Always (22 page)

To my right I heard, “You see this man. This is foul.”

“We also have,” Phil continued as Mr. Bechuanas's face on the monitor was replaced by a curly-headed, olive-complexioned gentleman, “a professor of journalism from Northwestern, Professor David Protess. I am sure Mr. Profess would be proud of the fact that according to the American Bar Association, he and his class have been victorious in more death-row appeals than any other group of individuals in the country. Please welcome Professor David J. Protess.” The lights flashed and the crowd gave its approval. “And last but not least, we are also joined by a man who is from your neighboring state of Florida. He was . . .” And then he looked at Henry and asked, “Do you ever get tired of hearing ‘the first since Reconstruction' before you are introduced? I know that would drive me out of my com-
plete
mind.” The audience chuckled as Henry smiled. “We have as our guest the
distinguished
senator from Florida. Senator Henry . . . Louis . . . Davis!” The crowd clapped loudly as the neon applause light flashed rapidly and a few of his staffers stood in an attempt to incite a standing ovation that did not occur.

“Let's just dive right into this topic, because we have much ground to cover,” Phil said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his palms on the wooden armrest.

Looking at his note cards occasionally as well as the TelePrompTer, Phil laid out the facts surrounding the case against, and the appeal for, Juarez Bechuanas. And then he looked up at the monitor, and said, “Mr. Bechuanas, you have twelve days, sir. Less than two weeks before the state of Florida requires you to pay the ultimate penalty for a crime you still claim you did not commit. Please tell us, sir, the facts, and why you think the Republican governor of your state, Robert Martinaro, should grant you a stay of execution.”

As he spoke, I watched Henry the entire time. I had no idea what his position would be on the case, but I watched him with an impassive look in his eyes watching the monitor and then with compete confidence, he sat taller, crossed his legs at the ankle, and rested his hands in his lap. From
his posture he looked like a cheetah in tall grass ready to pounce on its prey.

Bechuanas spoke to the camera and his eyes moved from down to up just as a sighted person would read text left to right. He spoke calmly and respectfully, as if he'd accepted the fate that appeared to lie before him. “So, Mr. Donahue, suh,” the condemned man continued, “yes, I think the gov'na should grant the stay for at least another six months, and then if the facts are not as Mr. Protess and his class say, then although I did not commit these here crimes I've been charged with, at least the process would have run its course and I'll accept whatever happens.”

As he finished speaking, the room was pin-drop silent. And then Phil said, “On that note we will be back right after this message.” The red light went off on top of the huge cameras on tiny wheels and Brandon leaned over and said, “It's a damn shame.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I was there the night of the murders. I saw the place and I tell you, it was a weird feeling just standing in that room. Blood was splashed on the windows, even dripping from the ceiling fan,” he said as he grabbed my hand more for support than for comfort. “I was never a really religious person before walking in that room. But as I stood in there and saw them put pieces of flesh in the a bag, you felt like it wasn't a person who'd done that. It seemed like the devil himself had been in the room. There was a heat in there even though it was below twenty that night,” he said, shaking his head. “The room had this satanic feel to it that . . . it's hard to explain. The way bro is talking up there, I would like to believe he didn't do it, but they found his skin under her nails, his blood mixed with hers in his car, and the murder weapon with only his prints on it. Besides, what no one even talks about is the fact that he signed a confession the day after he was caught. He signed an affidavit saying he committed the murders, but that was before Anmesty International or the ACLU or whatever came into the picture and got the confession suppressed. I ain't buying it. Plus, when you add to that his police record,
which was not even entered into evidence, if he don't fry, no one should.”

I saw the producer give Phil the countdown. Five, four, three, and with a silent count he waved his fingers down, two, one. After the applause and theme music subsided, Phil looked into the camera and said, “We're back.”

Then Phil reintroduced the journalism professor, who seemed to want to talk as much as Henry. He gave statistics of how many men claimed to be innocent in the past years and were put to death who he and his students felt without a shadow of a doubt in his heart were innocent. He brought up each questionable point surrounding the case and why he and his honors class who'd investigated the case for the past two semesters thought that Mr. Bechuanas should not only be given a stay, but clemency as well.

And then there was a pause as Phil looked at Henry and smiled dramatically. “Well, well, well. Mr. Democrat-Senator-from-Florida. This crime was committed in
your
state. Actually, in the district from which
you
were once elected to Congress. You and your democratic brethren and sisters who have supported
every
liberal cause since the creation of your party are typically on Capitol Hill championing the charge against the death penalty. But you are here to tell us that
you
support the Republican governor's decision. I must say to you,” Phil said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head with a look of bewilderment on his face, “for a senator with your voting record, sir, and, in all due respect, with forty percent of the individuals on death row being black men just like you, more than a few people around this country are surprised by your view on . . . this . . . issue.”

The brother next to me caught the attention of one of Phil's assistants holding a microphone. As the young lady walked toward him he said, “Y'awll just wait till I hit them with this. I can't believe you got a devil fighting for this brother's life and a brother trying to kill him!”

Henry's demeanor was somber and much different from the one the audience had witnessed signing autographs earlier. He turned to the people in the audience and spoke to
them as if we were friends invited over to his home for a cookout and the subject just happened to come up.

“First of all, Phil, I'm honored to be a part of this important debate. And let me say from the outset that I've
never
spoken publicly against a convicted person's attempt to get a stay of execution. But I thought and prayed about this case long and hard before making my views public.” With those words, Henry stood up and brought his fingers thoughtfully to his lips. As he did, we could see the producer's surprise that he had not remained seated as a crew member with handheld camera ran to a point on the floor to get a better view. Henry continued. “But if there has ever been such a case, this unfortunately is the one, and now is the time to make my opinions known.” Henry spoke to the audience of the ills of the death penalty and agreed with the professor that there were many imperfections in the judicial system. He briefed the audience on the mountain of physical evidence against Mr. Bechuanas, including the eyewitness who was a member of the clergy and a couple who worked together throwing newspapers who testified that they saw him in bloody clothes the morning of the murders. As he spoke, I thought back to the first night we talked on the phone and how he always seemed so in command of himself and others.

Then Senator Davis sat back down in front of Phil and told us how Mr. Bechuanas had put his wife in the hospital on seven different previous occasions.

“Seven times,” he said passionately. “Seven times this lady was treated for broken bones and lacerations. Seven times the system had an opportunity to save this woman's life. He served time for beating her only once because she would always leave the hospital and bail him out of jail. According to court documents, once he beat her because she bailed him out too late. This woman has already paid the ultimate penalty that society can demand. Why? Because she loved Mr. Bechuanas more than the system or even he loved her and their child.

Something went horribly wrong here, Phil. Seven times,” he repeated, then paused. “Tell me, when do you stop beating
someone who loves you? Four times? Five times? How about after six times? Well, for Mr. Bechuanas it was the seventh time, because now she's dead.

“The court records show Mr. Bechuanas out drinking on one of the coldest nights of the year. He walked into their two-bedroom apartment and, according to the pastor who overheard the fight, started arguing with his wife. This time he accused her of cheating on him. The autopsy shows he punched her and then he took three bullets, put them into the chamber of his .22-caliber pistol, and placed it at the base of his daughter's skull. After he shot her, he tried to shoot his wife, but the gun jammed. So what does he do? He pistol-whips her to within an inch of her life, although even that was not enough because she was a witness to a murder. So then he did things with a knife that even I cannot repeat on this show.”

Phil tried to say something, but Henry was fully in control. He held up his palm and said, “Phil, I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry that we even have the topic on the table today. But in my opinion, if such laws are going to be on the books, the state has no other recourse but to follow through with its duty. My wife and I,” he said, looking back at Mr. Bechuanas's face on the monitor, “will pray that your soul finds peace, sir.”

Phil nodded his head and then looked for one of his assistants and a question from the audience. As a man across the aisle from us spoke into the mike, the Muslim near me whispered in the associate's ear and quietly returned to his seat. If Henry had moved this brother, I knew that afternoon he had indeed moved many people across the country and around the world.

Forty-five minutes later the cameras went black, the oversized white lights over the stage dimmed to gray all at once, and people headed for the exits. I immediately looked to see where Henry was going. Would he head back into the audience? If he did, this time I would not let him get away without at least saying hello. But he didn't. As soon as the TV lights went out, he and Leslie were whisked away by
their entourage. Brandon held my hand and asked if I wanted him to use his security clearance to get us backstage.

Finally I would have my opportunity to see Henry up close and personal. What would I say to Leslie? What would she say to me? How would Brandon react knowing that Henry and I were more than simply classmates? “No,” I replied. “Let's just go.”

As we walked through the crowd and a couple of women spoke aloud about how fine Henry was, I thought about the day I'd seen him running the stadium steps. How he ran to the top as hard as he could, full speed, never looking back and never taking a break. With the image of an eighteen-year-old dreamer replaced by one in the present, I knew he was still running full speed to the top and in regard to our for always, he was unfortunately not looking back.

Washington, D.C.

November 8, 2000

NBS News Studio

1:45
A.M
. EST

“This is NBS News continuing election-night coverage, and I am Franklin Dunlop giving you the news on two late-breaking stories.

First, it was leaked to the press approximately two hours ago that there is allegedly an assassin somewhere in the vicinity of the Fountainebleau Hotel with the intention of assassinating the Democratic candidate for the presidency. We must note that the story has not been confirmed by the Davis campaign, Secret Service, or the FBI. This network, as well as others, was advised by very reliable sources that this individual has followed the Davis campaign for months and may have been the party responsible for the firecracker-mixed-with-gunfire attack on the candidate in Omaha several months ago, but we have not had a confirmation of that story as of yet.

“Also Governor Tom Baldwin of Arizona is trailing badly and is at the statehouse in Phoenix to deliver what we expect will be his concession speech. We will send you now to our West Coast correspondent, who has done an exceptional job for us all night long, Vincent Winslet. Vinny, what's the word from Phoenix?”

“Well, Franklin, as can be expected, the mood is somber. The governor's supporters knew if they had any chance to pull out a victory, they had to win in New York and carry either Ohio or Pennsylvania. When both those states went
into the Democrat and Republican pockets, they knew for them California was irrelevant.

Now, as you can hear, the crowd is starting to chant “Tom-oh-four, Tom-oh-four!” Obviously an indication that they would like the governor to run in the year 2004. However, I think the chances of that happening at his age of seventy-three are unrealistic. Now I am told that Governor Tom—”

“Vincent, I must cut you off. We have a late-breaking story from—. Judy! Judy, are you still there!”

“Yes, I am, Franklin. About three minutes ago a helicopter was perched on the top of the Four Seasons Hotel, supposedly to take the vice president and his family to another location, and there are reports that gunfire was exchanged. That's right. Gunfire! We do not know if there were any casualties at this time. Apparently an individual or individuals were positioned on the roof and as the vice president and his family came out and got into the helicopter, they were ambushed. The helicopter carrying Steiner's family took off for an unknown destination, and soon after, several police choppers descended on the rooftop.”

“Judy, were there clues earlier that this might happen?”

“No. In fact, we here in Chicago were listening to the news reports out of Florida and wondering how that situation was going to play itself out. People here are now speculating that the FBI created a diversion on purpose to throw off the assassin or assassins here. We don't know at this point because that's just a rumor and it is much too early to tell. As I speak, Franklin, a fifth—count it, fifth—helicopter has just landed on the top of the hotel. I am going to try to get outside to speak to the head of the FBI for the state of Illinois if I can. As soon as we have more information, we will let you know.”

Fountainebleau Hotel

Presidential Suite

“Excuse me?”

“Do you love me, Henry?”

“Cheryl, you know you taught me the true meaning of the word. To this day I say your name and feel a shiver, and I know I will love you for always. What we shared was magic. But I have—” There was a pounding at the door. Cupping the receiver, he said, “One second, I'll be right out.” Staring at the Monet replica on the wall, he continued, “But I have a wife now. What we had was so long ago, Cheryl. Yes, I love you and I always will. But I am
in
love with Leslie.” It was the first time he'd said her name that night.

“Henry, open the goddamn door. They think Steiner was shot!” Herbert yelled.

“What!”

“Yeah, they're showing it live on NBS! Get out here!”

“Cheryl, I gotta go. Baby, I'm sorry for coming back into your life . . . and hurting you this way. You didn't deserve this. I love you.”

“I love you back,” Cheryl said before hanging up the phone first.

Damn
. Henry took a deep breath to release some tension as he tried to regain his bearings by rhythmically tapping his fingertips together.

“Henry, come out here, man, this is important!” Herbert screamed.

Sitting on the chair next to his private line, Henry wanted so badly to call his wife. Saying her name was all it took to heighten the longing and to remind him of how wrong he was for torturing her.

“Damn, Henry, would you please come out here! The FBI needs to talk to all of us!”

Henry entered the silent room that was filled with his senior staff and advisers. In the back of the room was Dirk Gallagher and his cowboy-hatted Lone Star contingency.

“Hello, Senator Davis. My name is Agent Mills and this is Agent Haggerty,” announced a slender man with long, dark sideburns. “We were asked to give you and your staff a briefing on what is going on tonight.” Looking around, Agent Mills asked, “Where is Mrs. Davis?”

“She's in her suite with her brother,” Penelope said, looking at both agents and then Henry. “She's not feeling well.”

“Ma'am, could you send someone down to get her?” Agent Mills requested. “It's very important that she be here.”

Motioning with his hand for Penelope to remain seated, Henry glanced at the larger-than-usual bulge in the agent's jacket and asked, “What's this all about?”

“As I am sure you've been informed by the media, there was an attempt on the life of Vice President Steiner. According to our reports, he was injured. However, at this time he's being rushed to an undisclosed hospital for medical attention. Now. What does this have to do with you? I've been advised, sir, that the threat against you has been upgraded from a level three to a five. We believe Calvin Arthur is in the city, although we do not know at this time if he is in the vicinity. It is our hope that with the extra security, he has aborted his plans. But since they flashed his photo on the news, we've been inundated with hundreds of phone calls throughout the night from people who have seen him, or think they've seen him.” For a brief moment Agent Mills broke his Secret Service monotone and said, “The threat, sir,
is
real. Now, this is what we would like to propose. We can get you out of here, into a service elevator and through the kitchen into a bulletproof limo. The route will literally be lined with agents and we can virtually guarantee that you and your wife will be able to get into the limo and out of this place safely.”

Weary from the taxing night, Henry leaned against a wall wearing a well-wrinkled cotton shirt with his hands in his pockets jingling coins, and said quietly to no one in particular, “Does the phrase ‘be careful what you ask for' mean anything to anyone?” Then raising his voice, he demanded, “Mills. Who is responsible for this? Who's behind these assassination attempts?”

“Sir,” he replied after looking at Haggerty, “we're not at liberty to say. I can only tell you the danger is real and is now classified as a level-five threat. I'm sorry. I wish I had clearance to say more.”

Henry slowly stroked his eyebrow, and said firmly, “I'm not going.”

“What!” everyone in the room gasped collectively.

“Henry, you can't be serious!” Herbert demanded, fearing for his brother's safety. “I know you're brave and all, but sitting in this room like a sitting duck and waiting for whoever or whatever to come in here makes no sense at all! What if he's connected to some terrorist group? They could just run into the ballroom and open fire. You know how those—”

“Ahh, listen here, son,” Dirk Gallagher said to Agent Mills. “Get me an extra-large vest and about fifteen more for my folks. And let me know when our limos will be ready. We want to get on the first thing smoking out of this hellhole back to civilization.”

“Well, sir,” Agent Mills replied after a glance at Haggerty, “we don't want to have a motorcade. That would cause too much attention, so we only arranged for two limos at the back entrance of the hotel. One for you and one for the Senator and Mrs. Davis.”

All eyes fell on Henry once again. Henry looked around at the room, then at his brother, and said softly, “Come in here a second.”

As the door to the master suite closed, Dirk Gallagher shouted, “Hell, this is his hometown. Let 'em stay. Give us his fucking limo!”

After he walked into the bedroom, Henry went over to the stereo, turned it up loud, and returned to his brother. Leaning close to his ear, he said, “Isn't this Kafkaesque? I mean, is it just me? When has there
ever
been an assassination attempt that was leaked to the press beforehand? When have there been two attempts in one day? Herbert, maybe I am just stressed, but something is going on. I can feel it.”

Herbert looked at Henry with his eyebrows drawn closer to each other. “What are you saying? You think it's a setup? Why would they set you up?”

“Why was King or X set up? Were John and Bobby's deaths coincidences?” he whispered in his brother's ear. “Change is
always
harder than doing the same old thing.
Maybe what we're trying to do is too much for this country to handle.”

Herbert looked confused as his brother walked back across the room, turned off the stereo, and opened the door. “Guys,” Henry said, “I want a few of my top people to take my limo and get out of here. Ed, you and Penelope are free to go. You can do most of your work from the phone.”

“Sir, it would really make us feel more comfortable if you and Mrs. Davis would—”

“Enough, Mills. I'm not going and now I'm extending the invitation to my people.”

“Listen, guys,” Dirk Gallagher shouted to the agents above the milling voices in the room, “when you're ready to stop
fucking
around in here, just let me and the lady know. We'll be in our suite.”

“What a fuck'n ass!” Herbert murmured.

“What did you say to me, son?” The large Texan bristled. “Fuck you and everything that favors ya!”

“Herbert!” Henry shouted, grabbing his brother's balled-up fist. “He's drunk. Don't sink to that level. Ed, Penelope, find a few others and get out of here.”

“No,” Penelope said. “I'm here no matter what.”

Ed looked at Penelope and then back to Henry. “Sir, I really think you should get out of this place. A level five is as serious as it gets.”

“Do me a favor, Ed. Get in the limo and go home to Heather. Okay?”

Ed looked at Henry and back again at Penelope before nodding his head yes. Looking ashamed, he said, “Jeez Louise, guys, I have a family at home, two kids in college,
and
a mortgage. I can't take this chance.”

“Ed,” Henry said as he walked across the room and placed both hands on his press secretary's shoulders. “There's no need to apologize. You have been with me through thick and thin. Do me a favor. Find about eight or nine more people and stuff them in that thing and get out of here. Okay? Please . . . do this for me,” he said with a smile. “It's late and I'm tired, but I think this is for the best.”

As Henry walked back toward the inner room, Penelope
and Herbert followed him. “Herbert, do me a favor,” Henry said without looking back. “Have someone get some fresh granola up here and turn on those televisions! We've got an election to win. And, Penelope?” Henry said, rubbing his thumb slowly over his thick black eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Get my wife on the phone. Please?”

HENRY

Nineteen ninety-five. It was the year before a presidential election year and the year after we won reelection to the U.S. Senate. I basically ran unopposed, as a Republican state representative from the Panhandle put up token opposition.

Although I was leading, according to Mason-Dixon's statewide polls, I campaigned harder than I had in my first run for office. This time we wanted to win 75 percent of the vote, which would give us a mandate and thrust the name Davis in the forefront of the presidential hopefuls in 2000.

The Republican candidate was a former TV reporter and played well to the camera. When Herbert negotiated with his campaign manager for a statewide televised debate, Herbert agreed to do something I would have never authorized. My opponent and I were to sit on the stage, with just a moderator who would toss out a subject such as “the economy,” and we would have a true debate with no time limits. Two friends of mine in the Senate called and asked why I would take such a chance when I was already leading my opponent two-to-one in the polls. I concealed my concern by telling them I thought this was what the people of Florida wanted to see. Although this format was reminiscent of the Lincoln-Douglas debates and I was honored by my brother's belief in me, Abe didn't have a satellite feed that could send any of his mistakes instantaneously around the globe.

The night of the debate the moderator walked between us and said the two words that made my opponent's eyes twinkle. “Affirmative action.” The state representative looked in my direction and began his well-rehearsed response.
“As you know, Senator Davis, I have come out staunchly against affirmative action. I think it's absurd and illogical to use discrimination . . . to show that discrimination . . . no matter how it is presented, is wrong. I don't believe you have children, but Fanny and I have a little grandboy who just turned four. I've said from the beginning that one of the reasons I am running for this office is to leave behind a better world for him. One day we will have to explain to his generation why we have government-sanctioned discrimination.” And then he paused dramatically and spoke to me while turning toward the camera. “So please explain it to me as if I were a four-year-old. Why do you see the need for such a measure in our country at this time?”