They stopped at the end of the hall and waited as the execution chamber's iron door slid open automatically. The guards then handed the prisoner over to two attendants inside who specialized in executions. They moved quickly and efficiently as precious seconds ticked away on the wall clock. Fernandez was strapped into the heavy oak chair. Electrodes were fastened to his shaved head and ankles. The gag was removed from his mouth and replaced with a steel bit.
All was quiet, save for the hum of the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Fernandez sat stiffly in his chair. The guards brought the black hood down over his face, then took their places along the gray-green walls. The venetian blinds opened, exposing the prisoner to three dozen witnesses on the dark side of the glass wall. A few reporters stirred. An assistant state attorney looked on impassively. The victim's uncle - the only relative of the young girl in attendance - took a deep breath. All eyes except the prisoner's turned toward the clock. His were hidden behind the hood and a tight leather band that would keep his eyeballs from bursting when the current flowed.
Father Ramirez stepped into the dark seating area and joined the audience. The guard at the door raised his eyebrows. You really gonna watch this one, padre? he asked quietly.
You know I never watch, said the priest.
There's a first time for everything.
Yes, said Ramirez. There is, indeed. And if my instincts are correct, let's hope this is the last time you kill an innocent man. Then he closed his eyes and retreated into prayer.
The guard looked away. The priest's words had been pointed, but the guard shook them off, taking the proverbial common man's comfort in the fact that he wasn't killing anyone. It was Governor Harold Swyteck who'd signed the man's death warrant. It was someone else who would flip the switch.
At that moment, the second hand swept by its highest point, the warden gave the signal, and lights dimmed throughout the prison as twenty-five hundred volts surged into the prisoner's body. Fernandez lunged forward with the force of a head-on collision, his back arching and his skin smoking and sizzling. His jaws clenched the steel bit so tightly his teeth shattered. His fingers pried into the oak armrests with such effort that his bones snapped.
A second quick jolt went right to his heart.
A third made sure the job was done.
It had taken a little more than a minute - the last and longest sixty-seven seconds of this thirty-five-year-old's life. An exhaust fan came on, sucking out the stench. A physician stepped forward, placed a stethoscope on the prisoner's chest, and listened.
He's dead, pronounced the doctor.
Father Ramirez sighed with sorrow as he opened his eyes, then lowered his head and blessed himself with the sign of the cross. May God forgive us, he said under his breath, as He receives the innocent.
Chapter
3
Eddy Goss was on trial for an act of violence so unusual that it amazed even him. He'd first noticed the girl when she was walking home from school one night in her drill-team uniform. At the time, he thought she must be sixteen. She had the kind of looks he liked - long blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders, a nice, curvy shape, and most important of all, no makeup. He liked that fresh look. It told him he would be the first.
By the time he'd caught up to her, she'd known something was wrong. He was sure of that. She'd started looking over her shoulder and walking faster. He guessed she must have been really scared - too scared to react - because it took him only a few seconds to force her into his Ford Pinto. About five miles out of town, in a thick stand of pines far from the main highway, he held a knife to her throat and warned her to do everything he asked. Naturally, she agreed. What choice did she have? She hiked up her skirt, pulled off her panty hose - all the drill-team members at Senior High had to wear nude hose, he knew - and sat perfectly still as Eddy probed her vagina with his fingers. But then she started crying - great wracking sobs that made him furious. He hated it when they cried. So he wrapped the nylon around her neck - and pulled. And pulled. He pulled so hard that he finally did it: He actually severed her vertebrae and decapitated her. Son of a bitch!
Eddy Goss was on trial for his proudest accomplishment. And his lawyer was Jack Swyteck.
All rise! the bailiff shouted as the jury returned from its deliberations. Quietly, they shuffled in. A nursing student. A bus driver. A janitor. Five blacks, two Jews. Four men, eight women. Seven blue collars, two professionals, three who didn't fit a mold. It didn't matter how Jack categorized them anymore. Individual votes were no longer important; their collective mind had been made up. They divided themselves into two rows of six, stood before their Naugahyde chairs, and cast their eyes into the wishing well, as Jack called it, that empty, stage-like area before the judge and jury where lawyers who defended the guilty pitched their penny-ante arguments and then hoped for the best.
Jack swallowed hard as he strained to read their faces. Experience made him appear calm, though the adrenaline was flowing on this final day of a trial that had been front-page news for more than a month. He looked much the same now as he had two years ago, save for the healthy cynicism in his eye and a touch of gray in his hair that made him look as though he were more than just four years out of law school. Jack buttoned his pinstripe suit, then glanced quickly at his client, standing stiffly beside him. What a piece of work.
Be seated, said the silver-haired judge to an overcrowded courtroom.
Defendant Eddy Goss watched with dark, deep-set eyes as the jurors took their seats. His expression had the intensity of a soldier dismantling a land mine. He had huge hands - the hands of a strangler, the prosecutor had been quick to point out - and nails that were bitten halfway down to the cuticle. His prominent jaw and big shiny forehead gave him a menacing look that made it easy to imagine him committing the crime of which he was accused. Today he seemed aloof, Jack thought, as if he were enjoying this.
Indeed, that had been Jack's impression of Goss four months ago, when Jack had watched a videotape of his client bragging about the grisly murder to police investigators. It was supposed to be an open-and-shut case: The prosecutor had a videotaped confession. But the jury never saw it. Jack had kept it out of evidence.
Has the jury reached a verdict? asked the judge.
We have, announced the forewoman.
Spectators slid to the edge of their seats. Whirling paddle fans stirred the silence overhead. The written verdict passed from jury to judge.
It doesn't matter what the verdict is, Jack tried to convince himself. He had served the system, served justice. As he stood there, watching the judge hand the paper back to the clerk, he thought of all those homilies he'd been handed in law school - how every citizen had a right to the best defense, how the rights of the innocent would be trampled if not for lawyers who vindicated those rights in defense of the guilty. Back then it had all sounded so noble, but reality had a way of raining on your parade. Here he was, defending someone who wasn't even sorry for what he had done. And the jury had found him
Not guilty.
Noooooo! screamed the victim's sister, setting off a wave of anger that rocked the courtroom.
Jack closed his eyes tightly; it was a painful victory.
Order! shouted the judge, banging his gavel to calm a packed crowd that had erupted in hysteria. Insults, glares, and wadded paper continued to fly across the room, all directed at Jack Swyteck and the scum he'd defended.
Order!
You'll get yours, Goss! shouted a friend of the dead girl's family. You too, Swyteck.
Jack looked at the ceiling, tried to block it all out.
Hope you can sleep tonight, an angry prosecutor muttered to him on her way out.
Jack reached deep inside for a response, but he found nothing. He just turned away and did what he supposed was the socially acceptable thing. He didn't congratulate Eddy Goss or shake his hand. Instead, he packed up his trial bag and glanced to his right.
Goss was staring at him, a satisfied smirk on his face. Can I have your business card, Mr. Swyteck? asked Goss, his head cocked and his hands planted smugly on his hips. Just so I know who to call - next time.
Suddenly, it was as if Jack were looking not just at Goss, but at all the remorseless criminals he had defended over the years. He stepped up to Goss and spoke right into his face. Listen, you son of a bitch, he whispered, there'd better not be a next time. Because if there is, not only will I not represent you, but I will personally make sure that you get a class-A fuck-up for an attorney. And don't think the son of the governor can't pull it off. You understand me?
Goss's smirk faded, and his eyes narrowed with contempt. Nobody threatens me, Swyteck.
I just did.
Goss curled his lip with disdain. Now you've done it. Now you've hurt my feelings. I don't know if I can forgive you for that, Swyteck. But I do know this, he said, leaning forward. Someday - someday soon, Jack Swyteck is gonna beg me to forgive him. Goss pulled back, his dark eyes boring into Jack's. Beg me.
Jack tried not to flinch, but those eyes were getting to him. You know nothing about forgiveness, Goss, he said finally, then turned and walked away. He headed down the aisle, scuffed leather briefcase in hand, feeling very alone as he pushed his way through the angry and disgusted crowd, toward the carved mahogany doors marked EXIT.
There he goes, ladies and gentlemen, Goss shouted over the crowd, waving his arms like a circus master. My ex-best friend, Jack Swyteck.
Jack ignored him, as did everyone else. The crowd was looking at the lawyer.
Asshole! a stranger jeered at Jack.
Creep! said another.
Jack's eyes swept around, catching a volley of glares from the spectators. He suddenly knew what it meant, literally, to represent someone. He represented Eddy Goss the way a flag represented a country, the way suffering represented Satan. There he is! reporters shouted as Jack emerged from the bustling courtroom, elbow-to-elbow with a rush of spectators. In the lobby, another crowd waited for him in front of the elevators, armed with cameras and microphones.
Mr. Swyteck! cried the reporters over the general crowd noise. In an instant microphones were in his face, making forward progress impossible. Your reaction? your client do now? say to the victim's family? The questions ran together.
Jack was sandwiched between the crowd pressing from behind and the reporters pressing forward. He'd never get out of here with just a curt No comment. He stopped, paused for a moment, and said: I believe that the only way to characterize today's verdict is to call it a victory for the system. Our system, which requires the prosecutor to prove that the accused is guilty beyond a reasonable -
Shrill screams suddenly filled the lobby, as a geyser of red erupted from the crowd, drenching Jack. The panic continued as more of the thick liquid splattered Jack and everyone around him.
He was stunned for a moment, uncomprehending. He wiped the red substance from around his eyes - was it blood or some kind of paint? - and said nothing as it traced ruby-red rivulets down his pants onto the floor.
It's on you, Swyteck, his symbolic assailant hollered from somewhere in the crowd. Her blood is on you!
Chapter
4
Jack drove home topless in every sense of the word. His blood-soaked shirt and suit coat were stuffed in the back of his 73 Mustang convertible, and the top was rolled back to air the stench. It was a bizarre ending, but the press had been predicting an acquittal, and the prospect of a not-guilty verdict had apparently angered someone enough to arm himself with bags of some thick red liquid - the same way animal-rights extremists sometimes ambushed fur-coated women on the streets of New York. He wondered again what kind of ammunition had been used. Animal blood? Human blood infected with AIDS? He cringed at the thought of the photo and headline that would appear in the next day's tabloids: Jack Swyteck - Bleeding Liberal. Shit, does it get any worse than this?
It was after dark by the time he got home. He noticed immediately that there was no red Pontiac in the driveway, which meant his girlfriend, Cindy Paige, wouldn't be there to listen to the day's events. His girlfriend. He wondered if he was kidding himself about that. Things hadn't been the best between them lately. The story she'd handed him about staying with her friend Gina for a few days to help her with some problems she's been having was starting to sound like just an excuse to get out from under all the baggage he'd been carrying these past few months. Hell, he couldn't blame her. When he wasn't up to his eyeballs in work, he was having these dialogues with himself, questioning where his life was going. And most of the time he left Cindy on the outside looking in.
Hey, boy, said Jack as his hairy best friend attacked him on the porch, planting his bear-like paws on his master's chest and greeting him nose to cold nose. His name was Thursday, for the day Jack, Cindy, and her five-year-old niece picked him up from the pound and saved him from being put to sleep - the most deserving prisoner he'd ever kept from dying. He was definitely part Lab, but mostly a product of the canine melting pot. His expressive, chocolate-brown eyes made him an excellent communicator - and at the moment, the eyes were screaming, I'm hungry.