The Row Page 4

  Daddy is here to play their games and guess at their questions. All in the vain hope that the correct answer might convince them of the innocence he has argued for almost twelve years. That he might someday earn his freedom.

  I’m starting to believe that kind of freedom doesn’t exist—not for us. This holding pattern of a life may be all we ever know.

  Mr. Masters and Stacia stop beside us on their way up to the front. Stacia used to be Daddy’s assistant. Daddy probably doesn’t need legal help as much as the other Polunsky inmates, being an excellent lawyer himself. But they’re the only other people in the world who believe Daddy is innocent besides our family, and we’ll take any help and positivity we can get.

  Daddy says Mr. Masters has watched out for us over the years in ways that he couldn’t. All I need to know is that I can trust him, and I don’t trust anyone else but my parents. He is the exception, the one person I can go to anytime, anywhere, with anything, and he won’t judge or question me. That makes him family in my mind—and God knows I don’t have enough of that.

  “How are you two holding up?” Mr. Masters crouches down in the aisle at the end of our row and studies us both with concern. Stacia stands beside him, her hands fluttering nervously as she straightens the edges of papers in the stack she’s holding.

  Mama nods, her face a mask of confidence. “We’re just fine. Thank you, Ben.”

  Masters searches my face and he seems to be checking to verify how much of what she’s saying is true. I give him a tiny shrug because I’m really not sure how we are. Maybe he should ask again after we get through this appeal hearing.

  “What do you think our chances are?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.

  He puts on the same confident expression as Mama and nods. “I think we have a chance, which is what matters most right now.”

  Stacia reaches one hand out to squeeze my shoulder. “We’re fighting our hardest for him. We won’t give up.”

  “And we’re very grateful for that.” Mama swallows hard, and then all of us look to the front as the door they’ll bring Daddy through opens.

  Mr. Masters reaches over and pats Mama’s hand before winking at me. Stacia gives me a nervous half smile before they both head to the front. I know they’re here to support Mama and me as much as Daddy, and I’m grateful. Theirs are the only friendly faces that have ever greeted our family in any courtroom.

  Daddy is escorted in and joins the rest of his legal team. He’s less than ten feet in front of me, but I can’t reach him, I can’t touch him. I release Mama’s hand and clench both of mine tight in my lap. I don’t know why seeing him in a courtroom still shakes me in this way. I should be used to it. This is the perfect example of how we’ve lived almost all my life. He’s right here in front of me, but still just out of reach.

  He’s told me a million times that he would be with us if he could. His wishes can’t overcome the steel and bars that have been placed between us by a broken system. My hopes can’t erase the words that were spoken in a different courtroom by Judge Reamers when I was only six years old.

  Those words crushed my world. They haunt my dreams at night. I’ve even looked up the recording online to see if I was remembering it wrong—I’ve watched it more than once. Even so many years later, the words race through my head unbidden every time I sit in any courtroom.

  This jury has found you, David Andrew Beckett, guilty of three counts of capital murder. In accordance with the laws of the state of Texas, this court hereby sets as your punishment: death. It is therefore the order of this court for you to be delivered by the sheriff of Harris County, Texas, to the director of the Polunsky Unit, where you shall be confined pending the carrying out of this sentence.

  “Riley?” Mama squeezes my hand hard, and I turn my eyes on her immediately.

  “Yes?” I study her face, wondering if she feels the same things I do as we sit here. My own mother is so difficult to read.

  She gives me a wavering smile. “If you don’t feel like you can be here, Daddy would underst—”

  “No.” I answer louder than I intend and then bite my tongue, actually drawing blood, but I force myself not to wince.

  Mama’s back stiffens, but I can’t back down, not about this. During Daddy’s trial, she deliberately kept me out of the courtroom whenever Mr. Masters didn’t believe my presence was necessary to help the case. Since then, I’d missed several of the appeals when I couldn’t convince Mama that Daddy would want me there. Only when I’d gotten my driver’s license had she started to relent and let me choose whether to come to hearings. Even now, though, she still tries to shield me from specific information about Daddy’s trial as much as possible. She refuses to understand that I’m not a six-year-old for her to protect anymore, but I will not let her send me away from his final appeal hearing. Not today.

  “Please. I need to be here,” I say.

  She relaxes and takes a deep breath before nodding and patting my knee.

  I know Mama is worried about how I’ll handle it if this appeal doesn’t go well. Daddy says that things look good this time, but he says that every time. At least with this appeal I don’t feel like I’m going into the hearing blindfolded. This time, Daddy told me about the juror who was convinced by a family member that she should vote guilty. It’s the most promising lead we’ve had in a while, but all the same, I’m afraid I’m being set up to fall. I can almost feel the ground beneath me starting to shake.

  Mama sits so straight, her chin held high, but I wish I could know what is in her mind. Her last visit to Polunsky was over three months ago, and lately I wonder if she’s lost hope after all this time. Maybe she’s trying to make it less painful for herself if today doesn’t turn out the way we want it to. Maybe that’s the smart approach, the safe approach.

  The bailiff orders us to rise as Judge Howard enters. I remove my sunglasses, sticking them in my purse. I want to be able to see everything that happens clearly. The judge’s black robes float about her and make her seem more like an omen of death than the symbol of justice she should be. When we sit, she almost looks bored as she shuffles through the papers in the stack before her. It infuriates me in a way that I know it shouldn’t, but she has too much power, and I have none. And I hate her for it.

  Finally, she stares over her bench at my father. “Mr. Beckett, I have gone through the evidence you’ve submitted to this court several times. And while I agree that a juror’s family members shouldn’t give advice to the juror on rendering a verdict, I do not believe that in this case the advice swayed her decision. That means your evidence isn’t sufficient to warrant the retrial you’ve requested, or even another stay of your sentence.”

  My breath catches in my chest as though an enormous weight has just crashed down on me. The room fills with the murmurs and rustling of the crowd watching Daddy’s show. On the other side of the aisle people are cheering. They smile and hug at the thought of my father being killed. The irony is both maddening and heartbreaking. Being accused of killing is what landed him here in the first place. What kind of system is this? What kind of justice repays the killing of innocent women by then killing an innocent man?

  The eye-for-an-eye mentality seems like it will always be alive and well here in Texas.

  I feel sick and wish everyone else would just leave. My heart thuds painfully inside me like it wants to escape. My head spins as I try not to let my inner turmoil show on my face. If Daddy turns to look at me, I refuse to let that be what he sees.

  Judge Howard pats at her curly gray hair before picking up one of the papers in front of her and frowning. “You’ve been convicted of the murders of three young women, Mr. Beckett. And they are particularly gruesome murders. Violent beatings followed by strangulation. Is that correct?”

  I hear Daddy’s voice hesitate. “I … I’ve maintained my innocence—”

  The judge frowns down from her bench at him and interrupts. “Just answer the question, please.”

  Daddy responds immedia
tely, but I can hear the slight edge he’s trying to bury deep in his voice. “Yes. The state has convicted me of that crime, Your Honor.”

  “Those crimes,” she corrects him, her gaze growing harder.

  “Those crimes,” he repeats back.

  She glances down at her papers again. “It says here that you’ve already requested your writ of certiorari?”

  My father clears his throat before answering, and my heart aches for him. “Yes, I have, Your Honor.”

  “And I’m sure that as a former lawyer, you understand how unlikely it is that the Supreme Court will agree to hear your case?” Judge Howard squints over the bench at Daddy for several seconds until he nods. Then she brings her arm and the paper down onto her bench with a boom that reflects the finality of her dismissal. “Mr. Beckett, you don’t have time left for me to mince words here. Assuming you aren’t one of the lucky few cases chosen, you’ve exhausted your final appeal, and your execution will be carried out as scheduled in four weeks. From what I can see here, you’ve definitely had your due process. I recommend that you and your loved ones prepare yourselves.”

  Daddy doesn’t move or flinch. I’m not even certain he is breathing. My eyes don’t seem to be able to blink as I stare at him, trying to absorb the way he looks today, right now, before everything changes.

  They’re going to kill him. They are going to kill my father. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. If this happened on the streets instead of in a courthouse, I could call the police. Here and now, I can do nothing but watch in horror. People around me shuffle to their feet, but my world shifts and spins and I think I might be falling until I realize I’m not the one who is moving.

  Mama falls off of our bench and crashes onto the ground in front of us. It takes me a full three seconds before I can react.

  “Mama!” In—and out; I remind myself to breathe as I check for her pulse. My entire world locks up, not willing to move forward until it knows that I will at least have one parent left.

  Then I feel the light but steady thrum of her heartbeat and a shuddering breath forces its way free from my lungs. Leaning in to hug her close, I hear her exhale quietly against my ear. Mr. Masters has come over to us. He says something I can’t make out, and his hands are on my shoulders, pulling me back gently.

  All I can hear is my own panicked muttering. “She’s still here. She’s okay. She’s okay.”

  Stacia is speaking behind me and I realize she’s calling for an ambulance.

  When I look down, I see blood on my shirt and realize Mama hit her head when she fell. I grab the only thing I have in my purse, a workout T-shirt, and hand it to Mr. Masters, who presses it against her head.

  Nothing here makes sense. Mama never shows weakness. She never fails and she never falls. This can’t be real. It can’t be happening right now. Not after what the judge just told us. If I squeeze my eyes tight enough, I might wake up from this nightmare.

  I have to wake up.

  I’m on the floor with my eyes shut tight. I’m clutching my unconscious mother’s hand when I hear Judge Howard dismiss the court. The guards begin taking Daddy away.

  “Wait! Wait! My wife fell. Is she okay? Amy!” His voice floats to me from far away and I open my eyes even as tears burn them. Tucking my head low so no one can see, I blink frantically until the traitorous drops fall away and then shove my dark sunglasses back onto my face.

  “She’ll be okay, Daddy,” I yell out, loud enough for him to hear me. “We’ve got her.”

  Newspaper reporters crowd around us and start taking pictures. I can’t hide myself from them. Stacia goes out to meet the paramedics. Mr. Masters keeps his head down and pretends the cameras aren’t there. I do the same, but now that Daddy is gone I’ve lost my strength. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the tears that pour down my cheeks.

  One of the bailiffs makes his way through the crowd and crouches next to me. He looks from me to Mama and asks, “Do you need medical assistance?”

  I shake my head hard and try to wipe the tears beneath my sunglasses away. “We already called for help.”

  His expression is tainted with disdain as he stands up, and I realize he thinks my mother is faking it. I look at the crowd around me, wishing the bailiff would at least make them go away, but he doesn’t, and I’m sure from the look on his face that he won’t.

  After all the things I’ve experienced in places of so-called justice in the last eleven years, I would be shocked if he did anything at all. The paramedics come in, and Mr. Masters tugs me back, forcing me to drop Mama’s hand as he pulls me into a tight hug, muttering against my head that everything is going to be okay.

  Mama is always so tough and strong. All of my worry has been so consumed by Daddy for my entire life that worrying about Mama feels strange. Wrong.

  The tears have stopped, or I can’t feel the heat from them anymore. For the first time ever, I wish this court was even more of a circus. Because then at least the lights would fade, the crowds would leave, and I could slink away into the darkness.

  6

  DR. BILLINGS FROWNS AS HE PACES slowly around Mama’s hospital bed. Mama sits completely forward with her legs crossed, like the pillow she’s supposed to be resting against might burn her. It’s a standoff of epic proportions. If we were in the Old West, I’d expect tumbleweeds to come blowing through, and they’d be drawing pistols at any moment.

  “I don’t think you’re hearing me.” The doctor speaks slowly. “Your blood pressure is very high, and your blood-test results indicate areas for concern that put you at a significantly increased risk for a heart attack. The medications we’ve prescribed will help with this, but everything we’ve seen suggests your stress level is far too high.”

  “I heard you just fine.” Mama crosses her arms to match her legs. “And I don’t need to be in the hospital, or resting, or running around picking up medications. I need to be at work.”

  Dr. Billings drags one hand through his hair and turns his eyes on me. “How many hours does your mom work per week?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Mama shushes me with a single stern glance.

  “I work a full-time job just like everybody else, and I’ll thank you to address your questions to me instead of my daughter.”

  “You collapsed. Your body can’t take the strain and pressure you’re subjecting it to. If you don’t change things, it could be much worse next time. You need to, at the very least, be on medication to manage this.”

  Mama’s cheeks flush, and from her reaction he might as well have told her she was weak and utterly useless to humanity. She opens her mouth to respond but I reach out and grab the doctor’s elbow before she has the chance.

  “I’ll take the prescription and pick it up.” I speak softly as I urge him toward the door. “Thank you.”

  The doctor’s steps are quicker than mine and it’s clear that not only is he relieved I let him off the hook, he’s happy to escape this hospital room as fast as humanly possible. I close the door behind me and lean against it.

  When I lift my eyes to Mama, I try to imitate the same reproachful look she’s given me a million times. “If you want me to take medicine the next time a doctor tells me I need it, you better at least do the same for me here.”

  For a moment, it looks like she’s ready to keep arguing, but then the fight drains out of her and she eases herself back against the pillow. The blood drains from her face, and she suddenly looks extremely frail and small.

  I pull a chair over next to her bed.

  “I really do need to get back to work,” she says softly.

  “I know, Mama.” Reaching out, I take her hand. Everything that happened in the courtroom seems to settle like invisible rubble around us. “But right now or twenty minutes from now won’t make much difference, will it?”

  Her eyes settle on mine and the utter despair I see in them squeezes my chest.

  “What are we going to do?” We both know what I’m referring to.

&n
bsp; She grasps my hand tight before answering. “We’ll do what we always do.”

  “Wait?” I sigh and lower my head onto her bed.

  “No, darling.” Mama releases my hand and runs her fingers through my dark hair. “We always survive.”

  Then she moves away. I lift my head to see her pulling her work slacks on under her hospital gown. Something about her getting up and ready for work right now when the doctor just told us she shouldn’t feels so wrong. Especially when Daddy just lost his last appeal. When I so desperately need her, and she’s leaving me like she always does, leaving me all alone.

  Everything about this moment ignites a slow-burning anger in the pit of my stomach.

  “What about Daddy?” I watch her as she freezes and then lifts her chin to look at me when I finish. “What if this is something he won’t survive?”

  Her expression flashes both shock and anguish before that ever-present resolute mask falls into place. “Well, Riley, I suppose you and I will survive that, too.”

  My stomach plummets to my feet at the absolute lack of hope in her words. Then she slips her pumps on, grabs her purse, and gives me a tight hug before she walks out the door. “I’ll be home late tonight.”

  The door closes behind her with the same echoing finality as the judge’s gavel.

  * * *

  Thanks to Judge Howard mentioning the gruesome nature of the killings at the hearing, my dreams that night are pelted by the few images and details I still remember from Daddy’s first trial.

  I stand in front of my house, and when I turn around, I see Mama’s body stretched out in the front yard. She looks just like one of the girls from the photos. At first, it looks like she’s sleeping. Her long, dark skirt reaches all the way down to her feet and she has black stockings on. Her blouse is done up, her arms folded over her stomach. Everything looks normal except for the angry purple bruise across her neck and her open eyes that stare up at me, vacant. Sobbing, I search frantically for a pulse, but there is none.