As he gazed at the photograph, he wished his father was here to see how things had turned out. He wished his father could see that he was on his own and doing okay. He was managing his debt, living in an apartment in the woods in Radnor on County Line Road-a large house built well over a hundred years ago that had been cut into apartments, couldn’t pass the zoning laws, but no one in the neighborhood talked about. His mother seemed to have come into her own as well. She and Quint had someone new to paint with. A new friend in Oscar Holmes. Often times when Teddy stopped by for a visit, he’d find them in the studio painting together. Holmes had married his neighbor and adopted her daughter. Although he was managing to make a small living from his art work, he remained psychologically damaged from his ordeals with Alan Andrews and Eddie Trisco. Even worse, people still pointed at him on the street at times and called him the Veggie Butcher. Teddy’s mother was perhaps the only person on earth who understood what he was going through, and his frequent visits to the house seemed to help both of them.
The curtain opened to the dead room.
Teddy closed his hand around the photograph and slipped it into his pocket. As he looked at Andrews through the window, he realized his seat was too close. Less than three feet away.
Andrews had lost weight since the last time he saw him, and his skin was considerably more pale. He was strapped down to the chair, but seemed to be resting comfortably beneath a sheet. The doctor was wearing eye protection now, and the face mask was drawn tight over his mouth. The two appeared to be speaking as the doctor rolled the electrocardiogram closer and checked the wires attached to Andrews’s chest.
Teddy’s eyes flicked down to Andrews’s arms. A single IV was attached to each just above his wrists. Curiously, the plastic tubes connected to the needles snaked around the chair into a small opening on the far wall. Above the opening was another window, but the curtains remained drawn.
The lights dimmed in the witness room. Teddy’s focus shifted to the reflections on the glass. He could see the people sitting behind him, their faces taught and still. Some were wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs. Others looked defiant. A woman in the back row, perhaps the reporter, started coughing and couldn’t seem to stop.
He checked his watch. 6:58 p.m. A man in a uniform whom Teddy guessed was the warden entered the dead room and stood by the telephone. It seemed like a formality because everyone knew that the governor had presidential aspirations. Executions were an image consultant’s dream and an important step if you were going to make a run as president of the free world. Odds were that the governor wouldn’t be making any calls from his mansion in Harrisburg tonight.
Teddy’s eyes drifted to the left and he noticed another window. Another witness room. He saw Detectives Vega and Ellwood behind the glass, along with District Attorney Carolyn Powell. She seemed edgy and vulnerable, but most of all, she looked tired. Teddy hadn’t seen her for a couple of years. Their relationship hadn’t survived his decision to practice criminal law as a defense attorney, or her promotion and election to the new job. For Carolyn, the prosecution of Andrews seemed to draw her into a cocoon and tighten her up. For Teddy, the trial had been a release. They still checked in with each other every couple of months or so, but never mentioned getting together for another round of martinis. It had become his drink of choice now. And he hadn’t ordered one in six years without thinking of her or remembering that night they’d spent together.
A light mounted on the far wall started blinking, and the speakers on the wall were switched on.
The warden glanced at the doctor, then asked Andrews if he would like to make a statement. Andrews declined with a simple shake of the head. As the two men left the room and the door closed, Andrews settled in beneath his restraints and took a deep breath. He was alone. Ready for the deepest of sleeps to begin.
Then the curtain opened in the window on the far wall, revealing three men wearing black hoods. As Teddy noticed them, he tried to remind himself that he was living in a civilized world. Still, the image of their eyes peering out from beneath their hoods in the anteroom behind Andrews was horrifying. He knew what they were doing. He was well aware of the process. The execution team was comprised of three prison employees. Two would be feeding Andrews a drug cocktail that would lead to an overdose and wash away the spark of life. The third would be feeding a dummy bag with the lethal brew. In the end, no one would be certain exactly who wiped out Andrews’s life.
Teddy thought he knew when the sodium Pentothal hit the man’s arm and made the big push. Andrews was fighting the anesthetic, but at fifty times the dosage in a normal operation, his eyes finally wavered and became lazy. Drifting across the ceiling, they floated down the wall until they passed over the window and penetrated the glass. He was searching out the faces in the audience, moving from one to the next in the dim light. He was lingering on some and passing over others until his eyes found Teddy in the front row and slid to a sleepy stop.
Teddy flinched. A wave of fear buzz-touched his spine, rattling across the back of his neck. The seconds ticked by in shivers. Almost a full minute. Andrews was staring at him. Giving him a last look before he let go and said good-bye to the witness who did him in. The expression on his face wasn’t hard, but unexpectedly gentle and relaxed. It seemed to last forever, and in a sense, it was.
When his eyes finally smoked out like a candle, Teddy thought he was dead and checked the monitor. To his surprise, Andrews’s heart continued beating. It took ten minutes for the pancuronium bromide to paralyze his diaphragm and collapse his lungs. A few minutes more before the potassium chloride reached his heart and pulled the last switch. Then the glint in his eyes shifted and faded and rolled off to the side, becoming lost in the distance of forever.
The chaos was over. The battle lost. The decision final.
After a moment, the doctor entered the room and walked over to the chair without glancing at Andrews’s corpse or the faces staring at him through the window. Teddy watched his hand drop to the console. When he pressed the button, the curtain closed.
SEVENTY-SIX
In spite of its length, most of the trip back to Philadelphia was spent in silence. As they drove from the airport into the city in Nash’s new Jaguar, Teddy noticed the crowds on the sidewalks and wondered what was going on at midnight. Then Nash pointed at a man on the corner waving a sign. ALAN ANDREWS IS DEAD. They were partying. Celebrating. Dancing in the streets.
Ding, dong, the witch is dead.
Teddy looked away, trying to keep his mind busy until they reached Nash’s office. There was the promise of a glass of wine. Teddy expected it would take more than one glass to settle his nerves.
Nash pulled into his space in the lot behind the building. As they climbed the stairs and entered the office, Nash switched on the lights and headed straight for the cabinet beside his desk. His limp was less noticeable, but still there.
“I don’t think champagne’s necessarily appropriate tonight. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Nash searched through the bottles until he found one to his liking. Then he pulled two glasses out of the cabinet and fished through a drawer for the corkscrew. Teddy moved to the jury table, lit a cigarette and sat down. He’d quit smoking a few years ago, but bought a pack for the night.
“I’ve got something I think might cheer you up,” Nash said.
“If it’s the wine, I’m ready.”