21

After Antoine put his jumpsuit back on and sat down, he shrugged. “Guess that’s about it. I’m just trying to live for Jesus now. And if I die—I pray he’ll help me get ready for that, too.”

There was an awkward silence, and Antoine snuck a glance at Mace. Mace stared back at him with a silent message. Let the pastor process this. It’s his turn to speak now.

Chris had brought his own Bible, and he had it out on the ledge on his side of the window. “I really appreciate your sharing the story of your conversion,” he said. “If I didn’t believe that God could save the worst of sinners, then I wouldn’t be a pastor. In fact, God tells me that if I have hatred in my heart toward my brother, it’s the same as if I’ve killed him. So in that regard, I’ve been convicted of murder too.”

Though Chris didn’t expand on that statement, the implications couldn’t have been more clear. The person Chris had once hated—hated strongly enough for it to qualify as murder—was sitting right in front of him.

“And it’s not only hatred,” Chris continued. “I’ve struggled my whole life with things like pride and greed. So, Antoine, it looks like you’re wearing that Bible of yours out. I’m going to read something that will probably sound familiar to you, and then I want to ask you a question. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

Chris flipped to a page toward the back of his Bible. “First John 1:8-10,” he said, pointing to the verses. “‘If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. If we claim we have not sinned, we make him out to be a liar and his word is not in us.’”

Chris stared at Antoine for a moment, and the convict’s eyes started darting around a little. He was always fidgeting, his nervous energy preventing him from sitting still. But it was more noticeable now.

“Antoine, I need to know and I need to hear it from you. Did you kill my mother? And are you asking me to forgive you for that? Because if you confess that and pray for forgiveness—not to me but to God—he will forgive you. But if we don’t own our sin, how can we ask God to forgive us? It says right here—” Chris tapped his Bible with his finger like a good preacher, though the softness and urgency in his voice signaled a genuine concern for Antoine—“that his Word is not in us if we claim we have not sinned.”

Antoine looked down, then turned in his own Bible to the same passage as if checking it out just to be sure. He shook his head a little, a nervous tic, and looked straight at Chris. “I can’t say I did something I didn’t do. That right there is what would make me a liar. I can’t lie to you, Pastor. You’re a man of God.”

Chris kept his gaze steady, his voice soft. “Are you denying that you killed my mother?”

Antoine rubbed his hand over his forehead, down his dreads. “I’m saying I don’t remember nothin’ from that time in my life. God as my witness, Preacher, I don’t remember killing nobody. I don’t remember breaking into your house. I swear to you, man—I never shot a gun in anger at anyone. That just wasn’t me. I couldn’t have done it. Not me, man. I didn’t do it.” Antoine’s voice was getting sharper, more tense. Mace gave the slash sign across his throat but Antoine ignored him.

“I’ve been sitting in here for eleven years for something somebody else did. Pastor, you’ve got to believe that. I didn’t shoot that woman. I never even been in your house. I know if I say I did it and start bawlin’ and telling you how sorry I am, you would probably try to help me out. But I can’t tell you something I didn’t do. C’mon, man. I can’t lie to you. I can’t lie to God.”

Mace took a step forward. “Antoine,” he said, his voice firm. “Chris is not accusing you. But he’s got to believe his own father’s testimony. And if it were you sitting in his seat, you’d do the same thing.”

“Sorry, Pastor,” Antoine said, his voice more subdued. The humility was back. “I just—you don’t know what it’s like sitting in this same cramped room all day, no windows, praying for God to somehow make the truth come out.”

Antoine opened his mouth as if to say more but decided against it. All three men let the silence hang there for a moment.

“I prayed for the same thing all the way through the trial,” Chris said softly. “I only wanted the truth to come out. And I believe my prayers were answered.”

“I’m sorry you don’t believe me,” Antoine replied. “And I’m going to keep praying for you every day.” His fidgeting had become a full-blown tic, sporadic little movements of the head. Mace had seen it a few times before when his client was under pressure. “But I didn’t kill your mama. And I can’t say that I did.”

In the parking lot, Mace tried to do some damage control. “He’s never wavered on the issue of his innocence,” Mace said. “But don’t forget what he said before. He doesn’t remember half the stuff he did because he was high most of the time.”

“I understand that,” Chris said. “And I’ve lost a lot of sleep about today’s meeting, praying about what I should do. But I can’t write a letter asking the parole board for mercy if I don’t think your client is repentant.”

It was a gut punch for Mace. He had anticipated this result, but he had always held out hope. “I understand,” he said.

Chris handed Mace his Bible. “Looks like your client could use a new one,” Chris said. “Could you make sure he gets this? And let him know that I’m praying for him, too.”