Stay of Execution

by K. L. Murphy

  Cancini looked down at his old friend. There was nothing more to learn. “Already in the system. Sure.” Lost in thought, he said, “It just doesn’t feel right. It was about that campus, the girls there.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he moved to another college?”

  Cancini shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Mike, the evidence says Spradlin’s innocent. Let it go.” He stood, too. “Maybe you should take some time off.”

  Cancini tucked the folder under his arm. “Teddy Baldwin called me yesterday. Remember him?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s the mayor of Little Springs now.”

  “Good for him. What did he want?”

  “I’m not sure. Rambled on about Spradlin coming back to town. Said Spradlin threatened him. He sounded worried.”

  Talbot put both hands on the desk, leaning forward. “It’s not your problem, Mike. Baldwin is not your problem. It’s not your case anymore.”

  “Maybe not. But I started it, didn’t I?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Derek. Nothing at all.” One side of his mouth turned up. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need a vacation. Maybe to a small town.”

  The words hung there, and Talbot’s face darkened. “Little Springs?” Cancini shrugged, his smile gone. “Dammit, Mike. Don’t harass Spradlin. Don’t make trouble.”

  “I’m not gonna make any trouble, Derek, but I’m going. I have to be there for that press conference.” He glanced away for a brief moment, unease etched in the lines of his face. “I know those ­people, Derek. They don’t want Spradlin back. That’s why Baldwin’s worried. It was my case. I’ve gotta see it all the way through. If I did put an innocent man in prison, I need to look that man in the eyes. I need to know.”

  Talbot cocked his head. “For God’s sake. Know what, Mike?”

  “The truth.”

  He slammed a palm against the desk, and the file folder slid to the floor. “Jesus, Mike, weren’t you listening? Why do you always have to be so stubborn? You know the truth.”

  “Maybe,” Cancini said. He glowered at Talbot, his eyes steely. “I need to go. Call it closure. Call it whatever you want. I’ve gotta know.”

  Chapter Six

  JULIA SHADED HER eyes and looked up at the run-­down hotel, praying it had hot water and a mini-­bar in the room. With time to kill before the press conference, she desperately wanted a long bath and a stiff drink. She ducked out of the blinding sun and stepped into the lobby. Her eyes swept over the heavy furnishings and faded Oriental rugs. She was lucky to have a room at all. Little Springs wasn’t a big place, and most of the chain motels dotting the interstate were booked. What this place lacked in amenities, it made up for in convenience, only a block from the courthouse.

  An hour later, clean and feeling more like herself, she stood near the window, watching the activity on Main Street. A row of storefronts including a coffee shop, a drugstore, a beauty salon, and a ­couple of other small businesses lined the picturesque street. The antebellum county courthouse stood at the corner, the planned site of the press conference. A sizable crowd had already formed around a makeshift podium set up behind the sidewalk. The street was closed to traffic. Several policemen moved slowly among the crowd. More were stationed around the perimeter. The tips of her fingers itched, a tic when she knew she was on the verge of a big story. She rubbed them against her shirt.

  Julia hoped she hadn’t made a mistake, pushing for a story of this importance. She hadn’t been able to shake Jack’s doubts. She’d read the file twice and pored over everything she could find on the Internet. She’d found dozens and dozens of articles on the case and trial, but surprisingly little about Leo Spradlin. His mother, widowed at a young age, had worked as a maid at the college, and money had been tight. Mother and son had lived on the outskirts of town. A high school athlete, young Leo had attended the same college where his mother cleaned, until he dropped out. And that’s where the story ended. What was it about Leo Spradlin that had made him a suspect? What had his life been like for the last two decades? Now that he would be free, how did he feel?

  She had no idea how she could write this story better than Conroy or any of the other crime reporters. As a features writer, her expertise in law and crime was next to nothing, but maybe that could work to her advantage. She wouldn’t treat Spradlin as a statistic or tabloid story. She wanted the readers to know the flesh and blood of the man, to feel his pain and his joy. She would see where the story took her.

  Julia surveyed the street again. Heat rose off the sidewalk, distorting the air. Crowds filled both sides of the street and pressed in near the courthouse steps. Glancing at the old wind-­up clock on the nightstand, she grabbed her digital recorder and shoved it into an oversized canvas bag. She swept her auburn hair into a ponytail and hung the press pass around her neck. When she was sure she was ready, she pulled the door shut, skipping the ancient elevator and opting for the stairs. Julia didn’t want to be late.

  Chapter Seven

  HE SHOULDN’T HAVE returned Baldwin’s call, shouldn’t have agreed to meet him. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since the original trial, and that was fine with Cancini. He gazed into his empty coffee cup. Damn. Why was he even here? Was it about truth and closure, or was it his own bruised ego? Maybe he was losing it. He sure as hell didn’t want to be sitting in this diner, packed with ­people he didn’t know, waiting for a man he didn’t want to see. He rubbed his throbbing temples. The diner was crowded and way too hot. It was too hot in the whole town for that matter. He wasn’t a small-­town guy—­wasn’t then and wasn’t now.

  The diner buzzed with locals and a few strays waiting for the big press conference. A quiet simmer, a tension, seemed ready to bubble over at the slightest provocation. The ladies in the booth in front of him wore somber expressions, each of them sipping sweet tea. Others appeared angry, eyebrows and mouths drawn into scowls. He wasn’t surprised; Little Springs had been dealt a shocking blow. A few days ago, it was a dot on a map, a tiny college town almost no one knew existed. Today it was swarming with media and spectators. The townsfolk were anxious, many of them angry and frightened, the rise and fall of emotion evident in the diner’s rumble. He couldn’t blame them. Coming here was probably a bad idea. Bile rose in his throat, and his head pounded.

  Cancini fidgeted with his empty coffee cup and tried to focus on the newspaper in front of him.

  Reporters are expected to converge on Little Springs, Virginia, today for the homecoming of Leo Spradlin. Convicted in a series of rapes and murders on the campus of Blue Hill College, Spradlin was cleared of all charges when new DNA testing proved his innocence. Spradlin, granted a pardon and writ of innocence by the governor, immediately announced his intention to return to Little Springs. “I’m going home,” said the newly freed man, “going back to the only home I’ve ever known.”

  Cancini’s bony fingers clutched the paper. Spradlin had chosen his words carefully. Back then, he’d kept his razor-­sharp tongue and quick mind hidden behind a passive expression and charming demeanor. Some may believe a leopard can change his spots, but not Cancini. Spradlin’s public return wasn’t without purpose. It wasn’t homesickness pulling him back. Spradlin was free and coming home to rub it in, to show them all how wrong they’d been. The towns­people didn’t give a damn what science or the governor had to say. To them, the fact was, the day Spradlin was arrested, the murders had stopped. Women in Little Springs were safe again. No one had been more convinced of Spradlin’s guilt than Cancini, and no one had been more instrumental in putting the man away.

  But Cancini knew it wasn’t that simple. The reporters would be fervent in their beliefs, too, particularly when the evidence showed an innocent man narrowly escaping execution. Throw in the lawyers, and it was likely a whole bunch of folks would be wearing righ­teous­ness on their sleeves. No mat
ter the reason he’d come, it was a terrible mistake.

  “Baldwin.” A man’s voice rang out. “I wanna talk to you.”

  The mayor stood near the door, and several diners gathered around him, their voices insistent, demanding. He appeared to listen and nod but offered few words in return. His face was pink, flushed from the heat of a Virginia Indian summer, but he stood patiently, acknowledging each question. After a few moments, the small crowd dispersed, grumbling as they returned to their booths and chairs. The lone waitress, a young woman whose ponytail swung when she walked, waved him in. He smiled at her and scanned the room. Spotting Cancini, he strode over and squeezed into the empty seat at the table.

  “Mike. You look good,” the mayor said, his blue eyes studying his former friend. “How long has it been?”

  “A long time.”

  Baldwin chuckled, picking up a paper napkin. “We were kids then, weren’t we?”

  “Yeah, kids,” Cancini said. Baldwin, always a big man, had added some girth to his sizable frame, yet still managed to look fit. His face had grown rounder over the years, his skin darker, as though permanently sunburned. His hair was still thick, parted on the side, and brushed back. He wore a starched white shirt tucked into a pair of dark slacks. Gold cuff links flashed at his wrists. “You called me,” Cancini said. “What’s so important that we had to meet in person?”

  Baldwin plucked at the napkin, absently tearing off the corners. Tiny pieces fell to the table. ­“People are awful unhappy here, Mike. They don’t like what’s happened.”

  Cancini sighed. This was not news. “Teddy, why’d you want to see me?”

  “It’s Ted now.”

  The waitress refilled Cancini’s cup and brought another for Baldwin. “Teddy,” he said again, drawing out the name. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

  Baldwin’s fingers ripped at the napkin. “We were friends once, Mike.” Cancini didn’t reply. “Well, anyway, after you left, I stayed. Finished law school and worked to rebuild this town and the college. I served on the town council for a while.” He paused, dropping the shredded napkin on the table. “I’m in my second term as mayor now. Little Springs is my town. You were here what? A year? I’ve spent my whole life here. It’s my home, and it’s important to me.” He licked his lips, grabbing a second napkin out of the paper dispenser. Cancini waited. Wiping his brow, the mayor said, “I called you about Spradlin. I figured you’d heard about his release.” Cancini nodded. “You thought Spradlin was guilty. You put him away.”

  “Yeah, I thought he was guilty. The jury thought so, too. That’s what the evidence said.”

  “It was more than the evidence for you. You were always suspicious of Leo, long before anyone else. You followed your instincts.”

  Cancini flicked the front page of the newspaper. “According to this, Spradlin has spent most of his life in jail for crimes he didn’t commit. According to this, I put an innocent man behind bars.”

  Baldwin’s light eyes locked on Cancini’s. “Do you believe that? That you made a mistake? That the jury made a mistake?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

  “It matters,” the mayor said. “It matters, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  The men stared at each other. Baldwin might have been half right, but Cancini wasn’t about to let him know that. It was true he’d believed Spradlin was guilty, and even in light of new DNA evidence and the knowledge that there’d been a mistake, that belief gnawed at his gut. He needed to witness the press conference for himself. Baldwin didn’t need to know any of that, either.

  “Look, Teddy, what’s done is done. They didn’t ask my opinion. New evidence appeared and cleared Spradlin. This isn’t my case anymore.”

  The mayor’s fingers twitched, picking at another napkin. “But it should be.”

  “That’s not going to happen. I don’t live here. I’m a detective in Washington now and you know that. Besides, there’s nothing for me to investigate. The FBI will be handling things.” Cancini started to slide out of the booth. “Good luck, Teddy.”

  Baldwin’s hand gripped Cancini’s forearm. The pressure of Teddy’s oversized hand and the wary expression on his face told Cancini everything he needed to know. “Maybe there’s nothing to investigate yet, but there will be.”

  Cancini looked at the hand on his arm and narrowed his hazel eyes to slits. Baldwin let go. “You don’t know that.”

  “True. Not the way you mean, but you’re not the one who spoke to Spradlin. I told you he called me.”

  “You mentioned that. So? You were always friends.”

  “Not always.” Baldwin’s florid face paled. “That was a long time ago, before, you know, he went bad.” He paused, his barrel chest rising and falling with each tear of the napkin. “He was all friendly at first, saying he was looking forward to seeing me, seeing old friends, stuff like that. It was weird ’cause he has to know he doesn’t have any friends around here.”

  “He still thinks you’re his friend.”

  “What?” Baldwin’s mouth opened. “No. Well, maybe, but that’s not the point.”

  Cancini sat down again. “What is the point, Teddy?”

  The man pushed around the small pile of napkin scraps and took a deep breath. “He started talking about how things are gonna change around here, now that he’s coming back.” He shook his head. “He said . . . he said Little Springs is in for a big surprise.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Yeah. A surprise. Can you believe it? He’s got nerve, right? I mean, what the hell?” His voice dropped, forcing Cancini to lean in. “That’s why I called you. I haven’t told anyone else about this, not even the police.” Baldwin swept the paper scraps to the side of the table with his thick hand. “The thing is, he talked like everything was normal until right before he hung up and then, I swear he was threatening me.”

  “Threatening you?” the detective asked, the hair on his arms rising. “How?”

  “He said Little Springs hasn’t seen anything yet, that he was calling to give me fair warning.”

  “Fair warning?”

  The mayor stood, his attention drawn to the windows and the growing crowd outside. “I have to get going. The press conference is going to start soon.”

  “Fair warning of what?” Cancini asked, his voice tight.

  “I don’t know.” Baldwin’s gaze shifted back to the detective, his face grave. “All I know is he scared me. His exact words were, ‘The best is yet to come.’ ”

  Chapter Eight

  OUTSIDE, IN THE blistering heat, the air was thick with humidity and body odor. Threading her way through the crowd, Julia moved closer to the courthouse, where ­people stood shoulder to shoulder. Having spotted the area designated for the press, she walked in that direction, only pausing to read some of the more colorful signs held high above the crowd. Several folks carried circular-­shaped posters outlined in red with “SPRADLIN” written in the center. His name was crossed through in red—­the message clear. The towns­people’s anger, their animosity, was apparent even without the signs. She frowned and made a mental note to seek out a handful of locals after the press conference.

  Julia wore the somber expression shared by most of her peers, some of whom she recognized from other assignments. It was the face they often wore, serious and compassionate, masking the giddy anticipation they felt at the onset of a juicy story. Julia spotted the TV cameras positioned above the crowd, all but one trained on the single podium in front of the courthouse. A lone camera was focused on the crowd, slowly panning the throngs who’d come to witness, or protest, the homecoming of Leo Spradlin.

  As the crowd grew, she considered the empty podium. It seemed small and plain to be at the center of all this excitement. Maybe that’s what made the story so enticing. It was so big, but happening in such a small town. This was a major story for the na
tional press, but for the locals and papers in this part of the state, it was more than that. It was the biggest news in a decade.

  The hours she’d spent researching had not been wasted. She’d done the background, seen the letters of outrage that had been published, read the vitriolic comments on the Internet. The residents of Little Springs didn’t seem to care about the truth. It wasn’t about right or wrong for them or the miscarriage of justice. As far as she could tell, the facts fell on deaf ears here. In their minds, Leo Spradlin was a guilty man. Maybe the police presence wasn’t such a bad idea.

  As though on cue, sirens blared in the distance, and a short line of cars pulled up to the end of the block. Two black and whites led, followed by a dark vehicle with tinted windows. Two more police cars brought up the rear. The sirens stopped, and an eerie silence settled over the crowd. All eyes, including Julia’s, were focused on the dark car, waiting. A uniformed cop opened the back door. She held her breath, staring when the man slid out. He stood tall in the punishing sun, face expressionless. The cop steered him by the elbow toward the courthouse.

  He focused on the path straight ahead, no acknowledgment accorded to the mass of ­people or the press. Flanked by police, he looked more like a politician or celebrity, someone who required personal security, than a man who’d just been released from prison for a crime he did not commit. Julia was taken by surprise. Pictures did not do the man justice. He was clean-­shaven; the jailhouse beard he’d worn for years gone. His hair had been freshly cut, and he wore a lightweight, casual suit. The man moved at a languorous pace, as though he had no reason to hurry, relaxed and surefooted. Her lips parted. He was as handsome as any movie star she had ever seen. In all the pictures she’d pored over, in all the old stories and articles she’d read, why hadn’t she noticed that before? Another man, short and rotund, followed Spradlin as he made his way to the podium. Julia thought she recognized him as one of the lawyers from the Freedom and Justice Group.