Not in the Heart (11 page)

“So you're saying you really don't care about Aiden, you just care about the campaign fallout.”

He leaned against the table and looked me squarely in the eyes with his square jaw and that no-nonsense, Reaganesque familiarity and candor. “I care about your son. In a perfect world I could offer him something without so many complications. But the truth is that any effort I make on his behalf has a political reality attached. I'm simply asking if you're willing to be on your son's team.”

As he sipped his orange juice, testing its viscosity, I said, “I'm fine being on my son's team; I'm just not sure I'm on yours.”

He nearly spilled the juice on his starched white shirt. “What does that mean?”

“I don't want you to use my son to score political points. He's had enough people poke and prod and stick him in his life without having you join in.”

He placed his napkin by his plate, which was evidently the secret signal for the server to take it away because the man did so with lightning speed.

“Why the animosity, Truman? Seriously, I'm trying to save your son's life.”

“And I appreciate that. I just don't want to be used.”

“Does your wife feel the same way?”

He stared at me and I matched him. I won the no-blink contest. “I don't speak for my wife. I learned that a long time ago.”

“She seems a little more pliable than you on this.” He said
pliable
with a bit of irony, like there was a double meaning.

“I don't want Aiden in the middle of some power play. And at the last minute to have his aorta ripped out because you get cold feet.”

He stood and Reginald returned on cue, handing him his jacket. “Press conference in fifteen,” Reginald said.

The governor looked at me with eyebrows raised. “I'm a man of conviction, Truman. I can assure you, if I decide to help push this through, there will be no cold feet. Have you interviewed Conley?”

“Supposed to go there Friday.”

“I'll speak with the warden. He's a good man. You shouldn't have a problem.”

I nodded and shook his hand.

“My best to Ellen. I think about her often. Aiden as well.”

There are some men I've met or interviewed who leave you richer than you were when you walked into the room. Generous people who treat you with dignity and courtesy and show you what it's like to treat other humans well. But sitting with Townsend brought back all the old memories, the rivalries. Being with him always left me inadequate, like I was losing part of my soul just being in his presence. It's hard to explain the feeling.

It would be even harder to explain to my wife.

C
HAPTER
16

25 DAYS BEFORE EXECUTION

Florida State Prison at Starke stands as a monument to justice, surrounded by razor wire and the requisite swamps. God help anyone who is put there. God help anyone who escapes. I won't bore you with how many doors I went through or the invasive search by the guard who said my cheek looked infected or the flips my stomach was doing as I walked into the belly of the beast. Just the smell of the place brought back memories I have tried to flush, but my memory's toilet must be broken.

The warden didn't appear for a handshake, but knowing the governor had greased the skids, I sat down with a yellow legal pad (they allowed this but no recording device) and prepared for our first meeting. I had one pad, one pen, and one hour.

Terrelle Conley shuffled into the room, his ankles shackled. He sat behind the Plexiglas and picked up the phone. His hands looked calloused, like sandpaper, and I was struck by how different he looked from his pictures in the paper and online. He wore a blank stare at trial and the mug shot after his arrest was hideous—his eyes puffy and swollen and dark patches of beard scattered across his face. I had seen him in action on the DVD Oleta provided. The footage was chilling, though I hadn't watched the entire altercation.

The man was once as lean as a running back, but the effects of the prison food had added to his weight and hardened his arteries. The same arteries I hoped would go into my son's chest. Eerie.

“Thank you for coming,” Terrelle Conley said. His voice was thick. He had chapped lips that seemed to hang from his face, a broad nose, and rheumy eyes.

“You've got an hour,” the guard said. He stayed inside the room, his eyes locked on Conley's back. I wanted to be alone, but I wasn't about to start demanding.

A guard appeared behind me and handed me a single sheet of paper, folded once.

“I got your message about writing down what I remember,” Conley said.

In childlike print he had scrawled details, words that meandered about the page, some reaching the edge, others barely making it to the center. His writing was continued on the back, but just a few lines.

“This is it?” I said. As soon as I did, I regretted it. His face showed pain.

“I don't do too good with writing. I thought that's why you were here.”

I nodded. “It is. I just thought you could . . .” I did a flyby of the thought. “You're right. That's why I'm here. Let's get started.”

He sat forward. “Before we do, tell me about your boy. How is he?”

I studied the man's eyes, which seemed to me an oasis of memory and regret. “He's back in the hospital. But he's a fighter.”

Conley smiled, revealing broken and rotting teeth. He patted his chest. “I'm doing all I can.” He laughed and the phlegm rattled.

I clicked the Bic and wrote the date at the top of the page. Anything to keep from looking him in the eye. I asked a couple of easy questions about his early life to break the ice. Stuff about his mother and family. I wasn't prepared for how hollow his voice sounded as he spoke. We didn't have much time to tiptoe through the backwater.

“What do you remember from that day?”

“What day is that?”

“The day you saw Diana Wright on the street.”

“Man, I don't remember none of it. That was a long time ago, and if you'd have asked me the next day what happened, I probably couldn't tell you.”

“Did you ask a lot of people for money? On the street?”

“No, I never did that. If I had the money, I'd go get me something.”

“Never?”

“Well, if they saw me and wanted to give me money, I wouldn't refuse it. But I wasn't one of those street guys who wanted to wash your windshield for a dollar.”

“Then why would you go up to Diana?”

He looked at the table. “I don't know, man. I mean, I know that's what they say I did and they showed it on the TV, but I don't remember it.”

“You were drunk?”

“Yeah, or close to it.”

“Do you remember her bringing you cookies? On holidays?”

“Yeah. I do remember sometimes she would bring out these plates with brownies and stuff like that. But I don't remember that day.”

“So if you can't remember, maybe you did kill her.”

He shook his head and squinted. “I didn't kill that woman. Why would I?”

“The prosecutor seemed to think you did and the jury agreed with him, and the judge and all of America. You were mad at her and found out where she lived.”

“I know what they accused me of, Mr. Truman. I've had a lot of years to go over it.”

“And what have you come up with?”

He lifted a palm from the table. “That there's a white girl who's dead and a black man who's gonna die. And the only thing the two of us have in common is that we're both innocent.”

I lifted the yellow page and folded it behind the pad. “A lot of people might read this book looking for some closure. Diana's mother. People on the jury. They just want to know if you take responsibility. Even if you don't remember the specifics.”

“And you're saying that kind of thing would make people want to buy it?”

“Sure. That you're finally coming clean. Part of your redemption.”

“Well, I guess nobody's gonna buy it, because I can't say something that ain't true. And as far as my redemption goes, I got that taken care of a long time ago.”

“We'll talk about that later. I need to know what really happened, and if all you can tell me is you don't remember, that's going to make a really short book.”

“That's why I need you, Mr. Truman. I want you to put the truth down plain and straight. I want you to tell people what the Lord has done in my life and the freedom he's given me.”

“Terrelle, people don't want to know what the Lord has done in your life until they know why you committed the crime you're dying for. How do you explain her body at the junkyard? Buried, what was it, fifteen feet from the trailer where you were living?”

“There's not a day goes by that I don't think about that and wonder on it. Who could do something like that? And why did they bury her there? I don't have an answer except for wild theories I come up with on my bunk at night.”

“Like what?”

“Sometimes it's space aliens. Sometimes it's demons who were after me. Or liquor store owners that wanted me out of their stores.”

“You think they'd want to chase away a good customer like you?”

“I told you they was wild.”

“Terrelle, everybody in here is innocent, right? And so are you. But they found the gun in your trailer. They found Diana's hair and fibers in your car.” I locked eyes with him. “It's not a flimsy case. It's open and shut. Isn't there part of you that just wants to let it out?”

He studied his hands. “You mean me saying I did it.”

“I mean you telling the truth. If you shoot straight, I can tell your story. I'll tell it well and people will want to read it. Some good might come out of it. Your words can echo into hearts.”

Saying stuff like that made me cringe, as if I could make a Nicholas Sparks story out of the train wreck that was Terrelle Conley's life.

“I think you want your last gesture in life to be giving,” I continued. “I have to get you from that junkyard and what happened there to the gurney in the death chamber and the team prepared to harvest your heart. But I can't do what I need to do with this.” I held up the folded piece of paper. “The most important thing in this whole process is truth. Reality. Your transparency.” I could tell from the look on his face that word was too big. “I don't care how much it hurts you to tell it; I don't care what it does to your chances of a stay of execution or what your family will think of you or the public or anything else. I need you to just open up and spill it.”

He looked up with tears in his eyes. “I'm telling you the truth. I'm doing everything I can. I swear to you, I didn't kill that woman. If I had, I'd tell you straight up. I can tell you about other stuff they never caught me doing. I'll tell you how I hurt my wife. How I broke her heart time after time. I know she's going to live with that for the rest of her life. And my kids . . .”

A tear coursed down his cheek and disappeared into the forest of stubble. His chin quavered. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his big hand.

“Your wife is okay,” I said with as much compassion as I could muster. “She's a brick. She believes in you.”

Instead of comforting, that made him melt into the table and it was a couple of minutes before he composed himself.

“God has done something in my life in here that he couldn't do out there. I don't know why it took this, but it did. I couldn't see it back then, but I do now. It took this place to get me to come to myself, just like the Prodigal Son.”

Terrelle began a discourse about a biblical parable, but all I could think about was how much time we were wasting. Every errant word was taking us in a bad direction. I pretended to jot down notes and listened halfheartedly about a son who squandered his inheritance and slept in a pigpen and eventually ran into the arms of a loving father who had been waiting and looking and blah, blah, blah. The guard glanced at his watch and shifted in the corner as if he had heard the story before.

“Terrelle,” I interrupted. “This is something you can write down for me, okay?”

He reached out and touched the glass in front of us and locked eyes with me. “No, this is the important part. The most important. You gotta put this in there. I'm not mad about being convicted for something I didn't do. I'm glad I was put here. This prison became my way to freedom, you see?”

The guard approached. Evidently a hand on the glass wasn't allowed. Terrelle apologized but the guard said it was time to go.

“We still have time,” I said.

“Interview's over. Get up, Conley.”

I protested some more but it was like arguing with a paper bag with a badge. I mentioned the governor and the warden and would have thrown in the president and First Lady if I had thought he'd listen. I told Terrelle to write down anything he could think of that would help the book. I told him not to worry, that his story would be told. He nodded and put the phone down and shuffled into the white light of the hallway back toward death row.

The door buzzed behind me. I picked up my legal pad and followed another guard.

“He only has a few days to live and you guys won't give him a break.”

The guard snorted. “Right. They're all innocent in here, Mr. Reporter. Every last one of them.”

“I didn't know you were at the trial,” I said. “Heard all the evidence?”

“Read it in the papers. Plus, I keep my ears open.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He turned as we reached another metal door. “You want to believe Preacher Man over there, go ahead. If he does something good for you and your boy, that's fine. But no matter how sick your boy is, I wouldn't want that man's heart in my kid's body. No way.”

C
HAPTER
17

I've heard that the way you treat the person in the room who can do the least for you says a lot about your character. As a reporter who has to get the story, get it right, and get it quick, I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about anyone in the room but myself and the person I needed to interview, and if I had to step over someone in the process, it didn't bother me. Not a pretty picture, but the truth. The other truth is that gambling is the perfect pastime for a person willing to walk over other people to make money. And the dirty little secret is that though I hate myself every time I walk into a casino, I can't stop.

At the beginning, money was at the center. I was good at cards, had a sharp memory and the ability to categorize things and remember who had played what when and the probabilities of a flush or straight or full house. But after college, the tentacles began to grow around me until I didn't just want to gamble and take chances, I
had
to gamble. I
needed
the adrenaline. This put a crimp in my marriage and every relationship, but I never let it interfere with my work. I knew at some point, whether I was in Israel, Afghanistan, or Haiti, I would make it back to a table and let the conversation and laughter and sound of the chips roll over me.

Sitting in the back of the casino, watching the ebb and flow of the room, the anthill nature of the craps table and those who only ventured as far as the slot machines, I had a bird's-eye view of the easy marks and the hardened gamblers. I had maxed out my credit limit long ago, but I felt like I had won the lottery when I discovered a couple hundred dollars in the strong box in Ellen's closet. They were actually savings bonds for my daughter, Abby, which we hadn't cashed.

A balding guy with a comb-over tossed a newspaper toward the trash bin next to me but didn't make it. I glanced at the headline and saw the words
Governor
and
Condemned
, which piqued my interest.

The story looked like it had been written by a PR firm and vetted by Reginald Gentry for accuracy and tone. It painted Townsend in the best possible light, struggling to keep the balance between the interests of the public and the concern he had for a young man who needed a heart transplant.
“These are the times that try men's souls. We need a leader with the wisdom of Solomon.”
All that trash.

A photograph of Townsend and his wife on the rear veranda of the mansion showed him pensive but calm, focused but caring, and his wife was the perfect woman to peer compassionately over his shoulder—gorgeous, supportive, every hair in place. Understanding reflected in her eyes. She looked as if she could relieve his stress with the curl of her hair. It was almost Madonna and Child, except the child wore a suit more expensive than most people's cars.

Made me sick, to tell you the truth, but at the same time it gave me hope for Aiden. If this was the kind of press they got (or manufactured), maybe some of that political clout would rub off. Maybe the energy used to push through bills for snail darters and the safe importation of gefilte fish would be funneled to my son.

There was no word from Helen Wright included. It was as if she didn't exist. There was only a cursory mention of the groups that had arisen to protest. Groups dedicated to stamping out the death penalty ramped up their criticism. Religious right-wingers held press conferences and stated they would fight all the way to the Supreme Court. And then there were those who needed something to be against. It didn't matter which side they were on; they just needed to break through the red rover line of life and join hands with somebody.

Buried toward the end of the story was a quote from Ellen about Conley's execution and his sacrificial gift. It was filled with grace and mercy and a nod toward the man who would soon die. Ellen was invested in the outcome of this case, but it was clear she was fully leaning on God's providence.

Religion has always seemed an opiate to me, something to numb a person to reality. But as I stared at the newspaper article, processing the past few days, it seemed that certain people in my life were in prison and others weren't. Ellen was entombed in a hospital. Terrelle was locked up tight in maximum security. And yet both of them had a freedom I didn't. I wasn't bound by physical constraints, yet I felt more subdued than both. This was not an easy truth to acknowledge, and I wouldn't have made the connection without a heavy dose of introspection that comes on the gaming floor when you have lost your last two hundred dollars that was really a birth present from the grandparents.

I tossed the paper in the trash and walked up to the guy with the comb-over. “This watch was given to me as a present from President Karzai of Afghanistan. You can have it for fifty bucks.”

He pushed his glasses back to see it in the dim light. “I wouldn't give you fifty if it was from Kennedy. Karzai's like all the rest of those third-world leaders.”

I didn't have much energy to argue. “It's a good watch.”

He waved me off and went back to the slots, and I walked outside for some air. Too much perfume and alcohol and losing inside. The only other thing I had of any value was Ellen's car. If I'd had the title with me, I probably would have made a deal. There was my cell phone. Or maybe if I ran into someone on dialysis, I could promise them a kidney if they'd advance me a thousand. I even considered dialing Mickey—that's how desperate I was. Walking that casino floor, I felt like a dog without teeth, a golfer without clubs, a journalist without a computer. I was a starving man looking for crumbs on an overgrown path. Or maybe I was just trying to push down the pain.

Smokers hung around outside, their habit fouling the fresh air. I walked toward the parking lot, hoping to find someone who might need Karzai time. I had interviewed the man in a tent on a mountainside where it was so cold I couldn't feel my toes. The five-minute interview for a twenty-second sound bite turned into a three-day ride-along with him through the rocky countryside. In the process—don't ask me why—he gave me his watch. I wanted to give him something of mine and I expressed this, but he grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye.

“The best gift you can give me is to tell the world the truth about my people.”

I told him I would. And I tried.

The evening had descended like a cloud and it was dark, the only sounds coming from inside the casino and the
tick, tick
of shuffling feet on windswept concrete and the occasional emphysemic cough from the group assembled by the door.

I should have been more careful. I should have known there, lurking in the dark, was someone watching my every move. Looking back, I should have just gotten in the car. But I was thinking too much about how to get a little more money, just a little more so that I could turn things around. I didn't hear the footsteps behind me. Didn't feel the impending dagger.

Someone touched me on the shoulder and when I turned . . . the world stopped, oxygen left the planet, and I stared into two angry, neglected eyes.

“Hey, Dad,” Abby said. Deadpan, no emotion, like she was in one of those places she didn't want to be, dragged to a classical concert by a well-meaning parent when she wanted to hear the Black Eyed Peas.

“Abby? What? How did you—?”

“You want me to go through the five Ws? At least I learned that much in school. Who? It's me, your only daughter. What? I've come to see you. When? Now. Where? Right here outside the casino. Why? Because I really don't have much else to do since I got kicked out of school for nonpayment. And so close to graduation it's a shame. Just one of those things that Mom thinks is God's will but I think stinks. What do you think?”

Her delivery was rapid-fire and it brought back all those times we argued about whether to go to McDonald's or Burger King. She always won those arguments and I figured if I got into one here, I would lose again.

“Yeah, it stinks; you're right. How did you find me?”

“Come on, Dad. It was either the topless bar or the casino.”

I studied her face. It was framed with beautiful, dark-brown hair that stretched toward her shoulders but didn't quite touch. Dark eyebrows. She didn't wear much makeup, but she didn't need to. She had the beauty of someone who doesn't have to work at it. Milky-white skin and full color in her cheeks. A tiny mouth like her mother's, with full, red lips that women in Hollywood used injections to achieve. The only flaw anyone could pick at was the black-framed glasses, thick and heavy, and she crinkled her nose to push them higher as she spoke. In my mind, the glasses didn't detract; they made her look like a schoolgirl who desperately wanted to look older. She had one of those faces you could pick out of a sea of a million people, it was that memorable. And though I hadn't seen her smile yet, I remembered it from the pictures I had by my computer back at the beach house.

“Okay, sorry about the topless bar,” she said, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “Mom said I might find you here. She said you went to the prison to meet with that Conley creep.”

I nodded. “You don't think I should have?”

“I'm not making a value judgment about you; it's about him.”

My mind raced with questions—not for her; my own. Her presence brought things to the surface. Difficult issues. Maybe if I backed into them.

“You look good,” I said. “No, really. And I'm sorry about the school thing. We're going to get back on track with that, I promise.”

“It's too late.”

“No, don't say that. I'll call the finance department tomorrow or at the very least get you another loan.”

“Stop it, Dad. You've been saying that for a year—when we can track you down.”

“Things are going to change.”

“He said as he stumbled out of the casino.”

I smiled. “You and Aiden were the best things that came out of our lives. I can't believe how lucky we were to—”

“Stop it! If you thought that, why didn't you spend more time with us? That's like saying Roscoe was the best dog you ever had. There was a reason he growled every time you came home. He didn't know you.”

“He was blind.”

“A little, yeah. But he could still smell you.”

I laughed at the memory of that mangy hound. “Why did we name him Roscoe?”

“
We
didn't name him Roscoe;
I
did. It just seemed to fit his personality. And Mom cleaned up the poop from the backyard and I fed him and Aiden dug the hole in the yard after he died. I don't think you did much of anything except get his blood pressure up when you walked in every few months.”

She not only had her mother's brown eyes, she had her memory as well. Like a steel trap. Even an errant word spoken ten years earlier was recalled with the precision of a prosecuting attorney.

“You hungry?” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “You want to grab something to eat?”

“Not in there,” she said.

“No, I saw a couple of restaurants back toward the interstate.”

“The Olive Garden and an IHOP?”

I nodded. “You like IHOP.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, when I was eight. I think you took me there for my birthday one year. I've moved past the pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse,
Dad
. I don't eat whipped cream for dinner.”

“Okay, it's Olive Garden then.”

It began to sprinkle and she took out her car keys. Subtly I made my move. “I just need to finish up in here. I'll meet you there in ten minutes.”

She gave me a blank stare, slack jawed and incredulous. I continued, digging my grave a sentence at a time, unable to help myself.

“You wouldn't happen to have any cash on you, would you? Just for a tip.” As soon as I said it, I knew I would hear it from Ellen—this little scene would be talked about in the family, in counseling sessions, a small group where Abby would stand and tearfully describe the night her father hit her up for money outside a casino. Maybe at my funeral. Or as I walked her down the aisle at her wedding, she'd look at me and subtly mention what a dolt I had been on this night.

“Forget it; I don't need to go back in,” I said.

“I don't believe you,” she muttered, turning.

“Your car or mine?” I said.

She waved a hand, dismissing me. “You don't have a car. You're driving Mom's car, which she needs.” She stopped and turned. “And if you don't have enough money for a tip, how are we going to eat at Olive Garden?”

“Abby, let's not—”

“Don't call me that. It's Abigail. I haven't been Abby since fifth grade. You should know that.” She turned again. I followed.

“You're right. I'm sorry. I always think of you as my cute little Abby.”

“You mean fat.”

“You were never fat.”

“I was a hog. The boys used to call me Fat Abby.”

“I bet they wouldn't be calling you that now.”

She glanced away and I noticed a crack in the armor.

“Abigail, let's get out of the rain. Get in your car and follow me, okay? We can talk at the restaurant.”