tempted. But sorry, Doc, no can do. I told him thanks anyway.
In Thursday’s mail I got a handwritten statement from Green, largely repeating what he had told me in person. His execution was a week away. I called Mark again. Green was a goner. There was no chance whatsoever that he would be alive the following Friday, so I made what I believed to be a costless offer. I wanted to get Green to tell his story while hooked up to a polygraph. Polygraph evidence is inadmissible in court, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking that if his confession held up, the parole board or the governor would feel safer granting Quaker relief. I said to Roberts, Here’s what I’d like to do. I’ll have Green polygraphed tomorrow, but I won’t use the results until after he’s executed.
Roberts said, You mean if he’s executed.
I said, Yeah, that’s what I mean. If he’s executed.
Roberts said, If it’s okay with Green, it’s okay with me.
THAT AFTERNOON I rode the Metro train from my office to the medical center to have Charlie look at my eye. I was reading some papers we planned to file the next day in the O’Neill case. I did not have my new glasses yet. I was holding the pages so close to my face that they were touching my nose. A thick Hispanic woman was breast-feeding an infant. Sitting next to her was a boy who looked to be about eight. He was beautiful, part Latino and part black. I looked down at what I was reading and heard him say, Mire, Mama. His mother said, Shh. The boy said, Mama, ese hombre es ciego. I looked up. The boy was pointing at me. I gave him a smile, waved surreptitiously with two fingers, then covered my eyes with my hands and peeked over them at him. He could tell his friends that he played peek-a-boo with a blind man. He smiled back, and his mother looked at me warmly.
Charlie had told me that I would be able to go back to work forty-eight hours after the surgery, but that I would get headaches for a while. He asked how I was doing. I told him I had a splitting headache. He said, Yes. I told you that would happen. It’s perfectly normal. He had been using an instrument to look at the back of my eye, where he had reattached the retina. He pushed back from the machine he had been looking through. He said, Well, the front of the eye still looks like hamburger, but the back looks beautiful. Your retina is better now than when you were born. I told him the headaches made it hard to concentrate, and I asked him how long they would last. He said, Buy a month’s worth of aspirin.
I said, A month? Are you serious?
He said, You’ve always been an impatient SOB.
I said, Yeah, but a grateful one. I shook his hand and left.
I TOOK THE TRAIN back to my office but decided not to go back upstairs. I got in my car intending to go home. Kassie had gotten special permission from the warden to polygraph Green the next morning. I needed to spend some time thinking about what questions to ask him.
I called Jerome to talk about O’Neill. O’Neill’s execution was four days away. We had asked the state court to halt the execution on the grounds that O’Neill had descended so deeply into the darkness of madness that he was immune from execution. The court denied our motion, saying we had waited too long to raise the issue of O’Neill’s sanity. We immediately filed a petition in federal court, but it was just sitting there. Jerome asked when I thought we’d hear something. I said, I’m guessing at about five forty-five on Monday. That means we can call him when we get denied and he’ll get a whole quarter hour to get ready to die. Jerome asked me if I would have time to visit with him when I was at the prison the next day.
I said, If he’s really convinced he isn’t going to be executed, what’s the point of my telling him good-bye?
Jerome said, I promise you, the guy is crazy. I think he really is Ford incompetent. But just humor me, okay?
Jerome was referring to a case called
Convincing a judge that someone is Ford incompetent is a daunting proposition. I said, Don’t worry, Jerome. I’m kidding. I’ll let him know what to expect.
I knew a girl who used to live two blocks from me. I would see her getting the paper in the morning when I was out with the dog. She would always seem a little embarrassed to be seen in her bathrobe, but she would always pet Winona. She and her husband had triplets. An instant family, she once said to me. One evening he took the kids to watch the Astros play in their new stadium. He was driving over the Pierce elevated highway when an 18-wheeler driven by a driver who had been on the road for nineteen straight hours nudged his SUV off the road. The car fell onto the street below and burst into flames. The man and the three children burned to death. She moved out of the house, and I had not seen her since. I glanced down to break the connection on my call with Jerome. I looked up just as a woman carrying two bags of groceries was stepping off the curb. My light was green. I leaned on the horn and called her a name I’d rather not repeat. When I looked at her in the rearview mirror, I could have sworn that she was my friend, and that the look on her face was not fear, but regret.
Instead of driving home to my empty house, I drove to McElroy’s pub, bought a strong Honduran cigar, and ordered a double of Woodford Reserve, neat. I finished it and ordered another. The woman sitting two stools down from me had a plate of olives and cheese in front of her. She was drinking scotch out of a highball glass and chewing on a piece of ice. When the bartender looked at her, she pointed to her glass. I moved over next to her and said, Judge Truesdale?
She swiveled in her chair and looked at me. She was fifteen years younger than the judge. She said, Afraid not. I think you confused me with someone. She looked at the wedding band on my left hand and swiveled back around.
I said, Sorry about that. I paid my check and left.
I picked up some tacos from a taco stand but felt sick to my stomach when I got home and left them on the counter. I stood in the hot shower until the hot water ran out then got in bed to watch the nine o’clock news. Instead I fell immediately asleep and had a dream. Katya and I were in Las Vegas. I was playing terrible poker, but I couldn’t lose. From middle position I would raise with an unsuited eight-five, and three eights would come on the flop. Spectators were gathering around the table to watch, like I was a magician. I felt gleeful, and also embarrassed. I looked at my watch. Katya and I were meeting at seven to go to dinner, and it was almost eight. I cashed in my chips and rushed upstairs. Everything was okay. Katya was still in the shower. I lay down on the bed and poured myself a drink. I dozed off, and when I woke up, the shower was off and Katya was kissing my chest. I put my hands on either side of her head. Her lips felt unfamiliar. I opened my eyes and she was gone. A strange woman with her back to me was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. She turned around. Judge Truesdale said, What time will your wife be back?
The ringing phone woke me.
Lincoln said, Hi, Dada. When are you going to call to tell me good night? I looked at the clock. It was nine thirty.
I said, I thought you would already be asleep, amigo. Why are you still up?
He said, Mama and I went to a restaurant and ordered pizza and it took a really long time.
I said, Okay, amigo. I’m glad you called, but you have to go to sleep now, okay? Can I talk to Mama?
He said, Sure. Good night. I love you.
Katya got on the phone. She said, How’s everything going?
I told her I didn’t have a clue but that there was nothing I could do that weekend and that I was planning to drive down to the beach when I left the prison the next day and stay until Monday morning. She asked whether she should tell Lincoln or whether it was going to be a surprise. I said, Go ahead and tell him.
I think I was already planning to go to Galveston before the dream. But I can’t be sure. Half the things I do in
