Part 7 (1/2)

At Shay's p.r.o.nounced silence, the warden began to walk the length of our tier. ”What about you?” he called out to the rest of us. ”And I will inform you that those who cooperate with me will not be punished. I can't promise anything for the rest of you.”

n.o.body spoke.

Warden Coyne turned to Shay. ”Where did you get the gum?”

”There was only one piece,” Joey Kunz blurted, the snitch. ”But it was enough for all of us.”

”You some kind of magician, son?” the warden said, his face inches away from Shay's. ”Or did you hypnotize them into believing they were getting something they weren't? I know about mind control, Bourne.”

”I didn't do anything,” Shay murmured.

Officer Whitaker stepped closer. ”Warden Coyne, there's nothing in his cell. Not even in his mattress. His blanket's intact-if he's been fis.h.i.+ng with it, then he managed to weave the strings back together when he was done.”

I stared at Shay. Of course he'd fished with his blanket; I'd seen the line he'd made with my own eyes. I'd untied the bubble gum from the braided blue strand.

”I'm watching you, Bourne,” the warden hissed. ”I know what you're up to. You know d.a.m.n well your heart isn't going to be worth anything once it's pumped full of pota.s.sium chloride in a death chamber. You're doing this because you've got no appeals left, but even if you get Barbara freaking Walters to do an interview with you, the sympathy vote's not going to change your execution date.”

The warden stalked off I-tier. Officer Whitaker released Shay's handcuffs from the bar where he was tethered and led him back to his cell. ”Listen, Bourne. I'm Catholic.”

”Good for you,” Shay replied.

”I thought Catholics were against the death penalty,” Crash said.

”Yeah, don't do him any favors,” Texas added.

Whitaker glanced down the tier, where the warden stood outside the soundproof gla.s.s, talking to another officer. ”The thing is ... if you want ... I could ask one of the priests from St. Catherine's to visit.” He paused. ”Maybe he can help with the whole heart thing.”

Shay stared at him. ”Why would you do that for me?”

The officer fished inside the neck of his s.h.i.+rt, pulling out a length of chain and the crucifix that was attached to the end of it. He brought it to his lips, then let it fall beneath his uniform again. ”He that believeth on me,” Whitaker murmured, ”believeth not on me, but on him that sent me.”

I did not know the New Testament, but I recognized a biblical pa.s.sage when I heard one-and it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that he was suggesting Shay's antics, or whatever you wanted to call them, were heaven-sent. I realized then that even though Shay was a prisoner, he had a certain power over Whitaker. He had a certain power over all all of us. Shay Bourne had done what no brute force or power play or gang threat had been able to do all the years I'd been on I-tier: he'd brought us together. of us. Shay Bourne had done what no brute force or power play or gang threat had been able to do all the years I'd been on I-tier: he'd brought us together.

Next door, Shay was slowly putting his cell to rights. The news program was wrapping up with another bird's-eye view of the state prison. From the helicopter footage, you could see how many people had gathered, how many more were heading this way.

I sat down on my bunk. It wasn't possible, was it?

My own words to Alma came back to me: It's not probable It's not probable. Anything's possible possible.

I pulled my art supplies out of my hiding spot in the mattress, riffling through my sketches for the one I'd done of Shay being wheeled off the tier after his seizure. I'd drawn him on the gurney, arms spread and tied down, legs banded together, eyes raised to the ceiling. I turned the paper ninety degrees. This way, it didn't look like Shay was lying down. It looked like he was being crucified.

People were always ”finding” Jesus in jail. What if he was already here?

”I don't want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying.”

-WOODY ALLEN, QUOTED IN WOODY ALLEN AND HIS COMEDY, WOODY ALLEN AND HIS COMEDY, BY ERIC LAX BY ERIC LAX

Maggie

There were many things I was grateful for, including the fact that I was no longer in high school. Let's just say it wasn't a walk in the park for a girl who didn't fit into the smorgasbord of clothing at the Gap, and who tried to become invisible so she wouldn't be noticed for her size. Today, I was in a different school and it was ten years later, but I was still suffering from a flashback anxiety attack. It didn't matter that I was wearing my Jones New York I'm-going-to-court suit; it didn't matter that I was old enough to be mistaken for a teacher instead of a student-I still expected a football jock to turn the corner, at any moment, and make a fat joke.

Topher Renfrew, the boy who was sitting beside me in the lobby of the high school, was dressed in black jeans and a frayed T-s.h.i.+rt with an anarchy symbol, a guitar pick strung around his neck on a leather lanyard. Cut him, and he'd bleed antiestablishment. His iPod earphones hung down the front of his s.h.i.+rt like a doctor's stethoscope; and as he read the decision handed down by the court just an hour before, his lips mouthed the words. ”So, what does all this bulls.h.i.+t mean?” he asked.

”That you won,” I explained. ”If you don't want to say the Pledge of Allegiance, you don't have to.”

”What about Karshank?”

His homeroom teacher, a Korean War veteran, had sent Topher to detention every time he refused to say the Pledge. It had led to a letter-writing campaign by my office (well, me) and then we'd gone to court to protect his civil liberties.

Topher handed me back the decision. ”Sweet,” he said. ”Any chance you can get pot legalized?”

”Uh, not my area of expertise. Sorry.” I shook Topher's hand, congratulated him, and headed out of the school.

It was a day for celebration-I unrolled the windows of the Prius, even though it was cold outside, and turned up Aretha on the CD player. Mostly, my cases got shot down by the courts; I spent more time fighting than I did getting a response. As one of three ACLU attorneys in New Hamps.h.i.+re, I was a champion of the First Amendment-freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to organize. In other words, I looked really great on paper, but in reality, it meant I had become an expert letter writer. I wrote on behalf of the teenagers who wanted to wear their Hooters s.h.i.+rts to school, or the gay kid who wanted to bring his boyfriend to the prom; I wrote to take the cops to task for enforcing DWB-driving while black-when statistics showed they corralled more minorities than whites for routine traffic stops. I spent countless hours at community meetings, negotiating with local agencies, the AG's office, the police departments, the schools. I was the splinter they couldn't get rid of, the thorn in their side, their conscience.

I took out my cell phone and dialed my mother's number at the spa. ”Guess what,” I said when she picked up. ”I won.”

”Maggie, that's fantastic. I'm so proud of you.” There was the slightest beat. ”What did you win?”

”My case! The one I was telling you about last weekend at dinner?”

”The one against the community college whose mascot is an Indian?”

”Native American. And no,” I said. ”I lost that one, actually. I was talking about the Pledge case. And”-I pulled out my trump card-”I think I'm going to be on the news tonight. There were cameras all over the courthouse.”

I listened to my mother drop the phone, yelling to her staff about her famous daughter. Grinning, I hung up, only to have the cell ring against my palm again. ”What were you wearing?” my mother asked.

”My Jones New York suit.”

My mother hesitated. ”Not the pin-striped one?”

”What's that supposed to mean?”

”I'm just asking.”

”Yes, the pin-striped one,” I said. ”What's wrong with it?”

”Did I say say there was anything wrong with it?” there was anything wrong with it?”

”You didn't have to.” I swerved to avoid a slowing car. ”I have to go,” I said, and I hung up, tears stinging.

It rang again. ”Your mother's crying,” my father said.

”Well, that makes two of us. Why can't she just be happy for me?”

”She is, honey. She thinks you're too critical.”