The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips

by Stephen Baldwin

  It took him about five minutes to put the letter back together, which is pretty good considering how hungover he was. He sat back and stared at it. “Huh,” he said. “Well, no wonder . . .” He then gathered the pieces of paper together and threw them in the trash. I don’t know what the letter said, but I do know that, whatever it was, it put Andy in his car the minute his doctor cleared him to drive and he headed north to Michigan City. Yep, you guessed it. He drove up for what he hoped would be his last face-to-face with John.

  Chapter 20

  THE DRIVE NORTH went faster than Andy had anticipated. The state of Indiana allows troopers to drive their cars anywhere within the state, and he took advantage of that little provision for this trip. Although he didn’t want to be one of those troopers who make other drivers mad by blowing past the speed limit, he couldn’t help himself. The drive was so long and boring that he couldn’t bring himself to drag it out any longer than he had to. Unlike the last time he had a face-to-face conversation with John Phillips, Andy didn’t play this one out in his mind ahead of time. He just drove. He emptied his head by cranking up Jackson Browne on the car stereo, and pointed his patrol car north. He didn’t stop until he arrived at Michigan City. Several times along the way he had to pull over, get out of the car, and stretch. Fall was about to give way to winter, although this particular early December day was warmer than usual. Nevertheless, it was still cool enough to make his bones ache, even though his breaks had technically healed.

  Andy pulled into the parking lot of Indiana’s primary maximum-security prison nearly an hour before his scheduled time with John Phillips. But then again, he was always early for appointments. He parked in the law enforcement parking section, and climbed out of his car. The old stone walls topped with razor wire grabbed his attention and he felt a cold chill run up his back. This would be his first time to actually walk inside prison gates. He’d helped send his fair share of people there, but he’d never been there himself. Cops usually aren’t huge fans of going to prisons. The odds are too high of running into someone who would be less than happy to see you, if you catch my drift.

  Although Andy had arranged to meet with John in one of the prison holding rooms (and, no, that’s hardly standard procedure—being a state cop has its privileges), he wanted to walk onto death row himself prior to his meeting. Not many people are allowed onto death row. The state never meant for it to be a tourist stop for people driving from Chicago to Kalamazoo. But for state troopers, that’s another thing completely. Andy knew the prison would roll out the red carpet for him, and let him see anything he wanted. That was part of the reason why he arrived so early, that and the fact that he hardly slept the night before. He was pretty anxious to have this meeting.

  A guard greeted him as he stepped into the visitor’s center through which every outside person who arrives at the prison must pass. Andy wasn’t in uniform, but he must have still looked like a cop because the guard smiled and asked him, “May I have your name please, Officer?”

  “Myers. Andy Myers.”

  The guard glanced down at his clipboard. “Ah, you’re a little earlier than we expected, Officer Myers.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I know I’m early. It’s a curse my mother inflicted on me. She had an allergic reaction to lateness. Since I’m early, do you think I could take a look around? I would especially like to see where the baby-killing son of a bitch I helped put in here is kept,” Andy said.

  “I think we can arrange that, sir.” The guard pushed a button, which allowed Andy to go through the first of a series of steel doors. He still walked with a pronounced limp.

  On the other side of the door, a female guard greeted him. “I just need you to sign your name here,” she said as she pointed down to a page on a clipboard with a series of lines on it. After Andy had signed in, she handed him a visitor’s badge. “Are you carrying your sidearm this morning? If so, we will need to lock it up in here for you.”

  “No,” Andy said.

  “Any pocketknives or any other kind of weapon, sir?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Andy replied.

  “All right then, please empty your pockets in this dish and go ahead and step through the metal detector for me.” And then she added, almost apologetically, “We have to do this for everyone, no matter who they are.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I understand,” Andy said as he walked through the small arch of the machine. He had barely stepped into it when the alarm went off. Andy laughed. “The doctors told me when they screwed my leg back together that I would give these things fits. I guess they knew what they were talking about.”

  “That’s not the first time this has happened,” the guard said, “but we have to make sure.” She walked over to Andy with a hand wand. “Which leg is it?” she asked.

  “Left. Below the knee. Got hit by a car while I was out jogging.”

  The female guard let out a gasp as she passed the wand over his leg. It beeped loudly as it passed the site of the screws. “You’re kidding!” she said.

  “Nope. And the car didn’t even stop. We never did catch the guy who did it.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” she said. “How long ago was that?”

  “September,” he said.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. She stepped back. “Okay, you’re good to go,” she said.

  “So where to now?” Andy asked.

  “I’m afraid nowhere for a while. The population is locked down for count, and we can’t let you go back until it clears.” Once or twice or three times a day, I’m not sure how many, all the prisoners are pulled in off the exercise yard and work details and locked back in their cells for a head count. That’s what was going on when Andy arrived.

  “When will that be?” Andy asked.

  The guard sighed. “It should have finished ten minutes ago. Unfortunately, we occasionally run into problems, which make it run longer. Today seems to be one of those days. We will take you back just as soon as we can,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Andy grumbled. He looked around the narrow security corridor and imagined that this must be how it feels to be in the limbo of purgatory. If there was such a thing as purgatory, he thought. A line of four hard-plastic chairs were shoved up against the eastern wall. “I guess I will wait here.”

  “I appreciate your patience. It shouldn’t be too much longer,” the guard said.

  Andy glanced at his watch. His appointment was now less than twenty-five minutes away. If they let him through the gate right now, that would give him enough time to tour death row, but not to talk to those taking care of the inmates. And that was his true intent for going back there. He didn’t give two hoots to a holler, as we say back home, about seeing where John spent his days. The guy could spend them in hell for all Andy cared.

  Clearing count took much longer than anyone expected, and with each passing minute, the plastic chair became a little harder, and Andy’s butt became a little more numb. He shuffled from side to side, trying to get comfortable. The only reading material he could find was a two-year-old copy of Outdoor Life with half the cover torn off. The pages felt a little funky, so Andy dropped it back onto one of the chairs and continued to wait. By the time the all-clear whistle sounded, Andy barely had enough time to get back to the holding area in which he would meet with John.

  “An officer will be up here in just a moment and he will take you back,” the guard said.

  “Thanks,” Andy said.

  A few minutes later a guard arrived, who, to Andy, looked like he should be a little farther down the road in South Bend playing middle linebacker for the “Fighting Irish.” Andy was no shrimp, but he felt like Richard Simmons compared to this man. “Good to meet you,” the guard said in a voice that was far too high a pitch for his tremendous size. From the way Andy described it, the guy sounded a little like he’d swallowed Richard Simmons. A big man with such an effeminate voice struck Andy as an odd combination, and he could barely keep from laughing. The guard stuck out his hand
and said, “Steve Jacobs.”

  “Andy Myers,” Andy said as he shook Jacobs’s hand.

  “I understand you’re a state trooper down south. What brings you up to our neck of the woods?”

  “Three years ago I put a guy away for murder. There are still a couple of loose ends I need to tie up in my own mind with the case. I figure he’s been in here long enough to be ready to cooperate,” Andy said.

  “Interesting,” Jacobs said. “Follow me and we will get you set up.” Andy did as he was instructed and fell in step behind Steve Jacobs. They passed through a heavy steel door, and passed into a wide corridor that stretched up to the roofline. The polished concrete floor beneath their feet reflected the harsh cathode lights overhead. On either side the walls were made of concrete block. The place smelled like the basement of a very old house. About ten yards down the main corridor, Jacobs led Andy to another locked steel door on their right. A thick window sat off to the side, and Andy could see another officer inside, who pressed a button. A buzzer buzzed. Jacobs pushed the door open and led Andy down another, much narrower and shorter corridor. Actually, it was a normal-sized hallway, but coming out from the giant main corridor, one felt almost claustrophobic. This hallway led to another door, with another buzzer, which led into a suite of rooms. A short, stocky, balding man, waited in the main lobby of the suites.

  “Trooper Myers, nice to meet you. I’m Charles Wells, one of the assistant wardens.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Good to meet you,” Andy said. “I appreciate your setting this up for me.”

  “Our privilege,” the warden said. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable in this room right over here”—and he motioned toward one of the holding rooms—“and we will have your Mr. Phillips brought right in to you.” Again, this was hardly standard operating procedure for visiting a death row inmate.

  Andy sat down behind a table and waited. Apart from its location, the room felt very much like the last room in which he’d talked with John. It had the same fluorescent lights overhead, the same institutional smell, the same type of wooden table, and the same uncomfortable wooden chairs. Unlike during their last meeting, Andy stood as John entered the room. He immediately noticed the toll the years behind bars had taken on John. The man was always thin, but now his face appeared gaunt. His clothes hung on him like a hanger, which made him appear much smaller than he actually was. In a way, John now reminded Andy of Gabriel Phillips more than he ever had before. Also, unlike during their last meeting, Andy noticed John didn’t walk with the distinctive jingling slump of handcuffs and leg irons. That struck him as a bit odd. He’d heard stories of death row inmates who had to be put into straightjackets before they were even let out to take a shower. Someone must be slipping, he thought.

  “Officer Myers,” John said with a smile. “It’s good to see you again. I had a feeling you might come to see me eventually.”

  “Glad I didn’t disappoint you,” Andy replied. He didn’t return the smile. “Have a seat.” He motioned toward the chair across from his own and sat down.

  “I appreciated the letter you sent and your coming up to see me now,” John said.

  “Yeah,” Andy replied with a flat tone of voice. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “No. I didn’t expect that it was,” John said. “Did you get my reply and the—”

  Andy cut him off. “Yeah, I got it. All of it. Thanks.” He said that last word with a tone that said anything but thank you. “Let me get right to it, John. You’re out of appeals.”

  “Yes.”

  “The state will set an execution date soon, and you can bet your ass that the governor will not step in to save you at the last minute.”

  “I realize that.”

  “You almost sound anxious to get it over with,” Andy said.

  “You know, honestly, it doesn’t matter. I find there’s something liberating about living in death’s shadow,” John said. “We’re all going to die eventually, which, when you think about it, means we all live under a death sentence.”

  Andy sighed. “Okay, John. Whatever. You’re missing the point. And the point is, you really are about to fry. They’re going to take you into a room, strap you in a chair, and send a few thousand volts through your system. You’re a dead man, and nothing will change that.”

  John gave a little laugh. “I know that may sound really earth-shattering to you, Officer, but I live on a place known as death row. We’re all dead men back there.”

  Andy shook his head in frustration. “This isn’t a laughing matter. Look, John, would you come clean with me once and for all? I’ve listened to your religious bull crap since the night you killed your son. You gave me a little sermon in my squad car, and I’ve heard several variations on that same theme so many times since, that it makes me want to puke. Just once, quit hiding behind the God talk and be honest with me and yourself.”

  “You want to know why I killed my son,” John said.

  “That’s a step in the right direction. At least you now admit that you killed him.” A sense of relief swept over Andy. It was short-lived.

  “I didn’t say that,” John said. “But you believe I killed him, and you want to know why I would do such a thing. Why is this so important to you, Officer Myers? Do you do this in every murder case you investigate?”

  “Usually,” Andy said. His statement was more than a little disingenuous. Thus far in his illustrious law enforcement career, Andy had investigated exactly one murder. And unless he moved up the ranks of the state police, it would probably stay that way. He might come across another dead body; he might even come upon one with a real, live murder weapon still sticking out of its forehead, but he wouldn’t be able to stay on the case past his initial report. “You want to know why this is so important to me?” Andy said. “I’ll tell you. I knew your son. I found him to be unlike any other child I’ve ever been around. And no matter how hard I try to understand it, I cannot comprehend how you could take his life as you did. I don’t know how any father could do such a thing to his own flesh and blood.”

  “You once said you didn’t believe Gabriel was my flesh and blood. Have you changed your mind about that?” John asked.

  “I’m the one asking the questions,” Andy shot back.

  “That’s fine,” John said. “In the trial they said I did it as an act of jealousy to get back at my wife for leaving me for another man. Do you believe that would be enough to push a man to kill?” John asked.

  Andy paused before answering. Finally he said, “I’m not sure. You tell me.”

  “My wife told me I had to choose, her or Jesus. She told me that right before I left to go on a mission trip to Guatemala. I knew it was coming, I’d known it for a long time. But you are never really prepared when something like that comes. I was packing my bags the night before the trip and she asked me not to go. I told her that I wasn’t going to be gone that long. But she said, no, please don’t go. Then she asked me why we couldn’t go back to the way things used to be, before I went to prison the first time. She said she missed the old me. This conversation went on for a while, until finally she said, ‘I’m sick and tired of your Jesus crap. You need to choose, him or me.’ ”

  “What did you say?” Andy asked. He could hear Loraine making a request like that. It sounded exactly like the woman he once knew.

  “I told her the choice had already been made. I told her I loved her, but I loved Jesus more. If I had to choose, I chose Him. But then I told her I wished she would make the same choice. I pleaded with her to love Jesus more than me or Gabe or anything else in the world. We talked a little longer, but when she drove me to the airport the next morning, I knew it was over. I knew she would be gone when I returned. And she was—cleaned everything out of our house and moved away.

  “That’s also when she started sleeping with another man. She wanted to make sure I knew she’d gone out and found someone else.” John paused and looked Andy in the eye. “Officer Myers, I know you were th
at man.” If you had been sitting in that room, I think you would have heard the “ooph” coming out of my old man’s mouth just like someone had kicked him in the screws of his busted leg. “My son told me about how he met you. He was too young to think anything of finding you in his mother’s house the first thing in the morning. After all, he’d grown accustomed to finding strangers in the house before his mother and I split. Jesus said that we’re supposed to show hospitality toward strangers, and I was just crazy enough to believe He meant it. But when Gabriel told me about meeting you in the kitchen early one Saturday morning, I knew what was going on. She wanted to make sure I knew.”

  Andy couldn’t say anything in response. He just sat there, wondering why on earth he’d felt so compelled to have this conversation. He opened his mouth once or twice, but he couldn’t force any words out. John finally bailed him out. “So I have to ask you, Officer. Do you think I would kill my only son because of you?” The words may have been the same as those Andy heard many, many months before in his dream, but the tone was completely different. John didn’t say this accusingly. Instead, he spoke very softly, almost like a father telling his son he still loves him, even though the boy had broken a garage window with a baseball.

  Andy swallowed hard. He felt tears well up in his eyes. In a whisper, just like in his dream, he said, “Yes.”

  “Why?” John asked with an almost pleading tone in his voice.

  The tears gave way to anger. “Why the hell do you think? Isn’t it obvious?”

  “It’s not to me,” John said.

  Andy sighed. He could feel himself start to lose control, and that’s the last thing he wanted to happen. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “I don’t want to split hairs here, but if you killed him to get back at your wife for sleeping with another man, and that other man happened to be me, and I’m not saying it was, then in a way you did do it because of me.”

  Silence filled the room for several minutes. John folded his hands in front of him, put his index fingers together, and raised them up to his forehead, his eyes closed. Finally he said, “And that’s why Gabriel’s death haunts you. You blame yourself for his death, and that’s what drives you to avenge him.”