Before I Sleep (36 page)

“Right. Can we send someone out to do phone-ins from outside the prison?”

“Why?”

“Well, you know. There's always a group holding a candlelight vigil against the death penalty, and there's always a pro–death penalty crowd to cheer when the execution is carried out. Man-on-the-scene interviews.”

He put his head in his hands. “Why do I let you do this to me? What do you want? A three-ring circus?”

“No. I just want to be sure that the state-sanctioned murder of an innocent man doesn't slip by without a single peep.”

He raised his head, and the look he gave her was different from before, as if something in him had shifted away from considering all of this a nuisance. “You really believe that, don't you?”

She nodded, and came into his office. Reaching for his pack of cigarettes, she handed one to him and lit one for herself. As an afterthought, she closed the door, then paced the six feet of empty space in front of his desk. “I didn't tell you what I found out in Atlanta.”

“I figured you were planning to tell the whole world tonight.”

“You're right. I am. But let me tell you right now. Maybe you'll see why this is so damn important. John William Otis has a younger brother, Jamie.”

“Right, I know that. Everyone knows that.”

“What everyone doesn't know is that Jamie got out of a mental institution just a month ago. And he was here in St. Pete the night of the Kline murders. The cops have the credit card bill to prove it. Jamie is the one who's been calling my show and saying John didn't do it, that
he
did. And the cops are looking for him right now in connection with the Downs and Barnstable slashing murders. They also think he did the Klines.”

“Jesus.” Bill lit his own cigarette and tipped back in his chair. Swiveling suddenly, he opened the window behind his desk. “Damn smoke. One of these days somebody around here is going to complain about me to the air police. You're a bad influence.”

“You're the one who keeps an ashtray in here.”

“Shut up and let me think. Christ, this is going to gut the news budget.”

“You can just have someone call on the telephone.”

“Fuck that. If we're going to do a three-ring circus, I'm not going to be relying on phones and phone availability in outer nowhere. Jesus.” He flicked ash into the ashtray and took another drag.

“Okay,” he said a few minutes later. “I'll send a remote van out tomorrow morning. I can probably talk Ed into doing it as straight news from that end.”

“Thanks, Bill. Thanks an awful lot.”

“You need to quit smoking. You're going to ruin your voice.”

“Hey, it just gets more sultry with abuse.”

He snorted. “Just tell me one thing.”

“What's that?”

“How in the hell did you get the governor to agree to call tonight?”

“I promised not to ever tell—unless he doesn't call.”

Bill looked up at her, a faint smile playing around the comers of his mouth. “God, what I'd give for
that
story.”

“The governor's willing to give me seven minutes. How much is that worth?”

He shook his head. “Get out of here so I can do some work, will you?”

At four that afternoon, Seamus called her. “Jamie's going to call your show tonight.”

Her heart quickened, and her mouth went suddenly dry. “How do you know that? My God, don't tell me someone else is dead!”

“No. But there was an attempted break-in last night. The perp tried to get through the sliding glass doors, only the vie had electronic security. The whooping sirens scared him off, and woke the entire neighborhood.”

“Who was the victim?”

“John Otis's trial attorney.”

“Ben Webster?”

“The same.”

Carey sank back in her chair. “My God,” she whispered.

“Anyway, if he follows his usual pattern, he's going to call you tonight I'm putting a cop at the station in your producer's office. If he calls, I want the number the minute you guys pick up the phone, not after he gets through to you on the air, okay? Every second is going to count.”

“Okay. Sure. The station shouldn't object.”

“Tell ‘em to not even bother. I can get enough paper out of a judge in the next half hour to bring a whole damn squad of cops in there.”

“I'll be sure to tell Bill that. But I don't think he's going to object.”

“Good. And when Jamie calls, keep him on the phone as long as you can.”

“Sure. I'll do my best.”

“Did you get the governor?”

“He's giving me seven minutes of his precious time at ten minutes after ten tonight”

“Well, if the gods are smiling, maybe Jamie'll call first and we can wrap up this whole damn case and give it to Howell with a ribbon on it when he calls.”

Carey found herself crossing her fingers, and she closed her eyes against a sudden wave of fear and almost unbearable hope.

“Are you okay?” Seamus asked suddenly.

“On the edge of my seat, ready to scream from tension, but yeah, I'm okay.”

“Hang in there, sweetie. I'm planning to move heaven and earth in the next thirty-six hours, if I have to.”

“I know.”

“Gotta go. We're getting ready to blanket the streets tonight to watch the pay phones. I'll meet you after your show.”

“Okay.”

Then, after the briefest pause, he said quietly, “I love you, Carey.”

With a
click,
he disconnected. She took the receiver from her ear and stared at it, wondering how he could drop a bomb like that at a time like this.

Then, deciding that she had to think about something else or lose her mind completely, she called the IRS. It only took a few minutes to persuade them to accept Danny Rourke's confiscated boat as full payment of his tax debt and penalties.

But when that was done, there was nothing left to do except stare at the clock and watch the irretrievable minutes slip away forever.

In her heart, she believed John Otis must be doing the same thing.

At last the clock was creeping toward 10:10. Because she couldn't be sure the governor would call exactly on time, Carey let the jerk on the phone spin out his version of legal utopia a little longer. Through the window to the control room, she could see Marge sorting carts and answering calls in her headset. Beside her stood a uniformed St. Pete police officer, looking bored to death. Jamie still hadn't called. What if he didn't call at all?

She said something reasonably noncommittal to the caller, inadvertently getting him wound up all over again. There were no back-up calls for her to replace him with, though. Apparently, the Bay Area was waiting for the governor's call.

But then the idiot said something which revealed him to be a pseudo-Nazi. Within fifteen seconds, her board was lighting up with calls. She hated the idea of keeping all these people on hold when they were undoubtedly upset over her current caller's opinions.

Marge apparently had the same thought. She spoke to the callers on hold, and one by one they went away.

Carey punched the button that allowed her to talk to Marge without being heard on the air, while Aryan-Nation-junior continued to rant. “What are you saying?”

“I'm telling them to call back in ten minutes, that we're holding for the governor's call.”

“Thanks.” She punched the button, and decided she'd had enough.

“Look, jerk,” she said into the microphone, “I don't know where you get the idea that God is a white male. It seems to me that if God created life, he or she created
all
life, whether black, white, brown, yellow, red, or purple with pink polka dots. And while we're on the subject, Jesus was a Jew. So spare me your ugly little diatribes.”

She cut the caller off. “Man, oh man,” she said to her audience, “people like that give me the willies. And since the governor should be making his promised call any moment now, I'm going to stop taking calls for a few minutes. But those of you who want to respond to this last caller, stick around. You'll get your chance.”

Even as she spoke, a line lighted up and a message appeared on her screen:
Governor Howell.

“Well, talk about timing. The governor is with us now.” She put him on the air. “Governor Howell. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to be with us this evening. Can you hear me all right?”

“Good evening, Carey. I hear you just fine. It's a pleasure to be with you this evening.”

“I don't know whether you heard our last call, but I won't waste your time by asking you to respond to it.”

“Oh, I heard it, Carey.” Dave Howell's voice took on the rounded speech-making tones that were always so impressive. “It's appalling that any civilized man could hold such opinions. I'm glad to say that he does
not
speak for the state of Florida.”

“But you
do
speak for the state of Florida, Governor, and that's why I asked you to call this evening. Some evidence has come to light recently that suggests that John William Otis, who is scheduled to be executed Wednesday morning at 12:01 A.M., may well be innocent. Now, we sent you a fax earlier today detailing this evidence. I'm not sure you've had a chance to review the fax yet, but since I haven't yet shared the information with our listeners, I'll just run over it quickly again.”

“Certainly.”

What else could he say with a quarter million people listening at this very moment, Carey thought cynically. “You may remember, sir, that no one was able to prove that John Otis was in town the night of the murders, that he did in fact have a hotel room in Daytona Beach that entire weekend.”

“I remember,” said Howell. “I also remember that no one recalled seeing Otis in Daytona Beach during the critical time frame.”

“True. But, as you may also remember, Governor, John Otis has a younger brother, Jamie. In the past four days, the police have developed evidence which puts Jamie Otis in St. Petersburg at the time of the murders for which John was convicted. They have also uncovered evidence which points to a motive for Jamie to have committed the murders. Even as we speak, the police are combing the area looking for Jamie Otis in connection with two murders which have occurred in the last few weeks.”

“Interesting,” said Howell noncornmittally.

“It's more than interesting, Governor. In less than twenty-six hours, John William Otis will die, and yet the police believe that the wrong man may well be on death row. So I'm here to ask you, sir, if you can't find a way to stay the execution of John William Otis. Just for ten days, a week. Just enough time for the police to complete their investigation and settle the matter beyond any shadow of a doubt. Please, sir, is there any reason the state should deny John Otis this one last chance? Is there any reason we should execute a man when there is a distinct possibility he may be innocent?”

There was the briefest silence from the governor, so brief that Carey thought most of the listeners didn't notice it. She did, however, and felt an instant of exultation before he started to speak.

“That's very interesting, Carey. But you have to keep in mind that as governor I only interfere with the judicial process when I have incontrovertible evidence that there has been a miscarriage of justice. What you've given me here is unconfirmed circumstantial evidence.”

“John Otis was
convicted
on circumstantial evidence.”

“So he was. His case was presented in court, he was adequately represented by counsel, and twelve men and women—handpicked men and women, I might add— heard all the evidence and judged him guilty. The courts have upheld that conviction as legal through the entire appeals process, right up to our state supreme court. Now, I have the greatest respect for the judicial system in our state. I have the greatest respect for the men and women who reached this agonizing verdict. I cannot, and will not, interfere with our judicial process based on a supposition.”

“It means nothing to you that the police believe the wrong man is on death row?”

The governor's tone became almost indulgent. “I'm sure you don't speak for all police officers in the state. Some of them may agree with you. But their
opinions
don't constitute legal proof. Bring me a confession from this brother, and I will most certainly stay the execution. But right now all you're giving me is a single fact—that Jamie Otis was in town at the time of the murders. There were a lot of people in town at the time of the murders. Only one of them was convicted for the crime.”

“Twenty-six hours, Governor. That's all we have left to prevent a miscarriage of justice. Why can't you at least stay the execution for a week, to give the police time to do their job? Is it so essential that this man die on Wednesday morning? How can it harm the state to take a week and see?”

“It would be executive interference in the judicial process, Carey. That's not something I, or any governor, can do without much better reason than you've given me. I'm sorry, but I have to remain firm. The courts have spoken. You, and the police, have twenty-six hours to bring me a signed confession, or incontrovertible proof that John Otis didn't kill these people. Until then, I have to believe that the judicial system knows best.

“I'm sorry,” he continued. “But our time is up. Good night to you and all your listeners.”

Son of a bitch!
Carey thought as she punched him off before the dial tone could go out over the air.

“Well, you heard it here,” she said into her microphone. “The governor says that unless there is incontrovertible proof, John William Otis will die. What do you think of that? Our number here is …”

Automatically, she went through the numbers and the station identification, then signaled Marge to give her a break. A commercial started going out over the air, some offensively happy jingle about air-conditioning repair. She pulled off her headphones for a minute and rubbed the sides of her head before putting them back on again. Forty minutes left to go, and all she could hope for now was that Jamie Otis would call.

She looked out the window, saw that it was raining again. All of this had started on a rainy night just three weeks ago. God, it felt like a whole miserable lifetime.

Turning back to the console, she took a deep breath and prepared to deal with the next caller. Marge was giving her the countdown. Three, two, one …