Anna sighed. “I don’t think I’ve cooperated very well.” She told Celeste about the night at Kincaid’s and finished by saying, “After I came inside the house, I had the strange feeling that there was a similarity between Mac and my husband, Jack, who committed suicide ten years ago. I’m probably off-base, but I felt Mac was a suicide risk. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since.”
“You may be right,” Celeste said. “Several weeks ago, I believe the Lord told me that Mac was ‘hanging by a thread.’ That sounds like life and death to me.”
“Yes, it does,” Anna responded soberly.
“And it explains why the Father has assigned both of us to help in our different ways.”
“What is your way?” Anna asked.
Celeste didn’t hide the truth. “To fast and pray. And you?”
Anna thought for a few seconds. “To show him the way home.”
After meeting with the lawyers, the judge returned to the courtroom and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the lawyers will now present their closing arguments. Mr. Whetstone, proceed for the State.”
Joe thanked the jury again for the guilty verdict. “In sentencing the defendant, you may consider all the evidence presented during the first part of the case and rely on the factors that convinced you beyond a reasonable doubt of his guilt. Please show this community that you have the courage to do the rest of your duty.
“Your duty is an opportunity,” Joe explained. “Because you have the power to prevent Peter Thomason from killing again. You heard the request of Alexander Hightower. He is not asking for vengeance at the loss of a daughter but pleading for the safety and security of other nineteen-year-old girls, innocent children today but potential victims of the defendant if he is allowed to live and walk the streets of Dennison Springs or some other unsuspecting town in the future. Only you can provide the protection that society needs.”
As Joe talked about the aggravating circumstance of kidnapping and how it was demonstrated by the circumstances, David felt a weight come over his mind and found it difficult to jot notes. He shook his head, but the heaviness remained and he felt that his brain was running at one-tenth its normal speed. The confusion continued until he realized Joe was coming to the conclusion of his argument.
“Do not compromise with evil,” the special prosecutor said. “There was no compromise with death for Angela Hightower, and none should be granted to the man who killed her. Do the right thing. Do the courageous thing. Do the just thing. Do what you need to do for your family, friends, and neighbors.”
Standing directly in front of the jury box, Joe made eye contact one last time with every juror. “On behalf of all that is good and decent, I ask you to sentence the defendant to death for committing this horrible crime.”
Still trying to gather his final thoughts, David looked out one of the tall windows that lined the wall of the courthouse. It was a clear day and the mountains in the distance were etched against a pale blue background. Suddenly, out of the memory bank of a long-ago Sunday school lesson came strength from a verse in Psalm 121. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.” His mind cleared, David stood to face the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “In many places in our world, human life is cheap. Men, women, children, and babies die, and no one seems to care, no one seems to notice. But in this country, you are not part of a mindless killing machine run by a wicked dictator. You are part of a process of American justice that affirms life as incredibly valuable, a gift from God that should not be taken away except in the most extraordinary circumstances of wanton cruelty. Today, at this moment, you hold someone’s life in your hands. By your decision, Pete Thomason will live or die.”
David walked over to the defense table. “We have presented the testimony of several witnesses to help you make your decision. Please consider what you heard from the witnesses who testified during the first stage of the trial and those who have come before you this afternoon.” David summarized the testimony of the witnesses called by the defense, linking them together and hoping that some of the doubts that might remain about Pete’s guilt would influence the jury’s deliberations about his sentence. “And in addition to the testimony of Officer Davidson, Dr. Wilkes, and Mr. Gallegly, I ask you to consider something else when you retire to the jury room. I ask you to think about a single word—a word that will guide you in deciding Pete’s fate.
“What is that word? It’s not mercy, because whatever happens, Pete Thomason will be punished for the rest of his life. It’s not forgiveness, because only those who have been wronged can extend forgiveness to those who’ve hurt them. It’s not revenge, because our society has rejected the anarchy of the lynch mob.”
Pete leaned forward. He didn’t know what David was going to say. But somehow, he knew that the word would have significance for him, regardless of whether the jury heard it or not.
“The word I want you to think about is an ordinary word. It’s not a word that standing by itself inspires emotion or pulls at your heart strings, but it’s a word that is important in choosing what you do with the power entrusted into your hands. That word is life.
“There is no question that most or all of Pete Thomason’s remaining days on earth will be spent in a penitentiary. Does a life in prison have a potential for good? Has anybody ever made a difference in society from behind prison bars? Can life have meaning no matter where it’s lived?”
The nervousness David had felt at the beginning of his argument was gone. He was speaking from his heart. “In deciding your answer to my questions, please consider a few individuals who have shaped history for good from a prison cell. For two hundred years the most influential book beside the Bible among English-speaking people was written by a poor Englishman imprisoned for his religious beliefs. That book was Pilgrim’s Progress. Millions of people have been inspired by John Bunyan’s simple yet profound account of the Christian’s journey through life toward the Celestial City of God. Yet that book was written in a smelly stone cell inhabited by more rats than people.
“Sixty years ago,” David continued, “Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote from a Nazi prison about the nature of Christian discipleship and the responsibility of God-honoring people to oppose tyranny. Bonhoeffer’s powerful words were forged in the crucible of a prison cell.”
David’s voice increased in intensity. “And who can deny the influence of the apostle Paul? A self-confessed murderer, the chief of sinners, yet there has never been a man whose letters from prison have inspired more people and produced greater change for good in a world that desperately needs it. The chains that bound him proved to be the links to his most enduring influence.”
David stopped, put his hands on the railing in front of the jury box and, like Joe Whetstone, made sure he had the full attention of every juror. “I can’t promise you that Pete Thomason will be another John Bunyan, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, or apostle Paul. But I can promise you this, if his life is ended in an electric chair, we’ll never know. Life! May that word echo in your hearts and minds until it becomes your answer to the issue before you.”
In the hushed silence of the courtroom, David returned to his seat.
Judge Danielson cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will now instruct you on the law that will guide your deliberations.”
Mac leaned over to David, “Good job. I couldn’t have said those things and believed them the same way you do. I hope they heard you.”
While the judge talked, Pete examined the now-familiar faces of the members of the jury—the faces that had unanimously decided he killed Angela. Several jurors yawned as the judge’s voice droned on.
Pete didn’t want to die, but the possibility of life in prison without parole was a black hole of never-ending despair. David had said life had value wherever it was lived, but the thought of spending the rest of his life incarcerated with the Cal Musgraves of the worl
d was a terrifying prospect. Early that morning, Cal’s ranting had followed him down the hallway as he left for the courthouse.
“Today’s your day to fry, boy. I saw it in the night. It’s a jury of death. There wasn’t nothing but skeletons in the jury box. You’ve got a hangin’ jury, and they are going to hang you high.”
“Let your decision be unanimous,” the judge concluded. “Notify the bailiff when you finish your deliberations.”
The jury filed out for the second time.
39
God’s finger touched him.
TENNYSON
The door closed, and Lyman Bakerfield assumed immediate command of the jury.
“The judge said we have three choices,” he said. “I’ll write them on the blackboard, and we can discuss them one at a time.” He found a stubby piece of chalk and listed their three options:
Death
Life without Parole
Life with Parole
Lyman pointed to one of the possibilities. “Let’s start with this one.”
Everyone had an opinion, but after an hour of discussion it became clear that one of the choices could be eliminated. They voted, and Lyman erased it from the blackboard.
At that point the debate became more intense. Another hour passed.
“Let’s take a vote, and see where we stand,” Lyman said. He put a number beside each of the remaining options on the blackboard. “Vote by the number.”
John Terry tore up twelve pieces of paper and passed them around the table. Several members held the slips in their hands for several moments before making a final choice. John Terry wrote down one number, thought a moment, then changed his mind. When the slips came back to Lyman, he opened each one, called out the result, and stacked it on the table.
The vote was nine to three.
“Do you think we need to sleep on it?” one juror asked.
His proposal was greeted by a chorus of “No’s!” from the others.
“Hey, I’m in the majority,” he said quickly. “It was just a suggestion.”
There was no movement for almost an hour, until one of the three holdouts remembered a line from one of the closing arguments and changed the minds of the other two.
“Let’s have another vote to make sure,” Lyman said. “All agreed raise your hand.”
Twelve hands went up. “Anyone want to change their vote?” Lyman asked. “This is a huge responsibility.”
Silence.
“Okay. Let’s do it. John, please tell the bailiff we’ve made a decision.”
As the jury filed in, Pete’s heart was beating so loudly he wondered if Mac and David could hear it. He’d had hope before, but after the jury’s verdict finding him guilty, it was hard to summon hope again. The next few moments would determine if Cal Musgrave had been right when he called down prophecies of death. Pete glanced at David, but David was battling his own demons of fear. A death sentence for Pete would haunt him for the rest of his life, bringing constant accusations of things he could have said or done differently to save his client’s life. For the next few seconds, the two young men’s futures were linked at a depth unknown except to those who share the most perilous circumstances.
“Have you reached a decision?” the judge asked.
Lyman Bakerfield stood. “Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
Once again, Lyman looked at the defense table. “We recommend a life sentence with possibility of parole.”
Pete, David, and Mac let out a collective sigh.
It was Joe’s turn to request that each juror stand and assent to the verdict. It was unanimous.
There was relief on one side of the courtroom. Anger on the other.
No celebration by either.
“The defendant will come forward,” Judge Danielson ordered.
Pete slowly walked forward and stood before the judge. Mac and David joined him.
“Peter Thomason, according to the verdict of the jury, I hereby sentence you to life in the Georgia State Penitentiary subject to review by the Georgia State Board of Pardons and Paroles.”
The gavel fell, and Pete was quickly escorted toward the back door of the courtroom. His face red, Alexander Hightower made a move to say something to him, but one of the bailiffs stepped between them.
Mac and David watched Pete disappear from view into the Georgia prison system. Putting his papers in his briefcase, Mac asked, “Do you want to talk to any of the jurors?”
“Not now,” David said. “I’m very, very tired. I probably won’t be able to sleep, but I know I need to try. How about you?”
“I’ve talked to enough juries to last a lifetime, but it obviously didn’t do me any good when it came time to pick this one.”
They were clearing off the defense table when one of the alternate jurors came over to them.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Yes,” Mac said.
“I would never have found your client guilty if I had been able to vote. The case against him didn’t add up in my mind.”
“Then I’m sorry you were an alternate,” Mac said.
“Me, too. Both of you did a good job.”
It was dark and chilly on the sidewalk outside as Mac and David walked slowly back to the office.
“I believe an innocent man is going to prison,” Mac said bitterly. “But then, anyone who expects life to turn out right hasn’t lived very long.”
“Remember what I told you?” David shook his head. “I thought Pete was going to be acquitted.”
“Looks like you got your wires crossed between here and heaven. It’s a big universe, and with everything he has to do, God must have forgotten about Pete Thomason and Dennison Springs.”
When the deputy took Pete back to his cell for the night, Crazy Cal was wide awake and raring to go.
“Did they give you the chair, boy? I know it would fit you perfect.”
“Shut up, Cal,” the deputy said. “He got life. He’ll be out long before they unlock you from the padded cell where you’re going.”
“I ain’t talking to you, buttercup,” Cal sneered. “A life sentence is good, redhead. You ought to be shouting and jumping for joy.”
Pete went quietly into his cell, but Cal refused to settle down. Pete had learned to recognize the different voices that came from the troubled man. There was the mocking voice that greeted him upon his return from court. An angry voice that cursed anyone and everything. An insane voice that talked nonsense. And the most difficult to ignore, a weeping voice that cried, wailed, and moaned pathetically for up to an hour at a time.
When it was time for lights out in the isolation block, Pete couldn’t sleep. There was a small security light in the hall that cast a beam onto his bunk, and if he positioned his Bible at an angle, he could read a third of a page at a time. Turning to the Book of Exodus, he read about the miraculous deliverance of an entire nation from bondage in the land of Egypt. With tears running down he cheeks, he silently cried out to God, Why would you do that for them and not for me? Why am I in bondage when I ought to be free?
Mac turned off the lights and stayed at the office after David left. The adrenaline from the trial had drained out of his veins, and the black bear of depression came out of hibernation to cast its dark shadow over Mac’s soul. David’s speech about the potential of Pete Thomason’s life in prison may have persuaded the jury, but it didn’t persuade Mac. A message of hope for the future didn’t have any relevance to Mac McClain. There were deeper, darker prisons than those built by men, other types of death sentences in which juries had no say.
A glimmer from a streetlight cast a beam onto the bottom drawer of Mac’s desk. He pulled it open, reached in, and felt the cool weight of the pistol in his hand. Slowly, methodically, he put six bullets in the clip and snapped it into place. Holding the fully loaded gun, Mac’s life-and-death debate reached a new level. He’d thought loading the gun would give him a feeling of regret and sadness, but he was surprised when it had the oppo
site effect. He felt excited, almost exhilarated. Now he understood how someone could end his life. It was a good thing. It wouldn’t be hard to stop the pain. It would be very, very simple.
Taking a deep breath, he raised the gun up to his right temple, the open end of the barrel resting lightly against his skin. One quick inward flex of his index finger and all his pain and nightmares would end.
His excitement increased. He squeezed slightly on the trigger, but it didn’t move a millimeter. He pressed harder, sure that the next sound in the room would be one that his mind wouldn’t have time to process. Nothing happened. He lowered the gun and stared at it in the darkness. Turning on the lamp on his desk, he discovered the problem. He hadn’t flipped off the safety.
In the lighted area of his desk beneath the lamp was a slip of paper with Anna Wilkes’s car phone number on it. He should have spoken to her before he left the courthouse. Putting the gun on the table, he decided to play roulette. If the psychologist answered the phone, he would put the pistol back in the drawer. If not, the safety would not stop him a second time. He dialed the number. One, two, three, four rings. He slowly took the phone away from his ear and lowered it toward the cradle when a voice came across the open space, “Hello.”
Mac froze.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
He raised the receiver. “It’s Mac.”
“Are you okay? Where are you?” Anna asked anxiously.
“At the office,” he said dully.
“I’m on the road back to Chattanooga, but I’d like to talk with you. I can come back to your office.”
“I’m tired. I should probably go home.”
“I’d like to see you. When could we get together?”
Mac paused, debating whether he wanted to step back from the precipice of death.
“Mac? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. I guess I’ll be sleeping late tomorrow.”
“How about in the afternoon?”
Mac reluctantly put the still-loaded gun back in the drawer. “What time?”
“About three o’clock at my house. You need a break, and I’d like to take you on an outing.”
The Trial Page 34
