46

I slept fitfully that night, waking up several times, praying the whole thing was just a nightmare. At three in the morning, I thought about taking an Ambien but realized that I wouldn’t be able to wake up in time for work. At four thirty, after lying awake for thirty minutes staring at the ceiling, I conceded defeat and got out of bed. I threw on my sweats, and Justice rolled over and looked at me like I was nuts. I padded down to my dad’s study, sat in his chair, and started going through the desk drawers as if I might discover the key to the man’s character there. Could I possibly be this wrong about somebody I knew so well?

In the top left drawer there were some old family photographs. Chris, Mom, Dad, and me, smiling on vacation. I was fifteen, and my hair looked like a rat’s nest. Photographs of me from my college days racing kayaks and some from the Olympic trials when I came up one place short. There was one of Chris in his cap and gown, graduating from seminary, Dad on one side, me on the other. There was another family photo from my middle school years; Mom had cut herself out of the picture. Before her death, we made fun of her—my mom, the psychiatrist, who swore she didn’t take good pictures. We said she needed to work on her self-image.

At Antoine Marshall’s murder trial, Masterson had introduced the photograph into evidence and used it during his closing argument. “This is what Antoine Marshall did to this family.”

Toward the bottom of the drawer were some yellowed pages from my earlier childhood, the wide-lined paper you use when you first begin writing. On the bottom right corner of one I had taped a picture of myself in my white cap and gown at kindergarten graduation. On that same page I had also taped two Atomic Fireballs, which had now gone from red to white with age. In large block letters I had written, I love you, Dad. Jamie.

Underneath that memento was a book I had put together when I was in second grade. Our teachers had asked us to write about our hero. I had a hard time choosing but had eventually landed on my dad. I could still remember feeling guilty about choosing him over my mom. I’d even talked to my mom about it. She was so excited that we spent hours working on the little book together. My mom’s dad had left her family when she was in elementary school, and she said she had always prayed that her kids would have a special relationship with their father.

I read through the book now with tears rolling down my cheeks, and I was somehow certain that my dad would never have cheated in order to set his clients free. It was up to me to save his reputation. Antoine Marshall had killed my mother. I couldn’t let my dad be destroyed by his lawyer.

Mace James made a point not to read any newspaper coverage or watch television reports before he met with Dean Ellison on Tuesday morning. He wore his best blue pin-striped suit and white oxford shirt. A man ought to be dressed up when he faced the firing squad.

The dean welcomed Mace into her office, and he exchanged terse greetings with Elias Gonzales and John Shaw.

Ellison had a spacious office with an ornate desk and a round conference table that could have easily accommodated the four of them. But Mace had never seen Ellison meet with anyone at the table. Instead, as was her custom, she and the others took seats on the opposite side of the office, where two wingback chairs, a coffee table, and a small couch gave visitors a homey feel. Gonzales and Shaw hunkered down on the couch. Mace sat in one of the chairs, and the dean sat across the coffee table from him in the other.

“Anything to drink?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Have you read the papers this morning?” Shaw asked. As the managing partner of one of Atlanta’s biggest firms, Shaw was proud of his reputation and also the school’s. He guarded both like a rottweiler.

“No.”

Shaw placed the paper on the coffee table. It was a long article, page one, local section. “Congratulations,” Shaw said.

Mace didn’t respond.

“Mace, before we talk about what to do, I think it might be helpful for us to hear from you exactly what happened,” Dean Ellison interjected. “Why don’t you just start from the beginning, and we can chime in with any questions?”

Mace cleared his throat, surprised at how nervous he felt. His voice was hoarse as he started, but he eventually relaxed a bit. When he got to the part about the bar fight, John Shaw grimaced in disbelief. “The papers haven’t even figured that angle out,” he said. “You staged a bar fight in order to kidnap this guy—wait until that comes out.”

“Let ’im finish,” Gonzales said.

From that point, Mace gave them a truncated and slightly sanitized version, ending with the hearing in front of the Georgia Supreme Court.

When he was done, heads turned toward Dean Ellison. Mace knew that Shaw wanted him gone. Gonzales had always liked Mace, primarily because Mace didn’t complain about being overworked like the other professors. But the buck stopped at Dean Ellison’s desk.

She hesitated too long for John Shaw’s liking. “I counted five separate ethical violations, if anybody needs a scorecard,” he said.

“And the execution of an innocent man postponed,” Mace added sarcastically. “But maybe that doesn’t make the scorecard in your world.”

“In my world, the ends don’t justify the means,” Shaw retorted.

“Gentlemen,” the dean said. Hearing her tone, Mace swallowed his verbal counterpunch. He felt like a schoolboy caught in a fight.

The dean softened her voice. “Mace, what do you suggest we do?”

“I’m assuming that Teacher of the Year is out of the question?”

Ellison gave him a don’t-toy-with-me look.

“Sorry,” Mace said. “Look—you hired me to run a clinic and provide zealous representation for our clients. And that’s not as clean as the civil cases handled by Mr. Shaw in his silk-stocking law firm. I regret that I stepped over the line. And I’m especially sorry that it has put Southeastern in a bad light and will cause you all sorts of grief. It’s no excuse, but I just kept asking myself: How could I go to Antoine Marshall’s funeral knowing that I hadn’t done everything possible to save him?”

Mace glanced at his feet and back up at Dean Ellison. “Well, if I were you, I’d make me apologize, and then I would probably suspend me pending an investigation by the state bar. I’m sure Andrew Thornton has already reported me.”

The dean turned to her colleague. “Elias?”

“That sounds about right. I would have the law school do its own independent investigation as well so we can issue a report that would help answer some questions the public might have. I’m not excusing what Mace did, but if I were Antoine Marshall, I’d be glad to have him on my side.”

“John?”

“You know how I feel. I’ve been practicing law for forty years. There are ways to get things done that don’t violate the ethical rules. We’ve all worked too long and too hard gaining national prominence for our school to flush it down the toilet with this kind of behavior.”

John shot an accusatory eye toward Mace. “Frankly, if you were an associate in my firm, you would already be fired.”

Frankly, if I were an associate in your firm, I would have committed suicide by now. But Mace didn’t say it. He wasn’t going to win Ellison’s swing vote by arguing with the chairman of the board.

The room grew quiet, and the dean sighed. “You’ve put me in quite a dilemma, Mace. I like you a lot. The students love you. And your whole story has been good for the school. But how can we exhort our students to follow the highest possible ethical standards and condone conduct like this?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Mace didn’t try to answer. He stared at the dean, unblinking, as she prepared to pronounce her sentence. He liked this woman and respected her integrity. He couldn’t blame her if she fired him on the spot. She had the entire law school to worry about. But Mace’s job was to take care of his clients.

“When I hired you, I told you that you would be under stricter scrutiny than the other professors. With your background, there were a lot of folks who warned me not to take a chance on you at all. So far, you’ve been fabulous for the school, so I’m taking that into account. But last night, I received eighty-six e-mails and phone messages calling for your head.

“What’s especially troubling is that this recent conduct is somewhat similar to what landed you in jail in the first place. I thought you were a changed man, and I put my neck out there for you, Mace. And you’ve let me down.”

“I’m sorry, Sylvia. I really mean that.”

“I believe you. But that doesn’t change what’s happened.” Another big sigh. For the dean, it was the same thing as banging a gavel. “I’m going to suspend you immediately through the end of the school year. By that time, the state ethics investigation should be complete. I’m going to hold your position open, and you can reapply this summer along with other candidates. We’ll wait to make a decision until after August 7.”

The implications weren’t lost on Mace. August 7 was the new date for Antoine’s execution. By then, the courts would have ruled on the substance of Mace’s motion, and the state ethics investigation would be complete. Dean Ellison was giving him every chance to clear his name.

“Thank you,” Mace said.

“Most people never get a chance at redemption,” Dean Ellison said. “You’ve now been given two. Make the most of it this time.”

“I think you’re making a mistake, Sylvia,” John Shaw piped in. “This thing won’t die down unless we take decisive action.”

“I’m not interested in making this thing die down. I’m interested in doing the right thing.”

Shaw shook his head and frowned. Mace hoped the man would one day be in the hot seat himself. To a lawyer like Shaw, who had lived a charmed life, mercy was just a concept, one that constantly interfered with the true administration of justice. But for men like Mace, who had been forgiven much, mercy was like air. You couldn’t survive without it.