Rogue Lawyer

by John Grisham

  “Oh, I don’t know, Link. I’m told that some folks, right before they pass, like to get things right with God. Confess their sins, stuff like that.”

  “That might take some time.”

  Contrition would be an inexcusable act of weakness for a mobster like Link. He has absolutely no remorse, for the Nagy murders or for all those before them. He glares at me and says, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to be here, to make sure the final appeals run their course. To give advice.”

  “And your advice is to talk to a chaplain?”

  We’re startled by a loud knock on the door. It opens immediately and a man in a cheap suit strolls in, with two guards as escorts. He says, “Mr. Scanlon, I’m Jess Foreman, assistant warden.”

  “A real pleasure,” Link says without taking his eyes off the television.

  Foreman ignores me and says, “I have a list of all those who will witness the execution. There’s nobody on your list, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Link ignores this. Foreman waits, then says, “What about your lawyer?” He looks at me.

  “I’ll be there,” I say. The lawyer is always invited to watch.

  “Anybody from Judge Nagy’s family?” I ask.

  “Yep, all three of his children.” Foreman places the list on the desk and leaves. As the door slams behind him, Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.

  It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work. The scene outside is frantic as police and firemen scurry about. Smoke boils from a second-floor window. A breathless reporter is moving along the street with his cameraman in tow, looking for a better angle and gushing on about what’s happening.

  Link’s eyes glow as he watches. I say, “Wow, another coincidence.” But Link does not hear me. I try to act cool, calm, as if this is no big deal. A bomb here, a bomb there. Couple of phone calls from death row and the fuses get lit. But I am astonished.

  Who might be next? Another judge, perhaps the one who presided over his trial and sentenced him to death? That was Judge Cone, since retired, and for about two years, during and after the trial, he had armed protection. Perhaps the jurors? They lived cautiously thereafter with the cops close by. No one was hurt or threatened.

  Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”

  I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”

  He ignores this. We watch the television for a while. CNN picks up the story and in its usual, hysterical fashion soon has us on red alert, as if jihadists were invading.

  Link is smiling.

  Half an hour later, the warden is back, fidgeting more than ever. He pulls me out of the room and hisses, “You’ve heard about the Fifteenth Circuit?”

  “We’re watching it.”

  “You gotta stop him.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t ‘Who’ me, dammit! You know what I’m talking about.”

  “We’re not in control here, Warden. The courts run their own schedules. Link’s boys have their orders, evidently. Besides, the bombings might be coincidental.”

  “Yeah, right. The FBI is on the way here right now.”

  “Oh, that’s real good, real smart. My client gets the needle in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, yet the FBI wants to grill him about these bombings. He’s a seasoned thug, Warden, a gangster from the old school. Battle hardened. He’ll spit on any FBI agent within twenty feet.”

  He looks like he’s about to faint. “We gotta do something,” he says, wild-eyed. “The governor’s yelling at me. Everybody’s yelling at me.”

  “Well, it’s up to the gov, if you ask me. He grants the reprieve, and I suppose Link stops the bombing campaign. Not sure, though, because he’s not listening to me.”

  “Can you ask him?”

  I laugh out loud. “Sure, Warden, I’ll just have a little heart-to-heart with my client, get him to confess, and convince him to stop whatever he’ll admit to doing. No problem.”

  He’s too ashen to strike back, so he leaves, shaking his head, chewing his nails, another bureaucrat thoroughly overwhelmed with decision making. I step back into the room and take a chair. Link is glued to the television.

  “That was the warden,” I say. “And they’d really appreciate it if you’d call off the dogs.”

  No response. No acknowledgment.

  CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.

  His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.

  Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.

  Another explosion.

  3.

  The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.

  As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One of their clerks will deny our petition any minute now.

  The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years.

  I’m tempted to ask Link, “Who’s next?” but let it pass. We’re playing gin rummy as the clock ticks and Rome burns. He’s told me several times I could leave, but I’m hanging around. I won’t admit that I’m keen to watch his execution, but I am fascinated by it.

  No one has been hurt. The three bombs were mainly gasoline, according to some so-called expert CNN dragged in for authenticity. Low-tech time bombs, probably in small packages, designed to make a little noise and a lot of smoke.

  At 8:00 p.m., everyone takes a deep breath. All’s quiet for the moment. They knock on the door and wheel in the last meal. For the occasion, Link has chosen a steak with fries and coconut pie for dessert, but he has no appetite. He takes two bites of the steak and offers me the fries. I say no thanks and shuffle the deck. There’s something about eating another man’s last meal that doesn’t seem right. At 8:15, my cell phone vibrates. Our petition has been denied at the Supreme Court. No surprise there. There’s nothing left. All Hail Marys have been thrown and dropped.

  We go Live! outside the Supreme Court Building in Washington, where the CNN reporter is practically praying fo
r some type of explosion. Dozens of cops loiter about, their trigger fingers just itching. A small crowd has gathered to watch the carnage, but there’s nothing. Link keeps one eye on the television as he deals the cards.

  I suspect he’s not finished.

  4.

  The prison has a food storage warehouse on the west side of its vast complex and a vehicle maintenance facility on the east side. The buildings are about three miles apart. At 8:30, both mysteriously catch on fire, and the prison goes berserk. Evidently, there are a couple of news helicopters in the area. They are not allowed to fly over Big Wheeler, so they’re hovering above farmland next door, and thanks to their long-range lenses we’re able to watch the excitement courtesy of CNN.

  As Link toys with his coconut pie and plays gin rummy, the anchor wonders why the State doesn’t speed up his execution before he burns down the prison. A stuttering spokesperson with the governor’s office tries to explain that the rules and laws do not allow this. It’s 10:00 p.m., period, or as soon thereafter as possible. Link watches this as if it’s a movie about some other guy on death row.

  At 8:45, a bomb goes off in the administration building, not far from the warden’s office.

  Ten minutes later, the warden bursts into the Boom Boom Room and screams, “You gotta stop this!” Link ignores him as he shuffles the cards.

  Two nervous guards grab Link, lift him up, search him, find his cell phone, then throw him back into his chair. His face does not change expression.

  “You got a phone, Rudd?” the warden yells at me.

  “Yes, but you can’t have it. Rule 36, section 2, paragraph 4. Your rule. Sorry.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “So you think I’m making phone calls to the bad guys? You think I’m a part of the conspiracy, with all my calls being traced? That right, Warden?”

  He is too panic-stricken to respond. From behind the warden, a guard yells into the room, “There’s a riot in Unit Six!”

  5.

  The riot started when an inmate, an old lifer with a history of heart problems, faked cardiac arrest. At first the guards decided to ignore him and let him go, but on second thought they got involved. His cell mate stabbed two guards with a shank, grabbed their Tasers, fried them, then beat them senseless. The inmates quickly put on the guards’ uniforms and managed to open the doors to about a hundred cells. With near flawless coordination, the inmates flooded other wings in the unit and soon several hundred extremely dangerous convicts were on the loose. They began burning mattresses, laundry, anything that could possibly be ignited. Eight guards were beaten; two would later die. Three guards with pistols hid in an office and called for help. Before long, the inmates found weapons and gunfire could be heard across the prison. In the melee, four snitches were hanged with electrical extension cords.

  We wouldn’t know these details until later, so at the time Link and I casually play cards while Big Wheeler explodes around us. It takes CNN less than five minutes to pick up the riot story, and when we hear it we stop and watch the television. After a few minutes I say, “So, Link, are you in charge of prison riots, too?”

  To my surprise he says, “Yes, at this moment anyway.”

  “Oh really? Then tell me how this one started?”

  “It all goes back to personnel,” he says like a polished CEO. “You gotta have the right people in the right place at the right time. You got three guys in Unit Six doing life with no parole, so they got nothing to lose. You set up an outside contact who promises all sorts of stuff, like a van and a driver waiting in the woods if the guys make it out. And lots of cash. You give them plenty of time to plan it all, and at exactly 9:00 on this night, when the warden and his goons are thinking of only one thing—giving me the needle—you launch your assault. Unit Four should blow up any minute.”

  “I won’t tell a soul. And the bombs? Who rigged the bombs?”

  “Can’t give you the names. You gotta understand prisons and how stupid the men are who run them. Everything here is designed to keep us in, with little thought to keeping bad stuff out. Those incendiary devices were planted two days ago, well hidden; they’ve got timers and all, really basic stuff. No one was looking, piece of cake.”

  It’s a relief to hear him talking like this. I suppose his nerves are starting to jump, though he looks as calm as ever.

  “What’s the endgame tonight, Link? Are these guys gonna attack death row and rescue you?”

  “Wouldn’t work. Too many guns around here. Just having some fun, that’s all. I’m at peace.”

  As he says this, they flash another image of the prison burning, another camera shot from a helicopter nearby. We’re too deep in the building to hear anything, but it looks like total chaos. Buildings on fire, a million red and blue lights flashing, an occasional gunshot. Link can’t help but smile. Just fun and games.

  “It’s the warden’s own stupid fault,” he says. “Why all the pomp and ceremony, just for an execution? He brings in every available guard, gives them automatic weapons and Kevlar vests as if someone—me, the guy getting the needle—might somehow put together an offensive. Goons everywhere. Then he turns on all the lights and locks down the entire prison. Why exactly? No good reason. Hell, two guards without guns could just as easily walk me down the hall at the appointed hour and strap me onto the table. No big deal. No cause for all this drama. But no, the warden likes his rituals. It’s a big moment for law enforcement and, hell, they gotta make the most out of it. What any fool can see, anyone but the warden, is that he’s dealing with men who live in cages and who hate anybody in a uniform. They’re already looking for trouble, so you crank up the pressure on them and they blow a gasket. Just takes someone like me to facilitate things.”

  He sips a cherry cola and nibbles a french fry. He’s got forty minutes.

  The door opens again and Assistant Warden Foreman is back, now with three heavily armed warriors. Foreman says, “How you guys doing in here?”

  “Swell,” I say.

  Nothing from Link.

  I say, “Looks like you boys got your hands full out there.”

  He says, “Things are hopping. Just wanted to check on the prisoner and make sure everything is okay.”

  Link glares at him and says, “This is my last hour. Why can’t I have some peace and quiet? Please, you and your goons just get the hell outta here, okay?”

  “We can accommodate you,” Foreman says.

  “And take him too,” Link says, pointing at me. “I need to be alone.”

  Foreman says, “Well, sorry, Link, but there’s no place for Mr. Rudd to go. The roads are blocked right now. We’re in super lockdown. It’s not safe out there.”

  “And for some reason I don’t feel so safe in here,” Link sneers. “Can’t imagine why.”

  “Looks like we should postpone the execution,” I say.

  “Probably not going to happen,” Foreman says, backing away.

  They leave, slamming the door and locking it from the outside.

  The governor feels the need to address his people. On the screen we see his troubled face. He’s at a podium with mikes and cameras before him, a politician’s dream. Random questions are hurled at him, and we soon learn that the situation at Big Wheeler is “tense.” There are casualties, even deaths. There are about two hundred inmates “out of their cells,” though none have yet to penetrate the exterior fences of the prison. Several fires are now under control. Yes, it seems as though some of this activity was coordinated from outside the prison, and, no, there is no evidence that Link Scanlon is behind it, not yet anyway. He, the governor, has called in the National Guard, though the state police have things under control. And, oh, by the way, he is denying the final request for a reprieve.

  6.

  Protocol requires that the condemned man be handcuffed at 9:45 and escorted for his final walk to the death room. There he is strapped to a gurney with six thick leather bands, from his feet to his forehead. While he is being strapped down, a do
ctor pokes around his arms looking for a suitable vein while a medic of some variety checks his vital signs. Ten feet away, behind glass windows and black curtains, the witnesses wait in two separate rooms, one for the victim, one for the killer.

  An IV is inserted and secured with tape. A large clock on the wall allows the unlucky soul to count down his last minutes. At precisely 10:00 p.m., the prison attorney reads the death warrant,