Part 34 (2/2)

Christian's head snapped up. ”You were were?”

”Welcome to my life,” I sighed. ”Father, you sat through days of testimony. You saw the evidence firsthand.”

”I know. But that was before he told me that he walked in on Kurt Nealon molesting his own stepdaughter; and that the gun went off repeatedly while he was struggling to get it out of Kurt's hand.”

At that, Christian leaned forward. ”Well. That makes him a bit of a hero, doesn't it?”

”Not when he still kills the girl he's trying to rescue,” I said. ”And why, pray tell, did he not gift his defense attorney with this information?”

”He said he tried, but the lawyer didn't think it would fly.”

”Well, gee,” I said. ”Doesn't that that speak volumes?” speak volumes?”

”Maggie, you know Shay. He doesn't look like a clean-cut American boy, and he didn't back then, either. Plus, he'd been found with a smoking gun, and a dead cop and girl in front of him. Even if he told the truth, who would have listened? Who's more likely to be cast as a pedophile-the heroic cop and consummate family man ... or the sketchy vagrant who was doing work in the house? Shay was doomed before he ever walked into a courtroom.”

”Why would he take the blame for someone else's crime?” I argued. ”Why not tell someone-anyone-in eleven years?”

He shook his head. ”I don't know the answer to that. But I'd like to keep him alive long enough to find out.” Father Michael glanced at me. ”You're the one who says the legal system doesn't always work for everyone. It was an the one who says the legal system doesn't always work for everyone. It was an accident accident. Manslaughter, not murder.”

”Correct me if I'm wrong,” Christian interrupted. ”But you can't be sentenced to death for manslaughter, can you?”

I sighed. ”Do we have any new evidence?”

Father Michael thought for a minute. ”He told me so.”

”Do we have any evidence, evidence,” I repeated.

His face lit up. ”We have the security camera outside the observation cell,” Michael said. ”That's got to be recorded somewhere, right?”

”It's still just a tape of him telling you a story,” I explained. ”It's different if you tell me, oh, that there's s.e.m.e.n we can link to Kurt Nealon ...”

”You're an ACLU lawyer. You must be able to do something something ...” ...”

”Legally, there's nothing we can can do. We can't reopen his case unless there's some fantastic forensic proof.” do. We can't reopen his case unless there's some fantastic forensic proof.”

”What about calling the governor?” Christian suggested.

Our heads both swiveled toward him.

”Well, isn't that what always happens on TV? And in John Grisham novels?”

”Why do you know so much about the American legal system?” I asked. do you know so much about the American legal system?” I asked.

He shrugged. ”I used to have a torrid crush on the Partridge girl from L.A. Law L.A. Law.”

I sighed and walked to the dining room table. My purse was slogged across it like an amoeba. I dug inside for my cell phone, punched a number. ”This better be good,” my boss growled on the other end of the line.

”Sorry, Rufus. I know it's late-”

”Cut to the chase.”

”I need to call Flynn, on behalf of Shay Bourne,” I said.

”Flynn? As in Mark Flynn the governor? Why would you want to waste your last appeal before you even get a verdict back from Haig?”

”Shay Bourne's spiritual advisor is under the impression that he was falsely convicted.” I looked up to find Christian and Michael both watching me intently.

”Do we have any new evidence?”

I closed my eyes. ”Well. No. But this is really important, Rufus.”

A moment later, I hung up the phone and pressed the number I'd scrawled on a paper napkin into Michael's hand. ”It's the governor's cell number. Go call him.”

”Why me?”

”Because,” I said. ”He's Catholic.”

”I have to leave,” I had told Christian. ”The governor wants us to come to his office right now.”

”If I had a quid for every time a girl's used that one on me,” he said. And then, just as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he kissed me.

Okay, it had been a quick kiss. And one that could have ended a G-rated movie. And it had been performed in front of a priest. But still, it looked completely natural, as if Christian and I had been kissing at the ends of sentences for ages, while the rest of the world was still hung up on punctuation.

Here's where it all went wrong. ”So,” I had said. ”Maybe we could get together tomorrow?”

”I'm on call for the next forty-eight hours,” he'd said. ”Monday?”

But Monday I was in court again.

”Well,” Christian said. ”I'll call.”

I was meeting Father Michael at the statehouse, because I wanted him to go home and get clothing that was as priestly as possible-the jeans and b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt in which he'd come to my door weren't going to win us any favors. Now, as I waited for him in the parking lot, I replayed every last syllable of my conversation with Christian ... and began to panic. Everyone knew that when a guy said he'd call, it really meant that he wouldn't-he just wanted a swift escape. Maybe it had been the kiss, which was the precursor to that whole line of conversation. Maybe I had garlic breath. Maybe he'd just spent enough time in my company to know I wasn't what he wanted.

By the time Father Michael rode into the parking lot, I'd decided that if Shay Bourne had cost me my first shot at a relations.h.i.+p since the Jews went to wander the desert, I would execute him myself myself.

I was surprised that Rufus had wanted me to go to meet Governor Flynn alone; I was even more surprised that he thought Father Michael should be the one to finesse the interview in the first place. But Flynn wasn't a born New Englander; he was a transplanted southern boy, and he apparently preferred informality to pomp and circ.u.mstance. He'll be expecting you to come to him for a stay of execution after the trial, He'll be expecting you to come to him for a stay of execution after the trial, Rufus had mused. Rufus had mused. So maybe catching him off guard is the smartest thing you can do. So maybe catching him off guard is the smartest thing you can do. He suggested that instead of a lawyer putting through the call, maybe a man of the cloth should do it instead. And, within two minutes of conversation, Father Michael had discovered that Governor Flynn had heard him preach at last year's Christmas Ma.s.s at St. Catherine's. He suggested that instead of a lawyer putting through the call, maybe a man of the cloth should do it instead. And, within two minutes of conversation, Father Michael had discovered that Governor Flynn had heard him preach at last year's Christmas Ma.s.s at St. Catherine's.

We were let into the statehouse by a security guard, who put us through the metal detectors and then escorted us to the governor's office. It was an odd, eerie place after hours; our footsteps rang like gunshots as we hustled up the steps. At the top of the landing, I turned to Michael. ”Do not not do anything inflammatory,” I whispered. ”We get one shot at this.” do anything inflammatory,” I whispered. ”We get one shot at this.”

The governor was sitting at his desk. ”Come in,” he said, getting to his feet. ”Pleasure to see you again, Father Michael.”

”Thanks,” the priest said. ”I'm flattered you remembered me.”

”Hey, you gave a sermon that didn't put me to sleep-that puts you into a very very small category of clergymen. You run the youth group at St. Catherine's, too, right? My college roommate's kid was getting into some trouble a year ago, and then he started working with you. Joe Cacciatone?” small category of clergymen. You run the youth group at St. Catherine's, too, right? My college roommate's kid was getting into some trouble a year ago, and then he started working with you. Joe Cacciatone?”

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