8

I don’t remember waking up on the day of Antoine Marshall’s scheduled execution because I don’t remember falling asleep the night before. Instead, I slipped in and out of consciousness all night, interrupting my nightmares to jump awake and stare at the clock. After my heart calmed down, I would realize that I still had hours to go before the sun came up.

The sun never did come up. The morning was overcast and gray, and the weatherman was predicting showers all day. It was, I decided, an appropriate forecast for what promised to be a brutal day.

I got out of bed early and checked the paper online. There was no fresh news about Marshall’s execution. I fixed a cup of coffee, fed Justice, and steeled myself for the onslaught of noise that would come out of Antoine Marshall’s camp. Each filing would be more ridiculous than the last. Bill Masterson, who had been through this drill a time or two before, warned me not to read any of them. “They’re desperate, Jamie. They’ll say whatever they need to say to get the execution postponed.”

I ignored his advice. For the past seven years—three years as a law student and four as a prosecutor—I had obsessively monitored each court system where Mason James and the lawyers from Knight and Joyner filed their various petitions and writs. Each word of their briefs would eat at me and fuel my frantic desire to get this final day of Marshall’s fight behind me. Now, at last, the day had arrived.

To prepare myself, I had read a wide range of reactions from other victims who had viewed executions. Some ranted that the process seemed too humane for the monsters who had committed such despicable crimes. Others were stunned and speechless. A few said they regretted going. For most, it seemed that the process was strangely unsettling and created more questions than answers. Protesters treated the death-row inmates like heroes. The convicts received marriage proposals from crazy European women. Pastors who engaged in prison ministry would tell stories about last-minute conversions. Even the prison system catered to the murderers for most of the day, giving them whatever they wanted for a last meal. The condemned man’s final words were circulated far and wide.

And the victims were once again forgotten.

I was so emotionally drained by the time Friday morning arrived that I didn’t have the energy to go to the gym. I showered and dressed by seven and then changed my outfit three times. I didn’t want to wear black as if I were in mourning. Nor did I want to look too much like a lawyer. I finally settled on a skirt-and-blouse combination with a sweater that my mother once wore. I put on a topaz necklace and matching earrings that had belonged to her.

Legally, I didn’t have to go to the execution. But morally . . . that was a different issue. How could I advocate for the ultimate punishment in my cases at the office and not show up to see it through in my personal life? I told myself I wasn’t bloodthirsty or seeking revenge. This was the way I paid tribute to the memory of my mom. This was the way I stood for justice.

I wondered what Antoine Marshall would say when the time came. He had written letters to my brother, Chris, talking about how he had found Jesus in prison and how religion had changed his life. He said he prayed for us every day. But he never admitted that he had killed my mom, and I knew he would deny it to the grave. I tried to brace myself for seeing the man who had made me an orphan boldly proclaiming his innocence one last time. I would stare through the one-way glass and shake my head in defiance.

Chris woke up at eight and came down to fix oatmeal. He had left Amanda and their two young girls at home in northern Georgia so the girls could stay in their routines, impacted as little as possible by Marshall’s execution. Even Chris had originally said he wasn’t going to the execution, but after Dad’s stroke, he’d changed his mind.

Chris was fundamentally opposed to the death penalty because he thought the system too often got it wrong. African Americans were disproportionately executed, and DNA evidence too frequently exonerated men who had served long stretches in prison. But Chris was the passive one in the family, and I had convinced him not to share those views publicly. I knew the system wasn’t perfect, but I also knew the system had gotten it right this time. We didn’t need the press playing one sibling against the other.

“Good morning,” Chris said. “What time are we leaving?” He was still wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. His blond hair stuck out in a number of random directions.

“I thought I’d go to work for a while first,” I said. “We probably need to leave here by three.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes while I checked some websites, then shut down my computer. “Thanks for doing this, Chris,” I said softly.

“I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Neither am I.”

He continued eating, concentrating on his oatmeal, while I packed my briefcase. We each had a thousand thoughts but no words to express them. We had talked for hours about this moment, but now that it had arrived, it seemed the only thing to do was march stoically ahead and accept whatever life threw at us.

“Any chance he’ll get a stay?” Chris asked. He took a swig of milk. I didn’t think he would be so calm this morning, just wolfing down breakfast as if it were any other day. My stomach was already in knots.

I shrugged. “Doesn’t look like it. But who knows? We need to be ready for anything.”

Chris looked at me, and I saw the apprehension in his eyes. I had misread his silence as nonchalance. But at that moment, I realized it was something else—uncertainty, nerves, even fear. My brother was older, the pastor in the family. But I would have to be the steadfast one. I could tell he didn’t want to face this day; he didn’t want to be a silent accomplice to a state-sanctioned killing. I had no such reservations.

“I just want it to be over,” Chris said.