Change of Heart Read online

  By the time Father Michael rode into the parking lot, I'd decided that if Shay Bourne had cost me my first shot at a relationship since the Jews went to wander the desert, I would execute him myself.

  I was surprised that Rufus had wanted me to go to meet Governor Flynn alone; I was even more surprised that he thought Father Michael should be the one to finesse the interview in the first place. But Flynn wasn't a born New Englander; he was a transplanted southern boy, and he apparently preferred informality to pomp and circumstance. He'll be expecting you to come to him for a stay of execution after the trial, Rufus had mused. So maybe catching him off guard is the smartest thing you can do. He suggested that instead of a lawyer putting through the call, maybe a man of the cloth should do it instead. And, within two minutes of conversation, Father Michael had discovered that Governor Flynn had heard him preach at last year's Christmas Mass at St. Catherine's.

  We were let into the statehouse by a security guard, who put us through the metal detectors and then escorted us to the governor's office. It was an odd, eerie place after hours; our footsteps rang like gunshots as we hustled up the steps. At the top of the landing, I turned to Michael. "Do not do anything inflammatory," I whispered. "We get one shot at this."

  The governor was sitting at his desk. "Come in," he said, getting to his feet. "Pleasure to see you again, Father Michael."

  "Thanks," the priest said. "I'm flattered you remembered me."

  "Hey, you gave a sermon that didn't put me to sleep--that puts you into a very small category of clergymen. You run the youth group at St. Catherine's, too, right? My college roommate's kid was getting into some trouble a year ago, and then he started working with you. Joe Cacciatone?"

  "Joey," Father Michael said. "He's a good kid."

  The governor turned to me. "And you must be ... ?"

  "Maggie Bloom," I said, holding out my hand. "Shay Bourne's attorney." I had never been this close to the governor before. I thought, irrationally, that he looked taller on television.

  "Ah, yes," the governor said. "The infamous Shay Bourne."

  "If you're a practicing Catholic," Michael said to the governor, "how can you condone an execution?"

  I blinked at the priest. Hadn't I just told him not to say anything provocative?

  "I'm doing my job," Flynn said. "There's a great deal that I don't agree with, personally, that I have to carry out professionally."

  "Even if the man who's about to be killed is innocent?"

  Flynn's gaze sharpened. "That's not what a court decided, Father."

  "Come talk to him," Michael said. "The penitentiary--it's a five-minute drive. Come listen to him, and then tell me if he deserves to die."

  "Governor Flynn," I interrupted, finally finding my voice. "During a ... confession, Shay Bourne made some revelations that indicate there are details of his case that weren't revealed at the time--that the deaths occurred accidentally while Mr. Bourne was in fact trying to protect Elizabeth Nealon from her father's sexual abuse. We feel that with a stay of execution, we'll have time to gather evidence of Bourne's innocence."

  The governor's face paled. "I thought priests couldn't reveal confessions."

  "We're obligated to, if there's a law about to be broken, or if a life is in danger. This qualifies on both counts."

  The governor folded his hands, suddenly distant. "I appreciate your concerns--both religious and political. I'll take your request under advisement."

  I knew a dismissal when I heard one; I nodded and stood. Father Michael looked up at me, then scrambled to his feet, too. We shook the governor's hand again and groveled our way out of the office. We didn't speak until we were outside, beneath a sky spread with stars. "So," Father Michael said. "I guess that means no."

  "It means we have to wait and see. Which probably means no." I dug my hands into the pockets of my suit jacket. "Well. Seeing as my entire evening has been shot to hell, I'm just going to call it a night--"

  "You don't believe he's innocent, do you?" Michael said.

  I sighed. "Not really."

  "Then why are you willing to fight so hard for him?"

  "On December twenty-fifth, when I was a kid, I'd wake up and it would be just another day. On Easter Sunday, my family was the only one in the movie theater. The reason I fight so hard for Shay," I finished, "is because I know what it's like when the things you believe make you feel like you're on the outside looking in."

  "I ... I didn't realize ..."

  "How could you?" I said, smiling faintly. "The guys at the top of the totem pole never see what's carved at the bottom. See you Monday, Father."

  I could feel his gaze on me as I walked to my car. It felt like a cape made of light, like the wings of the angels I'd never believed in.

  My client looked like he'd been run over by a truck. Somehow, in the middle of trying to get me to save his life, Father Michael had neglected to mention that Shay had begun a course of self-mutilation. His face was scabbed and bloomed with bruises; his hands--cuffed tightly to his waist after last week's fiasco--were scratched. "You look like crap," I murmured to Shay.

  "I'm going to look worse after they hang me," he whispered back.

  "We have to talk. About what you said to Father Michael--" But before I could go any further, the judge called on Gordon Greenleaf to offer his closing argument.

  Gordon stood up heavily. "Your Honor, this case has been a substantial waste of the court's time and the state's money. Shay Bourne is a convicted double murderer. He committed the most heinous crime in the history of the state of New Hampshire."

  I glanced at Shay beneath my lashes. If what he'd said was true--if he'd seen Elizabeth being abused--then the two murders became manslaughter and self-defense. DNA testing had not been in vogue when he was convicted--was it possible that there was some shred of carpet or couch fabric left that could corroborate Shay's account?

  "He's exhausted all legal remedies at every level," Gordon continued. "State, first circuit, Supreme Court--and now he's desperately trying to extend his life by filing a bogus lawsuit that claims he believes in some bogus religion. He wants the State of New Hampshire and its taxpayers to build him his own special gallows so that he can donate his heart to the victims' family--a group that he suddenly has feelings for. He certainly didn't have feelings for them the day he murdered Kurt and Elizabeth Nealon."

  It was, of course, highly unlikely that there would still be evidence. By now, even the underwear that had been found in his pocket had been destroyed or given back to June Nealon--this was a case that had closed eleven years ago, in the minds of the investigators. And all the eyewitnesses had died at the scene--except for Shay.

  "Yes, there is a law that protects the religious freedom of inmates," Greenleaf said. "It exists so that Jewish inmates can wear yarmulkes in prison, and Muslims can fast during Ramadan. The commissioner of corrections always makes allowances for religious activity in compliance with federal law. But to say that this man--who's had outbursts in the courtroom, who can't control his emotions, who can't even tell you what the name of his religion is--deserves to be executed in some special way to comply with federal law is completely inappropriate, and is not what our system of justice intended."

  Just as Greenleaf sat down, a bailiff slipped a note to me. I glanced at it and took a deep breath.

  "Ms. Bloom?" the judge prompted.

  "One hundred and twenty dollars," I said. "You know what you can do with one hundred and twenty dollars? You can get a great pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes on sale. You can buy two tickets to a Bruins game. You can feed a starving family in Africa. You can purchase a cell phone contract. Or, you can help a man reach salvation--and rescue a dying child."

  I stood up. "Shay Bourne is not asking for freedom. He's not asking for his sentence to be overturned. He's simply asking to die in accordance with his religious beliefs. And if America stands for nothing else, it stands for the right to practice your own religion, even if you die in the custody of the state