Elias Pratt
September 13, 1985
During the time he’d been incarcerated, Elias didn’t have many visitors. So when a young, thirty-something-year-old woman strolled through the door, ample hips swaying side to side, taut breasts on high alert like they were trying to bust out of her slim, fitted shirt, he was sure someone was messing with him, playing a sick joke to make his life even more torturous than it already was. The woman he’d imagined in his mind was a lot older, plain, and dull.
This couldn’t be the woman he’d been told about.
Yet, here she was before him.
The woman flashed him a confident smile, flicked her long brown hair out of her eye, and sat down. “Hello, Mr. Pratt. My name is Alexandra Weston. Did they tell you I was coming?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes still glued to her chest. “They told me. You’re some kind of reporter, right?”
“I’m some kind of writer. And ... I’d appreciate it if you kept your eyes on me, please.”
He grinned. “Oh, they are on you. Believe me.”
Alexandra frowned. “Let me rephrase. Keep your eyes on mine. I can assure you, my tits have nothing to do with the reason why I’m here.”
Balls and beauty.
She kept getting better and better.
“No offense, but if you wanted me to focus on your lovely face, maybe you should have worn a different shirt.”
Alexandra glanced down, crossed her arms over her chest. Elias shifted his gaze to the woman’s face, noticing her brow had started to perspire. Not a lot. Just a few clear beads of moisture. Just enough to make it obvious in an otherwise frigid room.
“You sure are pretty,” he said. “Bet you get told that all the time though.”
Alexandra gnawed on the inside of her cheek, tapped a bright-pink manicured fingernail on the table. “If you’re not serious about talking to me today, Mr. Pratt, I can leave. There are other death-row inmates across the country willing to be the subject of my next book.”
He leaned forward. “Chill, baby. I like the company. I mean, I’m glad you’re here, glad you picked me. I’m flattered.”
“I didn’t pick you. My publisher did.”
“I saw you at my trial last year. Didn’t know why you showed up day after day. Figured you were with the press or something.”
“I like to do my research.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m here to write a story. Your story.”
“A book?”
She nodded.
“You want to write a book ... about me?”
She nodded again.
“Why?”
“Why what?” she asked.
“Why me?”
“You’ve become a household name. You know that, right?”
He shrugged. “Guess so. I don’t know much about what everyone thinks anymore, now that I’m in here.”
“People want to know more about you. About your life.”
“They know about it already. Been in the paper for the last year and a half.”
“It’s not just your present predicament people are interested in, or the fact you refused to take the stand and tell your side of things in court. It’s your past. What you were like as a child, as a teenager ... people are curious. They find you unique and interesting. They want to know the person you were before you ended up here.”
“Why does it matter now? I’m going to die. Why does anyone care?”
She crossed one leg over the other. “You’re unique. You’re attractive. Especially to all the women out there who see you as more than just a killer. They all want to know you. The real Elias Pratt.”
“What does my childhood have to do with it?”
“Most murderers have a troubled past. They came from broken homes or suffered a form of serious trauma in their lives. You’re different. You weren’t raised poor. You had a good family, loving parents who had made a name for themselves in this town. What I’m saying is you don’t fit the typical mold of a killer.”
“So?”
“So, how does a man like you, living a life of privilege, decide one day he wants to aspire to be a thief and a murderer? What made you act on those urges, or were they even urges at all?”
He leaned back in the metal chair, grinned. “Those are good, solid questions.”
“You’ve been locked up for well over a year now. Have you thought about it? Do you even know?”
He diverted his attention away from her, rubbing his thumb over a callous on his hand. He’d thought a little about what he’d done since he was arrested. Not a lot though. He didn’t see the point. The pastor of his local church had visited a few times, always trying to elicit a feeling of regret from Elias, a feeling of remorse and repentance. The pastor went on and on about the importance of being cleansed of his sins by seeking out forgiveness from God. Elias didn’t believe in God. He didn’t really believe in anything.
Alexandra seemed to sense his thoughts had taken him out of their present conversation.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” she said. “I shouldn’t have started by talking about people and their curiosities. I should have explained what I hope to achieve by telling your story.”
“What you hope to achieve? It’s all about money, isn’t it? You can sit here all day and talk to me about how much you care about my story, about me as a person. Let’s be honest. Your publisher only sees profit, and you only see publicity.”
“I never pretended otherwise.” She glanced at her watch. “I was hoping to achieve more today, but I’m almost out of time.”
“I thought this was an interview. You just got here.”
“This was only meant to be an introduction, Mr. Pratt. They don’t give me a lot of time on these visits. I’ll see what I can do to get a longer session next time.”
Alexandra stood, her chair screeching along the floor as she pushed it beneath the table.
She turned, but he wasn’t done with her yet. “I never agreed to a next time. I only agreed to a first time. Without my approval, you don’t have much of a story, do you?”
“I’m not here to play games. I’ll need to meet with you as much as I’m allowed until I have enough information for my story. Could be weeks. Could be months. Are you in or out?”
“Maybe I’m not interested in a book being written about me.”
“Then why did you agree to our visit today?”
After spending almost every moment of every day wasting away in a cell without the stimulating conversation he craved, he’d grown bored. No one on the inside appeared to have an IQ over seventy, and for some, nearing seventy was even a stretch. Still, the thought of a book written about his life from someone else’s perspective wasn’t appealing. She’d write what she wanted to write, spinning his story any way she chose. Why agree? He knew how she saw him: Weak. Helpless. Malleable.
She was wrong.
Looking at her now, it was easy to determine her type—pushy and aggressive, a woman used to getting what she wanted when she wanted it. And even though he didn’t know her yet, he didn’t need to—he hated her already. And not just her: her kind. All the self-righteous women like her who’d looked down on him his entire life, even though they were all the same class of people.
No.
Even after all the effort she’d gone through to look irresistible to him, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being the patsy for her next story.
He opened his mouth, planning on telling her to get lost, but then stopped when another thought came to mind. In a game of wits, he was smarter. Of this he was certain.
What if she was made to be the fool instead of him?
“Mr. Pratt, did you hear me?” she asked. “If you weren’t okay with me writing your story, why see me today?”
Voice somber and even, he said, “If I agree, what’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“Better food. A different cell. Privileges.”
She tipped her head back, laughed. “I’m a writer, not a magician. You get to tell your truth. Your story. Are you saying you’re not interested?”
He bowed his head, tried to muster up a tear or two. When they didn’t come, he sniffled. “My family has been through enough because of me. I don’t want them to suffer anymore. It isn’t right.”
By the look on her face, he could see his response wasn’t what she’d expected. “Most people I write about want to be infamous, never forgotten. With this book, you won’t be. Not in five years. Not in fifty.”
“I’m not most men. I don’t care about any of that.”
“I didn’t say you were. Look, Mr. Pratt, there’s no set story here. If you’re not the devil everyone has made you out to be, prove it. Now’s your chance to tell your side of things.”
“My side of things was told in court.”
“Not by you. You pled not guilty, let your lawyers do the talking for you, refused to take the stand. You risk nothing by confessing whatever truths you need to confess now. You’ve been sentenced. Nothing will change your fate now.”
“Nothing except my appeals.”
She laughed again. “The appeals will only prolong your life for so long. In my opinion, there’s no hope for a reversal.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Ask me how many murderers on death row I’ve interviewed who survived. Go ahead, ask me.”
She walked to the door, her heels echoing as they clacked along the surface of the floor.
“Hang on,” he said. “How about a parting gift before you leave?”
Again, she turned, this time producing a smile. “What did you have in mind?”
“You can ask me a single question. Anything you like. I’ll answer it.”
It was like a rare diamond being dangled in front of a jewel thief, one he knew she couldn’t resist.
She glanced at a silver watch dangling from her wrist. “We hardly have the time right now.”
“Tick-tock, Miss Weston.”
“Why did you do what you did?”
“Are you asking about the theft, the murders, or both?”
She met his gaze. “I’m asking about the rape.”
The rape. He wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Wasn’t prepared. He needed time. He kicked the chair back with his foot. Stood. Said nothing. The guard walked over, gripping Elias by the arm, warning him to calm down.
“We’re done here,” he said to the guard.
“You said ‘anything.’ Not talking about the rape won’t make it go away, Mr. Pratt,” Alexandra said.
Without looking back, he said, “Get another patsy for your story. We’re done here.”
She gasped, then swore at him, the heels of her shoes clanking the way to the door.
He just laughed.
The game had begun.