Just Mercy: A Novel (20 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

Marty lay in the dark with his eyes open, listening to the cacophony of murmuring voices, laughter, and music that sounded as if the air filter by the bed was channeling it into their room from a neighbor’s party or something. It was late and he was tired, but he couldn’t sleep. He rested his cheek on Bernie’s chest, and his head rose and fell with her ragged breathing—a sign that, even though she was asleep, it was a restless sleep. Sweat glued their bodies together, yet instead of making space for puffs of air from the ceiling fan to cool them, he burrowed even deeper into her skin, wanting to get inside her, make sense of her. He went back to the beginning again, one more time, to when she first got home that afternoon.

“So,” he’d said as soon as she walked in the house.

“I didn’t tell her.”

“I expected you would.” He remembered being surprised.

“I started to.”

“And?”

“You should have seen the way she looked at Fin. How could I tell her she’d killed her own sister when she looked at him like that?”

“Truth or compassion,” he’d said, nodding his head. “A fork in the road.”

“What?”

“You chose compassion.” He remembered being awestruck, once again, by Bernie’s uncanny ability to come to right decisions through what, to him, seemed pure instinct.

“Fin thinks he can get her sentence commuted to life in prison.”

“Not a chance,” he’d said.

She’d looked irritated with him then, and he remembered wondering if that meant she now agreed with Fin. He moved away from her a bit now and studied her face in the dim glow of the night-light. There was a slight grimace on her lips and her cheek twitched, both of which made him think she was still bothered by what they had talked about just before she fell asleep.

“Fin cares too much,” he’d said. “He always has.”

“His caring is beautiful.” There was that look of irritation again.

“But he gets over-involved.”

“So do I,” she’d said.

“So that’s
it
?” he’d asked. It was hard for him to believe Bernie would leave Fin alone to pursue his futile quest without even trying to stop him, that she wouldn’t want to at least try to spare him the inevitable disappointment he was setting himself up for.

“I love Fin,” she’d said with a firm shake her head. “I love the sun in the morning, too, but I’m not
responsible
for making it rise.”

“Be serious, Bernie.” He remembered wondering at that point why he was starting to get irritated.

“I am. It might surprise you to know, Marty, that I’m not responsible for this god-awful Texas heat, either, much as I hate it. Or, much as I love it, for the moon shining through our bedroom window right now. Oh, and for your information, I can’t make it rain, either.”

He turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling now, trying to figure out what might have been behind that outburst of hers. It occurred to him that it might have been a sign that Bernie was shedding, or wanting to shed, the burden of excessive responsibility that had plagued her since childhood and that had been the source of most, if not all, of their disagreements over the years.

But if that was the case, he wondered why that didn’t make him happy—why, instead, an inexplicable feeling of abandonment came over him at the thought of it. Maybe he was afraid of losing the positive side of Bernie’s nature along with the negative, the side that meant he could always count on her, no matter what. And now, with Fin setting himself up for a bigger fall than usual from his Don Quixote horse, what if Marty couldn’t count on Bernie to even
try
to rescue him? He shuddered at the prospect that it might be left up to him to intervene. That didn’t sit well with him, didn’t sit well with him at all. But then he thought about what had been the most revealing part of his earlier conversation with Bernie. He returned to it now.

“Just so you know, Marty, I am
not
going to let Rae die.”

He’d stared at her, in that moment painfully aware that Bernie had become so obsessed with Raelynn Blackwell that she was now oblivious not only to Fin but to everything and everyone else, including him. Had she not even noticed what was happening to him, the changes in his appearance, how the skin on his back was pasty white instead of its usual tan, how his stomach was more sunken than toned? Did she even see him anymore?

“We’re all dying, Bernie.” He remembered saying it in a quiet voice. He’d tried hard to contain the intensity behind the words because he didn’t want to say something he’d later regret.

“Good lord, Marty.
You’re
not dying. I won’t let you,” she’d said with a stinging seriousness.

“So you can cure my cancer?”

“Oh, Marty, how I wish I could.” He remembered how her eyes had filled with tears then, real tears, big tears, desperate tears.

“I bought new jogging shoes,” he’d said.

“Who’s into wishful thinking now?”

“It means I plan to live.”

“You better.” She’d kissed him and run her fingers down his cheeks, as if that settled it.

“But seriously, Bernie,” he’d said, “Fin needs to accept the inevitable. Raelynn Blackwell
is
going to die.”

Marty realized now that he should have left it at that. But instead, he’d gone on and said, “It isn’t just her. We’re all going to die. Raelynn gets to know when, that’s the only difference.”

That’s when Bernie had started to cry, and right now he thought he finally understood why.

“I’m not going to die,” he whispered to her as she tossed and turned next to him in the bed. She rolled over and moaned. He rubbed her back, her shoulders, her head.

“I’m not going to die,” he said again. “I promise."

THIRTY-EIGHT

“Sorry I’m late,” Bernadette said. “PoK-e-Jo’s was packed. I got chicken and ribs, plus a bunch of sides. Why only three places at the table?”

“Patty’s got a dance tonight, and Annamaria’s working late,” Marty said.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, sweetie,” she said to Fin.

She watched Marty take the barbecue containers out of the bags. He placed them on the dining room table without putting anything under them to protect against spills, but she didn’t care. Nor did it matter to her that there were no candles or fresh flowers on the table or that the silverware and glasses were incorrectly positioned on placemats that didn’t match. The only thing that mattered were the amazing discoveries she’d made at the university law library this afternoon.

“Rae looks just like Veronica, Dad,” Fin said, once they were settled at the table. He paused and then added, “We have to work fast. There’s only ten days left.”

“It’s too late,” Marty said.

“Maybe not,” Bernadette said. “I read some court cases today that seemed more hopeless than Rae’s where the sentences—and in some cases even the verdicts—were overturned, a couple of them at the very last minute.”

“See, Dad,” Fin said, “I have news, too.”

Bernadette smiled at her son. She was aware that things had shifted between the two of them since their trip to Gatesville, but there was no need to speak of what they both instinctively knew.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Fin,” Marty said, “but trust me, whatever it is, it won’t work. Just remember, ‘if you beat your head against the wall, it is your head that breaks, not the wall.’ That’s a direct quote from the great philosopher Gramsci, by the way.”

Bernadette frowned and shook her head at him.

“I just don’t want Fin to get hurt,” Marty said.

“I learned something else this week: that juries are rejecting capital punishment more now, fourteen times just in the past four years,” Bernadette said.

Fin pulled his shoulders back, and his chest expanded. “And now we have this.” He was almost giddy as he waved some legal-sized papers in the air.

“What is it?” Bernadette and Marty asked in unison.

“It’s a petition to the governor for an act of clemency on Rae’s behalf. It was delivered to my house this afternoon.”

Marty leaned forward with a skeptical look and took the document from Fin’s hand, set about studying it.

Bernadette sat on the edge of her seat. “Let me see it,” she said with an impatient motion of her hand. Marty turned the petition over to her, and she started to read it out loud:

Petition for An Act of Clemency

To the Governor of the State of Texas

On behalf of Raelynn Blackwell

A request that the sentence of death be commuted to life in prison without the possibility of parole for Raelynn Blackwell, whose execution is scheduled to take place on August 15, 2011.

Stunned, she stopped reading and stared down at the petition. This just might be the answer. “Go on,” she heard Fin say, “keep reading.” So she did.

The decision about whether to impose the death penalty involves a determination as to whether the crime was heinous, atrocious or cruel as compared to other capital murder cases. There is no doubt that Raelynn Blackwell’s murder of sixteen-year-old Veronica Baker was heinous in all respects. Nonetheless, there are three other compelling considerations in this case that argue for clemency:

1) based on unforeseen circumstances, the victim’s family is unanimous in its desire that Raelynn Blackwell be spared the death penalty;

2) the mitigating factors of Raelynn Blackwell’s life—including, but not limited to, the State’s failure to protect her from a childhood of physical and sexual abuse and neglect, including sexual assault while in the foster care system—point to a case for clemency; and,

3) there is overwhelming evidence that, since her incarceration, Raelynn Blackwell has been rehabilitated to the point where her help of troubled prisoners has proven to be an asset to prison personnel.

“I can’t believe it.” Bernadette put the legal paper on the table.

“Me either,” Fin said. “There was a note with it saying it was for Rae’s lawyer. I already called Mr. Pearl and left him a message.”

“No, I mean, I can’t believe she did this.”

“Who?” Marty asked.

“Who else writes like this?” Bernadette said, still shaking her head in disbelief.

Just then, Fin’s cell phone rang, and they all jumped.

“It’s Jimmy Pearl,” Fin said with a big smile when he saw the caller ID.

Bernadette’s heart raced. She crossed her fingers under the table. This was a miracle, all right: a miracle for Annamaria, a miracle for Rae—for all of them. It wasn’t too late after all. She was sure Mr. Pearl would be all over this. But then she saw Fin’s smile vanish, his eyes turn fearful. His bottom lip quivered.

“No!” he yelled, dropping his cell phone onto the floor. He slumped forward, his cheek pressed against the table. Marty rushed over to him and, in a loving but awkward gesture, put his arms around Fin, tightening his embrace with each heave of his son’s body and weeping along with him.

A thick rubber band squeezed Bernadette’s chest as she waited for an answer to the question she didn’t dare ask out loud. Time stood still. She couldn’t move.

When Fin’s sobbing subsided, he wiped his face with his napkin and blew his nose. Marty kissed the top of his head and returned to his place at the table.

“The execution is Monday.” Fin tried to say something else but choked on a sob instead. Sweat and tears poured down his face.

Bernadette stared at him, her mouth open.

“The thiopental”—he clenched his fists and spit out the words—“it expires in three days.”

Bernadette was confused. Fin must have misunderstood something.

“So the date was moved up so they can use the drug on her before it expires,” Marty said. “Nothing more can be done now.”

Fin nodded and fell back in his chair, his face crumpled in abject defeat. “She’s at the Goree Unit now, and they’re transferring her to The Walls,” he said. “Jimmy Pearl is on his way to Huntsville now. It’s over.”

Bernadette straightened her back, jumped up from her chair, and pounded her fist on the table. “It is
not
over. We have to get this petition to Mr. Pearl right away. It’s not too late.”

“Bernie,” Marty said, “Fin is right. You have to let it go now.”

“Call Jimmy Pearl,” she told Fin. “Tell him we’ll meet him there in three hours. I’ll get the car keys. We’re going.
Now.
”

THIRTY-NINE

Fin gripped the door handle with one hand and his seat belt with the other, his eyes glued to the white line in the middle of road as the car lurched from side to side. Even though it wasn’t raining, the windshield wipers hammered hard against the window.

“Slow down, Mom. Come on, now.”

Bernadette rubbed at her eyes as if she was having trouble seeing and, much to Fin’s dismay, pressed the pedal even harder. It was getting dark, that time of night when a deer was apt to dart across the highway without warning. The fear in Fin’s legs and arms had made them go numb hours ago, and he was sure his knuckles had turned permanently white by now.

“This never would have happened if I had listened to you before,” Bernadette mumbled. “It’s all my fault. Call Jimmy Pearl again.”

“We can call him when we get there,” he said.

“Call now. Tell him we’ll be there in five minutes.” The car veered onto the shoulder, and its tires squealed when Bernadette made the sharp turn back onto the highway.

Fin gasped and grabbed at the steering wheel. “Let me drive the rest of the way.
Please.
”

“
Tell
him.”

“Mr. Pearl already knows we’re coming,” he said, even as he reached into his jeans pocket for his cell phone. “He’s going to think we’re crazy if we keep calling like this.”

“Tell him we want to see her.” The car lurched ahead as she pressed her foot down yet again on the accelerator.

“Jesus,” he said. “We’ll be lucky to live long enough to see anyone.”

“Tell him we’ll meet him outside the Walls Unit.”

“Not until you stop driving like a maniac.”

“Call.”

“No.”

“Fin.”

“Slow down.”

When Bernadette lifted her foot a bit, Fin leaned across the seat with his eyes focused on the speedometer and gripped her shoulder until she slowed the car to sixty miles an hour. “Okay,” he said, turning the windshield wipers off before sitting back to make the call.

“Mr. Pearl?” he said into the phone.

“Is he with her now? Can we see her? Here, give it to me.” The car swerved as Bernadette tried to grab the cell phone from his hand.

“Come on, Mom! Watch what you’re doing. Sorry, Mr. Pearl. We’ll be there soon.”

“Let me talk to him, Fin.”

“Not while you’re driving.”

“Tell him about the court case I read about, the woman who was freed from death row even though she confessed.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pearl. My mom’s talking to me here.”

“You folks just sit tight now,” Fin heard Jimmy Pearl say. “I’m going to talk to Miss Blackwell first, okay?”

“Ask him if the governor has the right to cut short the thirty days. What about the investigation? Is there a report already? Oh, never mind about that. Just tell him we’re almost there with the petition.”

“Mom, quiet.” Fin inched closer to the door. “One more appeal,” he said into the phone, “that’s all we need and then the drug will expire.”

“What did he say, Fin?”

“He said we need to calm down and then he hung up on me.”

Fin stared out the window at the signs touting Huntsville’s main tourist attractions, billboards advertising places he had never seen and never cared to see: the Sam Houston statue, largest freestanding sculpture in the United States next to the Statue of Liberty—Sam Houston State University, one of the largest and oldest criminal-justice programs in the country focused on the special needs of crime victims—the Prison Museum, honored home of “Old Sparky,” the electric chair that fried 361 prisoners in its day. He shivered and looked away.

As the tires screamed from Bernadette’s too-sharp turn against the curb in front of the Walls Unit, Fin cursed under his breath and then breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, they were here.

***

Bernadette yanked the key from the ignition, opened the door, and lifted her foot out onto the curb. Caring only about what they came to do, she had narrowed her focus down to one person, one life. But Fin grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the car.

“We can’t just go in there,” he said. “Mr. Pearl said to wait.”

She collapsed back onto the seat and found herself staring at the thirty-two-foot-high brick wall encasing the Walls Unit like a lock box. She moaned and covered her face with her hands.

“Mom?”

“We have to get this to Mr. Pearl,” she said. “
Now
. Right now.”

“There’s something we should talk about.”

“No time,” she said.

“Have you considered the possibility that Rae might find out that she and Veronica are sisters now?”

Fear drilled into Bernadette’s stomach and started twisting it into a knot. She shook her head. “It will break her heart,” she said.

“It could save her life.”

“We can’t let it come to that, Fin.”

“We need to be prepared, in case it does.”

Bernadette had the same suffocatingly helpless feeling she had the night Veronica died. But there had been nothing she could do then. There had been no choice to be made. This time, there was a chance. This time, there was hope. She bowed her head and prayed to the God she’d spurned for so long, hoping he might still be willing to listen to her.
Please let her live,
she pleaded,
and please, spare her the truth so she will want to.