Arthur Hailey: Detective

A sentence of death inevitably followed. Subsequently, while still insisting on his innocence, Doil refused to cooperate in any appeal process and stubbornly denied others the right to appeal on his behalf. Even so, substantial paperwork was needed before the legal machinery ground out an execution date. The law's tedious process between sentencing and execution took a year and seven months.

But now, inexorably, the day had come, and with it the tantalizing question: What did Doil want to say to Ainslie in the closing moments of his life?

If they made it in time. . .

* * *

Jorge was still speeding north on Highway 441 in the mist and rain.

Ainslie checked the time: 5:48.

He reached for his notepad and the cellular phone, then tapped out the number. There was a curt answer on the first ring.

"State Prison."

"Lieutenant Hambrick, please."

"This is Hambrick. Is this Sergeant Ainslie?"

"Yes, sir. I'm about twenty minutes away."

"Well, you've cut it fine, but we'll do our best when you get here. You understand, though nothing can be delayed?"

"I understand that."

"Do you have your escort yet?"

"No . . . Wait! I see a traffic light ahead."

Jorge nodded vigorously as two green lights came into view.

"Turn right at the light," Hambrick instructed. "Your escort is around the corner. We're alerting Trooper Sequiera now. He'll be rolling when you get there."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Okay, listen carefully. Follow Sequiera closely. You're already cleared through our outer gate, the main gate, and two checkpoints after that. The tower will spotlight you, but keep moving. Stop at the front entrance to Administration. I'll be waiting. Got all that?"

"Got it.''

"I presume you're armed, Sergeant."

"Yes, I am."

"We'll immediately enter the control room, where you'll hand over all weapons, ammunition, and police ID. Be ready. Who's driving you?"

"Detective Jorge Rodriguez. Plainclothes."

"We'll give him separate instructions when you get here. Listen, Sergeant. You've got to move fast, okay?"

"I'll be ready, Lieutenant. Thank you."

Ainslie turned to Jorge and asked, "Could you hear all that?"

''Got it all, Sergeant."

The traffic light ahead turned red, but Jorge ignored it. Barely slowing, he entered the four-way intersection and swung right. Directly ahead, a Highway Patrol black-and yellow Mercury Marquis, bristling with roof antennae and flashing emergency lights, was already moving. The Miami blue-and-white fell in behind, and within seconds the two were a single eye-catching coruscation hurtling headlong through the night.

Later, when Ainslie attempted to recall that final portion of the four-hundred-mile journey, he found that all he could remember was a vague flashing montage. As best he could calculate later, they covered the last twenty-two miles of minor, twisting roads in less than fourteen minutes. Once, he noticed, their speed reached ninety-two miles per hour.

Some checkpoints were known to Ainslie from previous journeys. First the small town of Waldo, then Gainesville Airport to the right; they must have passed both so fast that neither registered. Then Starke, the dismal dormitory town of Raiford; he knew there were modest houses, prosaic stores, cheap motels, cluttered gas stations, but he saw none of them. Beyond Starke was an interval of gloom . . . an impression of trees . . . all lost in a miasma of haste.

"We're here," Jorge said. "There's Raiford, up ahead."

Florida State Prison looked like a mammoth fortress, and it was. So were two other prisons immediately beyond.

Paradoxically, the State Prison was of ficially in the town of Starke, not Raiford. The other two, which were in Raiford, were Raiford Prison and the Union Correctional Institute. But it was Florida State Prison that contained Death Row, and it was here that all executions took place.

Looming ahead of Ainslie and Jorge was an immense succession of high, grimly austere concrete structures, a mile-long complex punctuated by row after row of narrow and stoutly barred cellblock windows. A functional onestory building, jutting forward, housed the State Prison Administration. Another concrete mass to one side, three stories high and windowless, contained the prison workshops.

Three heavy-duty chain-link fences enclosed it all, each fence thirty feet high and topped with rolls of concertina barbed wire and a series of live electrical wires. At intervals along the fences, tall concrete towers, nine in all, were manned by guards armed with rifles, machine guns, tear gas, and searchlights. From there they could view the entire prison. The three fences created parallel twin enclosures. Within the enclosures, trained attack dogs roamed, among them German shepherds and pit bulls.

Approaching the State Prison, both the Highway Patrol and Miami Police cars slowed, and Jorge, who was seeing the complex for the first time, whistled softly.

"It's hard to believe," Ainslie said, "but a few guys have actually escaped from here. Most of them didn't get very far, though." He glanced at the dashboard clock 6:02 A.M. and was reminded that Elroy Doil would be escaping in less than an hour, in the grimmest way of all.

Jorge shook his head. "If this were my home, I'd sure as hell try to escape."

The State Prison's outer gate and a large parking lot beyond were bathed in lights. The parking area was bustling unusual for this time of day, but public interest in the Doil execution had lured many reporters to the scene, and at least a hundred others now milled around, hoping for a hint of the latest developments. Several TV mobile trucks were parked nearby.

As usual, demonstrators stood in small groups, chanting slogans. Some bore signs denouncing today's execution and capital punishment in general; others held lighted candles.

A new breed of protesters held placards reading YOUR TAXES ARE PAYING FOR THIS SUICIDE and STOP STATESPONSORED SUICIDE. These were mainly young lawyers or their supporters who objected to condemned murderers like Elroy Doil being allowed to decide against the prolonged process of appeal.

After every death sentence, one appeal went automatically to the Florida Supreme Court, but if that was rejected, as most were, further appeals could take ten years or more of legal effort. Now, instead, some prisoners accepted the death penalty for their crimes and let it happen. The state governor had wisely ruled that if a condemned prisoner made that decision, it was part of his or her freedom of choice and not "suicide." As to the objecting lawyers, the governor commented acidly, "They are less concerned about condemned prisoners having another day in court than about having their own day in court."

Ainslie wondered how much thought, if any, the demonstrators gave to the silent: a murderer's victims.

Driving past the parking lot, Ainslie and Jorge neared the main gate, a two-lane entranceway with uniformed figures standing guard. Normally at this point all arrivals were asked for identification documents and questioned about their business at the prison. Instead, uniformed guards in distinctive kelly green pants and white shirts waved both police cars through. At the same time a tower searchlight encompassed the two cars and tracked them toward the prison buildings. Ainslie and Jorge put up hands to shield their eyes.

They were similarly cleared through two other checkpoints and, within seconds, were approaching the Administration building. Ainslie had visited the prison several times before, usually to interview crime suspects, and once to arrest an inmate on new charges, but never had he reached the interior so quickly.

The Highway Patrol car stopped at the Administration entrance, and Jorge maneuvered the Miami blue-and-white alongside.