hands were cuffed.
O’Brien almost didn’t recognize Williams. He walked with a rhythm of distrust in his body language. Suspicious eyes. Shoulders rounded. Skinny. His spirit now nothing more than a defense posture. Eleven years in prison—eleven years on death row, had turned the raw farm boy from North Carolina into a man with a hard face and apprehensive eyes.
Both men took seats on the opposite of the no-contact glass. O’Brien could see a faded scar leading from the left side of William’s forehead vanishing into his thinning hair, turning gray before its time.
O’Brien picked up the phone-like receiver first. Williams sat there, staring though the thick glass. Finally, he slowly lifted the receiver.
O’Brien said, “I’m glad you agreed to see me, Charlie, how you holding up?”
“How do you think I’m holding up?”
“Look—”
“What the fuck do you want, O’Brien?”
“To save your life.”
“You’re a little late, Detective.”
“I’m not a detective anymore.”
“Then what the hell are you? Why are you here?”
“I believe you didn’t kill Alexandria Cole.”
Williams mocked a laugh. “It only took you eleven years to figure that out?”
“A horrible mistake was made. I want you to know that I feel awful about that. The evidence was so compelling. I want to tell you how sorry I am for—”
“Bullshit, man! You wanted me here. It’s because of you, Detective O’Brien that I’m here. It’s because of you that I’ve been beaten, stabbed twice, raped, and now they’re gonna stick needles in my veins and let poison slowly shut my organs down. All because you wanted another closed case.”
“You have every right to be angry. But listen to me a second. Please. Just listen. We don’t have time—”
“We don’t have time! What are you—”
“I’m saying we—you and me, have to stop this execution. I know you didn’t kill Alexandria. To set you free, I’ll need your help.”
“Leave me the fuck alone! What’d you do, find God or something, huh?”
“No, I found two people dead.”
Charlie William’s dry lips parted. Eyes filled with confusion. “What?”
“Two people dead. What they had in common was this: they knew who killed Alexandria. One was a priest, a close friend of mine. The other was an inmate. Did you know Sam Spelling?”
Williams was quiet a long moment. His eyes focused on the handcuffs around his wrists. Then he looked up through the glass at O’Brian. “Sam Spelling. The guy who was shot when they were taking him to testify in the coke trial?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’d seen him around. He hung with more of the sleaze balls than I was comfortable with…not that you have a good bunch of normal people in this shithouse.”
“Tell me about Spelling. Did he ever talk with you? Can you remember conversations…anything about your past or his? Did he prod you about the murder?”
Williams thought, his eyes searching. “One thing nobody really talks about in prison is why they got here. The sexual deviants, the ones who molest children, they find out about them. But the others…everybody’s innocent, right?” Williams sneered.
“Think!” O’Brien almost shouted, embarrassed by his tone. “Can you think of anything Spelling may have casually mentioned, or something you might have said that may give me a clue as to who murdered Alexandria?”
“Sometimes I’d catch Spelling looking at me, when they let me get some exercise. Thought he was gonna shank me. So one day, I asked him what his deal was. He said I didn’t look like I really belonged in here. Told me his mother had him reciting Psalm Twenty-Three when he was four. He said if I
O’Brien almost didn’t recognize Williams. He walked with a rhythm of distrust in his body language. Suspicious eyes. Shoulders rounded. Skinny. His spirit now nothing more than a defense posture. Eleven years in prison—eleven years on death row, had turned the raw farm boy from North Carolina into a man with a hard face and apprehensive eyes.
Both men took seats on the opposite of the no-contact glass. O’Brien could see a faded scar leading from the left side of William’s forehead vanishing into his thinning hair, turning gray before its time.
O’Brien picked up the phone-like receiver first. Williams sat there, staring though the thick glass. Finally, he slowly lifted the receiver.
O’Brien said, “I’m glad you agreed to see me, Charlie, how you holding up?”
“How do you think I’m holding up?”
“Look—”
“What the fuck do you want, O’Brien?”
“To save your life.”
“You’re a little late, Detective.”
“I’m not a detective anymore.”
“Then what the hell are you? Why are you here?”
“I believe you didn’t kill Alexandria Cole.”
Williams mocked a laugh. “It only took you eleven years to figure that out?”
“A horrible mistake was made. I want you to know that I feel awful about that. The evidence was so compelling. I want to tell you how sorry I am for—”
“Bullshit, man! You wanted me here. It’s because of you, Detective O’Brien that I’m here. It’s because of you that I’ve been beaten, stabbed twice, raped, and now they’re gonna stick needles in my veins and let poison slowly shut my organs down. All because you wanted another closed case.”
“You have every right to be angry. But listen to me a second. Please. Just listen. We don’t have time—”
“We don’t have time! What are you—”
“I’m saying we—you and me, have to stop this execution. I know you didn’t kill Alexandria. To set you free, I’ll need your help.”
“Leave me the fuck alone! What’d you do, find God or something, huh?”
“No, I found two people dead.”
Charlie William’s dry lips parted. Eyes filled with confusion. “What?”
“Two people dead. What they had in common was this: they knew who killed Alexandria. One was a priest, a close friend of mine. The other was an inmate. Did you know Sam Spelling?”
Williams was quiet a long moment. His eyes focused on the handcuffs around his wrists. Then he looked up through the glass at O’Brian. “Sam Spelling. The guy who was shot when they were taking him to testify in the coke trial?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’d seen him around. He hung with more of the sleaze balls than I was comfortable with…not that you have a good bunch of normal people in this shithouse.”
“Tell me about Spelling. Did he ever talk with you? Can you remember conversations…anything about your past or his? Did he prod you about the murder?”
Williams thought, his eyes searching. “One thing nobody really talks about in prison is why they got here. The sexual deviants, the ones who molest children, they find out about them. But the others…everybody’s innocent, right?” Williams sneered.
“Think!” O’Brien almost shouted, embarrassed by his tone. “Can you think of anything Spelling may have casually mentioned, or something you might have said that may give me a clue as to who murdered Alexandria?”
“Sometimes I’d catch Spelling looking at me, when they let me get some exercise. Thought he was gonna shank me. So one day, I asked him what his deal was. He said I didn’t look like I really belonged in here. Told me his mother had him reciting Psalm Twenty-Three when he was four. He said if I
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