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9. Death Warrant

Restless time flooded him.

He felt as if his life had become compartmentalized into a series of moments awaiting a signal to return to its normal continuity. He felt an annoying sense of anticipation, a nervous sort of expectation, but of precisely what he could not tell. He went to the prison on the day that Robert Earl Ferguson was released from Death Row in advance of his new trial, postponed by the judge until December. It was the first week in July, and the road to the prison sported makeshift stands selling fireworks, sparklers, flags, and red, white, and blue bunting, which hung limply from the whitewashed board walls. The Florida spring had fiercely fused into summer, the heat pounding on the earth with an endlessly patient fury, drying the dirt into a hard, cracked cement beneath his feet. Sheets of warmth wavered above the ground like hallucinations, surrounding him with a presence as strong as a New England blizzard in winter, and just as hard to maneuver in; the heat seemed to sap energy, ambition, and desire. It was almost as if the soaring temperatures slowed the entire rotation of the world.

A fitful crowd of sweating press waited for Ferguson outside the prison doors. The numbers of people gathered were thickened by members of anti-death-penalty groups, some of whom carried placards welcoming his release, and who had been chanting, 'One, two, three, End the Death Pen-al-ty. Seven, eight nine, End It for All Time' before the prisoner emerged from the prison. They broke into cheers and a smattering of applause when he came through the doors. Ferguson looked up briefly into the pale blue sky before stopping. He stood, flanked by his lanky attorney and his brittle, gray-haired grandmother. She glared at the reporters and cameramen who surged toward them, clinging with both arms to her grandson's elbow. Ferguson made a short speech, perched on the steps of the prison, so that he looked down at the crowd, saying that he believed his case showed both how the system didn't work and how it did. He said he was glad to be free. He said he was going to get a real meal first, fried chicken and greens with an ice-cream sundae with extra chocolate for dessert. He said he had no bitterness, which no one believed. He ended his speech by saying, I just want to thank the Lord for helping to show me the way, thank my attorney, and thank the Miami Journal and Mr. Cowart, because he listened when it seemed no one else would. I wouldn't be standing here before you today if it weren't for him.'

Cowart doubted that this final bit of speechmaking would make any of the nightly newscasts or show up in any of the other newspapers' stories. He smiled.

Reporters started to shoot questions through the heat.

'Are you going back to Pachoula?'

'Yes. That's my only real home.'

'What are your plans?'

'I want to finish school. Maybe go to law school or study criminology. I've got a real good understanding now of criminal law.'

There was laughter.

'What about the trial?'

'What can I say? They say they want to try me again, but 1 don't know how they can. I think I'll be acquitted. I just want to get on with my life, to get out of the public eye, you know. Get sort of anonymous again. It's not that I don't like you folks, but…

There was more laughter. The crowd of reporters seemed to swallow up the slight man, whose head pivoted with each question, so that he was facing directly at the person who asked it. Cowart noted how comfortable Ferguson appeared, handling the questions at the impromptu news conference with humor and ease, obviously enjoying himself.

'Why do you think they're going to prosecute you again?'

'To save face. I think it's the only way they can keep from acknowledging that they tried to execute an innocent man. An innocent black man. They would rather stick to a lie than face the truth.'

'Right on, Brother!' someone called from the group of demonstrators. 'Tell it!'

Another reporter had told Cowart that these same people showed up for every execution, holding candlelight vigils and singing 'We Shall Overcome' and 'I Shall Be Released' right up to the time the warden emerged to announce that the verdict and judgment of the court had been carried out. There was usually a corresponding group of flag-waving fry-'em-all types in jeans, white I-shirts, and pointy-toed cowboy boots, who hooted and hollered and engaged in occasional shoving matches with the anti-death-penalty bunch. They were not present on this day.

Both groups were generally ignored by the press as much as possible.

'What about Blair Sullivan?' a television reporter shouted, thrusting a microphone at Ferguson.

'What about him? I think he's a dangerous, twisted individual.'

'Do you hate him?'

'No. The good Lord instructs me to turn the other cheek. But I got to admit, sometimes it's hard.'

'Do you think he'll confess and save you from the trial?'

'No. The only confessing I think he's planning on doing is when he goes to meet his Maker.'

'Have you talked with him about the murder?' 'He won't talk to anybody. Especially about what he did in Pachoula.'

'What do you think about those detectives?' He hesitated. 'No comment,' he said. Ferguson grinned. 'My attorney told me that if I couldn't say something nice, or something neutral, to say "no comment." There you go.' There was more laughter from the reporters. He smiled nicely. There was a final blurring as cameramen maneuvered for a final shot and soundmen struggled with boom microphones and portable tape machines. The newspaper photographers bounced and weaved about Ferguson, the motordrives on their cameras making a sound like bugs on a still evening. The press surged toward Ferguson a last time, and he raised his hand, making a V-for-victory sign. He was steered into the backseat of a car, waving one last time through the closed window at the last photographers shooting their final pictures. Then the car pulled out, heading down the long access road, the tires kicking up little puffs of dust that hovered above the sticky black macadam highway. It soared past an inmate work crew, marching single file slowly in the heat, sweat glistening off the dark skin of their arms. Sunlight reflected off the shovels and pickaxes they carried on their shoulders as they headed toward their noontime break. The men were singing a work song. Cowart could not make out the words, but the steady rhythms filled him.

He took his daughter to Disney World the following month. They stayed in a room high in the Contemporary Hotel, overlooking the amusement park. Becky had developed a child's expertise about the place, mapping out each day's assault on the rides with the excitement of a successful general anxious to engage a beaten army. He was content to let her create the flow to the day. If she wanted to ride Space

Mountain or Mr. Toad's Wild Ride four or five times in a row, that was fine. When she wanted to eat, he made no adult pretense of nutrition, allowing her to select a dizzying variety of hot dogs, french fries, and cotton candy.

It was too warm to wait in line for rides during the afternoon, so the two of them spent hours in the pool at the hotel, ducking and cavorting about. He would toss her endlessly in the opaque waters, let her ride on his shoulders, swim between his legs. Then, with the meager cooling that slid into the air as the sun dropped, they would get dressed and head back to the park for the fireworks and light shows.

Each night he ended up carrying her, exhausted and fast asleep, back on the monorail to the hotel, up to the room, where he would gently slip her under the covers of her bed and listen to her regular, easy breathing, the child sound blocking all thoughts from his head and giving him a sort of peace.

He had but one nightmare during the time there: A sudden dream-vision of Ferguson and Sullivan forcing him onto a roller coaster ride and seizing his daughter away from him.

He awoke gasping and heard Becky say, 'Daddy?'

'I'm all right, honey. Everything's all right.'

She sighed and rolled over once in bed before tumbling back into sleep.

He remained in the bed, feeling the clammy sheets surround him.

The week had passed with a child's urgency, all rolled together into nonstop activity. When it came time to take her home, he did it slowly, stopping at Water World for a ride on the slide, then pulling off the thruway for hamburgers. He stopped again for ice cream and finally, a fourth time, to find a toy store and buy yet another gift. By the time they reached the expensive Tampa suburb where his ex-wife and her new husband lived, he was barely pushing the car down the streets, his reluctance to part with her lost in the rapid-fire, boundless excitement of his daughter, who pointed out all her friends' houses en route.

There was a long, circular drive in front of his daughter's home. An elderly black man was pushing a lawn mower across the expanse of vivid green lawn. His old truck, a red faded to a rusty brown, was parked to the side. He saw the words NED'S LAWN SERVICE COMPLETE handwritten on the side in white paint. The old man paused just for a moment to wipe his forehead and wave at Becky, who waved eagerly in return. Cowart saw the old man hunch over, bending to the task of trimming the grass to a uniform height. His shirt collar was stained a darker color than his skin.

Cowart looked up at the front door. It was a double width, carved wood. The house itself was a single-story ranch design that seemed to spread out over a small rise. He could see the black screen of an enclosed pool just above the roof line. There was a row of plants in front, trimmed meticulously like makeup carefully applied to a face. Becky bounded from the car and raced through the front door.

He stood for a moment, waiting until Sandy appeared.

She was swollen with pregnancy, moving carefully against the heat and discomfort. She had her arm wrapped around her daughter. 'So, was it a success?'

'We did it all.'

'I expect so. Are you exhausted?'

'A bit.'

'How are things otherwise?'

'Okay.'

'You know, I still worry about you.'

'Well, thanks, but I'm okay. You don't have to.'

'I wish we could talk. Can you come in? Have a cup of coffee? A cold drink?' She smiled. 'I'd like to hear about everything. There's a lot to talk about.'

'Becky can fill you in.'

'That's not what I mean,' she said.

He shook his head. 'Got to get back. I'm late as it is.'

'Tom'll be home in a half hour or so. He'd like to see you. He thought you did a helluva job on those stories.'

He continued to shake his head. 'Tell him thanks. But I've really got to get on the road. It'll be nearly midnight by the time I get back to Miami.'

'I wish -' she started. Then she stopped and said, 'Okay. I'll speak with you soon.'

He nodded. 'Give me a hug, honey.' He got down on his knees and gave his daughter a squeeze. He could feel her energy flow through him for just an instant, all endless enthusiasm. Then she pulled away. 'Bye-bye, Daddy,' she said. Her voice had a small crease in it. He reached out, stroked her cheek once and said, 'Now, don't tell your mother what you've been eating…' He lowered his voice into a stage whisper.'… And don't tell her about all the presents you got. She might be jealous.' Becky smiled and nodded her head up and down vigorously.

Before sliding behind the wheel, he turned and waved in false gaiety at the two of them. He told himself, You play the divorced father well. You've got all the moves down pat.

His fury with himself did not subside for hours.

At the paper, Will Martin tried to get him interested in several editorial crusades, with little success. He found himself daydreaming, anticipating Ferguson's upcoming trial, although he did not expect it ever to occur. As the Florida summer dragged relentlessly into fall with no change in atmosphere or temperature, he decided to go back up to Pachoula and write some sort of story about how the town was reacting to Ferguson's release.

The first call he made from his motel room was to Tanny Brown.

'Lieutenant? Matthew Cowart here. I just wanted to save you the trouble of having to rely on your spies and sources. I'm in town for a couple of days.'

'Can I ask what for?'

'Just to do an update on the Ferguson case. Are you still planning to prosecute?'

The detective laughed. 'That's a decision for the state attorney, not me.'

'Yeah, but he makes the decision with the information you provide him. Has anything new come up?'

'You expect me to tell you if it has?'

'I'm asking.'

'Well, seeing as how Roy Black would tell you anyway, no, nothing new.'

'What about Ferguson. What's he been doing?'

'Why don't you ask him?'

'I'm going to.'

'Well, why don't you go out to his place, then give me a call back.'

Cowart hung up the phone, vaguely impressed with the thought the detective was mocking him. He drove through the pine trees and shadows down the dirt road to Ferguson's grandmother's house, pulling in amidst the few chickens and standing on the packed dirt for a moment. He saw no signs of activity, so he mounted the steps and knocked hard on the wood frame of the door. After a moment, he heard shuffling feet, and the door pitched open a few inches.

'Mrs. Ferguson? It's me, Matthew Cowart, from the Journal'.

The door opened a little wider.

'Whatcha want now?'

'Where's Bobby Earl? I'd like to talk to him.'

'He went back north.'

'What?'

'He went back up to that school in New Jersey.'

'When did he leave?'

'Last week. There warn't nothing here for him, white boy. You know that as well as I do.'

'But what about his trial?'

'He didn't seem too concerned.'

'How can I get in touch with him?'

'He said he'd write when he got settled. That ain't happened yet.'

'Did anything happen here, in Pachoula? Before he left?'

'Not that he talked about. You got any more questions, Mr. Reporter?'

'No.'

Cowart stepped down from the porch and stared up at the house.

That afternoon, he called Roy Black.

'Where's Ferguson?' he demanded.

'In New Jersey. I got an address and phone, if y'all want it.'

'But how can he leave the state? What about the trial, his bail?'

'Judge gave him permission. No big deal. I told him it was better to get back on with his life, and he wanted to go on up and finish school. What's so strange about that? The state has to provide us with any new discovery material, and so far they haven't sent over anything. I don't know what they're gonna do, but I'm not expecting big things from them.'

'You think it's just going to slide?'

'Maybe. Go ask the detectives.'

Twill.'

'You got to understand, Mr. Cowart, how little those prosecutors want to get up and have their heads bashed in at trial. Public humiliation ain't high on the list for elected officials, you know. I suspect they'd find it a lot easier just to let a little bit of time flow by, so's people's memories get a bit hazy about the whole thing. Then get up and drop the charges at some cozy, little old conference back in the judge's chambers. Blame the whole failure on him for suppressing that statement. He'll turn right around and say it was the state's fault. And mostly the whole thing will dump on those two cops. Simple as that. End of story. That ain't so surprising now, is it? You've seen things just float on out of the criminal justice system before with nary a whimper?'

'From Death Row to zero?'

'You got it. Happens. Not too frequent, of course, but happens. Nothing here that I haven't seen or heard before.'

'Just pick up life, after a three-year hiatus?'

'Right again. Everything back to nice and quiet normal. Excepting of course one thing.'

'What's that?'

'That little girl is still dead.'

He called Tanny Brown.

'Ferguson's gone back to New Jersey. Did you know that?'

'It wasn't too much of a secret. The local paper did a story on his leaving. Said he wanted to continue his education. Told the paper he didn't think he could get a job here in Pachoula because of the way people looked at him. I don't know about that. I don't know if he even tried. Anyway, he left. I think he just wanted to get out of town before somebody did something to him.'

'Like who?'

'I don't really know. Some people were upset when he was released. Of course, some others weren't. Small town, you know. People divided. Most folks were pretty confused.'

'Who was upset?'

Tanny Brown paused before replying. 'I was upset. That's enough.'

'So, what happens now?'

'What do you expect to happen?'

Cowart didn't have an answer for that.

He did not write the story he intended. Instead, he went back to the editorial board and worked hard on upcoming local elections. He spent hours interviewing candidates, reading position papers, and debating with the other members of the board what the newspaper's positions should be. The atmosphere was heady, collegial. The wonderful perversities of local

South Florida politics, where issues like making English the official county language, or democracy in Cuba, or firearms control, provided infinite distractions. After the elections, he launched another series of editorials on water management throughout the Florida Keys. This required him to occupy his time with budget projections and ecological statements. His desk grew cluttered with sheets of paper, all covered with endless tables and charts. He had an odd thought, a pun: There's safety in numbers.

The first week in December, at a hearing before Judge Trench, the state dropped first-degree-murder charges against Robert Earl Ferguson. They complained to a small gathering of reporters that without the confession, there was little hard evidence to go on. There was a lot of posturing by both prosecutors and the defense team about how important the system was, and how no single case was more important than the rules of law that governed them all.

Tanny Brown and Bruce Wilcox were absent from the hearing.

I don't really want to talk about it right now,' Brown said when Cowart went to see him. Wilcox said, 'Jesus, I barely touched the man. Jesus. If I'd really hit him, you think he'd have no marks? You think he'd still be standing? Hell, I'd a ripped his head off. Damn.'

He drove through a humid evening, past the school, past the willow where Joanie Shriver had stepped out of the world. He stopped at the fork in the road, staring for an instant down the route the killer had taken before turning toward the Shriver house. He pulled in front and spotted George Shriver cutting a hedge with a gas-powered trimmer. The big man's body was wreathed in sweat when Cowart approached. He stopped, shutting down the motor, breathing in harsh gasps of air as the reporter stood by, notepad and pen poised.

'We heard,' he said softly. 'Tanny Brown called us, said it was official now. Of course, it didn't come as no surprise or anything. Yes sir, we knew it was going to happen. Tanny Brown once told us that it was all so fragile. That's the word I can't forget. I guess it just couldn't hold together no more, not after you started to look at it.'

Cowart stood before the red-faced man uncomfortably. 'Do you still think Ferguson killed your daughter? What about Sullivan? What about that letter he sent?'

'I don't know nothing anymore about it. I suspect it's as confused for the missus and me as it is for everyone else. But in my heart, you know, I still think he did it. I can't ever erase the way he looked at his trial, you know. I just can't forget that.'

Mrs. Shriver brought out a glass of ice water for her husband. She looked up at Cowart with a sort of curiosity in her eyes that was ridged with anger.

'What I can't understand,' she said, 'is why we had to go through all this again. First you, then the other television and print folks. It was like she got killed all over again. And again and again. It got so's I couldn't turn on the television for fear that I might see her picture there again and again. It wasn't like people wouldn't let us forget. We didn't want to forget. But it got all caught up in something that I didn't understand. Like what became important was what that man Ferguson said and what that man Sullivan said and what they did and all that. Not that what was really important was that my little girl was stolen. And that was a hurt, you know, Mr. Cowart? That hurt and kept hurting so much.'

The woman was crying as she spoke, but the tears didn't mar the clarity of her voice.

George Shriver took a deep breath and a long pull from his water. 'Of course, we don't blame you, Mr. Cowart.' He paused. 'Well, hell, maybe we do a bit. Can't help but think something wrong has happened somewhere. Not your fault, I guess. Not your fault at all. Fragile, like I said. Fragile, and it all fell apart.'

The big man took his wife's hand and, together, leaving the lawn mower and Matthew Cowart standing in the front yard, they retreated into the darkness of their home.

When he spoke with Ferguson, he was overwhelmed by the elation in the man's voice. It made it seem to the reporter that he was standing close by, not talking over some distance on a telephone.

'I can't thank you enough, Mr. Cowart. It wouldn't of happened without your help.'

'Yes, it would have, sooner or later.'

'No, sir. You were the person who got it all moving. I'd still be on the Row if not for you.'

'What are you going to do now?'

'I have plans, Mr. Cowart. Plans to make something of my life. Finish school. Make a career. Yes sir.' Ferguson paused, then added, 'I feel like I'm free to do anything now.'

Cowart remembered the phrase from somewhere but could not place it. Instead, he asked, 'How're your classes going?'

'I've learned a lot,' Ferguson said. He laughed briefly. 'I feel like I know a whole lot more than I did before. Yes sir. Everything's different now. It's been some education.'

'Are you going to stay up in Newark?'

'I'm not sure about that. This place is colder even than I remember it, Mr. Cowart. I think I should head back south.'

'Pachoula?'

Ferguson hesitated before replying. 'Well, I doubt it. That place didn't make me feel altogether welcome after I got off the Row. People'd stare. I could hear talk behind my back. Lot of pointing. Couldn't go to the local convenience store without finding a patrol car waiting for me when I came out. It was like they were watching me, knowing I'd do something. Took my granny to services on Sunday, folks' heads would turn when we walked through the door. Went down looking for a job, but every place I went it seemed like the job had just been filled a couple minutes before I got there, made no difference if the boss was black or white. They all just looked at me like I was some sort of evil thing walking about in their midst that they couldn't do nothing about. That was wrong, sir. Real wrong. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. But Florida's a big place, Mr. Cowart. Why, just the other day a church in Ocala asked me to come give a talk on my experiences. And they weren't the first. So there's plenty of places that don't think I'm some sort of mad dog. Just Pachoula, maybe. And that won't change as long as that Tanny Brown's there.'

'Will you stay in touch?'

'Why, of course,' Ferguson replied.

In late January, almost a year after he'd received the letter from Robert Earl Ferguson, Matthew Cowart won a Florida Press Association award for his stories. This prize was swiftly followed by awards from the Penny-Missouri School of Journalism and an Ernie Pyle Award from Scripps-Howard.

At the same time, the Florida Supreme Court affirmed the conviction and sentence of Blair Sullivan. He got another collect phone call.

'Cowart? You there?'

'I'm here, Mr. Sullivan.'

'You hear about that court decision?'

'Yes. What are you going to do? All you got to do is talk to one attorney. Why not call Roy Black, huh?'

'Mr. Cowart, d'you think I'm a man with no convictions?' he laughed. 'That's a pun. A man of no conscience? That's another joke. What makes you think I ain't going to stick to what I said?'

I don't know. Maybe I think life is worth living.'

'You ain't had my life.'

'That's true.'

'And you ain't got my future. You probably think I ain't got much future. But you're gonna be surprised.'

'I'm waiting.'

'You want to know something, Mr. Cowart? The really funny thing is, I'm having a good time.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'You know another thing, Mr. Cowart? We're gonna talk again. When it gets close.'

'Have you been told anything about when?'

'No. Can't imagine what's taking the governor so long.'

'Do you really want to die, Mr. Sullivan?'

'I got plans, Mr. Cowart. Big plans. Death is just a little part of them. I'll call you again.'

He hung up and Matthew Cowart stifled a shiver. He thought it was like speaking with a corpse.

On the first of April, Matthew Cowart was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for distinguished local news reporting.

In the old days of wire machines that clattered and clanged out news stories in an endless flow of words, there was a sort of ritual gathering on the day the awards were to be announced, waiting for the winners' names to move on the wires. The Associated Press and United Press International usually competed to see which organization could process the awards announcement quickest and move the story fastest. The old wire machines were equipped with bells that would sound when a big story came over the wires, so there was an almost religious pealing when the winners' names were produced. There was a sort of romanticism involved in watching the Teletype crunch out the names as the assembled editors and reporters groaned or cheered. All that had been replaced by instantaneous transmission over computer lines. Now the names appeared on the ubiquitous green screens that dotted the modern newsroom. The cheers and groans were the same, however.

He had been out at a water-management conference that afternoon. When he walked into the newsroom, the entire staff rose up applauding.

A photographer snapped his picture as he was handed a glass of champagne and was pushed toward a computer screen to read the words himself. There were high fives from the managing editor and the city editor, and Will Martin said, I knew it all along.'

He was swamped with congratulatory calls. Roy Black telephoned, as did Robert Earl Ferguson, who spoke for only a few moments. Tanny Brown called and said cryptically, 'Well, I'm glad to see somebody got something out of all this.'

His ex-wife called, crying. I knew you could do it,' she said. He could hear a baby bawling in the background. His daughter squealed with pleasure when she spoke with him, not fully understanding what had happened but delighted nonetheless. He was interviewed on three local television stations and got a call from a literary agent, wondering whether he was interested in writing a book. The producer who'd purchased the rights to Robert Earl Ferguson's life story called, intimating that he should make a deal as well. The man was insistent, talking his way past the telephone receptionist screening the incoming calls, finally getting Matthew Cowart on the line.

'Mr. Cowart? Jeffrey Maynard here. I'm with Instacom Productions. We're very anxious to do a movie based on all the work you've done.'

The producer had a breathless, agitated voice, as if each passing second was filled with lost opportunity and wasted money.

Cowart replied slowly, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Maynard, but…'

'Don't turn me down, Mr. Cowart. How about I fly out to Miami and talk with you? Better yet, you fly here, our nickel, of course.'

'I don't think so…'

'Let me say this, Mr. Cowart. We've spoken to almost all the principals here, and we're real interested in obtaining rights and releases from everyone. We're talking some substantial money here, and maybe the opportunity for you to get out of newspaper work.'

'I don't want to get out of newspaper work.'

'I thought all reporters wanted to do something else.'

'You're mistaken.'

'Still, I'd like to meet. We've met with the others, and we've got all sorts of cooperation on this, and…'

I'll think about it, Mr. Maynard.'

'Will you get back to me?'

'Sure.'

Cowart hung up the telephone with absolutely no intention of doing this. He returned to the excitement that flooded the newsroom, guzzling champagne from a plastic cup, basking in the attention, all confusions and questions crushed under the weight of backslap-ping and congratulations.

But when he went home that night, he was still alone.

He walked into his apartment and thought of Vernon Hawkins living out solitary days with his memories and his cough. The dead detective seemed everywhere in his imagination. He kept trying to force the vision of his friend into some congratulatory pose, insisting to himself that Hawkins would have been the first to call, the first to crack an expensive bottle of champagne. But the image wouldn't stick. He could only remember the old detective lying in bed in his hospital room, muttering through the fog of drugs and oxygen, 'What's the Tenth Rule of the streets, Matty?'

And his reply, 'Christ, Vernon, I don't know. Get some rest.'

'The Tenth Rule is: Things are never what they seem.'

'Vernon, what the hell does that mean?'

'It means I'm losing my head. Get the fucking nurse, not the old one, the young one with the knockers. Tell her I need a shot. Any old shot, doesn't make any difference, as long as she rubs my rear end with an alcohol swab for a couple of minutes before shooting me up.'

He remembered summoning the nurse and watching the old man get a shot, grin wildly, and slip off into a mist of sleep.

But I won, Vernon. I did it, he said to himself. He looked down at the copy of the first edition that he carried under his arm. The picture and story were above the fold: JOURNAL WRITER TAKES PULITZER IN DEATH ROW STORY.

He spent most of the night staring out into the wide black sky, letting euphoria play with doubt, until the excitement of the award simply overcame all anxieties and he drifted off, drugged with his own shot of success.

Two weeks later, while Matthew Cowart was still riding a crest of elation, a second story moved over the electronic wires.

The story said that the governor had signed a death warrant for Blair Sullivan. It set his execution in the electric chair for midnight, seven days from the moment of signing. There was speculation that Sullivan could avoid the chair at any point by opting to file an appeal. The governor acknowledged this fact when he signed the warrant. But there was no immediate response from the prisoner.

One day passed. Then a second, third, and fourth. On the morning of the fifth day of the death warrant, as he sat at his desk, the telephone rang. He seized the receiver eagerly.

It was Sergeant Rogers from the prison.

'Cowart? You there, buddy?'

Yeah, Sergeant. I was expecting to hear from you.'

'Well, things are getting close, ain't they?'

This was a question that really demanded no answer. 'What's with Sullivan?'

'Man, you ever go to the reptile house at the zoo?

Watch those snakes behind those glass windows? They don't move much, except their eyes dart about, watching everything. That's what Sully's like. We're supposed to be watching him, but he's eyeing us like he expects something. This ain't like any Death Watch I ever saw before.'

'What usually happens?'

'Generally speaking, this place starts crawling with lawyers, priests, and demonstrators. Everybody's wired up, racing about to different judges and courts, meeting this, talking about that. Next thing you know, it's time. One thing I'll say about when the state juices you: You don't have to face it alone. There's family and well-wishers and people talking about God and justice and all sorts, until your ears like to fall off. That's normal. But this ain't normal. There ain't nobody inside or outside for Sully. He's just alone. I keep expecting him to explode, he's wrapped so tight.'

'Will he appeal?'

'Says no.'

'What do you think?'

'He's a man of his word.'

'What about everybody else?'

'Well, the consensus here is that he'll break down, maybe on the last day, and ask somebody to file something and get his stay and enjoy his ten years of appeals. Latest odds are ten will get you fifty if he actually goes to the chair. I got some money down on that myself. That's what the governor's man thinks, anyway. Said they just wanted to call the man's bluff. But he's cutting it close, you know. Real fine.'

'Jesus.'

'Yeah. Hearing a lot about Him lately, too.'

'What about the preparations?'

'Well, the chair works fine, we tested it this morning. It'll kill you right quick, no doubt about that. Anyway, he'll get moved into an isolation cell twenty-four hours ahead. He gets to order himself a meal, that's tradition. We don't cut his hair or do any of the other prep work until there's just a couple of hours left. Until then, things stay as normal as we can make them. The other folks on the Row are mighty restless. They don't like to see somebody not fight, you know. When Ferguson walked, it inspired everyone, gave them all like a shot of hope. Now Sully's got them all pretty pissed off and anxious-like. I don't know what'll happen.'

'Sounds like it's tough on you.'

'Sure. But in the end it ain't nothing more than part of the job.'

'Has Sully talked to anyone?'

'No. But that's the reason I'm calling.'

'What?'

'He wants to see you. In person. ASAP.'

'Me?'

'You got it. Wants you to share the nightmare, I'm guessing. He's put you on his witness list.'

'What's that?'

'What d'you think? The invited guests of the state and Blair Sullivan for his own little going-away party.'

'Jesus. He wants me to watch the execution?'

'Yup.'

'Christ! I don't know if…'

'Why don't you ask him yourself? You got to understand, Mr. Cowart, there ain't a lot of time involved here. We're having a nice chat here on the phone, but I think you'd best be calling the airlines for a flight. Get here by this afternoon.'

'Right. Right. I'll get there. Jesus.'

'It was your story, Mr. Cowart. I guess old Sully just wants to see you write the last chapter, huh? Can't say it surprises me.'

Matthew Cowart didn't reply. He hung up the telephone. He stuck his head into Will Martin's office and swiftly explained the unusual summons. 'Go,' the older man said. 'Go, right now. It's a helluva story. Just go.' There was a hurried conversation with the managing editor, and a rushed trip back to his apartment to grab a toothbrush and change of clothes.

He made a noon commuter flight.

It was late afternoon when he reached the prison, driving the rental car hard through a gray, rain-streaked day. The beating noise of the windshield wipers had added urgency to his pace. Sergeant Rogers met him in the administration offices. They shook hands like old teammates at a reunion.

'You made good time, the sergeant said.

'You know, I can feel the craziness. I'm driving along, thinking about every minute, Jesus, every second, and what it means all of a sudden.'

'That's right,' the sergeant nodded. 'There ain't nothing like having a time and date for dying to make little moments right important.'

'Scary.'

'That it is. Like I told you, Mr. Cowart, Death Row gives one an entirely different perspective on living.'

'No demonstrators outside?'

'Not yet. You really got to hate the death penalty to want to walk in the rain for old Sully. I expect they'll show up in a day or so. Weather's supposed to clear tonight.'

'Anyone else here to see him?'

'There's lawyers with papers all ready to file on call -but he ain't called for anyone, excepting you. There's been some detectives here. That pair from Pachoula came down yesterday. He wouldn't talk to them. Couple of FBI men and some guys from Orlando and Gainesville. They all want to know about a bunch of murders they still got floating on their books. He won't talk to them, neither. Just wants to talk to you. Maybe he'll tell you. Sure would help some folks if'n he would. That's what old Ted Bundy did, before he went to the chair. Cleared up a whole lot of mysteries plaguing some folks. I don't know if it counted for much when he got to the other side, but, hell, who knows?'

'Let's go.'

'That's right.'

Sergeant Rogers made a perfunctory check of Matthew Cowart's notepad and briefcase and then led him through the sally ports and metal detectors into the bowels of the prison.

Sullivan was waiting in his cell. The sergeant pulled a chair up outside and gestured for Cowart to sit.

I need privacy,' Sullivan coughed.

Cowart thought he had paled some. His slicked-back hair glistened in the light from a single, wire-covered bulb. Sullivan moved nervously about from wall to wall in the cell, twisting his hands together, his shoulders hunched over.

'I need my privacy,' he repeated.

'Sully, you know there ain't nobody in either cell on right or left. You can talk here,' the sergeant said patiently.

The prisoner smiled, allowing a smile to race across his face.

'They make it like a grave,' he said to Matthew Cowart as the sergeant moved away. 'They make it quiet and still, just so's you start to get used to the idea of living in a coffin.'

He walked to the bars and shook them once. 'Just like a coffin,' he said. 'Nailed shut.'

Blair Sullivan laughed hard, until the sound disintegrated into a wheeze. 'So, Cowart, you're looking mighty prosperous.'

'I'm okay. How can I help you?'

Til get to that, get to that. Give me a moment of pleasure or so. Hey, you heard from our boy, Bobby Earl?'

'When I won the prize, he called with congratulations. But I didn't really talk to him. I gather he's back in college.'

'That right? Somehow, I didn't make him for a real studious type. But hey, maybe college has got some pedal attractions for old Bobby Earl. Real special attractions.'

'What are you saying?'

'Nothing. Nothing. Nothing that you won't need to remember some time later.'

Blair Sullivan tossed back his head and let his body shiver. 'You think it's cold in here, Cowart?'

Cowart could feel sweat running down his ribs. 'No. It's hot.'

Sullivan grinned and coughed out another laugh. 'Ain't that a joke, Cowart? It's getting so I can't tell no more. Can't tell if it's hot or cold. Day or night. Just like a little child, I'm thinking. I guess that's a part of it, the dying. You just naturally head backwards in time.'

He rose and walked to a small sink in the corner of the cell. He ran the single tap for a moment, leaning down and drinking with great gulps. 'And thirsty, too. Keep getting dry in the mouth. Just like something keeps sucking all the moisture right out of me.'

Cowart didn't say anything.

'Of course, I expect when they jolt you the first time with those twenty-five hundred volts, that's thirsty work for all involved.'

Matthew Cowart felt his own throat tighten. 'Are you going to file?'

Sullivan scowled. 'What do you think?'

'I don't.'

He stared at Cowart. 'You got to understand, Cowart, right now I'm feeling more alive than ever.'

'Why do you want to see me?'

'Last will and testament. Dying declaration. Famous last words. How's that sound?'

'Up to you.'

Sullivan made a fist and punched the still air of the cell. 'Do you remember me telling you how far I could reach? Do you remember me saying how puny these walls and bars really are, Cowart? Do you remember me saying that I don't fear death, I welcome it? I think there's gonna be a special place in hell for me, Cowart. I do. And you're gonna help me get there.'

'How?'

'You're gonna do some things for me.'

'What if I don't agree?'

'You will. You can't help it, Cowart. You're in this all the way, ain't you?'

Cowart nodded, wondering what he was agreeing to.

'All right, Cowart. Mr. Famous Reporter Man. I want you to go someplace for me and do some of your special-type reporting. It's a little house. I want you to knock on the door. If there ain't no answer, I want you to go right on in. Don't you mind if the door's locked. Don't you let anything keep you from walking into that house. Got that? I don't care how, but you get inside that house. You keep your eyes open. You take down all the details inside, hear? You interview everybody there…'

Blair Sullivan ladled sarcasm onto the word. He laughed. 'Then you come back and tell me what you found, and I'll tell you a story worth hearing. Blair Sullivan's legacy.'

The killer put his head into his hands and then raised them up over his forehead, pushing back his hair, grinning wildly. 'And that'll be a story worth the knowing, I promise.'

Cowart hesitated. He felt swept up in a sudden darkness.

'Okay, Mr. Cowart,' Sullivan said. 'Ready? I want you to go to number thirteen – nice number, that – Tarpon Drive in Islamorada.'

'That's the Keys. I just came from…

'Just go there! And then come back and tell me what you find. And don't leave nothing out.'

Cowart looked at the prisoner, unsure for an instant. Then the doubt fled and he rose.

'Run, Cowart. Run hard. Run fast. There's not much time.'

Sullivan sat back on his bed. He turned his face away from Cowart but at the same time bellowed out, "Sergeant Rogers! Get this man out of my sight!'

His eyes twitched once toward Cowart. 'Until tomorrow. That'd be day six.'

Cowart nodded and paced swiftly away.

Cowart managed to catch the last flight back to Miami. It was after midnight when he dragged himself into his apartment and threw himself down, still dressed, on his bed. He felt unsettled, filled with an odd stage fright. He thought himself an actor thrust onto a stage in front of an audience but not having been told his lines, his character, or what the name of the play was. He thrust away as much thought as he could and seized a few hours of fitful sleep.

But by eight in the morning, he was driving south toward the Upper Keys, through the clear, rising heat of the morning. There were a few lazy white clouds lost in the sky, gleaming with the early sun. He maneuvered past the commuter traffic clogging South Dixie Highway heading for downtown Miami, racing the opposite way. Miami spread out, changing from a city into strips of low-slung shopping centers with garish signs and empty parking lots. The number of cars diminished as he passed through the suburbs, finally racing past rows of auto dealerships decorated with hundreds of American flags and huge banners announcing cut-rate sales, their polished fleets of vehicles gleaming with reflected light, lined up in anticipation. He could see a pair of silver jet fighters swinging wide through the crystal air, jockeying for a landing at Homestead Air Force Base, the two planes roaring, filling the air with noise but performing like ballet dancers as they swept into their approach only a few feet apart, in tandem.

A few miles farther, he crossed Card Sound Bridge, driving hard toward the Keys. The road sliced through hummocks of mangroves and marshy swamp. He saw a stork's nest on a telephone pole, and as he swept by, a single white bird rose and beat its way across the sky. A wide flat green world surrounded him for the first few miles. Then the land on his left gave way to inlets and finally to miles of Florida bay. A light chop curled the surface of the ripe blue water. He drove on.

The road to the Keys meanders through wetlands and water, occasionally rising up a few feet so that civilization can grasp hold. The rough coral-ridged earth houses marinas and condo developments whenever it gains enough solidity to support construction. It sometimes seems as if the square cinder-block buildings have spawned; a gas station spreads into a convenience store. A I-shirt shop painted bright pink takes root and flowers into a fast-food outlet. A dock gives rise to a restaurant, which hatches a motel across the roadway. Where there is enough land, there are schools and hospitals and trailer parks clinging tightly to the crushed gravel, dirt, and pieces of white shells, bleached by the sun. The ocean is never far, blinking with reflected sunlight, its wide expanse laughing at the puny, tacky efforts of civilization. He pushed past Marathon and the entrance to Pennekamp State Park. At the Whale Harbor marina he saw a huge plastic blue marlin, bigger than any fish that ever cruised the Gulf Stream, which marked the entrance to the sports fishing dock. He drove on past a strip of shops and a supermarket, the white paint on the walls fading in the inexorable hot sun of the Keys.

It was midmorning when he found Tarpon Drive. The street was at the southern tip of the Key, a mile or so before the ocean encroached tightly and made construction impossible. The road spun off to the left, a angle lane of crunching shells cutting between some trailers and small single-story houses. There was a haphazardness to the road, as if the lots were simply carved by convenience. A rusted Volkswagen bus painted in faded ancient-hippie psychedelic style sat on blocks in one front yard. Two children in diapers played in a makeshift sandbox next to it. A single woman wearing tight blue cut-off jeans and a tank top and smoking a cigarette sat on an overturned bait bucket, watching over them. She eyed Matthew Cowart with a practiced toughness. In front of another house there was a boat, with a ragged hole beneath the gunnels, up on sawhorses. Outside a trailer, an elderly couple sat in cheap green-and-white beach chairs underneath a pink umbrella. They didn't move as he rolled past. He put his window down and heard a radio turned up to some talk show. Disembodied voices filled the air with angry tones debating meaningless issues. Bent and twisted television antennas littered the sky. Cowart felt he was entering a sun-baked world of lost hopes and found poverty.

Midway down the street was a single white clapboard church behind a rusty wire fence. There was a large handwritten sign out in the front yard: FIRST KEYS BAPTIST CHURCH. ALL WELCOME TO ENTER AND BE SAVED. He saw that the gate at the street was off its hinge and that the wooden steps leading to the front door were splintered and broken. The doors were padlocked. He drove on, looking for number thirteen. The house was set back thirty yards from the road beneath a gnarled mangrove tree, which cast a variegated shade across the front. It was cinder block, with old jalousie windows, their smoked glass open to catch whatever breezes filtered through the tangle of trees and brush. The shutters on the outside of the house were peeling black paint and a large crucifix was attached to the door. It was a small house, with a pair of propane fuel tanks leaning up against one wall. The yard was dirt and gravel, and dust kicked up about his feet as he walked to the front door. Scratched in the wood of the door were the words JESUS LIVES INSIDE ALL OF US.

He could hear a dog barking in the distance. The mangrove tree moved slightly, finding some small bit of wind chased by the heat. But he felt nothing. He knocked hard. Once, twice, and a third time. There was no answer.

He stepped back and called out, 'Hello! Anyone there?'

He waited for a reply and was met with silence.

He knocked again. Shit! he swore to himself.

Cowart stepped back from the door, peering about. He could see no car, no sign of any life. He tried calling out again. 'Hello? Anyone home?'

But again there was no reply.

He had no plan, no idea what to do.

He walked back to the street and then turned and looked back at the house. What the hell am I doing here? he wondered to himself. What is this all about?

He heard a mild crunching sound up the street and saw that a mailman was getting out of a white jeep. He watched as the man stuck some circulars and letters in first one, then another mailbox. Cowart kept an eye on him as he made his way down the street toward number thirteen.

'How ya doing?' Cowart asked as the man approached.

He was a middle-aged man, wearing the blue-gray shorts and pale blue shirt of the postal service. He sported a long ponytail, which was clipped tightly in back, and a hangdog droopy mustache. He wore dark sunglasses, which hid his eyes.

'Seen better. Seen worse.' He started to paw through his mailbag.

'Who lives here?' Cowart asked.

'Who wants to know?'

'I'm a reporter for the Miami Journal. My name is Cowart.'

'I read your paper,' the postman replied. 'Mostly the sports section, though.'

'Can you help me? I'm trying to find the folks who live here. But there's no answer at the door.'

'No answer, huh? I've never seen them go anywhere.'

'Who?'

Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun. Old Dot and Fred. Usually sitting around reading the Bible and waiting for either the final day of judgment or the Sears catalogue to arrive, generally speaking, Sears seems more dependable.'

'Have they been here long?'

'Maybe six, seven years. Maybe longer. I only been down here that long.'

Cowart remained confused but had another quick question. 'Do they ever get any mail from Starke? From the state prison?'

The mailman dropped his bag down, sighing. 'Sure do. Maybe once a month.'

'Do you know who Blair Sullivan is?'

'Sure,' said the mailman. 'He's gonna take the hot squat. I read it in your paper the other day. This got something to do with him?'

'Maybe. I don't know,' Cowart replied. He stared back at the house as the postman took out a sheaf of circulars and opened the mailbox.

'Uh-oh,' he said.

'What?'

'Mail ain't been picked up.'

The mailman stared across the dusty yard at the house. 'I always hate that. Old folks always get their mail, always, unless something ain't right. I used to deliver on Miami Beach, you know, when I was younger. You always knew what you were going to find when the mail hadn't been picked up.'

'How many days?'

'Looks like a couple. Oh shit. I hate this,' said the postman.

Cowart started to approach the house again. He walked up to a window and peered in. All he could see was cheap furniture arranged in a small sitting area. There was a colored portrait of Jesus on the wall, with light radiating out of his head. 'Can you see anything over there?' he asked the postman, who had joined him at the front of the house and was staring through another window, shading his eyes against the glare.

'Just an empty bedroom.'

Both men stepped back and Cowart called out, 'Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun! Hello!'

There was still no reply. He went to the front door and put his hand on the doorknob. It turned. He looked over at the postman, who nodded. He opened the door and stepped inside.

The smell hit him immediately.

The postman groaned and put his hand on Cowart's shoulder.

I know what that is,' he said. 'First smelled it in Vietnam. Never forget it.' He paused, then added, 'Listen.'

The smell clogged Cowart's throat and he wanted to choke, as if he was standing in smoke. Then he heard a buzzing noise coming from the back of the house.

The postman stepped back, retreating. 'I'm gonna go call the cops.'

'I'm gonna check,' Cowart said.

'Don't,' the postman said. 'There's no need.'

Cowart shook his head. He stepped forward, the smell and the buzzing noise seeming to gather him in, drawing him toward it. He was aware that the postman had left and he glanced back over his shoulder and saw the man hurrying toward a neighbor's house. Cowart took several more steps into the home. His eyes searched about, grasping at detail, gathering sights that could later be described, taking in the threadbare furnishings, the religious artifacts, and the thick sense that this was the last place on earth. The heat built about him inexorably, joining with the smell, which permeated his clothes, his nostrils, slid into his pores, and tugged firmly at the edges of nausea within him. He moved ahead into the kitchen.

The old man and woman were there.

They had each been tied to a chair, at either end of a linoleum-topped breakfast table. Their arms were pulled back sharply. The woman was naked, the man clothed. They were sitting across from each other, just as if they were sitting down to a meal.

Their throats had been cut.

Black blood was pooled about the base of each chair.

Flies covered each face, beneath tangles of gray hair.

Their heads were bent back, so that lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling.

In the center of the table, a Bible had been opened.

Cowart choked, battling unconsciousness, fear, and fighting to keep his stomach from heaving.

The heat in the room seemed to increase, washing over him in waves of thick, cloying warmth. The sound from the flies filled his ears. He took a single step and craned forward to read the words on the open page. A blood smear marked a single passage.

There be of them, that have left a name behind them, that their praises might be reported. And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born; and their children after them.

He stepped back, eyes wildly searching the room.

He saw a corner door, leading to the outside backyard, with a single chain lock that had been forced. The lock hung uselessly from splintered old wood. His eyes swept back to the old couple in front of him. The woman's flaccid breasts were streaked with brown-black blood. He stepped back fast, first one step, then another, and finally turned and rushed out the front door. He caught his breath, hands on knees, and saw the postman returning from across the street. Cowart felt a dizziness that threatened to drop him to the ground, so he sat abruptly on the front stoop.

The postman called out as he hurried toward Cowart, 'Are they?'

He nodded.

'Jesus,' the man said. 'Is it bad?'

Cowart nodded again.

'Police are on their way.'

'They were killed,' Cowart said quietly.

'Murdered? No shit?'

He bent his head again.

'Jesus,' the postman repeated. 'Why?'

He didn't reply, only shook his head. But inwardly, his mind reeled.

I know, Cowart thought. I know.

I know who they are and I know why they died.

They were the people Blair Sullivan had told him he always wanted to kill. Always. And he'd finally done it, reaching out from behind the bars, past the gates and fences, past the prison walls and barbed wire, just as he promised he could.

Matthew Cowart just did not know how.


8. Another Letter From Death Row | Just Cause | 10. An Arrangement Reached Upon The Road To Hell