by Jodi Picoult
By the time Father Michael rode into the parking lot, I'd decided that if Shay Bourne had cost me my first shot at a relationship since the Jews went to wander the desert, I would execute him myself.
I was surprised that Rufus had wanted me to go to meet Governor Flynn alone; I was even more surprised that he thought Father Michael should be the one to finesse the interview in the first place. But Flynn wasn't a born New Englander; he was a transplanted southern boy, and he apparently preferred informality to pomp and circumstance. He'll be expecting you to come to him for a stay of execution after the trial, Rufus had mused. So maybe catching him off guard is the smartest thing you can do. He suggested that instead of a lawyer putting through the call, maybe a man of the cloth should do it instead. And, within two minutes of conversation, Father Michael had discovered that Governor Flynn had heard him preach at last year's Christmas Mass at St. Catherine's.
We were let into the statehouse by a security guard, who put us through the metal detectors and then escorted us to the governor's office. It was an odd, eerie place after hours; our footsteps rang like gunshots as we hustled up the steps. At the top of the landing, I turned to Michael. "Do not do anything inflammatory," I whispered. "We get one shot at this."
The governor was sitting at his desk. "Come in," he said, getting to his feet. "Pleasure to see you again, Father Michael."
"Thanks," the priest said. "I'm flattered you remembered me."
"Hey, you gave a sermon that didn't put me to sleep--that puts you into a very small category of clergymen. You run the youth group at St. Catherine's, too, right? My college roommate's kid was getting into some trouble a year ago, and then he started working with you. Joe Cacciatone?"
"Joey," Father Michael said. "He's a good kid."
The governor turned to me. "And you must be ... ?"
"Maggie Bloom," I said, holding out my hand. "Shay Bourne's attorney." I had never been this close to the governor before. I thought, irrationally, that he looked taller on television.
"Ah, yes," the governor said. "The infamous Shay Bourne."
"If you're a practicing Catholic," Michael said to the governor, "how can you condone an execution?"
I blinked at the priest. Hadn't I just told him not to say anything provocative?
"I'm doing my job," Flynn said. "There's a great deal that I don't agree with, personally, that I have to carry out professionally."
"Even if the man who's about to be killed is innocent?"
Flynn's gaze sharpened. "That's not what a court decided, Father."
"Come talk to him," Michael said. "The penitentiary--it's a five-minute drive. Come listen to him, and then tell me if he deserves to die."
"Governor Flynn," I interrupted, finally finding my voice. "During a ... confession, Shay Bourne made some revelations that indicate there are details of his case that weren't revealed at the time--that the deaths occurred accidentally while Mr. Bourne was in fact trying to protect Elizabeth Nealon from her father's sexual abuse. We feel that with a stay of execution, we'll have time to gather evidence of Bourne's innocence."
The governor's face paled. "I thought priests couldn't reveal confessions."
"We're obligated to, if there's a law about to be broken, or if a life is in danger. This qualifies on both counts."
The governor folded his hands, suddenly distant. "I appreciate your concerns--both religious and political. I'll take your request under advisement."
I knew a dismissal when I heard one; I nodded and stood. Father Michael looked up at me, then scrambled to his feet, too. We shook the governor's hand again and groveled our way out of the office. We didn't speak until we were outside, beneath a sky spread with stars. "So," Father Michael said. "I guess that means no."
"It means we have to wait and see. Which probably means no." I dug my hands into the pockets of my suit jacket. "Well. Seeing as my entire evening has been shot to hell, I'm just going to call it a night--"
"You don't believe he's innocent, do you?" Michael said.
I sighed. "Not really."
"Then why are you willing to fight so hard for him?"
"On December twenty-fifth, when I was a kid, I'd wake up and it would be just another day. On Easter Sunday, my family was the only one in the movie theater. The reason I fight so hard for Shay," I finished, "is because I know what it's like when the things you believe make you feel like you're on the outside looking in."
"I ... I didn't realize ..."
"How could you?" I said, smiling faintly. "The guys at the top of the totem pole never see what's carved at the bottom. See you Monday, Father."
I could feel his gaze on me as I walked to my car. It felt like a cape made of light, like the wings of the angels I'd never believed in.
My client looked like he'd been run over by a truck. Somehow, in the middle of trying to get me to save his life, Father Michael had neglected to mention that Shay had begun a course of self-mutilation. His face was scabbed and bloomed with bruises; his hands--cuffed tightly to his waist after last week's fiasco--were scratched. "You look like crap," I murmured to Shay.
"I'm going to look worse after they hang me," he whispered back.
"We have to talk. About what you said to Father Michael--" But before I could go any further, the judge called on Gordon Greenleaf to offer his closing argument.
Gordon stood up heavily. "Your Honor, this case has been a substantial waste of the court's time and the state's money. Shay Bourne is a convicted double murderer. He committed the most heinous crime in the history of the state of New Hampshire."
I glanced at Shay beneath my lashes. If what he'd said was true--if he'd seen Elizabeth being abused--then the two murders became manslaughter and self-defense. DNA testing had not been in vogue when he was convicted--was it possible that there was some shred of carpet or couch fabric left that could corroborate Shay's account?
"He's exhausted all legal remedies at every level," Gordon continued. "State, first circuit, Supreme Court--and now he's desperately trying to extend his life by filing a bogus lawsuit that claims he believes in some bogus religion. He wants the State of New Hampshire and its taxpayers to build him his own special gallows so that he can donate his heart to the victims' family--a group that he suddenly has feelings for. He certainly didn't have feelings for them the day he murdered Kurt and Elizabeth Nealon."
It was, of course, highly unlikely that there would still be evidence. By now, even the underwear that had been found in his pocket had been destroyed or given back to June Nealon--this was a case that had closed eleven years ago, in the minds of the investigators. And all the eyewitnesses had died at the scene--except for Shay.
"Yes, there is a law that protects the religious freedom of inmates," Greenleaf said. "It exists so that Jewish inmates can wear yarmulkes in prison, and Muslims can fast during Ramadan. The commissioner of corrections always makes allowances for religious activity in compliance with federal law. But to say that this man--who's had outbursts in the courtroom, who can't control his emotions, who can't even tell you what the name of his religion is--deserves to be executed in some special way to comply with federal law is completely inappropriate, and is not what our system of justice intended."
Just as Greenleaf sat down, a bailiff slipped a note to me. I glanced at it and took a deep breath.
"Ms. Bloom?" the judge prompted.
"One hundred and twenty dollars," I said. "You know what you can do with one hundred and twenty dollars? You can get a great pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes on sale. You can buy two tickets to a Bruins game. You can feed a starving family in Africa. You can purchase a cell phone contract. Or, you can help a man reach salvation--and rescue a dying child."
I stood up. "Shay Bourne is not asking for freedom. He's not asking for his sentence to be overturned. He's simply asking to die in accordance with his religious beliefs. And if America stands for nothing else, it stands for the right to practice your own religion, even if you die in the custody of the state
."
I began to walk toward the gallery. "People still flock to this country because of its religious freedom. They know that in America, you won't be told what God should look like or sound like. You won't be told there is one right belief, and yours isn't it. They want to speak freely about religion, and to ask questions. Those rights were the foundation of America four hundred years ago, and they're still the foundation today. It's why, in this country, Madonna can perform on a crucifix, and The Da Vinci Code was a bestseller. It's why, even after 9/11, religious freedom flourishes in America."
Facing the judge again, I pulled out all the stops. "Your Honor, we're not asking you to remove the wall between church and state by ruling in favor of Shay Bourne. We just want the law upheld--the one that promises Shay Bourne the right to practice his religion even in the state penitentiary, unless there's a compelling governmental interest to keep him from doing so. The only governmental interest that the state can point to here is one hundred and twenty dollars--and a matter of a few months." I walked back to my seat, slipped into it. "How do you weigh lives and souls against two months, and a hundred and twenty bucks?"
Once the judge returned to chambers to reach his verdict, two marshals came to retrieve Shay. "Maggie?" he said, getting to his feet. "Thanks."
"Guys," I said to the marshals, "can you give me a minute with him in the holding cell?"
"Make it quick," one of them said, and I nodded.
"What do you think?" Father Michael said, still seated in the gallery behind me. "Does he have a chance?"
I reached into my pocket, retrieved the note the bailiff had passed me just before I began my closing, and handed it to Michael. "You better hope so," I said. "The governor denied his stay of execution."
He was lying on the metal bunk, his arm thrown over his eyes, by the time I reached the holding cell. "Shay," I said, standing in front of the bars. "Father Michael came to talk to me. About what happened the night of the murders."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does matter," I said urgently. "The governor denied your stay of execution, which means we're up against a brick wall. DNA evidence is used routinely now to overturn capital punishment verdicts. There was some talk about sexual assault during the trial, wasn't there, before that charge was dropped? If that semen sample still exists, we can have it tested and matched to Kurt ... I just need you to give me the details about what happened, Shay, so that I can get the ball rolling."
Shay stood up and walked toward me, resting his hands on the bars between us. "I can't."
"Why not?" I challenged. "Were you lying when you told Father Michael you were innocent?"
He glanced up at me, his eyes hot. "No."
I cannot tell you why I believed him. Maybe I was naive, because I hadn't been a criminal defense attorney; maybe I just felt that a dying man had very little left to lose. But when Shay met my gaze, I knew that he was telling me the truth--and that executing an innocent man was even more devastating, if possible, than executing a guilty one. "Well, then," I said, my head already swimming with possibilities. "You told Father Michael your first lawyer wouldn't listen to you--but I'm listening to you now. Talk to me, Shay. Tell me something I can use to convince a judge you were wrongly convicted. Then I'll write up the request for DNA testing, you just have to sign--"
"No."
"I can't do this alone," I exploded. "Shay, we're talking about overturning your conviction, do you understand that? About you walking out of here, free."
"I know, Maggie."
"So instead of trying, you're just going to die for a crime you didn't commit? You're okay with that?"
He stared at me and slowly nodded. "I told you that the first day I met you. I didn't want you to save me. I wanted you to save my heart."
I was stunned. "Why?"
He struggled to get the words out. "It was still my fault. I tried to rescue her, and I couldn't. I wasn't there in time. I never liked Kurt Nealon--I used to try to not be in the same room as him when I was working, so I wouldn't feel him looking at me. But June, she was so nice. She smelled like apples and she'd make me tuna fish for lunch and let me sit at the kitchen table like I belonged there with her and the girl. After Elizabeth ... afterward ... it was bad enough that June wouldn't have them anymore. I didn't want her to lose the past, too. Family's not a thing, it's a place," Shay said softly. "It's where all the memories get kept."
So he took the blame for Kurt Nealon's crimes, in order to allow the grieving widow to remember him with pride, instead of hate. How much worse would it have been for June if DNA testing had existed back then--if the alleged rape of Elizabeth had proved Kurt as the perpetrator?
"You go looking for evidence now, Maggie, and you'll rip her wide open again. This way--well, this is the end, and then it's over."
I could feel my throat closing, a fist of tears. "And what if one day June finds out the truth? And realizes that you were executed, even though you were innocent?"
"Then," Shay said, a smile breaking over him like daylight, "she'll remember me."
I had gone into this case knowing that Shay and I wanted different outcomes; I had expected to be able to convince him that an overturned conviction was a cause for celebration, even if living meant organ donation would have to be put on hold for a while. But Shay was ready to die; Shay wanted to die. He wasn't just giving Claire Nealon a future; he was giving one to her mother, too. He wasn't trying to save the world, like me. Just one life at a time--which is why he had a fighting chance of succeeding.
He touched my hand, where it rested on the bars. "It's okay, Maggie. I've never done anything important. I didn't cure cancer or stop global warming or win a Nobel Prize. I didn't do anything with my life, except hurt people I loved. But dying--dying will be different."
"How?"
"They'll see their lives are worth living."
I knew that I would be haunted by Shay Bourne for a very long time, whether or not his sentence was carried out. "Someone who thinks like that," I said, "does not deserve to be executed. Please, Shay. Help me help you. You don't have to play the hero."
"Maggie," he said. "Neither do you."
June
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Code blue, the nurse had said.
A stream of doctors and nurses flooded Claire's room. One began chest compressions.
I don't feel a pulse.
We need an airway.
Start chest compressions.
Can we get an IV access ...
What rhythm is she in?
We need to shock her ... put on the patches ...
Charge to two hundred joules.
All clear ... fire!
Hold compressions ...
No pulse.
Give epi. Lidocaine. Bicarb.
Check for a pulse ...
Dr. Wu flew through the door. "Get the mother out of here," he said, and a nurse grasped my shoulders.
"You need to come with me," she said, and I nodded, but my feet would not move. Someone held the defibrillator to Claire's chest again. Her body jackknifed off the bed just as I was dragged through the doorway.
I had been the one present when Claire flatlined; I was the one who'd run to the nurse's desk. And I was the one sitting with her now that she'd been stabilized, now that her heart, battered and ragged, was beating again. She was in a monitored bed, and I stared at the screens, at the mountainous terrain of her cardiac rhythm, sure that if I didn't blink we'd be safe.
Claire whimpered, tossing her head from side to side. The monitors cast her skin an alien green.
"Baby," I said, moving beside her. "Don't try to talk. You've still got a tube in."
Her eyes slitted open; she pleaded to me with her eyes and mimed holding a pen.
I gave her the white board Dr. Wu had given me; until Claire was extubated tomorrow morning she would have to use this to communicate. Her writing was shaky and spiked. WHAT HAPPENED?
"Your heart," I said, blinking back tears.
"It wasn't doing so well."
MOMMY, DO SOMETHING.
"Anything, honey."
LET GO OF ME.
I glanced down; I was not touching her.
Claire circled the words again; and this time, I understood.
Suddenly I remembered something Kurt had told me once: you could only save someone who wanted to be saved; otherwise, you'd be dragged down for the count, too. I looked at Claire, but she was asleep again, the marker still curled in her hand.
Tears slipped down my cheeks, onto the hospital blanket. "Oh, Claire ... I'm so sorry," I whispered, and I was.
For what I had done.
For what I knew I had to do.
Lucius
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When I coughed it turned me inside out. I could feel the tendons tangle on the outside of my skin and the fever in my head steaming against the pillow. You put ice chips on my tongue and they vanished before I swallowed isn't it funny how now things come back that I was so sure I'd forgotten like this moment of high school chemistry. Sublimation that's the word the act of turning into something you never expected to become.
The room it was so white that it hurt the backs of my eyeballs. Your hands were like hummingbirds or butterflies Stay with us Lucius you said but it was harder and harder to hear you and I could only feel you instead your hummingfly hands your butterbird fingers.
They talk about white lights and tunnels and there was a part of me expecting to see oh I'll just say it outright Shay but none of that was true. Instead it was Him and He was holding out His hand and reaching for me. He was just like I remembered coffee skin ebony eyes five o'clock shadow that dimple too deep for tears and I saw how foolish I had been. How could I not have known it would be Him how could I not have known that you see God every time you look at the face of the person you love.
