Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

2.

Partner and I pull in to the main gate at Big Wheeler, the maximum security prison where the State maintains its death row and does its executing. A guard steps to the passenger door and says, “Name?”

“Rudd, Sebastian Rudd. Here to see Link Scanlon.”

“Of course.” The guard’s name is Harvey and we’ve chatted before, but not tonight. Tonight Big Wheeler is locked down and there is a thrill in the air. It’s execution time! Across the road, some protesters with candles sing a solemn hymn while others chant support for the death penalty. Back and forth. There are TV news vans lining the highway.

Harvey scribbles something on a clipboard, says, “Unit Nine,” and as we’re about to drive away he leans in and whispers, “What are your chances?”

“Slim,” I say as we begin moving. We follow a prison security truck with gunmen standing in the back; another one trails us. Floodlights nearly blind us as we inch along, passing brightly lit buildings where three thousand men are locked in their cells and waiting for Link to die so things can return to normal. There is no sensible reason for a prison to go nuts when there’s an execution. Extra security is never needed. No one has ever escaped from death row. The condemned men there live in isolation, and thus do not have a gang of friends who might decide to storm the Bastille and free everyone. But rituals are important to the men who run prisons, and nothing gets their adrenaline pumping like an execution. Their little lives are mundane and monotonous, but occasionally the world tunes in when it’s time to kill a killer. No effort at heightened drama is to be missed.

Unit Nine is far away from the other units, with enough chain link and razor wire around it to stop Ike on the beaches of Normandy. We eventually reach a gate where a platoon of jumpy guards can’t wait to search Partner and me and our briefcases. These boys are far too excited about the evening’s festivities. With escorts we enter the building, and I’m led to a makeshift office where Warden McDuff is waiting, chewing his fingernails, obviously wired. When we’re alone in a room with no windows he says, “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Ten minutes ago, a bomb went off in the Old Courthouse, same courtroom Link got convicted in.”

I’ve been in that courtroom a hundred times, so, yes, I am shocked to hear it’s been bombed. On the other hand, I’m not at all surprised to discover that Link Scanlon does not intend to go quietly.

“Anybody hurt?” I ask.

“Don’t think so. The courthouse had just closed.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. You better talk to him, Rudd, and quick.”

I shrug and give the warden a hopeless look. Trying to talk sense to a gangster like Link Scanlon is a waste of time. “I’m just his lawyer,” I say.

“What if he hurts somebody…”

“Come on, Warden. The State’s executing him in a few hours. What else can it do to him?”

“I know, I know. Where are the appeals?” he asks, crunching a sliver of a thumbnail between his front teeth. He’s about to jump out of his skin.

“Fifteenth Circuit,” I say. “A Hail Mary. They’re all Hail Marys at this point, Warden. Where’s Link?”

“In the holding room. I got to get back to my office and talk to the governor.”

“Tell him I said hello. Tell him he still hasn’t ruled on my last request for a reprieve.”

“I’ll do that,” the warden says as he’s leaving the room.

“Thanks.”

Few people in this state love an execution as much as our handsome governor. His routine is to wait until the last possible moment, then appear somberly in front of the cameras and announce to the world that he cannot, in good conscience, grant a reprieve. On the verge of tears, he’ll talk about the victim and declare that justice must be done.

I follow two guards dressed in full military gear through a maze and come to the Boom Boom Room. It’s nothing more than a large holding cell where the condemned is placed precisely five hours before his big moment. There, he waits with his lawyer, spiritual adviser, and maybe some family. Full contact is allowed, and there can be some pretty sad moments when Momma arrives for the final hug. The last meal is served precisely two hours before the final walk, and after that only the lawyer can hang around.

In decades past, our state used a firing squad. Cuffed and bound, the condemned was strapped to a chair, a black veil was dropped over his head, and a bright red cross was attached to his shirt, over his heart. Fifty feet away, five volunteers waited behind a curtain with high-powered rifles, though only four were loaded. The theory was that none of the five would ever know for sure that he killed a man, and this was somehow supposed to assuage his guilt later in life, in the event that he had a change of heart and became burdened. What a crock! There was a long list of volunteers, all eager to put a bullet dead center in another man’s heart.

Anyway, prison lingo is vibrant and creative, and over time the execution room picked up its nickname. Legend has it that an air vent was intentionally left open so the cracking sound of the rifles echoed over the prison. When we adopted the needle, for humane reasons, less space was needed. Death row was reconfigured; walls were added here and there. Supposedly, the current Boom Boom Room includes the very spot where the condemned men sat and waited for the bullets.

They frisk me again and I walk through the door. Link is alone, sitting in a folding chair that is leaning against a cinder-block wall. The lights are low. He’s glued to a small muted television screen hanging in a corner, and he does not acknowledge my arrival. His favorite movie is The Godfather. He’s watched it a hundred times, and years ago began working on his imitation of Marlon Brando. Scratchy, painful voice, one he blames on smoking. Clenched jaw. Slow delivery. Aloof. Completely devoid of emotion.

Our death row has a unique rule that allows the condemned man to die in any clothing he chooses. It’s a ridiculous rule because, after living here for ten, fifteen, or twenty years, these guys have nothing in the way of a wardrobe. Standard-issue coveralls; maybe a pair of frayed khakis and a T-shirt to wear during visitation; sandals; thick socks for the winter. Link, though, has money and wants to be buried in solid black. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with long sleeves buttoned at the wrists, black denim jeans, black socks, and black running shoes. It’s not nearly as stylish as he thinks, but at this point who cares about fashion?

Finally he says, “I thought you were going to save me.”

“I never said that, Link. I even put it in writing.”

“But I paid you all that money.”

“A fat fee is no guarantee of a good outcome. That’s in writing too.”

“Lawyers,” he grunts in disgust, and I don’t take this lightly. I have never forgotten what happened to his last one. He slowly leans forward, tipping his chair onto all fours, and stands up. Link is fifty now, and for most of his time on the Row he’s managed to maintain his good looks. But he’s aging quickly, though I doubt if anyone with a firm execution date worries too much about wrinkles and gray hair. He takes a few steps and turns off the television.

The room is maybe fifteen by fifteen, with a small desk, three folding chairs, and a cheap Army-style cot, just in case the condemned might want to catch a few winks before being sent to his eternal rest. I was here once before, three years ago, when my client came within thirty minutes of getting the needle before we were handed a miracle by the Fifteenth Circuit.

Link will not be so lucky. He sits on a corner of the desk and looks down at me. He grunts and says, “I trusted you.”

“And with good reason, Link. I fought like hell for you.”

“But I’m insane, legally, and you haven’t convinced anyone of it. Crazy as hell. Why can’t you make them see this?”

“I have tried and you know it, Link. No one listened because no one wanted to listen. You killed the wrong person, a judge. Kill a judge, and his brethren take offense.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, the jury said you did. That’s all that matters.” We’ve had this conversation a thousand times, and why not have it again? Right now, with less than five hours to go, I’ll chat with Link on any subject.

“I’m insane, Sebastian. My mind is gone.”

It is often said that everyone goes crazy on death row. Twenty-three hours a day in isolation breaks a man mentally, physically, and emotionally. Link, though, has not exactly suffered like the rest. Years ago I explained to him that the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that a state cannot execute a person who is either mentally retarded or who becomes mentally unsound. Soon thereafter, Link decided he should go insane and he’s been acting so ever since. The warden at that time agreed to move Link to the psych unit, where he enjoyed a much more comfortable lockup. Link lived there for three years before a journalist dug deep enough to discover a money trail between various members of the warden’s immediate family and a certain crime syndicate. The warden quickly retired and dodged an indictment. Link got slammed back to death row, where he stayed for about a month before getting moved to PC—protective custody. There, he had a larger cell and more privileges. The guards gave him anything he wanted because Link’s boys on the outside were taking care of the guards with cash and drugs. In time, Link manipulated a transfer back to the psych unit.

In his six years at Big Wheeler, he’s spent about twelve months locked up with the other killers on death row.

I say, “The warden just told me the courthouse got bombed this afternoon. Same courtroom where you got convicted. What a coincidence, huh?”

He frowns and offers a casual, Brando-like shrug, revealing nothing. “I got an appeal floating somewhere right now?” he says.

“It’s at the Fifteenth Circuit, but don’t get excited.”

“Are you telling me I’m gonna die, Sebastian?”

“I told you that last week, Link. The fix is in. The last-minute appeals are worthless. Everything’s been litigated. Every issue covered. There’s little we can do right now but wait and hope for a miracle.”

“I shoulda hired that radical Jew lawyer, what’s his name, Lowenstein?”

“Maybe, but you didn’t. He’s had three clients executed in the past four years.”

Marc Lowenstein is an acquaintance of mine and a fine lawyer. Between the two of us, we handle most of the untouchable cases in our end of the state. My cell phone vibrates. It’s a text message—the Fifteenth Circuit has just denied.

I say, “Bad news, Link, the Fifteenth just turned us down.”

He says nothing but reaches over and turns on the television. I turn the switch for more lighting and ask, “Is your son stopping by tonight?”

He grunts, “No.”

He has one child, a son who just got out of federal prison. Extortion. He grew up in the family business and loves his old man, but no one can blame him for avoiding a prison, if only for a visit. Link says, “We’ve said good-bye already.”

“So no guests tonight?”

He grunts, says nothing. No, no visitors for the last hug. Link was married twice but hates both ex-wives. He hasn’t spoken to his mother in twenty years. His only brother mysteriously disappeared after a bad business deal. Link reaches into his pocket, produces a cell phone, and makes a call. Inmate cell phones are violently forbidden, and they’ve caught Link with a dozen over the years. The guards sneak them in; one who got caught said he was paid $1,000 in cash by a stranger in a Burger King parking lot, after lunch.

It’s a quick call—I can’t understand a word—and Link returns the phone to his pocket. Using the remote, he changes channels and we watch a local cable news show. There’s a lot of interest in his execution. A reporter does a nice job of recapping the Nagy murders. They flash photos of the judge and his wife, a pretty lady.

I knew the judge well and appeared several times in his courtroom. He was a hard-ass but fair and smart. We were shocked when he was murdered, but not too surprised when the trail led to Link Scanlon. They run a clip of Knuckles, the gunman, as he’s leaving court in handcuffs. What a nasty one.

I say, “You know you’re entitled to the counsel of a spiritual adviser?”

He grunts. No.

“The prison has a chaplain, if you’d like a word with him.”

“What’s a chaplain?”

“A man of God.”

“And what might he say to me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Link. I’m told that some folks, right before they pass, like to get things right with God. Confess their sins, stuff like that.”

“That might take some time.”

Contrition would be an inexcusable act of weakness for a mobster like Link. He has absolutely no remorse, for the Nagy murders or for all those before them. He glares at me and says, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to be here, to make sure the final appeals run their course. To give advice.”

“And your advice is to talk to a chaplain?”

We’re startled by a loud knock on the door. It opens immediately and a man in a cheap suit strolls in, with two guards as escorts. He says, “Mr. Scanlon, I’m Jess Foreman, assistant warden.”

“A real pleasure,” Link says without taking his eyes off the television.

Foreman ignores me and says, “I have a list of all those who will witness the execution. There’s nobody on your list, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you sure?”

Link ignores this. Foreman waits, then says, “What about your lawyer?” He looks at me.

“I’ll be there,” I say. The lawyer is always invited to watch.

“Anybody from Judge Nagy’s family?” I ask.

“Yep, all three of his children.” Foreman places the list on the desk and leaves. As the door slams behind him, Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.

It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work. The scene outside is frantic as police and firemen scurry about. Smoke boils from a second-floor window. A breathless reporter is moving along the street with his cameraman in tow, looking for a better angle and gushing on about what’s happening.

Link’s eyes glow as he watches. I say, “Wow, another coincidence.” But Link does not hear me. I try to act cool, calm, as if this is no big deal. A bomb here, a bomb there. Couple of phone calls from death row and the fuses get lit. But I am astonished.

Who might be next? Another judge, perhaps the one who presided over his trial and sentenced him to death? That was Judge Cone, since retired, and for about two years, during and after the trial, he had armed protection. Perhaps the jurors? They lived cautiously thereafter with the cops close by. No one was hurt or threatened.

Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”

I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”

He ignores this. We watch the television for a while. CNN picks up the story and in its usual, hysterical fashion soon has us on red alert, as if jihadists were invading.

Link is smiling.

Half an hour later, the warden is back, fidgeting more than ever. He pulls me out of the room and hisses, “You’ve heard about the Fifteenth Circuit?”

“We’re watching it.”

“You gotta stop him.”

“Who?”

“Don’t ‘Who’ me, dammit! You know what I’m talking about.”

“We’re not in control here, Warden. The courts run their own schedules. Link’s boys have their orders, evidently. Besides, the bombings might be coincidental.”

“Yeah, right. The FBI is on the way here right now.”

“Oh, that’s real good, real smart. My client gets the needle in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, yet the FBI wants to grill him about these bombings. He’s a seasoned thug, Warden, a gangster from the old school. Battle hardened. He’ll spit on any FBI agent within twenty feet.”

He looks like he’s about to faint. “We gotta do something,” he says, wild-eyed. “The governor’s yelling at me. Everybody’s yelling at me.”

“Well, it’s up to the gov, if you ask me. He grants the reprieve, and I suppose Link stops the bombing campaign. Not sure, though, because he’s not listening to me.”

“Can you ask him?”

I laugh out loud. “Sure, Warden, I’ll just have a little heart-to-heart with my client, get him to confess, and convince him to stop whatever he’ll admit to doing. No problem.”

He’s too ashen to strike back, so he leaves, shaking his head, chewing his nails, another bureaucrat thoroughly overwhelmed with decision making. I step back into the room and take a chair. Link is glued to the television.

“That was the warden,” I say. “And they’d really appreciate it if you’d call off the dogs.”

No response. No acknowledgment.

CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.

His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.

Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.

Another explosion.

3.

The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.

As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One of their clerks will deny our petition any minute now.

The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years.

I’m tempted to ask Link, “Who’s next?” but let it pass. We’re playing gin rummy as the clock ticks and Rome burns. He’s told me several times I could leave, but I’m hanging around. I won’t admit that I’m keen to watch his execution, but I am fascinated by it.

No one has been hurt. The three bombs were mainly gasoline, according to some so-called expert CNN dragged in for authenticity. Low-tech time bombs, probably in small packages, designed to make a little noise and a lot of smoke.

At 8:00 p.m., everyone takes a deep breath. All’s quiet for the moment. They knock on the door and wheel in the last meal. For the occasion, Link has chosen a steak with fries and coconut pie for dessert, but he has no appetite. He takes two bites of the steak and offers me the fries. I say no thanks and shuffle the deck. There’s something about eating another man’s last meal that doesn’t seem right. At 8:15, my cell phone vibrates. Our petition has been denied at the Supreme Court. No surprise there. There’s nothing left. All Hail Marys have been thrown and dropped.

We go Live! outside the Supreme Court Building in Washington, where the CNN reporter is practically praying for some type of explosion. Dozens of cops loiter about, their trigger fingers just itching. A small crowd has gathered to watch the carnage, but there’s nothing. Link keeps one eye on the television as he deals the cards.

I suspect he’s not finished.