David Dow - The Autobiography of an Execution

Even if there wasn’t a gun?

If there wasn’t a gun, it would be just a very little thought, she said.

I said, If Wyatt had found a gun next to the body he’s not the kind of cop who would neglect to put that in his report, is he?

No, he isn’t.

You sure?

She paused and said, Yeah, I am.

I said, I detected a pause before that answer.

She smiled. Then she said, I told you, he’s not corrupt. If it was my time, I wouldn’t waste it chasing that rabbit. But it isn’t my time, is it? And if I know you, you’re going to do what you’re going to do. She wiped her mouth and stood up to go. Thanks for lunch, Doc. Let’s do it again when I can bring more clarity to your life.

LINCOLN CALLED ME as I was driving back to the office. He had learned to ride his bike without training wheels two weeks earlier, and ever since all he wanted to do was practice. He would wake up with me at five and wait for it to get light, then ride up and down the driveway in his pajamas until it was time for breakfast. He asked whether I could come home for a while to help him practice. I told him to practice with Nana. He said, But she runs too slow. She won’t be able to help catch me if I fall. I told him that he would have to work it out. He said, You told me this morning you would practice with me at lunch. He was correct. I had forgotten. I said that something had come up at my office, and that I would have to do it tomorrow. He said, Okay, Dada. He waited for me to break the connection.

Why is it that when my six-year-old son says, Okay, Dada , I feel like my entire life is a waste of time?

JEROME AND BUD LOMAX were waiting for me when I got back to the office. Jerome looked at me over Bud’s shoulder and rolled his eyes.

Bud Lomax was Henry Quaker’s brother-in-law, Dorris’s younger brother. Bud had been seventeen when Dorris and the children were killed. At Henry’s trial, Lomax had testified that Dorris told him that Henry was abusive. I could not conceive of how a jury could have believed him. His eyes flitted like a bird eyeing a cat. He was a loser, and I could not imagine how anyone could believe that Dorris told him a meaningful thing. He said that Dorris was scared of Henry and once told him that Henry had threatened to kill her. Henry’s lawyer did not ask him a single question on cross-examination. Three months ago he called our office, talked to Jerome, and said he needed to see us. He told Jerome that he had lied at the trial.

Jerome drove out to Bud’s apartment. Bud told Jerome that the day after the bodies were found, a detective had come to see him and said that Henry committed the crime. He said it would help if Bud could remember fights he had witnessed between Henry and Dorris. Bud said he couldn’t remember any fights. He said Henry and Dorris loved each other. The detective told him it sure would be a shame if Henry got away with murdering his sister just because Bud had a bad memory. The detective came to see Bud four or five times. Eventually, his memory improved.

In the scheme of things, neither Bud’s original testimony nor his recantation was of great importance. Motive is overrated as an element of criminal trials. People kill for good reasons, bad reasons, and no reason at all. But in this case, the evidence against Henry was so slim that anything helped.

Bud had served twenty months in prison for drug possession. He was twenty-seven, no longer a kid, when he called Jerome. That day in my office he smelled like he’d bathed in peppermint schnapps. I said, Happy hour started a little early today, huh, partner? He looked at me blankly. Jerome asked him to tell us again what had happened after the murder. He repeated the same story Jerome had already heard. I asked him, Where were these conversations? He said at his house. I said, Inside or outside? He said he couldn’t remember. I asked him whether the detective might have found drugs inside the house. He stared at me like I had horns, with equal parts fear and disbelief. I said, How early in the morning do I need to schedule a meeting with you if I want to see you sober? He ran his thumb across his bottom lip. I told Jerome to take him home.

Later that day Jerome said, Just because the cop found drugs doesn’t mean that Bud would lie, and even if we could prove he did, just because Bud lied doesn’t mean Henry didn’t do it.

That’s true, I said. I asked Jerome whether Bud had any kids. He said, Four. Three sons, one daughter, three different mothers.

I said, Fatherhood can have unpredictable effects. I’ll see you tomorrow.

IDROVE HOME to pick up Lincoln for t-ball practice. He was waiting for me, throwing a tennis ball against the garage and catching the rebound. He seemed to have forgotten about the shitty dad episode, another great thing about six-year-olds. He said, Look, Dada. Nana helped me fix my injury. He had skinned his knee falling off the bike, Maria explained, and he had insisted he needed Neosporin and an Ace bandage. He had his leg wrapped, from ankle to thigh, with an elastic bandage. I thanked Maria and told her she could go. She said to Lincoln, Adios, amor.

He hugged her and said, Hasta mañana, Nana.

Katya had wanted Lincoln to play baseball because his three best friends from school were going to. When Lincoln said he wasn’t interested, I smiled. I’ve had enough of Little League Baseball for one lifetime. He said, I want to learn how to wrestle instead, like Dada. I thought that was a great idea. Katya gave me her be-quiet-a-minute look and asked him, Won’t you be sad if all your friends are playing and you aren’t?

Lincoln said, Maybe. He thought for a moment then said, Okay, I’ll play if Dada will be coach. Katya gave me her gotcha look. Thus it was that I became a Little League manager, outmaneuvered by the two of them for neither the first nor the last time.

The parents in our neighborhood take Little League more than a little too seriously. They sign a contract agreeing not to abuse the umpires. Some start with the abuse anyway, and they get banned from attending the games. One banned parent sued the league, claiming he had a right to free speech, which meant he could heckle any umpire he wanted. The league hired professional coaches to train the kids. At our first practice, the professional coaches had the kids line up and told them to run to a spot on the field. Most of the kids were five; a few were six. The coach said, When you get there, break down, box-step, and throw. Eleven kids looked at me. Lincoln said, Dada, what does that mean? I told him I wasn’t sure. He picked up a stick and started to draw a picture in the dirt.

The coaches were teaching the kids how to run past first base. I was still thinking about Bud Lomax. Lincoln said, Dada, I’m hot. I told him I was hot, too; just pay attention to the coaches. Sam was running to first base and crashed into Connor, who had wandered into the base path. Connor started shrieking when he saw his nose was bleeding. I wrapped some ice in a towel and pressed it against his nose. Lincoln came trotting over. I told him to go back to the other kids, that I was busy.

He said, But I’m too hot.

That’s it, amigo. I’m tired of your arguing with me. We’re not having a snow cone after practice.

This was a severe punishment. Snow cones are one of his favorite things to eat, and he had been talking since breakfast the day before about the flavor he was going to get. On the way to the car Lincoln pleaded with me to change my mind. When I didn’t, he cried all the way home. We walked in the house and Katya asked what was the matter. I said, Sometimes I am easily the world’s worst dad.