Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [78]
Had it been enough?
“She’ll do fine,” Charlie said with an aggravating calm as I spun my phone on the bench. He had a small cut under his left eye and a smushed right ear from the scuffle with Peter and the crowd. He’d probably gotten on YouTube by now as well for his taped “don’t Tase me, bro” moment in front of the capitol plaza crowd.
“I should tell them,” I said. “I should march right in there and tell them about Peter. About everything. What if this doesn’t work?”
“But it will,” Charlie said as the door opened.
Assistant Commissioner Sim appeared with Fabiana.
I took a deep breath.
“What’s the verdict?” Charlie said.
“The board will weigh the evidence now,” Sim said.
“What? More waiting?” I said.
“It’s not like we have a lot of time here, Mr. Sim,” Charlie said.
“That’s all I can say for now. Thank you for coming,” Mr. Sim said as he closed the door.
“What does that mean?” Fabiana said. “We have to keep waiting?”
“I need to tell them,” I said, stepping past Charlie toward the door.
Charlie got in front of me.
“No,” he whispered fiercely in my ear. “You don’t. You’re a victim here, too. Did you ask that son of a bitch Fournier to be a monster to you? You came down and actually risked your life to help Justin, and that’s exactly what you’ve done. But you can’t do everything. None of us can. We’ve done everything possible. We’ve petitioned the courts and petitioned the governor. It’s out of our hands now and in theirs.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I just went toe-to-toe with your ex-hubby. Do you really want to mess with me? Let’s head over to the jail.”
Chapter 99
THE WITNESS ROOM for the execution chamber looked like a community theater that Friday night. There were two rows of cheap red chairs, black walls, a black curtain. But beyond the curtain, instead of a lit stage, was the brightly lit window of the death chamber.
Placed directly in the center of it, like some kind of malevolent modern art piece, was an empty gurney. It was fitted with thick leather ankle and wrist straps, a cross awaiting the crucifixion. The digital clock on the wall behind it showed 10:27 p.m.
At around nine, the warden, Tom Mitchner, had come in and given a short explanation about what would happen. At five to midnight, Justin would be brought in and strapped to the gurney. A witnessing doctor would oversee the proceeding as two intravenous tubes were extended and placed into Justin’s left and right arms. At the stroke of midnight three drugs would enter Justin’s bloodstream in succession: sodium thiopental to render him unconscious; pancuronium bromide, a muscle relaxant to stop his breathing; and potassium chloride to stop his heart.
A reporter from the Miami Herald and one from the Associated Press spoke softly at the back of the room. Tara Foster’s mother, as well as the rest of her extended family, had declined to come. Fabiana sat in the front row, talking and holding hands with Justin’s mother.
My hand was cinched onto Charlie’s.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said to him, my eyes on the gurney. “It’s too much. Way too much. Why haven’t they stopped this? What are they waiting for? These bastards are still going to go through with it, Charlie. How is that possible? How can they?”
“Have faith,” was all Charlie would say, seemingly more to himself than to me.
Eleven came. Then eleven thirty.
“What’s up, Charlie?” I said.
“Have—”
“Faith?” I said. “I don’t know if I can.”
It was eleven fifty when the door opened, and a pale, heavy man in a gray suit appeared. It was Warden Mitchner.
I stared at him breathlessly, waiting to hear that it was over.
“It’s time now,” the tired-looking official said somberly. “They’re bringing in Mr. Harris.”
I had trouble focusing as they did just that. Justin stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, eyes steady and forward like the dress parade