William Bernhardt - Death Row

“And you remember it?”

“How could I forget?” Erin leaned forward, gripping the rail. “This is the man who slapped me across the face and said-I apologize for the language, but this is what he said-‘I’ll get to you later, you little cunt.’ This is the man who hit me, groped me, all the while calling me names and making disgusting remarks. ‘I’ve got something that’ll cool you off but good, you li’l bitch.’ That’s what he said. ‘I’ll hurt you till you scream for me to stop. But I won’t stop.’ That’s what he said when he pressed his knife against my throat. When he broke my kneecap.” She lowered her head. “You don’t forget something like that.”

Ben swore silently. He’d been planning to cross on her identification of a man who was wearing a ski mask the whole time she saw him. But this voice angle complicated matters-because it made her ID seem so much more credible.

“When did you have an opportunity to make a formal identification?” Bullock asked her.

“About a week after the incident. The police prepared a lineup. There were six different men. They had them all step forward and say the same thing-about how he was going to cool me off.”

“And were you able to make an identification?”

“I was. Almost immediately.” She folded her hands and sat up straight. For a young woman who had been through as much as she had, she was remarkably composed. “I thought it was him as soon as I saw him. But after I heard the voice, I was absolutely certain.” She raised her hand and pointed. “The man who killed my family is sitting right over there, at the defense table. Raymond Goldman.”

The stir in the courtroom was audible. Judge Kearns rapped his gavel several times to quiet the gallery.

“Are you certain about this?”

“Absolutely. Without a doubt.” She turned and looked directly at the jury. “Please listen to me. I know what I saw. And heard. I remember what happened. Much as I’d like to forget it, I will never be able to.” She paused. “Raymond Goldman was the killer. There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever.”

Ben rose slowly. “Your honor… I think she’s answered the question.”

Erin continued unabated. “I’ve lost my home, my family,” she said, and all at once her voice began to crack. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve lost everything I ever had. All I have left is my faith. My faith that you will do the right thing. That you will not let my family die unavenged.”

“I object,” Ben said, loud and forcefully. “This is grossly improper.”

“Sustained,” Kearns ruled. He pounded his gavel. “The witness will be silent and wait for a question.”

Erin ignored him. She rose to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “Please. Please!” She reached out toward the jury, pleading with them, begging them.

“Bailiff!” Judge Kearns gestured toward the witness stand. “Mr. Bullock, take control of your witness!” He slammed his gavel. “The jury will disregard the last remarks from the witness. And we will take a fifteen-minute break. At the end of that time, I expect the witness to be prepared to follow the instructions of the court.”

Kearns was doing his best to sound harsh, but Ben knew his heart wasn’t in it. How could anyone help but empathize with a girl who had lost every member of her family? As he looked at the jurors, as he stared into their eyes, he knew that they had been as moved-and influenced-by her testimony as he had been. As everyone had been.

Beside him, Ray sat silently, not saying anything, not asking the obvious question. And Ben was grateful for that. Because he still didn’t like to make predictions. But whether he did or he didn’t, he knew with absolute certainty that the trial had just taken a dramatic-and irrevocable-turn. And not for the better.

Present Day

The scene confronting Erin outside the penitentiary both startled and disturbed her. Who were all these people? There must be hundreds of them, she guessed, people from all walks of life. Some just children. What were they doing here?

A large group of teenagers passed her, carrying candles. Some were chanting softly. A high-powered searchlight burned down from the top of the penitentiary. This would be the perfect time for a jailbreak, Erin mused. The guards are all watching the teenagers.

She moved slowly toward the building. It was still hard walking, even after all these years, especially on unpaved surfaces. The cane helped some, but not that much. The letter jackets some of the kids were wearing told her they were from Bishop Kelly High School. It was a Tulsa private school, a Catholic school. She wasn’t surprised. The Catholic bishop had vociferously protested the death penalty, as had the Episcopal bishop and even some fundamentalists. An offense to humanity, they said. Legalized murder. Contrary to everything Jesus ever taught. DNA evidence has proved wrongful convictions occur, they argued. With every execution, the death penalty seemed to become more controversial, and this was the fifth execution in this state this year. Oklahoma was one of the top states in the union for executions. It was a political hot potato.

Erin didn’t care about politics. She didn’t care about religion, or morality, or What Jesus Would Do. She just wanted it to be over.

But did she want it to be over this way? She pressed her hand against her temples, trying to ease the pounding that had almost incapacitated her these past few days. That was the difficult question, the one that was tearing her apart.

Where was Sheila, anyway? Somehow, in this mass confusion, she had lost Sheila. Moving toward the north entrance, she saw another group of demonstrators, smaller and quieter than the anti-death-penalty crowd. A placard informed Erin that they were a homicide survivors group. Presumably that meant they were gung ho for the death penalty. So why were they here? Just to make a show of support? And what did they call themselves? she wondered. Friends of the Big Needle?

One of the demonstrators noticed her, looked once, then looked again, this time not turning away. Damn. Erin moved rapidly toward the door. She hoped she hadn’t been recognized. The last thing on earth she wanted was to be proselytized by some victims-rights group. What a coup she would be for them-a young woman who had lost eight family members. What airplay they could get out of that.

As she approached the visitors entrance, she sensed another person moving behind her in the darkness.

“Kind of revolting, isn’t it?”

Something about the voice gave her an eerie feeling. Which camp was this one with-the pro-deaths, or the anti-deaths?

“That all these people would turn out to be near an execution. To be a part of it.”

“I didn’t want to be here,” Erin said quietly.

“Really? Pardon my intrusion, but-I recognized you. And I would’ve thought you’d be the first in line.”

“I didn’t want to come at all. But my friend Sheila kept saying I should. That it would make me feel better. Give me a sense of closure.”

“And has it?”

“No. It’s made me feel-like I can’t live with myself any longer. Like I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“But how?”

“I’ve… done something horrible. Something-unforgivable.”

“You can’t blame yourself because a killer will be punished. You are only-”

But Erin never heard the rest of the sentence. She turned and headed across the front lawn, back toward her car. She couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t bear it.

Closure? That was a laugh. She would feel nothing but anguish and anger and… and guilt. Horrible, physically gut-wrenching guilt. After tonight, she didn’t know if she could live with herself any longer.