Change of Heart (43 page)

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I was not particularly surprised to hear what Shay Bourne had told the priest.

No, what surprised me was how fervently he’d fallen for it—hook, line, and sinker.

“It’s not about protecting Shay’s rights anymore,” Michael said. “Or letting him die on his own terms. We’re talking about an innocent man being killed.”

We had moved into the living room, and Christian—well, he was sitting on the other end of the couch pretending to do a Sudoku puzzle in the newspaper, but actually listening to every word we said. He’d been the one to come outside and invite me back into my own home. I fully intended to pop Father Michael’s bubble of incensed righteousness and get back to the spot I’d been in before he arrived.

Which was flat on my back, with Christian’s hand moving over my side, showing me where you made the incision to remove a gallbladder—something that, in person, was far more exciting than it sounds.

“He’s a convicted murderer,” I said. “They learn how to lie before they learn how to walk.”

“Maybe he never should have been convicted,” Michael said.

“
You
were on the jury that found him guilty!”

Christian’s head snapped up. “You
were
?”

“Welcome to my life,” I sighed. “Father, you sat through days of testimony. You saw the evidence firsthand.”

“I know. But that was before he told me that he walked in on Kurt Nealon molesting his own stepdaughter; and that the gun went off repeatedly while he was struggling to get it out of Kurt’s hand.”

At that, Christian leaned forward. “Well. That makes him a bit of a hero, doesn’t it?”

“Not when he still kills the girl he’s trying to rescue,” I said. “And why, pray tell, did he not gift his defense attorney with this information?”

“He said he tried, but the lawyer didn’t think it would fly.”

“Well, gee,” I said. “Doesn’t
that
speak volumes?”

“Maggie, you know Shay. He doesn’t look like a clean-cut American boy, and he didn’t back then, either. Plus, he’d been found with a smoking gun, and a dead cop and girl in front of him. Even if he told the truth, who would have listened? Who’s more likely to be cast as a pedophile—the heroic cop and consummate family man … or the sketchy vagrant who was doing work in the house? Shay was doomed before he ever walked into a courtroom.”

“Why would he take the blame for someone else’s crime?” I argued. “Why not tell someone—anyone—in eleven years?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know the answer to that. But I’d like to keep him alive long enough to find out.” Father Michael glanced at me. “
You’re
the one who says the legal system doesn’t always work for everyone. It was an
accident
. Manslaughter, not murder.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Christian interrupted. “But you can’t be sentenced to death for manslaughter, can you?”

I sighed. “Do we have any new evidence?”

Father Michael thought for a minute. “He told me so.”

“Do we have any
evidence,
” I repeated.

His face lit up. “We have the security camera outside the observation cell,” Michael said. “That’s got to be recorded somewhere, right?”

“It’s still just a tape of him telling you a story,” I explained. “It’s different if you tell me, oh, that there’s semen we can link to Kurt Nealon …”

“You’re an ACLU lawyer. You must be able to do
something
…”

“Legally, there’s nothing we
can
do. We can’t reopen his case unless there’s some fantastic forensic proof.”

“What about calling the governor?” Christian suggested.

Our heads both swiveled toward him.

“Well, isn’t that what always happens on TV? And in John Grisham novels?”

“
Why
do you know so much about the American legal system?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I used to have a torrid crush on the Partridge girl from
L.A. Law
.”

I sighed and walked to the dining room table. My purse was slogged across it like an amoeba. I dug inside for my cell phone, punched a number. “This better be good,” my boss growled on the other end of the line.

“Sorry, Rufus. I know it’s late—”

“Cut to the chase.”

“I need to call Flynn, on behalf of Shay Bourne,” I said.

“Flynn? As in Mark Flynn the governor? Why would you want to waste your last appeal before you even get a verdict back from Haig?”

“Shay Bourne’s spiritual advisor is under the impression that he was falsely convicted.” I looked up to find Christian and Michael both watching me intently.

“Do we have any new evidence?”

I closed my eyes. “Well. No. But this is really important, Rufus.”

A moment later, I hung up the phone and pressed the number I’d scrawled on a paper napkin into Michael’s hand. “It’s the governor’s cell number. Go call him.”

“Why me?”

“Because,” I said. “He’s Catholic.”

“I have to leave,” I had told Christian. “The governor wants us to come to his office right now.”

“If I had a quid for every time a girl’s used that one on me,” he said. And then, just as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he kissed me.

Okay, it had been a quick kiss. And one that could have ended a G-rated movie. And it had been performed in front of a priest. But still, it looked completely natural, as if Christian and I had been kissing at the ends of sentences for ages, while the rest of the world was still hung up on punctuation.

Here’s where it all went wrong. “So,” I had said. “Maybe we could get together tomorrow?”

“I’m on call for the next forty-eight hours,” he’d said. “Monday?”

But Monday I was in court again.

“Well,” Christian said. “I’ll call.”

I was meeting Father Michael at the statehouse, because I wanted him to go home and get clothing that was as priestly as possible—the jeans and button-down shirt in which he’d come
to my door weren’t going to win us any favors. Now, as I waited for him in the parking lot, I replayed every last syllable of my conversation with Christian … and began to panic. Everyone knew that when a guy said he’d call, it really meant that he wouldn’t—he just wanted a swift escape. Maybe it had been the kiss, which was the precursor to that whole line of conversation. Maybe I had garlic breath. Maybe he’d just spent enough time in my company to know I wasn’t what he wanted.

By the time Father Michael rode into the parking lot, I’d decided that if Shay Bourne had cost me my first shot at a relationship since the Jews went to wander the desert, I would execute him
myself
.

I was surprised that Rufus had wanted me to go to meet Governor Flynn alone; I was even more surprised that he thought Father Michael should be the one to finesse the interview in the first place. But Flynn wasn’t a born New Englander; he was a transplanted southern boy, and he apparently preferred informality to pomp and circumstance.
He’ll be expecting you to come to him for a stay of execution after the trial,
Rufus had mused.
So maybe catching him off guard is the smartest thing you can do.
He suggested that instead of a lawyer putting through the call, maybe a man of the cloth should do it instead. And, within two minutes of conversation, Father Michael had discovered that Governor Flynn had heard him preach at last year’s Christmas Mass at St. Catherine’s.

We were let into the statehouse by a security guard, who put us through the metal detectors and then escorted us to the governor’s office. It was an odd, eerie place after hours; our footsteps rang like gunshots as we hustled up the steps. At the top of the landing, I turned to Michael. “Do
not
do anything inflammatory,” I whispered. “We get one shot at this.”

The governor was sitting at his desk. “Come in,” he said, getting to his feet. “Pleasure to see you again, Father Michael.”

“Thanks,” the priest said. “I’m flattered you remembered me.”

“Hey, you gave a sermon that didn’t put me to sleep—that puts you into a
very
small category of clergymen. You run the youth group at St. Catherine’s, too, right? My college roommate’s kid was getting into some trouble a year ago, and then he started working with you. Joe Cacciatone?”

“Joey,” Father Michael said. “He’s a good kid.”

The governor turned to me. “And you must be … ?”

“Maggie Bloom,” I said, holding out my hand. “Shay Bourne’s attorney.” I had never been this close to the governor before. I thought, irrationally, that he looked taller on television.

“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 five-minute 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.”