Page 6
Present Day
I t’s time for my visit with Clarence Bowman.
There’s a routine for visitors, and it’s not pleasant. Good thing I don’t have many visitors. Even my best friend, Kinsey, has come only a handful of times. My parents might have visited, but they are both long gone. When I was a teenager, my father died of a heart attack in the bed of another woman, an unfortunate occurrence that pretty much scarred me for life. My mother went later, after such a prolonged and agonizing battle with cancer that the first thing I did after she was buried was sign an advanced directive to ensure that I wouldn’t end up the way she did. But it looks like my death will be quicker than expected. Well, it will if Bowman doesn’t have good news today.
If Noel were alive, he would have come to visit me every chance he got—the irony, of course, being that if he were alive, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.
I can’t leave my cell without being shackled, so that is a process I go through before meeting with Bowman. In preparation for Rhea entering my cell, I have to stand against the wall with my hands planted on the chipping paint. Then she comes in and shackles both my wrists and ankles. After that’s done, I tense up, waiting for the pat-down.
“Don’t worry,” Rhea says in a voice that is not unkind. “I’ll be done quickly.”
Sometimes the pat-downs are agonizing, especially when a male guard is doing it. But as promised, Rhea is quick about it.
When Rhea is sufficiently satisfied that I am not packing heat in my tan prison jumpsuit, she escorts me to the area where Bowman is waiting for me with news on my appeal. As we walk, I once again hear that distant beeping sound from somewhere within the prison walls, and the sound gets louder until it suddenly dies down again. The silence is even worse, though, and with nothing to distract me from my thoughts, my stomach flip-flops. Is it possible that there’s good news waiting for me?
“How did Bowman look?” I ask Rhea.
She’s thoughtful for a moment. “He looked the same as always. Wearing a nice suit. Losing his hair a bit.”
“Was he smiling?”
She doesn’t hesitate this time. “No.”
Well, great.
Rhea leads me into the visiting area, which consists of a series of booths with glass partitions to separate me from anyone coming to visit. On either side of the glass is a stool and a bright-red phone so that I can communicate with my visitor without having to breathe the same air.
Thank God the prison has these shackles and glass to protect the rest of the world from me.
Clarence Bowman is seated in the booth nearest to the door. As Rhea warned me, he is wearing a nice suit. And his hairline is indeed receding.
And also, he is most definitely not smiling.
I sit down across from Bowman, and even when he’s looking right at me, his lips don’t twitch. I’m not sure I want to hear what he has to say anymore, but I may as well get this over with. My right hand trembles slightly as I reach for the phone on my side of the glass, and he does the same on his side.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello, Talia.”
“So?” My voice wavers on the syllable. “What’s the verdict?”
“The appeal was denied.” He pauses. “I’m so sorry.”
How could this be? Even though I’ve been expecting it, the news is like a punch in the gut. With less than two weeks left until my execution, my appeal has failed.
“I don’t understand.” My eyes fill with tears, and at this moment, I would give absolutely anything to have my husband here to hold me and comfort me. “I would never have killed Noel. How could anyone think I would do that?”
Bowman has nothing to say to that. Despite my persistent claims of innocence, he thinks I’m guilty. I can see it all over his face.
“I have an alibi,” I remind him. “I was with Kinsey.”
“That’s true,” he concedes, “but the prosecutor convinced the jury that you set up the explosion to happen in advance. And the appeals judge agreed.”
“Can’t we try again? Don’t I get unlimited appeals on a death sentence?”
Bowman considers my request for only a moment. “We can try if you want, Talia. But at this point, I would say there’s no hope.” He pauses meaningfully. “Sometimes it’s better to let go than to drag it out.”
Drag it out? The man is talking about my life , for God’s sake!
But then again, what life do I have to go back to? I’ve drained my savings in my failed attempt to avoid a death sentence. My husband—the love of my life—is dead.
“What would you like me to do, Talia?” Bowman asks me.
“You can stop.” My voice is choked as I speak into the red phone. “No more appeals.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” my lawyer says in a gentle voice. “I’ve seen this many times before, and you have to know when to let go.”
He starts talking about some details and legal jargon, and I tune him out. I’ve been scared that my appeal will be rejected, and now that it’s happened, all I feel is numb.
I’m going to die. In less than two weeks, I will be executed by the state.
When we hang up, Rhea approaches to take me back to my secluded cell. She puts out her hand to steady me as I rise from the stool with my shackled ankles. I start to turn away, but just before I do, something catches my eye.
It’s a man on the other side of the glass, speaking to another inmate.
He’s wearing a dark suit—a black jacket paired with a black dress shirt. His dark hair is neatly combed, and his face is clean shaven. As Rhea leads me out of the room, I can just barely make out the bump on the bridge of his nose, as if it had once been broken.
That man. He looks so much like ...
“Rhea,” I gasp. “That man over there, talking to the redhead. Who is that?”
Rhea ignores me. “Come on. Time to go.”
“But ... wait! Just one second. Who is—”
“Time to go , Kemper.”
I look back one last time at the man in the dark suit. He’s talking to the redheaded inmate, his attention focused on her, but then, just as Rhea is pulling me from the room, he raises his eyes to meet mine.
Oh my God.
It’s Noel .