But no form existed for a child’s whisper.
He picked up the phone.
“This is Warden Mitchell,” he said when the line connected. “I need to speak directly with Deputy Director Haines. Tell him it concerns the Cole execution.”
By late afternoon, the prison seemed to hold its breath.
The usual sounds carried on—doors closing, keys turning, boots on concrete—but beneath them lay a strange quiet. News had not been released publicly, but institutions had their own nervous systems. Officers knew. Clerks knew. The chaplain knew. And behind the walls of death row, the men who had heard nothing somehow sensed everything.
Gavin sat alone in a small holding cell, his hands clasped between his knees.
Amelia was allowed to meet with him briefly at 3:05 p.m.
She entered with a legal pad in hand and no attempt at comfort in her expression. That was one reason Gavin trusted her. She never offered him false hope wrapped in soft words.
