The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(62)

Prosecutor Shamrock went into his closing argument with guns blazing. He reiterated the grotesque and salacious physical description of the crime itself. He hammered home how Eddie was a “devil-worshipping Satanist” who performed blasphemous rituals in his home located in the otherwise “clean, respectable neighborhood” of Limite. Shamrock refuted the defense’s claims of insanity by illustrating how Eddie had planned the murder in advance—the procurement of Rohypnol, the grinding of the pills, and the spiking of the drink. It was “willful and premeditated with malice aforethought,” and thus first degree murder. The word “heinous” was used a lot.

“Don’t let the blank look on the defendant’s face fool you,” Shamrock said. “The defendant knew very well what he was doing that night. He committed murder in the name of the devil. It is your duty to find him guilty.”

But was it capital murder—deserving of the death penalty? Technically, the crime didn’t meet the conditions of capital murder. “Crimes of passion”—usually domestic-oriented violence—were not considered capital murder. However, Eddie’s offense lay in a gray area because he had taken the life of an unborn child along with his conjugal partner.

When I left the courtroom to wait for the verdict, I already knew the outcome. You could feel it in the air. The presence of the Rohypnol at the crime scene sealed Eddie’s fate.

It was very depressing, and I didn’t want to stay. I felt as if I’d done my duty and supported Eddie throughout the trial, but I had no desire to sit there and watch him be found guilty. I went back to my father’s apartment, called the attorney handling his estate, and left all the loose ends in his capable hands. He would sell the car and the apartment, and settle outstanding issues without my presence. I returned to Chicago.

The flight home was uneventful, but my townhouse in the city seemed very foreign to me when I walked in the door. I was a bit shell-shocked. It was good to see Billy, who had dutifully held down the fort in my absence.

“Are you all right, Shelby?” he asked.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“You’ve heard, then?”

“Heard what?”

“The verdict?”

“Oh. No, I haven’t.”

“It was just announced on the news. The jury must have come back while you were in the air.”

“And?”

“Guilty on all counts.”

I nodded. “I thought that would be the case.”

“He stood and cursed the jury.”

“What?”

“He pointed at them and told them that Satan would take them all to hell. Caused quite a furor. The bailiffs had to drag him out. He went nuts in the courtroom.”

“Oh my God. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

That was all we could say. I went on with my life and work and did my best to forget about Eddie. The penalty phase came a little later; I couldn’t help but pay attention. I offered to be a character witness, but Mr. Crane told me that Eddie rejected my offer. Admittedly, I was surprised he received the death penalty. I thought that surely the judge would have a little sense and compassion to see that Eddie was a sick man. But it wasn’t to be. I phoned Mr. Crane’s office, and we spoke for a short time. He said there would be appeals and that nothing was set in stone. It would be a long process.

That was 2006, and it is now 2015. Eddie has given up and told his lawyer to stop the appeal process and let him die. Crane didn’t stop, though. He filed the appeals on his client’s behalf anyway. Several advocacy groups got into the act to protest the death penalty and, specifically, Eddie’s case. I donated money to the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty—NCADP. When they figured out who I was, the organization asked if I would officially endorse them with my name. Two years ago, I did so.

Nothing worked. And now the appeals have run their course. Unless the governor steps in at the last minute—and there is no reason to think he will—Eddie will receive the lethal injection in a little over forty-eight hours.

The sun is rising on Livingston, Texas. I didn’t sleep a wink in my little room at the Best Western hotel. What the hell. I get up, shower, dress in a conservative blue pantsuit, and go downstairs for the free continental breakfast. And coffee, loads of coffee.

I hop in my rental car and follow the directions Crane gave me—onto Highway 190, and then, shortly after leaving Livingston city limits, a left turn onto Route 350 to the prison. I’d read a little about the Polunsky Unit before traveling to Texas. It sits on the eastern shore of Lake Livingston, which happens to be a man-made body of water. On the other side of the lake, a little bit inland, is Huntsville, the location of another maximum security prison where the actual execution takes place, from what I understand. Death row, however, is located only at Polunsky. The prisoner remains there, alone and isolated, until the day of his execution, when he is transported to Huntsville. Normally, an inmate at Polunsky can have one regular or special visit each week, unless they are a “level one” prisoner—someone who is in trouble for some infraction of the rules. At each visit, up to two adults (children are an exception) can visit, providing they are on the inmate’s approved visitor list. A regular visit lasts two hours, while a “special visit” consists of up to four hours and can be on contiguous days. These are reserved for visitors traveling more than 250 miles to the prison, like me. Death row inmates are allowed only one special visit per month. During the week the execution is scheduled, the inmate is allowed two full days of visits, then four hours on the morning of it. Up to ten people on the approved list can visit then, but that is a moot point in Eddie’s case. I’m the only person, other than Mr. Crane, on his approved list.