Stay of Execution

by K. L. Murphy

  A third man dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons greeted Spradlin near the podium. He said something, reaching automatically for Spradlin’s outstretched hand, dropping it almost as quickly as he shook it. He was taller than Spradlin, broader in the shoulders and chest. Turning his back on Spradlin, he moved to the microphone. The man looked out over the crowd, eyes passing slowly over all those who’d come out to brave the additional heat of pressing bodies. He cleared his throat and pulled the microphone close.

  “Neighbors and friends, we are a fortunate lot. We live in a beautiful town filled with wonderful ­people. We live in a town that allows us to raise our families in the best of ways. Little Springs offers a tremendous quality of life, a stable economy, a strong education, and a safe environment.”

  A rumble rose up in the crowd. Someone yelled out from the back, “You mean we were safe! What about now, Mr. Mayor?”

  The man held up his hands as if he could push back on the antagonism. His face was flushed but solemn. “Part of feeling safe is the ability to have faith in the justice system.” There were more rumbles from the mass of ­people, but the man forged ahead. “More than two decades ago, this town faced a crisis. We were scared and worried for the young women who came to school at our college and for our daughters and wives. That changed when Leo Spradlin was taken into custody. We wanted to feel safe again. We desperately wanted to believe we could feel safe again, and so we did.” He paused, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief.

  Julia heard the gasps around her. The inflammatory words had astonished the reporters, but the crowd was momentarily appeased. A chorus of “amens” and “hallelujahs” could be heard across the town square. Julia stole a glance at Spradlin. His face was unreadable; his hooded eyes focused beyond the crowd. He stood with his feet spread, his hands thrust in his pockets, the suit jacket pushed casually out of the way. The lawyer stood a few feet behind Spradlin with his chest puffed out. Other journalists snapped pictures or wrote furiously in notebooks. She held up her small recorder, ensuring she did not misquote or misrepresent a single word.

  When the crowd quieted, the mayor said, “But the courts have reviewed new evidence, DNA evidence, that says we have lived all these years under a false sense of security. I know this is difficult for most of you to understand.” He paused when another angry wave of voices grew louder. Although the crowd was becoming increasingly restless, the police did nothing but stand along the sidewalks, watching. Waiting for the noise to die down, the mayor wiped his brow again. “The evidence, however, does not support Leo Spradlin’s conviction. In fact, it proves his innocence.” He stopped and scanned the packed street again. His tone remained neutral, as though reciting baseball statistics or reading a news article. “The law is designed to make us feel safe by protecting us from those who mean to harm us, but when a man has been falsely imprisoned for over twenty years, it is also the law’s responsibility to protect that man.”

  Shouts came from the throng. They pushed forward, closer to the podium.

  “It’s a load of crap!”

  “If Spradlin’s so innocent, then who killed those girls?”

  “It’s some damn technicality the lawyers dreamed up!”

  Julia craned to pick out the dissenters, but there were too many. Faces in the crowd were flushed with anger, and fists were raised in the air. The mayor’s speech was not helping.

  “Please,” he said, shouting over them. “Let me finish.” There were more cries of outrage, but eventually, even those fizzled to muttered cursing and spitting. “The legal system in our great state has declared Leo Spradlin innocent, and his conviction has been overturned. These are the facts.” He continued, “As most of you know, he has chosen to return to Little Springs and would like to say a few words.” He angled his head slightly toward Spradlin. “Here he is.”

  Low murmurs gathered momentum when the man stepped to the podium. The mayor moved behind Spradlin, his eyes downcast. Stepping forward, the newly freed man stood tall, his back ramrod-­straight, his face pink in the afternoon heat. Julia waited, her curiosity piqued by the man’s patient manner in spite of the animosity in the crowd. Several minutes passed. Then the noise seemed to taper off, as though the mob was losing steam, or more likely, wondering what the man had to say. He stood motionless, his hands wrapped loosely around the microphone. Julia leaned forward, standing on her tiptoes. When he spoke, his voice was strong and booming, sexy. She shivered, and goose bumps rose on her neck and arms. His words took them all by surprise, made them stop and wonder.

  “I forgive you, Little Springs. I forgive you.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE CROWD RELEASED a collective breath, and the air of hostility evaporated in an instant, swept away by Spradlin’s words. Cancini stood at the edge of the crowd, avoiding the fray. He frowned. Spradlin forgave them? The folks of Little Springs stood speechless, but the silence wouldn’t last. Cancini knew all too well the backlash the man’s words might ignite.

  Spradlin stood in front of the very ­people who’d accused him, hated him, and turned their backs on him, as though he were standing at a pulpit, a holy reverend forgiving his ­people their multitude of sins. A benevolent smile on his face, he spoke again, his tone soft and inviting. “I have a confession to make.”

  Cancini squinted in the sun, shading his eyes with his hand, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightening. He scanned the stunned faces in the crowd, one hand on the pistol hidden under his suit jacket. No one moved. No one spoke. They waited for Spradlin to explain, their anger turning to disbelief and curiosity.

  “All those years in prison, all that time on death row, I was waiting for this moment.” He surveyed the crowd as his voice grew louder, more insistent. “I am not a stupid man. I wasn’t stupid back then, and I’m not stupid now. I made some mistakes, and those mistakes cost me the support of my friends and ­people who had known me my whole life. I didn’t understand back then, but I understand now.”

  A new restlessness came over some of the locals in the crowd. An angry man, his fists clenched at his side, stood near Cancini. Others were losing patience with the speech. Still others listened, eyes and mouths round.

  “I guess I deserved it. I was a jerk. Maybe I made it easy to believe I was guilty.” Spradlin hung his head, his voice breaking on the last words. Several moments went by before he spoke again. “The hardest part, and my biggest regret, is that my mother is not here to see my exoneration, to hear the truth from those who condemned me.” He sighed deeply. “She deserved better than she got from this town after I was sent away, but for reasons I didn’t understand at the time, she refused to leave. She loved this town so much.”

  Cancini had met Spradlin’s mother only a ­couple of times. He remembered her as a lady with a raspy voice and prematurely gray hair, deep lines creasing the corners of her eyes and mouth. The investigation and the trial had nearly done her in. She’d lost her job. She’d lost everything. Cancini never understood why she’d stayed in Little Springs despite being ostracized, unemployed, and alone.

  “Not long before she died, my mom came to see me. She told me she knew I was going to get out and that I would be free someday. She gave me new hope, never losing faith in my innocence. She told me that when that day came, when I walked out of prison, I must return to Little Springs. So, here I am. Like her, I won’t run away. God rest her soul, she told me to hold my head high.” He paused, bracing both sides of the podium. “She was right. I am free, and I will not run away. This is my home, and you are forgiven.”

  He spun on his heel and walked to the row of cars, the uniformed police scrambling into position. He halted in front of the press box, the cameras clicking furiously, and then he was gone, ducking into a car and speeding off before the crowd could figure out what had happened.

  Cancini’s eyes followed the dark sedan until it turned the corner and disappeared from view. The knot between his
shoulders hardened, a sign that a full-­blown tension headache was setting in. His head throbbed, and the pain began its inevitable movement up from the base of his skull. He needed to lie down in a cold, dark room. Around him, the anger that had defined the crowd earlier simmered again, voices raised in indignation. He ducked his head, moving away from the corner and the crowd, escaping before tempers flared and erupted.

  Soon he was stretched out on his bed, an ice pack from the hotel kitchen plastered on his forehead and another propped under his neck. He lay still, his mind preoccupied with Spradlin’s speech. He had to give the guy credit. It took balls to show up and stand before a crowd who’d surely stone you if they could, and remain so calm and cool. Then again, Spradlin had always been a cool customer. When they’d first started looking at him for the rapes and murders, he’d seemed unperturbed, amused even. A cocky young man, Leo Spradlin had carried himself with a brash confidence, a combination of youthful ego and innate arrogance. He was tall and handsome with thick, wavy hair, but it was his charisma, an uncommon magnetism, that seemed to draw in both men and women. Naturally athletic, he was the type of guy who might lead a varsity football team or win the title of prom king—­or would have if he’d cared. But he hadn’t. In fact, Spradlin hadn’t seemed to care about much of anything. After a while, those who gravitated toward him fell away.

  Cancini took the ice packs from behind his neck and off his forehead. All of that had been a long time ago. It was true he hadn’t liked Spradlin, but that wasn’t what made him a suspect. The evidence had pointed toward the man. He knew all the girls. But most importantly, physical evidence linked him to the first crime scene, and Spradlin couldn’t produce a solid alibi. Cancini sat up and swung his legs around to ease the stiffness in his limbs. What was happening in Little Springs now had nothing to do with him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to stay. Walking to the window, he pushed aside the worn curtains. The crowds had thinned, but a few folks still lingered on the street. The podium had been taken down, and the press area was now empty. It almost looked peaceful.

  Spradlin’s words replayed in Cancini’s mind, the throbbing in his head intensifying in spite of the ice. Maybe Teddy was right. Maybe Spradlin was up to something after all. That whole bit about forgiveness? The press would eat that up. None of the reporters there today could possibly understand the hysteria that had gripped the town during the weeks and months of rapes and murders. By the time the police had gathered enough evidence to charge Spradlin, the townsfolk would have strung up the college president if it meant an end to the terror. The press from Washington, New York, and the AP wouldn’t know any of that. In fact, most of the reporters were only children at the time or weren’t from around here.

  One thing was for sure. Spradlin was no fool, adept at deception and operating under a smooth façade. Today, he’d played the part well—­the victim, the devoted son. Cancini had to hand it to him. But Cancini knew the truth. The late Mrs. Spradlin, the mother Leo claimed believed in his innocence, begging him to return to his hometown, did not visit him before her death. In fact, she had never visited him once in all those years.

  Chapter Ten

  SQUINTING, HE STARED out the window at the setting sun. His body was tired, fatigued after the day’s events, but his mind was wide-­awake. The day had been a great success, but a sudden pang of loneliness tainted his heady reliving of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared about being alone. Why should this night be any different? Then he remembered the girl and all that she promised.

  He’d spotted her in the crowd wearing one of those tight sorority T-­shirts, her breasts high and mighty under the thin cotton fabric. Standing on the sidewalk with her back pressed against a storefront, she’d whispered in the ear of a girlfriend. Beads of sweat had glistened on her forehead, and damp blond tendrils had framed her face. He’d known immediately she was more of a curious onlooker than part of the hostile mob. Besides, the sorority girl was too young to remember the old crimes. She’d been there for the show. It was exactly as he’d expected; the news of the release was everywhere.

  From under his lashes, he’d watched her wipe her brow and fan her face. The crowd had pressed in, and she’d been momentarily swallowed up. A vein in the man’s temple had pulsed, and he’d shaded his eyes from the sun, careful to keep his head steady. He’d been keenly aware of the unfriendly crowd, watching and waiting.

  She’d appeared again, a little ways down the wall, farther from the podium. His heartbeat had quickened, and his mouth had gone dry. Without warning, the sight of the pretty coed had brought back all the old feelings, the urges he’d worked so hard to repress. It had been so goddamn long since he’d acted on them, given in to them. Of course, it wasn’t as though he’d had much of a choice. His circumstances had made that difficult. His eyes had followed her as she’d pushed off the brick, weaving in and out of the crowd, her friend trailing behind. He’d had only one thought as she moved down the street and out of his view. Her presence was surely a sign.

  He’d committed the letters on her shirt to memory. Kappa Kappa Delta. Did she live there? Even if she didn’t, she had to go there sometime. His fingers tingled, and he licked his lips. He’d find her when the time was right.

  His thoughts strayed to the reporters at the press conference and the row of cameras perched on tripods above the crowd. He’d watched as one lens panned the ­people with their signs and their small-­town attitudes. Uniformed police circled the crowd and stood guard on the steps. He’d suppressed a smile. It was perfect in every way. He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.

  “So fucking easy,” he said out loud. He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. The stage was set and now that he’d seen the girl—­chosen her—­everything would fall into place. She didn’t know it yet, but soon, she would be famous.

  Chapter Eleven

  CANCINI SIFTED THROUGH the trial transcript, stopping on the testimony of the forensic specialist. He could recite the questions and answers word for word, but it was moot now. Everything she’d said in the first trial had been wiped away by the new testing. He looked up from the file. The light in the hotel room was fading with the sun. Cancini switched on the desk lamp and read the prosecution’s summation. He could still hear the man making his case, his deep baritone laying out the evidence piece by piece until it culminated with the DNA. “How,” he’d asked, “can there be any reasonable doubt?”

  Cancini flipped back through the file, pulling out his daily reports. Months of investigative work had yielded scraps of evidence, much of it circumstantial but eventually enough for a warrant. That warrant led to the DNA evidence that sold the FBI, the police chief, and the jury. Now that same DNA evidence was the sole reason for Spradlin’s exoneration. It made Cancini’s head hurt. He gathered the papers, closed the file, and stowed it back in the hotel room safe.

  He swallowed some aspirin and stretched out on the bed. The quiet should have made him feel better but instead reminded him he was far from home, far from traffic and horns and weekly homicides. He missed the frenetic pace of Washington life. He missed the job that kept him busy all hours and helped him forget his ex and his empty apartment. Here, the silence stung. The hours crawled by and there was too much time to think, too much time to wonder about things he couldn’t change.

  Cancini closed his eyes. When the case had gone to trial, Spradlin hadn’t helped himself. He’d said almost nothing in the interviews, and the little he had said was oddly incriminating. He’d never denied knowing the victims. He’d never offered an alibi. When the killings had stopped after Spradlin’s arrest, even the few doubters were convinced of the man’s guilt. Relief had spread among the townsfolk like the smell of summer rain after weeks of dry and dusty weather.

  Without the DNA evidence, would Spradlin have been convicted? Cancini couldn’t be sure. He relied on DNA—­he had to—­but knew better than to build a case s
olely on one piece of evidence. Lawyers used it on both sides of the bench, but it could come back to haunt you. Detectives both prized and hated DNA. Cases turned on it, and now, in the world of ever-­evolving technology and science, justice could barely be achieved without it. Even old cases, long forgotten by anyone except the principals, were alive and fresh again, front-­page news when a reversal made headlines. The state of Virginia was no exception.

  When a former governor ordered old cases be reviewed and any stored DNA evidence be tested, the goal was not to close unsolved cases or seek out the guilty; rather it was to find men and women who had been wrongly incarcerated and grant them the freedom they had lost. Anti–death penalty groups and activists rejoiced, convinced this testing was the first step in eliminating the death penalty altogether.

  Conservatives shouted with dismay that juries might be fearful of convicting anyone in the future if mistakes were uncovered and publicized. More than one judge agreed with this assessment, even going so far as to say the standard “beyond a reasonable doubt” was nearly impossible to meet. All of this was relevant in the abstract but took on new significance when the case of the Coed Killer came along. Now, a convicted murderer sitting on death row had been granted a full pardon, his freedom the direct result of DNA testing. What was a small town with virtually no political clout to do?

  The jury hadn’t needed long to convict Leo Spradlin, deliberating less than two hours and presenting their verdict in front of a packed courthouse. Things in Little Springs had returned to normal. Years had passed. Now old pictures of Spradlin, along with a few from prison, were plastered across the front page and the nightly news. Politicians, civil rights groups, and talking heads all chimed in. No one asked the residents of Little Springs how they felt or what they thought, but Cancini knew and he understood.