Jacob’s Choice

May 14, 1974, was just another Tuesday. Tuesdays for me, a twenty-two-year-old, meant having a burger, fries, a few cokes, and a night of smashing the pins with my best buddy since kindergarten, Jacob Oliver, at Papa Luke’s Lanes.

“Can you swing by the 7-Eleven on Whitmore?” Jacob asked me, his window wound down, arm resting on the door as he smoked a cigarette.

“What for?” I asked. “Papa Luke’s is only two blocks away from Whitmore.”

“I’m thirsty. Like really thirsty,” Jacob grinned back at me. The charming look in his eye gleamed as bright as ever.

“Can’t you wait until Papa Luke’s?” Like most people, I never bought into Jacob’s charm.

“’Fraid not, amigo,” Jacob puffed on his cigarette, smoke tendrils seeping from his nostrils. “I fear I may pass out from thirst. Then who’s going to smash those pins for you?”

I laughed, jokingly punched him on his arm, and drove to the 7-Eleven on Whitmore.

I pulled up right outside the doors of the 7-Eleven. The forecourt was empty except for my car, and from what I could see, nobody was inside the 7-Eleven.

“Keep the engine running,” Jacob said as he got out of the car. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

“You the boss,” I said sarcastically.

Jacob peered through the open window and tapped the inside of the car door. “You’re a good friend, Paulie. Never forget that.”

“Just get the soda, will you?” I rolled my eyes at Jacob’s sentimental comment.

“You the boss!” Jacob laughed and slapped the car as he left.

As Jacob disappeared inside the 7-Eleven, I started to imagine how this time I was going to smash every single game against Jacob. It had to happen sometime. I was definitely getting better at the pins, but unfortunately for me, Jacob was a natural at it, and he was always improving too.

As I was imagining kicking Jacob’s ass at pins, I was ripped from my daydream by a gunshot. Then another shot. Followed by one final shot. 

My heart raced, and I was frozen with shock, unsure of what to do when Jacob walked out of the 7-Eleven with a huge grin across his face. He also had blood sprayed across his face.

“I did it, buddy,” Jacob said proudly. “The fucker got what he deserved.”

“What are you talking about?” I was still struggling to make sense of the situation.

“Ted Corenzo.”

“Your mom’s pool cleaner.” I was still hearing the gunshots in my head. “What about him? Is he in the 7-Eleven? Is he hurt?”

“I hope so. He works there.” Jacob pulled a 9mm Winchester Magnum handgun and waved it at me. “He had it coming, Paulie. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. I love you, buddy. Keep smashing those pins.”

“Jacob, wait…” I went to hurl myself out of the car as Jacob put the magnum to his head and pulled the trigger.

Blue and red lights illuminated my face. Police sirens hummed in the background. I was paralysed in a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from. The image of Jacob putting the magnum against his head and blowing his brains out repeated over in my mind.

I vaguely remember being asked to turn off the car engine, slowly get out of the car, and put up my hands with no sudden movements. I was then thrust against the side of my car and handcuffed. As all of this happened, the image of Jacob killing himself continued to play over in my mind.

During my police interview (interrogation), this was 1974 after all, but watching the news these days, I don’t think times have changed at all. Being African-American, I think it’s got worse for my brothers and sisters.

Detective Jose Garcia and Officer Johnson (the police officer who arrested me) told me that Jacob had shot Ted Corenzo once between the eyes and twice in the groin.

“Did Mr. Oliver know the deceased?” Detective Garcia asked me.

“Yeah, he did.” I was still stuck in my nightmare. “Ted was their pool cleaner.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. Ten years, maybe.”

“That’s a long time,” Officer Johnson said. “How was your relationship with Ted Corenzo?” 

The way Officer Johnson asked me the question seemed to have a bit of animosity. I was used to some people having issues with me because of the colour of my skin.

“The occasional wave or hello,” I said. “That’s it. I’ve never had a conversation with him.” 

Officer Johnson didn’t like my answer. He just gave me a dead stare.

“Can you hazard a guess why Mr. Oliver would gun down his pool cleaner in such a way?” Detective Garcia leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You were driving the car. He must have indicated his plans to you.”

“No,” I said, alarmed at the detective’s insinuation. “We were on our way to Papa Luke’s for our usual Tuesday night bowling game. Jacob said he really needed a soda.”

“Papa Luke’s,” Officer Johnson said dubiously. “That’s like…”

“Two blocks away,” I snapped. “I know.”

Officer Johnson’s face twitched with contempt at my response. At any moment, I expected him to flip the table and beat the shit out of me. Instead, Officer Johnson got up from his chair and began to pace the room.

Detective Garcia lay his hands palms down on the table as if he was showing me his poker hand. “Did Mr. Oliver say anything peculiar or out of character leading up to the shooting of Ted Corenzo?”

“No, he was just…Jacob,” I said, exasperated. “It’s what he said after that I don’t understand.”

“That being?” Detective Garcia leaned forward slightly as if I was about to tell a story of great interest.

“Ted got what he deserved.”

Officer Johnson stopped pacing. He slammed his hands on the table and almost thrust his face into mine. I could smell liquor and cigarettes on his breath. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I…don’t know,” I stammered. “Jacob said that he couldn’t take it anymore and that Ted got what he deserved. That’s all I know.”

“Bullshit,” Officer Johnson spat. “Just tell us the truth! You lying black…”

“Sit down, officer,” Detective Garcia warned. “I won’t ask you again.” Officer Johnson reluctantly did as he was told. “This is serious trouble you’re in, son. This is the moment you have to be totally honest with us. You drove Mr. Oliver to the 7-Eleven and kept the engine of your car running as he went inside and murdered Ted Corenzo. Don’t you agree that sounds like you were a getaway driver?”

I shook my head, completely bewildered by the detective’s statement. “No, that’s not true. If it was, why didn’t I drive away after Jacob shot himself?”

“You tell us,” Officer Johnson growled. 

“I wasn’t a getaway driver,” I protested. “And I don’t know why Jacob…murdered Ted Corenzo. I really don’t.”

Detective Garcia sighed. “Looking from the outside in, it doesn’t look good for you, son. Not one bit.”

Jacob was white; I was black. The colour of our skin was never an issue in our friendship. Looking back, I don’t think we ever discussed it. Perhaps we did, but I don’t recall. I’ve often thought (and I’ve had plenty of time to do so) that if it had been me who shot Ted Corenzo and then killed myself, would Jacob have faced the fate that I have? I don’t think so. Not that I would wish the last forty years on him, or on anyone. Even though it’s Jacob’s fault, I’ve been languishing in the Allan B. Polunsky Unit, aka Death Row.

After my arrest, I was charged with being an accomplice in the murder of Edward Corenzo. A grand jury (comprising all white men and two women) convicted me under the ‘felony murder rule.’ In the United States, a person can receive the death penalty even if they did not directly commit a murder through what’s known as the ‘felony murder rule.’ This bit of American legal doctrine allowed me to be charged with the murder of Ted Corenzo on the grounds that I was participating in a felony that led to his death, even though I wasn’t the one who actually committed the murder.

To this day, I still don’t know why Jacob gunned down his mom’s pool cleaner and said, “He had it coming, Paulie. I can’t take it anymore…” That has gnawed at me for the last forty years. Not long after my conviction, Jacob’s mom came to see me, and I asked her if she thought Ted Corenzo had been sexually abusing Jacob. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no, either. Mary Oliver was like a second mom to me growing up, but once I asked her that question, I never saw her ever again.

I will never know the truth of why Jacob shot Ted Corenzo dead, and I’ve come to be at peace with that. I’ve had nearly four decades to do so, and it hasn’t been great for my health. The one thing I do know is that Jacob would have done things differently if he had known that I would be convicted as an accessory to his crime. He would have hated the fact that I’ve been treated like a wild animal and placed in a cage for 23 hours a day for the last forty years. And now, after three appeals and one stay of execution, I will finally be at peace with myself, Jacob, and God.

There’s something else I should say. The reason Officer Johnson was so hostile towards me during my police interrogation. He was Ted Corenzo’s brother-in-law. I only learned that after my trial.

Time has come to an end for me. There are no last-minute reprieves. No more pleas to human rights lawyers or to groups for the wrongly convicted for my release. In the next few hours, I’ll receive an injection of Pentobarbital. This barbiturate will induce unconsciousness. I will then receive an injection of Pancuronium bromide. This paralytic agent will halt my breathing and immobilise me. The final injection, the coup de grâce, is Potassium chloride. This compound is used to stop my heart and cause my death. Then, I, Paul Richard Jameson, will no longer be confined to my cell at Allan B. Polunsky Unit for twenty-three hours a day. After being arrested  on May 14, 1974, I will finally be free. Wherever it is I go, I hope Jacob’s there. Not to give him any grief or to fight, but just to talk. I want him to tell me about the things he never had the courage to do when he was alive. Jacob was going through some kind of trauma that he couldn’t talk to me about, whether that was out of fear or embarrassment. Out of all the things that have happened to me over the years, that’s the one that hurts the most.

For my final meal (my very final one this time), I chose a double quarter pounder with cheese, french fries, and a bottle of Coke. This was the meal that Jacob and I would have at Papa Luke’s Lane. A few years ago, I learned that the bowling alley had been torn down and was now a luxury apartment known as St. Luke’s Court. Why St. Luke’s, I don’t know. I knew ‘Papa’ Luke Brown and, even as a wrongly convicted murderer, I can tell you that he wasn’t a saint. Far from it.

With my death imminent, I was given the usual options: seeing the jail chaplain or wanting to speak with family or friends. I declined them all. I made my peace with God decades ago. I had nothing else to say, and I particularly had no interest in what the chaplain had to say either.

I had no family left. My Pa died in ’83 of pancreatic cancer. My Ma died in her sleep in 2004, simply of being an old lady. She was seventy-two years old, and the ironic thing is that’s the exact age I am now. But Mother Nature won’t be taking my life; that pleasure will be the state of Texas’s.

My eldest sister Ann, being a God-fearing woman, cut ties with me after my conviction. She wanted nothing to do with a sinful, murdering younger brother. I was to burn in hell and never contact her ever again. Per her request, I have been burning in hell for the last forty years, and I haven’t spoken or written to her since.

Some years ago, my nephew Anthony wrote to me a couple of times, and I responded. He was going to jump on a bus and come to see me. He never did, and he never wrote again. I think my sister put a stop to that, even though Anthony was a grown man.

All in all, I have no one left to come and say goodbye to me. That doesn’t hurt as much as you might think. I’ve become accustomed to loneliness a long time ago and made a comfortable existence out of a bad situation. I’ve read thousands of books and even earned myself a few college diplomas. I often think I’m better educated because of Death Row than if I had led a normal life.

I passed my medical with flying colours. That still makes me chuckle – the idea that I have to be medically fit to be put to death. God bless America, you beautiful crazy bitch!

The barbiturates required to put me to death have been checked and are ready to go. The ‘Death Squadron,’ as I like to call them, are all warmed up and ready to give me a mortal and metaphorical touchdown.

I’m placed on the gurney and made comfortable. In their defence, the ‘Death Squadron’ are pleasant and kind, just doing their job. A long time ago, I would have wished they were doing this to someone else. But I don’t. I’m glad I’m going to die today. I’m almost looking forward to it. To the freedom. To the peace.

As I lie down on the gurney with my arms and legs strapped in, I look intently at the pale green curtain. Behind the curtain is the viewing window. Whoever is behind it will witness my execution. I presume the Governor will be there, along with some journalists, anti- and pro-death penalty activists, and other members of the public.

“Ready, Paulie?” a Death Squadron member named Isaac asked.

“You the boss,” I said.

Issac nodded, affirming he indeed was the boss. He drew back the curtain, and the room was emptier than I expected. There was no Governor, no activists. Two people sat by themselves near the exit of the viewing room. One was an elderly black woman accompanied by a black man about thirty years her junior. It took me a few moments to recognise the scowl of disappointment and disapproval.

“Ann,” I said. “You came?”

Ann made no effort to acknowledge me.

“Anthony,” I said. “You finally made it.”

My nephew smiled slightly at me, not too much. I knew he didn’t want to upset his mother.

The other person in the viewing room was an elderly white man with thick-rimmed glasses. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or slept in days. He sat in the middle of the front row, having the best seat in the house. He then stood up slowly and ambled towards the viewing window. He pressed his face to the glass, and that’s when I recognised his spiteful, hateful eyes.

“Officer Johnson,” I said. “I bet you’ve waited a long time to see this.”

“I refused to die before you,” Officer Johnson croaked. “You sick fuck.”

“I didn’t know Jacob was going to kill your brother-in-law. If I had, I would have stopped him.”

“You blacks are all the same,” he said loudly enough for Anthony and my sister to hear. “You should have stayed in chains.” He grinned and then sat back down in his chair. He turned his head and waved sarcastically at Anthony and my sister. Then, turning to me with his dead-eyed stare, he said, “I hope it hurts like hell, you son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry Jacob killed Ted Corenzo,” I said. “I hope you find peace one day.”

“Shut your mouth and die!” Officer Johnson growled.

I closed my eyes and smiled. “You the boss.”