The Row(11)

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.