David Baldacci - The Last Mile

See you, Sue, you fine woman. Adios, Johnny. Godspeed, Ben. Take care, Reed.

He stood and put his back against the wall, maybe to stiffen his spine.

Like going to sleep, man. You just ain’t waking up is all. Like going to sleep.

The door to his cell opened and the men were revealed standing there. Three suits and four uniforms. The suits looked terrified, the uniforms ticked off.

Mars noted this, and also that there was no man of the cloth holding his Bible.

Something was definitely off.

The man with slender glasses and a build to match stepped gingerly into the cell as though he expected the door to close, trapping him inside forever.

Mars could seriously relate to the feeling.

The other suits’ expressions were now wary, like they knew there was a bomb in here somewhere but they had no idea when it might go off.

Skinny Glasses cleared his throat. He looked at the floor, the wall, the ceiling, the one light high up on the ceiling, everywhere except at Mars. It was as though the big, sweaty biracial dude five feet from him was invisible.

He cleared his throat again. To Mars it sounded like all the muck jostling around in the world’s largest sewer.

Staring at the floor now, Skinny Glasses said, “There’s been an unexpected development in your case. Your execution has been called off.”

Mars, Melvin didn’t say anything back.

He was still dressed in his white jumpsuit with the warning on the back, but something else was missing. He had been taken from his cell to this room without having to don the chains, a first since his time in prison. Although a half dozen guards lined the wall just in case he became unruly.

Four men sat across from him. He didn’t know any of them. They were all white, all dressed in baggy suits. The youngest was about his age. They looked like they would rather be anyplace else on earth.

They stared across at Mars. And he just as resolutely stared back at them.

He wasn’t going to say anything. They had brought him to the party. They were going to have to start the music.

The man in the center of the table rustled some papers set in front of him. “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on, Mr. Mars.”

Mars inclined his head slightly but still didn’t say anything. He hadn’t heard a white guy call him “mister” since... hell, he couldn’t remember a white guy ever calling him that. At the NFL combine they’d just called him “Holy Shit.” In prison they called him whatever they wanted to.

The man continued. “The fact is that someone else has confessed to committing the murders that you were convicted of.”

Mars blinked a few times and sat up straighter. He put his huge hands that had made soft targets for many a quarterback on the table.

“Who?” His voice felt strangely unfamiliar, as though someone else was speaking on his behalf.

The man glanced down the table at one of his colleagues, who was older and looked more in control than the rest. This man nodded at the younger gent.

The first man said, “His name is Charles Montgomery.”

“Where is he?”

“In a state prison in Alabama. He’s actually also awaiting execution. For unrelated crimes.”

“Do you believe he did it?” asked Mars.

“We’re investigating.”

“What does he know?” asked Mars. “About the murders?”

The man again looked at the older man. This time the fellow seemed indecisive.

Mars sensed this and swiveled his gaze to him. “Why else would you have stopped my execution? Because some con in ’Bama said he did it? I don’t think so. He had to know something. That only the real killer would have.”

The older man nodded and seemed to view Mars in a new and more favorable light. He said, “He did. Certain things that only the murderer would have known, you’re exactly right on that point.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” said Mars, taking a deep breath. Despite his words, he couldn’t seem to process what they were telling him.

“Do you know Mr. Montgomery?” asked the first man.

Mars turned his attention back to him. “Never heard of him until you said his name. Why?”

“Just trying to verify certain facts.”

Mars nodded again. He knew exactly what “fact” the guy was getting at. Had Mars hired Montgomery to kill his parents?

“I don’t know him,” he said flatly. He looked around the room. “So now what?”

“You will remain in prison until certain things can be... verified.”

“And what if you can’t verify them?”

The older man said, “You have been duly convicted of murder, Mr. Mars. That conviction was upheld over many appeals over many years. You were scheduled to be executed tonight. All that cannot be overturned in a few hours. The process has to be given a chance to work.”

“So how long before the process works its magic?”

The man shook his head. “I can’t give you a reliable timetable now. I wish I could, but it would be impossible. I can tell you that we have folks on the way to Alabama to interview Mr. Montgomery more thoroughly. And on this end the Texas authorities have reopened the investigation. We are doing all we can to see that justice is done, I can assure you.”

“Well, if he said he killed my parents and I’m still in prison waiting to die, I’d say that justice isn’t being done.”

“You have to be patient, Mr. Mars.”

“Well, I’ve been patient for twenty years.”

“Then a bit more time will not inconvenience you any.”

“Does my attorney know?”

“She has been informed and is on her way here as we speak.”

“She should be part of this investigation.”

“And she will be. We want full and complete transparency here. Nothing less. Again, our goal is the truth.”

“I’m nearly forty-two. What about all these years of my life gone? Who’s gonna pay for that?”

The man’s face turned to granite and his tone became more officious. “We need to deal with one thing at a time in a professional manner. That is how it has to be.”

Mars looked away, blinking rapidly. He doubted that if these guys were in his shoes they would be so calm and professional about it. They’d be screaming bloody murder, threatening to sue everyone even remotely involved in all this. But he was just supposed to deal with one thing at a time. Be patient. It shouldn’t be an inconvenience.

The hell with you!

He wanted to go back to his cell, the only place he really felt safe. He rose.

The men looked surprised.

Mars said, “Let me know when you get this all figured out, okay? You know where to find me.”

“We actually had some more questions for you, Mr. Mars,” said the first man.

“You can send them through my attorney,” he said. “I’m done talking. Figure the ball’s in your court. You know everything about me and the case against me. What you need to do now is do the same on this Montgomery dude. If he did kill my parents, then I want out of here. Sooner the better.”

The guards took him back to his cell. Later that morning he was transported via prison van back to death row at the Polunsky Unit.

As he was being escorted to his old cell one of the guards whispered to him, “You think you gettin’ outta here, boy? I don’t think so. Don’t care what them suits say. You a killer, Jumbo. And you goin’ to die for your crimes.”

Mars kept walking. He didn’t even turn his head to look at the man, a reedy-looking punk with a huge Adam’s apple. He was always the one to give Mars a hard jab in the back with his baton for no reason at all. Or spit in his face when no one was looking. Yet if Mars took a swing at him he’d be rotting in here forever, regardless of what happened with this Montgomery guy in Alabama.