The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips

by Stephen Baldwin

  “That’s a load of crap,” Andy said, although his voice cracked as he said it.

  “Officer Myers, believe me when I tell you, I do not hold anything you did against you. I forgave my wife for leaving me, and I forgave her for finding someone else, and I forgave you a long time ago for sleeping with her.”

  “Stop it,” Andy said. “Stop the act.”

  “That’s why my son’s death haunts you,” John said, completely ignoring what Andy had just said. “You don’t just blame me. You blame yourself. But you don’t have to. I forgave you a long time ago, and nothing can ever change that. You do not need to feel guilty about him any longer. His death doesn’t have to haunt you. You were not responsible in any way, I swear to you,” John said.

  Andy fought back tears. “I don’t need your forgiveness,” he said as he stood up to leave.

  “Don’t you?”

  “NO!” Andy yelled. “I don’t need the forgiveness of a man who kills defenseless little boys.”

  “Do you really believe I killed him? You asked me to get honest with you. Okay. I have. But now I want you to get honest with me. Deep down, right now this moment, do you really believe I killed Gabriel?” John said.

  “I proved you did it,” Andy said as he turned and leaned across the table like a prosecuting attorney. “I proved it beyond a doubt. Chambliss got all the credit, but I did the work. I found the witnesses. I found the evidence. I pushed the county to keep investigating when they didn’t think anything was there and I made sure the D.A. prosecuted. I did it. I proved you killed him.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” John said.

  “It’s the same damn thing!” Andy said.

  “Is it?” John asked very softly.

  “If you were so damned innocent, why didn’t you defend yourself? You just sat there and took everything that was said about you in the trial without lifting a finger to help yourself. Hell, you won’t defend yourself even now. You wouldn’t cooperate with the people who were trying to save your life with appeals, and now the clock’s run out. Everything you’ve done since the moment I walked into your apartment and found your dead son lying there screams, ‘I did it. Lock me up and throw away the key.’ Innocent men fight to prove their innocence. You . . .” Andy couldn’t finish his thought. He turned away with disgust.

  “Jesus didn’t defend Himself, and He was innocent,” was all John said in response.

  “Well, bub, you ain’t Jesus,” Andy said. He pushed back from the table and started to get up, but stopped himself. “You know Loraine killed herself, don’t you?” he said.

  John didn’t flinch. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. “Guilt,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Guilt destroys the soul,” John said. “It eats and eats at it until there’s nothing left.” He let out a long sigh, then looked up at Andy. He didn’t say anything, but his look made Andy want to crawl under the table and hide. No, he didn’t give him the stink eye or anything like that. Instead, John looked across the table at Andy with a look you would never think a condemned man could give the man responsible for putting him there. I didn’t see either, but I’ve got to think that it was like the look Jesus gave Peter after Peter denied him three times. And it had the same effect.

  “I’ve gotta go,” Andy said as he stood. He walked over toward the door, then turned around and asked, “You ever hear of a guy named Zacchaeus?”

  “Yes,” John said.

  “What did he mean when he said, ‘and if I have taken any thing from any man by false accusation, I restore him fourfold’?”

  “Zacchaeus was a tax collector who stole money from people. After he met Jesus, he vowed to make things right with everyone he’d wronged. Why?”

  “No reason,” Andy said. He reached down and grabbed the doorknob. He tried to tell John he would be back to watch him fry, but he couldn’t force the words out of his mouth. Instead, he gathered himself and walked out the door.

  The assistant warden walked over to Andy. “Is everything all right, Officer?” Wells asked.

  “Uh . . . yeah, everything is fine. Thank you. And thanks for letting me sit down with Mr. Phillips like this. I appreciate it very much.”

  “Anytime. I’m just glad we could help. Oh, by the way, you had asked about visiting death row. I’m sorry we couldn’t work that out when you first arrived, but I can take you there now, if you like,” Wells said.

  “Yes, I would like that very much,” Andy said. The warden led Andy through the rat maze of hallways back to the main corridor, which eventually wound down to the far northern end of the prison. Wells asked some basic questions like, “where are you from?” and “how long have you been a state trooper?” Andy gave short, curt answers. He wasn’t really in a mood to talk. They turned right and passed through two large classic prison bar gates, which took them to a guard’s station in front of a large sign that read: restricted area.

  “I’m going to hand you off to Sergeant Dale Nelson here. He takes care of this little corner of our facility for us. Dale,” Wells said, turning to a guard who stepped out of the guard station, “this is Andy Myers, one of our fine state troopers. He helped make one of your guests’ reservations, and he wanted to see the place for himself. Can you help him out for me?”

  “Sure. Love to do it,” Nelson replied. Nelson had that classic Hollywood movie prison guard look, complete with military buzz haircut. Turning to Andy, he said, “There’s really not that much to see back here. We try to keep our part of the facility as quiet and uneventful as we can. Just knowing why they are here is enough stress for most of these men.”

  “You’re in good hands,” the assistant warden said as he turned and walked away.

  “So which of our guys did you put here?” Nelson asked.

  “John Phillips,” Andy said.

  “Oh.” Nelson’s entire demeanor changed.

  “Has Phillips been a problem?” Andy asked.

  “Uh, no,” Nelson said. “Anything but. In fact, those of us who work back here find it almost unbelievable that he’s here. He’s not like the other inmates. Not at all.”

  “How so?” Andy said.

  “We’ve had a lot of men find God back here. Hell, if you were about to meet your Maker, you’d want to make your peace with Him yourself. John obviously isn’t a jailhouse conversion. He’s . . .” Nelson’s voice trailed off without finishing his sentence. He thought for a moment, then continued, “Okay, here’s an example. One of my guys back here, young guy named Chuck Brosius, who started working here about the same time that John moved in, he got married a couple of months ago. While Chuck’s on his honeymoon, his wife doubles over in pain, starts coughing up blood, and goes downhill from there. They bring her back here and put her in a hospital over in Chicago, but the doctors don’t know what’s going on. They can’t figure it out. So Chuck had already used up the little vacation time he had, so he has to leave the hospital, drive over here, and report for work. You can imagine how this all affects the guy. So John notices. He asks Chuck what’s going on. Chuck tells him, because he’s so upset, he’s not really thinking straight. We don’t normally share our personal problems with the cons. But Chuck does and John says, ‘Let me pray for her.’ By this point Chuck is open to anything, so he says okay. John prays with Chuck right then.” Nelson stops.

  “Okay, he likes to pray for people. Lots of people do that,” Andy says.

  “Two days later, Chuck’s wife walks out of the hospital. Doctors never did figure out what was wrong with her. All of her symptoms just went away, and it started when John started praying.”

  This guy’s been in the bowels of this prison a little too long, Andy thought. Nelson could probably read the skepticism on his face because he said, “Don’t believe me if you want, but I’m telling you that it happened.”

  “I’m not saying it didn’t,” Andy said.

  “You didn’t have to. I know, it sounds pretty Twilight Zone. But that’s not the
only thing that makes this guy stand out. He doesn’t hate the world for putting him here, and he doesn’t hate us for making sure he stays. Just to look at the guy, you would think he was hanging out in the bleachers at Wrigley Field, instead of living on death row waiting to die. He’s always got a smile on his face, and when he asks how you are doing, he actually wants to know. At first, we all thought he was a nut job, but he’s not. Don’t tell my boss this, but he may be the most well-adjusted person in this entire place, and that includes the staff,” Nelson said.

  “But that doesn’t change the fact he killed his son,” Andy said.

  “Yeah. I know,” Nelson said. “It’s just hard to figure that a guy like this could do something like that. But then again, stranger things have happened. Anyway, you wanted to take a little look around.”

  “You know, I don’t think that will be necessary. I think I’ve seen enough already,” Andy said.

  “All right. Suit yourself.” Nelson walked back into his station and called for an escort to lead Andy back to the main entrance.

  Chapter 21

  ANDY MADE THE DRIVE HOME from the prison on autopilot. His brain felt numb, and he didn’t dare think too much because he knew what his mind would immediately lock onto. Instead, he sat behind the wheel of his car, his foot on the gas, and drove in a daze. All he wanted to do was get home and get back to work. He had a physical scheduled the following week, which, he hoped, would clear him to go back on patrol. He hated working behind a desk, which he’d had to do during his rehab. The daze lifted when he pulled up in his driveway. “How did I get here?” he said aloud.

  The man who’d bought Andy’s house was up on a ladder putting up Christmas lights. He jumped down off the ladder and walked over to Andy’s patrol car. “Officer Myers, good to see you. What brings you back to town?”

  Andy had to think fast. “Oh, nothing really. I was passing through the area and just thought I would see how the old hometown was doing.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” the man said with a laugh. “But then again, has it ever?”

  “No,” Andy said with a forced smile and a fake laugh. “I lived in Trask nearly all my life, and it was always pretty much the same, all the time.”

  “Do you still have family in town?” the man asked. By this point Andy had reached his absolute limit on small talk.

  “No. Just some friends. Well, anyway, I probably need to go. Good seeing you again,” Andy said without calling the guy by name (since he couldn’t remember it). He started the car and backed out of the driveway without ever getting out. The man had a puzzled look on his face as Andy drove away, not that Andy cared. As he drove down Elm Street, he thought about pulling into the police station to visit with his old boss. He turned on his left blinker, and slowed down to make the turn into the station parking lot, but sped up and kept going before he could turn. “Why would I want to see Spence?” Andy said to the empty car. “It’s not like I’ve heard from him since I left this dump.”

  When he reached the intersection of Elm and Main, he stopped at the light and turned on his left turn signal. “I don’t know how I ended up here, but I’m ready to get out of here and get home.” The light turned green, and he turned right. Instead of heading toward the interstate and home, he drove down Main to Pine, hung a left on Pine, then took a right on Madison. A couple of minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the Madison Park Apartments. The parking lot had a few more potholes than he remembered, and someone had repainted the sign, but other than that, it looked just as depressing as he remembered it. Andy climbed out of his car and headed toward building three. The sun sunk low in the southwestern sky, and the air had a more pronounced chill. Andy’s left leg ached and his shoulder felt very stiff. “Same old Madison Park, just as cheery and inviting as ever.” He stopped at the base of the stairs that led up to apartment 323 and stared up at the doors in the hallway above. All of his previous trips up those stairs, both real and imagined, flashed in his head. Finally after I don’t know how long, he turned and went back to his car. No one saw him, or if they did, no one talked to him or asked him what he wanted.

  Andy was determined to get back on the interstate and go home to Brown County the moment he left the apartment parking lot. But, of course, he didn’t quite make it. Instead, he drove twenty minutes from Trask to Adamsburg and went straight to the cemetery. Although it had been a long time since his last visit, he knew where to go. The sun had dropped below the horizon as he walked over to Gabriel Phillips’s grave. Looking around, he was a little surprised Loraine’s grave wasn’t nearby, surprised but not disappointed. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “they only bury babies and little children in this section. That explains it.”

  Gabe’s grave had been there long enough that the grass over the top looked like it had never been disturbed. Unlike during his last visit, it now had a headstone. “ ‘Gabriel Keith Phillips,’ ” Andy read. “ ‘November 2, 1969, to June 13, 1978. Safe in the angels’ arms.’ ” No flowers adorned the headstone. Andy reached out and traced his fingers along Gabriel’s name. The granite still felt warm from the sun.

  “Safe in the angels’ arms,” Andy said. “That sure doesn’t say much about who you were, does it, Gabe?” He paused and stared at the words for a while longer. “But I guess they can’t really put all that on a tombstone.” He sighed. “I don’t know if I ever really told you how much you meant to me, how special you were. Maybe it’s just as well things turned out this way. I’m afraid you wouldn’t like me very much if you were still here. I’m really not a very good man. Not like . . .” He stopped himself.

  “Well . . . anyway . . . I thought . . .” He swallowed hard. “I thought I was doing you a favor, spending time with you . . . I thought you needed me. Truth is . . . I needed you.” Andy paused and glanced up toward the darkening sky. “I wish I could have protected you, but I guess I didn’t do a very good job of that. Seeing you lying there, well, I . . . uh . . . I wanted to save you. God, how I wanted to save you. Then I just wanted to get justice for you. I thought if I could do that, then somehow that would make things all right. I always said I was doing it for you. But . . . uh”—a lump grew in his throat and he had trouble seeing because of the tears welling up in his eyes—“but now I’m not so sure.” Tears flowed freely now. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I’m sorry I didn’t walk away from your mother at the very beginning. I’m sorry I let myself fall into that game she wanted to play. I knew better, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about you. Or her. Or anyone. I was just thinking about myself. I should have known . . .” He let out a long sigh. “I just made things worse for you. I thought I could make that up to you, but . . . I . . . uh . . .” The words stalled on his tongue.

  “Yeah, well, I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I know that’s not nearly good enough, but . . . but it’s all I can do.” Andy leaned down and gently kissed the top of the headstone. Then he turned and walked back to his car. Two hours later he finally made it back to his cabin.

  Chapter 22

  EXECUTION DATE SET FOR CONVICTED CHILD KILLER,” the headline of the Indianapolis Star said in big, bold print. Andy pulled out a quarter and slid it into the vending machine. “Well, that’s a heck of a Christmas present,” Andy said to himself.

  “You’ve got that right,” said a fifty-something man walking by. From the way he was dressed, Andy figured him to be a farmer or a factory worker, or both. That combination was pretty common back then in Indiana. “They should have put him to death a long time ago, if you ask me. I don’t know what takes so long. The courts give scum like that way too many appeals. They should have taken him straight from the courtroom to the electric chair. That’s what I think.”

  Andy just smiled and nodded in response. That must have made the guy feel a little self-conscious because he immediately said, “Oh, I’m sorry to go off like that, Officer.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” Andy said as he stuck the paper under his arm. “I figure everyone’s probably tal
king about this case right now. Think nothing of it.”

  “Are you coming inside? Let me buy you a cup of coffee.” The man walked over toward the door of Denny’s.

  “No, I was just leaving,” Andy lied. “Thank you anyway.”

  “You guys do a great job out there,” the man said. “Yep, that’s what I always say, even when one of you gives me a ticket.” He let out a loud nervous laugh.

  “I appreciate that,” Andy said with a fake smile. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back on patrol.”

  “Nail some more speeders,” the man said.

  “Yep,” Andy said as he turned to walk away. “Gotta keep the highways safe.”

  “Well, you do a hell of a job.” Since this man seemed determined to have the last word, Andy just smiled and walked back to his patrol car. His stomach growled, but he decided it would be better to put off lunch for a little while than to have to keep that conversation going. He climbed into his car and cranked the heater. Winter had arrived right on schedule. The moment the calendar hit December 21, the temperature took a nosedive. Rather than drive off immediately, Andy unfolded the paper and read the lead story. It said, in part:

  The governor’s office announced today that John Phillips’s final appeal had been denied, and an execution date has now been set. Phillips, convicted of the June 1978 killing of his son, Gabriel, will be put to death by electric chair on March 8 of next year. “We are pleased that justice will finally be served for the family of little Gabriel Phillips,” a spokesman for Governor Chambliss said. It should be noted that it was the governor’s prosecution of the Phillips case while district attorney in Harris County that propelled Chambliss into statewide politics and the governor’s mansion. Because of his connection to the case, and because this will be Indiana’s first execution since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977, the governor himself will be present when the sentence is carried out.