The Last Plea Bargain Page 5

  Mace followed Staci inside and spent the next few minutes in makeup. A talkative woman dusted his bald head so it wouldn’t create too much glare and caked on some blush. When he was finished, Mace showed Staci and her producer the tape, and the producer mumbled something about it being “good stuff.” Before he knew it, Mace was sitting on the set with cameras rolling and Staci firing questions at him.

  “Why did Freddie Cooper wait until the night before the execution to come forward?” Staci asked. “It seems awfully convenient.”

  Mace tried not to bristle at the question. He didn’t want to seem like one of those crusaders who thought every death-row inmate should be turned loose on the streets. “We had been looking for him for a few weeks,” Mace said. “He doesn’t exactly have a hyperactive conscience, and if we hadn’t found him, he probably wouldn’t have said anything. I think he was hoping we would get the execution stopped by some other means.”

  “But as I understand it,” Staci said, “there is still an eyewitness to this crime—Robert Brock, the husband of the victim, who was also shot by your client. How does Mr. Cooper’s change of heart impact Mr. Brock’s credibility?”

  It was a good question, Mace knew. And it was the same question the Georgia Supreme Court would be asking. This might be Mace’s best chance to convince the court. Justices watched television too.

  Mace turned away from Staci and looked directly into the camera. “Mr. Brock is a victim of a horrible crime, and my sympathy goes out to him and his family. But he was in shock when he saw his wife bleeding on the floor. He had a moment’s glance at the intruder before being shot himself. Later, the police used suggestive questioning and a faulty lineup to convince Mr. Brock that my client was the killer. At trial, the defense was not allowed to introduce expert testimony about the dangers of cross-racial eyewitness identifications nor about how the police officers, using a bad lineup and loaded questions, had planted false memories about the suspect’s appearance.”

  “What happens next?” Staci asked.

  “We’ve filed a petition for a stay with the Georgia Supreme Court,” Mace said. “We’ll get a ruling later today.”

  “Thank you, Professor James,” Staci said. “I know you’ve got a busy day ahead of you, and we appreciate your time.”

  Mace knew he was expected to just mumble his own thanks. The cue cards behind the camera were down to five seconds. But he didn’t have to play by their rules.

  “Antoine Marshall, to my knowledge, is the only defendant on death row who’s passed a lie detector test,” Mace added.

  The time card was up before Staci could tease the next segment. During the break, she thanked Mace, then started talking to her producer about what was coming up next.

  Mace left a copy of the Freddie Cooper tape with the station and checked his watch. It was time to head south to death row.

  All morning long, I worked at my desk and, with sweaty palms, hit the button to refresh the various court sites I monitored. I saw the petition with the attached Freddie Cooper affidavit at ten thirty. I immediately called the AG’s office, and they said they were on it. A response would be filed within two hours.

  “This happens all the time,” one of the lawyers assured me. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I got a text from a friend about the news report when it aired at noon. I watched a replay on my computer and caught myself grinding my teeth. Mace James had no shame. My dad was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and James was taking shots at him.

  They ran a clip from Cooper’s recantation, and he looked like he had been beaten up. I called the AG’s office a second time.

  “Have you watched the video?” I asked. “It looks like they beat that statement out of him.”

  “We noticed that,” they assured me. “We put it in our briefs.”

  A few hours later, just before I arrived home, I gave Chris a call. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Have you let Justice out?”

  “About a dozen times.”

  I knew Justice was taking advantage of my brother and garnering some extra attention. The thought of it made me smile.

  When I arrived home, I parked in the driveway, and Chris was out the front door before I even beeped the horn. The sky was still overcast, but it had stopped raining. When Chris reached the car, he took off his overcoat and tossed it in the backseat. My father was a few inches shorter than Chris and before his strokes had outweighed Chris by about twenty pounds. But for this occasion, Chris had decided to throw on one of my dad’s sport coats and my dad’s favorite tie. The tie looked great, but the coat was riding a few inches up Chris’s arms and dwarfed him in the shoulders.

  Chris had told me I looked good before I left for work that morning. I had told him that I was wearing Mom’s earrings and necklace. Now, the sight of my brother wearing my dad’s sport coat made me tear up.

  Chris got in without saying a word.

  “You look great,” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “I wish he could be here,” Chris said.

  I backed out of the driveway without saying another word.

  10

  Mace James arrived at the Diagnostic and Classification Prison in Jackson at three fifteen. There were 107 men on death row, all residing in the same wing of the facility, within yards of the execution chamber housed in a white building at the edge of the prison facility. Other states transported their prisoners to specially constructed execution rooms miles away from where the prisoners were held. But Georgia believed in efficiency.

  A handful of demonstrators had already gathered outside the facility, and Mace took the time to shake everyone’s hand. He was still amazed at how little public outcry this case had generated, even after his TV interview. The Troy Davis case, just a year earlier, had garnered widespread publicity. But nothing had changed. If anything, the public just grew more desensitized to last-minute desperation filings by death-row attorneys claiming that their clients were “truly innocent.” Most people now greeted such filings with a yawn.

  By midafternoon the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles had voted to deny clemency. The US Supreme Court had denied a stay based on the suspect nature of the sodium thiopental. The only hope left was the petition presently before the Georgia Supreme Court. If that petition was denied, the attorneys at Knight and Joyner would raise the same issue with a habeas filing in the federal courts—first with the Eleventh Circuit and ultimately with a single justice of the US Supreme Court.

  It was never too late. Troy Davis held the record. He’d been convicted in the 1989 killing of a Savannah police officer. Twenty years later, the Supreme Court granted a stay less than two hours before his scheduled execution. Davis later presented new evidence to a Georgia federal judge who ruled that the evidence amounted to nothing more than “smoke and mirrors.” Davis proclaimed his innocence with his last breath on September 21, 2011. How had Davis’s lawyers managed to keep their client alive for twenty-two years, yet Mace couldn’t keep Antoine alive for more than eleven?

  The answer, Mace knew, was the 1996 enactment of the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act, which seriously curtailed the habeas corpus rights of death-row inmates convicted after the law’s passage. But Mace also shouldered a fair share of the blame. A good lawyer would never allow an innocent man to die.

  Before meeting with Antoine, Mace inspected the lethal-injection chamber, which had already been prepared for that evening’s event. The room was small, cold, and sterile, about the size of an examination room at a doctor’s office. It was so white that it was nearly disorienting—the white walls and white tile floor interrupted only by a four-inch black baseboard and a bright-yellow door. The “bed” where they would strap Antoine featured a two-inch mattress covered in a white disposable sheet. There were black straps for his arms, knees, and ankle, as well as one that would lie across his shoulders.

  Mace had never witnessed an execution. But it was clear that the state wanted this to look like every other med
ical procedure. They would even swab Antoine’s arm with alcohol before inserting the needle for the IV.

  One wall of the execution chamber was a large window that allowed observers to watch the procedure. There were blinds on the inside that would be pulled back once Antoine was strapped in. Members of the victim’s family and District Attorney Masterson would be in the observation room. Mace would be there too, along with the prison chaplain, who had taken quite a liking to Antoine. They would be joined by five reporters, selected to serve as witnesses for the media, along with a few prison guards.

  Mace surveyed the execution chamber and shrugged at the prison guards. What was he supposed to do—complain that he wanted the walls painted a different color?

  “I’d like to see my client now,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Mace walked into a small room in the main facility where Antoine was sitting at a bolted-down table, wearing shackles on his ankles and wrists. A guard stood just outside the door, staring in through a barred window.

  As the door closed behind Mace, Antoine looked up at him, wide eyed. Before, the two had been separated by bulletproof glass. But today, Antoine’s last scheduled day on earth, they were allowed to meet with no barriers between them.

  Antoine stood, and Mace walked over and gave him a big hug. Mace felt his client’s bony shoulder blades and was a little surprised at how much shorter Antoine was than he had looked when seated in the cubicle. The inmate smelled like he hadn’t taken a shower in a couple of weeks, and his hair was matted and ratty, his breath enough to knock Mace over.

  “Thanks for coming,” Antoine said as if Mace were a hospital visitor after surgery.

  “Yeah, I was thinking about going golfing instead but decided against it,” Mace said.

  Antoine didn’t smile, and the two men took their places on opposite sides of the table. They both leaned forward on their elbows so they could keep their voices low. Antoine had a healthy sense of paranoia nurtured by eleven years inside the system and memories of Freddie Cooper turning on him. Mace tried to ignore his client’s putrid breath.

  “I don’t have any good news,” Mace said, getting right to the point. “The State Board of Pardons and Paroles has denied clemency. The Supreme Court ruled against our petition for cert. The only chance we have is the petition based on Cooper’s affidavit.”

  Antoine’s expression didn’t change. “About what I expected.”

  “We basically get three strikes on that petition. The Georgia Supreme Court. The Eleventh Circuit. The Supremes.”

  “I’m not holding my breath.”

  Mace wished he would.

  “I’m not either,” Mace said. He had never tried to pump Antoine up with false expectations. There was no need to start now.

  “I’m ready,” Antoine proclaimed. “And I wanted you to look over something.”

  He reached into the pocket of his orange jumpsuit and handed Mace a folded piece of paper.

  “What’s this?” Mace asked.

  “My last statement. I’ll memorize it by seven.”

  Mace read the paper while Antoine watched:

  I want to say how sorry I am to the members of the Brock family. I have prayed for you every day, and I hope that my execution will allow you to close this chapter of your lives. To Jamie and Chris Brock: I am sorry that you lost a mother. To Robert Brock: I am sorry that you lost a wife.

  I am prepared to die. Those of you with power over me would have no power if it were not given to you from above.

  Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.

  Into your hands, Jesus, I commit my spirit.

  Mace read the statement twice to give himself time to think. He didn’t like it. The proclamation was confusing, and there was no clear declaration of innocence. Worse, Antoine was repeating the words of Jesus, which would make the victims furious.

  “What do you think?” Antoine asked, his eyes lighting up for the first time since Mace had entered the room.

  Mace made a slight grimace. “It’s okay. Very biblical. But I think you could make a stronger claim of innocence.”

  Antoine had obviously thought about this. “Jesus could have insisted on his innocence too. But the Bible says he was silent, like a lamb at the slaughter.”

  “But that’s different. Jesus had to die to save the world. This is just plain injustice.”

  Antoine reached across the table and took the paper, refolded it, and placed it in his pocket. “I appreciate your input. But the chaplain liked it. And I don’t think I can go wrong quoting the words of Jesus.”

  Mace wanted to argue the point but decided against it. This was Antoine’s final act of self-determination. The state had taken everything else away except his right to say whatever he wanted just prior to death. Who was Mace to criticize those words?

  “It’s a good statement, Antoine. Me, I would be too bitter to say something this gracious. You’re a better man than I.”

  “Some might disagree,” Antoine said, forcing a smile. Then he turned serious and narrowed his eyes. “Mace, are you going to stop working on this case once they kill me?”

  “No,” Mace said. “I’m going to stop working this case when I clear your name.”

  Antoine studied Mace for a moment as if ascertaining whether he could truly believe that promise. They both knew there would be other men on death row who needed Mace’s help. “You’ve done everything you said you’d do,” Antoine eventually said.

  “I appreciate that,” Mace said. “But I’m not giving up on saving you yet.”

  At this, Antoine leaned back in his chair. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  11

  Chris and I were both lost in our thoughts as we drove south on Route 400, listening to country music. The trip to Jackson would take ninety minutes if traffic cooperated. But in Atlanta, that was a big if.

  Things slowed down on the 285 loop just past the intersection with I-85. The road was six lanes wide in each direction with concrete barriers on each side. When traffic came to a complete stop, I knew there must have been some kind of accident.

  Chris scanned the radio stations to see if he could pick up any traffic alerts. Since I was driving, I handed him my BlackBerry and asked him to check the traffic updates on the newspaper site.

  Chris was the kind who liked to get places early. I could tell by his body language that he was simmering because I had picked him up fifteen minutes late.

  “We should still be okay,” I said. “We gave ourselves two extra hours.”

  “Except the traffic’s not moving at all,” Chris responded.

  I was tempted to remind him that he hadn’t even wanted to go in the first place, but I decided not to pick a fight. We would need each other today. Chris was the only family I had left.

  “There’s a tractor-trailer accident ten miles south of here,” he said. He was reading the report on my BlackBerry, and the frustration was evident in his voice. “We’d better get off at the next exit and take the connector.”

  I knew everyone else would have the same idea. I also knew it would take forever just to get to the next exit. I jammed the car into park. “I can’t believe this,” I muttered.

  “Maybe we’re not supposed to be there,” Chris said.

  It was the wrong comment at the wrong time. “I’m sure that would make you happy,” I snapped.

  Chris scoffed. “I’m not the one who got to the house fifteen minutes late.”

  I could sense a full-scale sibling argument erupting with no clear winner in sight. Normally, I was more strong willed and would wear him down. Chris would go into his shell; I would feel bad and eventually apologize. This time, I decided to short-circuit the whole vicious cycle.

  “We’ve still got plenty of time,” I murmured.

  He accepted my peace offering and didn’t respond.

  Twenty minutes later, after a few emergency vehicles made their way past us in the HOV lane and we still hadn’t moved, I decided to call Bill Mas
terson.

  “Have you heard about the loop?” I asked.

  “No. What about it?”

  “We’re stuck in traffic. We haven’t moved in half an hour. What’s the latest we can check in at the prison?”

  Masterson hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s not like I do this every day.”

  He promised to look into it and call me back. Five minutes later, I was on the phone with him again.

  “Can you get the car over to the shoulder of the road?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “I called in a few favors. The state police will be there to give you a ride in about ten minutes. When they come, they’ll turn on their lights, and you can follow them down the shoulder of the road until you can get to an exit and find a place to leave your car.”

  It was now four thirty, and our cushion had diminished to less than an hour. I wondered if, in the history of Georgia executions, a victim’s family members had ever been late.

  I thanked Masterson and explained the strategy to Chris. Since we were in one of the middle lanes, I took some executive action.

  “You drive,” I told him. I hopped out of the car and walked up to drivers who were ahead of us in the right lanes. I explained the situation, and they all sized me up as if trying to figure out whether I would invent something this crazy. Eventually, they squeezed together and created enough space for us to weave our car onto the right shoulder of the road. Ten minutes later, a squad car arrived. The officer told us we should let him pass and follow him down the shoulder to the next exit. After we parked my vehicle, we could ride in the police car to Jackson.

  As we started down the shoulder, I was filled with a sense of gratitude. It felt good to be on the right side of justice. Prosecutors and cops could sometimes be at each other’s throats, but we also had each other’s backs. I had dedicated my professional life to helping officers like the ones in front of us by putting thugs in jail. Today the blue brotherhood was looking out for one of its own.