Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Nick's memories of his parents had faded long ago to gauzy images of faces kept familiar in photographs his grandmother hid in a box on a basement shelf. He felt guilty that he didn't remember his parents well enough to miss them, though he desperately missed having parents. His grandparents did the best they could for him, though they didn't have the energy to raise another child and he detected in their remoteness not only the pain of their loss, but their resentment at the burden they inherited, adding to his own guilt.

Nick hoped that Ryan Kowalczyk's execution would ease their burden and his, finding comfort in justice, no matter how long delayed. There would be no more appeals, no more last minute stays. This time Nick was certain that Kowalczyk would pay and it was only right that Nick should be there to witness his death. The world is round, his grandfather was fond of saying.

Nick had researched death by lethal injection. He knew that Kowalczyk would receive three drugs through the IV lines that would be inserted in his arms. The first drug would put Kowalczyk to sleep; the second would paralyze his diaphragm so that he couldn't breathe; the last drug would stop his heart. Death by lethal injection was supposed to be painless. Anything else would have been cruel and unusual punishment. Even so, Nick hoped for one thing. That in the moment when Kowalczyk's IVs were hooked up to the drug pump, in the instant the poison flooded his veins, in the last second of his life, Kowalczyk would scream.

Nick knew that Kowalczyk's death would not be the end of it. His mother's scream would continue to rupture his sleep. After tonight, there would be more work to do. Whitney King had gotten away with murder long enough.

Lou Mason didn't know what to do. He had said yes when Harry asked for a ride, listened to Harry's rendition of the case against Kowalczyk during the three-hour drive, and gotten out of the car in the prison parking lot, a driver, not a witness, with no interest in watching someone die.

Harry lumbered ahead, chin down, broad shoulders rounded. Mason hung back, taking in the prison grounds. The main entrance led into the administration building, an unremarkable three-story, brick structure that could easily have been home to some insurance company in Kansas City. Dated, durable, and modest, except for the twelve-foot steel fence topped by razor wire surrounding the grounds, guard towers looming in the corners of the campus, stadium lights showering everything in perpetual daylight, and clouds of moths fluttering in the glare like summer snow.

Behind the administration building, four rows of squat dormitory-style buildings cast long shadows in the artificial light. Each one housed a segment of the prison population, the building farthest away segregated for death row inmates.

Though some of Mason's clients were tenants in the first three buildings, he had kept his clients out of the last.

Slapping at a mosquito drawn to the sweat rising on his neck in the thick night heat, Mason followed Harry inside, glad for the air conditioning. Space was limited, group functions not the prison norm: a couple of chairs, a vinyl-covered sofa, soft light from floor lamps and a weak ceiling fixture, thin brown carpet bearing the brunt of state budget cuts, a picture of the governor on one paneled wall.

The witnesses clustered according to their backgrounds. Cops and prosecutors exchanged biting verbal jabs, Harry joining them as if he hadn't been retired for a couple of years. Reporters tried to one-up each other, the doctor and the woman from the governor's office shuffled their feet, anxious to be anywhere else. The warden, an older man near Harry's age who was losing the battle with his gut, was the only one wearing a suit, bouncing between the groups, a good host at a bad party. Mason hung near the front door, ready to make his exit.

Mason guessed that the tall, blond-headed kid staring out the window at the parking lot was the son of the murder victims. Harry said his name was Nick. He was raw boned, all angles and no meat, blue polo shirt hanging over bone-colored chinos. A long face stretched by the shadows under his eyes, too dark for a kid but just right for the memories Mason was certain the boy carried. He looked to be the right age and Mason couldn't think of any other reason for the kid to be there. No one talked to the kid-another clue.

On the other side of the room, a petite woman with gray streaks scattered through black hair sat alone in a chair, rubbing rosary beads through her fingers, her hands tight against her dark green dress. Must be Kowalczyk's mother, Mason decided. Harry hadn't mentioned her name. No one spoke to her either.

Mason couldn't imagine a worse fate for a mother than to watch her child die. Stepping into her shoes for a split second was enough to spin Mason's attention back to Nick. Mason realized both he and the kid had lost their parents when each was three years old. Mason's parents had died in a car accident. He felt a strange kinship with the kid, both members of an exclusive club, one without a waiting list to get in.

The warden stopped to talk to the mother. The woman rose, asking the warden something Mason couldn't hear. The warden was shaking his head, the mother smiling grimly, her smile laced with steel. The warden dwarfed the woman. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms up, his body language saying he'd like to but he couldn't. The mother stiffened, placing her hand on the warden's arm, rosary beads draped across his sleeve, repeating her request. The warden shrugged again, this time in surrender, leading the mother through a doorway and into the prison. Mason admired the woman's tenacity, wondering what they were arguing about.

Harry peeled away from the cop group. "I talked to Ortiz. He says he'll add you to the witness list, if you want to come," he told Mason.

"Count me out," Mason said. "I don't like the prosecutor doing me favors and that's not much of a favor."

"Suit yourself," Harry said, heading back.

"Hold on," Mason said. "That the kid?" he asked, nodding at the boy next to the window, Harry nodded back. "Nick, right?" Mason asked, moving toward the boy, drawn to the kid by their common loss.

"I'm Lou Mason," he said, sticking out his hand.

"Nick Byrnes," the kid replied, shaking Mason's hand, his grip dry and firm, letting go quickly and staring again at the parking lot.

"Sorry for your loss," Mason managed, feeling like an intruder, but not ready to walk away.

"It was a long time ago," Nick said, not looking at Mason, the practiced response dry as his handshake.

"It's never over though, is it? I mean not even after tonight," Mason said, realizing he was talking about himself, wondering why he was telling the kid things he only thought about when he visited his parents'graves. "My folks died when I was three," he explained. "Just like you. It makes you different from everyone else, no matter what happens the rest of your life."

Nick turned to Mason, his gloomy eyes lighting up, his face guarded by a flat expression. "How did they die?"

"Car accident."

"Right," Nick said, shaking his head.

"Am I missing something here?" Mason asked.

"Sorry," Nick said, shaking his head again. "I didn't mean anything by that. It's just that my grandparents fed me the same story until I found out the truth."

"You were just a kid. They were probably trying to protect you," Mason said.

"That's what they said. So, who was trying to protect you?" Nick asked, the question knocking Mason back.

Harry stood in the doorway to the hall, the warden next to him as the other witnesses paraded past. He interrupted, saving Mason from having to answer.

"Lou. You coming or not? Ortiz says it's your last chance."