Predator

‘Excuse Brad please, Dr Wilkinson. You know that he can be a little abrupt sometimes,’ said Ronald with exaggerated politeness that failed to hide his anger.

‘No, Dad, I just tell it like it is. This can’t go on, doctor. My parents need help. Even if they say they don’t want it, they need it.’

‘Hmm …’ Wilkinson nodded thoughtfully. ‘From what you say, it certainly sounds like we’re reaching a crisis point. But I don’t want to rush to any conclusions. Sometimes there’s a physiological cause for a series of episodes like the one you describe. I have to say, I doubt that in this case, but it pays to make sure, just in case there’s a little infection or something going on. So, Betty, if you don’t mind I’m going to do a few tests.’

Now she perked up again. ‘I’m certainly not sick. I know I’m not sick. Never felt better in my life.’

‘Well, that’s great to hear, Betty. And don’t you worry, I won’t be doing anything too serious at all, just checking your blood pressure, listening to your chest, simple stuff like that. Are you happy for me to do that, Betty?’

‘I suppose so.’

Ronald patted her arm. ‘You’ll be fine, Betsy-Boo. I’ll be right here watching over you.’

From nowhere, like a sudden ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, Betty Bunter produced a dazzling smile that just for a moment brought all the life and beauty back to her face. ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ she said.

It took Wilkinson less than five minutes to go through his tests. When he’d finished he sat back in his chair and said, ‘OK, well, as I suspected, there are no physiological problems to report. So what I’m going to do is prescribe something for Betty to help calm her at moments of particularly acute anxiety. Ron, if you or Brad can make sure Betty takes half of one of these pills whenever you feel things are taking a turn for the worse that should help a lot, but no more than two of those halves in any one day.’

He looked around to make sure that the two Bunter men had taken in what he’d just said, then he continued, ‘We have an established crisis-management procedure for cases like this, to make sure we can get our patients effective care. I’m going to make a few calls this morning and try to work out something for you guys by the end of the day. Brad, I wonder if you could take Betty out to the waiting room for a moment. I just want a quick word with your dad … because he’s my patient too, after all.’

‘That sounds alarming. Should I be worried?’ Ronnie asked.

Wilkinson gave the kind of chuckle that’s intended to reassure, though seldom does. ‘No, I simply want a chance to talk, on a doctor–patient basis.’

No more words were exchanged until Brad had led his mother out of the room; then Ronnie Bunter asked, ‘So, what’s this all about, Frank?’

‘It’s about the fact that Betty isn’t the only one I’m worried about,’ Wilkinson replied. ‘You’re exhausted, Ron. You’ve got to get more help. At this stage, Betty really needs round-the-clock care.’

‘And I’m doing my damnedest to give it to her. I swore an oath, Frank: “in sickness and in health”. And in my business, oaths matter. You don’t break ’em.’

‘Nor in my business, either, but you’re not being a smart husband to Betty if you make yourself sick trying to look after her. Caring for someone with a severe psychological and neurological condition like Alzheimer’s is a tough, tough job. It’s non-stop. You look exhausted, Ron, and you’ve lost weight, too. Are you eating properly?’

‘When I can,’ Bunter said. ‘It’s not like we’re sitting down at the dinner table for a three-course meal. That’s for sure.’

‘How about work?’

‘Well, I try to go into the office most days, and my staff all know I’m always on call, my clients too.’

Wilkinson laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair with his arms folded and looked his old friend straight in the eye. ‘So you’re trying to look after Betty, day and night, and the phone keeps ringing with people asking for legal advice. Tell me, do you think you’re giving your clients the best counsel they could get for their money? Because I know for sure I couldn’t treat my patients properly if I were going through the same things as you are now.’

Bunter’s shoulders sagged a little. ‘It’s hard, I’ll give you that. And yeah, there are times I put the phone down and think, Shoot! I just forgot something, or I realize I got a point of law wrong. And it’s not because I don’t know the right answer, I’m just so darn tired.’

‘Right, so now I’m going to give you a prescription, and you’re not going to like it.’

‘Do I have to take it?’

‘If you’ve got any sense left in you at all, buddy, yeah, you do.’

‘OK then, doc, tell it to me straight,’ Bunter said, making Wilkinson smile with his attempt at portraying a character in an old cowboy movie.

‘Right, first thing I’m telling you is that you have to get Betty the best round-the-clock care that you and your insurance plan can afford.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Ron …’ Wilkinson insisted.

‘OK, OK, I’ll do it. Anything else?’

‘Yes. I want you to cut right back on your work. You’ve got good people at your firm, right?’

‘The best.’

‘Then they can take over your clients. And Brad can run the business day-to-day. If you want to call yourself by some fancy title that means you’re still the top dog, even though you don’t bark any more, that’s fine by me. But I don’t want you setting foot in the office more than once a week, preferably once a month. Let Brad do all the heavy lifting.’

‘I’m just not sure he’s ready for it.’

‘Bet that’s what your old man said about you, too, but you showed him.’

‘And there’s …’ Bunter grimaced. ‘Well, I hate to say this about my own son, but there are character issues. You heard Brad today. He can be abrasive sometimes, confrontational.’

‘So are many of the world’s greatest litigators.’

‘But it’s not the style I like to encourage at Bunter and Theobald. The best deals, the ones that last and don’t end in bitterness and acrimony, are the ones where both sides feel like they did OK. That means we get what our client wants, or at least what he needs, while still respecting the other side and acknowledging the merits of their position, not beating them into the ground.’

‘Well, Ronnie, I’m not going to tell you how to run your firm, but I didn’t hear a son who was abrasive or confrontational today. I heard a son who’s very aware of how bad things have gotten, who’s worried, just like I am, about the both of you, and who wants to get the situation, if not fixed – because there is no fix for Alzheimer’s – then at least made as tolerable as it can possibly be.’

Bunter frowned anxiously. ‘You really think I need to get help, leave work, huh?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘So then what am I going to do?’

‘Take it easy. Spend quality time with Betty while you still can. Listen, Ronnie, it won’t be long – less than a year, maybe less than six months – before Betty’s reached the point where she doesn’t recognize you, can’t hold any kind of a conversation, not even a rambling one, and there’s no trace left of the woman you fell in love with.’

Bunter’s face crumpled: ‘Don’t … that’s awful …’

‘But it’s true. So make the best of the time you have. Look after yourself so you can still look after her. Promise me you’ll think about that, at least.’

‘Yeah, OK, I’ll promise you that.’

‘You’re a good man, Ron, one of the very best. Betty’s lucky to have you.’

‘Not half as lucky as I’ve been to have her. And now I’m losing her …’

‘I know …’ Dr Wilkinson said. ‘I know.’

For decades the state of Texas has carried out its executions in the Texas Death House at the Walls Unit, Huntsville. Right up to 1998, that’s where Death Row was located, too. But then condemned men, Johnny Congo included, started finding ways to escape and the Texas Department of Criminal Justice determined that a more secure unit was required. Death Row was moved across to the Polunsky Unit in West Livingston, a supermax, ultra-high-security facility. No one escaped from there. The nigh-on 300 prisoners were held in solitary confinement and ate in their cells from a plate shoved through a ‘bean slot’ in the door. They exercised alone in a caged recreation area. The only physical contact they received was the strip searches they underwent whenever they left their cells. The regime was enough to drive a man crazy and there were some who chose to waive appeal opportunities and face execution early, just to escape from it.

Johnny Congo’s execution process began at three in the afternoon of 15 November. He was not offered the choice of a condemned man’s final meal, nor would he be at Huntsville: that luxury had long since been abandoned. There was just a hammering on his cell door and a warder shouting, ‘Time to go, Johnny! Hands through the bean slot.’