62

CASEY

Gordon Keegan has seen better days. He shuffles into the courtroom for his sentencing, shackles on his feet and his hands cuffed together in front. He’s got two black eyes, his nose is swollen and cut, and his cheekbone is gashed. Dried blood festers on it.

For six weeks, he’s been in the population with people he helped put away, whether rightfully or wrongfully. They each probably have a case now if they have good lawyers who can help them untangle the mess of their convictions, based on the fact that a known liar and criminal was the one who arrested them. I don’t like that aspect of Keegan getting caught, but I suppose it can’t be helped.

I sit among the other victims, including Elise Pace, who looks like she’s lost at least thirty pounds and aged about twenty years since her son and husband were taken from her. On the other side of me is Sy Rollins’s sister, and next to her is Sara Meadows’ brother-in-law and her neighbor and best friend.

When the judge makes Keegan take his seat, he looks over toward us. Our eyes meet, and I don’t let myself look away. I hold that gaze.

The judge drones on about the nature of his crimes. “And now I’m going to give a few minutes for the victims’ families to testify, starting with Miss Cox. Are you ready, Miss Cox?”

I get to my feet and look back into the gallery where my husband is sitting. He nods at me, encouraging me to go on.

I step to the podium with my printout of the remarks I want to make. I had to type them up because I didn’t want to leave anything out.

I clear my throat and swallow. “My father, Andy Cox, was an honorable, hardworking, trustworthy police officer. He was also a strong family man and the best father a girl could have.”

I look at Keegan and realize he’s not even watching me. He’s looking down at his fingernails as if there’s something there that’s more important than what I have to say. “I’ve come to terms with losing him thirteen years ago,” I say. “What I have trouble coming to terms with is how I found him. You murdered my father in cold blood. He fought you, and there was evidence of that at the crime scene. You covered up that evidence, then called it a suicide and let our family face that stigma. But worse, you staged the body for me to find. I was twelve years old, and the worst thing that had ever happened to me before that was my cat dying when I was six. My dad insisted on burying her in the backyard, and he had a very solemn funeral service in which he told her how much she meant to us. He did it all for me, because he wanted me to be okay with the very first death I experienced.”

My mouth shakes, but I force myself to go on.

“Fast-forward six years. I had gotten an A on a math paper that I didn’t expect to pass, but my dad had stayed up with me into the wee hours the night before, studying for it. I couldn’t wait to get off the bus. He had come home early to meet me and see how I had done. His car was in the driveway, so I bounced off the school bus and hurried to the door. I ran inside, yelling, ‘Daddy!’”

My throat constricts and the words cut off. I don’t want to go on, but I have to. “I found my dad hanging there in the middle of our living room, dead.”

I look at Keegan, and he looks up at me. His eyelids are heavy, dull, and he seems to be taunting me, saying, “What are you going to do about it?”

Well, there’s plenty I can do. I think of leaping on top of him, strangling him with my bare hands. I could do it.

And then I pull myself back, draw a deep breath, and send up a prayer asking God to forgive me, because I have no right to hate Keegan the way he hated me. I ask that Jesus will come down on me and grant me the grace to go on.

I go back to my page. “We all know that you’re a murderer,” I say, “but I want people to know that there’s something wrong in your brain. You are the very definition of a psychopath. You can’t be healed or rehabilitated. It’s only by a full transformation by Christ that you can change at all. But the Bible says there is a point where God turns you over to a depraved mind, and I think that’s what has happened with you.”

Is he laughing? He’s looking down at his legs now, hiding his grin behind his steepled hands, but his shoulders give him away. My lips grow tighter, but I keep going.

“I want you to know that while you were hunting me, you underestimated one thing. You underestimated God. And justice does win.”

I head back to my seat, and I see Dylan looking down at his knees, wiping the tears on his face. I sit there feeling a sense of relief and calm wash over me as Elise stands up and says her piece, and then the others, each of them in turn, one by one.

When it’s over, the judge pronounces his sentence. “Gordon Keegan, I sentence you to six consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.” A gasp falls over the gallery, but Keegan doesn’t flinch or move. He already expected it. His attorney probably convinced him to accept life instead of death by lethal injection, by pleading guilty.

I watch as they get him to his feet and shuffle him out of the room. He is still holding his head high, still prideful, daring anyone to cross him. I’m sure there are inmates at Angola who will take that dare.

When the court is adjourned, I make my way out of the room and go around the back way where I know they’ll be loading him into the prison transport van. I watch as they tighten his shackles and his handcuffs and shuffle him out to the van. There’s media all around, taking pictures and shouting questions as he does his perp shuffle. I watch through a window as he gets into the van, watch as they drive him away.

It’s not until the van is out of sight that I look away. As I turn, I see Dylan waiting at the end of the hall. He’s got his hands in his jeans pockets, and his eyes are red. He looks at me like he’s worried about me, but I walk to him. Just as I’m about to reach him, he opens his arms and pulls me in, and we hold each other for a long moment.

Then he takes my hand and leads me to the front doors, where we’ve agreed I will walk outside to the bank of microphones. I’m ready to talk to the press.

I want them to know that Keegan hasn’t defeated me. I am stronger than I’ve ever been. I have more. I’m loved more.

I have already overcome.