The Last Plea Bargain (24 page)

LA shook his head and furrowed his brow. “You really think your dad had something on the judge?” he asked.

“I don't know. But I do know that these numbers make it
look
like he did, and they give Caleb Tate something to talk about.”

“Not to mention what it does to your dad's reputation,” LA said softly.

I nodded, and we both sat there for a moment, thinking it through.

“Antoine Marshall's execution is scheduled to take place two weeks before Tate's trial starts,” I eventually said.

I could tell by the look on LA's face that he understood immediately what was at stake. If we sat back and let Antoine Marshall's execution proceed, Tate would destroy us at trial. He would tell the jury about Judge Snowden and the information he had given me. He would explain that I had sat on the information and let Marshall be executed. And then he would use the information to corroborate his own story about why his client, Rafael Rivera, would turn on him.

LA stood and stared out the window. Justice glanced at him but then put his head back down on his paws and closed his eyes.

LA thought for a moment and turned back toward me. “Jamie, you're the lawyer. If this information about Snowden and your dad comes out before Marshall's execution and the judges grant Marshall a new trial, can somebody read into evidence your dad's testimony from eleven years ago?”

I shook my head. “That's the problem. The defense lawyers will object on the grounds that they don't have a chance to cross-examine him on this new information.”

“Then there's no evidence left to convict Antoine Marshall.”

“Right.”

This troubled LA, the knit brow deepening. “As a prosecutor, do you
have
to hand this over?”

“It's not clear,” I said. “I've researched it, but there's no definitive answer. A prosecutor has to turn over all exculpatory evidence to a defense lawyer. But our office isn't handling the appeal, and I would argue that this isn't really exculpatory.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it doesn't really tend to prove Marshall's innocence. It just casts doubt on my father's and Judge Snowden's reputations.”

LA made a face—even he was having a hard time swallowing that one. “Either way, we can't say anything,” LA said. “Unless we put Rafael Rivera on the stand, Caleb Tate can never mention this information; it's protected by the attorney-client privilege. But if his former client testifies against him, the privilege is waived. Frankly, I'd rather have us dismiss the charges against Tate than allow Antoine Marshall to go free.” He waited and then mumbled, “Not to mention your dad's reputation.”

“I don't know if I agree,” I said. “I've dedicated my whole life to justice. How can I start making exceptions now? Shouldn't I just put this information out there and let the chips fall where they may?”

LA sat back down at the other end of the table and looked me straight in the eye. “You've got a good heart, and you're a straight shooter. But, Jamie, sometimes the system isn't fair. And sometimes it needs a little help.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not even sure myself,” LA said. He was drilling into my eyes with an intensity that I hadn't seen before. “But Antoine Marshall is not going to kill your mother, shoot your father, and walk out of jail after eleven years because of this. I can tell you that much.”

We analyzed the situation for over an hour, tearing apart every option, thinking through all the possibilities. We didn't come to any conclusions, but it felt good to talk about it. He told me again that he had no idea how I had held up so well under the pressure. Before leaving, he reached out to give me a hug, and I let him, lingering longer than mere friends do. It felt right to have his arms wrapped around me for those few seconds.

“Act surprised when you see the opinion on Monday,” he reminded me as he pulled away. “And don't worry about this other thing. We'll figure it out.”

It would have been the perfect way for us to part, but real life doesn't work like that.

“J-Lo!” he yelled. He had left her off leash in the house and now noticed a yellow spot under the corner of the dining room table, right where Justice typically lay at my feet.

“Bad dog,” LA scolded.

He insisted on cleaning it up, and I let him. Justice kept looking at me as if to make sure he wasn't in trouble too. “Good boy,” I told him as I rubbed his head.

LA scrubbed the carpet until the stain disappeared.

“She gets a little jealous,” he said.

54

At 9:30 a.m. on Monday, July 2, Mace James received an e-mail from the Georgia Supreme Court with the opinion in Antoine's case attached. Mace said a quick prayer and clicked his mouse with a sweaty hand.

The court had denied his petition and reaffirmed the August 7 execution date. And they had some harsh language for Mace as well.

Defense counsel has a duty to zealously represent his client. But that duty has bounds. In this case, counsel transgressed those bounds and came dangerously close to committing fraud on the Court. While the Court understands that defense counsel was driven by the perceived exigencies of the circumstances, his role as an officer of the Court prohibits the type of trickery and violence he apparently used to obtain the affidavit of Mr. Cooper. His actions reflect poorly on the legal profession and show a lack of judgment that is troubling to this Court.

Mace felt his emotions collide as he read the opinion. Frustration because the justices did not appreciate the truth of what had happened. Embarrassment at the stinging criticism. Helplessness because he was representing an innocent man on death row and everything he tried seemed to make matters worse. But mostly he just felt drained. He had spent years butting his head against one brick wall after another. And now he only had a few weeks left.

Mace got in his car and drove to Jackson to personally deliver the news to his client. By the time he got there and picked up the telephone, staring at Antoine Marshall on the other side of the glass, he had become despondent.

“The Georgia Supreme Court denied our petition,” Mace said. He slid a printout of the opinion through the slot under the glass. Antoine picked it up without speaking and turned sideways in his seat so he could hold it at arm's length. “I left my reading glasses in the cell,” he said.

Mace watched Antoine squint as he read the opinion slowly, grunting and shaking his head while he turned the pages. He read for an agonizingly long time, slowly devouring every word. Mace could see the hope leave Antoine's face, replaced by a grim certainty that his years on this earth were now numbered at thirty-six.

When he finished the opinion, Antoine placed it on the shelf in front of him and turned back to Mace. There were tears welling in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Mace said.

“These other dudes on death row—their lawyers don't care,” Antoine said. His voice was raspy and close to breaking. “But me, my lawyer drives all the way down from Atlanta just to look me in the eye and tell me he's sorry. My lawyer beats up some dude in a bar and risks his law license just to give me a chance. You ain't got nothing to be sorry for, Mr. James.”

Antoine sat up straighter in his chair and looked directly at Mace. Mace had come to console his client, but it was working the other way around.

“I'm proud that I've got the best lawyer of anybody here on death row.”

“I appreciate that,” Mace said. And he did. More than Antoine would ever know. “But maybe I'm not so hot if I can't get you out of here.”

Antoine shook his head. “Some things were meant to be. You did everything you could. Don't blame yourself.”

Antoine passed the opinion back under the glass, and Mace put it in his briefcase. He had actually intended it to be Antoine's copy, but it was clear his client didn't want it hanging around his cell.

“After I pass, I want you to make me a promise,” Antoine said.

Mace looked him in the eye. Despite the redness and tears, Antoine seemed determined.

“Don't just put my file in a cabinet and move on to the next case. I know I got no family who care about this, but I need to have my name cleared. It's the only way to make sure that this doesn't happen to the next dude. Maybe that's why God's got me here in the first place.”

“I hear you, Antoine,” Mace said. They had been through this before. “But now you listen to me. Because I'm not done fighting to keep you alive.”

Antoine gave Mace a sarcastic chuckle. “August 7 is coming, Mr. James. Whether you're ready for it or not. I just want to make sure that after it comes and goes and I'm no longer here, you're going to keep working to clear my name.”

“You have my word on that,” Mace said.

Antoine nodded, and Mace noticed a slight twitch. The pressure was taking its toll.

“I've got one last strategy, but it's a long shot,” Mace warned. “I'll need the court's permission to even give it a try.”

Antoine shrugged. “Right now, a long shot sounds pretty good.”

55

The Peachtree Road Race is held each year on the Fourth of July in the city of Atlanta. It is the world's largest 10K race—and in my opinion, also the wackiest. Sixty thousand runners are released from twenty different starting corrals. Among them this year would be about half the ADAs from Milton County. We had divided into two groups—serious runners and those who planned to walk. We all had T-shirts that said
Masterson for Attorney General
on the front and on the back had a copy of the Miranda warning. The shirts would be some of the tamer outfits worn by runners.

I got up at 5 a.m., took care of Justice, and drove to the MARTA line, where I squeezed onto the train with runners of all shapes and sizes. My competitive instincts always kicked in for events like this, and I would look around, pick out the fastest-looking runners, and compare myself to them. I could probably beat them if only I had trained more. If only I had longer legs. If only I didn't have a job that required seventy or eighty hours a week.

I met the other prosecutors at our designated spot. Masterson was there, patting everyone on the back and thanking us for coming. He wouldn't be running today, but he would set up an outpost about halfway through the course with big signs and banners and pass out Shot Bloks to the runners to give them a boost of energy.

My colleagues and I ended up standing around for more than an hour waiting for our corral to start. Even when it was our turn, it took a few minutes before I could take my first step. Eventually, like a giant amoeba, the runners all started to move, walking at first, then slowly jogging, and eventually running.

The Peachtree was not the place to go for a personal record, but it was great for the scenery. A lot of people wore costumes that should have earned them jail time. There were always a few folks dressed like the Statue of Liberty and men wearing kilts and women in bikinis. I always cringed at the guys wearing Speedos.

Eventually, our little pack of prosecutors spread out, and I left many of my colleagues behind. I picked up my pace so I was doing sub-eight-minute miles, dodging people like a running back on the football field. I was passed at mile three by a squadron of Marines, all running in formation, as if this were just another morning PT exercise.

By mile five I was paying for my earlier enthusiasm, and my pace had slowed to eight-and-a-half-minute miles. Ten kilometers had never seemed so long. Some of the runners passing me were laughing and having a good time, but I was sucking wind so badly that I could hardly breathe. It was just before mile marker six that a man running in prisoner's stripes with a black mask came up beside me.

“Almost there,” he said.

“Yeah.” I hated it when people tried to talk to me while I ran. One-word answers usually ended the conversation.

“You guys are doing a good job in the Milton County prosecutor's office,” he said. “Keep it up.”

“Thanks.”

“Here's something that might help you. You can read it after the race.”

He handed me a folded piece of paper, and I instinctively took it. The whole exchange was strange, but I was tired and not thinking clearly at the time.

“Have a great finish,” the man said. He took off at a pace I couldn't possibly match. I kept on running, unfolding the paper as I ran.

I slowed down and pulled over to the side even as the spectators urged us on. I read the paper and started running again. But now I was in a different zone, running slower, not even thinking about the finish anymore. The note was typed, and it wasn't signed.

Be careful who you trust. Not everyone paid by the government is working for the government. How else do you think Rivera knew about the morphine?

In the Atlanta area there are dueling fireworks on the Fourth of July. The most spectacular ones take place at Centennial Olympic Park in downtown Atlanta. But they are rivaled by the fireworks that cap off the country music festival ten miles away in Buckhead. The problem with both places is that you sit in traffic for an hour just trying to get home.

LA had the solution.

We were sitting on the shoulder of the interstate, halfway between downtown Atlanta and Buckhead, with the portable blue strobe light doing its dance on the roof of LA's unmarked police car. He had tuned the radio to the AM station that played music synced to the exploding fireworks over Centennial Park. That display had started first, but now, halfway through, it was joined by fireworks from Buckhead exploding behind us. Fireworks in stereo, and we would be gone before the traffic jams started.

I stole a glance at LA's handsome profile, the reflections from the fireworks sparkling in his eyes. It should have been the perfect romantic night.

But I found myself wondering,
How much do I really know about this guy?

There were, of course, rumors about LA and the ladies. And though he had always treated me with respect, he seemed to have two or three different schemes working at any given time. I had watched him work the system with little regard for ethics. I was pretty sure LA had leaked Rikki Tate's psychiatric records to the press, for example. How far would he really go to get a conviction? Far enough to leak the information about morphine to Rivera so the felon's testimony would be more believable? It bothered me that LA could read other people so well but was impossible to read himself.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. So what's really wrong?”

“Don't use that Truth Wizard stuff on me,” I said.

A bright spiderweb of fireworks burst in the window before us. Behind us, visible in our side mirrors, staggered rockets shot up from the ground and exploded into a mushroom cloud of red and blue.

“It doesn't take a Truth Wizard to know that when a woman says, ‘Nothing,' she really means, ‘Keep asking until you figure it out.'”

I pushed some hair behind my ear. “Let's see . . . my father died, I'm stressed out at work, my mother's killer is scheduled to be executed in one month, and our case against Caleb Tate is hanging on by a thread. Other than that, it's just another great Independence Day.”

LA turned to me. “But that's not all, is it?”

He was right. I felt like I was sitting in the car with a mind reader. Even so, I wasn't about to tell him about the paper I had been handed in the race that day. About my suspicions. About the tension between a growing emotional attachment to him and the seeds of distrust that had taken root in my mind.

“I'm fine.” I glanced toward him. I could tell from the look on his face that he didn't believe me, but he got the picture. I didn't want to talk about it.

The radio was playing “Only in America.” Fireworks were exploding overhead. A guy with movie-star good looks was sitting next to me.

He extended his hand across the middle console, and I hesitated before I put mine in his.

“Your hands are cold,” he said.

“Cold hands, warm heart.”

“That was going to be my line.”