Riven (60 page)

One thing the man would not reveal, however, was much about his daughter. Chaplain Carey would rhapsodize about his granddaughter, but perhaps because Mrs. Carey-Blanc was Brady’s lawyer, her father did not feel free to reveal much. Brady was getting the picture, though.

Adamsville

Thomas was energized as never before to get to the prison every day, as he finally had a disciple—what else could he call a man so eager to learn the things of God? It was as if the Lord Himself was making up for all that had gone wrong in Thomas’s life by allowing him this one amazing student.

Thomas was stunned at the growth and maturity he detected in Brady, despite all that swirled about him. The prison, specifically Frank LeRoy, worked hard at protecting the young man’s privacy and followed through on the commitment to keep Brady from the media.

Satellite trucks from every major news outlet in the world—not to mention every state, county, and local TV station—rimmed the vast prison property as far as one could see. They were restricted by barriers and overrun with the largest contingent of anti–death penalty demonstrators ever assembled in one spot. Various such groups had banded together and set up tent villages as close to the prison property fences as they were allowed.

Thomas couldn’t get over the boredom that had to attend the unfortunate reporters and technicians who manned the TV trucks that sat there twenty-four hours a day. Day after day all they seemed to put on the air were interviews with protesters saying the same things over and over and prison employees who said they didn’t know much and wouldn’t be at liberty to say anything if they did.

Naturally that didn’t stop the controversy. Enough employees were speaking anonymously, and many were making up stories. The press ran with everything, plausible or not, and opinion polls about the phenomenon became a cottage industry.

The press even camped out at Thomas’s house until they tired of getting absolutely nothing from him. They tried to interview the mailman, delivery people, you name it, but though they surrounded Thomas every time he came and went, he followed the advice of his daughter and quit saying even, “No comment.”

Each time he emerged to get in his car, he said, “Hello. Good-bye.” And each time he returned from work or an errand, he said the same. Regardless how many cameras and microphones were stuck in his face, Thomas kept moving.

He apologized to the neighbors at every opportunity.

Eventually the media pulled away from Thomas’s street, and Thomas knew Grace, for one, was grateful.

The press did, however, ferret out Erlene Darby, now living alone over a hash house in rural northern Florida. She said she couldn’t afford to visit her son but that she was “glad he finally came back to Jesus, the way I raised him.”

Thomas was intrigued at Brady’s reaction to seeing that on the news. Knowing the man’s history, he expected anger. But Brady just seemed sad. When public outcry forced ICN to pony up and fly Mrs. Darby to Adamsville for a visit, Brady told Thomas he was tempted to leave her name off the approved list.

“You can’t do that,” Thomas said. “No one would understand.”

“If they knew the truth, they would.”

“And yet they can’t know that either, can they?”

Isolation Unit

About six months into the circus, Erlene Darby became a media star for a few days, her every step from Florida to the gate at ASP chronicled for all to see. In her late forties, she looked closer to sixty, haggard and pale despite a valiant makeover attempt sponsored by a popular talk show host.

“Hey, Ma,” Brady said, forcing a smile.

She sat staring, and then she swore. “So, you’re gonna die like Jesus. Why?”

“Thing is, I want to live like Him.”

“Well if you don’t sound like your aunt Lois. She been to see you yet?”

He nodded. “Got to see her one day and Uncle Carl the next. They’ve been wonderful.”

“Which I haven’t, is what you’re saying.”

“Haven’t heard from you till now.”

“You either. Don’t put it on me.”

“Let’s not fight, Ma. I appreciate you coming.”

“Well, I couldn’t have except for the TV people. They’re gonna pay me for a ’sclusive interview after, too. I just can’t talk to anybody else on the way out of here. You should talk to somebody, get ’em to give me more.”

“You want more money?”

“’Course! I ought to get something out of this. Never had anything, you know.”

Brady fought to hide his disgust. “It’s not up to me, and I’m getting nothing.”

“Nothing? You’re on TV every day! I never even knew anybody famous. Saw Merle Haggard once, or at least I thought I did; but then I found out he was on tour somewhere else, so I don’t know who it was. But now my own son’s on TV every day.”

“Look what I had to do to accomplish that, Ma.”

“Yeah, but TV.”

“You’d murder to be famous?”

“Just about.”

I’ll bet you would.
“So, anyway, thanks for coming.”

“That’s it?”

“You wanted something else?”

“I guess not, if you can’t put in a good word for me with those TV people.”

Erlene was hounded every step of the way from the prison to the exclusive interview and finally back to her ramshackle home. Brady forced himself to watch, heartbroken that she was clearly under the influence on national TV, though she had been able to recite a line that had plainly been crafted for her by some writer.

When asked if she would watch when her son died, she said, “Probably. But it’ll be sad. He’s the only one I have left. It’s—what do you call it?—ironic. He was the devil growing up, and now he thinks he’s Jesus.”

That same broadcast also featured Jordan North for what he himself guaranteed would be the last time. “You bet I’ll be watching,” he said. “And I’ll be cheering. This is all one cruel joke, but at the end of it, Brady Wayne Darby will still be dead.”

Adamsville

No matter what radio or TV station Thomas turned to or what newspaper he read or whom he happened to run into at church, in his neighborhood, or even at the grocer, it seemed all he heard was what people thought about the idea of a public execution.

If the pollsters could be believed, the vast majority of people all over the world considered the idea barbaric and swore they would boycott it. Psychologists, on the other hand, prognosticated that few would follow through on that pledge, and media experts predicted that the event would be the single most-watched television broadcast in history.

Many stations went on record that they would not show the thing live and perhaps never, but ICN was negotiating with Web sites and private television venues, all the while publicly pontificating on the sacred right of responsible adults to decide for themselves what they preferred to watch.

One talk-show pundit intoned, “Need I remind all the nattering naysayers and holier-than-thou viewers that this was Mr. Darby’s idea from the start? He
wants
mature adults to see it.”

Thomas was impressed when Brady had Ravinia draft a statement in response. It said, “Mr. Darby wishes to clarify that his original intention was that viewers who choose to witness his death learn from it the cruelty and brutality of the crucifixion process. He did not have in mind a live TV spectacle in which the event may not be framed within its proper historic context. That said, he further urges that, if the broadcast is in the end allowed, parents will keep children from seeing it, as well as others who might be traumatized.”

“Your daughter sure has a way with words,” Brady said at his next meeting with Thomas. “Did you think that statement sounded like me at all?”

Thomas smiled and shook his head. “I’m sure she meant it to cover all the bases legally. But you know what you’re going to have to speak to next. The whole issue of motive. Everybody knows by now, I think, that you are not benefiting from this beyond the fame and attention—”

“Which would do me no good anyway.”

“Well, you’ll have trouble convincing people of that. They think most criminals want attention above all. But I’m sure you’ve seen and heard the same things I have with all the coverage: people have their own ideas of what you’re trying to accomplish.”

“I keep the TV and radio off most of the time.”

“I don’t blame you, but you can’t have it on for five minutes without hearing some expert, or some nobody, say you’re trying to get into heaven by doing this. Like the warden suggested from the first, that you’re trying to die for your own sin.”

Brady shook his head. “You know that’s not true.”

Thomas nodded. “And yet you can see why people get that impression. It’s human nature to suspect the worst.”

“I guess I’ll have to have my lawyer write another statement. Have you heard about this group that wants to worship me? They say I’m really Jesus come back to earth and that I’ll rise again after three days.”

“Saw it,” Thomas said. “That’ll be easy enough to disprove four days later, won’t it?”

“You think your daughter can keep them from burying me until then, just to make it clear? Seriously, I wouldn’t mind if they had a team of doctors that people trust do an autopsy and swear it’s me, DNA and all, before they put me in the ground. I don’t want to be another Elvis, where people claim they see me at Burger King years later.”

Thomas laughed. “At least not without an endorsement deal.”

Even Brady had to smile. “That’s awful. If I’m going to reappear anywhere, I owe it to Burger Boy to show up there, don’t I?”

Thomas drove home that day sad to his core about the eventual loss of his friend. But deep in his heart was also a flicker of hope about his own daughter. Something about her was changing. Was it just the time he and she were spending together? Was she seeing that Thomas wasn’t such a bad guy after all? She was as earnest and committed to a cause as he had ever seen her, and yet her edge, her cynicism, her anger had seemed to soften. Maybe Brady was becoming her friend too and she was ruing what was to become of him.

70

Death Row

A year into the maelstrom of activity surrounding what was sure to be the most monumental media event in history, Brady was astounded at how much had changed, especially in his own life, which had settled into a unique routine.

A major part of his life continued as it would for anyone on the Row. He was awakened before dawn for first count, had his breakfast delivered, and every three days was soon thereafter escorted to the shower. Despite his celebrity and new casual friendliness to the officers, he was granted no special privileges during those routines. He was still searched, cuffed, escorted, uncuffed, stripped, showered, cavity-searched, dressed, cuffed, escorted back, and uncuffed every time. And he endured the same routine for his daily hour in the exercise kennel.

Brady’s extravagance was that he enjoyed more time out of his house than any other inmate. Since it was impossible for him and the chaplain to accomplish anything with all the noise on the Row, they met approximately every other day in an isolation unit. There they studied Scripture and talked and prayed. Brady came to cherish every minute he had with the kindly old chaplain, whose enthusiasm never seemed to flag. Brady could tell when the reverend was worn-out and tired and worried about either his ailing wife or his spiritually straying daughter, and they soon began praying about those things too.

The advantage to incarceration was that Brady had almost all day every day to read, and it wasn’t long before he had most of all four Gospels memorized. He gilded that by studying everything Chaplain Carey gave him on the life of Christ, by talking it through during their meetings, and even by studying the prophecies from the Old Testament concerning the Messiah.

The constant racket of the Row became just a backdrop of indistinguishable sound as he paced and recited verses aloud from just after breakfast to around midnight.

But one day in the spring, with just two months to go before his execution, something changed. On one of Brady’s shower days, he awoke to the racket for first count and prayed silently while waiting for his meal. He ate all of it, as he had been doing for months now, then quietly cooperated with the laborious routine of getting to and from the shower. Along the way on both ends, Brady was aware of shouting, swearing, banging, and even an extraction when a con refused to return his breakfast tray to the meal slot.

But for once none of the commotion seemed directed at him. That was a nice break. Was it possible his commitment to never, ever respond had finally wearied the men and stolen their fun? They had kept it up for a whole lot longer than he ever would have without enjoying any reaction.

When Brady was dressed and back in his cell, he walked back and forth in the tiny area between his TV and the front corner of his cell opposite the toilet, very quietly reciting the words of Jesus he had memorized from the Gospels.

That had always elicited shouts and whistles, but today, nothing. In the past he could speak aloud and no one could hear over the daily ruckus. Now he was aware of a few men who had their TVs tuned to a morning game show, but oddly there was no conversation, let alone the usual shouting and cursing and barbs.

Brady was concentrating on remembering passages from the first half of Matthew. He closed his eyes, able to navigate the small space by memory.

In a normal tone, Brady began.

“Do not judge others, and you will not be judged. For you will be treated as you treat others. The standard you use in judging is the standard by which you will be judged. And why worry about a speck in your friend’s eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying to your friend, ‘Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,’ when you can’t see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye.”

Suddenly Brady stopped. Was it possible? He thought he had heard first one, then another shush noisy inmates. A couple of TVs even went off. From distant parts of the cellblock he heard other cons making noise, but the Row was virtually quiet. How could this be?