You Think You Know Me Pretty Well (6 page)
Read You Think You Know Me Pretty Well Online
Authors: David Kessler
“I don’t see why not. He wants to live … I think.”
“Even if it’s behind bars? For the rest of his life?”
“He’s a narcissist,” Alex explained. “He likes to be the center of attention and to be told what a great guy he is. He wants to be The Fonz.”
“The Fonz?”
“Fonzie … from
Happy Days
.”
“
Happy Days
?” echoed Nat, as if betraying his youth, as they hung a right at Van Ness.
Nat was half-pretending. In truth, he enjoyed watching the re-runs of it and he knew perfectly well who ‘The Fonz’ was. But he still didn’t see what the Fonz had to do with his question about Burrow taking the deal.
“The Fonz was the local school drop-out who didn’t care about anything except being
cool
. That was his trademark phrase. The thing was, everybody liked him, the guys and the dolls.”
“And this is relevant because…?”
“Because that’s what Clayton Burrow always wanted to be. Cool. A hit with the clique. Numero Uno. Mister Popularity. In with the in-crowd. Like I said – a classic narcissist.”
“I know that type. But I still don’t see what that’s got to do with taking the deal.”
Alex smiled. Nat may have got top grades in law school, but he had a lot to learn about the real world.
“The thing is, Nat, that what a narcissist wants most is attention. But the next best thing is to live. He wants to live – even if it is behind bars. He’ll still be the center of attention for a while, with the press … and the public … until the novelty wears off.”
Nat thought about this for a moment.
“He’s never admitted it … killing the Olsen girl, I mean.”
“I know. But until now he’s never had a reason to. In fact he had every reason
not
to.”
They were taking a left into Lombard Street now and a tense silence settled over them. Strangely, Alex found himself thinking not about Burrow, but about Nat. The truth was that he hadn’t originally planned on hiring a legal intern, his law practice was just too tiny to warrant one. But Nat had badgered his way into Alex’s professional life with an enviable dedication and tenacity. He had started off the campaign while still a student, with an impressive résumé and a series of letters praising Alex’s work. At the time, Nat was doing a pre-graduation internship with the Public Defender’s office.
But the coup de
grâce was an impromptu visit to Alex’s office. When Alex had politely offered a referral to another firm, Nat replied that he didn’t want to work for the “whores and heathens” of the legal profession. He wanted to work only for a true believer in justice. Alex wasn’t sure if the student was a genuine
meshigena
or just a younger incarnation of himself, with the ideals still intact. But the clincher came when Nat silenced Alex’s attempted rebuff by saying that he wanted to play St Peter to Alex’s Jesus. It was the kind of killer line that a lawyer would give his Rolex – if not his Rolodex – to come up with. And it caught Alex from left of field.
Nat’s arrival at the firm had been most opportune in terms of the caseload. Alex had been getting a lot more business in the wake of a major success in the appeal of a drug baron’s girlfriend on accessory charges. And this heavy workload had culminated in Alex’s biggest case of all when the
California
v.
Burrow
file landed on his desk. There had been so much material to read through, so much ground to cover. Alex still wasn’t sure that he had truly come to grips with the facts of the case.
But the execution date had been set and the court had refused to give him any more time.
“You want me to copy the recording?”
Nat’s voice punctured Alex’s cogitation. They were on Doyle Drive, heading north toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Oh, er … yes. Upload a copy on the mail server and lodge a CD copy with the bank. Get Juanita to do a transcript. We’ll compare it to the official transcript when we get it.”
Throughout Alex’s meeting with the governor, they had maintained an open cell phone connection, with Alex’s brand new iPhone on silent and Nat listening in and recording the conversation.
Originally the plan had been for Alex and Nat to go into the governor’s office together. But Nat had suggested that Alex might be more effective alone. Two on one would seem like bullying and might serve only to harden the governor’s attitude. One on one and it would come over more like a genuine plea for mercy. Alex would be like a stand-in for Burrow, making a straightforward appeal from the heart.
Alex liked the way Nat thought. He had the knack for bringing a fresh perspective to the situation.
“Are you all right, Sue?”
Susan White had been daydreaming. She was barely into the first hour of her shift and her mind was a million miles away. She became aware of a young nurse looking at her.
“Oh yes. I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.”
The young nurse was dark-haired and pretty, with a smile that reminded Susan of some young British actress who had made it big in Hollywood after several appearances in British movies. She couldn’t remember the name of the actress. It was all she could do to remember the name of the nurse.
Danielle.
Yes, that was it. Danielle Michaels.
“You sure?”
Susan White could sense Danielle was genuinely concerned.
“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Really I am.”
Danielle smiled again and walked off, glancing back over her shoulder briefly, with a look of concern. But right now, the thing that was uppermost on Susan’s mind was that news report about the man who was due to be executed.
The first thing she did was head for the records room. The room was unlocked but the cabinets were not. It was out of hours and the records manager wasn’t there. Then she realized that she didn’t actually need the whole file, just the index. The hard copy files were filed by consecutive number and physically stored by date. But every file had a matching card in the card index and these were arranged alphabetically. The index card would have the date.
She found it in less than a minute and a chill went up her spine. The file had been opened on May 25,
1998.
When they arrived at San Quentin, Alex again went in alone, while Nat waited in the car. Nat had been in many prisons before, but never on death row – not even the relatively calm North Segregation block.
“It’s just too depressing,” was all he had offered by way of explanation, the first time they had come here.
“What are you talking about?” Alex had responded. “It’s just like the rest of the prison.”
“No, it isn’t. Not to me. It has … I can’t explain it. It’s like the place has the smell of death about it.”
Alex had found this attitude incomprehensible.
“How do you expect to work as a lawyer on cases of your own if you can’t compartmentalize your emotions?”
Nat had just shaken his head and turned away, as if struggling to contain those emotions. Alex remained mystified but realized that he had to accept it. So on this case at least, Nat was functioning as little more than a driver. It was hardly a way to get ahead in his chosen profession. But in fairness to Nat, he had done a lot of background research. You couldn’t fault him for effort or enthusiasm.
It took a few minutes to process Alex through security. But it seemed to be getting quicker, relative to his previous visits. They knew Alex now and he knew the drill, so less had to be explained to him about what he could and couldn’t bring in. Also, as the execution date drew near, they realized the urgency of these meetings and there was an element of sympathy for even the basest and most evil of murderers. Years on death row humbled and mellowed a man and even those prison guards who believed most strongly in capital punishment were ready to admit that by the time the condemned man is about to meet his maker, he is a very different man to the one who was sentenced to that fate.
Whatever they said about capital punishment being the ultimate
individual
deterrent, it was a punishment that did it’s work before the final stage was complete. It was living in the
shadow
of death that reformed a man’s character, not death itself. But for collective deterrence, the death penalty served no purpose, in Alex’s opinion. There were others however who were all too ready and eager to argue the point.
When Alex was finally in the cell with Clayton Burrow, the condemned man appeared to be struggling to read the lawyer’s face.
“What did he say?” asked Burrow, a tremor of fear creeping into his voice.
“It’s kind of complicated,” Alex replied hesitantly.
“What do you mean?”
Burrow’s breathing was heavy, as if not daring to hope.
“He’s offering you clemency – but it’s conditional.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s ready to commute your sentence to life if you ‘fess up.”
“That’s it?” said Burrow, letting the air out of his lungs.
“No, there’s one more thing. You’ve got to reveal where you buried the body.”
The smile vanished from the condemned man’s face.
“Fuck it!” yelled Burrow, pounding his left palm with his right fist. “Goddamn fuck it!”
Alex looked at his client, puzzled.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“I can’t
do
it! I can’t fuckin’ do it!”
It had been most kind of Chuck to lay on a limo
,
Esther Olsen thought.
The overpass drifted away behind them. But Esther was past the stage of admiring the view. On the way there it had been a distraction from her worries. She didn’t drive and illness had left her pretty nearly housebound. So any journey like this was an escape, both mental and physical. But the novelty soon wore off.
The same was true of the limousine. The luxury of its leather upholstery and lacquered wooden paneling raised her pleasure level, but only by a microscopic degree. And such petty pleasures were short-lived when ranged against the quantum of suffering that had borne down upon her in recent years. First a murderer’s unbridled malice had claimed her daughter. Then the ravages of disease had selected her at random and struck her down with a death sentence of her own.
She had had her fair share of life and although it hadn’t always been a smooth ride, it was at least a fair crack of the whip. She could accept being singled out by the Grim Reaper. But it was the loss of her daughter that had been unforgivable: for that was the work of human agency. And she blamed not only Burrow but also her husband.
Yet it was precisely from this anger that she wanted to escape. That was why she had approached Dusenbury and persuaded him to offer clemency to Burrow. As her own fate loomed up ahead, she needed closure more than revenge. And that was also why, as she closed her eyes, she now felt herself drifting back to a happier time.
She couldn’t understand why, but of all the memories that flashed through her mind, the one that lodged itself and lingered at the forefront was the one-night stand.
They were both students: he celebrating the end of his tentative first year at law school; she celebrating completion of her finals for her finals for her bachelors degree in literature. It was one of those drunken frat parties where everyone knows someone but no one knows everyone. Even now she didn’t remember how they had ended up in the sack together. Yes, the drinks had been flowing freely. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they had both been sitting in the corner, trying to withdraw from the rowdy celebrating and wild carousing that had long since lost its appeal for both of them. She wasn’t cerebral like him, more the free-spirited romantic type. But she
was
the quiet type. That much they had in common.
She was also engaged, to a decent if somewhat boring – not to say cold – man whose family was “well to do” and who had “prospects” according to her pushy mother. Was it an attempt to escape from an engagement that she never really wanted? Or a final celebration before she lost her freedom forever?
Whatever the reason, the memory of that night of passion reminded her of a phrase from the end of Hardy’s
Mayor of Casterbridge
about happiness being “an occasional episode in a general drama of pain.” It was a line that Dorothy had talked to her about for many hours, after reading the book in happier days when mother and daughter could still talk to one another. Esther had thought that Dorothy was too young to read such a book. But Dorothy had lapped it up with her unquenchable thirst for literature that she had inherited from her mother.
But the line lingered with Esther now. Had there been
any
truly happy moments in her life after that? Her marriage to Edgar certainly hadn’t been happy. She wondered if the blame had been hers … if the marriage had been tainted by that one fleeting indiscretion before they had even solemnized their union.
And yet she felt no guilt, not even when her thoughts rolled on through the years and settled on that image forever frozen in her mind – the image of her husband lying there with a bullet hole in his head.
