They might be preparing to execute an innocent man.
At exactly 6:00 that morning, steel bars rattled open outside Cell 18.
Two correctional officers stopped at the door.
“Gavin Cole,” one of them called.
Gavin slowly stood.
Five years on death row had turned his dark hair gray around the temples. Deep lines crossed a face that had once looked younger than his thirty-eight years.
For half a decade, he had repeated the same words to lawyers, judges, reporters, and anyone willing to listen.
“I did not kill Martin Hale.”
No one believed him.
His fingerprints had been found on the weapon. The victim’s blood had stained his shirt. A neighbor claimed to have seen Gavin leaving the house shortly before Martin’s body was discovered.
The evidence appeared overwhelming.
Now, with only hours remaining, Gavin stepped toward the bars.
“I have one last request.”
The officers exchanged a glance.
“I want to see my daughter,” Gavin said. “Just once. Please let me say goodbye to Chloe.”
One officer lowered his eyes.
The other remained silent.
Requests involving children were complicated, especially on the day of an execution.
But the paperwork eventually reached Warden Robert Mitchell.
After thirty-one years in the prison system, Mitchell had witnessed more final days than he wanted to remember. He had learned not to confuse confidence with innocence or tears with remorse.
Still, Gavin’s case had never sat comfortably with him.
The evidence looked strong, but Gavin’s behavior had been unusual from the beginning.
