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This snags my attention and I look at the judge. His narrowed eyes are already on me. He runs down the list of charges, finalizing the jury’s guilty verdict to all, then thanks the jury for their service and dismisses them.
“I have my own declarations to proclaim before your sentencing, Mr. Sullivan,” the judge says. “If not for the painfully slow process of our justice system, I would personally see to it that your execution be swiftly delivered. The murders you’ve been found guilty of are a gross and heinous act of the worst kind. In my thirty years as a judge, I have never witnessed a more blatant disregard for human life. Do you have anything to proclaim to the court before you’re sentenced?”
My lawyer taps my foot, giving me the cue to stand and deliver my practiced plea for clemency.
So I do. I stand and lift my chin. “I do, Your Honor. I proclaim that Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” The courtroom erupts. The judge slams the gavel, trying to quiet the outburst. My lawyer hangs his head.
I smile. I’ve waited a lifetime to quote Shakespeare.
“Grayson Pierce Sullivan,” the judge says over the commotion. “You’re hereby found guilty and sentenced to no more than one-hundred years of imprisonment for each life you took. You’re to be incarcerated in maximum security at the New Castle Correctional Facility, where you’ll await to be executed by lethal injection until you’re dead.” He leans over the bench. “No god will have mercy on your soul.”
“You’re welcome,” I say to him with a wink.
He glares at me, but not in confusion. Judge Lancaster has sentenced the majority of Delaware’s capital punishment cases to death. Thirty years of killing with the law as his murder weapon. He’s a killer that uses the law to murder his victims, and he’s enjoying every moment of this—one last hurrah before the state abolishes capital punishment for good.
“Remove this monster from my courtroom.” He slams the gavel one last time, the final note in my life.
The handcuffs circle my wrists. My blood rushes past constricted arteries, the dizziness setting in. The lights flicker in my vision. My breath wheezes out, and I struggle to pull a full lungful of air past the knot in my throat. My lungs are burning.
Young notices first. “Sullivan, it’s all right. We’ll appeal. This isn’t the end—” He’s cut off when the seizure starts.
My jaw locks as the tremor takes hold of my muscles. I feel the frothy foam of vomit dribble down my chin.
“We need a doctor!” Young shouts.
The officer allows my body to drop to the floor. The cuffs bite into my skin as my body quakes. But before the world dims, there she is. Looking down at me. My angel of mercy to take away the pain.
London leans over me and presses her soft fingers to my neck. “He’s going into shock. Anaphylaxis.”
Her deep brown eyes are wide as she stares down. I try to count the specs of gold. They blur and dim until I lose sight of her all together. I’m able to mouth one word to her before the lights go out.
Killer.
18
Free Me
London
“Penicillin.” I look over Grayson’s chart. “Care to explain how Mr. Sullivan was given a medication that his file clearly states he’s allergic to?”
This question is directed to the corrections officer in charge of Grayson’s meals at the courthouse jail. I’ve asked this question of all the officers that have come into contact with him over the past forty-eight hours. I’m no detective and, officially, I’m no longer Grayson’s psychologist, but I demand an answer from someone.
The officer shakes his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know.”
I inhale a sharp breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
I head toward the hallway to slip the chart back into the ER room, and Detective Foster is there to head me off. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’ll take that.” He confiscates the chart.
“I was just leaving.” I attempt to do just that, but the bulky detective again steps into my path.
“Why are you here?”
I cross my arms. “One of my patients has been admitted to the hospital, detective. I’m here doing the same thing you are: trying to figure out how this happened, and more so, to determine how this effects my patient.”
He nods slowly. “You know, the visitor log at the jail only lists one person. You. I find that very interesting.”
“Careful, detective. Someone might think you’re insinuating a respectable doctor poisoned her own patient.”
