Suspicion of Vengeance (17 page)

Gail laughed. "Amazing! Hang on, I'll just be a minute:" She clicked on a paragraph.
Plaintiff has incurred substantial medical costs.
.. "How are you doing out there, sweetie?"

"I'm almost finished." Karen sat in a client chair, tossed her hair over her shoulders, and unpacked the bag. Sandwiches, sodas, little cups of coleslaw. She shoved both of those in Gail's direction. "Mom. Do you remember we talked about a trip for spring break? You said you'd take me and Molly somewhere, and I get to pick."

"Umm-hmmm."

"You didn't
forget,
did you?"

Gail glanced around from the monitor. "No, I didn't forget."

Karen took a bite of sandwich. "We could go to Key West. That would be fun."

"Key West will be
mobbed
at spring break. What about a place right here on the beach? You like the beach, don't you?"

"We go all the
time.
”

"You've never been to Busch Gardens." Eyes on the computer screen, Gail reached for her soda. "Aunt Patsy and Uncle Kyle live a few miles away from there. We could stay with them."

"Mom, you keep naming places
you
want to go."

"I keep naming places that I can afford."

"You
promised.
We won't eat much, I swear. We can cook in the room."

Gail smiled at her. "Okay. We'll go to Key West—assuming we can find a room at this late date. And don't start complaining if I bring my laptop and a box of files."

"Is Anthony coming?"

"What's wrong with Anthony?"

"Nothing, he's just
there
all the time."

"No, he's not coming. I told you, he's taking his grandfather to Cuba that week." Karen didn't dislike Anthony, but she missed her father, who managed a resort hotel in the Virgin Islands. At a distance, Dave's shortcomings weren't so obvious.

Her intercom buzzed. An outside line was flashing. Gail didn't want to pick it up. Miriam had been told to inform everyone—with the exception of Anthony or her mother—that Ms. Connor was in conference.

"Yes?"

"Kenny Clark is calling. From the
prison."

"That's strange. How'd he get access to a telephone?"

"I don't know, but he says he has to talk to you."

"Okay, I'll take it." Karen was staring at the speaker. Gail picked up the handset to close off the sound. "Hello, Mr. Clark? This is Gail Connor."

"Hey. How're you doing?"

"Fine, thank you. What a coincidence. I just wrote you a letter this morning." Her mind caught up to the tension she'd heard in his voice. "What's going on?"

"The reason I called ... I'm in the assistant warden's office. He just read me the death warrant."

This made no sense. "Excuse me?"

"The death warrant. They set it for April the eleventh."

"Set ... what?" A crazy thought ran through her mind: someone was playing a joke.

"The execution," he said. "It's April eleventh."

Gail stood up and began to walk back and forth behind her desk. "How can they? We're going to file an appeal. They don't sign warrants until after the appeals are over."

"Well, they did it. I can't talk long. I need to call my sister. They give me two calls. One to my lawyer and one to a family member."

"Of course." Gail pressed her hand to her forehead. "I should come see you."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" She grabbed her desk diary and turned it around. Lunch with the VP of a bank—a potential client. Wednesday was busier still, and there were depositions on Thursday. "I suppose so. What time is best for you?"

"It don't matter." He made a humorless laugh. "I'm not going anywhere. One more thing. Do you mind calling Ruby? Tell her not to come up here. She'll want to, but she's gonna start bawlin', and I don't need to see that right now. Tell her ... I don't know. I'm okay, and I love her. You know. Make it sound good."

"I'll tell her. Wait. Kenny? I'm very encouraged by what I found out over the weekend. We'll discuss it when I see you. And don't worry."

"Yeah. I have to go. Thanks."

Gail listened to the disconnect, then hung up. Her wrist was so weak she nearly dropped the handset. There was a small calendar printed on a page of her desk diary. She counted the days, doing it twice to be sure. Twenty-nine. Four weeks from tomorrow. Less than a month to find new evidence, to prepare a motion, file it, argue it, and if it was denied, to appeal it...

"This can't be happening." She hit the speed-dial for Anthony's cell phone and was dimly aware of Karen asking her a question. She waved her quiet. Anthony's voice came on the line, telling her to leave a message. "Dammit." She remembered he was in trial today. At the tone she said, "Anthony, it's me. Kenny Clark just called. They've signed his warrant. I can't believe this. Call me back as soon as possible."

"Mom?"

Gail hung up and remembered Karen was there. What had she overheard?

"Mom, what happened? Are you okay?" Karen's blue eyes widened.

"It's all right. Really. A client of mine."

"The one on death row?"

"Yes, he called to ask a few questions."

"What's a warrant?"

"Just a legal term. Listen, Karen, I have to go out of town, probably in the morning, but I'll be home for dinner."

"Are they going to execute him tomorrow?"

"No, sweetie, they aren't going to execute him at all. You just sit and finish your lunch, okay? Stay there." She went out, closing the door on her way, then hurried to Miriam's desk.

Miriam whirled around in her chair. "What happened?"

"Shhh.
The governor signed his death warrant and they've set the execution for April eleventh. Karen is not to know about this. I just don't think it's appropriate. Do you?"

"No, no, I don't." Miriam whispered,
"Ay, Dios mío."

"I have to go see him tomorrow. Cancel everything on the schedule and move it somewhere else. I don't care what excuse you make up. Never mind the hearing, I'll find someone to cover it. Next, call my travel agent and ask how I get to the prison and back. It's way the hell up the state, almost to Georgia. Do I fly into Jacksonville or what? They have my charge cards on file."

While Miriam got busy, Gail took her cell phone all the way out into the corridor so Karen couldn't possibly hear, and called Denise Robinson. While it rang she stood at the window at the far end and gazed northward. The flat land vanished at the farthest point of a cloudless blue sky. Three hundred miles past that lay a place she had never really thought about, until little more than a week ago.

The receptionist said that Ms. Robinson had a meeting out of the office. Would Ms. Connor care to leave a message?

"Get me someone else, then. Anybody. The client you gave me just got a death warrant, and I have no idea what to do next."

Tuesday, March 13

Interstate 10 out of Jacksonville, then south on 301 to Lawtey. West to State Road 16, then northwest toward Raiford. The rental car agent drew the route with a yellow marker. He said she wasn't the first lawyer to ask directions to Florida State Prison.

When she thought she was close, Gail stopped the car at a Handy Way convenience store at the intersection of SR 16 and an even smaller county road. The store was part of a gas station with two islands out front under a metal roof. There were pay phones at the edge of the parking lot. Gail's cell phone wasn't set up to work this far north. She used her calling card and dialed a number at the prison, letting them know she'd be there shortly. It was 11:43 a.m.

Gail went inside and bought a cup of coffee and a prewrapped tuna sandwich. Standing beside her car she ate a quarter of it, but had no appetite and walked to a trash barrel to throw the rest away. She came back and watched a mud-spattered pickup truck pull in next to a pump, its owner getting out, a man in overalls and a camouflage-print jacket. Passing Gail, he nodded politely and smiled. How neighborly. How strange.

There was a church across the road. Woods. Empty fields. The sky was gray, promising rain. A few cars went by, the hum of their tires growing louder, then fading. The clerk inside the store had said that Florida State Prison was less than half a mile away. Gail shivered in the chill, damp air and sipped her coffee, arranging her thoughts. She didn't want to get back in the car until she was ready to go.

The route had taken her through several small towns. The people looked different. They were whiter. They dressed strangely. They lived in wood or brick houses, not stucco and tile. If Anthony were here, she might have told him, We aren't in Miami anymore, honey. This is the
South.

A billboard outside Lawtey: Christ on a cross.
I Am the Way, the Truth, and the Light.
At the bottom, these words:
Brought to you by Harris Bros Electric.

Everything struck her as bizarre, even comic. Her head felt detached from her body, probably due to a lack of sleep. Going over her notes until four o'clock this morning, then lying in the dark making lists in her mind. At dawn, turning the alarm off before it sounded. She had managed to doze for an hour on the flight up.

Gail thought of calling Anthony, then dumped that idea. She had spoken to him twice yesterday, and neither conversation had been friendly. First:
"Esto es increíble.
I can't talk now, I'm in trial. I'll call you later." Second: a barrage of Spanish that she might have found colorful, had she been able to understand it. This part had come through perfectly: "For an intelligent woman, your naivete is beyond belief. Didn't I tell you not to get involved?" She'd retorted, "Oh, isn't
that
helpful?" "What do you want me to do, Gail? You put yourself in this situation, you want me to get you out of it? Is that what you want?" She'd told him what to do with himself. He hadn't called back.

She asked her friends in the building to cover her court hearings, cancelled appointments with three potential clients, and left instructions with Miriam: Arrange with a copy service to copy the files in the Clark case
immediately.
Print out every case cited in any brief or court ruling. I need a list of private investigators who work in Martin County. Keep track of your time and add it to Mrs. Smith's bill.

In her phone call to Ruby, Gail had not mentioned money. What could she say? You have put me in charge of your grandson's defense, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but send me another ten thousand dollars, maybe twenty. She could hardly remember what she'd said to Ruby, beyond passing on Kenny Ray's message and telling her not to worry. Ruby had said, "The Lord sent you to save Kenny Ray, and I have faith."

Gail had little more than Denise Robinson's checklist. Denise had been so sorry, so very sorry, but she didn't have anyone else to give the case to, they'd gotten two more death cases this week. And just as Gail had been forming the words to say she didn't give a damn what cases had come in, that she couldn't do it, no, it would be a disservice to the client, she might as well stick the needle in his arm herself, just at that point Denise had said, "I know how frightening this must be for you, Gail, but you're all that Kenny Ray has right now. His life is in your hands. You're doing a fine and noble thing."

Denise had faxed her a copy of the death warrant and an official letter notifying Kenneth Ray Clark's attorneys of the execution date. Denise had received these from the governor's assistant general counsel in charge of capital cases, who hadn't yet heard that CCR was off the case.

Someone must have passed the word. Shortly thereafter, Gail received a call from a clerk at the Florida Supreme Court. Was Ms. Connor aware that a death warrant had been signed? What were her plans? Did she foresee an appeal? Perhaps she would like to call back and set a tentative date for oral argument before the court.

The woman had been courteous, informative, unhurried. Gail had not heard such a sympathetic manner since the doctor had come out to tell them that Grandfather Strickland's cancer was inoperable.

The death warrant had a black border. Gail had pulled it off her fax machine and laughed. A black border, as if that improved the cheesy typeface and outdated legalisms. Whereas, whereas, and therefore. It was surreal. It was hideous.

Gail checked her watch. 11:51 a.m. She finished her coffee and threw away the cup. Her client was waiting.

The prison came into view, a low, sprawling building on acres and acres of open land. Every surface was painted a sickly green, even the guard towers with their dark windows. Razor wire glinted across the parallel rows of high, chain-link perimeter fence.

As instructed, she parked near the administration building, located outside the fence, then walked to the main gate and picked up a telephone. She told the voice on the other end who she was. A minute later the gate slid back. She walked through. It closed behind her. The next gate opened, and she walked up the steps to the glass doors. The entrance was a rectilinear, early sixties design with brushed aluminum letters across a concrete overhang.

Her mouth was dry as dust, and her heart pounded erratically.

She went through yet another gate, then signed in at a counter where guards in brown uniforms looked at her from behind tinted glass. She surrendered her driver's license. A female guard took her into a room and patted her down, even looking inside her shoes. Her portfolio and the folders inside it were searched quickly, efficiently, then handed back to her after she had walked through a metal detector. Gail had left her purse in the trunk of the rental car.

A guard escorted her through another gate, then up some steps. Everything was beige. The pipe handrail, the linoleum squares on the floor, the paint-thickened walls, the old-fashioned loudspeakers bolted to the ceiling. Huge fans stirred the air, making a constant, low roar that echoed on metal and concrete.

They came to a glassed-in room with banks of video monitors. The guard waved to a video camera, and a door clicked open. They went through it. The guard slammed it shut. Gail looked to her right. The main corridor, interrupted by more gates, extended several hundred yards. Aside from one man in a red jumpsuit pushing a dust broom, the vast corridor was completely empty.