57

The Republican primary took place on the last Tuesday in July, a date I had been dreading for more than a week. On the good side, the ubiquitous commercials featuring me and other “Women for Masterson” would finally stop running or, if Masterson won, would at least run less frequently. But on the bad side, I had volunteered to man one of the polling stations for my boss.

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. All the other ADAs were signing up. But when I woke up at five o’clock so I could be at the polling station by six, I simply wanted to know one thing: What was I thinking?

It wasn’t just that the forecast called for temperatures around ninety degrees and morning rain showers; it was the very thought of going to a strange place and greeting people I didn’t know—who probably didn’t want to talk to me—so I could urge them to vote for Bill Masterson. I believed he was the best candidate. But I always hated those bothersome poll workers when I went to vote. Today, I would be one of them.

I arrived on time and sat down at the Masterson for AG table with another volunteer. She had already placed a few Masterson signs at the curb and around the parking lot, but the area was dominated by Andrew Thornton’s signs. When the Thornton volunteers finished setting up their large tent with free bottled water, right next to our much smaller Masterson table, my competitive juices kicked in. The other Masterson volunteer was content to sit behind the table and answer questions, but I joined the Thornton volunteers on the sidewalk, jockeying for position so we could be the first to greet the voters.

A steady rain moved into the area by eight o’clock, and the Thornton volunteers started jogging toward the cars of any voters who didn’t have umbrellas, sharing a big golf umbrella and walking next to them until they reached the bubble zone around the polling place where campaigning was prohibited.

My coworker headed to her car to wait out the storm. Not me. I got out my own small umbrella and tried to escort voters too, though I got soaking wet in the process.

By noon the rain had stopped, but the parking lot felt like a sauna. I was tired of being outnumbered and outhustled by the Thornton folks, so I decided to bring in some reinforcements. I left my coworker at the polls for thirty minutes while I drove home and picked up the wonder dog. When we returned, Justice greeted everyone with the tongue-hanging, tail-wagging enthusiasm of a black Lab. People would stop and talk. And for the rest of the afternoon, I had a constant huddle of people around me as I explained how Bill Masterson was working hard to make sure criminal defendants didn’t succeed with their no-plea-bargaining strategy.

At three in the afternoon, Masterson himself came by, and our little crowd of well-wishers grew. He stayed for about two hours and gave me a fist bump before he left. “You’re a natural politician,” he said.

“You owe me,” I replied.

That night, Masterson’s supporters gathered in a Marriott ballroom. There were unconfirmed rumors that Bill had run away with the nomination. I sipped a Diet Coke and made small talk with my officemates, wishing I could be home working on Caleb Tate’s case. At nine fifteen, local television stations began calling the race in Bill’s favor. He took the stage at nine thirty, and the room erupted.

I was genuinely happy for the man. He thanked a long list of people, including me and most of the other prosecutors in our office. I didn’t like the political process, but I was pleased to see a good man have a chance at statewide office. And selfishly, it wouldn’t hurt my career to be on a first-name basis with the attorney general.

I didn’t get home until eleven o’clock, and I absentmindedly grabbed the mail at the end of the driveway. My first order of business was to let Justice out. While he was outside, I shuffled through the bills and magazines I had picked up. Among them was a letter with a handwritten envelope and the return address for Antoine Marshall. I stared at it for a moment before finally summoning the emotional energy to open it.

The letter was two pages of small block printing. It had been years since he had sent me a few letters, and I couldn’t believe what I was now reading.

I was so shocked that I had to read the letter twice just to convince myself it was real. Marshall had been fighting this case for twelve years, and now, just seven days before his second scheduled execution date, I finally had what I always craved: an admission of guilt.

Dear Ms. Brock:

I am writing to tell you how sorry I am and to ask your forgiveness. My lawyer does not know I am sending this letter and would probably tell me not to, but I had to anyway.

For twelve years, I believed I was innocent of the charges against me for the murder of your mother. I passed a lie detector test—actually two—and I do not remember ever being in your house. But I just went through a test that scanned my brain when they asked me questions about the shooting of your mother. The doctor who gave me the test said my brain activity showed I had been there that night.

I must have been high on meth or something because I honestly don’t remember.

I know you probably can’t forgive me but I’ve prayed to God and know that he has forgiven me. After I gave my life to him, I told him I would do the right thing from that day forward and this now seems like the right thing. I am sorry I have put you through twelve years of hell and eleven years of appeals, but soon you won’t have to worry about that no more.

I pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I am having a hard time forgiving myself.

Sincerely yours,

Antoine Marshall

I finished the letter, folded it neatly, and placed it back in the envelope. I couldn’t begin to make sense of my feelings. I was numb with the shock of it. Could this really be happening? After all these years?

I had to tell somebody, so I picked up the phone and called LA. I started reading him the letter, but halfway through I had to stop, my voice choking on the emotion.

“Are you okay?” he asked. I loved hearing the concern in his voice, but I honestly didn’t know how to answer.

He gave me a moment to gather myself and then asked softly, “Do you want me to come over?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “I really am okay.”

Mace James was not okay. His novel concept for proving Antoine’s innocence had backfired. Since receiving the results, Mace had tried to downplay the reliability of the BEOS test, but Antoine wasn’t buying it. And Mace himself was left to wonder whether he was truly defending an innocent man or just one who had been so high he hadn’t remembered the night of the murder when he took the polygraph.

But what did it really matter? Mace had a job to do; he had seven days to save Antoine’s life. The debate over the reliability of the BEOS test and Antoine’s innocence could be fully resolved later. Mace’s job was to make sure his client was still around when it was.