William Bernhardt - Death Row

Ben had heard somewhere that wardens and corrections officers went out of their way to make the visiting room the garden spot of a prison-that extra cleaning details were assigned, extra chemicals were used-so that visitors wouldn’t come away with a negative impression. If that was true, Ben thought as he noted the dried bloodstains on the wall, the almost tangible haze, the smell of vomit and human waste in the air, then he never, never, ever wanted to be incarcerated in the state penitentiary.

“So,” Ray said, speaking into the telephone receiver, “should I get excited? Because I’m inclined here to get excited. But I won’t do it unless you say so.”

Ben suppressed a smile. He didn’t want to mislead or create any false hopes. “As I’ve told you all along, Ray, getting a jury verdict reversed is a tall order. Statistically almost impossible. But having the primary witness for the prosecution recant can only help us. Her testimony was what convinced the jury.”

“Hey, I testified, too. What was I, chopped liver?”

Ben didn’t pull any punches. “She was the one they believed.” He paused. “And none of it was true.”

“They made that girl lie,” Ray said. He clenched his fist so tightly his skin turned white. “Bastards.”

“I don’t think they made her lie. Not exactly. But she was young and easy to lead. And prosecutors like to win.”

“Don’t make excuses for your brethren, Ben. They’re scum and you know it.”

“Jack Bullock firmly believes that he had an obligation to-”

“I’ve been in this hole for seven years!” Ray rose out of his chair, eyes wide and angry. He gripped the table before him, his arms trembling with rage. “Seven years!”

“Ray! Cool it! We have more to talk about!”

Ray calmed himself, settling down before the guard on duty had to do it for him. He ran his hand through his thick curly hair. It was all gray now, unkempt and dirty. He was wearing the standard-issue uniform for maximum-security prisoners: green Levi’s and green work shirt. His eyes had deep black bags underneath and his skin seemed loose and translucent. Prison had not been kind to this once handsome man. Not that it ever was. “So have you recorded her statement? And made a thousand copies?”

“Not yet, but I will. She was too upset yesterday. She’s going to come back tomorrow and swear out an affidavit.”

“I just… can’t believe it. All these years. Because one fifteen-year-old was badgered into a lie.” Ben saw his fists tightening again. “Do you know what it’s like in here?”

“Not like you do.”

“These past seven years I’ve watched them systematically take away everything that gave me pleasure in life.” Ray fell back into his chair, eyes closed. “I used to love food. I mean not just to eat it. To try new things. Culinary adventures. I was a pretty decent cook, did you know that? I wasn’t just some garden-variety dull-as-hell chemist. I was a gourmet chef. I specialized in seafood.”

Ben nodded. “I remember. You had me over for dinner once.” You and Carrie, he thought, but did not say.

“I haven’t cooked in so long I can’t remember how it was done. The only food I get in here is low-bid high-fat slop. I haven’t had a glass of wine in seven years.” He looked down, seeming to focus on the countertop. “I used to love to entertain, to have friends over, eat well, have stimulating conversations, spend the evening playing Scrabble or some other board game. You know what the hot entertainment in here is? Racing cockroaches for cigarettes.”

“Not quite as stimulating?”

“No, but the happy thing is, we never run out of cockroaches. Not by a long shot. And Scrabble would never catch on here, because most of my fellow inmates can’t spell. Three-fourths of the guys in here are high-school dropouts. A lot of them never finished the fourth grade.”

Ben nodded silently. He knew it was true.

“Stimulating conversations? Forget it. Not going to happen. Most of the conversation revolves around women-although that isn’t the word they typically use-and how they got screwed by the courts.”

“Everyone is innocent, huh?”

“Actually, no. Most of the guys admit they did the crime. They just shift the blame to someone else, their girlfriend or mother or homeboys. Or lawyers. Almost everyone hates their lawyers.”

“It’s gratifying work. What about the guards?”

Ray raised a finger. “Be careful. They don’t like to be called guards. They are corrections officers. And damned particular about it.”

“Well, they do a lot more than just guard,” Ben offered. “It’s a fairly miserable, high-stress job, but the benefits are decent and there is the possibility of promotion. Better than some state jobs, anyway. Assuming you get out of here without being shanked.” Ben paused. “How do the cons treat you? You’re not exactly the typical inmate.”

“I’ve learned to survive. You have to. You learn to look out for number one, ’cause it’s sure as hell no one else will. Fortunately, the good time regs keep down a lot of the worst behavior. The cons know good time can cut their sentence by as much as half. So no one wants to get stuck with disciplinary action. The main problem is boredom. There’s nothing to do. We go through the same tedious routine day after day after day.” Ben watched as the light slowly faded from his eyes. “I had so many plans, Ben. So much I wanted to do. I was going to be a big name in industrial chemistry. I was going to get married, have a couple of kids. I was going to climb Kilimanjaro. And what did I get? Nothing. For seven years. Down the drain. Totally wasted. And I’ll never get them back.”

When his head rose again, Ben saw that his eyes were puddling. “I guess you know that Carrie left me.”

He did, but the news still cut like a knife.

“She was faithful to me. For so long. She waited and waited, through the entire initial appeal. Two years almost. But eventually…” He pushed his chair back and looked away. “I kept trying to tell myself she’d come back. I even deluded myself into thinking she’d show for my execution. But it’s all a fantasy. I haven’t seen her for years.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said quietly.

“I just-I don’t know how this happened to me.” Ray ran his fingers through twisted gray curls. “Do you know the story of the Wandering Jew?”

“Rings a vague bell.”

“Old Hebrew myth. It was actually originally cooked up to reconcile some New Testament prophecies that didn’t happen, or so the scholars say. The part where Jesus tells a group of people that some of them will still be alive when He returns, which He obviously hasn’t done yet. The story is that this one guy was punished for committing some horrendous sin-punished with immortality. Doomed to walk the earth forever and ever, never resting, never dying. Just going on, day after day, a wandering life with no meaning. That’s how I feel. My life continues, but it has no meaning. It’s just another twenty-four hours wasted.” He threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. “And I can’t figure out what the sin is I committed that I’m being punished for. What did I do?” he shouted. “What could I possibly have done to deserve this?”

“I’m so sorry,” Ben said again.

“Don’t be sorry. Just get me the hell out of here.”

“That won’t be easy. Even now. We’ve already exhausted our state remedies, and given all the new rules restricting death-row appeals, we won’t get another shot. We do still have a habeas proceeding in federal court. But very few habeas corpus petitions are granted.”

“But we’ve got a witness changing her story.”