Sit down, said the governor as they stepped into the library at the end of the hall.
The dark-paneled library reminded Jack of the house in which he'd grown up. He sat in a leather armchair before the stone fireplace, his crossed legs fully extended and his boots propped up irreverently on the head of a big Alaskan brown bear that his father had years ago stopped in its tracks and turned into a rug. The governor looked away, containing his impulse to tell his son to sit up straight. He stepped behind the big oak bar and filled his old-fashioned glass with ice cubes.
Jack did a double take. He thought his father had given up hard liquor - then again, this was the first time he'd seen him as Governor Swyteck. Do you have to drink? Like I said, this is business.
The governor shot him a glance, then reached for the Chivas and filled his glass to the brim. And this - he raised his glass - is none of your business. Cheers. He took a long sip.
Jack just watched, telling himself to focus on the reason he was there.
So, the governor said, smacking his lips. I can't really remember the last time we even spoke, let alone saw each other. How long has it been this time?
Jack shrugged. Two, two and a half years.
Since your law-school graduation, wasn't it?
No - Jack's expression betrayed the faintest of smiles - since I told you I was taking a job with the Freedom Institute.
Ah, yes, the Freedom Institute. Harry Swyteck rolled his eyes. The place where lawyers measure success by turning murderers, rapists, and robbers back onto the street. The place where bleeding-heart liberals can defend the guilty and be insufferably sanctimonious about it, because they don't take a fee from the vermin they defend. His look soured. The one place you knew it would absolutely kill me to see you work.
Jack held on tightly to the arm of the chair. I didn't come here to replow old ground.
I'm sure you didn't. It's much the same old story, anyway. Granted, this last time the rift grew a little wider between us. But in the final analysis, this one will shake out no differently than the other times you've cut me out of your life. You'll never recognize that all I ever wanted is what's best for you.
Jack was about to comment on his father's presumed infallibility, but was distracted by something on the bookshelf. It was an old photograph of the two of them, together on a deep-sea fishing trip, in one of their too-few happy moments. Lay in to me first chance you get, Father, but you have that picture up there for all to see, don't you?
Look, Jack said, I know we have things to talk about. But now's not the time. I didn't come here for that.
I know. You came because Raul Fernandez is scheduled to die in the electric chair in - the governor looked at his watch - about eighty minutes.
I came because he is innocent.
Twelve jurors didn't think so, Jack.
They didn't hear the whole story.
They heard enough to convict him after deliberating for less than twenty minutes. I've known juries to take longer deciding who's going to be foreman.
Will you just listen to me, Jack snapped. Please, Father - he tried a more civil tone - listen to me.
The governor refilled his glass. All right, he said. I'm listening.
Jack leaned forward. About five hours ago, a man called me and said he had to see me - in confidence, as a client. He wouldn't give me his name, but he said it was life and death, so I agreed to meet him. He showed up at my office ten minutes later wearing a ski mask. At first I thought he was going to rob me, but it turned out he just wanted to talk about the Fernandez case. So that's what we did - talked. He paused, focusing his eyes directly on his father's. And in less than five minutes he had me convinced that Raul Fernandez is innocent.
The governor looked skeptical. And just what did this mysterious man of the night tell you?
I can't say.
Why not?
I told you: He agreed to speak to me only in confidence, as a client. I've never seen his face, and I doubt that I'll ever see him again, but technically I'm his lawyer - or at least I was for that conversation. Anyway, everything he told me is protected by attorney-client privilege. I can't divulge any of it without his approval. And he won't let me repeat a word.
Then what are you doing here?
Jack gave him a sobering look. Because an innocent man is going to die in the electric chair unless you stop the Fernandez execution right now.
The governor slowly crossed the room, a glass in one hand and an open bottle of scotch in the other. He sat in the matching arm chair, facing Jack. And I'll ask you one more time: How do you know Fernandez is innocent?
How do I know? Jack's reddening face conveyed total exasperation. Why is it that you always want more than I can give? My flying up here in the middle of the night isn't enough for you? My telling you everything I legally and ethically can tell you just isn't enough?
All I'm saying is that I need proof. I can't just stay an execution based on on nothing, really.
My word is worth nothing, then, Jack translated.
In this setting, yes - that's the way it has to be. In this context, you're a lawyer, and I'm the governor.
No - in this context, I'm a witness, and you're a murderer. Because you're going to put Fernandez to death. And I know he's innocent.
How do you know?
Because I met the real killer tonight. He confessed to me. He did more than confess: He showed me something that proves he's the killer.
And what was that? the governor asked, genuinely interested.
I can't tell you, Jack said. He felt his frustration rising. I've already said more than I can under the attorney-client privilege.
The governor nestled into his chair, flashing a thin, paternalistic smile. You're being a little naive, don't you think? You have to put these last-minute pleas in context. Fernandez is a convicted killer. He and everyone who knows him is desperate. You can't take anything they say at face value. This so-called client who showed up at your door is undoubtedly a cousin or brother or street friend of Raul Fernandez's, and he'll do anything to stop the execution.
You don't know that!
The governor sighed heavily, his eyes cast downward. You're right. He brought his hands to his temples and began rubbing them. We never know for certain. I suppose that's why I've taken to this, he said as he reached over and lifted the bottle of scotch. But the cold reality is that I campaigned as the law-and-order governor. I made the death penalty the central issue in the election. I promised to carry it out with vigor, and at the time I meant what I said. Now that I'm here, it's not quite so easy to sign my name to a death warrant. You've seen them before - ominous-looking documents, with their black border and embossed state seal. But have you ever really read what they say? Believe me, I have. His voice trailed off. That kind of power can get to a man, if you let it. Hell, he scoffed and sipped his drink, and doctors think they're God.
Jack was silent, surprised by this rare look into his father's conscience and not quite sure what to say. That's all the more reason to listen to me, he said. To make sure it's not a mistake.
This is no mistake, Jack. Don't you see? What you're not saying is as significant as what you're saying. You won't breach the attorney-client privilege, not even to persuade me to change my mind about the execution. I respect that, Jack. But you have to respect me, too. I have rules. I have obligations, just like you do. Mine are to the people who elected me - and who expect me to honor my campaign promises.
It's not the same thing.
That's true, he agreed. It's not the same. That's why, when you leave here tonight, I don't want you to blame yourself for anything. You did the best you could. Now it's up to me to make a decision. And I'm making it. I don't believe Raul Fernandez is innocent. But if you believe it, I don't want you feeling responsible for his death.
Jack looked into his father's eyes. He knew the man was reaching out - that he was looking for something from his son, some reciprocal acknowledgment that Jack didn't blame him, either, for doing his job. Harold Swyteck wanted absolution, forgiveness - a pardon.
Jack glanced away. He would not - could not - allow the moment to weaken his resolve. Don't worry, Father, I won't blame myself. It's like you always used to tell me: We're all responsible for our own actions. If an innocent man dies in the electric chair, you're the governor. You're responsible. You're the one to blame.
Jack's words struck a nerve. The governor's face flushed red with fury as every conciliatory sentiment drained away. There is no one to blame, he declared. No one but Fernandez himself. You're being played for a sucker. Fernandez and his buddy are using you. Why do you think this character didn't tell you his name or even show you his face?
Because he doesn't want to get caught, Jack answered, but he doesn't want an innocent man to die.
A killer - especially one guilty of this sort of savagery - doesn't want an innocent man to die? Harry Swyteck shook his head condescendingly. It's ironic, Jack - he spoke out of anger now - but sometimes you almost make me glad your mother never lived to see what a thick-headed son she brought into the world.
Jack quickly rose from his chair. I don't have to take this crap from you.
I'm your father! Harry blustered. You'll take whatever I -
No! I'll take nothing from you. I've never asked for anything. And I don't want anything. Ever. He stormed toward the door.
Wait! the governor shouted, freezing him in his tracks. Jack turned around slowly and glared at his father. Listen to me, young man. Fernandez is going to be executed this morning, because I don't believe any of this nonsense about his being innocent. No more than I believed the eleventh-hour story from the last innocent man' we executed - the one who claimed it was only an accident that he stabbed his girlfriend - he paused, so furious he was out of breath - twenty-one times.
You've become an incredibly narrow-minded old man, Jack said.
The governor stood stoically at the bar. Get out, Jack. Get out of my house.
Jack turned and marched down the hall, his boots punishing the mansion's hard wooden floor. He threw the front door open, then stopped at the tinkling sound of his father filling his empty scotch glass with ice cubes. Drink up, Governor! his voice echoed in the hallway. Do us all a favor, and drink yourself to death.
He slammed the door and left.
Chapter
2
Death was just minutes away for Raul Fernandez. He sat on the edge of the bunk in his cell, shoulders slumped, bald head bowed, and hands folded between his knees. Father JosE Ramirez, a Roman Catholic priest, was at the prisoner's side, dressed all in black save for his white hair and Roman collar. Rosary beads were draped over one knee, an open Bible rested on the other. He was looking at Fernandez with concern, almost desperation, as he tried once more to cleanse the man's soul.
Murder is a mortal sin, Raul, he said. Heaven holds no place for those who die without confessing their mortal sins. In John, chapter twenty, Jesus tells his disciples: Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you hold bound are held bound.' Let me hear your sins, Raul. So that you may be forgiven them.
Fernandez looked him directly in the eye. Father, he said with all the sincerity he could muster, right now, I have nothing to lose by telling you the truth. And I'm telling you this: I have nothing to confess.
Father Ramirez showed no expression, though a chill went down his spine. He flinched only at the sound of the key jiggling in the iron door.
It's time, announced the guard. A team of two stepped inside the cell to escort Fernandez. Father Ramirez rose from his chair, blessed the prisoner with the sign of the cross, and then stepped aside. Fernandez did not budge from his bunk.
Let's go, ordered the guard.
Give him a minute, said the priest.
The guard stepped briskly toward the prisoner. We don't have a minute.
Fernandez suddenly sprung from his chair, burrowing his shoulder into the lead guard's belly. They tumbled to the floor. I'm innocent! he cried, his arms flailing. A barrage of blows from the other guard's blackjack battered his back and shoulders, stunning the prisoner into near paralysis.
You crazy son of a bitch! cried the fallen guard, forcing Fernandez onto his belly. Cuff him! he shouted to his partner. Together they pinned his arms behind his back, then cuffed the wrists and ankles.
I'm innocent, Fernandez whimpered, his face pressing on the cement floor. I'm innocent!
The hell with this, said the guard who'd just wrestled with the condemned man. He snatched a leather strap from his pocket and gagged the prisoner, fastening it tightly around the back of his head.
Father Ramirez looked on in horror as the guards lifted Fernandez to his feet. He was still groggy from the blows, so they shook him to revive him. The law required that a condemned man be fully conscious and alert to his impending death. Each guard grabbed an arm, and together they led him out of the cell.
The priest was pensive and disturbed as he followed the procession down the brightly lit hallway. He'd seen many death-row inmates, but none was the fighter this one was. Certainly, none had so strongly proclaimed his innocence.