Mercy

He looked down at the letter and realized how little it really said—how little of what he really wanted to say.

Seized by anger, he picked up the letter and ripped it to shreds.

Through the bars, the cell guard watched with an implacably neutral look on his face.

09:45 PDT (#ulink_a6063bf5-e9b5-5562-b677-b02bead8e234)

Alex sat there in stunned silence. Whatever he had expected, it had not been this. Clemency? Before he had even put his well-rehearsed arguments? And the mother of the victim had specifically requested it.

Then reality kicked in.

‘She’s asked me to offer your client clemency.’

The words had been chosen very carefully.

‘When you say “asked you,”’ Alex said cautiously, ‘does that mean you haven’t decided yet?’

‘You know my views on the death penalty.’

‘Yes, sir, I do. And I’ve always respected your courage in taking that position.’

He regretted saying this as soon as the words were out of his mouth. It sounded sycophantic, and the governor was too shrewd a politician not to see right through it.

‘And you also know that I’m pretty much my own man, especially now that I’m quitting politics.’

Alex nodded. Like many others, he wasn’t quite sure if he believed this, but now was hardly the time to give voice to his skepticism.

‘Nevertheless, it would be inappropriate for me to set myself up against the will of the legislature and the courts.’

Alex panicked at the thought of this opportunity already slipping away.

‘But you said—’

‘Unless…there was some compelling reason. You see, son, even though I have the luxury of being able to ignore public opinion, I believe that I have a duty at least to respect it. Remember the words of Thomas Jefferson: “a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them.” The people who elected me may not agree with my decision. But I owe it to them at least to explain it to them. History will judge me harshly if I fail in my duty to put my reasons on record—and those reasons had better be good.’

Alex took a deep breath and regained his composure, trying to read the governor. He wasn’t sure if the governor was really thinking about his place in history. But now was not the time to get diverted down a blind alley of speculation over his motives. Dusenbury was throwing him a lifeline—or at least waving it in his face. That was all that mattered.

‘So you need reasons,’ Alex edged forward hesitantly, ‘and as yet you haven’t got them.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you want me to supply them.’

‘No, I want your client to supply them.’

Alex was beginning to understand.

‘Is that why you said “offer” my client clemency…rather than “give”?’

Dusenbury smiled.

‘You picked up on that real quick. That’s just what it is, son: an offer.’

‘So presumably,’ Alex pressed on, ‘there’s a quid pro quo?’

09:48 PDT (17:48 British Summer Time) (#ulink_d25af91e-15e7-55d2-b1d2-6b998846dc17)

The clinic was quiet as the late afternoon melted into early evening. But the spacious TV room, with its well-scrubbed pale blue walls and clean gray leather furniture, was sufficiently sound-proofed and isolated from the wards to have the TV on. They had it on all day and all night. The nurses on night duty especially liked to take short coffee breaks there, flopping down on the armchairs and watching late-night TV. They preferred the all-night news stations—British or American—to the late-night quizzes, which were little more than premium line rip-offs.

Susan White, a middle-aged nurse of the ‘old’ school, flopped down in front of the TV with a cup of coffee and started skimming through the channels, trying to catch up on the news. While surfing, she caught the tail end of a report about a clinic in America being picketed by hordes of anti-abortionists, or ‘pro-lifers’ as they liked to call themselves, and realized how lucky she was to be here in Britain.

She liked her coffee strong but milky and the machine never quite got it right. She also liked it sugary, and that the machine usually did get right. It was often hard for her to get a coffee break, even though she was entitled to three per shift, because the other nurses frequently came to her with their problems, both personal and professional. So she made sure to get her caffeine fix before her shift started.

Using the remote, she turned the sound down, mindful of the fact that at this time most of the in-patients were sleeping. On the screen, a well-groomed, thirty-something woman, with somewhat underplayed oriental looks, was talking to the camera. She was wearing a smart blue suit, with a mid-length skirt and slightly tight jacket, designed to emphasize her firm, athletic figure, without over-emphasizing it.

But then a face came on that caught Susan’s attention. A photograph of a young woman, almost like a mugshot. Susan felt an uneasy stirring as her eyes focussed on the screen.

She picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The voiceover of an American female reporter could be heard. It was one of those generic, female anchorwoman voices, the kind that all sound alike, the trained confident voice that always carries a trace of sarcasm or bitchiness, but only the merest hint. Or maybe it was just the hard edge that was required to make it in what once had been a man’s world.

‘Dorothy Olsen never had a happy life. She was bullied at school, her parents broke up when she was in her teens and she never had any real friends. Just over nine years ago, on May 23, 1998—the day of her high school prom—Dorothy Olsen disappeared, never to be seen again.’

The picture changed to that of a man whom the nurse didn’t recognize. This one was definitely a mugshot.

‘Clayton Burrow is the man convicted of murdering Dorothy Olsen. At the time she first disappeared, she was classified as a missing person. It was widely assumed that the harsh treatment she received at the hands of her classmates, which drew comparisons with Stephen King’s famous novel Carrie, prompted her to run away. There was speculation that she had committed suicide, although no body was ever found.’

Susan White raised the Styrofoam coffee cup to her lips with a growing sense of unease. The picture of Burrow disappeared, to be replaced by the reporter.

‘Foxy news’ was how one of the young male nurses had described it, whenever he saw her. The joke was wearing thin now.

In the background the grim, bland entrance to San Quentin State Prison was visible.

‘However,’ the reporter continued, ‘all that changed just under eight years ago, on October 19, 1999, when the police, acting on an anonymous call, found parts of Dorothy Olsen’s body in Clayton Burrow’s freezer. They also found other incriminating evidence hidden under the floorboards, which Burrow was unable to explain, such as a blood-stained knife with Burrow’s fingerprints and blood-stained panties with semen traces. DNA matched the semen to Clayton Burrow and the blood to Dorothy Olsen. There was also evidence that Dorothy Olsen had bought some expensive jewelry with money from her trust fund shortly before she disappeared. But none of it has ever been found.’

Nurse White felt something wet and hot on her wrist and fingers. She realized that her hand was shaking and she had spilt the coffee. She put the cup down and wiped the front of her uniform. But she didn’t take her eyes off the screen.

‘Despite his protests of innocence, Burrow was unable to explain away the evidence against him and, on February 20, 2001, he was found guilty of murder with special circumstances. Just over a week later he was sentenced to death. Now he is scheduled to die in just over fourteen hours. Martine Yin, Eyewitness News, San Quentin.’

Nurse White gripped the arms of the chair tensely, her heartbeat picking up speed.

9:50 PDT (#ulink_c3a1b9f6-00ad-5561-9245-ba5731d7602f)

‘As you say, Alex, a quid pro quo.’ Dusenbury turned to Mrs Olsen. ‘Esther, maybe you’d like to explain.’

Esther Olsen sat up slowly. It was a struggle, but she forced herself. Alex sensed her difficulty as he watched her painful movements. He adjusted his chair to face her, moving slightly to make it easier for her to look at him.

‘Mr Sedaka,’—her voice was shaky—‘I do not know you, but you are a good man. At least, I have been told that you are a good man.’

Alex nodded. There was not much he could say really. To agree would be arrogant; to disagree, ungracious. In any case that was clearly just the preamble to what she wanted to say.