62

Adamsville

Thomas had to smile when he listened to Grace’s tape. He had always loved her sweet voice, but now, with her age and her illness, it had faded to a weak instrument, though she retained the ability to stay right on key. And her sincerity came through. Thomas’s smile came also from imagining the men in the cellblock overhearing it. Poor Brady would never hear the end of it. There could not have been a sound similar to it in that place—ever.

“It would have been better if you’d sung along with me, Thomas,” Grace said.

“No, no. It’s perfect. The lyrics are paramount. I think Brady will enjoy it. I just hope it helps.”

Death Row

Brady was startled awake by the officers clanging on the cell doors for the morning count and realized he’d slept through the night for the first time since coming here. He had to shake his head and remind himself of when he’d fallen asleep.

He wasn’t surprised at his exhaustion, after having read around the clock, including all night the night before. Last night he had finally dozed off late, just before TVs had to go off, and he recalled rousing in time to hit the switch on his. Soon after that, the blackness invaded, and Brady had braced for the ugliness of the ghastly images of the murder taking over his mind. He always knew when these were coming because something, anything, might remind him of the temperature, the light, the smell, the sound . . . and off his memory would go, unharnessed.

But he woke up before the murder played itself out. And it was predawn. And the guards were making the rounds, conducting the first count.

Brady had never before been able to sleep through the horror of his memories. But this time he had prayed. That was it! When it had all begun again, Brady had desperately pleaded with God for relief from the dreadfulness just one time.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he recalled saying. “I know it’s part of the price. But, please . . .”

And God had answered! Was it possible? That had been Brady’s second prayer since reading the New Testament and the booklet the chaplain had given him. Maybe Aunt Lois had been wrong that God heard only the prayers of true believers. Could it be that the answer to the second prayer was also an answer to the first?

Brady had asked God to reveal Himself, and then it seemed God had honored his request to be spared the horror just once. And Brady had slept. Maybe no one else would make much of it, but Brady couldn’t deny it. He believed he had communicated with God, and way better than that, God had communicated with him.

“You know you don’t need to stand for morning count,” an officer said.

“I know,” Brady said, sitting quickly on his cot. “Sorry. Good morning.”

“You say what?”

“Good morning.”

“Yeah, sure.”

As soon as the officers had moved on, Brady prayed silently once again. God, when You let me sleep, was that You revealing Yourself to me?

He wasn’t getting any audible response—nor did he expect any—but as Brady searched his heart, he believed that if God was impressing anything on him, it was something strange. It was as if God was making him think that the relief from the memories was simply what it was—an answer to a plea from a desperate man. The revealing of Himself to Brady, however, was something altogether different.

Brady’s eyes fell on the Bible and the book and the pamphlet. That’s it! If it was true that the Bible was God’s Word and His letter to mankind, as the chaplain had said, that was how He had revealed Himself to Brady.

Brady opened the Bible and The Romans Road and spread them out on his table. The other book, the one about how to begin the Christian life . . . well, Brady was going to be needing that one soon too.

He didn’t want to be in the middle of reading when breakfast was delivered, so he just waited. He’d already seen men panic when meals were late. Their minds got the better of them. They thought they’d been forgotten or abandoned or that the end of the world had come and they would starve to death in their cages. Brady just wanted breakfast to come so he could be done with it and get back to his reading.

When it did arrive, he found himself uncharacteristically polite to the officers again and again noticed their surprise. He ate everything, as he had the night before, and while he would never be able to say it was good, for some reason Brady found the fare less repulsive than before.

He replaced his tray in the meal slot and hurried back to his reading. He read faster and faster, poring over texts that were quickly becoming familiar favorites.

When Brady came again to Romans 10:8-11, it seemed everything around him faded. Nothing existed but the text as he slowed to a crawl and memorized, burning every word onto his brain.

In fact, it says, “The message is very close at hand; it is on your lips and in your heart.” And that message is the very message about faith that we preach:

If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is by believing in your heart that you are made right with God, and it is by confessing with your mouth that you are saved.

As the Scriptures tell us, “Anyone who trusts in him will never be disgraced.”

Brady had no idea if some special feeling was supposed to come over him or what was to happen, but as he read and reread the part that promised “by believing in your heart” that God raised Jesus from the dead “you are made right with God,” he realized simply that he did—he did believe in his heart.

How much faith was required to believe the rest of it—that he was now right with God? As Chaplain Carey had said, some things were God’s responsibility. All Brady could do was believe. But he didn’t feel right with God. Would that feeling ever come?

He didn’t expect to be happy, to be joyful, to smile, to jump and shout and sing. Brady felt that even if he could get his mind around the idea that he had been “made right” with God, that would never take away the ultimate ugliness of the sin he had committed. He might even be able to accept that God would never again remember it, but he could not believe that he himself would ever forget.

Nor should he. Even if he was right with God and would escape eternal spiritual punishment, Brady knew full well that he had not settled his score for murder—at least in this life. He was grateful, of course, that his soul might be saved, but there was still this human price, and he was willing to pay it.

He could do nothing more than believe; the rest of this being made right with God was God’s work. But the verses went on to say that “it is by confessing with your mouth that you are saved.”

Confessing what? He was no intellectual, but this seemed clear. He had to tell somebody that Jesus was Lord and that God had raised Him from the dead.

Brady leaped to his feet and began to pace. It was true and he believed it; now who could he tell? He was tempted to just shout it out, but what would it mean to all the other cons on the Row? It would become nothing but ammunition for them. “Officer?” he called out.

From the intercom came the voice of a supervisor in the observatory. “What’s your problem, Darby?”

“No problem, sir. Is Officer Harrington around?”

Suddenly the place was alive, and Brady quickly realized why. Nobody on death row had ever heard him speak above a whisper.

“Lover boy has woke up!”

“You like Harrington, do you, sweetheart?”

“Forget about your Heiress already?”

With all the racket, the observing officer sent someone from the booth directly to Brady’s cell. “What do you need?”

“I want to see the chaplain right away.”

“You know the procedure.”

“Yeah, but it’s sort of an emergency, and I was hoping maybe Officer Harrington could get word to him.”

“What’re you, about to kill yourself or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I just really need to see him.”

“Harrington can’t shortcut the system any better’n anybody else. I’ll get you a form.”

“That could take days. I need to see him right away.”

“You want the form or not? ’Cause it doesn’t make any difference to me either way.”

“Okay.”

Under “Reason for Requested Meeting,” Brady wrote, “Counseling. I need to confess with my mouth.” Chaplain Carey would know what he was getting at.

About twenty minutes after Brady filled out the form, Rudy Harrington came by. “You looking for me, Darby? We’re not friends, you know.”

“I know, but I need a favor.”

“So do I, but you’ve got nothing I want.”

“Listen, I was just wondering if you could call the chaplain and tell him I need to see him right away.”

“Why? You seen the light, wanna give your life to God now?”

“Maybe. Just . . . would you?”

“You fill out the form?”

“Yeah, but you know how long—”

“Give it to me. If I can get to him, I will. Now how are you going to repay me?”

“I don’t know. Like you said, I’ve got nothing.”

“I’ll think of a way.”

“Thanks, man.”

Harrington leaned close to the door and whispered, “One thing I don’t need is you gettin’ chummy, understand? We keep our distance.”

“Got it.”

Administration Wing

It was rare but not unheard of for Thomas to take a call from a corrections officer, but this was the first time he had ever spoken with Rudy Harrington. The man sounded cordial enough—more than Thomas could say about many of the officers.

“I appreciate your letting me know, officer. I’ll need that form in order to expedite—”

“I got no time to be ferrying paperwork all over the place. I mean no disrespect, but how about you come find me and I’ll have the form for you?”

That was reasonable enough, but Thomas found himself excited. Knowing what this could mean, he didn’t want to waste any time. He stopped in Frank LeRoy’s office on his way out.

“. . . so if the form is asking for a visit and I deem it legitimate, can I just head directly to his cell?”

“Yeah, no. See, you’re circumventing protocol here, and I think—”

“Frank, sir, now please. Nobody but you is going to know if something happens a little out of the ordinary here. I’m supposed to look after the spiritual well-being of these men, and frankly, I’m making some progress with this one.”

“That’s all we need, a high-profile con getting religion. You keep this under wraps, whatever it is, you hear?”

“I will, Frank. Now can I see him if—”

“Yes, yes. See him. Just don’t make it obvious anything’s out of the ordinary.”

“I should tell you that Officer Harrington is aware that a form is in the works.”

“Rudy? He’s all right. Stellar record. You don’t have to worry about him.”

Thomas rushed back to his office for his Bible and for Grace’s tape. As he swept past Gladys’s cubicle, she called out, “Hey there, Reverend! Where’s the fire?”

He peeked over the partition. “Pray for Brady Darby. And please call Grace and ask her to do the same.”

She gave him a thumbs-up and he was off again, but as Thomas began the laborious process of getting all the way to the death row pod, something dark and depressing came over him. With every step, every procedure, and past every block of cells, he was reminded how difficult the work here had been for so many years and how many cons had tried to con him.

Thomas wanted to believe that Brady Darby was different, that he was sincere, but how could he know? He reminded himself that God had put Brady on his heart from the moment he saw him, that Thomas believed God had even told him to tell Brady that He loved him. More people were praying for this man than for anyone Thomas had tried to reach since Henry Trenton.

Ugh! Why did he have to come to mind? Thomas didn’t think he could endure another case like that. Whatever he did, he was going to make sure Darby was for real.

It took more than five minutes for Thomas to locate Rudy Harrington. The officer appeared in a hurry as he thrust the request form into Thomas’s hands.

“I appreciate this,” Thomas said, “and I trust you and I can keep it quiet.”

“Keep what quiet, sir? I didn’t read it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Oh, very good, then. Say, this is a copy. I’ll need the original.”

“Oh yeah. We copy all that stuff, you know. The original must still be in the machine. I’ll find it and send it to your office, okay?”

“You copy these?”

“Yep. Just protocol.”