Fin felt as if he was going to jump out of his skin. Was Texas running short of the drug, too? Could this be the solution? He turned up the volume some more.
“The last time the Supreme Court ruled that capital punishment was cruel and unusual was in 1972,” Lisa Hammer said. “That decision, as we all know, resulted in death sentences across the country being commuted to life in prison. In effect, there were no more death rows.”
“Do you think the court will uphold the lower-court decisions in this case?” Kevin Madderhorn asked.
Fin nodded, anticipating the legal expert’s affirmative answer.
“It’s not likely,” Ms. Hammer said.
“Come on, Kevin!” he shouted at the TV. “She’s wrong, challenge her. Ask her about Justice John Paul Stevens. Didn’t he change his position on the death penalty just last year? Ask her about Justices Blackmun and Marshall. Didn’t they declare that they would no longer support capital punishment? Ask her about the moratorium in Illinois. What about all the evidence that support for the death penalty is dwindling? Come on, Kevin. Challenge her. Do your job, man.”
But that segment of the show was over. Fin seized the remote control and clicked off the TV, then slumped back on the couch. What did it matter, anyway, if a purported legal expert predicted the Supreme Court’s decision? It was just one person’s opinion. Besides, whatever the court’s decision, the fact remained that a shortage was a shortage. It was a disruption. An opportunity. Yes, that’s what it was: an opportunity. He jumped from the couch and grabbed his cell phone from the coffee table. I have to talk to Mom. Now.
He tapped his foot on the hardwood floor and counted the number of times the phone rang. Where was she, anyway?
“Mom,” he said into the answering machine, “call me as soon as you get this message.”
“Fin?”
“Mom, you there?”
“Just a minute, let me turn this thing off.”
“Did you watch Issues of the Day?” He blurted the question out even before he heard her answering machine click off.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“We need to find out if there’s a shortage of sodium thiopental in Texas.”
“Slow down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know how we can stop the execution.”
“Fin…” she said, stretching his name out the way she always did when she thought he was being overly emotional or unrealistic.
“There’s a case before the Supreme Court right now that could change everything.”
Hearing the long, weary sigh on the other end of the line irritated him at first, but then he thought about his dad, and his stomach knotted up. He wished he could hold onto his anger at him for not telling them about his cancer, for expecting them not to worry, for being sick in the first place. But he knew better, knew that the anger was just a cover for his fear.
“Is Dad okay?” he asked.
“Sure. He’s not home. I just got up.”
“Are you sick?”
Fin listened as his mom confessed that she’d been up all night. She told him she’d found Raelynn’s mother in Killeen and that now she was trying to find out what happened to her other children.
“I haven’t had much luck so far,” she concluded, “except for some leads I got from Annamaria.”
Fin was speechless. With so much to digest about what his mom had been up to, it took him a few minutes to realize what Annamaria had gone and done. For the first time ever, she surprised him. Well, he told himself, if my sister is able to help Mom with this, then anything is possible. Anything.
“We can save her, Mom.”
“No, we can’t.”
“One thing’s for sure,” he said, “finding out what happened to the other children isn’t going to keep her alive.”
“It’s all I can do, Fin.”
“Just so you know: I’m not giving up, Mom. Not like you.”
There was that long sigh of hers again. He clenched his jaw and pursed his lips at the sound of it. Then he did something he’d never done before. He hung up on her.
TWENTY-FIVE
Bernadette checked the folder’s contents one more time before starting the car. The last thing she needed was to forget something. The letter she’d typed from Maxine Blackwell to the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services was there. So was the DFPS contact-consent form she’d found, thanks to Annamaria, on the Internet, all completed and lacking only Maxine’s signature. Then there was the note reminding her to make sure Maxine brought some form of identification when they went into town to get everything notarized and, finally, the names, locations, and hours of operation for notary publics in Killeen. She opened her wallet. Good. She had enough cash to pay the notary fee—about six dollars per stamp—and to buy lunch for Maxine and herself.
“All set then.” She turned the key in the ignition and drove away from the curb.
Once on the freeway, she looked at her watch and did quick calculations. She should get to Killeen by ten o’clock and be back in Austin to hand deliver the signed and notarized documents to the DFPS office before it closed for the day. She was confident that all would go as planned, in spite of Marty’s skepticism.
“Are you sure about this?” he had asked when he saw her typing the letter.
“There’s a better chance of getting the information if the request comes from the birth mother.”
“I mean, will Maxine Blackwell be okay with this?”
Bernadette had been irritated by his question. “If she had a phone I’d call and ask,” she said, “but I don’t have time to go to see her first and then write the letter.”
“What if she won’t sign it?”
“She’ll do it for Rae.”
But will she? she wondered now. Was she being presumptuous? She asked herself how she would like it if someone took charge of her like this. She didn’t have to think twice about her answer. She wouldn’t like it one bit. Until now, she hadn’t considered the possibility that Maxine Blackwell might be insulted. If anything, Bernadette had assumed she would be grateful.
Maybe Marty was right. She went back to the drawing board, just in case, and by the time she reached Killeen she had a revised plan in her head about how to approach Maxine Blackwell, one that was more sensitive to her feelings and needs and thus more apt to be successful. It might take longer than she’d anticipated, but that was okay. If she didn’t make it to the DFPS office by the end of the day, she could deliver the documents first thing tomorrow morning. No harm done.
Fresh tire tracks on the narrow path leading to Maxine Blackwell’s house emboldened her to drive in this time instead of walking. Her Volvo heaved from side to side as she navigated the maze of bumps, holes, and ditches, yet she somehow managed to make it to the clearing unscathed. Seeing no other vehicle there, she parked up close to the house and, clutching the folder under her arm, headed up the porch steps.
The screen door was still dangling on one hinge, but this time the inside door was wide open. Probably Maxine’s attempt to capture a bit of the morning breeze before the noonday heat became intolerable.
“Hello,” Bernadette called out as she squeezed sideways through the screen door. “Hello? Is anybody home?”
The room looked pretty much as it had when she was there before, except that the bed was unmade and there were dirty dishes on the counter, a coffee cup on the table. She tiptoed inside and saw that the stool by the makeshift kitchen table was lying on its side, as if someone had left in a hurry and knocked it over. When she went over to pick it up, she spotted a red puddle that looked like blood on the floor. She jumped back. Had Maxine Blackwell fallen and hit her head? Worse yet, had someone attacked her? Where was she?
She stumbled from the house and jumped into her car. The tires squealed as she headed back on the treacherous path, holding her breath all the way until she reached the main road. Then she turned off the ignition and told herself to stop and think, to
pull herself together. If something dreadful had happened, the police should know. She reached for her cell phone to call 911.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “We’ve received no reports of any trouble at that location. Maybe your friend had an accident. Have you checked the hospital?”
“What hospital? I don’t think she has health insurance.”
“In that case, ma’am, try the urgent-care hospital center. That’s where the indigents go.”
“Can you give me their phone number? I’m out in the middle of nowhere.”
Her hand shook as she wrote the number on the folder, and she had to repeat it to make sure she’d gotten it right. She called the hospital, and an-eager-to-please receptionist with a drawl that made her sound like Dolly Parton answered the phone on the first ring.
“I’m looking for Maxine Blackwell,” Bernadette said. “I think she might be a patient there.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the receptionist said after a few minutes. “There has been no one by that name in this hospital.”
“Could she have been taken some place else?”
“There are several hospitals in Killeen.”
“I have to see her today. I have to find her.”
“Hold on, ma’am, I’ll see what I can do.”
The instrumental music in the background grated on Bernadette’s nerves, and the wait for the receptionist seemed interminable. What if she didn’t find Maxine Blackwell? Or what if she found her but she was too sick or, God forbid, too injured, to talk? Where was that receptionist? Maybe she should just hang up and drive over to the hospital. But which hospital?
“Are you still there, ma’am?” the receptionist said. “I’ve never used this newfangled thang we have to communicate with other hospitals before just now. I’m sorry, but no one has any record of your friend.”
“I know she’s hurt,” Bernadette said. “I saw the blood.”
“Well, ma’am, I hate to worry you, but might I suggest you check the funeral homes?”
“Good lord.” Bernadette dropped her cell phone onto the car seat and held her head in her hands. Could Maxine Blackwell be dead? With the air-conditioning on full blast and her mind in a muddle, she headed back toward Killeen. Near town, she spotted a Starbucks and drove into the parking lot, thinking a strong cup of coffee and some sugar would help her decide what to do next.
“A tall double nonfat latté,” she said to the young barista as she handed him her Starbucks card, “extra hot. And one of those raspberry scones, please.”
“For here, ma’am?”
“To go,” she said. “Well… no… for here. And a phone book, please.”
She patted her upper lip in time with the tapping of her foot as she scanned the place for a quiet spot to sit down and think. A teenage couple sat at a table in the middle of the room, the girl rolling her eyes at her boyfriend as if her being braless had nothing at all to do with the way he ogled her apple-sized breasts instead of listening to what she was saying. Bernadette shook her head. She never would have allowed her girls out of the house dressed like that, and she knew Annamaria would never let Patty be seen like that in public, either. Over by the window, a middle-aged man in faded blue jeans was engrossed in a thick hardcover book. The only other customers in the place were a bickering couple with a toddler in full meltdown. Bernadette chose a table back in the corner, as far away from them as possible.
She nibbled on bite-size pieces of her scone between sips of coffee and wondered if she should call Marty and tell him what was going on. But no doubt he would have a number of logical explanations for the blood and tell her there was nothing else she could do but come home now, so she decided against it. She opened the phone book instead and wrote the numbers of all the funeral homes in Killeen on a napkin. Then she threw away her cup, gave the phone book back to the barista, rushed out to her car, and started making the calls.
With each call she made, she held her breath. After the last one, she let out one big sigh of relief. None of the mortuaries had heard of anyone by the name of Maxine Blackwell. But now what? She had no idea. She put the car in gear and headed toward the highway and home.
TWENTY-SIX
By midafternoon Bernadette was back in Austin, bereft and empty-handed, feeling as stuck and motionless as the blistering Texas air. She exited the freeway but instead of going home found herself at Central Market, clinging to a flickering hope that being there might help her figure out what to do. The smell of hot peppers on a grill out front made her tongue water and her eyes run. That and a sign announcing the annual arrival of New Mexico’s prized pepper crop inspired her to make an apple-jicama salad with Hatch Chile dressing for dinner. She told herself this was a good sign that new ideas were coming to her already.
Cool, almost frigid, air blasted into her face as she pushed her shopping cart into the market’s sprawling produce section. She shivered as she wandered from bin to bin, checking out one piece of fruit after another, all the while urging herself to be open to new possibilities: a new recipe, a solution that had eluded her. An imperfect piece of fruit or vegetable at Central Market was as rare as finding a needle in a haystack, so when she spotted an apple with a small black blemish on it, she felt strangely compelled to place it in her cart. The luscious smell of organic peaches in the next bin brought with it an image of two-and-a-half-year-old Veronica, standing on a chair with juicy, sweet syrup running down her chin, her tiny fingers oozing with warm peaches from a pie that had been cooling on the kitchen counter. Bernadette brushed a tear from her cheek and placed two perfect peaches in her cart.
“How about a hug for your old buddy?”
Bernadette would have recognized that Texas drawl anywhere. Clarissa hadn’t changed one bit in the almost ten years since she’d last seen her. Her peroxide-blonde pageboy was still perfect, her skin still wrinkle-free, and her cheeks still a natural blush. What a contrast the two of them made. Even though they were the same age, Clarissa didn’t look a day over forty-five in skintight blue jeans and a brightly embroidered Mexican-style blouse, while Bernadette looked every bit her sixty years in sensible wash-and-wear slacks with an elastic waistband to accommodate her thick midsection.
“Good lord… it’s been… well, you know.” Bernadette’s eyes welled with tears as she reached out to hug her old friend.
“I know what it’s been, girl,” Clarissa said. “It’s been way too long, that’s what it’s been. I’ll meet you over in the café for coffee, and I will not be taking no for an answer. First one there grabs a table.”
“And we both know who that will be,” Bernadette said with a laugh.
***
Even though the Central Market café was crowded, as usual, Bernadette was still able to secure the table back in the corner that used to be their favorite spot. She left the cloth shopping bag that contained everything she needed for dinner—a plump organic chicken, a large jicama, some hot peppers and apples for the salad, and the two peaches for dessert—on the chair while she went to get something to eat.
After returning to the table with a cup of coffee and piece of chocolate cheesecake, she tried to keep her imagination in check while she waited for Clarissa. She told herself that not finding Maxine Blackwell at any of the hospitals or funeral homes had to be good news, that if she went back to Killeen tomorrow or the next day, she would find her back at home. But what if she didn’t? What if she never found her? How could she hope to find out what happened to Rae’s siblings without her?
“I know, I know, late as usual.” Clarissa pushed a shopping cart up to the table with one hand while balancing her tray with the other.
Bernadette glanced at the pile of plastic grocery bags in her friend’s cart and the cup of tortilla soup, the Southwestern chicken Caesar wrap, and the sweet-potato pie on her tray; she guessed some people must just be born with the skinny gene.
“So what are you sitting here thinking on so hard?“ Clarissa said. “You and me
got a lot of catching up to do. So start talking, girl.”
Clarissa had never been one for idle chitchat. She laughed now, the same throaty laugh Bernadette had been drawn to when the two of them bumped into each other at the crowded Pecan Street Festival way back when she and Marty first moved to Austin. It hadn’t been long before the two of them were sharing confidences as if they’d known each other all their lives.
Now, just as then, once Bernadette started talking, she couldn’t stop. She told Clarissa everything: how she had died inside when Veronica was murdered—how hard it had been to work with Regis but how he had helped her move through her grief like no priest ever could, that was for sure—her first confrontation with Raelynn Blackwell—how the aborted execution shattered her trust and how it was restored when she met with Raelynn the second time—Marty’s cancer, which, thank God, wasn’t serious and he was going to be fine—how Annamaria was trapped in her own anger and rage while Fin had a polyannish notion that somehow it was still possible to get Rae’s death sentence commuted—how she found Rae’s mother, Maxine, a few days ago but she was nowhere to be found this morning, and how she hoped the poor thing was okay but now she was stuck and didn’t know what to do next.
Clarissa didn’t say anything, which was not like her at all; she just nodded and looked sympathetic. At times, she got teary-eyed. At other times, her eyes got really big, especially when Bernadette told her about her quest to find out what happened to Rae’s siblings.
“You what?” she said. “I just gotta say, honey, no one else on this entire planet would go out of their way like that for the murderer of their child.”
“I have to do what’s right, that’s all,” Bernadette said.
Just Mercy: A Novel Page 15
