirt road, which was at the end of a gravel road, which was at the end of a single-lane, barely paved road off a remote state highway. I guess what I am saying is, these people lived out in the middle of nowhere. An uncle was supposed to be watching the twins, but he fell asleep on the co
uch. When he woke up, the boys were gone. The house was surrounded by fields that might have grown corn if anyone had ever bothered to plow them. No one had in years, which meant the weeds were tall enough for anyone shorter than the minimum height required to ride the Beast roller coaster at Kings Island to get lost inside. A creek also meandered through the property. This time of year, the water ran high enough that it stretched from grassy bank to grassy bank. If the boys had wandered over close enough to it to fall in, they wouldn’t leave any footprints.
The volunteer fire departments from two local towns arrived to join in the search, as did the neighbors. Everyone wanted to help, but with so many people descending on such a small place at once, chaos ensued. Andy took charge of the scene. He broke the volunteers into groups. He sent one set of firemen to the fields to the south of the house, and another group to those on the north. Andy had them search in a grid pattern. Rescuers lined up an arm’s length from one another and walked through the field, side by side, first north to south, then east to west. If the boys were crouched down hiding, one of the volunteers would step on them if they didn’t see them first. He had a couple of the other groups of volunteers walk in the tall grass and ditches beside the road for a mile in each direction. A few men with fishing boats had already started cruising up and down the creek. The boys’ mother showed up at the house about forty-five minutes into the search, and she was hysterical. Andy switched gears from search coordinator to chaplain. He calmed her down the best that he could until a real chaplain arrived from one of the local police departments. “Thank God,” Andy said as he passed her off. Hysterical mothers were not his forte. No one had found as much as a lost shoe from the two boys after an hour and a half. About the time everyone began to fear the worst, a loud shout came up from behind the mobile home. “I’ve got ’em! I’ve got ’em!” he yelled.
The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips Page 17