31

At Southeastern Law School, Professor Mace James paced back and forth at the front of the large lecture hall, waxing eloquent about the cruel-and-unusual-punishment element of the death-penalty debate. One of Southeastern’s other law professors gave James this forum a few times every spring in a second-year constitutional law class. Mace usually taught only clinics and didn’t typically get a chance to impose his views on such a big class of students, so he always jumped at the opportunity. His friend on the faculty liked having the morning off.

Mace was being his provocative self, telling stories about innocent death-row inmates who had been exonerated by DNA tests and arguing that the death penalty disproportionately impacted low-income black males.

“We use the same method of execution that we use on the family dog when Fido gets old or bites one too many neighbors,” Mace said. “How many of you have actually witnessed an execution?”

Nobody raised a hand.

“Then let me describe it to you.”

As he did, the back door to the lecture room opened, and Caleb Tate slipped into one of the seats. Mace gave him a surprised look but continued speaking. When he had finished speaking, Mace debated a few of the conservative students for five or ten minutes before calling it quits. A line of students came down front for a little post-class discussion, but Mace shut them down and excused himself.

He walked up the steps to the back of the room and greeted Caleb. The two men couldn’t have been more different. Tate was wearing one of his finer charcoal-gray suits and a white monogrammed shirt. Not a hair on his head was out of place.

Mace wore his favorite pair of jeans, with a hole in one knee that grew each time they were washed. Since it was April, he had on the flip-flops he would wear through the entire summer. He told people he had grown accustomed to them in prison and could never kick the habit. A backward baseball cap covered his bald pate.

Tate surveyed the classroom, probably taking in the sight of the female law students. “How do I get a job like this?”

“Get convicted of a felony and become a poster boy for rehab. Then the liberals will love you.”

As soon as the words were out, Mace thought about Rikki Tate’s death. Caleb probably didn’t appreciate the felony wisecrack.

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Tate said. “Can we go someplace and talk?”

They made their way upstairs to Mace’s office, and Mace moved a pile of papers from one of the guest chairs. He sat behind his desk, moving to the side so his view of Caleb Tate wasn’t blocked by his large monitor.

Caleb glanced at the dry-erase board on the wall with a series of numbers crossed out, announcing that only 106 days were left until Antoine’s execution. Appellate briefs and cases littered the floor.

The two men had established a decent rapport, considering the circumstances. Antoine Marshall had spent what little money he had on Caleb Tate’s services as trial counsel. Tate’s real motivation for taking the case was probably the enormous amount of publicity the case had generated. Then, once the verdict was in, the money was gone, and the case was old news, Tate had passed Antoine off to Mace’s free legal clinic and the pro bono program at Knight and Joyner.

Often, appellate lawyers like Mace would base an appeal on the allegation that the defendant had received ineffective assistance of counsel at trial. Mace hadn’t made such a claim; Caleb Tate had been anything but ineffective. And Tate had seemed to appreciate the way Mace handled his former client.

“You cut it a little close last time,” Tate said.

“We aren’t out of the woods yet.”

“He’s lucky to have you.” Tate crossed his legs and tried to get comfortable. “But that’s not why I’m here. It’s about Rikki.”

Mace nodded. “I’m sorry about your loss,” he said.

Caleb blew out a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to Mace like there was any sorrow attached to it. “You know they’re after me,” Caleb said. “I’ve had a running feud with Bill Masterson and Jamie Brock, and they think they can nail me on this. They’re presenting the case to the grand jury right now. They’ll have their indictment by tomorrow at the latest.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mace said, though he wasn’t sure what this had to do with him.

“Yeah, not as sorry as me.” Caleb inhaled another deep breath and then said the last words Mace had expected. “I’d like to hire you as my lawyer.”

“What?”

“I want you to represent me. I like the way you’ve been bird-dogging Antoine’s case.”

Mace had never lacked self-confidence, but he was realistic enough to know there had to be more to the story. Mace was an appellate lawyer who filed long-shot motions on behalf of death-row inmates. There were a hundred lawyers in Atlanta who could do a better job at the trial-court level than he could.

“I don’t try cases; you know that. I taught trial ad for a couple of years, and I’ve done a few felonies, but I’ve never tried a capital case in my life. The closest I come to trials is when I file incompetent-assistance motions on appeal and complain about the job guys like you do in court.”

Caleb didn’t smile. He was all business, and Mace couldn’t blame him. “That’s one of the reasons I want to hire you. All the hotshot criminal-defense lawyers will want me to just sit there and shut up. I’m going to be actively involved in my defense, and I think your ego can handle that.”

He said it as if Mace had already agreed to represent him. But Mace was compiling a mental list of excuses.

“I’ve got my hands full with Antoine’s case,” he said. “And honestly, I don’t think it’s in your best interest.”

“You’re wrong about that. I need a lawyer who’s not afraid to research. The court’s evidentiary rulings will be critical. And you’re as good at motion practice as anybody I know.”

Though he knew better, Mace couldn’t help but be a little flattered. Plus, the case would generate a lot of publicity. But still . . . “What about Bobby Conway or that guy with the ponytail who gets all those high-profile cases? I’m sure one of those guys would let you have an active role in the case.”

Caleb sat for a moment and apparently decided to come clean. “I can’t afford them. My firm’s hit some hard times, and those guys are ridiculously expensive. And I’m not going to pick up any new cases until I get my name cleared.”

Mace thought it ironic that Caleb Tate was complaining about rates charged by other lawyers. Last time he checked, Caleb’s rate was somewhere north of five hundred an hour.

“I thought there was life insurance money,” Mace said.

“They won’t pay until I’m declared innocent. And, Mace, I am innocent. You know I passed a lie detector.”

Caleb reached into his suit coat pocket and placed a check on the desk. “Here’s a ten-thousand-dollar retainer. Charge me whatever your rate is, and I’ll pay the rest as soon as I get my hands on the insurance money.”

Caleb stood, apparently unable to resist adding some drama to the encounter. “This is my life, Mace. I need somebody to stand with me who’s been in prison before. Somebody who’s not going to treat this like just another case. Somebody who won’t try to talk me into a plea bargain and fold the tents at the first sign of trouble. Basically, I need somebody who’s willing to fight like hell.”

Mace studied the man before him for a long moment. Even though he’d been acquainted with Caleb for the last eleven years while working on Antoine’s case, he didn’t really know the man. He doubted anyone did.

Was he capable of killing his wife in cold blood? And was he enough of a professional liar to pass a polygraph test?

“I need to think about it. Actually . . . I need to pray about it.”

If Caleb was surprised by the comment, he didn’t show it. But then again, Caleb Tate was a trial lawyer, well trained to never act surprised. “I can live with that,” Caleb said. He made no effort to retrieve the check. “But I can tell you this—I’m not going to contact anyone else. And if the shoe were on the other foot and it were your life on the line, I’d take your case.”

But I probably wouldn’t ask you, Mace thought. “I’ll let you know by the end of the day.”