Mercy
‘I know that type. But I still don’t see what that’s got to do with taking the deal.’
Alex smiled. Nat may have got top grades in law school, but he had a lot to learn about the real world.
‘The thing is, Nat, that what a narcissist wants most is attention. But the next best thing is to live. He wants to live—even if it is behind bars. He’ll still be the center of attention for a while, with the press…and the public…until the novelty wears off.’
Nat thought about this for a moment.
‘He’s never admitted it…killing the Olsen girl, I mean.’
‘I know. But until now he’s never had a reason to. In fact he had every reason not to.’
They were taking a left into Lombard Street now and a tense silence settled over them. Strangely, Alex found himself thinking not about Burrow, but about Nat. The truth was that he hadn’t originally planned on hiring a legal intern, his law practice was just too tiny to warrant one. But Nat had badgered his way into Alex’s professional life with an enviable dedication and tenacity. He had started off the campaign while still a student, with an impressive résumé and a series of letters praising Alex’s work. At the time, Nat was doing a pre-graduation internship with the Public Defender’s office.
But the coup de grâce was an impromptu visit to Alex’s office. When Alex had politely offered a referral to another firm, Nat replied that he didn’t want to work for the ‘whores and heathens’ of the legal profession. He wanted to work only for a true believer in justice. Alex wasn’t sure if the student was a genuine meshigena or just a younger incarnation of himself, with the ideals still intact. But the clincher came when Nat silenced Alex’s attempted rebuff by saying that he wanted to play St Peter to Alex’s Jesus. It was the kind of killer line that a lawyer would give his Rolex—if not his Rolodex—to come up with. And it caught Alex from left field.
Nat’s arrival at the firm had been most opportune in terms of the caseload. Alex had been getting a lot more business in the wake of a major success in the appeal of a drug baron’s girlfriend on accessory charges. And this heavy workload had culminated in Alex’s biggest case of all when the California v. Burrow file landed on his desk. There had been so much material to read through, so much ground to cover. Alex still wasn’t sure that he had truly come to grips with the facts of the case.
But the execution date had been set and the court had refused to give him any more time.
‘You want me to copy the recording?’
Nat’s voice punctured Alex’s cogitation. They were on Doyle Drive, heading north toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
‘Oh, er…yes. Upload a copy on the mail server and lodge a CD copy with the bank. Get Juanita to do a transcript. We’ll compare it to the official transcript when we get it.’
Throughout Alex’s meeting with the governor, they had maintained an open cell phone connection, with Alex’s brand new iPhone on silent and Nat listening in and recording the conversation.
Originally the plan had been for Alex and Nat to go in together. But Nat had suggested that Alex might be more effective alone. Two on one would seem like bullying and might serve only to harden the governor’s attitude. One on one and it would come over more like a genuine plea for mercy. Alex would be like a stand-in for Burrow, making a straightforward appeal from the heart.
Alex liked the way Nat thought. He had the knack for bringing a fresh perspective to the situation.
10:17 PDT (18:17 BST)
‘Are you all right, Sue?’
Susan White had been daydreaming. She was barely into the first hour of her shift and her mind was a million miles away. She became aware of a young nurse looking at her.
‘Oh yes. I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.’
The young nurse was dark-haired and pretty, with a smile that reminded Susan of some young British actress who had made it big in Hollywood after several appearances in British movies. She couldn’t remember the name of the actress. It was all she could do to remember the name of the nurse.
Danielle. Yes, that was it. Danielle Michaels.
‘You sure?’
Susan White could sense Danielle was genuinely concerned.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Really I am.’
Danielle smiled again and walked off, glancing back over her shoulder briefly, with a look of concern. But right now, the thing that was uppermost on Susan’s mind was that news report about the man who was about to be executed.
Were the cases connected? She didn’t know. But she had to be sure.
The first thing she did was head for the records room. The room was unlocked but the cabinets were not. It was out of hours and the records manager wasn’t there. Then she realized that she didn’t actually need the whole file, just the index. The hard copy files were filed by consecutive number and physically stored by date. But every file had a matching card in the card index and these were arranged alphabetically. The index card would have the date.
She found it in less than a minute and a chill went up her spine. The file had been opened on May 25, 1998. Nine years ago, just like the TV reporter had said.
There was no getting round it: the dates matched.
10:36 PDT
When they arrived at San Quentin, Alex again went in alone, while Nat waited in the car. He had been in many prisons before, but never in death row—not even the relatively calm North Segregation block.
‘It’s just too depressing,’ was all he had offered by way of explanation.
‘What are you talking about?’ Alex had responded. ‘It’s just like the rest of the prison.’
‘No, it isn’t. Not to me. It has…I can’t explain it. It’s like the place has the smell of death about it.’
Alex had found this attitude incomprehensible.
‘How do you expect to work as a lawyer on cases of your own if you’re afraid that you can’t compartmentalize your emotions?’
Nat had just shaken his head and turned away, as if struggling to contain those emotions.
‘I can’t do it,’ Nat had almost cried. ‘Not yet.’
Alex remained mystified but realized that he had to accept it. Whatever psychological baggage Nat was carrying, he couldn’t shake it off and wasn’t ready to share it with anyone else.
So on this case at least, Nat was functioning as little more than a driver. It was hardly a way to get ahead in his chosen profession. But in fairness to Nat, he had done a lot of background research. You couldn’t fault him for effort or enthusiasm. If Nat needed to keep Burrow at a distance to maintain that enthusiasm, then so be it.
It took a few minutes to process Alex through security. But it seemed to be getting quicker. They knew Alex now and he knew the drill, so less had to be explained to him about what he could and couldn’t bring in. Also, as the execution date drew near, they realized the urgency of these meetings and there was an element of sympathy for even the basest and most evil of murderers. Years on death row humbled and mellowed a man and even those prison guards who believed most strongly in capital punishment were ready to admit that by the time the condemned man is about to meet his maker, he is a very different man to the one who was sentenced to that fate.
Whatever they said about capital punishment being the ultimate individual deterrent, it was a punishment that eliminated the need for itself. It was living in the shadow of death that reformed a man’s character, not death itself. But for collective deterrence, the death penalty served no purpose, Alex felt. But there were others who were all too ready to argue the point.
When Alex was finally in the cell with Clayton Burrow, the condemned man appeared to be struggling to read the lawyer’s face.
‘What did he say?’ asked Burrow, a tremor of fear creeping into his voice.
‘It’s kind of complicated,’ Alex replied hesitantly.
‘What do you mean?’
Burrow’s breathing was heavy, as if not daring to hope.
‘He’s offering you clemency—but it’s conditional.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he’s ready to commute your sentence to life if you ’fess up.’
‘That’s it?’ said Burrow, letting the air out of his lungs.
‘No, there’s one more thing. You’ve got to reveal where you buried the body.’
The smile vanished from the condemned man’s face.
‘Fuck it!’ yelled Burrow, pounding his left palm with his right fist. ‘Goddamn fuck it!’
Alex looked at his client, puzzled.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘I can’t do it! I can’t fuckin’ do it!’
10:39 PDT
It had been most kind of Chuck to lay on a limo, Esther Olsen thought.
The overpass drifted away behind them. But Esther was past the stage of admiring the view. On the way there it had been a distraction from her worries. She didn’t drive and illness had left her pretty nearly housebound. So any journey like this was an escape, both mental and physical. But the novelty soon wore off.
The same was true of the limousine. The luxury of its leather upholstery and lacquered wooden paneling raised her pleasure level by a microscopic degree. But such petty pleasures were short-lived when ranged against the quantum of suffering that had borne down upon her in recent years. First a murderer’s unbridled malice had claimed her daughter. Then the ravages of disease had selected her at random and struck her down with a death sentence of her own.
She had had her fair share of life and although it hadn’t always been a smooth ride, it was at least a fair crack of the whip. She could accept being singled out by the Grim Reaper. But it was the loss of her daughter that had been unforgivable: for that was the work of human agency. And she blamed not only Burrow but also her husband.
Yet it was precisely from this anger that she wanted to escape. That was why she had approached Dusenbury and persuaded him to offer clemency to Burrow. As her own fate loomed up ahead, she needed closure more than revenge. And that was also why, as she closed her eyes, she now felt herself drifting back to a happier time.
She couldn’t understand why, but of all the memories that flashed through her mind, the one that lodged itself and lingered at the forefront was the one-night stand.
They were both students: he celebrating the end of his tentative first year at law school; she celebrating completion of her finals for her bachelor’s degree in literature. It was one of those drunken frat parties where everyone knows someone but no one knows everyone. Even now she didn’t remember how they had ended up in the sack together. Yes, the drinks had been flowing freely. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they had both been sitting in the corner, trying to withdraw from the rowdy celebrating and wild carousing that had long since lost its appeal for both of them. She wasn’t cerebral like him, more the free-spirited romantic type. But she was the quiet type. That much they had in common.
She was also engaged, to a decent if somewhat boring—not to say cold—man whose family was ‘well to do’ and who had ‘prospects’ according to her pushy mother. Was it an attempt to escape from an engagement that she never really wanted? Or a final celebration before she lost her freedom forever?
Whatever the reason, the memory of that night of passion reminded her of a phrase from the end of Hardy’s Mayor of Casterbridge about happiness being an occasional incident in a general drama of pain. It was a line that Dorothy had talked to her about for many hours, after reading the book in happier days when mother and daughter could still talk to one another. Esther had thought that Dorothy was too young to read such a book. But Dorothy had lapped it up with her unquenchable thirst for literature that she had inherited from her mother.
But the line lingered with Esther now. Had there been any truly happy moments in her life after that? Her marriage to Edgar certainly hadn’t been happy. She wondered if the blame had been hers…if the marriage had been tainted by that one fleeting indiscretion before they had even solemnized their union.
And yet she felt no guilt, not even when her thoughts rolled on through the years and settled on that image forever frozen in her mind—the image of her husband lying there with a bullet hole in his head.
10:43 PDT
‘We’re talking about your life!’ Alex practically shrieked. ‘When I went in to meet the governor, I thought you were a dead dog. And now he’s throwing us a lifeline—against all the fuckin’ odds! Are you just gonna fling it back in his face?’
‘You don’t understand!’ Burrow replied, sobbing into his hands. ‘I can’t tell you where she is because I don’t know where she is!’
‘What do you mean “don’t know”?’ asked Alex, looking round to make sure that the guard outside was out of earshot. ‘Are you gonna carry on with this innocent act even now, when you have a chance to save your neck?’
‘It’s not an act! Look, I’m telling you I never touched…I mean, I didn’t…’
He broke off, seeing the look of disbelief in the lawyer’s eyes. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Alex tried again.
‘Okay, so what do you think happened? You think someone else killed her? You think she just walked off the edge of the earth?’
‘She set me up!’
‘What?’
‘She framed me!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why do you think her body was never found?’
Alex realized that this was no time for pussyfooting round—not if he wanted to save his miserable client’s neck.
‘Because you buried her?’
‘Because there was no body! She’s not dead, I’m telling you. She’s sitting in a room somewhere, watching the TV, laughing her head off at this whole cornball sideshow!’
‘You think so?’ Alex practically sneered.
‘Goddamn right, I think so!’
‘And have you got anything by way of…evidence?’
Burrow looked at the lawyer like he wanted to hit him.
‘If I had evidence d’you think I’d be in this shit hole?’
Alex was breathing heavily, trying to restore calm.
‘Okay, I’m sorry, that was a stupid question. But just tell me one thing…why would she frame you?’
‘What?’
‘Motive? What’s her fucking motive?’
Burrow’s face showed how hard he felt the full force of his lawyer’s skepticism.
‘You think I’m bullshitting, don’t you?’
Alex sighed.
‘I think you’re clutching at straws.’
But he knew that this didn’t make sense either. Why would Burrow be clutching at the straw of a crackpot theory, when the governor had just thrown him a rope?
‘I think she did it because I…’
He trailed off. But Alex could see in his eyes that he wanted to say more. He tried an encouraging tone.
‘You…what?’
But Burrow’s mood had changed.
‘Look, forget it, okay? Let’s just forget it. You’ve done your best for me. I can’t say you haven’t gone the extra mile. Now let me just prepare for the inevitable.’
Alex was looking at Burrow with an uneasy thought going through his mind: this was not the response of a guilty man.
10:52 PDT
Martine Yin was checking her makeup in the trailer outside San Quentin prison preparing for her next report. It was a hot day, and she decided to swap her blue jacket for a man’s waistcoat—the one that she wore as a semiprofessional snooker player.
Her mind was focussed on the matter in hand. She had spotted Burrow’s lawyer going into San Quentin and had been hoping to get an interview with him when he came out, but she found herself caught in a media scrimmage and was unable to get anywhere near his car before it broke through the line and receded into the distance. She knew that the lawyer had been scheduled to meet the governor that morning, but that was just a formality. Besides, if anything had come out of that meeting, it would have been announced by the governor’s office.
Nevertheless, she did want to talk to Sedaka, if only to get the low-down on how his client took the inevitable bad news. But she had missed the opportunity. Aside from that, she assumed that Alex didn’t want to talk about it. In fact he probably couldn’t talk about it. But still, it would be nice to get an exclusive.
The problem was how to contact him. All she had was the number of Sedaka’s office. The secretary had been polite, but consistently refused to give out Sedaka’s cell phone number.
So now Martine just had to sit tight outside the penitentiary awaiting further developments. The report this morning had gone well. Of course as the execution time approached, things would hot up. The closer to midnight they got, the bigger this story would become. There was no chance of the governor granting clemency—notwithstanding his own unpopular views on capital punishment. Indeed the only thing that could upstage the execution itself would be if Dorothy Olsen walked in off the street and said: ‘Surprise, surprise! I’m alive!’
Martine smiled at the thought. It reminded her of all the urban legends and conspiracy theories about the Lindbergh baby, complete with several people claiming to be the dead tyke—including one who was black and female!
There were a few doubts about the case against Hauptmann, who had been executed for the murder of the baby. Some said his trial was unfair—not least the atmosphere of vengeance amid which it had taken place. But it was a strong case nevertheless. Likewise the case against Clayton Burrow.
The cell phone cut into her thoughts.
‘Martine Yin.’
‘Hi, Marti, it’s Paul.’ Paul was an eager kid who worked at the station. ‘We’ve just had a tip-off about what’s going down in the Burrow case. You’re not gonna believe this.’
In response to what he said next, her jaw dropped.
11:04 PDT
‘And he didn’t say why?’
‘No. He just claimed she framed him and then pretty much clammed up.’
Back in the car, Alex hadn’t even bothered to tell Nat about Burrow’s response at first, and Nat hadn’t asked. Alex realized that the look on his face must have said it all. Only when they hit the road and found themselves back on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, did Nat ask.
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘Not got a fucking clue.’
‘Why would she frame him?’
‘That’s what we’ve got to find out.’
‘And how are we going to do that? With our client refusing to play ball?’
‘We’ve spent the last few weeks arguing the law. Maybe it’s time for us to take another look at the facts.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Not really. The most likely explanation is that he can’t remember where he hid the body. It was nine years ago, don’t forget. He probably just buried it somewhere in the hills. He wouldn’t necessarily have any reason to remember the exact location. Now it’s probably just a faded memory.’
‘He could tell you that. He could admit the killing and say he doesn’t remember where the body is after all this time.’
‘He could have done that ages ago. But maybe he doesn’t want to come clean in case I lose motivation.’
Nat shook his head.
‘He obviously doesn’t understand lawyers.’
‘He understands jackshit!’
‘So how is looking at the facts going to help us now? We need to come up with a point of law.’
‘We need both. A new fact to convince them there’s a strong chance he’s innocent and a point of law to give them the leeway to act on it.’
‘And what are we supposed to be looking for?’
‘I said I think he killed her. But I’m not sure. What if I’m wrong? What if we’re all wrong?’
While Nat was thinking of an answer to this conundrum, Alex put in a call on his iPhone to the office. Juanita answered.
‘Hi, Alex,’ she said, as his number popped up on the display. ‘How did it go?’
‘Not good, Juanita.’
He had phoned her on the way to San Quentin and told her about Dusenbury’s offer.
‘He refused?’ she asked incredulously.
‘He said he didn’t know.’
‘But how—?’
‘Listen, I haven’t got time. I’ll fill you in when I get back to the office. In the meantime, I need you to do a couple of things.’
‘That’s what you pay me for.’
‘I want you to go online and find out everything you can about the feud between Clayton Burrow and Dorothy Olsen.’
‘We already looked into that, boss.’
‘I know, but all we found out was that she was the butt of his jokes. What we need to find out is if there’s anything behind it.’
‘What’s to find out? He was a bullying jock and she was the smart, geeky girl with glasses. What else is there?’
‘Okay, I know it’s a long shot, but I got the impression that Burrow was holding out on me.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well it’s just that none of it makes sense. If he’s guilty, why the hell did he reject the deal?’
‘So now you think he’s innocent?’ Juanita asked incredulously.
‘Until today I never even considered it. But innocent or guilty, I think there’s something he’s not telling me.’
‘And you think it’s something to do with this high school feud?’
‘It’s a good place to start—the relationship between the victim and the accused.’
‘Are we looking for anything in particular?’
‘Let’s start off with motive.’
‘I thought the feud was the motive?’
‘No, I mean the cause of the feud. Was it just a culture clash between the male jock and the female geek? Or was it a case of hell hath no fury? Maybe some of the other students know something.’
‘It’s gonna be hard to track down the phone numbers. And I can’t leave the office, can I?’
‘Use the internet. Maybe there’s discussion about it online. We also need to know who her friends were. And if she had any enemies—other than Burrow, that is.’
‘It’s going to be hard. You know how it works on the web. You do a search and it throws up a million irrelevant items.’
‘Do your best, Juanita. I’ll be back in fifteen.’
Nat smiled. Twenty-five was more realistic. He’d have to floor it.
Alex put in another call, this time to Information. He asked for Esther Olsen’s number, adding that she lived in Sunnyvale. Fortunately the number was listed. He followed up by putting in a call to her.
‘Yes?’ The voice was weak…nervous.
‘Mrs Olsen? It’s Alex Sedaka here.’
Her mood seemed to brighten.
‘Oh, hallo, Mr Sedaka.’
Alex was embarrassed. He didn’t know how to continue.
‘Listen, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
‘He…he wouldn’t tell you?’
She sounded sad, but not angry or bitter as he’d feared.
‘He said he didn’t know. He still maintains he’s innocent.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Esther Olsen’s voice was croaky now.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he’s guilty?’
This was a question that Alex couldn’t answer. Not that his own private thoughts were privileged. But a lawyer’s view of his client’s innocence or guilt is partly based on what his client tells him, and this could be a slippery slope.
‘I don’t know, Mrs Olsen.’
This was the diplomatic response if not an altogether truthful one. Alex pressed on.
‘But can I ask you a question?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know anything about the relationship between them? I mean, I know they hated each other, but do you know why?’
There was a moment of hesitation.
‘I don’t know. She never really confided in me. Like I told you, I was estranged from her before she…’