The Pardon Page 2

  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 or 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 is 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 José 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 tumble 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.

  They stopped at the end of the hall and waited as the execution chamber’s iron door slid open automatically. The guards then handed the prisoner over to two attendants inside who specialized in executions. They moved quickly and efficiently as precious seconds ticked away on the wall clock. Fernandez was strapped into the heavy oak chair. Electrodes were fastened to his shaved head and ankles. The gag was removed from his mouth and replaced with a steel bit.

  All was quiet, save for the hum of the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Fernandez sat stiffly in his chair. The guards brought the black hood down over his face, then took their places along the gray-green walls. The venetian blinds opened, exposing the prisoner to three dozen witnesses on the dark side of the glass wall. A few reporters stirred. An assistant state attorney looked on impassively. The victim’s uncle—the only relative of the young girl in attendance—took a deep breath. All eyes except the prisoner’s turned toward the clock. His were hidden behind the hood and a tight leather band that would keep his eyeballs from bursting when the current flowed.

  Father Ramirez stepped into the dark seating area and joined the audience. The guard at the door raised his eyebrows. “You really gonna watch this one, padre?” he asked quietly.

  “You know I never watch,” said the priest.

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Yes,” said Ramirez. “There is, indeed. And if my instincts are correct, let’s hope this is the last time you kill an innocent man.” Then he closed his eyes and retreated into prayer.

  The guard looked away. The priest’s words had been pointed, but the guard shook them off, taking the proverbial common man’s comfort in the fact that he wasn’t killing anyone. It was Governor Harold Swyteck who’d signed the man’s death warrant. It was someone else who would flip the switch.

  At that moment, the second hand swept by its highest point, the warden gave the signal, and lights dimmed throughout the prison as twenty-five hundred volts surged into the prisoner’s body. Fernandez lunged forward with the force of a head-on collision, his back and arching and his skin smoking and sizzling. His jaws clenched the steel bit so tightly his teeth shattered. His fingers pried into the oak armrests with such effort that his bones snapped.

  A second quick jolt went right to his heart.

  A third made sure the job was done.

  It had taken a little more than a minute—the last and longest sixty-seven seconds of this thirty-five-year-old’s life. An exhaust fan came on, sucking out the stench. A physician stepped forward, placed a stethoscope on the prisoner’s chest, and listened.

  “He’s dead,” pronounced the doctor.

  Father Ramirez sighed with sorrow as he opened his eyes, then lowered his head and blessed himself with the sign of the cross. “May God forgive us,” he said under his breath, “as He receives the innocent.”

  PART TWO

  •

  July 1994

  Chapter 3

  •

  Eddy Goss was on trial for an act of violence so unusual that it amazed even him. He’d first noticed the girl when she was walking home from school one night in her drill-team uniform. At the time, he thought she must be sixteen. She had the kind of looks he liked—long blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders, a nice, curvy shape, and most important of all, no makeup. He liked that fresh look. It told him he would be the first.

  By the time he’d caught up to her, she’d known something was wrong. He was sure of that. She’d started looking over her shoulder and walking faster. He guessed she must have been really scared—too scared to react—because it took him only a few seconds to force her into his Ford Pinto. About five miles out of town, in a thick stand of pines far from the main highway, he held a knife to her throat and warned her to do everything he asked. Naturally, she agreed. What choice did she have? She hiked up her skirt, pulled off her panty hose—all the drill-team members at Senior High had to wear nude hose, he knew—and sat perfectly still as Eddy
probed her vagina with his fingers. But then she started crying—great wracking sobs that made him furious. He hated it when they cried. So he wrapped the nylon around her neck—and pulled. And pulled. He pulled so hard that he finally did it: He actually severed her vertebrae and decapitated her. Son of a bitch!

  Eddy Goss was on trial for his proudest accomplishment. And his lawyer was Jack Swyteck.

  “All rise!” the bailiff shouted as the jury returned from its deliberations. Quietly, they shuffled in. A nursing student. A bus driver. A janitor. Five blacks, two Jews. Four men, eight women. Seven blue collars, two professionals, three who didn’t fit a mold. It didn’t matter how Jack categorized them anymore. Individual votes were no longer important; their collective mind had been made up. They divided themselves into two rows of six, stood before their Naugahyde chairs, and cast their eyes into “the wishing well,” as Jack called it, that empty, stage-like area before the judge and jury where lawyers who defended the guilty pitched their penny-ante arguments and then hoped for the best.

  Jack swallowed hard as he strained to read their faces. Experience made him appear calm, though the adrenaline was flowing on this final day of a trial that had been front-page news for more than a month. He looked much the same now as he had two years ago, say for the healthy cynicism in his eye and a touch of gray in his hair that made him look as though he were more than just four years out of law school. Jack buttoned his pinstripe suit, then glanced quickly at his client, standing stiffly beside him. What a piece of work.

  “Be seated,” said the silver-haired judge to an overcrowded courtroom.

  Defendant Eddy Goss watched with dark, deep-set eyes as the jurors took their seats. His expression had the intensity of a soldier dismantling a land mine. He had huge hands—the hands of a strangler, the prosecutor had been quick to point out—and nails that were bitten halfway down to the cuticle. His prominent jaw and big shiny forehead gave him a menacing look that made it easy to imagine him committing the crime of which he was accused. Today he seemed aloof, Jack thought, as if he were enjoying this.