Part 15 (1/2)

”I don't think he'd want that,” my father said. ”You're not murdering him, Maggie. You're fulfilling his last wishes-to help him make amends for what he's done wrong.”

”Repentance through organ donation?”

”More like teshuvah teshuvah.”

I stared at him.

”Oh, right,” he smirked. ”I forgot about the postHebrew School amnesia. For Jews, repentance is about conduct-you realize you've done something wrong, you resolve to change it in the future. But teshuvah teshuvah means means return return. Inside each of us is some spark of G.o.d-the real us. It's there whether you're the most pious Jew or the most marginal. Sin, evil, murder-all those things have the ability to cover up our true selves. Teshuvah Teshuvah means turning back to the part of G.o.d that's gotten concealed. When you repent, usually, you feel sad-because of the regret that led you there. But when you talk about means turning back to the part of G.o.d that's gotten concealed. When you repent, usually, you feel sad-because of the regret that led you there. But when you talk about teshuvah, teshuvah, about making that connection with G.o.d again-well, it makes you happy,” my father said. ”Happier even than you were before, because your sins separated you from G.o.d ... and distance always makes the heart grow fonder, right?” about making that connection with G.o.d again-well, it makes you happy,” my father said. ”Happier even than you were before, because your sins separated you from G.o.d ... and distance always makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

He walked toward the baby picture I'd put back on the shelf. ”I know Shay's not Jewish, but maybe that's what's at the root of this desire to die, and to give up his heart. Teshuvah Teshuvah is all about reaching for something divine-something beyond the limitations of a body.” He glanced at me. ”That's the answer to your question about the photo, by the way. You're a different person on the outside than you were when this picture was snapped, but not on the inside. Not at the is all about reaching for something divine-something beyond the limitations of a body.” He glanced at me. ”That's the answer to your question about the photo, by the way. You're a different person on the outside than you were when this picture was snapped, but not on the inside. Not at the core core. And not only is that part of you the same as it was when you were six months old ... it's also the same as me and your mother and Shay Bourne and everyone else in this world. It's the part of us that's connected to G.o.d, and at that level, we're all identical.”

I shook my head. ”Thanks, but that didn't really make me feel any better. I want to save him, Daddy, and he-he doesn't want that at all.”

”Rest.i.tution is one of the steps a person has to take for teshuvah, teshuvah,” my father said. ”Shay has apparently taken a very literal interpretation of this-he took a child's life; therefore he owes that mother the life of a child.”

”It's not a perfect equation,” I said. ”He'd have to bring Elizabeth Nealon back for that.”

My father nodded. ”That's something rabbis have talked about for years since the Holocaust-if the victim is dead, does the family really have the power to forgive the killer? The victims are the ones with whom he has to make amends. And those victims-they're ashes.”

I sat up, rubbing my temples. ”It's really complicated.”

”Then ask yourself what's the right thing to do.”

”I can't even answer that much.”

”Well,” my father said, ”then maybe you should ask Shay.”

I blinked up at him. It was that simple. I hadn't seen my client since that first meeting in the prison; the work I'd been doing to set up a restorative justice meeting had been on the phone. Maybe what I really needed was to find out why Shay Bourne was so sure he'd come to the right decision, so that I could start explaining it to myself.

I leaned over and gave him a hug. ”Thanks, Daddy.”

”I didn't do anything.”

”Still, you're a better conversationalist than Oliver.”

”Don't tell the rabbit that,” he said. ”He'd scratch me twice as hard as he already does.”

I stood up, heading for the door. ”I'll call you later. Oh, and by the way,” I said, ”Mom's mad at me again.”

I was sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights of the attorney-client conference room when Shay Bourne was brought in to meet with me. He backed up to the trap so that his handcuffs could be removed, and he sat down across the table. His hands were small, I realized, maybe even smaller than mine.

”How's it going?” he asked.

”Fine. How's it going with you?”

”No, I meant my lawsuit. My heart.”

”Well, we're waiting until after you speak to June Nealon tomorrow.” I hesitated. ”Shay, I need to ask you a question, as your lawyer.” I waited until he looked me in the eye. ”Do you really believe that the only way to atone for what you've done is to die?”

”I just want to give her my heart-”

”I get that. But in order to do that, you've basically agreed to your own execution.”

He smiled faintly. ”And here I thought my vote didn't count.”

”I think you know what I mean,” I said. ”Your case is going to s.h.i.+ne a beacon on the issue of capital punishment, Shay-but you'll be the sacrificial lamb.”

His head snapped up. ”Who do you think I am?”

I hesitated, not quite sure what he was asking.

”Do you believe what they all believe?” he asked. ”Or what Lucius believes? Do you think I can make miracles happen?”

”I don't believe anything I haven't seen,” I said firmly.

”Most people just want to believe what someone else tells them,” Shay said.

He was right. It was why, in my father's office, I'd had a breakdown: because even as a confirmed atheist, I sometimes found it just too frightening to think that there might not be a G.o.d who was watching out for our greater good. It was why a country as enlightened as the United States could still have a death penalty statute in place: it was just too frightening to think about what justice-or lack of it-would prevail if we didn't. There was comfort in facts, so much so that we stopped questioning where those facts had come from.

Was I trying to figure out who Shay Bourne was for myself? Probably. I didn't buy the fact that he was the Son of G.o.d, but if it was getting him media attention, then I thought he was brilliant for encouraging that line of thought. ”If you can get June to forgive you at this meeting, Shay, maybe you don't have to give up your heart. Maybe you'll feel good about connecting with her again, and then we can get her to talk to the governor on your behalf to commute your sentence to life in prison-”

”If you do that,” Shay interrupted, ”I will kill myself.”

My jaw dropped. ”Why?”

”Because,” he said, ”I have to get out of here.”

At first I thought that he was talking about the prison, but then I saw he was clutching his own arms, as if the penitentiary he was referring to was his own body. And that, of course, made me think of my father and teshuvah teshuvah. Could I truly be helping him by letting him die on his own terms?

”Let's take it one step at a time,” I conceded. ”If you can get June Nealon to understand why you want to do this, then I'll work on making a court understand it, too.”

But Shay was suddenly lost in his thoughts, wherever they happened to be taking him. ”I'll see you tomorrow, Shay,” I said, and I went to touch his shoulder to let him know I was leaving. As soon as I stretched out my arm, though, I found myself flat on the floor. Shay stood over me, just as shocked by the blow he'd dealt me as I was.

An officer bolted into the room, driving Shay down to the floor with a knee in the small of his back so that he could be handcuffed. ”You all right?” he called out to me.

”I'm fine ... I just slipped,” I lied. I could feel a welt rising on my left cheekbone, one that I was sure the officer would see as well. I swallowed the knot of fear in my throat. ”Could you just give us a couple more minutes?”

I did not tell the officer to remove Shay's handcuffs; I wasn't quite that brave. But I struggled to my feet and waited until we were alone in the room again. ”I'm sorry,” Shay blurted out. ”I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I sometimes, when you ...”

”Shay,” I ordered. ”Sit down.”

”I didn't mean to do it. I didn't see you coming. I thought you were-would-” He broke off, choking on the words. ”I'm sorry.”

I was the one who'd made the mistake. A man who had been locked up alone for a decade, whose only human contact was having his handcuffs chained and removed, would be completely unprepared for a small act of kindness. He would have instinctively seen it as a threat to his personal s.p.a.ce, which was how I'd wound up sprawled on the floor.

”It won't happen again,” I said.