It Ain't Over Until It's Over

He puts on his transparent plastic mask, reminding himself he should get a new one, one that distorts his features more.

“Eh, why mess with success,” he concludes, checking his gun.

Moving swiftly through the door of the Seven-Eleven in Elmsford, New York, the tall, determined man marches up to the counter, sticking the gun in the cashier’s forehead.

A little boy standing at the snack stand squeezes his slurpy so hard that the top flies off. His mother drops her corn dog, clutching him against her leg.

“What’s your name and where are you from?” the man asks the cashier in a tone that implies he had better like his answer.

“Azeeb Kaan. I’m from Pakistan.”

“So, you’re livin’ the American dream workin’ the midnight shift, eh, Azeeb? You got kids?”

“Two. A boy and a girl,” the cashier replies.

“If you wanna see them again, you’ll empty the register. Now.”

Sweat breaks out on Azeeb’s forehead. He looks at the man’s studded black belt and his dark hands.

“Ask yourself if it’s worth dyin’ for somebody else’s money.”

Azeeb complies, handing over the evening’s profits.

He waves his gun at the boy and his mother. “How old are you, kid?”

“…Four. Fa…fa…Four and a half.”

“You wanna see five? Forget what you’ve seen.”

He pauses to look at a news stand. His eye catches the headline of the New York Post.

Taking Out the Trash: Taylor Execution Set After 12 Year Wait

Laughing, he grabs the newspaper.

***

Luther Laws and Rico Renaldi head for Tremaine Taylor’s cell.

“It’s a shame Taylor’s going to be executed in a few days,” Luther remarks.

“He murdered two people and nearly hit a trifecta,” Rico points out.

“You still think he’s faking his metamorphosis?”

Rico stops, unable to walk and think at the same time.

Stout with a ruddy complexion, Rico Renaldi was raised in Bedford Stuyvesant’s tough streets, often bragging that the only thing he came away with was his “New Yawk” accent. Fights with numerous death row inmates have instilled in him that all cons are guilty until proven innocent. Lanky, with deep brown eyes, neatly combed brown hair, and a face with chiseled features, Luther Laws has cultivated a soft side for condemned men.

“Yeah, it’s an act,” Rico says. “From assassin to angel? I don’t think so. Nobody’s as good as he’s pretendin’ to be. He was captured, high as a kite, with the murder weapon in his hand.”

“He said he picked it out of the trash. That he planned to sell it for drugs,” Luther replies.

“He conveniently forgets murderin’ two teens and woundin’ another customer, but he remembers pickin’ the gun up like he was shoppin’ at a yard sale. He shot those two kids in the head in cold blood. He left a woman to die. He would have gotten away with it if she hadn’t been able to describe him. She said he was a Black man, like Taylor, wearing a transparent Halloween mask.”

“Which he didn’t have with him when he was captured, and it was nowhere to be found. You’ve watched over him for five years, and I’ve guarded him since he arrived here twelve years ago. Tremaine Taylor didn’t start out as the humble man he is today. He wasn’t the cold-hearted killer the press made him out to be either. His mother ran off to pursue some cockamamie dream of being a singer and wound up with a habit that led to her death. His Dad died at the wheel of his tractor-trailer, leaving him an orphan at twelve. He ate out of trash cans and ran drugs and messages for crooks. By the time he was nineteen, he was a tweaker who was so high the night he could barely mumble his name. He’s never once admitted his guilt. We even had a psychiatrist hypnotize him to try to recover his memory of the murders. Zilch…Over the years, he’s gotten a college degree, counseled other inmates and found God. If he’s acting, he’s doing it twenty-four-seven, and deserves an Academy Award.”

The pair enters the death row cell block.

Tremaine Taylor sits on his bed, reading the Bible. Dark-skinned, with a bullish but healthy physique and deep-set, expressive brown eyes, Tremaine greets the guards with a congenial smile.

“So, what do you want for your last meal?” Luther asks.

“I’d die for steak, potatoes, pecan pie and a Coke.”

“Nice to see you still have a sense of humor, Tremaine. We got word that Dolly Daniels and her daughter, Hope, are on the way to see you. We can’t allow you a conjugal goodbye with Dolly, but we can take you someplace private where you can talk to them.”

“Thank you. I want to apologize to Hope.”

“For being a murderer?” Rico asks.

“For getting executed on her sixth birthday.”

***

The cashier at the Seven-Eleven in Mount Kisco fumbles for the pistol he keeps under the cash register when a man in a transparent mask bursts through the door, pointing a gun at him.

Without a hint of hesitation, the man fires his gun, hitting the cashier in the head.

A grubby-looking, bearded man waiting in line drops his six-pack of beer, the bottles breaking open when they hit the floor. He and a second man hold their hands up in surrender.

“Great googly moogly, Dale, the place is bein’ robbed!” the second man exclaims.

“Shut up, Reno.”

“You, with the beard, open the cash register.”

“How?”

“Figure it out.”

Reno looks at the robber’s hands, smirking.

“You got something to say, Mac?”

“A Black man decides to rob a convenience store and wears a plastic mask that hides his face, but he forgets to cover his hands. And that studded belt? Another dead giveaway.”

“Shut up, Reno. I don’t feel like being dead,” Dale says. He rings up a fictitious sale, hoping it will open the cash drawer.

“You should have listened to your friend,” the robber says.

He presses the gun against Reno’s head, firing a bullet that passes through his skull, splattering blood on the Slim Jim display.

“Hand it over.”

Dale comes out from behind the counter, handing the robber the money.

“How’s your memory, Dale? You gonna remember me to the police?”

“…I just developed a bad case of amnesia…”

The man raises his pistol. “You lyin’ sack of crap.”

He squeezes the trigger.

Whimpering, Dale man shuts his eyes. “No…Please, don’t kill me! NO!”

The gun misfires.

The robber smashes the gun against Dale’s skull, knocking him out.

He rushes to his car.

A tall, sinewy, affable-looking man dressed in black with silver hair is standing by the door. He is wearing a clerical collar.

“Out of the way, Father.”

“You need to atone for what you’ve done.”

“I promise to say a dozen Hail Marys. Now get away from the door.”

“Think about the life you just took. Think about the lives you’ve ruined.”

“I’m gonna add another to the list if you don’t fricken move, Monsignor.”

The Father’s voice remains quiet and calm. “Some of the people you’ve hurt are running out of time.”

“So am I!” the robber says, pushing the clergyman aside.

He jumps in his car. As he speeds off, he looks in the rearview mirror.

Tremaine Taylor looks back at him.

***

Rico watches Tremaine on the security system’s main screen.

“Readin’ the Bible again. I ain’t surprised. This psycho’s gonna play the part of martyr all the way to the end. I been meanin’ to ask you, Luther… How does a guy on death row who's been locked up for twelve years whelp a six-year-old?”

“It’s not his kid. Dolly Daniels started writing Taylor just after she had her daughter. The father was a stick-up man. He ran off, and I guess she was looking for someone to fill the void…”

“Sounds like she’s got a thing for thieves. I’ve never understood jailhouse groupies. What’s she got to gain?”

“I’ve talked to her. She genuinely believes Taylor is innocent. She’s the one who started the ‘Free Tremaine Taylor’ movement.”

“Bunch of bleedin’ heart idiots waistin’ their time,” Rico grouses.

“She’s kept Taylor’s case in the public eye, but it hasn’t done much good. He’s been denied a new trial three times. Poor guy needs a miracle. He needs Father Powers.”

“Is he a new rabbi ‘round here?” Rico asks.

“Father Patrick Powers appears to the innocent and saves them.”

“Is your hat on too tight?”

“Father Patrick Powers is a jailhouse legend. The first time I heard about him was an incident that happened in the 60s. Jody Maxwell was two days away from being executed for killing his family. He supposedly killed them during a family vacation upstate by driving his wife and two kids off a cliff. He claimed that someone had kidnapped them while he was asleep at home, but no one could back up his alibi.”

“That’s ‘cause he did it.”

“No. It turned out he was telling the truth. A park ranger saw a man driving a family through Ebbits Park. He remembered them because the woman who was driving looked like she was crying, and the kids were screaming. The guy got out of the car and made the wife drive it over a cliff. The police figured Maxwell had done it. The Ranger was transferred to Oregon just after it happened. Father Powers appeared to Maxwell and told him he was going to be saved. The Ranger saw an article about the murder and recognized a picture of the wife. He described the driver to the police, who captured the real killer the day before Maxwell was supposed to be electrocuted.”

“Sounds like pure luck to me.”

“That’s what I thought until Father Powers appeared again fifteen years ago. I was a rookie. Pookie Densmore was a week away from an injection. He was a janitor and had been seen arguing with a couple of fifth-grade boys who were carrying knives and threatening other students. They were found stabbed to death in one of their homes. Densmore’s fingerprints were all over the knife used to kill them. He said it was because he’d snatched one of the knives away from one of the boys, but he’d given it back when the boy promised never to bring it to school again. No one believed him. He was set to be executed when Father Powers came to him and told him he was going to be saved. The cops went over the evidence one last time. A detective who was new to the case had the knife checked for DNA. The real killer’s DNA was on the knife. He’d cut himself stabbing the boys and had left a few drops of blood behind. Pookie Densmore was freed.”

“So, the padre was lucky a couple of times.”

“He’s been saving innocent inmates for centuries.”

Rico bursts out laughing. “You really had me for a minute, Luther.”

“It’s true, although it’s pretty obvious that we can’t go around telling people about it. They’d lock us up! Father Powers lived in the 1600s. He was one of the men who tried women as witches. On his authority, dozens of innocent women were hanged.”

“So, saving innocent people is his penance? You need to stop drinking on the job, Luther.”

***

Dolly pushes her glasses back into place. Dolly Daniels is petite, with tousled dirty-blonde hair, mousey features, and a quiet, unassuming personality. Brandishing a smile waiting for front teeth, her daughter Hope’s pudgy, pale appearance takes after her absent father.

“I did another radio interview this morning,” Dolly says to Tremaine. “A lot of people called in saying they think you're innocent.”

“Too bad they weren’t on the jury.”

Hope reaches into her jeans, pulling out a chain. “We brought you somethin’.”

“Well, look at that. A four-leaf clover. It’s supposed to be good luck. Maybe you should keep it.”

“It’s for you,” Hope insists, handing it to him.

Tremaine looks over at Luther, who says, “It’s okay.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“A Reverend gave it to me to give to you. He came to the house to say a prayer for you. He said the clover will keep you from harm. Oh yeah… He also said he was comin’ to see you.”

***

A tall, sinewy, affable-looking man with silver hair sits down across from Tremaine.

“Your faith is strong, Tremaine.”

“I’m not trying to be strong for myself, Father. It’s for my girlfriend, Dolly, and her daughter. They’ve worked hard to try to free me, and I’ve come to love them as family. But I know I’m doomed. I want to believe some miracle can save me, but my time’s run out.”

The priest’s smile is a reassuring balm. He reaches for Hope’s four-leaf clover, touching it.

“A wise man once said, ‘It ain’t over until it’s over.’”

Luther leans closer to the security screen, watching Tremaine carry on an animated conversation. There is no one else in the room.

“I wonder who he thinks he’s talking to?”

Rico looks at the screen, smirking.

“Must be Father Powers.”

***

He puts his mask on, checking his gun.

His gun hand shakes.

“Having second thoughts?” a voice asks.

He turns around to face the priest.

He points his gun at him.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a man like that, padre. This thing’s liable to go off.”

“You look tired, like you’re carrying a heavy load. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Nice try, padre.”

“You’re running out of time.”

“Did you rat on me?”

“I was hoping you might see the need to make things right and act on your own. Your soul is still worth saving.”

“Is it? My old man used me as a punching bag. I told myself I’d never be like him. When I grew up, I had a wife, a kid, and a nice gig as a mechanic. Then I got laid off, and I became my old man. My soul went to hell when I killed my first man for a hundred bucks. I did it to feed my family. They still left me. Everybody leaves me.”

“It’s time you stopped blaming others for your loneliness and anger. You say you did things to help your family. What about helping the families you’ve hurt? You should help them. You’re running out of time.”

He looks into the priest’s eyes and sees Tremaine Taylor sitting in his cell, praying.

***

He turns on the hotel’s ancient television to watch the news, smacking the side of it when the picture becomes distorted.

A reporter with a grim expression and a dire tone in his voice comes into view. The reporter thrusts a microphone in the face of a mousy-looking blonde.

“I know he’s innocent. The witness said the killer was six feet tall. Tremaine is five feet eight. The witness described the killer’s voice as harsh. Tremaine speaks softly.”

A young girl with missing front teeth lisps, “Tremaine didn’t do the bad things that people say. When he gets out, we’re gonna be a fambly.”

“He’s innocent,” the woman repeats. “You can sense it in his soul. You can see it in his eyes.”

He turns off the television. Looking in the mirror, he watches his rough features dissolve.

Tremaine Taylor looks back at him.

***

He walks up to the front desk of the local police station.

The meaty desk sergeant looks him over suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“Not me. Somebody else. Twelve years ago, I killed two people and wounded another while robbin’ a convenience store in Hawthorne. There’s a man takin’ my place on death row.”

The sergeant twists his mouth into a frown. “We’ve had quite a few crackpots come in and confess to the killing for a little publicity. You wouldn’t be one of those people, would you?”

He drops a studded belt on the desk.

“The police told the public the killer was wearin’ a mask. They never told anyone he was wearin’ a studded belt… My studded belt.”

***

Dolly and Hope watch Tremaine’s execution from the observation room with the families of the victims.

Tremaine blows a kiss at Dolly. The doctor sticks a needle in his arm to establish a primary IV line.

“You won’t feel a thing, Tremaine,” Dr. Moe Payne says. “I know the procedure was explained to you already, but I’d like to go through it with you again. We have to set up two IVs. One is for the actual injection. The second will be a backup IV in case the first fails. The injection contains a sedative. You’ll drift off to dreamland, then the rest of the drugs will stop your heart.”

Dr. Payne sticks a needle in Tremaine’s right arm. He struggles to find a vein in his left arm. He gives way to his assistant, who repeatedly pokes at Tremaine’s arm. Throwing up her arms in frustration, she says, “I can’t find a vein. We can’t proceed without a backup line.”

The execution team huddles together. Warden Ben Druce leaves the room. Entering the waiting room, he announces, “We’re calling off the execution. Another date and another method will be selected.”

The families of the victims let out a collective sigh of disappointment. A woman glares at Dolly, muttering, “I bet she had something to do with this screw-up.”

Warden Druce grunts as his cell phone rings. The phones of the execution team ring at the same time.

Warden Druce listens to the caller and calmly says, “Got it.”

He smiles at Dolly and Hope. “I know you two prayed for a miracle. Most of us did. A man named Verkuilen Agar confessed to the murder. Tremaine is a free man.”

Winking at Hope, Tremaine kisses his four-leaf clover.