'I don't expect anything.'
'When you confessed to the murder of Joanie Shriver, you were telling the truth then, right?'
'No.'
'But you were under oath, correct?'
'Yes.'
'And you're facing the death penalty for that crime, right?'
'Yes.'
'And you would lie to save your skin, wouldn't you?'
When this question quivered in the air, Cowart saw Ferguson glance quickly toward Black. He could just see the defense attorney's face crease into a slight, knowing smile, and see him nod his head imperceptibly toward the man on the stand.
They knew this was coming, he thought.
Ferguson took a deep breath on the stand.
'You would lie, to save your life, wouldn't you, Mr. Ferguson?' the prosecutor asked sharply, once again.
'Yes,' Ferguson replied slowly. 'I would.'
'Thank you,' Boylan said, picking up a sheaf of papers.
'But I'm not' Ferguson added just as the prosecutor started to turn toward his seat, forcing the man to arrest his motion awkwardly.
'You're not lying now?'
That's correct.'
'Even though your life depends upon it?'
'My life depends upon the truth, Mr. Boylan, Ferguson replied. The prosecutor started angrily, as if to launch himself at the prisoner, only to catch himself at the last moment. 'Sure it does,' he said sarcastically. 'No more questions.'
There was a momentary pause while Ferguson resumed his seat at the defense table.
'Anything else, Mr. Black?' the judge asked.
'Yes, sir. One last witness. We would call Mr. Norman Sims to the stand.'
Within a few moments, a smallish, sandy-haired man, wearing glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit, walked through the court and took the witness stand. Black almost jumped to the podium.
'Mr. Sims, will you identify yourself for the court, please?'
'My name is Norman Sims. I'm an assistant superintendent at the state prison at Starke.'
'And what are your duties there?'
The man hesitated. He had a slow, mildly accented voice. 'You want me to say everything I got to do?'
Black shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Sims. Let me put it to you this way: does your job include reviewing and censoring the mail that comes to and from Death Row inmates?'
'I don't like that word…'
'Censor?'
'Right. I inspect the mail, sir. Occasionally, we have reason to intercept something. Usually it's contraband. I don't stop nobody from writing whatever they want to.'
'But in the case of Mr. Blair Sullivan…'
'That's a special case, sir.'
'What is it he does?'
'He writes obscene letters to the families of his victims.'
'What do you do with these letters?'
'Well, in each case, sir, I have tried to contact the family members they are addressed to. Then I inform them of the letters and ask whether they want to see it or not. I try to let them know what's in it. Most don't want to see 'em.'
'Very good. Admirable, even. Does Mr. Sullivan know you intercept his mail?'
'I don't know. Probably. He seems to know just about every damn thing going on in the prison. Sorry, your honor.'
The judge nodded, and Black continued. 'Now, did you have occasion to intercept a letter within the past three weeks?'
'I did, sir.'
'To whom was that letter addressed?'
'To a Mr. and Mrs. George Shriver here in Pachoula.'
Black bounced across the court and shoved a sheet of paper toward the witness. Ts this the letter?'
The prison superintendent stared at it for a moment. 'Yes, sir. It has my initials at the top, and a stamp. I wrote a note on it, too, that reflects the conversation I had with the Shrivers. They didn't want to hear none of it, sir, after I told them, general-like, what the letter said.'
Black took the letter, handed it to the court clerk, who marked it as an exhibit, then handed it back to the witness. Black started to ask a question, then cut himself off. He turned from the judge and witness and walked over to the bar, to where the Shrivers were sitting. Cowart heard him whisper, 'Folks, I'm going to have him read the letter. It might be rough. I'm sorry. But if y'all want to leave, then now's the time to do it. I'll see you get your seats back when you want 'em.'
The folksiness of his tone, so alien to the clipped words of his questions, surprised Cowart. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Shriver nod and lean their heads together.
He saw the large man rise then and take his wife by the hand. The courtroom was silent as they walked out. Their footsteps echoed slightly, and the doors creaked shut behind them. Black paused, watching them, then delayed another second or so as the doors swung closed. He nodded his head slightly.
'Mr. Sims, please read the letter.'
The witness coughed and turned toward the judge. 'It's a bit filthy, your honor. I don't know that…'
The judge interrupted. 'Read the letter.'
The witness bent his head slightly and peered down through his glasses. He read in a quick, hurried voice filled with embarrassment, stumbling on the obscenities.
'… Dear Mr. and Mrs. Shriver: I have been wrong not to write you before this, but I have been real busy getting ready to die. I just wanted you to know what a sweet little piece of fuck your little baby was. Dipping a prick in and out of her snatch was like picking cherries on a summer morning. It was just the tastiest bit of fresh new pussy imaginable. The only thing better than fucking her was killing her. Sticking a knife into her ripe skin was kinda like carving up a melon. That's what she was, all right. Like a bit of fruit. Too bad she's all rotten and used up now. She'd be an awful cold and dirty fuck now, right? All green and maggoty from being underground. Too bad. But she sure was tasty while she lasted…' He looked up at the defense attorney. 'It was signed: Your good friend, Blair Sullivan.'
Black looked up at the ceiling, letting the impact of the letter filter through the air. Then he asked, 'He's written to other victims' families?'
'Yes, sir. To just about all the folks of all the people he confessed killing.'
'Does he write regularly?'
'No, sir. Just when he seems to get the urge. Most of the letters are even worse'n this one. He gets even more specific, sometimes.'
I imagine.'
'Yes, sir.'
'No further questions.'
The prosecutor rose slowly. Boylan was shaking his head. 'Now, Mr. Sims, he doesn't
