Riven (48 page)

“We’re done here,” he said. “Your packet will show you how you can talk to this man if you wish, provided you behave as required your first ninety days.”

As the quartet made its way back through the labyrinth to the administrative offices, Thomas wondered if this would be just another sad soul swept into the black hole of the ASP. He sure looked like he needed to talk with someone, but would he ever ask?

“If I had to guess,” Thomas said, “I’d say that one is a real suicide risk.”

“Only way he could off himself in intake,” Andreason said, “would be to tie his underbritches around his neck and yank it as tight as he can before our guys get to him.”

“I would hope our guys take their time,” Yanno said. “Sorry sack of garbage. Save us the cost of feeding him before we get to kill him anyway.”

“You don’t mean that,” Thomas said.

The warden looked genuinely surprised. “Oh yeah, I forgot. You want these monsters around long enough for Jesus to get to ’em.”

Thomas had never spoken angrily to Frank LeRoy, but there was an edge to his voice now. “Well, that is my reason for being here, after all. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Man, Dad,” Dirk chimed in, “you know where I stand on capital punishment, but that guy . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Thomas said, and as they emerged from the last security envelope, he hurried ahead of the rest and went directly to his office, slamming the door. Then he noticed Dirk’s overcoat on the chair and knew he would have to face him again. He picked up the phone to call Grace, hoping to be busy when Dirk came in. But he had barely begun dialing when he heard the knock and the door opened.

“I apologize, Dad,” Dirk said as Thomas hung up. “That was insensitive. I wouldn’t want you making fun of my beliefs.”

“Your beliefs? I didn’t know you had any.”

Dirk held up both hands. “All right, apparently not in the mood. I surrender.” He began putting on his coat.

“Well,” Thomas said, “I know you believe it’s wrong to put a man to death, but I guess it’s okay in this instance because, why, the victim was different from all the others of the men on the Row in here?”

“Dad, listen, really, I didn’t mean to push your buttons. I’m sorry. Even if we don’t see eye to eye on the God stuff, I admire what you’re doing here or trying to do.”

“I’m doing nothing here, Dirk. I have wasted my life.”

“Surely you’ve brought comfort and inspiration to someone in here.”

“That’s not what I’m here for! I am here to introduce these lost men to God, and I feel like a blind man in a mine shaft, trying to show people the way.”

“I don’t know how else to say it, sir. I was out of line. I’m going to go now.”

Did God still answer prayer? When was the last time He had for Thomas? Dirk and Ravinia were prime examples. Was Thomas praying in the wrong way for them? Was he really asking for something that was not in the will of God? And how could it not be?

As Thomas left at the end of the day, Gladys moved directly into his path.

“Excuse me, dear,” he said, but when he went to slip past her, she blocked him again. He sighed.

“Hold on there a minute, Reverend,” she said. “I need to tell you something. I like the new you.”

“I really need to get going, Gladys. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“We can, but you’re going to hear me right now. For a lot of years you’ve been known as the easy mark, the milquetoast man around this place.”

“I’ve worked on that.”

“And you’ve succeeded, at least with the inmates. But I’m talking about with your coworkers. I like to see a little fire in you.”

“Well, thank you. Can I go now?”

“Don’t ask, man. Just go. Be the new Thomas.”

Thomas had no idea what that was all about. He certainly didn’t feel new. He felt like a frustrated old man who’d been through the same thing so many times he could hardly imagine bearing it again.

And now he had this haunting encounter with the Heiress Murderer to plague him. Well, it was time to put God to the test once again. Apparently his first prayer about this man had been answered. There seemed to have been planted within Thomas some kernel of compassion or concern or care. But it meant nothing if the inmate never asked to see him again.

What kind of a policy was that anyway? Hire a chaplain, give him an office and a huge congregation, but don’t allow him to talk to anyone without their permission?

Craziness.

But in spite of himself, Thomas felt led to pray for the young man. But how? And for what exactly? God knew. And so Thomas’s petition took the form of simply repeating the inmate’s name to God, over and over.

The newspapers always called him by all three names.

Brady Wayne Darby.

55

Brady didn’t know what to make of how he was feeling.

First he was cold. He pressed his bare back up against the concrete block wall and endured the shock until a little warmth developed there. But he had to wrap his shins in his forearms and tuck his head between his knees to keep from shivering, and even that didn’t help much.

He hated this about himself, but his need for a cigarette was actually allowing him to forget what he had done, at least for a few seconds at a time. Brady even considered pleading with a passing guard, offering him anything for a smoke. But as he understood it, not even the staff was allowed to bring tobacco into the facility. He was going cold turkey and that’s all there was to it. And each time he got that into his brain, his body seemed to scream for nicotine all the more.

But then the horror of the murder came rushing back. How could it not? Desperate as Brady was to push it from himself and think of anything else, he could still smell the gunpowder, the blood.

He could still see Katie hurtling from the car in a torrent of flesh and gore.

He could still feel the cool pavement on his palms as he perched there, braying as his life too was ending.

All he wanted was to die, and if there was a way to accomplish that before three years passed, he would do it.

Brady was also lonely, but he couldn’t think of a person he wanted to talk to except Katie. That was so strange. He couldn’t expect a bit of sympathy from a soul, but did anyone understand that he had suffered a loss too? Yes, he had done it. He had murdered the Katie who so repelled him and had made clear that he had been duped, played, betrayed. But with her had gone the woman he had loved as he had never loved anyone else in his wretched life.

That was the Katie he missed, the one he could talk to, the one who teased him, flirted with him, held him, and kissed him.

Brady was smarter than people gave him credit for, evidenced by the high school teachers who always seemed surprised at his reading ability. But he had never considered himself an intellectual and so now wondered if there was a description for what had happened to him in all this.

Shock? Maybe. But not physical. He had not been injured. Yet as soon as he had moved from his hands and knees in the street to sit with his back to the borrowed car, it seemed his entire past and future passed before his mind’s eye. Nothing was unclear anymore. It was as if he had taken his best hit of dope ever.

Brady had thought of every family member, loved one, friend, acquaintance he had ever had. And this had happened in an instant. He had been aware that the terrified people in the neighborhood, who kept their distance while making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere until the cops showed up, were relentlessly talking, sometimes to him. But he wasn’t listening.

Rather, Brady had been seeing his future as clearly as if he had already lived it. It never crossed his mind to try to get out of this mess to end all messes. Other than to kill himself, escape was not an option. He wouldn’t lie, deny, excuse, anything. He wouldn’t stay silent or demand a lawyer. No, for the first time in his life, he would accept the consequences.

He had committed an unthinking and unthinkable act, and as he heard the blaring sirens in the distance, he saw himself cuffed, searched, Mirandized, ushered into a squad car, interrogated, delivered to County, processed in, and assigned a defense attorney. That hadn’t taken any special powers of foresight. He’d been through this many times, though not on this scale and never for anything with so many mortal repercussions.

Brady had to admit he had not expected it to be so hard to simply insist on a death sentence and have it finally come, and the mandatory appeal process still frustrated him. But otherwise, none of this had been a surprise. He had watched it unfold from some dark spot deep within his soul. Oh, the various personalities had been unique, and he had not imagined the supermax to look or be like this, but he knew this was where he would wind up.

No clock. No food. No cigarettes. Nothing to read. No clothes. He wasn’t sure what the point was. Wasn’t his accepting the ultimate punishment enough for these people? He didn’t care, really. It just didn’t make sense. Maybe they felt the need to personally make him pay. Fair enough. It simply irritated Brady that he began to long for those things that were deprived him.

“Excuse me, guard,” he said, “what time is it?”

The man looked offended that Brady would even address him. “First of all, don’t call me
guard.
I’m a corrections officer. As for what time it is, scumbag, it’s time for you to shut that hole in your face before I come in there and shut it for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Get smart with me, you’ll be in here for a week before you get a cell.”

“Sorry.”

“The only response I want from you is silence!”

Brady held up his hands. What did he care what time it was anyway? It wasn’t like he had a schedule.

He guessed it was half an hour later when he heard guards—officers—making the rounds for roll call. What was he to say? “Here, sir,” as he had done in phys ed class years before?

An officer stopped before his cage. “Brady Wayne Darby!”

“Yes, sir!”

“On your feet! This is the standing roll call so we can verify you’re in one piece.”

“I am.”

“Shut up! You haven’t received your induction packet yet, have you?”

Brady wanted to say, “Do you see one in here?” But he knew saying anything seemed to upset these guys. So he simply shook his head.

“I can’t hear you!”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Dinner’s comin’.”

Instinct told him to say thanks, but Brady resisted the urge. He was hungry, maybe for the first time since he’d been arrested, and even the mention of dinner made it worse. Funny, he hadn’t slept or eaten much while at County during all the briefings and hearings and pleadings. He had lost weight, he was sure, and now wondered if he would ever be hungry again.

But the next visitor was an officer who slipped an envelope into the meal slot. It slapped onto the floor. Brady decided he wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to read it before he ate anyway.

When his tray finally came, Brady found one slice of lunchmeat bologna between two slices of slightly stale white bread with neither butter nor any other condiment. This was accompanied by a room-temperature box of some kind of fruit juice that was more sugar than real. Had it not been for the tepid liquid, he would not have been able to force down the dry sandwich. And hadn’t the warden said he would get only two meals here in twenty-four hours?

He set the tray aside and opened the large envelope. It was full of pamphlets and booklets. One contained page after page of hints on how to get along behind bars. He’d seen similar before, naturally, but Brady had never been in a supermax, where he would have zero personal contact with another inmate ever.

As he read, he learned of all the services offered and the procedures required to take advantage of them. He was stunned to see that he would have no electricity or reading material or exercise his first ninety days. It wasn’t that he thought he was entitled to any privileges or even common necessities, but this was going to do nothing but damage to his state of mind.

Needless to say, no one cared about his comfort, including Brady. But when he allowed himself to consider merely existing until the state put him out of his misery, he knew it would require at least a few things to keep him sane. How ironic that they watched him constantly to be sure he didn’t kill himself before they had the chance to do it.

One brochure, reserved for only the death row inmates, told him his method of execution was his choice: lethal injection (described as the most humane and the choice of 95 percent of the condemned), gas chamber, electric chair, and hanging.

Well, he didn’t have to decide yet, but Brady was almost certain he would choose the first. He knew himself, knew that at his core he was a coward, that he was not really likely to kill himself and would want to go in the least painful way possible.

He wasn’t ever again going to embody the courage he’d had when he thought that sawed-off still had a live shell in it.

Brady found one more pamphlet, this one outlining how to get counseling, medical care, a chaplain’s visit, books or magazines, or a meeting with a lawyer.

Chaplain.
The guy with the Bible had to be the chaplain. And one had to fill out a form and wait for a decision to get him to so much as visit your cell. Like that would happen.

Brady shook his head as he read the fine print. None of the above were available to the inmate during his first ninety days except in the case of medical or legal emergency.

It was going to be one long night and an even longer first three months.

56

Adamsville

Remission.

Such a technical, medical word, and yet how sweet it sounded to Thomas Carey.

For the first time in months, Grace was walking without help, getting in and out of bed on her own, able to get to the bathroom and even shower by herself.

It was temporary, Thomas knew. Everyone knew. Even the volunteer caregivers from Village Church who were now getting a few days off from the normal rotation. They still checked in on Grace when Thomas was at work, and she was careful not to overdo things. But it thrilled him to see her sitting in the living room when he got home from work each day.