Mercy. David Kessler
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was the worst part. In all his twenty-seven—nearly twenty-eight—years on this earth, he had always been one to surround himself with friends. Or perhaps ‘cronies’ was a better word. He liked to surround himself with people who cheered him on and told him he was an okay guy. Never a great athlete, he was nonetheless a good one, with a muscular build, defined rather than developed. He was also blessed with a smooth, ‘golden boy’ handsome face that belied his rather spiteful nature. And he had enough puerile wit and energetic sporting prowess to be popular with the girls and the guys alike. He was always on the right side in the high school clique, always with the majority in any lynch-mob situation, always in with the in-crowd rather than the geek or freak on the butt end of the bullying—be it verbal or physical.
He was very rarely alone. And that meant a lot to him. It meant more than he ever realized, because he was actually quite afraid of being alone. But he never knew this until he found himself in a situation in which he was unable to avoid it. Throughout his happy, time-wasting, fun-loving years at high school, he had never even had to think about it. Because he was never alone, he never knew how badly it would affect him when he was.
Looking back on it now, he probably had an inbuilt defense mechanism against solitude. Whenever he was alone he would rush to find human company. He was always the first to stride up to a friend or a group and stick his face into the conversation. He was always the one to approach the new kid in the class and size them up as friend or foe: friend to be used as a sounding board, foe to be bullied, or at least harassed.
Even in his own home he avoided solitude. He was an only child, but he always had friends over for sleepovers. More often than that, he slept over at friends’ places. He preferred that because he was embarrassed by his mother. He didn’t know who his father was—neither did his mother.
Now, he had to dwell in solitude for the first time in his life, he had to confront his fears. And this was a young man who had never known fear before.
But his fear of solitude—the fear that had always been there but that he had concealed from himself for so long—was now confronting him like an inner demon who would let him have no peace.
His mother didn’t visit. She had written him out of her life. And his old school friends—the ones whose lives he had brightened up with his antics—seemed to have no desire to share a moment’s company with their fallen idol.
But it wasn’t solitude as such that he feared. Solitude merely opened the door to his own personal Room 101—that secret, terrifying inner chamber where one’s worst fears become a reality. It forced him to engage in introspection. And it was introspection that he feared the most. Human company had merely been a way to stave off the need to look inside himself at the miserable squalor of his own soul. But stripped of that shield, introspection was all he had. Now at last, in the deafening silence of solitude and living under the shadow of death, he had to take a look at himself for what he really was.
And he didn’t like what he saw.
He saw a man who had wasted every opportunity that had presented itself. He saw a man who had been needlessly cruel toward the weak. He saw a man who had achieved popularity with the mob at the expense of the frail and the vulnerable.
But most of all he saw a man who had no chance to redeem himself.
He knew that Dorothy Olsen must also have had inner demons, probably far worse than his. But he had just trampled all over her. And for what? For some cheap puerile thrills that meant nothing to him now.
He wished he could have his life over again. He wished he could have those moments back so that he could make wiser—and kinder—decisions. But God grants no second chances…if there even was a God.
He looked down at the letter and realized how little it really said—how little of what he really wanted to say.
Seized by anger, he picked up the letter and ripped it to shreds.
Through the bars, the cell guard watched with an implacably neutral look on his face.
Alex sat there in stunned silence. Whatever he had expected, it had not been this. Clemency? Before he had even put his well-rehearsed arguments? And the mother of the victim had specifically requested it.
Then reality kicked in.
‘She’s asked me to offer your client clemency.’
The words had been chosen very carefully.
‘When you say “asked you,”’ Alex said cautiously, ‘does that mean you haven’t decided yet?’
‘You know my views on the death penalty.’
‘Yes, sir, I do. And I’ve always respected your courage in taking that position.’
He regretted saying this as soon as the words were out of his mouth. It sounded sycophantic, and the governor was too shrewd a politician not to see right through it.
‘And you also know that I’m pretty much my own man, especially now that I’m quitting politics.’
Alex nodded. Like many others, he wasn’t quite sure if he believed this, but now was hardly the time to give voice to his skepticism.
‘Nevertheless, it would be inappropriate for me to set myself up against the will of the legislature and the courts.’
Alex panicked at the thought of this opportunity already slipping away.
‘But you said—’
‘Unless…there was some compelling reason. You see, son, even though I have the luxury of being able to ignore public opinion, I believe that I have a duty at least to respect it. Remember the words of Thomas Jefferson: “a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them.” The people who elected me may not agree with my decision. But I owe it to them at least to explain it to them. History will judge me harshly if I fail in my duty to put my reasons on record—and those reasons had better be good.’
Alex took a deep breath and regained his composure, trying to read the governor. He wasn’t sure if the governor was really thinking about his place in history. But now was not the time to get diverted down a blind alley of speculation over his motives. Dusenbury was throwing him a lifeline—or at least waving it in his face. That was all that mattered.
‘So you need reasons,’ Alex edged forward hesitantly, ‘and as yet you haven’t got them.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you want me to supply them.’
‘No, I want your client to supply them.’
Alex was beginning to understand.
‘Is that why you said “offer” my client clemency…rather than “give”?’
Dusenbury smiled.
‘You picked up on that real quick. That’s just what it is, son: an offer.’
‘So presumably,’ Alex pressed on, ‘there’s a quid pro quo?’
09:48 PDT (17:48 British Summer Time)
The clinic was quiet as the late afternoon melted into early evening. But the spacious TV room, with its well-scrubbed pale blue walls and clean gray leather furniture, was sufficiently sound-proofed and isolated from the wards to have the TV on. They had it on all day and all night. The nurses on night duty especially liked to take short coffee breaks there, flopping down on the armchairs and watching late-night TV. They preferred the all-night news stations—British or American—to the late-night quizzes,