for Claire was negligible; his heart was probably far too large for a child's body; there could be all sorts of compromising diseases or long-term drug use that would prohibit him from being a donor.
And yet, there was another part of me that kept thinking: But what if?
Could I let myself hope? And could I stand it if, once again, that hope was shattered by Shay Bourne?
By the time I felt calm enough to drive home and face Claire, it was late at night. I had arranged for a neighbor to check on her hourly throughout the afternoon and evening, but Claire flatly refused a formal babysitter. She was fast asleep on the couch, the dog curled over her feet. Dudley lifted his head when I walked in, a worthy sentry. Where were you when Elizabeth was taken? I thought, not for the first time, rubbing Dudley between the ears. For days after the murders, I had held the puppy, staring into his eyes and pretending he could give me the answers I so desperately needed.
I turned off the television that was chattering to nobody and sat down beside Claire. If she received Shay Bourne's heart, would
I look at my daughter but see him staring back at me?
Could I survive that?
And if I couldn't... would Claire survive at all?
I fitted myself around Claire's body, stretching beside her on the couch. In her sleep, she curled against me, a puzzle piece fitting back where it belonged. I kissed my daughter's forehead, unconsciously reading it for fever. This was my life now, and Claire's: a waiting game. Like Shay Bourne sitting in his cell, waiting for his turn to die, we sat imprisoned by the limitations of Claire's body, waiting for her turn to live.
So don't judge me, unless you've fallen asleep on a couch with your ill child, thinking this night might be her last.
Ask instead: would you do it?
Would you give up your vengeance against someone you hate if it meant saving someone you love?
Would you want your dreams to come true if it meant granting your enemy's dying wish?
Maggie
In school, I was the kind of kid who crossed her t's and dotted her is. I made sure to right-justify my papers, so that the type didn't look ragged. I'd craft elaborate covers-a tiny, two-dimensional working guillotine for my essay on
A Tale of Two Cities; a science lab on prisms with the header rainbowed in multiple colors; a scarlet letter for... well, you get the picture.
To that end, putting together a letter to the commissioner of corrections reminded me a little of my days as a student. There were multiple parts involved: the transcript of Shay Bourne attesting that he wanted to donate his heart to the sister of his victim; an affidavit from Claire Nealon's cardiac surgeon, stating that she did indeed need a heart to survive.
I had made a call to facilitate a medical visit for Shay, to see if he was a match for Claire; and I had spent an hour on the phone with a UNOS coordinator, to confirm that if Shay gave up his heart, he could pick the recipient.
I fastened all these letters together with a shiny silver butterfly clip and then turned back to the computer to finish my note to Commissioner
Lynch.
As evidenced by the letter from the defendant's spiritual advisor,
Father Michael Wright, execution by lethal injection will not only prevent the defendant from his intention of donating his heart to
Claire Nealon - it also interferes with his practice of religion - a blatant violation of his First Amendment rights. Therefore, under the New Hampshire criminal code 630:5, subsection XIV, it would be impractical for the commissioner of corrections to carry out the punishment of death by lethal injection. A sentence of death carried out by hanging, however, would not only he allowed by the criminal code, but also would allow the defendant to practice his religion up to the moment of his execution.
I could imagine, at this moment, the commissioners jaw dropping as he realized that I had managed to piece together two disparate laws in a way that would make the next few weeks a living hell.
Furthermore, this office would be pleased to work in conjunction with the commissioner of corrections to facilitate what needs to be done, as there are tissue matches and medical testing to be completed prior to the donation, and because time is of the essence during the organ harvest.
Not to mention-I don't trust you.
It is imperative to settle this matter swiftly, for obvious reasons.
We don't have a lot of time to work this out. Because neither Shay
Bourne nor Claire Nealon have a lot of time left, period.
Sincerely,
Maggie Bloom, Attorney
I printed out the letter and slipped it into a manila envelope I'd already addressed. As I licked the envelope, I thought: Please make this work.
Who was I talking to?
I didn't believe in God. Not anymore.
I was an atheist.
Or so I told myself, even if there was a secret part of me that hoped
I'd be proven wrong.
Lucius
People always think they know what they'd miss the most if they had to trade places with me in this cell. Food, fresh air, your favorite pair of jeans, sex-believe me, I've heard them all, and they're all wrong. What you miss the most in prison is choice. You have no free will: your hair is cut in one style, like everyone else's. You eat what's being served when it is given to you. You are told when you can shower, shit, shave. Even our conversations are prescribed: If someone bumps into you in the real world, he says
'Excuse me.' If someone bumps into you in here, you say 'What the fuck, motherfucker' before he can even speak. If you don't do this, you become a mark.
The reason we have no choice now is because we made a bad one in the past-which is why we were all energized by Shay's attempt to die on his own terms. It was still an execution, but even that tiny sliver of preference was more than we had on a daily basis. I could only imagine how my world would change if we were given an option to choose between orange scrubs and yellow ones; if we were asked whether we'd like a spoon or a fork with our meal trays, instead of the universal plastic 'spork.' But the more animated we got at the possibility of, well, possibility... the more depressed Shay grew.
'Maybe,' he said to me one afternoon when the air-conditioning had broken and we were all wilting in our cells, 'I should just let them do what they want.'
The officers, in an act of mercy, had opened the door that led to the exercise cell. It was supposed to afford us a breeze, but that hadn't happened.
'Why would you say that?'
'Because it feels like I've started a war,' Shay said.
'Well, imagine that,' Crash laughed. 'Since I'm over here practicing my shooting.'
This afternoon Crash had been injecting Benadryl. Many of the inmates here had made their own points- homemade hypodermics that could be sharpened every few uses by scraping them against a matchbook. Benadryl was given out by the prison nurse; you could accumulate a stash and open up a capsule, then cook down the tiny beads of medicine in a spoon over a soda-can stove. It was a speed high, but the buffers used in the medicine would also make you crazy.
'Whaddya say, Mistah Messiah... you want a hit?'
'He most certainly does not,' I answered.
'I don't think he was talking to you,' Shay said. And then, to Crash:
'Give it to me.'
Crash laughed. 'Guess you don't know him as well as you think you do,
Liberace. Ain't that right, Death Row?'
