In the silence, the orderly’s footfalls sounded, like the slow raps of a snare drum, as he stepped across the death chamber. When he stepped back a minute later, the IVs were in Justin’s arms.
The clock on the wall kept right on going. When it clicked forward to eleven fifty-nine, one of the reporters cupped a hand over his mouth like he was about to throw up. Tilted back in the gurney, Justin kept his eyes pinned to a point directly above the glass viewing window.
The room was still. Then the clock flashed.
It was twelve.
The injections started. A yellowish liquid suddenly appeared in the IV tubing and started to flow toward Justin’s forearms. All I could do was follow its path.
There was a collective intake of breath as the liquid entered Justin’s bloodstream and he closed his eyes.
“No,” I whispered.
Then my vision swam, and I doubled over.
Chapter 100
I WAS STILL DOUBLED OVER, in the midst of nearly passing out, when a deafeningly loud buzzer sounded in the execution chamber.
The orderly inside ran behind the partition as the witnessing doctor raced toward Justin. A thin stream of yellow liquid and blood splattered onto the floor as the doctor tore the IVs free. The orderly returned and motioned to the guards. After a moment, Justin was quickly rolled out of the room on the gurney with the guards and the doctor in tow.
“What the hell?!” Charlie said, running up and hammering on the glass.
The door to the viewing room flew open thirty seconds later.
It was Warden Mitchner.
“It’s OK,” he said, wheezing. The tall, flabby man was sweating, red-faced. “The first drug was just the painkiller. They didn’t drop the second plunger. Justin received only the painkiller. He’s going to be OK.”
Both reporters jumped up and began yelling at the same time.
“This isn’t happening,” Charlie said beside me. “This state runs executions about as well as its elections.”
“Please. We’ll have order here now. I just received this from Governor Scott Stroud,” the warden said, lifting a sheet of paper.
“ ‘Today I have decided to stay the execution of Justin Harris, an inmate on Florida’s death row for six months,’ ” Mitchner read. “ ‘I have done this to allow the district attorney and investigators involved in this case to gather and properly analyze any and all new information that has come to the attention of the clemency board. After a careful and close review, and conferring with the state attorney general and the parole board, I am not satisfied that it is proper that the execution should proceed until such new information is disseminated and reviewed.’ ”
The warden let out a breath. “That’s it,” he said.
Charlie sat heavily in one of the folding chairs. His head dropped down between his knees.
“Just tell me how Justin’s OK again,” he said, looking up at the warden.
“The doctor on call says his pulse is fine. He just needs to sleep it off. They’re bringing him to the infirmary.”
Charlie let out a breath, then sat up, wiping at the tears in his eyes. I came over and hugged him.
“Then we did it?” he whispered as if he could hardly believe it. “We actually did it?”
After a minute, we joined Fabiana and Justin’s mother in a standing embrace as the reporters spoke excitedly into their cell phones.
“See, I knew you would help Justin, Miss Bloom,” Mrs. Harris said to me as she kissed my hand, then my cheek. “I never doubted it for a second.”
“Me, too, Miss Bloom,” Charlie said winking from over her shoulder. “I knew you could pull it off.”
Book Five. THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE. OR WILL IT?
Chapter 101
A VIOLET-TINGED SHADOW rose up the cabin wall of the small American Eagle jet like a tide as we made the final descent for Key West the next afternoon. Beside me, Charlie started to snore as the landing gear hummed down beneath our feet.
Now that Justin had been given a stay, I wanted nothing more than to be landing in New York. But after we visited a groggy Justin in the infirmary that morning, Charlie had called his law school buddy FBI Special Agent Robert Holden and told him about Peter.
Holden was already waiting for me at Charlie’s house to formally interview me and open Peter’s case. Getting back to my life, unfortunately, would have to wait.
I unburdened my troubled soul in Charlie’s office for a second time.
Agent Holden, a tall, black, former college basketball player, sat across from me taking extensive notes on a yellow legal tablet as I told him about Peter’s first wife, Elena’s shooting, my faked death.
When I was done, Holden looked at me, poker-faced, expressionless. Whether he thought I was crazy or heroic or a liar, there was no way to tell. He capped his red Mont Blanc pen and tucked it into the inside pocket of his charcoal suit coat.
“Would you be willing to repeat what you just told me in open court?”
I thought about that. What would happen when my bizarre story of faking my death and changing my identity came out? It would probably mean my job, some of my friends. I decided that losing it all was worth getting my life back, becoming whole again.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “So what do you think? Is there a case against Peter after all these years?”
“We’ll have to see,” Holden said. “There’s no statute of limitations for murder. The most interesting angle from where I’m sitting is Peter’s corruption as the chief of police. We can start by going after him for Hobbs Act public official violations and see where that leads us. I’m definitely satisfied enough to open an investigation on him forthwith. Because of the threat to you, after I leave here, I’m going to recommend to my boss that he send a team down and that we place Fournier under immediate surveillance. When will you be heading back to New York?”
“Tomorrow,” Charlie said, coming into the office, clinking a couple of Coronas together. “We still have some serious celebrating to do.”
“Well, take it easy and keep an eye on her until she gets on that plane, Charlie,” Holden said. “I’ll keep you guys updated.”
As the FBI agent stood, I wondered yet again if I should bring up that one pesky little detail concerning Ramón Peña. Try to get ahead of it before it undoubtedly came out.
Yet I kept my mouth shut as Holden went out the front door.
“To you,” Charlie said, handing me a beer. “I’m proud of you. You’ve been holding that in for seventeen years. That took guts.”
Guts, lack of scruples. Whatev, as Emma liked to say.
I threw the lime wedge garnish into the office wastepaper basket and took a long hit off the beer. It was crisp, delicious, as cold as an ice cream headache, and after another hit it was empty.
“My plane leaves in twelve hours,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “We don’t have time to fruit the beer, Baylor.”
Chapter 102
IT WAS SIX O’CLOCK when we arrived in Mallory Square for the sunset celebration. The kooky Key West sunset party hadn’t changed a bit. It was the same uplifting reggae music I remembered, the same happy dancing fools splashing beer all over themselves and one another, the same seductive champagne-colored light.
The original plan had been just to chill back at Charlie’s house, but about an hour before, Agent Holden had called. He’d said that they’d put Peter under surveillance and that they had tailed him up to a boat show in Key Largo, where he’d checked into a hotel with his wife and two kids. Which meant that Key West was ours at least for the night.