Breach of Trust

by David Ellis

  So in that regard, at least, all was right with the world. It was hard to stay motivated. I listened with only passing interest to the platitudes the governor and the two union leaders heaped upon each other. I removed the two AA batteries from my boom box stereo, threw them in my pocket, wrapped the cord around the stereo several times, and placed it in a gym bag I had brought with me today. Other than the stereo, the only other things I had brought to this office were a bunch of my own pens—I hated the cheap, government-supplied ones—and an oversized coffee cup I bought at the Fiesta Bowl a couple years ago when Talia and I went to Arizona for Christmas. I looked around the office and considered stealing the stapler, which was actually nicer than the one at my office, but stealing is wrong and I decided against it. I did think, however, that after the valuable public service I’d performed over the last four months, the taxpayers of this state could spot me a couple of rubber bands, so I stuffed those in my pocket and called us even.

  The boom box and pens safely in my bag, I zipped it up and put it under my desk. It occurred to me that someone might notice that I appeared to vacating my office and might wonder why.

  I still had the rest of the day, though. At least I thought I did. Tonight would be Antwain Otis’s last night on this earth, and I was hoping to have at least one more conversation with the governor about it. I had my own thoughts about the outcome but, at a minimum, I wanted to make sure the issue was thoroughly vetted. I wanted to make sure that Carlton Snow actually thought about this. I thought Antwain Otis was owed that much.

  And then there was the federal government. Moody wanted the governor so badly he probably tasted Carlton Snow when he belched. And like anyone in his position, he wanted a slam dunk. Yes, he could flip the governor’s people and make them testify against their boss, but having someone on tape was always the best way to win a case, and he wanted Snow to incriminate himself to the F-Bird.

  “Happy to take some questions,” I heard the governor say through the computer. I turned to listen, only because it was such a rare occasion that they allowed the governor to speak to reporters.

  “Governor, twelve hours from now, Antwain Otis is scheduled to be executed. Have you considered the petition for clemency and what can you tell us about your decision?”

  “It’s a fair question, Nancy, and I’m going to have an announcement later today on that.”

  “But, Gov—”

  “I can tell you that it’s one of the toughest parts of this job. I’ve been doing a lot of hard thinking about this.”

  Hard thinking. Right. I took a look at the information I’d put together for the governor and Pesh this morning. The woman Antwain Otis killed, Elisa Newberry, was a schoolteacher and mother of four, the youngest of whom was the other victim, five-year-old Austin. Her husband, Anthony Newberry, was a commercial pilot who had to quit his job after Elisa’s death so he could be home more with his three surviving children; he took a lower-paying job as a flight instructor with a community college. The trial judge, in accepting the jury’s recommendation for death at Antwain’s trial, had indicated that Otis had shown “particularly cruel indifference” in spraying gunfire across a crowded thoroughfare; had “repeatedly failed to accept responsibility” for his crime despite “overwhelming” evidence of guilt; and had shown a “singular lack of remorse” during the sentencing phase. The Inmate Review and Release Board, in recommending that Otis’s clemency petition be denied, acknowledged the inmate’s laudable contributions to prison life since he founded his prison ministry but decided that the “utter depravity of his crime” outweighed the good deeds he’d performed “several years afterward.”

  I had no appetite for lunch. I spent that hour making phone calls to some of the state contractors Charlie and I had shaken down, the ones who had been dilatory in paying into the governor’s campaign coffers. Madison Koehler was on tape the other night instructing me to call them, to once again threaten the loss of their state contracts if they didn’t pony up. And now I was completing the act, using interstate wires—a cell phone given me by the U.S. attorney’s office—to coerce these individuals to pay. The actions felt robotic, dialing the telephone, mentioning our “concern that the agreed contribution hadn’t been made” and suggesting that a “review of the contract would be forthcoming,” then hanging up and checking a name off a list. I hadn’t even tried to sound convincing. I just needed to say the words. It was like dotting an i or crossing a t. I’d made seven calls. Seven counts of conspiracy to commit fraud through the use of interstate wires for Madison Koehler.

  I didn’t know if I was going to speak with the governor again before everything happened. But I decided I wanted to. The Antwain Otis issue was one reason. But that wasn’t all. What Lee Tucker said to me had made some sense. I’d had my doubts about the governor. I didn’t know if he was an ignorant figurehead whose minions were doing bad things without his knowledge; a willfully ignorant leader who simply chose not to know the details, who stuck his head in the sand like an ostrich but knew something illegal was afoot; or a guy who was truly selling out his office for political favors.

  I thought everyone deserved to know. The governor’s political career was about to end, regardless, and people staring at long prison terms were liable to say anything to reduce their sentences. All of them—Madison, Charlie, Mac, even Hector—would know the direction to point their finger, and that direction was up. The U.S. attorney’s office would be cutting deals for dirt on the governor, and I wasn’t confident that the truth was going to remain intact during those desperate interactions.

  At four o’clock, my phone rang, and I knew I’d at least have a chance to figure all this out. The governor wanted to meet with me when he arrived back in the city at nine tonight.

  90

  THE F-BIRD FELT LIKE A PAPERWEIGHT IN MY SUIT pocket when I stepped into the elevator at the Ritz-Carlton. It reminded me of the first time I wore it in Charlie Cimino’s office. It had felt odd then, like performing before a hidden camera; I was self-conscious, off-balance, even nervous. But after a while it had felt as natural as wearing a watch, just another accessory when I dressed for the morning. I’d become so good at pretending that it was sometimes hard to tell the difference when I was not.

  I felt a flutter of nerves as the elevator opened on the top floor. I wasn’t sure why. This was old hat to me. Maybe because this was finally ending. But I didn’t think so. The difference was that I cared about the outcome of this evening.

  I nodded to the security detail planted outside the governor’s suite. Bill Peshke answered the door and handed me a document, a press release. “I want you to take a look at what I’ve written up. We’re issuing this thing in a half-hour. And listen,” he added, making sure we had eye contact now, “we don’t need any drama on this one. Okay?”

  I didn’t really know what that meant, and my expression must have given me up.

  “It means the decision’s made, and nobody needs second-guessing now,” Pesh went on. “The governor needs to be focusing on other things right now. We’re less than a week from the primary and he needs to be sharp. I don’t need him up all night agonizing over this.”

  I didn’t really see the governor agonizing over anything, certainly not Antwain Otis. I did a quick read of the press statement and told him it was factually accurate, meaning he got the names and ages of Otis’s victims correct and the like.

  Inside the suite, some technicians were working in the corner on a phone. A man in a blue jumpsuit was explaining things to Madison Koehler and Governor Snow. “We’re all set,” he said. He gestured to a black phone sitting in the corner of the suite. “That phone is piped directly into the chamber. You pick it up and dial zero, Mr. Governor. Zero. The red phone in the chamber will ring. The warden will answer.”

  The technician placed a call on his cell phone. “Okay, ready for the check. Okay.” He hung up the cell phone. He walked over to the black telephone, hit a button—presumably zero—and waited. “Okay, all cle
ar? All clear from this end. Give me the time. Okay, nine-o-six and thirty-two seconds. Good. We’re in sync. Thank you.”

  The technician placed a timepiece on the small table with the black phone. “That watch is synchronized with the execution chamber at Marymount Penitentiary. When it’s twelve midnight on that watch, it’s twelve midnight on the clock in the death chamber. Down to the second.”

  I checked my own watch. I had nine-o-seven, so I was about dead-on with the official time clock.

  “Any questions, Governor? Ms. Koehler?”

  “Can I order a pizza on that phone?” The governor patted the guy on the back. “Bad joke. No, we’re clear. What’s your name again?”

  “Craig.”

  “Great job, Craig. Thanks for your good work.”

  All the regulars—Madison, Charlie, Hector, Mac, and Pesh—remained quiet as the technicians filtered out.

  The governor walked in a circle, then moved toward the black phone, keeping his distance like it was quarantined or something. “I mean, Jesus Christ.”

  He looked at Madison. It was my first shot of him head-on tonight. He still had the blow-dried, polished campaign thing going on, but he looked somewhat out of sorts, a weight to his shoulders. The run of the day’s campaign events over, the final hours now drawing near, it was now dawning on him, the awesome power he held in his hands.

  It occurred to me that he’d probably never had such a moment during his one-year reign as governor. He was a backbencher, a lieutenant governor who didn’t have much to do; then suddenly he was the supreme executive officer of the state in the space of a few weeks. It had probably felt like a whirlwind, like a dream. Suddenly his every action made the news, his public appearances were heavily attended, and he was in constant demand. No doubt, any governor of a Midwestern state, in his mid-forties with a full head of hair, was dreaming presidential aspirations.

  Heady stuff. And surely he’d made consequential decisions before now, but most of them were filtered through professionals who would lay out the policy and, more important, political nuances for him. But this, this was different. You could tell him a hundred times over what the right political call was, but it didn’t change the fact that a man would either live or die, depending on whether the governor picked up that black phone.

  “We have a lot to do—let’s get started,” said Madison, who, like Peshke, was trying to move on from the topic that seemed to be dominating the governor’s thoughts. She was right, I thought, as everyone settled into his or her position for the nightly post-campaigning strategy, and she was wrong. In all likelihood, tonight was going to the last night this group would meet. Other than Bill Peshke, who as far as I know hadn’t done anything wrong, everybody in this room was probably going to be arrested tomorrow, with the possible exception of Carlton Snow.

  Madison and Peshke laid out the polling numbers (Snow still held a six-point lead over Willie Bryant), the fundraising stats (Snow had 2.2 million in the till to Bryant’s 1.3), and the projected television buys for the final days of the primary. Through it all, Governor Snow remained largely silent, offering only tepid words of encouragement as his eyes were glued over everyone’s heads. The liquor was flowing as usual—these people were remarkably good at staying focused through booze—but the governor had abstained.

  An hour passed quickly. When I checked my watch, I realized it was coming right up on ten P.M. Two hours left. If I was following Chris Moody’s direction, I was supposed to be engaging the group, but primarily the governor, in discussions of the illegal things we were doing. But I stayed silent. I was watching the governor, trying to read him, hoping—I realized it now, hoping—that he wasn’t the person the federal government thought he was.

  “Tomorrow,” said Madison. “Eight A.M. is the prayer breakfast at Newport Baptist. Nine-thirty is the domestic violence shelter over on Boughton. Ten-thirty’s the signing ceremony for the autism insurance bill. At eleven-thirty we file the appointment for Judge Ippolito and issue the press release. Pesh has the release and he has the informational that Jason wrote up that Pesh played with a little.”

  So Chris Moody had been correct—the Ippolito appointment was happening tomorrow. That meant that Moody had managed to get in place some additional surveillance that didn’t include me. He probably had numerous sources now. It must be killing him that he’d have to abort now and make the arrests. I wondered if that was really going to happen. Moody had indicated that tonight might be the last opportunity. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust anybody.

  “Noon is the funder with Senator Loman,” Madison continued. “Then we fly to Summit County for the ICBL rally—”

  “Hang on,” said the governor. He got out of his chair and began to pace. “I want to go over Antwain Otis one more time. One more time.”

  The governor’s aides collectively deflated.

  “Pesh, you first. Go ahead.”

  I assumed Peshke was distressed, judging from our prior conversation, but he was smooth as silk. “A violent crime. Senseless murders. Nothing in terms of mitigating what he did, Governor. He robbed a store and then fired into a crowded sidewalk and street. Senseless and brutal. Yes, he’s got that ministry thing, but Governor, you know what everyone will say. That’s a song everyone’s heard before. You’re caught dead to rights and so you find God.”

  “It seems like he’s sincere,” said the governor. “I mean, did you read those affidavits?”

  “Yes, and I’m not—I’m not saying he’s not sincere. Maybe he is. But I’m talking about the perception, sir. You’re a Democrat. You’re already soft on crime compared to the GOP challenger, no matter what you do. No matter what. Commuting his sentence will be a tremendous gift to Edgar Trotter in the general.”

  When it was clear that he was done, the governor nodded at Madison.

  “You can’t commute his sentence, sir,” she said. “You might be able to get away with it if his guilt were in doubt. That’s what the death penalty opponents always talk about. Unfair trials. Miscarriages of justice. Coerced confessions. None of that’s present here. Everyone knows he’s guilty. What he did was ruin a family. The turning-to-God stuff? Pesh is right. That’s the same-old, same-old. Maybe if this wasn’t an election year. Maybe. But if you commute his sentence, you might as well be saying that you’re opposed to the death penalty. If you won’t permit an execution when the guy is dead-to-rights guilty and his crime was a double murder of a pretty young mother and her toddler son, then you won’t ever allow one. That’s how it gets painted, sir. You don’t want to run in the general as being opposed to the death penalty. But that’s exactly what you’ll do.”

  The governor nodded. I could see this was helping him. He seemed to be relieved. “Hector,” he said.

  Hector cleared his throat. “I pretty much agree with everything that’s been said. But keep in mind, Carl, you still have a primary. Don’t be so sure Willie Bryant doesn’t run ads downstate of a pretty young white lady and her little white boy next to the mug shot of this tough-looking black guy that gunned them down.”

  I was glad that someone brought up the racial thing. Hector, being the only nonwhite in the room, probably felt most comfortable saying it.

  “That’s very true,” Peshke agreed. “Very true.”

  “Mac?” the governor said.

  “I’m just thinking of what Hector said, those ads. The union guys? Y’know, we got SLEU and ICBL—we’re getting their money and their people on the ground. But those rank-and-file members? When they go into the polling booth, last I checked, it’s still a secret how they vote. Those union boys, they’re not so liberal on things like the death penalty. Those ads would work downstate. If Willie’s polls are the same as ours and everyone else’s, he’ll have nothing to lose in the last few days.”

  “You pick up a grand total of zero votes if you cut this guy a break,” said Madison. “But you’ll lose votes. And not just downstate. You’ll lose some in the city, too. It’s a net loss. And for what?
I mean, if you’re going to have a death penalty, this guy deserves it.”

  The governor rubbed his hands together. “Charlie, you wanna say anything?”

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds like a net loss. I can’t disagree with anything I heard.”

  “Okay. Okay.” The governor breathed a heavy sigh. It was clear that the governor had heard all of this before. He wasn’t asking for a debate. He was asking for reassurance, for confirmation of a decision he’d already made. “That’s all for tonight, everyone. I need some alone time.”

  Where there would normally be a quick reaction—sure, Governor, see you bright and early—there was a pause. But Madison stood up and then so did everyone else.

  “Jason,” said the governor, “I’d like you to stay.”

  91

  THE GOVERNOR GRABBED A BOTTLE OF WATER FROM the refrigerator and offered me one, which I declined. He kept his distance from both me and the black telephone in the corner of the room, preferring the safety of the picture window.

  “Lang Trotter, before he left to become AG, he told me there is never a time when you feel more like a governor than when you have the black phone. He had two on his watch. Two executions. He said you never forget these nights. Now I know what he meant.” He looked at his watch. “This guy’s going to die in an hour and forty-five minutes.”

  “Is he?” I asked.

  He looked at me a moment before breaking eye contact. The last time the two of us were alone, it didn’t end so well, and it was a fresh memory, having happened only last night. So far he hadn’t acknowledged it, delegating the task to Hector, which was fine with me.

  “Is he?” I repeated.

  The governor glanced back at me, inclined his head a click, just enough to show what he thought of my perceived naïveté. “I didn’t pull the trigger. I didn’t prosecute him. I didn’t convict him, and I didn’t sentence him to death. People who know a whole lot more about Antwain Otis and his crimes did those things.”