The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(4)

I make up my mind, pick up my phone, and dial Crane’s office. When I tell the receptionist who I am, she quickly transfers me to the attorney.

“Hello, Ms. Truman?”

“Yes, hello, Mr. Crane, how are you?”

“Fine, and you? It’s been a few years.”

“Yes, it has. I’m doing well.”

“So I’ve seen. Congratulations on your success.”

The West Texas accent is very pronounced. I used to have one, too, but my many years of living in the Midwest have changed all that. However, after a few drinks, it does tend to slip out.

“Thank you. So, I got your letter. And your phone messages. Sorry, I should have responded sooner.”

“That’s all right.”

“I’ve decided I will come, I think. Do you know what Eddie wants to talk to me about?”

“Not at all. Eddie is always pretty quiet. After being locked up on death row at Polunsky, he’s even more withdrawn. That kind of solitary confinement is terribly … lonely.”

This alarms me. “What kind of mental state is he in?”

“Not too good, I’m afraid. I’ll be honest with you. That place will drive anyone crazy, and he’s been there for years. You and I know he suffers from depression and anxiety, and it’s unclear how well he complies with medication. I don’t think he takes it at all. He refuses any medical or psychiatric help; he always has. Mostly he lives in another world inside his head—on purpose, I might add—but he is capable of understanding and interacting with the real one when he wants to. His request to see you is sincere; I can tell you that, Ms. Truman.”

“You can call me Shelby. If I really do this, what can I expect? Will he be able to touch me?”

“No. Contact visits aren’t allowed with death row inmates. You’ll talk to him from behind a plexiglass partition. On a phone. You’ll be able to see him, and he’ll be able to see you.”

“And for how long?”

“Two hours usually, but since you’re traveling over 250 miles, they’ll let you have four. That’s the maximum time allowed, but I doubt he would talk to you that long. Like I said, he’s usually quiet and withdrawn, and when I’ve visited him he’s lucid for a while, and then he occasionally goes into a sort of surreal rant. Like what you see a homeless person doing. Babbling. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“He doesn’t make much sense when he does that. Anyway, the visit can be whatever length you want. It could also be as short as five minutes, and that may be his choice. You never know with Eddie. Whenever I’ve gone to see him, he will listen and tell me what he wants me to do in a coherent, sensible way, and then he’ll zone out, go into babble-speak, and abruptly end the meeting. He’s a pretty sick man.”

“That’s terrible. How can the state allow him to be executed? It’s inhuman.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Ms. Truman. I’m doing everything I can in last-minute appeals. Unfortunately, there’s a precedent. Texas has executed more than one inmate that was believed to be mentally ill.”

“It’s so wrong.”

“And just so you know … I’m the only visitor he’s had for twenty years.”

“Oh my God. All right. Tell me what I need to do. I have to be in Limite, coincidentally, on Friday.”

“That’s the date of the execution.”

“I know. And I don’t want to see him the day before he dies. What about Wednesday, can I do that?”

“That would be a good day.”

“All right. I’ll fly to Houston tomorrow and get settled somewhere near the prison, and then I’d have all day free on Wednesday. Is that possible?”

“Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you to confirm a time. Thanks, Shelby, I think Eddie will really appreciate it.”

I confirm that he has all of my information, and we hang up.

The trip to Texas is going to be longer than originally planned, so Patricia is going to have to wait until I return before embarking her on a new adventure with some hunky bad boy. I get up from the desk without bothering to save my open Word document and go downstairs with my empty coffee cup.

“I’m going,” I announce.

“Really,” Billy responds without looking up from his monitor. “I’m impressed.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d go.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Because it’s painful. I know the whole story.” Then he looks at me.

“Mm, you don’t know the whole story; but you’re right, it will stir up some old emotions that I’d just as soon do without.”

“You mean it’ll feel like ripping a scab off a wound and putting salt on it?”

“Something like that.”

“Then why are you putting yourself though it?”

“Because I have to. I owe it to Eddie.”

“You don’t owe Eddie anything, Shelby. You know that, right?”

“Billy, he hasn’t had a visitor for twenty years. He’s going to die on Friday. He has no family or friends. I’m the only person from his life that he’s chosen to remember. I never thought he deserved the death penalty. He’s mentally ill.”