James Patterson - Now You See Her

TWO HOURS LATER, I sat in the capitol’s wood-paneled second-floor corridor, checking the time on my iPhone every minute or so. It was either that or pull my hair out.

Because this was it.

Do or die.

Literally.

For the last excruciating hour, Charlie and I had been sitting on a long bench outside of the board’s meeting room, like bad children in front of the principal’s office. Inside, Fabiana was delivering her testimony to the executive clemency board. We’d already turned over the newspaper article to the parole investigator. The only question now was as simple as it was significant.

Had it been enough?

“She’ll do fine,” Charlie said with an aggravating calm as I spun my phone on the bench. He had a small cut under his left eye and a smushed right ear from the scuffle with Peter and the crowd. He’d probably gotten on YouTube by now as well for his taped “don’t Tase me, bro” moment in front of the capitol plaza crowd.

“I should tell them,” I said. “I should march right in there and tell them about Peter. About everything. What if this doesn’t work?”

“But it will,” Charlie said as the door opened.

Assistant Commissioner Sim appeared with Fabiana.

I took a deep breath.

“What’s the verdict?” Charlie said.

“The board will weigh the evidence now,” Sim said.

“What? More waiting?” I said.

“It’s not like we have a lot of time here, Mr. Sim,” Charlie said.

“That’s all I can say for now. Thank you for coming,” Mr. Sim said as he closed the door.

“What does that mean?” Fabiana said. “We have to keep waiting?”

“I need to tell them,” I said, stepping past Charlie toward the door.

Charlie got in front of me.

“No,” he whispered fiercely in my ear. “You don’t. You’re a victim here, too. Did you ask that son of a bitch Fournier to be a monster to you? You came down and actually risked your life to help Justin, and that’s exactly what you’ve done. But you can’t do everything. None of us can. We’ve done everything possible. We’ve petitioned the courts and petitioned the governor. It’s out of our hands now and in theirs.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I just went toe-to-toe with your ex-hubby. Do you really want to mess with me? Let’s head over to the jail.”

THE WITNESS ROOM for the execution chamber looked like a community theater that Friday night. There were two rows of cheap red chairs, black walls, a black curtain. But beyond the curtain, instead of a lit stage, was the brightly lit window of the death chamber.

Placed directly in the center of it, like some kind of malevolent modern art piece, was an empty gurney. It was fitted with thick leather ankle and wrist straps, a cross awaiting the crucifixion. The digital clock on the wall behind it showed 10:27 p.m.

At around nine, the warden, Tom Mitchner, had come in and given a short explanation about what would happen. At five to midnight, Justin would be brought in and strapped to the gurney. A witnessing doctor would oversee the proceeding as two intravenous tubes were extended and placed into Justin’s left and right arms. At the stroke of midnight three drugs would enter Justin’s bloodstream in succession: sodium thiopental to render him unconscious; pancuronium bromide, a muscle relaxant to stop his breathing; and potassium chloride to stop his heart.

A reporter from the Miami Herald and one from the Associated Press spoke softly at the back of the room. Tara Foster’s mother, as well as the rest of her extended family, had declined to come. Fabiana sat in the front row, talking and holding hands with Justin’s mother.

My hand was cinched onto Charlie’s.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said to him, my eyes on the gurney. “It’s too much. Way too much. Why haven’t they stopped this? What are they waiting for? These bastards are still going to go through with it, Charlie. How is that possible? How can they?”

“Have faith,” was all Charlie would say, seemingly more to himself than to me.

Eleven came. Then eleven thirty.

“What’s up, Charlie?” I said.

“Have—”

“Faith?” I said. “I don’t know if I can.”

It was eleven fifty when the door opened, and a pale, heavy man in a gray suit appeared. It was Warden Mitchner.

I stared at him breathlessly, waiting to hear that it was over.

“It’s time now,” the tired-looking official said somberly. “They’re bringing in Mr. Harris.”

I had trouble focusing as they did just that. Justin stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, eyes steady and forward like the dress parade soldier that he once had been. He was flanked by two guards, as well as a white-jacketed orderly and a gaunt middle-aged woman in a navy pantsuit who I assumed was the doctor. Justin didn’t even flinch as his mother stood and put her hand on the glass. He just walked obediently over to the gurney and sat, spreading out his arms as he stared up intently, like a magician about to perform a particularly difficult trick.

In the silence, the orderly’s footfalls sounded, like the slow raps of a snare drum, as he stepped across the death chamber. When he stepped back a minute later, the IVs were in Justin’s arms.

The clock on the wall kept right on going. When it clicked forward to eleven fifty-nine, one of the reporters cupped a hand over his mouth like he was about to throw up. Tilted back in the gurney, Justin kept his eyes pinned to a point directly above the glass viewing window.

The room was still. Then the clock flashed.

It was twelve.

The injections started. A yellowish liquid suddenly appeared in the IV tubing and started to flow toward Justin’s forearms. All I could do was follow its path.

There was a collective intake of breath as the liquid entered Justin’s bloodstream and he closed his eyes.

“No,” I whispered.

Then my vision swam, and I doubled over.

I WAS STILL DOUBLED OVER, in the midst of nearly passing out, when a deafeningly loud buzzer sounded in the execution chamber.

The orderly inside ran behind the partition as the witnessing doctor raced toward Justin. A thin stream of yellow liquid and blood splattered onto the floor as the doctor tore the IVs free. The orderly returned and motioned to the guards. After a moment, Justin was quickly rolled out of the room on the gurney with the guards and the doctor in tow.

“What the hell?!” Charlie said, running up and hammering on the glass.

The door to the viewing room flew open thirty seconds later.

It was Warden Mitchner.

“It’s OK,” he said, wheezing. The tall, flabby man was sweating, red-faced. “The first drug was just the painkiller. They didn’t drop the second plunger. Justin received only the painkiller. He’s going to be OK.”

Both reporters jumped up and began yelling at the same time.

“This isn’t happening,” Charlie said beside me. “This state runs executions about as well as its elections.”

“Please. We’ll have order here now. I just received this from Governor Scott Stroud,” the warden said, lifting a sheet of paper.

“ ‘Today I have decided to stay the execution of Justin Harris, an inmate on Florida’s death row for six months,’ ” Mitchner read. “ ‘I have done this to allow the district attorney and investigators involved in this case to gather and properly analyze any and all new information that has come to the attention of the clemency board. After a careful and close review, and conferring with the state attorney general and the parole board, I am not satisfied that it is proper that the execution should proceed until such new information is disseminated and reviewed.’ ”