He popped open a ginger ale and removed the top from his container of potato salad.
“Several weeks ago I thought I might just get an answer to that question,” he said. “But then the person who could have helped me was suddenly found dead inside her car. And I'm quite certain you know who I'm talking about, Dr. Scarpetta. Jennifer Deighton is one of your cases, and although it has yet to be publicly stated that her death is a suicide, that is what one has been led to believe. I find the timing of her death rather remarkable, if not chilling.”
“Am I to understand that you knew Jennifer Deighton?” I asked as blandly as possible.
“Yes and no. I'd never met her, and our telephone conversations, what few we had, were very brief. You see, I never contacted her until after Ronnie was dead.”
“From which I am also to understand that she knew Waddell.”
Grueman took a bite of his sandwich and reached for his ginger ale. “She and Ronnie definitely knew each other,” he said. “As you must know, Miss Deighton had a horoscope service, was into parapsychology and that sort of thing. Well, eight years ago, when Ronnie was on death row in Mecklenburg, he happened to see an advertisement for her services in some magazine. He wrote to her, initially in hopes that she could look into her crystal ball, so to speak, and tell him his future. Specifically, I think he wanted to know if he was going to die in the electric chair, and this is not an uncommon phenomenon - inmates writing psychics, palm readers, and asking about their futures, or contacting the clergy and asking for prayers. What was a little more unusual in Ronnie's case was that he and Miss Deighton apparently began an intimate correspondence that lasted until several months before his death. Then her letters to him suddenly stopped.”
“Are you considering that her letters to him might have been intercepted?”
“There is no question about that. When I talked to Jennifer Deighton on the telephone, she claimed that she had continued to write to Ronnie. She also said that she had received no letters from him over the past several months, and I'm very suspicious that this is because his letters were intercepted as well.”
“Why did you wait to contact her until after the execution?” I puzzled.
“I did not know about her before then. Ronnie said nothing about her to me until our last conversation, which was, perhaps, the strangest conversation I've ever had with any inmate I've represented.”
Grueman toyed with his sandwich and then pushed it away from him. He reached for his pipe. “I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Dr. Scarpetta, but Ronnie quit on me.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“The last time I talked with Ronnie was one week before he was to be transported from Mecklenburg to Richmond. At that time, he stated that he knew he was going to be executed and that nothing I did was going to make a difference. He said that what was going to happen to him had been set into motion since the beginning and he had accepted the inevitability of his death. He said that he was looking foward to dying and preferred that I cease pursuing federal habeas corpus relief. Then he requested that I not call him or come see him again.”
“But he didn't fire you.”
Grueman shot flame into the bowl of his briar pipe and sucked on the stem. “No, he did not. He simply refused to see me or talk to me on the phone.”
“It would seem that this alone would have warranted a stay of execution pending a competency determination,” I said.
“I tried that. I tried citing everything from Hays versus Murphy to the Lord's Prayer. The court rendered the brilliant decision that Ronnie had not asked to be executed. He'd simply stated that he looked forward to death, and the petition was denied.”
“If you had no contact with Waddell in the several weeks before his execution, then how did you learn of Jennifer Deighton?”
“During my last conversation with Ronnie he made three last requests of me. The first was that I see to it that a meditation he had written was published in the newspaper days before his death. He gave this to me and I worked it out with the Richmond Times-Dispatch.”
“I read it,” I said.
“His second request - and I quote - was 'Don't let nothing happen to my friend.’
And I asked him what friend he referred to, and he said, and again I quote, 'If you're a good man, look out for her. She never hurt no one.’
He gave me her name and asked me not to contact her until after his death. Then I was to call and tell her how much she had meant to him. Well, of course I did not abide by that wish to the letter. I tried to contact her immediately because I knew I was losing Ronnie and I felt that something was terribly wrong. My hope was that this friend might be able to help. If they had corresponded with each other, for example, then maybe she could enlighten me.”
“And did you reach her?”
I asked, recalling Marino's telling me that Jennifer Deighton had been in Florida for two weeks around Thanksgiving.
“No one ever answered the phone,” Grueman replied. “I tried on and off for several weeks, and then, to be frank, because of timing and health fortuities relating to the pace of litigation, the holidays, and a god-awful ambush of gout, my attention was diverted. I did not think to call Jennifer Deighton again until Ronnie was dead and I needed to contact her and convey, per Ronnie's request, that she had meant a lot to him, et cetera.”
“When you had attempted to reach her earlier,” I said, “did you leave messages on her answering machine?”
“It wasn't turned on. Which makes sense, in retrospect. She didn't need to return from vacation to face five hundred messages from people who can't make a decision until their horoscopes have been read. And if she left a message on her machine saying that she was out of town for two weeks, that would have been a perfect invitation for burglars.”
“Then what happened when you finally reached her?”
“That was when she divulged that they had corresponded for eight years and that they loved each other. She claimed that the truth would never be known. I asked her what she meant but she would not tell me and got off the phone. Finally, I wrote her a letter imploring her to speak with me.”
“When did you write this letter?” I asked.
“Let me see. The day after the execution. I suppose that would have been December fourteenth.”
“And did she respond?”
“She did, by fax, interestingly enough. I did not know she had a fax machine, but my fax number was on my stationery. I have a copy of her fax if you would like to see it.”
He shuffled through thick file folders and other paperwork on his desk. Finding the file he was looking for, he flipped through it and withdrew the fax, which I recognized instantly. “Yes, I'll cooperate,” it read, “but it's too late, too late, too late. Better you should come here. This is all so wrong!”
I wondered how Grueman would react if he knew that her communication with him had been recreated through image enhancement in Neils Vander's laboratory.
“Do you know what she meant? What was too late and what was so wrong?” I asked.
“Obviously, it was too late to do anything to stop Ronnie's execution since that had already occurred four days earlier. I'm not certain what she thought was so wrong, Dr. Scarpetta. You see, I have sensed for quite some time that there was something malignant about Ronnie's case. He and I never developed much of a rapport and that alone is odd. Generally, you get very close. I'm the only advocate in a system that wants you dead the only one working for you in a system that doesn't work for you. But Ronnie was so aloof with his first attorney that this individual decided the case was hope- less and quit. Later, when I took on the case, Ronnie was just as distant. It was extraordinarily frustrating. Just when I would think he was beginning to trust me, a wall would go up. He would suddenly retreat into silence and literally begin to perspire.”
“Did he seem frightened?”
“Frightened, depressed, sometimes angry.”
“Are you suggesting that there was
some conspiracy involved in his case and he might have told his friend about it, perhaps in one of his earlier letters to her?”
“I don't know what Jenny Deighton knew, but I suspect she knew something.”
“Did Waddell refer to her as 'Jenny'?”
Grueman reached for his lighter again. “Yes.”
“Did he ever mention to you a novel called Paris Trout?”
“That's interesting” - he looked surprised. “I haven't thought of this in quite sometime, but during one of my early sessions with Ronnie several years ago, we talked about books and his poetry. He liked to read, and suggested I should read Paris Trout. I told him I had already read the novel, but was curious as to why he would recommend it. He said, very quietly, 'Because that's the way it works, Mr. Grueman. And there's no way you're gonna change nothing.’
At the time I interpreted this to mean that he was a southern black pitted against the white man's system, and no federal habeas remedy or any other magic I might invoke during the judicial review process was going to alter his fate.”
“Is this still your interpretation?”
He stared thoughtfully through a cloud of fragrant smoke. “I believe so. Why are you interested in Ronnie's recommended reading list?”
He met my eyes.
“Jennifer Deighton had a copy of Paris Trout by her bed. Inside it was a poem that I suspect Waddell wrote for her. It's not important. I was just curious.”
“But it is important or you wouldn't have inquired about it. What you're contemplating is that perhaps Ronnie recommended the novel to her for the same reason that he recommended it to me. The story, in his mind, was somehow his story. And that leads us back to the question of how much he had divulged to Miss Deighton. In other words, what secret of his did she carry with her to the grave?”
“What do you think it was, Mr. Grueman?”
“I think a very nasty indiscretion has been covered up, and for some reason Ronnie was privy to it. Maybe this relates to what goes on behind bars, that is, corruption within the prison system. I don't know but I wish I did.”
“But why hide anything when you're facing death? Why not just go ahead and take your chances and talk?”
“That would be the rational thing to do, now, wouldn't it? And now that I have so patiently and generously answered your probing questions, Dr. Scarpetta, perhaps you can better understand why I have been more than a little concerned about any abuse Ronnie may have received prior to his execution. You can understand better, perhaps, my passionate opposition to capital punishment, which is cruel and unusual. You don't have to have bruises or abrasions or bleed from your nose to make it so.”
“There was no evidence of physical abuse,” I said. “Nor did we find drugs present. You have gotten my report.”
“You are being evasive,” Grueman said, knocking tobacco out of his pipe. “You are here today because you want something from me. I have given you a lot through a dialogue that I did not have to engage in. But I have been willing because I am forever in pursuit of fairness and truth, despite how I may appear to you. And there is another reason. A former student of mine is in trouble.”
“If you are referring to me, then let me remind you of your own dictum. Don't make assumptions.”
“I don't believe I am.”
“Then I must convey acute curiosity over this sudden charitable attitude you're allegedly displaying toward a former student. In fact, Mr. Grueman, the word charity has never entered my mind in connection with you.”
“Perhaps, then, you don't know the true meaning of the word. An act or feeling of goodwill, giving alms to the needy. Charity is giving to someone what he needs versus what you want to give him. I have always given you what you need. I gave you what you needed while you were my student, and I'm giving you what you need today, though the acts are expressed very differently because the needs are very different.
“Now I am an old man, Dr. Scarpetta, and perhaps you think I don't remember much about your days at Georgetown. But you might be surprised to hear that I remember you vividly because you were one of the most promising students I ever taught. What you did not need from me was strokes and applause. The danger for you was not that you would lose faith in yourself and your excellent mind but that you would lose yourself, period. Do you think when you looked exhausted and distracted in my class that I did not know the reason? Do you think I was unaware of your complete preoccupation with Mark James, who was mediocre by your standards, by the way? And if I appeared angry with you and very hard on you, it was because I wanted to get your attention. I wanted you to get mad. I wanted you to feel alive in the law instead of feeling only in love. I feared you would throw away a magnificent opportunity because your hormones and emotions were in overdrive. You see, we wake up one day to regret such decisions. We wake up in an empty bed with an empty day stretching before us and nothing to look forward to but empty weeks, months, and years. I was determined that you would not waste your gifts and give away your power.”
I stared at him in astonishment as my face began to burn.
“I have never been sincere in my insults and lack of chivalry toward you,” he went on with the same quiet intensity and precision that made him frightening in the courtroom. “These are tactics. We lawyers are famous for our tactics. They are the slices and spins we put on the ball, the angles and speed we use to bring about a certain necessary effect. At the foundation of all that I am is a sincere and passionate desire to make my students tough and pray that they make a difference in this botched-up world we live in. And I feel no disappointment in you. You are, perhaps, one of my brightest stars.”
“Why are you saying all this to me?” I asked.
“Because at this time in your life, you need to know it. You are in trouble, as I've already stated. You are simply too proud to admit it.”
I was silent, my thoughts engaged in a fierce debate.
“I will help you if you will allow it.”
If he was telling me the truth, then it was vital that I respond in kind. I glanced toward his open door and imagined how easy it would be for anyone to walk in here. I imagined how easy it would be for someone to confront him as he hobbled to his car.
“If these incriminating stories continue to be printed in the newspaper, for example, it would behoove you to develop a few strategies -”
I interrupted him. “Mr. Grueman, when was the last time you saw Ronnie Joe Waddell?”
He paused and stared up at the ceiling. “The last time I was in his physical presence would have been at least a year ago. Typically, most of our conversations were over the phone. I would have been with him in the end had he permitted it, as I've already mentioned.”
“Then you never saw him or spoke with him when he was supposedly at Spring Street awaiting execution.”
“Supposedly? That's a curious choice of words, Dr. Scarpetta.”
“We can't prove it was Waddell who was executed the night of December thirteenth.”
“Certainly you're not serious.” He looked amazed.
I explained all that had transpired, including that Jennifer Deighton was a homicide and Waddell's fingerprint had turned up on a dining room chair inside her home. I told him about Eddie Heath and Susan Story, and the evidence that someone had tampered with AFIS. When I was finished, Grueman was sitting very still, his eyes riveted on me.
“My Lord,” he muttered.
“Your letter to Jennifer Deighton never turned up,” I went on. “The police found neither that nor her original fax to you when they searched her house. Maybe someone took them. Maybe her killer burned them in her fireplace the night of her death. Or maybe she disposed of them herself because she was afraid. I do believe she was killed because of something she knew.”
“And this would be why Susan Story was killed, too? Because she knew something?”
“Certainly that's possible,” I said. “My point is that so far two people linked to Ronnie Waddell have been murdered. In terms of so
meone who might know a lot about Waddell, you would be considered high on the list.”
“So you think I may be next,” he said with a wry smile. “You know, perhaps my biggest grievance against the Almighty is that the difference between life and death should so often turn on timing. I consider myself forewarned, Dr. Scarpetta. But I am not foolish enough to think that if someone intends to shoot me I can successfully elude him.”
“You could at least try,” I said. “You could at least take precautions.”
“And I shall.”
“Maybe you and your wife could go on a vacation, get out of town for a while.”
“Beverly has been dead for three years,” he said.
“I'm very sorry, Mr. Grueman.”
“She had not been well for many years - in fact, not for most of the years we were together. Now that I have no one to depend on me, I have given myself up to my proclivities. I am an incurable workaholic who wants to change the world.”
“I suspect that if anyone could come close to changing it, you could.”
“That is an opinion not based on any sort of fact, but I appreciate it nonetheless. And I also want to express to you my great sadness over Mark's death. I did not know him well when he was here, but he seemed to be a decent-enough fellow.”
“Thank you.”
I got up and put on my coat. It took me a moment to find my car keys.
He got up, too. “What do we do next, Dr. Scarpetta?”
“I don't suppose you have any letters or other items from Ronnie Waddell that might be worth processing for his latent prints?”
“I have no letters, and any documents that he might have signed would have been handled by a number of people. You're welcome to try.”
“I'll let you know if we have no other alternative. But there is one final thing I've been meaning to ask.”
We paused in the doorway. Grueman was leaning on his cane. “You mentioned that during your last conversation with Waddell, he made three last requests. One was to publish his meditation, another to call Jennifer Deighton. What was the third?”
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