“No. Just recognize it and move on. Livy’s not the person you think she is. Nobody could be. And you’d better be careful. She just separated from her husband, and you’re still grieving over your wife. She could really mess you up.”

“I’m no babe in the woods, Caitlin.”

Her smile is timeless. All men are babes in the woods, it says. “You’re trying to destroy her father now. How do you think she’ll react to that?”

“I don’t know. She has a love-hate relationship with him. It’s like something out of Aeschylus. She knows he’s done terrible things, but in some ways she’s just like him.”

“You should try very hard to keep that in mind.”

“Why?”

She takes a pair of headphones from her lap, plugs them into the seat jack, and starts flipping through her channel guide. “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

“She came to my wife’s funeral. We only spoke for a moment, though.”

“Before that.”

“A long time. Maybe seventeen years.”

“You pull the lid off something that might get her father charged with capital murder, and suddenly she shows up like magic?”

“What are you saying? That her father called her to Natchez to . . . to influence me somehow? Because of your newspaper story?”

Caitlin shrugs. “I don’t want to upset you, but that’s what I’m saying.”

She gives me a sad smile and puts on the headphones.

CHAPTER 20

I thought I was the last person to arrive in the witness room at Huntsville Prison until FBI Director John Portman walked in, flanked by two field agents who shadowed him like centurions guarding an emperor. Up to that point the preparations for the execution had proceeded with the tense banality that characterizes them all.

I had arrived to find the room nearly full. My old boss, Joe Cantor, motioned me to the empty chair beside Mrs. Givens, the closest relative of the victims. The curtain was drawn over the window of the extermination chamber, but I knew Arthur Lee Hanratty was already strapped to the gurney behind it, while a technician searched for veins good enough to take large-bore IV lines.

I hadn’t seen Mrs. Givens for eight years, but the smell of cigarettes on her clothes brought back everything, a nervous woman who chain-smoked through every pretrial meeting and rushed for the courthouse door at every recess. She had a Bible in her lap tonight, open to Job. When I touched her hand, she clenched my wrist and asked if I’d seen many executions before, and if they were difficult to watch. In a quiet voice, I explained the procedure: sodium thiopental to shut down Hanratty’s brain; Pavulon to paralyze him and stop his breathing; potassium chloride to stop his heart.

“You mean they put him to sleep before they give the bad chemicals?”

“Yes, ma’am.”