Symbiosis

A bead of sweat trickled down the attorney’s forehead, onto his nose. It made his nose itch like crazy, but he didn’t dare move. He knew what Johnson had done to his last legal representation. He wanted to walk out of the prison on his own power ... maintain his motor skills ... not piss off his client anymore. His eyes twitched with fear, but he couldn’t just sit there. “Guard!” he shouted.

Johnson backed down and started to laugh. “No cajones! You got no cajones! Run home to yer momma, stupid monkey!” He wandered over to a darkened corner and started to laugh.

The attorney just wanted out of there, but as the guard stood at the door, he turned on his heel to face Johnson, who was across the room and out of striking distance. “What should I tell them about your meal? I have to tell them something.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Johnson said, taking a step forward and becoming illuminated once again by the overhead light. “I don’t want to eat jack shit before they kill me. But I’ll take one of those, what do you call ‘em? Conjugal visits? I want to git me a piece of ass before I go, so I can die smilin’. “ Johnson started to cackle.

The lawyer shook his head, turned to the guard and nodded. He stepped out quickly. When the door was resecured, a burly guard stepped in through the prison-side door and motioned to Johnson. The already hand-cuffed prisoner dropped his head and shuffled toward the exit. Johnson had learned early in his incarceration that humbling yourself before the prison staff was the easiest way to stay alive. He had won favor with his reputation for cooperation, and his word was always taken over other inmates in disputes.

Johnson’s hands were uncuffed at his cell. As the metal gate groaned shut and latched behind him, he felt even more tired and lonely than usual. At 61 years old, he couldn’t remember ever not being tired. The last thing he wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep, though, because he knew the dream he would have. It was always the same. It was the night his wife died and his life changed forever.

If not for his current residence in the penitentiary and the bright orange uniform, Johnson looked the part of a lovable grandfather. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard, the crow’s feet around his eyes, the large warm eyes that smoldered with passion. But Johnson was not a grandfather, nor was a loveable. He was hardened by 10 years in prison and another 12 years on death row, holding his breath while idiots did his talking in court. He had always wanted to tell his side of the story, but his attorneys warned against it because Johnson wore the appearance of guilt like a pair of worn-out shoes. To open his mouth before a judge would not have helped his case, they all told him.

It was almost 10 p.m. and time for lights out. Johnson’s eyelids were getting heavy, and he knew he couldn’t fight sleep for long. He lay on his bunk, waited for lights to be extinguished, and drifted off into his nightly visit to the past. The flood of horrible images washed over him, but he couldn’t stem the tide as it pulled him backward.

The sun was setting, and he was sitting out on the porch, cleaning his shotgun. He and his wife Tammy just finished having another knock-down fight. She was packing up a suitcase for her and their 8-month-old daughter Melissa. A dusty brown station wagon skidded to a top in front of the house. Three men got out of the car and demanded Johnson give them some money he owed them for a gambling debt. Johnson said he already had paid them, and to please get off the porch. Tammy stood in the doorway with her suitcase. One of the men saw her and nudged the others. He said they’d get what they were owed from her. Johnson will never forget the look of terror on Tammy’s face and the screams from her mouth, as two of the men dragged her into the woods. The other man rushed Johnson used rope to tie him to his chair and, taking the shotgun, followed them into the woods. What seemed like an eternity, but was probably only half an hour, passed before Johnson heard the shotgun blast. He had been straining against the rope the whole time, and his wrists were raw and bloody. But that pain was no match for the shudder his heart felt after the trigger was pulled. They had problems, but he loved his wife with all his heart. And he knew for sure her heart was no longer beating. He strained harder, and was able to free his left hand. He loosed the other bonds. Once free, he ran inside to get Melissa, who was sleeping in her crib. He grabbed his pistol on the way out, daughter in his arms, and climbed into his pickup. The men were 50 yards from the house, just visible as they emerged from the woods. One carried the shotgun on his shoulder, and they appeared to be laughing and carrying on. Johnson sped out of the dirt driveway, throwing gravel behind him – peppering the men's station wagon. He drove directly to his aunt’s house 20 miles away. It was pitch black when he got there. He knocked softly, explained in hushed tones to Aunt Clara that he had to leave Melissa with her and get himself out of town. He kissed his sleeping daughter on the forehead, squeezed Clara's shoulder and disappeared into the night. The police found him three days later, several states away, at a motel room, alone, huddled on the bed, tears streaming from his face, pistol on the nightstand. His wrists were still raw from the rope, but investigators never believed his story, never found the shotgun and never looked for other suspects. He and Tammy had been prone to public fighting, and the case was closed with his conviction and sentence to die for the brutal rape and murder of his wife. His remaining family abandoned him, and he never saw his daughter again.

By the time the movie in his mind stopped, it was time to wake up. The lights flashed on, and guards belted out the “wake up” call he had heard for 12 years.

“Johnson!” Another burly guard was at his cell door. “The captain needs to see you right away.”

Johnson nodded, got out of bed and stood with his back against the door with his hands behind him. He stood perfectly still as the bracelets squeezed tightly over his wrists and snapped shut. He knew protocol called for hands to be secured behind the back when in the administrative office. He shuffled in front of the guard, face emotionless, and entered the office.

Not only was the captain of the prison detail there, the warden was, too. He had met the warden only once before, 12 years ago when Johnson was first placed on death row.

“Mr. Johnson. Thank you for coming to see me,” the warden said. Like I had a choice, Johnson thought. “It came to my attention that you refused your last meal.”

“Well, not exactly,” Johnson said flatly.

“Your attorney told us you didn’t want anything to eat.”

“That’s right. Nothin’ to eat before you kill me. I would, however, like to f*ck a woman again before I die.”

The warden smiled, and gesturing to the captain and the guards in the room, said, “If you will excuse us. Mr. Johnson and I have some things to discuss in private.” As they left, the captain looked at the warden with an inquisitive glance, but shut the door behind him. “I think we can arrange that. But understand, we’ll have to tell the newspapers that you requested a last meal and what it was. Don’t be surprised if you read about it in the paper. We can’t publicize a conjugal visit.”

“I don’t read the paper no more.”

“OK then. Anyone you have in mind? Girlfriend? Pen-pal?”

“No. I need me a hooker.”

“Um, OK then. That can be done as well. We’ll give you one hour with her. We'll come get you about four hours before you are scheduled.”

“Fine.” Johnson didn’t smile or show any hint of pleasure. He returned to his cell as a man ready to die. Years of fighting the wrongful charges made him weak. Most of the time now he believed he was guilty. Now he was resolved that the end was near. The appeals had dried up. There was no new evidence. He was becoming more and more at peace with the idea.

A week later, on the morning of his execution day, Johnson had a headache. Rather than visiting the infirmary, however, he savored the pain. The taste of it was sweet. It told him he was still alive. For now. At least until midnight.

The day went by slowly, as he was excused from all exercise or shared meals. He refused a visit from the prison chaplain. He refused to talk to any reporters. He waited patiently until 8 p.m., when he would be led into a room with only a bed, and a woman would pleasure him with her sweet, soft skin for one final time. He would feel fully alive for that hour, and then lay down three hours later never to rise again. Then sleep, sleep he hoped would be dreamless.

He was led down the long hall to a private room. The room was so small that the pale green walls seemed to press down on him. A bare lightbulb at the center of the room was bright, and cast a weird shadow of the fixture to all four corners. He still had a headache, but the anticipation of sex made it easier to push aside. A guard stood by the door, because of the mandatory suicide watch that had begun three hours before.

The door opened, and the warden stuck his head inside. “Ready, Mr. Johnson?” Johnson nodded. The guard left.

A young woman – in her early 20s – walked in, dressed in a white terrycloth robe.

Johnson’s heart stopped. She was absolutely gorgeous. He had a feeling he had seen her somewhere before. Was she in one of those girly magazines he had back in his cell? Maybe she just had one of those faces that breeds instant recognition. He wasn’t sure.

“So, you’re the one who’s going to be executed tonight.” She asked, nervously gathering up her robe and perching gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Johnson looked her in the eye. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Are you scared?”

“Naw, what’s there to be scared of? I got shots before. They’ll stick me and I’ll just go to sleep.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be asking all these questions. Just one more. Um, how do you want to do it?”

“Is there more than one way?”

“You’d be surprised, man.” She laughed, and it was like the best music he had ever heard.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all.”

“Do I know you? Have we met? You look so familiar.”

“Well, I think that’s two questions. But no, I don’t think so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Melissa.”

“Melissa? That’s such a beautiful name.” He smiled, but then his face went blank. He squinted. He looked into her eyes, and in his heart he knew without a doubt.

He realized why she looked familiar ... she looked just like her mother.

••• TO BE CONTINUED •••