The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “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 fiveminute 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.”

  I began to walk toward the gallery. “People still flock to this country because of its religious freedom. They know that in America, you won’t be told what God should look like or sound like. You won’t be told there is one right belief, and yours isn’t it. They want to speak freely about religion, and to ask questions. Those rights were the foundation of America four hundred years ago, and they’re still the foundation today. It’s why, in this country, Madonna can perform on a crucifix, and The Da Vinci Code was a bestseller. It’s why, even after 9/11, religious freedom flourishes in America.”

  Facing the judge again, I pulled out all the stops. “Your Honor, we’re not asking you to remove the wall between church and state by ruling in favor of Shay Bourne. We just want the law upheld—the one that promises Shay Bourne the right to practice his religion even in the state penitentiary, unless there’s a compelling governmental interest to keep him from doing so. The only governmental interest that the state can point to here is one hundred and twenty dollars—and a matter of a few months.” I walked back to my seat, slipped into it. “How do you weigh lives and souls against two months, and a hundred and twenty bucks?”

  Once the judge returned to chambers to reach his verdict, two marshals came to retrieve Shay. “Maggie?” he said, getting to his feet. “Thanks.”

  “Guys,” I said to the marshals, “can you give me a minute with him in the holding cell?”

  “Make it quick,” one of them said, and I nodded.

  “What do you think?” Father Michael said, still seated in the gallery behind me. “Does he have a chance?”

  I reached into my pocket, retrieved the note the bailiff had passed me just before I began my closing, and handed it to Michael. “You better hope so,”