The Pardon

“Look,” Jack said, “I know we have things to talk about. But now’s not the time. I didn’t come here for that.”

“I know. You came because Raul Fernandez is scheduled to die in the electric chair in”-the governor looked at his watch-“about eighty minutes.”

“I came because he is innocent.”

“Twelve jurors didn’t think so, Jack.”

“They didn’t hear the whole story.”

“They heard enough to convict him after deliberating for less than twenty minutes. I’ve known juries to take longer deciding who’s going to be foreman.”

“Will you just listen to me,” Jack snapped. “Please, Father”-he tried a more civil tone-“listen to me.”

The governor refilled his glass. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

Jack leaned forward. “About five hours ago, a man called me and said he had to see me-in confidence, as a client. He wouldn’t give me his name, but he said it was life and death, so I agreed to meet him. He showed up at my office ten minutes later wearing a ski mask. At first I thought he was going to rob me, but it turned out he just wanted to talk about the Fernandez case. So that’s what we did-talked.” He paused, focusing his eyes directly on his father’s. “And in less than five minutes he had me convinced that Raul Fernandez is innocent.”

The governor looked skeptical. “And just what did this mysterious man of the night tell you?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“I told you: He agreed to speak to me only in confidence, as a client. I’ve never seen his face, and I doubt that I’ll ever see him again, but technically I’m his lawyer-or at least I was for that conversation. Anyway, everything he told me is protected by attorney-client privilege. I can’t divulge any of it without his approval. And he won’t let me repeat a word.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Jack gave him a sobering look. “Because an innocent man is going to die in the electric chair unless you stop the Fernandez execution right now.”

The governor slowly crossed the room, a glass in one hand and an open bottle of scotch in the other. He sat in the matching arm chair, facing Jack. “And I’ll ask you one more time: How do you know Fernandez is innocent?”

“How do I know?” Jack’s reddening face conveyed total exasperation. “Why is it that you always want more than I can give? My flying up here in the middle of the night isn’t enough for you? My telling you everything I legally and ethically can tell you just isn’t enough?”

All I’m saying is that I need proof. I can’t just stay an execution based on. . on nothing, really.”

“My word is worth nothing, then,” Jack translated.

“In this setting, yes-that’s the way it has to be. In this context, you’re a lawyer, and I’m the governor.”

“No-in this context, I’m a witness, and you’re a murderer. Because you’re going to put Fernandez to death. And I know he’s innocent.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I met the real killer tonight. He confessed to me. He did more than confess: He showed me something that proves he’s the killer.”

“And what was that?” the governor asked, genuinely interested.

“I can’t tell you,” Jack said. He felt his frustration rising. “I’ve already said more than I can under the attorney-client privilege.”

The governor nestled into his chair, flashing a thin, paternalistic smile. “You’re being a little naive, don’t you think? You have to put these last-minute pleas in context. Fernandez is a convicted killer. He and everyone who knows him is desperate. You can’t take anything they say at face value. This so-called client who showed up at your door is undoubtedly a cousin or brother or street friend of Raul Fernandez’s, and he’ll do anything to stop the execution.”

“You don’t know that!”

The governor sighed heavily, his eyes cast downward. “You’re right.” He brought his hands to his temples and began rubbing them. “We never know for certain. I suppose that’s why I’ve taken to this,” he said as he reached over and lifted the bottle of scotch. “But the cold reality is that I campaigned as the law- and-order governor. I made the death penalty the central issue in the election. I promised to carry it out with vigor, and at the time I meant what I said. Now that I’m here, it’s not quite so easy to sign my name to a death warrant. You’ve seen them before-ominous-looking documents, with their black border and embossed state seal. But have you ever really read what they say? Believe me, I have.” His voice trailed off. “That kind of power can get to a man, if you let it. Hell,” he scoffed and sipped his drink, “and doctors think they’re God.”

Jack was silent, surprised by this rare look into his father’s conscience and not quite sure what to say. “That’s all the more reason to listen to me,” he said. “To make sure it’s not a mistake.”

“This is no mistake, Jack. Don’t you see? What you’re not saying is as significant as what you’re saying. You won’t breach the attorney-client privilege, not even to persuade me to change my mind about the execution. I respect that, Jack. But you have to respect me, too. I have rules. I have obligations, just like you do. Mine are to the people who elected me-and who expect me to honor my campaign promises.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“That’s true,” he agreed. “It’s not the same. That’s why, when you leave here tonight, I don’t want you to blame yourself for anything. You did the best you could. Now it’s up to me to make a decision. And I’m making it. I don’t believe Raul Fernandez is innocent. But if you believe it, I don’t want you feeling responsible or his death.”

Jack looked into his father’s eyes. He knew the man was reaching out-that he was looking for something from his son, some reciprocal acknowledgment that Jack didn’t blame him, either, for doing his job. Harold Swyteck wanted absolution, forgiveness-a pardon.

Jack glanced away. He would not-could not-allow the moment to weaken his resolve. “Don’t worry, Father, I won’t blame myself. It’s like you always used to tell me: We’re all responsible for our own actions. If an innocent man dies in the electric chair, you’re the governor. You’re responsible. You’re the one to blame.”

Jack’s words struck a nerve. The governor’s face flushed red with fury as every conciliatory sentiment drained away. “There is no one to blame,” he declared. “No one but Fernandez himself. You’re being played for a sucker. Fernandez and his buddy are using you. Why do you think this character didn’t tell you his name or even show you his face?”

“Because he doesn’t want to get caught,” Jack answered, “but he doesn’t want an innocent man to die.”

“A killer-especially one guilty of this sort of savagery-doesn’t want an innocent man to die?” Harry Swyteck shook his head condescendingly. “It’s ironic, Jack”-he spoke out of anger now-“but sometimes you almost make me glad your mother never lived to see what a thick-headed son she brought into the world.”

Jack quickly rose from his chair. “I don’t have to take this crap from you.”

“I’m your father!” Harry blustered. “You’ll take whatever I-”

“No! I’ll take nothing from you. I’ve never asked for anything. And I don’t want anything. Ever.” He stormed toward the door.

“Wait!” the governor shouted, freezing him in his tracks. Jack turned around slowly and glared at his father. “Listen to me, young man. Fernandez is going to be executed this morning, because I don’t believe any of this nonsense about his being innocent. No more than I believed the eleventh-hour story from the last ‘innocent man’ we executed-the one who claimed it was only an accident that he stabbed his girlfriend”-he paused, so furious he was out of breath-“twenty-one times.”

“You’ve become an incredibly narrow-minded old man,” Jack said.

The governor stood stoically at the bar. “Get out, Jack. Get out of my house.”

Jack turned and marched down the hall, his boots punishing the mansion’s hard wooden floor. He threw the