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 Masterson.

“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.

“I can’t believe they’re doing this for us,” I said.

“Pretty cool,” Chris agreed.

We had cleared the traffic on the loop and were heading south on I-75, riding in the back of the state police car, when the next call from Bill Masterson came. As always, the boss was blunt, but I could hear concern in his voice.

“Jamie, I just got a call from the AG’s office. The Georgia Supreme Court granted a stay of execution until August 7. They want time to reevaluate the case in light of the Cooper affidavit. They’ve sent out a briefing schedule and a date for oral arguments.” He paused as I took the news in. “I’m sorry.”

I stared straight ahead, feeling numb. I had thought I was ready for everything. I’d reminded myself a thousand times that this could happen. But the reality of it hit harder than I had imagined. I had marked this day months ago as a day when I would finally achieve closure. But here I was, getting abused by the system all over again.

“You okay?” Masterson asked.

“I don’t believe it” was all I could manage.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Masterson said. “But I wouldn’t read too much into this. They just want time to consider it. That affidavit won’t invalidate your dad’s testimony.”

It helped to hear Masterson sounding so confident. But the gut punch had left me nearly breathless. I knew I had to get off the phone before I started crying.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

Masterson apologized again before he hung up. Chris looked at me, and I could tell the blood had drained from my face. He slid next to me and put an arm around my shoulder. He had heard enough of the phone call to know.

“Officer Hartley, I hate to ask you to do this, but could you take us back to our car?” I asked. My voice held up, though I could feel my throat clenching, the tears starting. “The Georgia Supreme Court just granted a stay.”

I leaned into my older brother, and the tears started pouring down my face. Before I could stop, I was sobbing, even though I tried to be quiet and stoic.

“I’m sorry,” Officer Hartley said from the front seat.

At that moment I couldn’t even respond. Instead, I lowered my head onto Chris’s shoulder and allowed myself to cry.

One of the prison guards found Mace talking on his cell phone in a conference room and handed him a single sheet of paper. Mace ended the call and quickly scanned the page.

“He’s been a good prisoner,” the guard said, his voice low. “He prob’ly deserves this.”

“Can I be the one to break the news to Antoine?” Mace asked.

“Of course.”

They met in the same room where Antoine had shown Mace his final statement just an hour or so earlier.

“Troy Davis still has the record,” Mace said. “His stay came two hours before his scheduled execution.” Mace looked at his watch, then back at Antoine. “Yours came with a generous three hours and three minutes to go.”

Antoine stared like a man who had seen a ghost. Perhaps his own? “What are you saying?”

“The Georgia Supreme Court granted our stay. They’re taking four months to reconsider the case.”

For the longest second, a stunned Antoine Marshall just stared at his lawyer, absorbing the news. His lips started trembling, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “Glory to God,” he said. Then he buried his face in his hands and started crying.