Change Of Heart Part 15

"I don't think he'd want that," my father said. "You're not murdering him, Maggie. You're fulfilling his last wishes-to help him make amends for what he's done wrong."

"Repentance through organ donation?"

"More like teshuvah teshuvah."

I stared at him.

"Oh, right," he smirked. "I forgot about the postHebrew School amnesia. For Jews, repentance is about conduct-you realize you've done something wrong, you resolve to change it in the future. But teshuvah teshuvah means means return return. Inside each of us is some spark of G.o.d-the real us. It's there whether you're the most pious Jew or the most marginal. Sin, evil, murder-all those things have the ability to cover up our true selves. Teshuvah Teshuvah means turning back to the part of G.o.d that's gotten concealed. When you repent, usually, you feel sad-because of the regret that led you there. But when you talk about means turning back to the part of G.o.d that's gotten concealed. When you repent, usually, you feel sad-because of the regret that led you there. But when you talk about teshuvah, teshuvah, about making that connection with G.o.d again-well, it makes you happy," my father said. "Happier even than you were before, because your sins separated you from G.o.d ... and distance always makes the heart grow fonder, right?" about making that connection with G.o.d again-well, it makes you happy," my father said. "Happier even than you were before, because your sins separated you from G.o.d ... and distance always makes the heart grow fonder, right?"

He walked toward the baby picture I'd put back on the shelf. "I know Shay's not Jewish, but maybe that's what's at the root of this desire to die, and to give up his heart. Teshuvah Teshuvah is all about reaching for something divine-something beyond the limitations of a body." He glanced at me. "That's the answer to your question about the photo, by the way. You're a different person on the outside than you were when this picture was snapped, but not on the inside. Not at the is all about reaching for something divine-something beyond the limitations of a body." He glanced at me. "That's the answer to your question about the photo, by the way. You're a different person on the outside than you were when this picture was snapped, but not on the inside. Not at the core core. And not only is that part of you the same as it was when you were six months old ... it's also the same as me and your mother and Shay Bourne and everyone else in this world. It's the part of us that's connected to G.o.d, and at that level, we're all identical."

I shook my head. "Thanks, but that didn't really make me feel any better. I want to save him, Daddy, and he-he doesn't want that at all."

"Rest.i.tution is one of the steps a person has to take for teshuvah, teshuvah," my father said. "Shay has apparently taken a very literal interpretation of this-he took a child's life; therefore he owes that mother the life of a child."

"It's not a perfect equation," I said. "He'd have to bring Elizabeth Nealon back for that."

My father nodded. "That's something rabbis have talked about for years since the Holocaust-if the victim is dead, does the family really have the power to forgive the killer? The victims are the ones with whom he has to make amends. And those victims-they're ashes."

I sat up, rubbing my temples. "It's really complicated."

"Then ask yourself what's the right thing to do."

"I can't even answer that much."

"Well," my father said, "then maybe you should ask Shay."

I blinked up at him. It was that simple. I hadn't seen my client since that first meeting in the prison; the work I'd been doing to set up a restorative justice meeting had been on the phone. Maybe what I really needed was to find out why Shay Bourne was so sure he'd come to the right decision, so that I could start explaining it to myself.

I leaned over and gave him a hug. "Thanks, Daddy."

"I didn't do anything."

"Still, you're a better conversationalist than Oliver."

"Don't tell the rabbit that," he said. "He'd scratch me twice as hard as he already does."

I stood up, heading for the door. "I'll call you later. Oh, and by the way," I said, "Mom's mad at me again."

I was sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights of the attorney-client conference room when Shay Bourne was brought in to meet with me. He backed up to the trap so that his handcuffs could be removed, and he sat down across the table. His hands were small, I realized, maybe even smaller than mine.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Fine. How's it going with you?"

"No, I meant my lawsuit. My heart."

"Well, we're waiting until after you speak to June Nealon tomorrow." I hesitated. "Shay, I need to ask you a question, as your lawyer." I waited until he looked me in the eye. "Do you really believe that the only way to atone for what you've done is to die?"

"I just want to give her my heart-"

"I get that. But in order to do that, you've basically agreed to your own execution."

He smiled faintly. "And here I thought my vote didn't count."

"I think you know what I mean," I said. "Your case is going to shine a beacon on the issue of capital punishment, Shay-but you'll be the sacrificial lamb."

His head snapped up. "Who do you think I am?"

I hesitated, not quite sure what he was asking.

"Do you believe what they all believe?" he asked. "Or what Lucius believes? Do you think I can make miracles happen?"

"I don't believe anything I haven't seen," I said firmly.

"Most people just want to believe what someone else tells them," Shay said.

He was right. It was why, in my father's office, I'd had a breakdown: because even as a confirmed atheist, I sometimes found it just too frightening to think that there might not be a G.o.d who was watching out for our greater good. It was why a country as enlightened as the United States could still have a death penalty statute in place: it was just too frightening to think about what justice-or lack of it-would prevail if we didn't. There was comfort in facts, so much so that we stopped questioning where those facts had come from.

Was I trying to figure out who Shay Bourne was for myself? Probably. I didn't buy the fact that he was the Son of G.o.d, but if it was getting him media attention, then I thought he was brilliant for encouraging that line of thought. "If you can get June to forgive you at this meeting, Shay, maybe you don't have to give up your heart. Maybe you'll feel good about connecting with her again, and then we can get her to talk to the governor on your behalf to commute your sentence to life in prison-"

"If you do that," Shay interrupted, "I will kill myself."

My jaw dropped. "Why?"

"Because," he said, "I have to get out of here."

At first I thought that he was talking about the prison, but then I saw he was clutching his own arms, as if the penitentiary he was referring to was his own body. And that, of course, made me think of my father and teshuvah teshuvah. Could I truly be helping him by letting him die on his own terms?

"Let's take it one step at a time," I conceded. "If you can get June Nealon to understand why you want to do this, then I'll work on making a court understand it, too."

But Shay was suddenly lost in his thoughts, wherever they happened to be taking him. "I'll see you tomorrow, Shay," I said, and I went to touch his shoulder to let him know I was leaving. As soon as I stretched out my arm, though, I found myself flat on the floor. Shay stood over me, just as shocked by the blow he'd dealt me as I was.

An officer bolted into the room, driving Shay down to the floor with a knee in the small of his back so that he could be handcuffed. "You all right?" he called out to me.

"I'm fine ... I just slipped," I lied. I could feel a welt rising on my left cheekbone, one that I was sure the officer would see as well. I swallowed the knot of fear in my throat. "Could you just give us a couple more minutes?"

I did not tell the officer to remove Shay's handcuffs; I wasn't quite that brave. But I struggled to my feet and waited until we were alone in the room again. "I'm sorry," Shay blurted out. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I sometimes, when you ..."

"Shay," I ordered. "Sit down."

"I didn't mean to do it. I didn't see you coming. I thought you were-would-" He broke off, choking on the words. "I'm sorry."

I was the one who'd made the mistake. A man who had been locked up alone for a decade, whose only human contact was having his handcuffs chained and removed, would be completely unprepared for a small act of kindness. He would have instinctively seen it as a threat to his personal s.p.a.ce, which was how I'd wound up sprawled on the floor.

"It won't happen again," I said.

He shook his head fiercely. "No."

"See you tomorrow, Shay."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"You are. I can tell."

"I'm not," I said.

"Then will you do something for me?"

I had been warned about this by other attorneys who worked with inmates: they will bleed you dry. Beg you for stamps, for money, for food. For phone calls, made by you to their family, on their behalf. They are the ultimate con artists; no matter how much sympathy you feel for them, you have to remind yourself that they will take whatever they can get, because they have nothing.

"Next time, will you tell me what it feels like to walk barefoot on gra.s.s?" he asked. "I used to know, but I can't remember anymore." He shook his head. "I just want to ... I want to know what that's like again."

I folded my notebook beneath my arm. "I'll see you tomorrow, Shay," I repeated, and I motioned to the officer who would set me free.

MICHAEL.

Shay Bourne was pacing in his cell. Every fifth turn, he pivoted and started circling the other way. "Shay," I said, to calm myself down as much as him, "it's going to be all right."

We were awaiting his transportation down to the room where our restorative justice meeting with June Nealon would take place, and we were both nervous.

"Talk to me," Shay said.

"All right," I said. "What do you want to talk about?"

"What I'm going to say. What she's she's going to say ... the words won't come out right, I just know it." He looked up at me. "I'm going to f.u.c.k this up." going to say ... the words won't come out right, I just know it." He looked up at me. "I'm going to f.u.c.k this up."

"Just say what you need to, Shay. Words are hard for everyone."

"Well, it's worse when you know the person you're talking to thinks you're full of s.h.i.t."

"Jesus managed to do it," I pointed out, "and it wasn't like He was attending the Tuesday Toastmasters meeting in Nin eveh." I opened my Bible to the book of Isaiah. "The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news ..."

"Could we just this once not not have a Bible study moment?" Shay groaned. have a Bible study moment?" Shay groaned.

"It's an example," I said. "Jesus said that when He came back to the synagogue where He'd grown up. Let me tell you, that congregation had a lot of questions-after all, they'd grown up with Him, and knew Him before He started the miracle train-so before they could doubt Him, what did He do? He gave them the words they'd been waiting to hear. He gave them hope." I looked at Shay. "That's what you need to do, with June."

The door to I-tier opened, and six officers in flak jackets and full face shields entered. "Don't talk until the mediator asks you to. And make sure you tell her why this is so important to you," I urged, last-minute quarterbacking.

Just then the first officer reached the cell door. "Father," he said, "we're going to have to ask you to meet us down there."

I watched them move Shay down the tier. Speak from your heart Speak from your heart, I thought, watching him go. So that she knows it's worth taking. So that she knows it's worth taking.

I had already been told what they would do with him. He'd be handcuffed and cuffed at the ankles. Both of these would be linked to a belly chain, so that he'd shuffle along inside the human box of officers. He would be taken to the cafeteria, which was now set up for offender counseling. Basically, the warden had explained, when they needed to have group sessions with violent offenders, they bolted several individual metal boxes to the floor-and prisoners were put into these miniature cells along with a counselor, who would sit on a chair in the cafeteria with them. "It's group therapy," Warden Coyne had proudly explained, "but they're still incarcerated."

Maggie had lobbied for a face-to-face visit. Failing that, she wanted to know if we could meet on opposite sides of a gla.s.s visiting booth. But there were too many of us, when you added in the moderator and June, or so the administration said (never mind I'd seen families of ten cram into one of those little noncontact booths for a visit with an inmate). Although I-like Maggie-thought that we were starting at a grave disadvantage if one of the partic.i.p.ants was restrained and bolted to the floor like Hannibal Lecter, this was the best we were going to get.

The mediator was a woman named Abigail Herrick, who'd come from the attorney general's victim's a.s.sistance office and had been trained to do this kind of thing. She and June were talking quietly on one side of the anteroom. I walked up to June as soon as I entered. "Thank you. This means a lot to Shay."

"Which is the last reason I'd ever do it," June said, and she turned back to Abigail.

I slunk across the room to the seat beside Maggie. She was painting a run in her stocking with pink nail polish. "We are in serious trouble," I said.

"Yeah? How's he doing?"

"He's panicked." I squinted in the dim light as she lifted her head. "How'd you get that shiner?"

"In my spare time I'm the welterweight champion of New Hampshire."

There was a buzzing, and Warden Coyne walked in. "Everything's set."

He led us into the cafeteria by way of the metal detector. Maggie and I had already emptied our pockets and taken off our jackets before June and Abigail even realized what was going on; this is the difference between someone who has intimate experience with a detention facility and those who lead normal lives. An officer, still dressed in full riot gear, opened a door for June, who continued to stare at him in horror as she walked inside.

Shay was sitting in what looked like a telephone booth permanently sealed shut with nuts and bolts and metal. Bars vivisected his face; his eyes searched for mine as soon as I walked into the room. When he saw us, he stood up.

At that moment, June froze.

Abigail took her arm and led her to one of the four chairs that were arranged in a semicircle in front of the booth. Maggie and I filled in the remaining seats. Two officers stood behind us; in the distance I could hear the sizzle of something cooking on a grill.

"Well. Let's get started," Abigail said, and she introduced herself. "Shay, I'm Abigail Herrick. I'm going to be the mediator today. Do you understand what that means?"

He hesitated. He looked like he was going to faint.

"Victim-offender mediation is a process that gives a victim the chance to meet her offender in a safe and structured setting," Abigail explained. "The victim will be able to tell the offender about the crime's physical, emotional, and financial impact. The victim also has the chance to receive answers to any lingering questions about the crime, and to be directly involved in trying to develop a plan for the offender to pay back a debt if possible-emotional or monetary. In return, the offender gets the opportunity to take responsibility for his behavior and actions. Everyone with me so far?"

I started to wonder why this wasn't used for every crime committed. Granted, it was labor-intensive for both the AG's office and the prison, but wasn't it better to come face-to-face with the opposing party, instead of having the legal system be the intermediary?

"Now, the process is strictly voluntary. That means if June wants to leave at any time, she should feel free to do so. But," Abigail added, "I also want to point out that this meeting was initiated by Shay, which is a very good first step."

She glanced at me, at Maggie, and then at June, and finally Shay. "Right now, Shay," Abigail said, "you need to listen to June."

June

They say you get over your grief, but you don't really, not ever. It's been eleven years, and it hurts just as much as it did that first day.

Seeing his face-sliced into segments by those metal bars, like he was some kind of Pica.s.so portrait that couldn't be put together again-brought it all back. That face, his f.u.c.king f.u.c.king face, was the last one Kurt and Elizabeth saw. face, was the last one Kurt and Elizabeth saw.

When it first happened, I used to make bargains with myself. I'd say that I could handle their deaths, as long as-and here I'd fill in the blank. As long as they had been quick and painless. As long as Elizabeth had died in Kurt's arms. I'd be driving, and I'd tell myself that if the light turned green before I reached the intersection, surely these details were true. I did not admit that sometimes I slowed down to stack the odds.