by Baby Grand
"I think so." He smiled. "Baby steps."
There was a loud cheer from the crowd outside, a collection of diverse faces lit up by the line of street lamps along Eagle Street.
"Looks like the power's back on," Phillip said.
"There's actually something else I have to tell you..."
"Katherine..."
"I mean, no, this is something different entirely. But come with me downstairs." Katherine held his face in her hands and ran her thumbs over his graying eyebrows. "You've been up here all night and haven't eaten a thing." She smiled. "I found a box of Oreos hidden in the pantry. You can dunk while I talk."
"I will." Phillip looked at his watch: 11:30 p.m. "But just give me a few minutes first."
"Okay," she said. "I'll wait for you in the kitchen."
As Katherine went downstairs, Phillip hurried to his private office across the hall and shut the door. Just stay the execution, Phillip told himself. Don't give a reason. Just do it, and worry about the rest later. He dialed the Stanton death house.
"Hello, this is Governor Grand," he said into the telephone, just as his cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket.
Chapter 55
The appeals process in the United States was not only expensive, but time-consuming. The procedure took so long that nearly a quarter of deaths on death row in the United States occurred from natural causes. Gino remembered when triple-murderer Joe Stock had arrived on death row at Stanton in the late 1980s, far earlier than Gino had; Stock awaited execution for more than twenty years—He finally died of heart failure at age ninety-four.
Gino stood shackled before the execution chamber, four Department of Corrections officers, including Hank, around him. Three years earlier, New York had implemented lethal injection as its primary method of execution after protestors sought to rid the state of its electric chair, citing "cruel and unusual punishment." Gino was surprised to learn there were still states, like Utah and Oklahoma, which, not very long ago, used firing squads as their form of execution. Although lethal injection was now the primary method, inmates who were sentenced to death in those states before the new law was enacted had the option of dying at the hand of a row of gun-toting do-gooders. Now there was a way to go, Gino thought.
Like virtually all capital punishment states, New York used three drugs in its lethal injection executions: sodium thiopental, a fast-acting sedative; pancuronium bromide, which caused paralysis; and potassium chloride, which caused cardiac arrest. When it was reported recently that the lone US manufacturer of sodium thiopental had decided to halt production—and the European company asked to step in as supplier would not sell the drug to the US if it was to be used in executions—Gino thought perhaps the firing-squad option would be on the table. But that smarty-pants Phillip Grand, in anticipation of a possible shortage, had stockpiled sodium thiopental and apparently had enough to carry New York State's capital-punishment program into the next decade, maintaining lethal injection as the quickest, cleanest method of ridding the world of its undesirables; the whole process was said to take less than ten minutes.
For the last twenty-four hours, security had been so tight that Gino couldn't piss without an audience, making him feel like some inadvertent performer, and he longed for the virtual solitude of his six-by-six death-row cell. Gino knew that Grand, even with his daughter in jeopardy, would wait until the very last minute to make a decision—the governor was a master of debating issues not only in the courtroom but in his own mind, and Gino had no doubt that the phone call would come in the execution room.
The officers led Gino to a sterile gurney in the center of the small room, where a thick, heavy curtain had been drawn across a panel of four long windows, behind which were seated, Gino assumed, the witnesses—an assortment of people that most likely included family members, his and his victims'; law-enforcement officials; and curiosity freaks who just signed up to watch this sort of thing. Inside the room, in addition to the prison staff and his assigned priest, there were several people he didn't recognize, and Gino wondered who among them was the civilian executioner whose name Bailino had been unable to determine. You don't know how lucky you are, buddy, he thought to himself.
"Lie back, please," the prison warden said.
Gino complied, and the guards began fastening the thick leather straps to his body. The guards moved in step, and as they circled the gurney to check one another's work, he caught the eye of Hank, who nodded. They swabbed his arms with alcohol and inserted two IVs, one in each arm. Gino knew only one was needed; the other was a backup—no reason to let an air bubble hold up an execution. He found it humorous that such precautions against infection were being taken while putting a man to death, although the routine was probably done more to protect the prison personnel. When the guards were done, there was an annoying squeak as the curtain was opened, revealing rows of solemn faces, both men and women, sitting on tiered seats as if at the opera. Gino scanned the crowd and thought he recognized a few individuals from the trials, but was thankful that Leo and ToniAnne had stayed away.
The warden stepped forward. "Gino Cataldi, you have been sentenced to death by lethal injection. Do you have any last words?" he asked.
As if on cue, the red phone—direct line to the governor of New York—rang.
A man, who had been standing next to the red phone for the very purpose of answering it, looked for a moment as if he didn't know what to do. He picked up the receiver.
"Yes, Governor," he said and listened. His eyebrows furrowed.
A smile crept over Gino Cataldi, as he thought of how they'd write about him in the history books—the first stay of execution of Republican governor Phillip Grand's tenure. He thought of Grand's tea-party constituents going nuts, considering all the time and taxpayers' money he'd spent to put Gino there, and of the conflicted man on the other side of the telephone who had to choose between the death of a man he detested and the death of the daughter he loved.
The man hung up the phone and took a step forward.
"The governor said he sees no reason for this execution to not take place as planned," he said and returned to his place next to the red phone.
The men in the room looked at one another. The phone call had created an odd twist to an otherwise routine procedure and had caused mild confusion among the usually unflustered prison personnel. But they continued as if nothing had occurred.
The warden repeated: "Any last words, Mr. Cataldi? ... Mr. Cataldi?"
The tautness of the leather straps tore into his wrists and ankles. The room lost its air. Gino looked through the thick windows of the execution room and, for the first time, wished he could see a familiar face on the other side of the glass.
"Gino?" the warden asked again. Then, with a slight nod, he stepped away from the gurney.
"Son of a bitch," Gino muttered to himself as the first plunger, filled with sodium thiopental, fell.
Chapter 56
"Where are you?" Phillip asked, dialing Detective Nurberg on his other line.
"We are on our way to the police station," Reynaldo said into Rosalia's phone, which he'd found at the bottom of her pocketbook underneath Miss Beatrice. "Phillip Grand's private line" was listed fourth on her contact list.
"No!" Phillip shouted into the phone. The governor stood up, his face red. "I don't know if that's the safest course of action. That's what he'd expect."
"Who?" Reynaldo asked.
"I'm dialing Detective Nurberg. He'll tell us what to do. Stay on the line, please. Is my daughter all right?"
"She seems fine. Jamie has her."
"Who has her?"
"She's okay," Reynaldo stressed, looking over at Jamie, whose eyes were glued on him. "Please, governor, the police station is only a few miles away. We need to know if you want us to go in another direction."
"Hold on, it's ringing, but no one is answering. Damn, the call went to voice mail." Phillip ended the call and redialed. The ringing was distorted, and Phillip stood closer to
the window, hoping that would give him better reception. The phone rang and rang on the other end, and just as Phillip feared he'd get voice mail again, the ringing stopped.
"Hello? Hello?" Phillip said into the phone, but he couldn't hear anything. "Nurberg? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, my daughter is safe and in a red Escort on its way to the police station on... hold on..."
Phillip spoke into his cell phone. "Reynaldo, where are you? ... Going south? Okay, hold on..." He switched back to the cordless and gave the car's location. "Should I have them keep going? ... Hello? Nurberg?" The line was dead. He picked up his cell phone.
"Reynaldo, I lost Nurberg... Reynaldo?"
But the cell-phone screen showed that the call had ended.
Chapter 57
"Hello? Hello?" Reynaldo yelled into the phone.
"What happened?" Jamie asked, adjusting the seat belt across Charlotte's chest.
"I don't know. Reception's still iffy. Might have hit a dead zone." He put the phone down on the console between them.
"What did the governor say? Can we go to the station?"
"I don't know. He didn't get a chance to say."
"Shouldn't we call him back?"
Reynaldo was looking into the rearview mirror, scrutinizing it in a way that looked as if it were a riddle that needed unraveling.
"What's the matter?" Jamie asked.
"I think somebody's following us."
The words floated to Jamie as if in slow motion, their meaning coating her in a thick blanket of alarm. She held Charlotte tighter to keep her own body from shaking and turned around slightly to peek behind them. "I don't see anyone," she said.
"The headlights are off."
Jamie watched Reynaldo's eyes jump from the mirror to the road and back to the mirror. "What kind of car is it?" she asked.
"I don't know. It's hard to tell."
She took a breath. "Is it a Ford Flex? A truck? Is it white?"
Reynaldo looked into the mirror and then at Jamie. "Yes, it might be."
Jamie's eyes grew wide, and that was all the confirmation Reynaldo needed. He slammed his foot onto the accelerator, the wheels sliding on the slippery pavement, but within seconds the Ford Flex was right behind them, crossing the double yellow line and coming up on the left-hand side.
"Go faster!" Jamie yelled. "Please!"
"Hold on," Reynaldo said, jamming on the brakes and forcing the Escort into a vicious skid. The Ford Flex also came to a screeching halt, but not before Reynaldo was able to turn left onto an unpaved side road. An avid bike rider, Reynaldo knew these streets, most of them not even found on maps of the area, like the back of his hand, but it didn't take long for the white truck to recover and follow behind.
The narrow lane rocked the Escort, which was no match for its jagged, rocky terrain, over which the Ford Flex seemed to glide with ease, coming steadily toward them. Reynaldo glanced at Jamie who, despite the hard bounce of the car, had Charlotte tucked under her arms, her legs planted on the dashboard, her head bent down so that her hair fell around the little girl as if it were a protective seal.
Up ahead, the Albany County Bridge came into view behind the racing trees, and Reynaldo made a quick right onto an even narrower bike path hoping to use the smallness of his car as an advantage against the goliath following behind. Branches slapped and scraped against the windows as Reynaldo careened through the thicket of trees, jumping from one path to another, hoping to slow down the truck or perhaps force it into a ravine, but the Ford Flex seemed undeterred, following like a hungry predator intent on reaching its prey, the beams of its headlights framing the Escort's every move. Reynaldo made a hard left, turning toward the paved road once again, and sputtered his way around a short guardrail and up onto the wide street. He started for the bridge just as the Ford Flex crashed through the rails behind him, its brakes screeching with anger.
"C'mon, c'mon," Reynaldo said, the accelerator pedal pushed to the floor as the Escort spit and choked before again picking up speed.
The crisscrossing metal grid of the bridge reflected the pairs of headlights in every direction as both cars barreled onto it, Reynaldo desperately trying to keep the car from hydroplaning, realizing that his tires were now caked with mud. He stayed in the center, riding the double yellow line, so that the white car couldn't come up beside him, but the Ford Flex slammed into the Escort from behind, causing Reynaldo to lose control of the car, which crashed into the bridge on its right side, sparks flying as it bounced against the rails. Instinctively, Reynaldo threw his arm across the front seats over Jamie and Charlotte, bracing for another impact, but instead the truck spun and swerved across the double line, colliding with the guard rail on the other side about twenty feet behind.
"Are you all right?" Reynaldo asked Jamie as the Escort thudded to a stop.
"Where is he?" is all Jamie could muster, unlocking her arms from Charlotte, and for the first time Reynaldo heard the wails of the terrified little girl who sat shaking in the space between Jamie's knees.
Reynaldo turned around and saw that the Ford Flex was facing backward, its driver's side smashed in, the bulb of the left taillight exposed. There wasn't much time.
"Get out, Jamie, go. Run. Run!"
Jamie tried her door, but it was crushed by the impact with the bridge. "It's jammed. It won't open."
Reynaldo undid the passenger's-side seat belt. "You have to let go of Charlotte," he said.
"Why?"
"Please. You have to trust me."
Jamie released the screaming little girl, and Reynaldo pulled Jamie across his chest and pushed her out the driver's-side window headfirst. He reached for Charlotte, who was crawling on the floor trying to get Miss Beatrice, but Reynaldo grabbed her by legs and placed her into Jamie's waiting arms.
"Go! Now!"
Jamie ran, and Reynaldo turned off his headlights and switched his interior light on, hoping to distract the man—the "he," Reynaldo surmised, that Governor Grand had been alluding to—in the Ford Flex, hoping he had not seen them leave the car. He watched the idling white truck in his side-view mirror until gunshots shattered the Escort's back window, and Reynaldo threw himself down across the front seat as the truck slammed into the driver's side of the Escort, pushing it further against the edge of the bridge, before speeding past toward Jamie and Charlotte.
"Son of a bitch," Reynaldo said. He tried to get up, but his left leg was pinned under the dashboard. With a quick jerk, he got it loose and, ignoring the pain, tried to open his car door, but it was completely disfigured by the crash, metal jutting up in all directions. Reynaldo wiped the large pieces of broken glass from his clothing, crawled across the seats to the other side, and shimmied out the passenger's-side widow, balancing himself on the wet rail—the same one he had stood on only two days before. As he pulled his sore leg out, his foot caught on the passenger's-seat headrest, and Reynaldo fell forward, pain piercing his leg as he dangled off the side of the bridge.
Jamie heard Reynaldo scream, but was afraid to look behind her and, squeezing Charlotte tighter in her arms, kept running as fast as she could, the toes of her bloodied feet getting caught inside the grooves of the metallic grate of the roadway. The headlights of the Ford Flex were bearing down on her like the piercing eyes of a wild animal, her silhouette lengthening in their bright glow, the roar of the engine ricocheting along the metal bridge. Just as it felt as if the truck were going to mow her down, Jamie reached the end and ran off the road as the car screeched to a halt.
Without the headlights lighting her path, Jamie stumbled into the weeds and fell, bending her knees to keep from crushing Charlotte beneath her. The low hum of sirens filled the air. She picked up the little girl and kept running, ignoring the strong ache in her right knee, ignoring the cuts and bruises that seemed to be everywhere. The ground squished under her bare feet, and Jamie was afraid she was going to run out of land and have to dive into the cold water once again—she didn't know if Charlotte could manage another arduou
s swim.
A flashlight was searching the dark, heading in the direction of Charlotte's screams.
"Shhh…" Jamie said and fell with Charlotte again into the mud.
She scrambled to get up, pulling at the muddy little girl who kept slipping out of her arms, but her foot tripped on a patch of twigs, and she fell again, this time on her side. She and Charlotte landed in a puddle when the flashlight shone on her face.
"Ma'am, are you all right?"
"Leave me alone," Jamie said, grabbing Charlotte.
"Ma'am, my name is Detective Matrick. I'm with the Albany Police Department. Are you okay?"
Jamie shielded her eyes from the bright beam. "This is Charlotte Grand," Jamie said breathlessly, holding the little girl up. There were more flashing lights in the distance, swarming like a bunch of large fireflies.
"Yes, we know," the detective said. "The governor called and told us you had contacted him. He also alerted the Feds, and we were able to track the GPS of the phone number belonging to the cell phone you were using."
"It wasn't my phone." Jamie looked back toward the bridge.
"Mr. Rodriguez is all right. He's very lucky. His leg got caught inside his car, which probably kept him from falling over the guardrail. He's being taken to the hospital." The officer crouched down. "Stay put, we have a gurney coming for you and Charlotte. It'll be here momentarily. Ma'am... what's the matter?"
Jamie was looking toward the road, filled now with police cars, fire trucks, ambulances, and other vehicles, except the one she expected to see, a white Ford Flex. It was gone.
Chapter 58
"Ma'am?"
Katherine opened her eyes. Special Agent Wilcox was tapping her shoulder.
"Ma'am, we found your daughter. She's okay."
"What?" Katherine bolted upright, and a sharp crick throbbed at the base of her head. She must have fallen asleep at the kitchen table waiting for Phillip to come down, but he never had—the box of unopened Oreos was still on the table.