Free Death Penalty by William J. Coughlin

of the ride, Mickey couldn’t shut up and kept rambling on, obviously nervous. I nodded or grunted as my sole contributions to the conversation.
    About the time we drove past the entrance to the sprawling Metropolitan Airport, he was winding down. Finally, he shut up completely.
    I glanced over to see if he might be napping, but he wasn’t. He was staring out at the passing flat farmland and gently chewing his bottom lip. If Mickey didn’t get a grip on himself he would have no lip by the time the case was finally decided.
    We left the interstate and I found myself speeding along a deserted farm road just past the college town of Ann Arbor.
    â€œThere it is, that little place up there on the left,” Mickey said, pointing.
    You couldn’t call it a farm, it wasn’t big enough, just a small frame house and a few ramshackle sheds. A trailer was parked behind the house. I noticed that an electric line ran from the house to the trailer.
    I pulled into a rutted driveway and parked behind a rusting pickup truck.
    â€œHis wife’s parents live in the house,” Mickey said. “He lives in the trailer.”
    â€œHe’s got a wife and kids? The trailer doesn’t look big enough for all of them.”
    â€œThey live in the house, with her parents.”
    â€œSounds crowded.”
    â€œIt is.”
    A small dog came running toward the car. He stopped a few feet away and barked. He didn’t really want to go to the trouble of barking but knew it was expected of him. You could tell it was for show, his heart really wasn’t in it.
    He stopped the noise as we climbed out of the car. He came slowly toward us, pretending suspicion, although his tail was wagging enthusiastically.
    Mickey made some soothing sounds, and the little dog instantly submitted to being petted.
    The dog was our only reception committee.
    I followed Mickey as he walked around the side of the house, headed toward the trailer.
    â€œDid you call and tell them we were coming?” I asked.
    â€œThey know.”
    The trailer was set back about forty feet from the rear of the house. A rough walkway between them had been constructed of wooden pallets, and a homemade wooden ramp had been built up to the trailer’s door. The trailer was an old metal model with rounded corners to make it less wind resistant. It looked like something left over from a low-budget science fiction movie, a dented space capsule or an alien pod. I wondered if we would all be able to fit inside.
    As we started up the wooden incline of the ramp, the trailer door opened.
    A woman stepped out. She was thin and wrapped in a cheap housedress. Her skinny legs sprouted from oversize gym shoes, the kind of ankle-high, thick-soled sneakers basketball players sell on television. She wasn’t ugly nor was she pretty, just plain. Her hair was cut short, almost mannish. She wore glasses. The thick lenses tended to enlarge her eyes.
    And those eyes had a hard, almost hostile look.
    â€œHello, Mildred,” Mickey said as he approached. “This is Charley Sloan.”
    She looked me up and down. It was the kind of look a woman might give a fish that doesn’t look too fresh.
    She didn’t extend her hand, merely nodded and stepped back through the trailer door. “Come in,” she said. Her tone indicated our intrusion would be tolerated, but only that.
    I hadn’t expected the odor. The trailer reeked with the unpleasant aroma of an outhouse.
    â€œIt needs cleaning,” she said, “but I just haven’t had the time.”
    The trailer wobbled a bit as we stepped in. The interior was dark, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust.
    I almost wished they hadn’t.
    He was propped up in a kind of high-backed wheelchair. His hands were secured to the arms of the wheelchair by bandages, as were his matchstick legs, which stuck out on a kind of extended ledge from the chair. His head was held in place by a band affixed to