I had helped a parishioner earlier this year when she made the decision to donate her son's organs after a motorcycle accident that had left him brain-dead. Brain death, the doctor had explained, was different from cardiac death. Her son was still irrevocably gone-he would not eventually recover, like people in a coma-but thanks to the respirator, his heart was still beating. If cardiac death had occurred, the organs wouldn't be viable for transplant.
I sat back in the chair. 'Warden Coyne, I was under the impression that Inmate Bourne had requested a spiritual advisor...'
'He did. And we'd like you to advise him against this crazy idea.'
The warden sighed. 'Look, I know what this must sound like to you.
But Bourne's going to be executed by the state. That's a fact. Either it can become a sideshow... or it can be done with discretion.' He stared at me. 'Are we clear on what you need to do?'
'Crystal,' I said quietly.
I had once before let myself be led by others, because I assumed they knew more than me. Jim, another juror, had used the 'eye for an eye' line from Jesus's Sermon on the Mount to convince me that repaying a death with a death was just. But now, I understood that Jesus had actually been saying the opposite-criticizing those who let the punishment compound the crime.
No way was I going to let Warden Coyne tell me how to advise
Shay Bourne.
In that instant, I realized that if Bourne didn't recognize me, I wasn't going to tell him I'd met him before. This wasn't about my salvation; it was about his. And even if I'd been instrumental in ruining his life, now-as a priest-it was my job to redeem him.
'I'd like to meet Mr. Bourne,' I said.
The warden nodded. 'I figured.' He stood up and led me back through the administrative offices. We took a turn and came to a control booth, a set of double-barred doors. The warden raised his hand and the officer inside unlocked the first steel door with a buzz and a sound of metal scraping metal. We stepped into the midchamber, and that same door automatically sealed.
So this was what it felt like to be locked in.
Before I could begin to panic, the interior door buzzed open, and we walked along another corridor. 'You ever been in here?' the warden asked.
'No.'
'You get used to it.'
I looked around at the cinder-block walls, the rusting catwalks. 'I doubt that.'
We stepped through a fire door marked I-TIER. 'This is where we keep the most hard-core inmates,' Coyne said. 'I can't promise they'll be on their best behavior.'
In the center of the room was a control tower. A young officer sat there, watching a television monitor that seemed to have a bird's-eye view of the inside of the pod. It was quiet, or maybe the door that led inside was soundproof.
I walked up to the door and peered inside. There was an empty shower stall closest to me, then eight cells. I could not see the faces of the men and wasn't sure which one was Bourne. 'This is Father Michael,' the warden said. 'He's come to speak with Inmate Bourne.' He reached into a bin and handed me a flak jacket and protective goggles, as if I were going to war instead of death row.
'You can't go in unless you've got the right equipment,' the warden said.
'Go in?'
'Well, where'd you think you were going to meet Inmate Bourne,
Father? Starbucks?'
I had thought there would be some kind of... room, I guess. Or the chapel. Til be alone with him? In a cell?'
'Hell, no,' Warden Coyne said. 'You stand out on the catwalk and talk through the door.'
Taking a deep breath, I slipped the jacket on over my clothes and fitted the goggles to my face. Then I winged a quick prayer and nodded.
'Open up,' Warden Coyne said to the young officer.
'Yes, sir,' the kid said, clearly flustered to be under Coyne's regard.
He glanced down at the control panel before him, a myriad display of buttons and lights, and pushed one near his left hand, only to realize at the last minute it was the wrong choice. The doors of all eight cells opened at once.
'Ohmygod,' the boy said, his eyes wide as saucers, as the warden shoved me out of the way and began punching a series of levers and buttons on the control panel.
'Get him out of here,' the warden yelled, jerking his head in my direction.
Over the loudspeaker came his radio call: Multiple inmates released on I-tier; need officer assistance immediately.
I stood, riveted, as the inmates spilled out of their respective cells like poison. And then... well... all hell broke loose.
Lucius
When the doors released in unison, like all the strings tuning up in an orchestra and magically hitting the right note the first time the bow was raised, I didn't run out of the cell like the others. I stopped for a beat, paralyzed by freedom.
I quickly tucked my painting beneath the mattress of the bunk and stashed my ink in a roll of dirty laundry. I could hear Warden Coyne's voice on the loudspeakers, calling over the radio for the SWAT team. This had happened only once before when I was in prison; a new officer screwed up and two cells were opened simultaneously. The inmate who'd been accidentally freed rushed into the other's cell and cracked his skull open against the sink, a gang hit that had been waiting for years to come to pass.
Crash was the first one out of his cell. He ran past mine with his fist curled around a shank, making a beeline for Joey Kunz-a child molester was fair game for anyone. Pogie and Texas followed him like the dogs they were. 'Grab him, boys,' Crash hollered. 'Let's just cut it right off.'
Joey's voice escalated as he was cornered. 'For God's sake, someone help!'
There was the sound of a fist hitting flesh, of Calloway swearing. By now, he was in Joey's cell, too.
'Lucius?' I heard, a slow ribbon of a voice, as if it had come from underwater, and I remembered that Joey wasn't the only one on the tier who'd hurt a child. If Joey was Crash's first victim, Shay could very well be the second.
There were people outside the prison praying to Shay; there were reli gious pundits on TV who promised hell and damnation to those who worshipped a false messiah. I didn't know what Shay was or wasn't, but I credited him for my health one hundred percent. And there was something about him that just didn't fit in here, that made you stop and look twice, as if you'd come across an orchid growing in a ghetto.
'Stay where you are,' I called out. 'Shay, you hear me?'
But he didn't answer. I stood at the threshold of my cell, trembling. I stared at that invisible line between here and now, no and yes, if and when.
With one deep breath, I stepped outside.
Shay was not in his cell; he was moving slowly toward Joey's. Through the door of I-tier, I could see the officers suiting up in flak jackets and shields and masks. There was someone else, too-a priest I'd never seen before.
I reached for Shay's arm to stop him. That's all, just that small heat, and it nearly brought me to my knees. Here in prison we did not touch; we were not touched. I could have held on to Shay, at the innocent crook of his elbow, forever.
But Shay turned, and I remembered the first unwritten rule of being in prison: you did not invade someone's space. I let go. 'It's okay,' Shay said softly, and he took another step toward Joey's cell.
Joey was spread-eagled on the floor, sobbing, his pants pulled down.
His head was twisted away, and blood streamed from his nose. Pogie had one of his arms, Texas the other; Calloway sat on his fighting feet. From this angle, they were obscured from the view of the officers who were
