Just Mercy: A Novel (22 page)

FORTY-THREE

When the doctor told them the good news about the success of Marty’s prostate surgery, Bernadette felt true happiness, a pure joy that she had never thought she’d be able to feel again. And now, over dinner, all their individual responses merged into one huge wave of relief that they ecstatically surfed all night.

“To Dad.” Fin lifted his coffee cup in a toast.

“To long life,” Marty said, his cheeks flushed.

“Hear, hear.” Annamaria.

As Marty plopped scoops of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream into the dessert dishes Patty compared the amount in her dish with that of the others. Fin teased that he had the most and Marty joked that maybe they should get a scale and weigh them. They all laughed and then, to the sounds of slurping and spoons clinking against glass, everyone set about capturing their desserts before they melted. The ice cream’s frostiness stuck to Bernadette’s throat, like the envelope that was stuck to the inside of her apron pocket.

Her anticipation about the envelope had swelled like a balloon all through dinner and now it expanded almost to the point of bursting. Enough time had passed. Tonight was the night. She pulled the envelope out of her pocket and raised her eyebrows at Marty. He smiled and nodded. Now was the time. The moment was right.

“This came in the mail,” she said. When she opened the envelope, something fell onto the table with a tinkling sound.

Fin’s hands flew up, covered his open mouth. “Rae was wearing that,” he said.

“She never took it off,” Bernadette said.

She handed the silver cross to Fin as the mood in the room changed from celebratory to somber. He cupped the cross in his hands like a prayer.

Bernadette unfolded a piece of yellowed paper and held it up so everyone could see the childlike print on its wide elementary-school lines. “You can tell no one helped her write this,” she said as she laid the letter on the table in front of her and started to read it out loud.

Dear Mrs. Baker, This is my last wish. For you to have my most preshus possesion for your kindness to me. If you can forgive me then I can forgive me to. Thank you. Miss Raelynn Blackwell.

A tear slipped down Bernadette’s cheek just as it had all the other times she’d read the letter before tonight. “There was a note from the warden with it,” she said. “He said Rae wrote it just before they came for her. She asked him to put the cross in the envelope and mail it after she was gone.”

She handed the letter to Fin, and he stared at it for a long time before passing it and the cross on to his dad. Marty laid the letter on the table and placed the cross on top of it, then covered them with his hands as if he was giving them a silent blessing.

“So that’s it,” he said as he handed them to Annamaria. She passed the letter and the cross on without even a glance.

“Wow.” Patty let the cross dangle from her fingertips as she stared at the letter.

“Come with me,” Bernadette said after Patty gave the letter and silver cross back to her and she slipped them into her apron pocket. She motioned for everyone to follow as she stood up and headed for the stairs in the front hallway.

When her foot landed on the creaky step, she turned and looked back at her family: Fin and Patty a step behind, holding hands and looking up at her with bewildered faces—Marty after them, looking solemn with his hands in his pockets—Annamaria, with grief-stretched eyes, several steps behind everyone, but at least she was coming. Bernadette shifted her weight and the step creaked again. How many nights had she waited for Veronica’s reappearance, how many hours had she re-experienced her death in the lack of the sound of her foot on that step? Four sets of concerned eyes stared up at her as she turned and resumed her climb, wishing she could wrap words around what she was feeling and what she had come to so clearly understand.

At the top of the stairs, she stepped into Veronica’s room and walked over to the antique cedar chest in the corner. She ran her fingers over its lid and kissed its smooth polished surface, then slipped her hand down its back until her fingers found the edge of the masking tape that held the key in place. Then, with key in hand, she lowered herself to the floor. Marty sat next to her, their shoulders touching. She reached for his hand, brought it up to her lips, and kissed it. Fin sat on the other side of Bernadette in his usual lotus position, and Patty plopped onto her knees at one end of the chest, her eyes bright with anticipation. Annamaria stood and leaned with her back against the doorjamb—half in the room, half out—and watched the others out of the corner of her eye.

The oversized key slipped with ease into the crest-shaped brass lock, but before she turned it, Bernadette closed her eyes and let her fingers linger for a few minutes. Marty lifted the lid and a pungent cedar smell burst forth from its ten-year captivity. With it came a yearning in Bernadette so powerful that she toppled forward and almost fell headfirst into the chest. A giant white A blazed up at her like a flashlight beaming into her eyes. She traced the letter on Veronica’s maroon and white letter sweater with her fingertips, then lifted the sweater from the chest, brought it up to her lips, and kissed it.

“Remember how she screamed when she made cheerleader?” Fin said with a laugh.

“She went wild,” Marty said.

“Aunt Veronica was, like, so beautiful,” Patty said. “I always wanted to be like her.” She snatched the sweater from Bernadette’s hands and measured one of its sleeves against her arm.

“Why don’t
you
try out, kiddo?” Fin said.

“So, maybe I will.” Patty jumped to her feet and pulled the sweater over her head. It fit as if made for her. “What do you think, Mom?”

Annamaria stared, wide-eyed, at her daughter from the doorway, her mouth twisted in a failed smile.

“Come here, Annie.” Bernadette tipped her head toward the chest and patted the floor with her hand.

Annamaria shook her head and looked down.

Bernadette hesitated, considered asking her one more time to join them. But she’d learned long ago that it was best not to push Annamaria, best to let her come around on her own if she was going to. She turned back to the chest and started to pull out Veronica’s things one by one. Each item contained a tale, and they took their time telling different versions of the stories, weaving the sequence of events—each precious memory—into an exuberant and gratifying narrative of Veronica’s life. At some of the stories, they laughed out loud. At some, they cried.

“Remember this, Annamaria, from our trip to Disneyland?” Fin held Veronica’s Mickey Mouse doll up, pointed it toward his sister at the door.

“Remember how sick you got of her singing ‘It’s a small world after all’ over and over and over again?” Marty added.

Annamaria turned her head away.

“And this is where we went every summer.” Fin held up a picture of the five of them standing in front of a small log cabin.

“You guys always talk about that lake,” Patty said, “but I never saw it.”

“Remember how you always pushed me off the dock, Annamaria?” The way Fin said it sounded like a tease, not an indictment.

“What I remember is how Veronica would keep track on her calendar of how much time was left before we would go,” Bernadette said.

Marty chuckled. “Her breakfast announcement. It was always only ten more weeks, only six more weeks, eight more days, two more days.”

“Can we go there sometime, Mom?” Patty asked.

They all looked at Annamaria, but she didn’t look at them.

“We should go back,” Bernadette said. “I’m serious. Let’s all go.”

Marty squeezed her shoulder and said, “Why not? I have a clean bill of health now. And for you, my sweet, I would go anywhere.”

“Maybe Uncle Fin could bring Chuck,” Patty said with a mischievous smile.

Bernadette raised her eyebrow. She and Marty gave each other a knowing look. Fin broke out in a smile.

“Actually,” he said, “I think I will.”

“See? You know, Uncle Fin, I like Chuck, too.”

“Then it’s settled.” Bernadette laughed and tickled Fin on the back of his neck, the tickle of a promise of all the good that was yet to come.

At midnight, Patty looked into the chest and declared it empty, gesturing at its contents now scattered about on the floor. Bernadette couldn’t believe how alive she felt as she picked up each item in turn, smelled it, kissed it, placed it back in the cedar chest. It was like tucking Veronica in bed for the night. Carefully. Lovingly.

Now only the letter sweater remained. But Patty wouldn’t give it up. When they coaxed her, she laughed. Teased. “Goooo maroons!” She jumped into a cheer, her legs splitting the air, the maroon and white pom-poms fluttering from her fingertips.

Bernadette stared at her granddaughter. It was the way her head tilted. The brilliance of her smile. Her exuberant spirit. How could she not have noticed before? Veronica had been with them all this time. She glanced at Marty and Fin. They saw it, too. So did Annamaria. She was sitting on the floor now, still in the doorway, wide-eyed, looking stunned.

“Come sit next to me, Annie,” Bernadette said.

Annamaria shook her head, vehemently this time, and turned her back on them. With a pained expression, Fin started to get up. But when Bernadette shook her head and placed her hand on his arm, he nodded and sat back down. She took his hand and squeezed it, affirming what they both knew: that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved, and if you insist on trying anyway, you need to ask who it is you are really trying to save—the other person or yourself. The clarity with which she now understood this was a gift from Rae, one that, because she had come to accept it, sustained and nourished her even as her heart bled for Annamaria.

She turned to Patty then and reached into her apron pocket for the silver cross and envelope containing Rae’s letter. “Help me with these, sweetie,” she said.

Patty, looking pleased to be asked, dropped the pom-poms back into the chest and pulled the sweater over her head. Then Bernadette folded the sweater carefully, neatly. She lifted it to her face and smelled it. Kissed it. Laid it on everything else in the chest. Then she placed the envelope on top of the letter sweater.

“Let’s do this together.” She brought Rae’s cross up to her lips and kissed it before handing it to her granddaughter.

Patty felt each link of the chain as if they were rosary beads. “Aunt Veronica,” she said as she placed the silver cross on the envelope in the chest, “this is your sister.”

“I wish the two of you could have lived,” Bernadette said as she gazed into the chest. “You both would have done so much good.”

Fin leaned forward, reached into the chest so his fingertips could caress the cross. “You would have liked each other,” he whispered.

His words touched the deepest part of Bernadette, the place where she knew wisdom resided. When it came right down to it, the struggle wasn’t about ideas or stances; it wasn’t even about doing the right thing. It was about the connection of one human being with another. Fin’s compassion had taught her that. She placed her hand on her son’s cheek and smiled. She no longer worried about him. As always, he was going to do what he was going to do. That was just fine with her.

Marty glanced around to make sure no one objected and then closed the lid to the chest. Bernadette turned the key and left it in the lock.

With a collective sigh, they all stood up and stretched their legs. Except for Annamaria, who was now curled into herself on the floor with her hands on the back of her head. Splotches of crimson covered her neck. Bernadette ran to the doorway, fell onto her knees, and held her daughter’s body, now wracked with violent sobs, against her breasts. She stroked her corkscrew curls and kissed the top of her head, tasting the years of grief that poured out in one long keening lament. It was a good sign. A very good sign.

“I miss her so much, Mom.” Annamaria’s shaky voice was childlike, almost inaudible.

“I know, sweetie, I know.”

Patty dropped to her knees with her arms outstretched, grabbed her mom, and held on for dear life.

“I’m so scared for you, Patty,” Annamaria sobbed.

Bernadette stood up, leaving mother and daughter to weep in each other’s arms. She felt Marty’s arm around her shoulder. He was shaking. Then she felt Fin’s hand as he slipped it through her arm on the other side. He was shaking, too. Crying, the three of them huddled close together, providing with their bodies a tent, a shelter in which Annamaria’s grief could be laid bare, her naked pain exposed. She was going to be okay now. They were all going to be okay now.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Several exceptional people, who strive to make forgiveness and healing possible in the aftermath of violent crime, were the inspiration for
Just Mercy
. They include: David Doerfler—former Director, Victim Offender Mediation/Dialogue program for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, Victim Services Division—and the victim and offender participants in that program; Ronnie Earle, former Travis County Texas District Attorney and passionate proponent of restorative justice; Sister Helen Prejean, author of
Dead Man Walking
and leading advocate for the abolishment of the death penalty; Marilyn Peterson Armour, PhD, Professor and Director, Institute for Restorative Justice and Restorative Dialogue, The University of Texas at Austin, and relentless seeker of meaning in the aftermath of homicide.

The seeds of
Just Mercy,
although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, were planted years ago when I decided to investigate the lifelong personal and environmental risk factors experienced by murderers who were executed by Texas in 1997. I focused on Texas because it has the highest rate of executions in the United States since the death penalty was reinstated in the late 1970s, and on the 37 men because they represented half of the people put to death in the country in 1997. I am most grateful to the many people—too many to name without inadvertently leaving someone out—that made that research possible.

What I learned from the 37 Men study proved invaluable to me in the development and writing of
Just Mercy.
The character of Raelynn Blackwell, who murdered Veronica Baker
,
is the female prototype of one of the profiles that emerged of the men in the study and turned out to be one of the key findings: that virtually all of the men whose childhood backgrounds included sexual abuse, physical abuse and physical or emotional neglect had committed the most-heinous crimes. In
Just Mercy,
Bernadette Baker’s reaction to a public information packet she is given at Raelynn Blackwell’s execution reflects my own reaction when I first saw how the death penalty was normalized in the packet’s contents (e.g., a history of the death penalty and detailed execution procedures; pages of statistics such as current death row and prior execution lists; a map of the United States with symbols—noose, needle, chair, target, gas chamber door—to show the methods of execution used in each state with the death penalty).

My decision to write fiction in general and
Just Mercy
in particular grew out of a growing conviction that people become empowered to work for personal and social change, not through objective data and studies, but through personal connections that lead them to care enough to take action. Instead of continuing to conduct research about complex and controversial social issues, I wanted to show how ordinary people find the courage to embrace the rough places of life and make deeply personal and moral choices that transform themselves and the world in important ways. I am deeply indebted to the teachers and writers who taught me how to give voice to my passion for social justice in a way that privileges human emotion and personal experience over detached objectivity.

Best selling author and writing coach Hal Zina Bennett guided me through the first years of transition from academic writer to novelist by providing just the kind of encouragement, support and advice I needed. Max Regan (internationally published poet, writer, and founder of Hollowdeck Press) has been my writing coach, developmental editor, cheerleader and dear friend for many years. Without his extraordinary skill, honesty, insight and genuine caring
Just Mercy
would not have been possible. The inspiration and skills I get each year at Max’s annual Boulder Writers’ Retreats are living proof of his assertion that writing is a team sport. Mary Kabrich and Roger Roffman, writing group members who have endured listening to innumerable drafts of my work over the years, provide me with priceless critiques without fail twice a month. Huge thanks to my writing team for badgering and pushing me, for giving me feedback I don’t always want to hear, for laughing at and with me, and always, always, for their support, encouragement, and friendship.

My sincere appreciation to everyone who made
Just Mercy
better by reading and commenting on early drafts
:
Deede Colbath, Pauline Erera, Larry Fitzgerald, Wendy Gross, Evelyn McChesney, Dorothy Sturdevant, Richard Walker, and Diane Young. Extra thanks go to Larry Fitzgerald who, as former Texas Department of Criminal Justice Public Information Officer in Huntsville, shared details about the Walls Unit that would otherwise have been inaccessible to me.

I am most grateful to Kevin Atticks and the Apprentice House team for publishing
Just Mercy
and getting it into readers’ hands. Thank you to Christy Karras for her tireless and meticulous copyediting. Thanks to Andrea Dunlop for her expertise as a book publicist and kudos for making me a social media convert.

Words can never fully express the appreciation and gratitude I have for my wife Susan, the love of my life, who shares my passion for social justice and makes it possible every day for me to try to make the world a better place.