Just Mercy: A Novel (21 page)

FORTY

It was almost midnight and there were no other customers in the coffee shop, just the three of them and the barista out back cleaning up and getting ready to close for the night. In spite of her exhaustion, Bernadette was ready to confront Jimmy Pearl—to ask him why he didn’t get them in to see Rae, what took him so long to call them back, why he kept them waiting outside The Walls for over an hour, and why, after all that waiting, he had told them to meet him here, of all places—but Fin took charge before she had a chance to say anything.

“So here’s the petition,” he said, unfolding the legal document and pushing it in front of Rae’s lawyer.

Jimmy Pearl, looking tired and drawn around his eyes, didn’t even glance at the papers.

“Come on, read it,” Fin said, tapping on them with his forefinger, his eyes shining with anticipation, still hopeful.

The lawyer pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, first reading the cover letter and then turning to the petition itself. Bernadette leaned forward, waiting for him to nod at how well written the petition was, maybe comment on the soundness of the clemency arguments. But Jimmy Pearl said nothing, and when he finished reading, he turned the petition face down on the table with a long sigh.

“Well, here’s the thing, folks,” he said in that slow, drawling voice that right now made Bernadette want to scream, “after sending that letter to the governor, I promised Miss Blackwell I would never take any action again without discussing it with her first.”

“Of course,” Bernadette said. “But you
did
tell her about this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I did.”

“And?” Fin’s eyes were suspicious now, as was his tone of voice.

“We did talk on and on, all right, about the petition.” Jimmy Pearl stared out the window at the empty parking lot.

“What did she say?” Bernadette held her breath, waited for the other shoe to drop.

“She was stunned, Mrs. Baker. She doesn’t feel worthy.”

“I hope you told her she is,” Fin said.

“I did.” A shadow crossed Jimmy Pearl’s eyes and moved into the down-turned lines around his mouth, making him suddenly seem much older than he was.

“Did you tell her we were here?” Bernadette asked, in spite of the trepidation she was now feeling.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

“And?” Fin motioned with his hands to hurry it up.

“Okay. I’m going to give it to you straight. Miss Blackwell doesn’t want any more delays. I told her we could get one easy because the sentencing court did not set or even approve the expedited execution date, and she still refused.”

“Why?” they both asked at the same time.

“She said she gave you her word, Mrs. Baker, that she was done with appeals.”

“Let me see her,” Bernadette said. “Let me talk to her.”

“I thought you might be saying that, so I asked her if she’d be willing to meet with you.”

“Is she?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Baker. But she wants you to know she’s most grateful to you for trying.”

“You weren’t able to convince her about filing the petition?” Fin said.

Jimmy Pearl sighed and shook his head. “She believes she’s supposed to die now. She believes it’s her time.”

“You have to go ahead and file this anyway.” Fin picked up the petition and waved it in front of the lawyer’s face.

“She has to be depressed,” Bernadette said.

“She’s not unhappy, Mrs. Baker. She’s at peace.”

“So what do we do now?” Fin asked.

“Nothing to do but respect her decision,” Jimmy Pearl said. “We have to let her go.”

“No,” Fin said, fighting tears. “It’s not over. It can’t be. Tell him, Mom.”

Bernadette looked up at the ceiling. She squeezed her temples with the palms of her hands so hard it made her wince from the pain. What could they do? What could anyone do? She lowered her head and dropped her hands onto the table, then looked up at Jimmy Pearl.

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“I’ve known Miss Blackwell for ten years now, Mrs. Baker, and I have never seen her this certain about anything. I believe she’s of sound mind and she believes this is what’s right for her.”

Bernadette sat back in her chair and sighed. “Okay, then,” she said. “Okay, then.”

At first she wondered if sheer exhaustion had sucked up all the fight in her—or maybe it was the look of resignation on Jimmy Pearl’s face or the tears in his tired eyes that did her in. But even as the lifeblood of hope drained from her body, so, too, did all fear, anxiety, panic. She felt a strange detachment that made her wonder if she was going to die now, too.

“We have to do
something
,” Fin sobbed. “We have to save her.”

She touched her son’s face with her fingertips and gazed into his sad, loving eyes.

“She has already saved herself,” she said.

FORTY-ONE

It felt to Bernadette as if they were in a silent movie. The protesters’ mouths were moving, their signs flailing the air, but there was no sound, no chanting. She tightened her grip on Marty’s arm, glad that he was with her to help forge the way through the strangely silent, undulating sea of bodies. Suddenly Fin was there, too, appearing unannounced from behind. He hugged her and whispered something in her ear, but without any sound she couldn’t tell whether it was important or not. And then Marty was guiding her up the steps to the entrance of the Walls Unit. Fin did not come with them. Somehow, she knew he wasn’t going to, but she didn’t know how she knew. Maybe he’d just told her that he would show his respect in his own way, by standing outside with the protesters.

And then they were in the Turnout Room and Regis was with them. She lowered her body into a plastic chair, knowing Marty was next to her because she felt the warmth of his hand on her knee.

“Would either of you like coffee?” With the volume of the world turned to mute, she had to guess at what Regis said by the way he pointed to the coffee urn over in the corner. She shook her head. She didn’t know what Marty did.

Regis sat down next to her and took one of her hands in his. But when she looked at him, the devastation in his eyes made her turn away.
He doesn’t want her to die.

Marty’s lips moved, but his voice couldn’t cut through the silence. From the wave of his hand, Bernadette assumed he was commenting on the sterility of the room, but she wasn’t sure. She glanced at the bare walls, the plastic chairs scattered about, the tall stack of Styrofoam cups and huge coffee urn on the Formica table, the super-sized numbers on the big round clock on the wall. Everything was the same as before, only this time there was no color; everything was in black and white. She’d redecorated the room in her head last time she was here to make it more welcoming, more comforting for the witnesses, but she realized now that that would be a mistake. The room looked lifeless and the coffee smelled bitter, just as it should be.

She felt Marty’s hand on her shoulder. His lips moved. He looked worried. She placed her hand on top of his, reminding herself that Marty was there to help her, not the other way around. That was why she’d asked him to come, and that was why he’d agreed. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Or would he?

She wished she could tell him she was okay, but she didn’t know if she was or not. All she could think about was Rae. She hoped the chaplain would stay with her so she wouldn’t be left alone. She wondered if Maxine Blackwell might change her mind at the last minute and come to be with her daughter at the end, but she knew that was impossible. She didn’t even know if Rae’s mother was still alive.

Amy Whitehall stood in front of her now, mouthing hello. Bernadette reached out to shake her hand, a formality that neither of them was able to complete with the requisite smile. But unlike last time, the trauma counselor made no attempt to be reassuring, no offer of help. It was as if her presence was all she had to offer—or was she waiting for Bernadette to tell her what to do? There was a deep sadness etched in Amy Whitehall’s face as she stood there with her trembling hand gripping the information packet.
She doesn’t want Rae to die, either
.

“Thank you for being here,” Bernadette said, reaching out to take the folder.

Amy Whitehall nodded, paused, then turned. With heavy steps, she walked to the other side of the room. Bernadette examined the faces of the other members of the trauma team as they made a space for Amy to sit down next to them.
They hate their jobs.

She opened the folder and was puzzled to find the Offenders Rap Sheet indecipherable, as if it had been written in code. When she squinted, a few words formed on the page:

Raelynn Blackwell… Execution date (August 8, 2011). Amount of time on death row (3,755 days – 10 yrs., 3 mo., 12 days).

She turned the page then, realizing that what she wanted to know,
had
to know, was what Rae had requested for her last meal. Wasn’t that information supposed to be in these folders? She was frantic to know that Rae had ordered something good to eat, something she liked, that she had given herself that. She kept flipping the pages, but found nothing about Rae’s last meal. And when she got to the last page, which showed a map of the country with symbols indicating which methods of execution were used in each state—noose for hanging, round target for firing squad, chair for electrocution, door for gas chamber, syringe for lethal injection—she threw the folder onto the floor. Marty put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him.

“Do you think anyone told her to drink lots of liquids,” she said, “to make it easier to find her vein?” Marty shook his head.

She couldn’t expect him to know why she was worried. It was because Rae’s arms were so skinny that her veins had to be tiny and, because of her drug use, more delicate, too. And then there was the needle they used, so much bigger than an ordinary IV.
Please don’t let it hurt.
What if they missed her vein altogether or passed through it? What if they found a vein but the injection made it rupture or collapse? It could happen.

“Good lord,” she said. “I hope the medical technicians remember to adjust the IV pressure for her size.”

She shivered, and Marty rubbed her shoulder. If only his warming her could warm Rae as well. Rae wasn’t used to air-conditioning; she would get cold in the death chamber.

The door opened then, and in walked Warden Fredrick with his round face still looking friendly, but this time without the smile. His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows formed a V under the worry ripples on his forehead as he made his way toward them with slow, deliberate steps. He sat on a chair facing her, the kindness in his blue eyes overshadowed by sorrow. He leaned forward and put his hand on hers; she assumed it was his attempt to assure her that this time there wouldn’t be any problems.

“She never had a chance,” she found herself saying.

The warden nodded. She read his lips and thought he said, “poor kid,” but then he looked apologetic, as if he’d said something wrong or inappropriate, so she tried to smile to set his mind at rest. All at once he stood, shook Marty’s hand, and made a hasty retreat for the door. She didn’t know why.

“He has to tell them when to do it,” she said after he was gone.

Marty nodded.

“He doesn’t want to.”

She wondered then what would happen if the warden refused to give the signal. Would the executioner release the poison anyway? Everyone said it was too late now for anyone except the courts to change things, but she didn’t know if that was true or not. She’d lost her ability to tell the difference between what could be changed and what couldn’t be. That was something she used to know.

“Will the witnesses please follow me?”

She jumped. The sound was back, the volume turned up to loud. Her heart pounded against her chest as Marty and Regis helped her up from the chair.

FORTY-TWO

Bernadette’s forehead brushed against the window, the rest of her body in her throat as she stood between Marty and Regis in the viewing room. The curtain was still closed, and she was afraid it was because they were having trouble finding Rae’s vein. Memories crashed over her like a blow to her stomach as she remembered how Veronica’s tiny veins had always been hard to find, too, how she had screamed in pain the few times she had to have blood drawn at the doctor’s office.

With no announcement or warning, the curtain opened, and Bernadette gasped, almost collapsed. Marty and Regis gripped her elbows and pulled her up, the trauma team behind her made sure she didn’t fall backward, and Amy Whitehall’s hands squeezed her trembling shoulders.

Instead of the standard white prison uniform, Rae was wearing a pale pink blouse and light brown slacks with crisp pleats down the front this time. Someone had bought new clothes for her. Someone cared. A lump caught in Bernadette’s throat and her eyes stung as she stared at the straps across Rae’s body that fastened her onto the gurney. She looked like a small child held captive. Her arms were extended out on boards, her small hands secured by leather straps. Then Bernadette saw it. She drew in her breath and her hand flew up to her mouth.

“The IV. It’s in the wrong arm.” She stared at the discoloration and swelling on Rae’s left arm and saw how exhausted she looked. Bernadette’s worst fear had come true. How many times had they tried to find a vein before giving up and using her right arm instead?

Marty put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head, his way of telling her there was nothing to worry about. But she knew better. She knew things he didn’t know, things about other botched executions, things that had prolonged the dying and caused excruciating pain. She knew there was a lot to worry about. Like them inserting the IV into an artery by mistake so the blood carrying the chemicals had to go the long way around before it stopped Rae’s heart. Like the catheter clogging. Or the needle passing through the vein. Or the catheter coming out of her vein altogether and spraying the chemicals across the room. It had happened before. So many things could go wrong. The IV in Rae’s right arm was supposed to be the backup in case the one in her left arm didn’t work. So what was their backup now? Did they even have one?

Don’t hurt her,
she wanted to shout at the top of her lungs,
please don’t hurt her.
A scream started in her stomach and made its way up through her heart and her lungs, into her throat. But she swallowed the scream—not to be compliant, not because she knew that executions required the proper behavior of witnesses as well as the cooperation of those carrying them out. No, the reason she didn’t let the scream out was because it was Rae’s choice to die and it was her job to accept that choice, because what Rae needed now was her support and she had to be strong for her.

With tears trickling down her cheeks, she squeezed Marty’s hand. Rae was shaking now, as if it was all she could do to hold it together. If only she could touch Rae, stroke her head the way she always had when her children were little and sick.

“
I’m here. You’re not alone.” She mouthed the words, but Rae didn’t see her because she was looking up at the ceiling, her mouth grimacing, eyes blinking rapidly. She looked scared.
Oh, god, when someone is frightened, their veins contract.

A microphone began its tortuous downward journey from the ceiling then, stopping within inches of Rae’s face. With a look of terror in her eyes, she opened her mouth and licked her lips but didn’t say anything. Bernadette’s eyes followed a tear making its way down Rae’s cheek, and she wondered what Rae would say now if she were asked if she wanted to live, whether she would still say “It don’t matter what I want” as she had before.

Bernadette pressed her hand against the window. “Look at me,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

Rae’s head made a jerky movement as if she was pulling it into a turtle shell. But then her chest started heaving up and down, and she turned her head to face the viewing window. Her eyes were wide, frozen with fear.

“Jesus.” Bernadette tried to smile as she mouthed the word. She patted at her own throat and then pointed at the silver cross Rae was wearing. “Jesus is here.”

Rae’s mouth twisted into a half smile, half grimace, and she turned back to the microphone.

“Please.” The word was a sob, followed by a coughing spasm that made Rae pull against the restraints and lift her head from the pillow. When the coughing subsided, she bit her bottom lip and tried again.

“Please.”

During the silence that followed, Warden Fredrick touched Rae’s head with the tips of his fingers. His eyes were filled with tears as he leaned down and whispered something in her ear. When she shook her head and closed her eyes, he pointed up to the ceiling and the microphone ascended. Rae’s leg started to twitch, and the chaplain, with a heartrending look on his face, pressed his hand down on her knee.

Bernadette braced herself for what was to come. The warden would give the signal, and the poison would flow out through the tubes from the hole in the wall and enter Rae’s body. Unlike Rae, who didn’t even know she’d murdered Veronica until the police told her what she’d done, did the invisible executioner behind the one-way window know that he was about to commit murder?
Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

When Rae’s arms started to shake, Bernadette had to turn away. The unmistakable smell of death in the air was so cold that it made the hair on her arms stand upright. She looked down at a crack in the floor and followed its jagged route to a whisper behind her. She couldn’t move her head, and her eyes froze. She tried to lift her arms, but it was as if they had been amputated. While a nightmarish paralysis consumed her muscles and bones, the sensitivity of her skin was heightened so that when Marty touched her hand ever so lightly, spasms took hold of her and grabbed at her jaws, her neck, contracted her stomach. Her legs started to give way.

“Do you want to leave?” she heard Marty ask.

If she could have spoken, she would have told him no, she had to stay for Rae, that there was nothing she could do but accept Rae’s decision to die—if, in fact that still was her decision—but even though it was Rae’s decision and not hers to make, that nonetheless it was wrong; it was horribly, horribly wrong.

But she could say none of those things because right now all she could hear was Rae speaking to her, her voice saying
I wish you was my ma, Mrs. Baker, I wish you was my ma
. If Bernadette were able to say anything to Rae right now, it would be that she was trying to keep her promise, that she was trying to be here for her. She would tell her that she would look at her, that she wouldn’t turn away again—that no matter what, she wouldn’t turn away.

Bernadette blinked, lifted her head, and kept her promise, wishing she could do more than just watch. But it was all she could do. At least it was something.

Rae’s hands tightened then, and her body went rigid. She looked scared. She was in pain.

“Please stop,” Bernadette said out loud.

Marty pulled her close. The room was still. She could hear people breathing around her. Someone coughed, and she shuddered. Her muscles contracted, threatened to freeze again.

Then the warden took off his glasses. The signal.

Rae was looking at the viewing window now, her face fixed on Bernadette. Their eyes locked as Rae’s body writhed, almost convulsed, and went limp. Her eyes closed and she took in a breath, deep, drawing in all the air she could. Then her diaphragm deflated like a balloon with air being squished from it, and Bernadette released her own breath at the same time. She had read once that it was easier, more comfortable and more natural not to breathe than to breathe.
Please let that be true.
Rae’s body vibrated and then went still, and at that moment Bernadette felt as if her own heart had stopped.

After a few minutes, Warden Fredrick tipped his head toward the door and a man in a white coat entered the death chamber. He checked with his stethoscope for Rae’s heartbeat. He checked her wrist for a pulse. He lifted her eyelids and shone a light in her eyes. Then he looked at his watch and said, “Time of death: 6:27 p.m.”

“Miss Raelynn Blackwell was pronounced dead at 6:27 p.m.” The warden’s voice cracked as he repeated the declaration.

Bernadette stood in the silent room, her eyes still fixed on Rae as the curtain closed across the window. She felt as if her head wasn’t attached to her shoulders. She balled her hands into fists.

“You got her body,” she whispered, “but you never got her soul.”

Marty gathered her up in his arms then, and she fell into him, sobbing.