Dearest Sarah,
I hope I’m doing the right thing. God, I hope I’m doing the right thing. My thoughts are so jumbled together now that I sometimes lose track. You have to know that whatever happens at the end of all of this, I am doing it all for you. I did it all for you. It’s just that these things take so much time. The system works so slowly that you can’t always predict the outcome. I know I can’t, no matter how meticulous I’ve been, no matter how many appeals I have filed, and how many friends I make and lose. Life, just like death, is as unpredictable as a jury.
I suppose I’m sort of asking your permission for what I’m about to do. God, even when I type this, I feel conflicted. But I’ll just come out and say it. I visited her. I visited her at the Pennsylvania Institute for Women, and she hasn’t changed. Not a bit in ten years of incarceration. Not in nearly a decade of solitary confinement. She’s had all this time to think about the past, and yet the lies and haughtiness keep spilling from her as if prison doled out credit for good behavior for each and every fabrication, each and every glimmer of contempt.
As you can imagine, it pains me to use that name. Noa. All I can see when I look at her is a cold-blooded, borderline personality-plagued, folie de grandeur double murderer. But her name, sweetheart. Not Noa Singleton. Noa P. Singleton, she declares.
Noa
Noa
Noa
It means motion and movement, though she’s not doing much of that on the Row.
Noa.
It falls so smoothly from my lips when I say it. I wish you could try it with me.
I’m sorry for all of this, but to whom else can I talk but to you? Sweetheart, I thought I owed it to you to tell you about my visit. It’s taken me so many years to get to this place. I’ve tried to move on, just like I know you would have wanted. I’ve dealt with the loss of your father. (Thank goodness you didn’t have to watch him waste away.) I’ve tried to make friends, but I think people are still afraid of me so my Rolodex is fairly slim. It’s funny, because I don’t know if people are afraid of me now because of what happened, or if they’ve always been afraid of me and I’ve only just realized it.
Sarah, in all honesty, I wish I knew how you’d feel about Mothers Against Death. You’ve been with me this entire time, from the moment I testified at her hearing, to the moment I began MAD, until even this week on my visit to the prison. You were so close to motherhood. New to motherhood, really. I know you would have understood this instinct. You understand—as someone who has created life—how it is not in our hands to take it away. It simply isn’t. I’m so sorry it took me this long to get here, but at least I’m here now.
I haven’t talked much about the visit to the prison (and I will, I promise—I’m just having trouble focusing right now). I’m now working with a first-year associate at my firm named Oliver Stansted. From day one, he demonstrated an interest in pro bono work—in particular, criminal defense. No other First Years wanted to soil their new suits with prison work, and Oliver walked into my office more eager than he really should have been, almost as if he had planned this all along. At first, it took me off guard. He is a Cambridge graduate. He graduated with a Double First, spent quite a bit of time traveling around America, and also skirted offers from most of the major firms in New York for his summer internships. He chose our firm in Philadelphia for his first permanent job. I actually remember his original application over the summer several years ago. (I always remember the foreign applicants. Their résumés are usually printed on A-4 paper, and they never bother to Americanize the spellings to fit. He did, though.) Right now it’s just the two of us. I set up Mothers Against Death shortly after he came into my office with his mammoth smile and perfectly tailored suit. You probably would have had a crush on him. I’m fairly certain Noa already does.
So, I’ll just come out and say it and hope that you approve. Through Mothers Against Death, Oliver and I are putting together a clemency petition for Noa. It really is almost a formality, a futile plea to deliver to our trusty executive, and is more than likely to be turned down.
Before you worry, though, make no mistake—Noa will never see the light of day. We are just trying to get the governor to commute her death sentence into a life sentence, where she’ll spend the last of her too many remaining decades behind bars. She will still be in maximum security, still a convicted murderer, and will still continue to agonize over what she’s done, turning her arrogant, self-centered, self-righteous mind into mulch. But she will be alive while she does all of this. It’s not really our place to kill her, just like it wasn’t her place to kill you. I believe that now. It took me nearly ten years to get here, but I believe it. You understand, sweetheart, don’t you? I know you do. She deserves this. It’s afar worse punishment for taking you away than getting to leave this life before me.
I have to go now. I probably shouldn’t have written you, but I had a few minutes to spare and there was nobody else with whom I wanted to spend it.
Forever yours,
Mom