He said, All right.
I had no idea why I was there. Did I expect Green to say he had been making it up? Or maybe I hoped he’d reveal some proof that he wasn’t. What was I thinking? I got the attention of one of the guards and nodded toward the door. I said to Green, You have any messages or anything you want me to pass on to anyone?
He said, My old man used to beat me with a switch. Made it from a peach tree we had in the yard. He said he liked to use peach wood ’cause it left big ol’ welts. Mr. Roberts asked him how come he didn’t never beat me with his fist. He said ’cause he didn’t want to hurt his hands.
The guard put the giant key in the lock. Green said, Everything I done tol’ you is the truth. I swear to God.
There’s an old joke among death-penalty lawyers. Once you’ve killed somebody, swearing to tell the truth, so help you God, doesn’t pack quite the same punch it did before. I said, I appreciate it.
He said, Henry Quaker didn’t kill nobody. I know that for a fact.
I said, Thanks again, Green. I’ll see you down the road. He didn’t look up.
The guard opened the door, and I walked out into the twilight chill.
A SMALL GROUP of death-penalty opponents stood outside the prison, twenty or twenty- five people in all, a few black, the rest white. Each person held a small candle. Some had posters with the usual cliches: Why Do We Kill People for Killing People to Show That Killing Is Wrong? Et cetera. I nodded at several I knew. Brigitte walked over and asked whether I was representing Green. I said no. She asked whether I thought he would get a stay, and I told her they were moving him from the holding cell to the execution chamber at that very moment. She works in the French consulate’s office and is genuinely perplexed by the death penalty. She squeezed my forearm and said, This is terrible. Will you come stand with us?
Protesting against the death penalty in Texas takes a certain passion I do not have, or maybe what I lack is courage. The fraternity boys at the university across the street heckle the demonstrators and occasionally throw bananas and paper cups filled with warm beer. Sheriff’s deputies ticket their cars and threaten to arrest them if they chant too loudly or get too close to the yellow tape. My friend Dave Atwood spent the night in the Walker County jail after someone jostled him and his right foot momentarily crossed the police barricade. I stood several feet behind them, not part of them, feeling alienated, I suppose, and watched the minute hand of the clock on the prison tower slide toward six. At nineteen minutes past, the prison spokesperson came out. She reported that Green shook his head no when asked if he had a final statement, that he glanced briefly at his wife, and then stared at the ceiling as the injection began. He coughed twice, and was pronounced dead at 6:11 p.m. Another witness who covers executions for the local paper stood at the podium next. He said that the reporters could see bruises on Green’s arm and could hear Green saying, This is torture, before he lost consciousness. As another reporter stepped up to the lectern, I got in my car and drove off.
When I walked in Katya was in the kitchen. She asked how it went. I shook my head and asked her to tell me about her day instead. I went upstairs and kissed our sleeping son. I threw my clothes in the machine and got in the shower. When I came back downstairs, Katya was tossing a salad and heating up leftover red beans and rice in the microwave. Most death-penalty lawyers I know are married to other death-penalty lawyers. I’m glad I’m not. I am opposed to death. I want to come home and be far away from it. I asked Katya whether she had TiVo-ed
She held my head in her hands, each hand cupping an ear. She kissed me and said, Sounds good to me.
IN MY DREAM I thought I heard a noise. I went downstairs to investigate. The wind had blown open the kitchen door. I drank a quart of water from the refrigerator, and the light blinded me. When I turned to go back upstairs I tripped over Lincoln’s stool. I’d told him dozens of times to put it away. I went upstairs and woke him up. It was nearly 3:00 a.m., and he had been sleeping deeply. He looked at me and then at the clock and said, Huh? I made him follow me into the kitchen. I asked him why he thought I had brought him there. He said he didn’t know. I asked him again. I told him he was a smart boy and he could figure it out. I waited. He said he didn’t know, and he started to cry.
I said, You left the goddam stool out again. I could have tripped and broken my neck.
He said, I’m sorry, Dada.
I said, Put it away.
He started to push it into the closet but a wheel had come off and it would not roll. He tried to pick it up, but it was heavy and unwieldy and he dropped it. It landed on my foot and sliced open my big toe. I said, Shit, and slumped to the ground. I grabbed some ice and wrapped it in a towel. Lincoln asked whether I was okay and I said no, but he didn’t seem concerned. I told him that it hurt a lot. He rubbed his eyes and said he was sorry. But he didn’t mean it.
I wanted real remorse from him. I stood up so I would tower over him. I raised my voice. I said he had really hurt my foot. I told him to look at me when I was talking to him. I said that when you hurt someone you have to apologize. I said that when you apologize you have to mean it. I said that I know that accidents happen but you need to take precautions to try to avoid them. I told him that he needed to be more careful, that he needed to put away his things, that when he hurt someone he needed to be sincere.
I was relentless. I wanted him to feel bad. I wanted him to cry. I knew at that point that it was a dream and that I was out of control, and I tried to make myself wake up, but I couldn’t. It was like a fat man was sitting on my chest. I was straining not to scream. I had that crazed, talking-through-one’s-teeth tone that people have when they’ve lost it but are trying to sound like they haven’t. But I couldn’t be kind.
He burst into tears. I had never understood that expression, but that’s what happened. He exploded with crying. His whole body was shaking. He was trying to control himself, to use the measured breathing we had practiced, and he couldn’t. He was shaking his hands, the way you would shake them in the cold to make them warm. He was saying, Dada, Dada, Dada. Again I struggled to wake myself up. I felt a fissure crack open inside my belly and a sensation like steam pouring out and I sagged to the ground. I hugged him. I told him that I knew he hadn’t done it on purpose. I kept saying that I knew it was an accident. I felt his tears on my cheek, but maybe they were my own. I squeezed him tighter, afraid it was too tight, and said that I knew he would not hurt me on purpose. I said, I just want you to be more careful, pal, that’s all. I’m sorry I shouted at you. He did not say anything. He wrapped his arms around my neck, like he was saving himself from drowning in my anger. I said to him, I’m sorry, Lincoln. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweet boy.
I felt him relax. I felt him trust me. I said, Hey how about if I hurt you to make it even? He said okay. I asked him to get me a hammer. We both started laughing.
Katya appeared. She said, What’s going on?
I said, I thought I heard something in the kitchen.
I bolted upright. I was clasping my pillow so hard that my arms were sore. In the distance I could hear a train whistle. Katya was sound asleep. I walked into Lincoln’s room and sat on the edge of his bed. I watched his eyelids flutter and his lips twitch.
I feel like I understand some crimes and criminals. I could kill someone who killed someone I love. I could rob or steal. But I’ve never understood people who can hurt children. Knowing how they get to be who they are is not the same as understanding.
I kissed Lincoln’s forehead and touched his cheek. I watched him sleep. At the parent-teacher conference we had gone to a month before, his teacher, who’s been teaching thirty years, said to us, Lincoln is possibly the happiest child I have ever met. She could have told us that he was smarter than Einstein and it wouldn’t have been as good.
I asked myself, How can I not spoil this beautiful boy’s happiness?
Katya came in and asked me what was wrong. I said, I broke my promise, and I was also a shitty dad. I told her about the dream.
She said, You’re kidding, right?
No, I’m not.
It was a dream. That doesn’t count. And anyway, even in the dream, you weren’t shitty. Maybe a little harsh, but not shitty. You’re not shitty just because you’re not always perfect. And as per usual, you melted as soon as he started crying.
I said, So you’re saying that I was harsh and imperfect up until I hugged him?
