by Jodi Picoult
I looked down at my hands, at the dark blotches of Kaposi's sarcoma that had already begun to blend into one another, turning my skin as dark as Adam's, as if my punishment were to reinvent myself in his image.
"Please don't do this," I whispered. But I was begging to stop something that had already started. I was praying, although I couldn't remember to whom.
Maggie
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After court had adjourned for the weekend, I took a trip to the ladies' room. I was sitting in a stall when suddenly a micro phone snaked underneath the metal wall from the cubicle beside mine. "I'm Ella Wyndhammer from FOX News," a woman said. "I wonder if you have a comment about the fact that the White House has given a formal statement about the Bourne trial and the separation of church and state?"
I hadn't been aware that the White House had given a formal statement; there was a part of me that shivered with a thrill to know that we'd attracted that much attention. Then I considered what the statement most likely had been, and how it probably wouldn't help my case at all. And then I remembered that I was in the bathroom.
"Yeah, I've got a comment," I said, and flushed.
Because I didn't want to be ambushed by Ella Wyndhammer or any of the other hundred reporters crawling over the steps of the courthouse like lichen, I retreated into a foxhole--okay, an attorney-client conference room--and locked the door. I took out a legal pad and began to write my closing for Monday, hoping that by the time I finished, the reporters would have moved onto a fresher kill.
It was dark when I slipped on my heels again and packed away my notes. The lights had been turned off in the courthouse; distantly, I could hear a custodian buffing the floors. I walked through the lobby, past the dormant metal detectors, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
The majority of the media had packed up for the night. In the distance, though, I could see one tenacious reporter holding his microphone. He called out my name.
I forged past him. "No comment," I muttered, and then I realized he wasn't a reporter, and he wasn't holding a microphone.
"It's about time," Christian said, and he handed me the rose.
MICHAEL
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"You're his spiritual advisor," Warden Coyne said when he phoned me at three in the morning. "Go give him some advice."
I had tried to explain to the warden that Shay and I weren't quite on speaking terms, but he hung up before I got the chance. Instead, with a sigh, I dragged myself out of bed and rode to the prison. Instead of taking me to I-tier, however, the CO led me elsewhere. "He's been moved," the officer explained.
"Why? Did someone hurt him again?"
"Nah, he was doing a good job of that on his own," he said, and as we stopped in front of Shay's cell, I understood.
Bruises mottled most of his face. His knuckles were scraped raw. A trickle of blood ran down his left temple. He was chained at the wrists and ankles and belly, even though he was inside the cell. "Why haven't you called a doctor?" I demanded.
"He's been here three times," the CO said. "Our boy, here, keeps ripping off the bandages. That's why we had to cuff him."
"If I promise you that he'll stop doing whatever he's doing--"
"Slamming his head into the wall?"
"Right. If I give you my word, will you take off the handcuffs?" I turned to Shay, who was studiously avoiding me. "Shay?" I said. "How does that sound?"
He didn't react one way or another, and I had no idea how I was going to convince Shay to stop harming himself, but the CO motioned him toward the cell door and removed the cuffs from his wrists and ankles. The belly chain, however, stayed on. "Just in case," he said, and left.
"Shay," I said. "Why are you doing this?"
"Get the fuck away from me."
"I know you're scared. And I know you're angry," I said. "I don't blame you."
"Then I guess something's changed. Because you sure did, once. You, and eleven other people." Shay took a step forward. "What was it like, in that room? Did you sit around talking about what kind of monster would do those horrible things? Did you ever think that you hadn't gotten the whole story?"
"Then why didn't you tell it?" I burst out. "You gave us nothing, Shay. We had the prosecution's explanation of what had happened; we heard from June. But you didn't even stand up and ask us for a lenient sentence."
"Who would believe what I had to say, over the word of a dead cop?" he said. "My own lawyer didn't. He kept talking about how we ought to use my troubled childhood to get me off--not my story of what happened. He said I didn't look like someone the jury would trust. He didn't care about me; he just wanted to get his five seconds on the news at night. He had a strategy. Well, you know what his strategy was? First he told the jury I didn't do it. Then it comes time for sentencing and he says: 'Okay, he did it, but here's why you shouldn't kill him for it.' You might as well admit that pleading not guilty in the first place was a lie."
I stared at him; stunned. It had never occurred to me during the capital murder trial that all this might be whirling around in Shay's head; that the reason he did not get up and beg for clemency during sentencing was because in order to do that, it felt like he'd also be admitting to the crime. Now that I looked back on it, it had felt like the defense had changed their tune between the penalty phase and the sentencing phase of the trial. It had made it harder to believe anything they said.
And Shay? Well, he'd been sitting right there, with his unwashed hair and his vacant eyes. His silence--which I'd read as pride, or shame--might only have been the understanding that for people like him, the world did not work the way it should. And I, like the other eleven jurors, had judged him before any verdict was given. After all, what kind of man gets put on trial for a double murder? What prosecutor seeks the death penalty without good reason?
Since I'd become his spiritual advisor, he'd told me that what had happened in the past didn't matter now, and I'd taken that to mean that he wouldn't accept responsibility for what he'd done. But it could also have meant that in spite of his innocence, he knew he was still going to die.
I'd been present at that trial; I'd heard all the testimony. To think Shay might not have deserved a death sentence seemed ridiculous, impossible.
Then again, so were miracles.
"But Shay," I said quietly, "I heard that evidence. I saw what you did."
"I didn't do anything." He ducked his head. "It was because of the tools. I left them at the house. No one came when I knocked on the door so I just went inside to get them ... and then I saw her."
I felt my stomach turn over. "Elizabeth."
"She used to play with me. A staring game. Whoever smiled first, that was the loser. I used to get her every time, and then one day while we were staring she lifted up my screwdriver--I didn't even know she'd taken it--and waved it around like a maniac with a knife. I burst out laughing. I got you, she said. I got you. And she did--she had me, one hundred percent." His face twisted. "I never would have hurt her. When I came in that day, she was with him. He had his pants down. And she was--she was crying ... he was supposed to be her father." He flung an arm up over his face, as if he could stop himself from seeing the memory. "She looked up at me, like it was a staring contest, but then she smiled. Except this time, it wasn't because she lost. It was because she knew she was going to win. Because I was there. Because I could rescue her. My whole life, people looked at me like I was a fuckup, like I couldn't do anything right--but she, it was like she believed in me," Shay said. "And I wanted--God, I wanted to believe her."
He took a deep breath. "I grabbed her and ran upstairs, to the room I was finishing. I locked the door. I told her we would be safe there. But then there was a shot, and the whole door was gone, and he came in and pointed his gun at me."
I tried to imagine what it would be like to be Shay--easily confused and unable to communicate well--and to suddenly have a pistol thrust in my face.
I would have panicked,
too.
"There were sirens," Shay said. "He'd called them in. He said they were coming for me and that no cop would believe any story from a freak like me. She was screaming, 'Don't shoot, don't shoot.' He said, 'Get over here, Elizabeth,' and I grabbed the gun so he couldn't hurt her and we were fighting and both our hands were on it and it went off and went off again." He swallowed. "I caught her. The blood, it was everywhere; it was on me, it was on her. He kept calling her name but she wouldn't look at him. She stared at me, like we were playing our game; she stared at me, except it wasn't a game ... and then even though her eyes were open, she stopped staring. And it was over even though I didn't smile." He choked on a sob, pressed his hand against his mouth. "I didn't smile."
"Shay," I said softly.
He glanced up at me. "She was better off dead."
My mouth went dry. I remembered Shay saying that same sentence to June Nealon at the restorative justice meeting, her storming out of the room in tears. But what if we'd taken Shay's words out of context? What if he truly believed Elizabeth's death was a blessing, after what she'd suffered at the hands of her stepfather?
Something snagged in the back of my mind, a splinter of memory. "Her underpants," I said. "You had them in your pocket."
Shay stared at me as if I were an idiot. "Well, that's because she didn't have a chance to put them back on yet, before everything else happened."
The Shay I had grown to know was a man who could close an open wound with a brush of his hand, yet who also might have a breakdown if the mashed potatoes in his meal platter were more yellow than the day before. That Shay would not see anything suspicious about the police finding a little girl's underwear in his possession; it would make perfect sense to him to grab them when he grabbed Elizabeth, for the sake of her modesty.
"Are you telling me the shootings were accidental?"
"I never said I was guilty," he answered.
The pundits who downplayed Shay's miracles were always quick to point out that if God were to return to earth, He wouldn't choose to be a murderer. But what if He hadn't? What if the whole situation had been misunderstood; what if Shay had not willfully, intentionally killed Elizabeth Nealon and her stepfather--but in fact had been trying to save her from him?
It would mean that Shay was about to die for someone else's sins.
Again.
"Not a good time," Maggie said when she came to the door.
"It's an emergency."
"Then call the cops. Or pick up your red phone and dial God directly. I'll give you a call tomorrow morning." She started to close the door, but I stuck my foot inside.
"Is everything all right?" A man with a British accent was suddenly standing beside Maggie, who had turned beet red.
"Father Michael," she said. "This is Christian Gallagher."
He held out his hand to me. "Father. I've heard all about you."
I hoped not. I mean, if Maggie was having a date, clearly there were better topics of conversation.
"So," Christian asked amiably. "Where's the fire?"
I felt heat rising to the back of my neck. In the background, I could hear soft music playing; there was half a glass of red wine in the man's hand. There was no fire; it was already burning, and I had just thrown a bucket of sand on it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--" I stepped backward. "Have a nice night."
I heard the door close behind me, but instead of walking to my bike, I sat down on the front stoop. The first time I'd met Shay, I'd told him that you can't be lonely if God is with you all the time, but that wasn't entirely true. He's lousy at checkers, Shay had said. Well, you couldn't take God out to a movie on a Friday night, either. I knew that I could fill the space a companion normally would with God; and it was more than enough. But that wasn't to say I didn't feel that phantom limb sometimes.
The door opened, and into the slice of light stepped Maggie. She was barefoot, and she had her power-suit coat draped over her shoulders. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to ruin your night."
"That's okay. I should have known better than to assume all the planets had aligned for me." She sank down beside me. "What's up?"
In the dark, with her face lit in profile by the moon, she was as beautiful as any Renaissance Madonna. It struck me that God had chosen someone just like Maggie when He picked Mary to bear His Son: someone willing to take the weight of the world on her shoulders, even when it wasn't her own burden. "It's Shay," I said. "I think he's innocent."
Maggie
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I was not particularly surprised to hear what Shay Bourne had told the priest.
No, what surprised me was how fervently he'd fallen for it--hook, line, and sinker.
"It's not about protecting Shay's rights anymore," Michael said. "Or letting him die on his own terms. We're talking about an innocent man being killed."
We had moved into the living room, and Christian--well, he was sitting on the other end of the couch pretending to do a Sudoku puzzle in the newspaper, but actually listening to every word we said. He'd been the one to come outside and invite me back into my own home. I fully intended to pop Father Michael's bubble of incensed righteousness and get back to the spot I'd been in before he arrived.
Which was flat on my back, with Christian's hand moving over my side, showing me where you made the incision to remove a gallbladder--something that, in person, was far more exciting than it sounds.
"He's a convicted murderer," I said. "They learn how to lie before they learn how to walk."
"Maybe he never should have been convicted," Michael said.
"You were on the jury that found him guilty!"
Christian's head snapped up. "You were?"
"Welcome to my life," I sighed. "Father, you sat through days of testimony. You saw the evidence firsthand."
"I know. But that was before he told me that he walked in on Kurt Nealon molesting his own stepdaughter; and that the gun went off repeatedly while he was struggling to get it out of Kurt's hand."
At that, Christian leaned forward. "Well. That makes him a bit of a hero, doesn't it?"
"Not when he still kills the girl he's trying to rescue," I said. "And why, pray tell, did he not gift his defense attorney with this information?"
"He said he tried, but the lawyer didn't think it would fly."
"Well, gee," I said. "Doesn't that speak volumes?"
"Maggie, you know Shay. He doesn't look like a clean-cut American boy, and he didn't back then, either. Plus, he'd been found with a smoking gun, and a dead cop and girl in front of him. Even if he told the truth, who would have listened? Who's more likely to be cast as a pedophile--the heroic cop and consummate family man ... or the sketchy vagrant who was doing work in the house? Shay was doomed before he ever walked into a courtroom."
"Why would he take the blame for someone else's crime?" I argued. "Why not tell someone--anyone--in eleven years?"
He shook his head. "I don't know the answer to that. But I'd like to keep him alive long enough to find out." Father Michael glanced at me. "You're the one who says the legal system doesn't always work for everyone. It was an accident. Manslaughter, not murder."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Christian interrupted. "But you can't be sentenced to death for manslaughter, can you?"
I sighed. "Do we have any new evidence?"
Father Michael thought for a minute. "He told me so."
"Do we have any evidence," I repeated.
His face lit up. "We have the security camera outside the observation cell," Michael said. "That's got to be recorded somewhere, right?"
"It's still just a tape of him telling you a story," I explained. "It's different if you tell me, oh, that there's semen we can link to Kurt Nealon ..."
"You're an ACLU lawyer. You must be able to do something ..."
"Legally, there's nothing we can do. We can't reopen his case unless there's some fantastic forensic proof."
"What about calling the governor?" Christian suggested.
/> Our heads both swiveled toward him.
"Well, isn't that what always happens on TV? And in John Grisham novels?"
"Why do you know so much about the American legal system?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I used to have a torrid crush on the Partridge girl from L.A. Law."
I sighed and walked to the dining room table. My purse was slogged across it like an amoeba. I dug inside for my cell phone, punched a number. "This better be good," my boss growled on the other end of the line.
"Sorry, Rufus. I know it's late--"
"Cut to the chase."
"I need to call Flynn, on behalf of Shay Bourne," I said.
"Flynn? As in Mark Flynn the governor? Why would you want to waste your last appeal before you even get a verdict back from Haig?"
"Shay Bourne's spiritual advisor is under the impression that he was falsely convicted." I looked up to find Christian and Michael both watching me intently.
"Do we have any new evidence?"
I closed my eyes. "Well. No. But this is really important, Rufus."
A moment later, I hung up the phone and pressed the number I'd scrawled on a paper napkin into Michael's hand. "It's the governor's cell number. Go call him."
"Why me?"
"Because," I said. "He's Catholic."
"I have to leave," I had told Christian. "The governor wants us to come to his office right now."
"If I had a quid for every time a girl's used that one on me," he said. And then, just as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he kissed me.
Okay, it had been a quick kiss. And one that could have ended a G-rated movie. And it had been performed in front of a priest. But still, it looked completely natural, as if Christian and I had been kissing at the ends of sentences for ages, while the rest of the world was still hung up on punctuation.
Here's where it all went wrong. "So," I had said. "Maybe we could get together tomorrow?"
"I'm on call for the next forty-eight hours," he'd said. "Monday?"
But Monday I was in court again.
"Well," Christian said. "I'll call."
I was meeting Father Michael at the statehouse, because I wanted him to go home and get clothing that was as priestly as possible--the jeans and button-down shirt in which he'd come to my door weren't going to win us any favors. Now, as I waited for him in the parking lot, I replayed every last syllable of my conversation with Christian ... and began to panic. Everyone knew that when a guy said he'd call, it really meant that he wouldn't--he just wanted a swift escape. Maybe it had been the kiss, which was the precursor to that whole line of conversation. Maybe I had garlic breath. Maybe he'd just spent enough time in my company to know I wasn't what he wanted.
