Ainslie wondered how much thought, if any, the demonstrators gave to the silent: a murderer's victims.
Driving past the parking lot, Ainslie and Jorge neared the main gate, a two-lane entranceway with uniformed figures standing guard. Normally at this point all arrivals were asked for identification documents and questioned about their business at the prison. Instead, uniformed guards in distinctive kelly green pants and white shirts waved both police cars through. At the same time a tower searchlight encompassed the two cars and tracked them toward the prison buildings. Ainslie and Jorge put up hands to shield their eyes.
They were similarly cleared through two other checkpoints and, within seconds, were approaching the Administration building. Ainslie had visited the prison several times before, usually to interview crime suspects, and once to arrest an inmate on new charges, but never had he reached the interior so quickly.
The Highway Patrol car stopped at the Administration entrance, and Jorge maneuvered the Miami blue-and-white alongside.
As Ainslie stepped out, he saw a tall, slender black man, wearing a prison guard's uniform with a lieutenant's rank badges, move forward. Probably in his mid-forties, he had a trim mustache and wore half-glasses over penetrating eyes. On one cheek was a long scar. His speech was brisk and confident as he put out his hand. "Sergeant Ainslie, I'm Hambrick."
"Good morning, Lieutenant. Thanks for the arrangements."
"No problem; let's just keep moving." The lieutenant led the way inside, walking quickly down a brightly lit hallway a tightly controlled linkage between the strict security outside and the formidable cellblocks ahead. The two paused briefly for clearance through two separate sets of electrically operated steel gates, then a thick steel door opening to a main cellblock corridor, as wide as a fourlane highway and running the length of the prison's seven cellblocks.
Hambrick and Ainslie stopped outside a secure control room enclosed by steel and bulletproof glass. Inside were two male guards and a female lieutenant. The lieutenant approached the two men standing outside and slid a metal drawer outward; Ainslie inserted his Glock 9mm automatic pistol, a fifteen-round ammunition clip, and his police ID. The items were drawn inside the control room, where they would be placed in a safe until retrieved. No one had asked him about the recording device under his coat, which he had strapped on in the car. He decided not to volunteer the information.
"Let's move it," Hambrick said, but at the same moment a group of about twenty people emerged from the hallway behind and blocked their way. The newcomers were well-dressed visitors; all appeared intent and serious as prison guards hustled them through the corridor. Glancing at Ainslie, Hambrick mouthed the word "Witnesses."
Ainslie realized the group was headed for the execution chamber "twelve respectable citizens" as required by law, plus others whose presence the prison governor had approved, though there were always more applicants for execution viewing than available seats. The limit was twenty-four. The witnesses would have been assembled not far away and brought to the prison by bus. It was a sign that events were moving on schedule as 7:00 A.M. approached.
Scanning the group of faces, Ainslie recognized a woman state senator and two men who were members of the state House of Representatives. Politicians were competitive about attending executions, hoping their presence at such weighty law-and-order scenes would garner votes. Then he was startled to see one face: Miami City Commissioner Cynthia Ernst, who had once been important in his life, but he realized why she would want to watch Animal Doil's execution.
For a moment their eyes met, and Ainslie felt a sharp intake of breath, the effect she invariably had on him. He sensed, too, that she was aware of his presence, though made no acknowledgment and, as she moved by, her expression remained cool.
Moments later the witnesses were gone and Lieutenant Hambrick and Ainslie moved on.
"The superintendent is letting you use his Death Facility of lice to talk with Doil," Hambrick said. "We'll bring him to you there. He's already been through preparation." The lieutenant glanced at his watch. "You'll have about half an hour, not much more. By the way, have you ever watched an execution?"
"Yes, once." It had been three years ago. At the request of a bereaved family, Ainslie had accompanied a young husband and wife who chose to witness the death of a habitual criminal who had raped, then killed their eightyear-old daughter. Ainslie, who had solved the case, had gone as a duty, but had found the experience unsettling.
"You're going to see another," Hambrick said. "Doil asked for you to be a witness, and it's been approved."
"No one asked me,'' Ainslie rejoined. "But I suppose that's not relevant."
Hambrick shrugged, then said, "I've talked to Doil. He seems to have some special feeling about you. I'm not sure admiration is right; respect maybe. Did you get close to him in some way?"
"Never!" Ainslie was emphatic. "I arrested the son of a bitch for murder, and that's all. Besides, he hates me. At his trial he attacked me, called me 'perjurer,' 'crooked cop,' stuff like that."
"Nuts like Doil change moods like you and I shift gears. He doesn't feel that way now."
"Makes no difference. I'm only here to get some answers before he dies. Apart from that, my feelings for the guy are zero."
They continued walking while Hambrick digested what had been said. Then he asked, "Is it true you were once a priest?"
"Yes. Did Doil tell you?"
Hambrick nodded. "As far as he's concerned, you still are. I was there last night when he asked for you to come. He was spouting something from the Bible; about vengeance and repaying."
Ainslie nodded. "Yeah, it's from Romans: 'Give place unto wrath; for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' "
"That's it. Then Doil called you 'God's avenging angel,' and the message I got was that you meant more to him than a priest. Did the Father tell you all that when he phoned?"
Ainslie shook his head; already depressed by these surroundings, he wished he were at home, having breakfast with Karen and Jason. Well, at least what he had just learned explained Ray Uxbridge's antagonism on the phone and the priest's tirade about a "blasphemous charade."
They had reached the Death Facility, or "Death House," as it was usually called. It occupied all three floors of a cellblock building and contained Death Row, where condemned prisoners lived while exercising their appeal rights and later awaited their turn for execution. Ainslie knew of the other areas an ultra-Spartan "ready cell" where a prisoner spent the final sixty-five hours of life continuously under observation; a preparation room, its centerpiece a decrepit barber chair where a condemned's head and right leg were shaved before execution in order to provide good electrical contacts; and finally the execution chamber containing the electric chair "01' Sparky," as prisoners called it where there were seats for witnesses and, shielded from view, the executioner's booth.
Within the execution chamber, Ainslie knew, preparations would have been going on for the past several hours. The chief electrician would have been first on the scene, to connect the electric chair with the power source and to check voltages, a fail-safe bar, and the ultimate control with which the black-robed, hooded executioner sent two thousand volts into a condemned prisoner's skull in automatic eight-cycle bursts. The massive electric charge brought death within two minutes, though unconsciousness was supposedly instant and painless. There were doubts about the painlessness, but they were unresolvable because no one ever survived to report on the experience.
Also inside the execution chamber, within sight of the electric chair, was a red telephone. Immediately before an execution, the prison warden spoke with the state governor on that phone, seeking final permission to proceed. Similarly, the governor could call the warden, even seconds before the death control was thrown, ordering a stay of execution, perhaps on the basis of last-minute evidence, a ruling from the U.S. Supreme Court, or some other judicial cause. It had happened, and could even happen today.