61

Mace James hit End Call and stared at his phone. He had slept a total of six hours in the last two nights, and he felt like he was close to delirium. But there was no doubt he had just heard exactly what he thought he had heard. Out of the blue, Jamie Brock had called and wanted to meet first thing Sunday morning.

It was a miracle of biblical proportions. He hadn’t felt this jazzed since he was allowed to walk out of prison a free man years ago.

Jamie wouldn’t say what she wanted, but he knew she wouldn’t request a meeting just to reiterate her desire to see Antoine Marshall die. Chris Brock had already signed an affidavit asking the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles to commute Antoine’s sentence. At the very least, Mace was hoping Jamie would join that request.

Antoine had sent his letters of apology to Jamie and Chris Brock without first checking with Mace. When Mace confronted him, Antoine said he’d sent them without asking because he knew Mace would oppose the letters. For the last several days, as his Tuesday execution deadline grew closer, Antoine had taken on an air of grim resolution. This time, he said, there would be no stay.

Until now, Mace couldn’t argue otherwise. He had run out of tricks. Even with the fertile and creative minds at Knight and Joyner helping out, Mace couldn’t come up with a single legal issue that might get the court’s attention.

And so it had come down to seeking mercy from the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles. They had already denied him four months ago. But if Mace could get affidavits from the only two surviving family members . . .

He had arranged for Jamie to meet him at the Southeastern Law School library at 7 a.m. He could no longer use his office at the school and so, like a first-year law student, he had his books, papers, and computer spread over a carrel in the far recesses of the book stacks. He was not looking forward to another night of coffee and Red Bull, drafting motions and briefs that might never be read.

When I arrived at Professor James’s study carrel on Sunday morning, he was slouched over the desk with his head on his arms, sound asleep. The study lamp was shining on his bald head, and he was snoring loud enough to echo against the bookshelves.

I placed a hand on his shoulder and nudged him. Nothing. I shook a little harder, and his head popped up. He rubbed his hands down his face and shook his head like a dog drying off.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, his voice scratchy. He checked his watch and looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. “You want to go get some coffee at the student center?”

“Sure.”

The student center snack shop was closed, but the vending machines dispensed coffee as thick as oil, and Professor James brewed a big cup. I went for an orange juice from another machine. We sat down at a table, and James slurped his coffee. Steam rose from the cup.

He looked like death. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and he probably hadn’t shaved in three days. He had on a black T-shirt and board shorts, and he smelled like the men’s locker room.

“I really appreciate you coming,” he said. “I honestly never thought I would get a chance to talk to you one on one.”

He took another slurp of coffee, and I sensed that he was just getting warmed up. “I’ve never had a chance to tell you how sorry I am that you lost your mother and now your father,” he continued. His eyes were still only half-open, but they radiated sympathy. “I’m sorry I have to be the one representing the man accused of killing your mother, and I can understand why you would despise me for doing that. But somebody’s got to. And I’ve watched you work the other side of cases. I know you appreciate the fact that when you do something, you have to do it with everything you’ve got.”

“You’re doing your job,” I said. “I don’t have to like it.”

“I don’t expect you to. But I also know you didn’t come here just to give me a lecture.”

I didn’t care for this man, and his apology did little to change my mind. Yes, he had a job to do. But that job did not include threatening a witness and beating him up just to get him to lie for Antoine Marshall. Yet he was right—I wasn’t here out of respect or even revulsion for Mace James. I was here because I wanted to be able to live with myself.

“I’m willing to sign an affidavit requesting that your client’s punishment be commuted from the death penalty to life in prison. I’m not as gullible as Chris, and I don’t believe for a second that your client is a changed man. But I appreciate the fact that he’s taking responsibility for this crime. That ought to count for something.”

Professor James stared at me for a moment, his droopy eyes registering his disbelief. After all, I was the cold-blooded prosecutor who was rumored to have ice in her veins. James probably thought Chris had guilt-tripped me into this. In truth, it seemed like the only way out.

I couldn’t tell Mace James about the evidence implicating Judge Snowden without risking my job for insubordination. Plus, I didn’t want Antoine Marshall to get a new trial. At the same time, I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. This approach seemed to be a reasonable compromise, the best I could do under the circumstances.

“It takes a big person to step up and change direction like that—”

“Spare me,” I said. “If you have someone bring the affidavit to my house today, I’ll sign it. I’m not saying your client shouldn’t be punished. But I’m willing to help you save his life.”

Mace James looked down at his coffee and seemed to be thinking hard about what he should say next. He gave me a tentative look and chose his words carefully. “I know you said to spare you the accolades, but it does take a lot of guts to do this. My client will be very grateful. And, Jamie, he and I are both very sorry.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “And I hope this will at least prevent any more surprise affidavits from jailhouse snitches.”

“I think I’ve learned my lesson.”