The Last Plea Bargain

by Randy Singer

  A steady rain moved into the area by eight o’clock, and the Thornton volunteers started jogging toward the cars of any voters who didn’t have umbrellas, sharing a big golf umbrella and walking next to them until they reached the bubble zone around the polling place where campaigning was prohibited.

  My coworker headed to her car to wait out the storm. Not me. I got out my own small umbrella and tried to escort voters too, though I got soaking wet in the process.

  By noon the rain had stopped, but the parking lot felt like a sauna. I was tired of being outnumbered and outhustled by the Thornton folks, so I decided to bring in some reinforcements. I left my coworker at the polls for thirty minutes while I drove home and picked up the wonder dog. When we returned, Justice greeted everyone with the tongue-hanging, tail-wagging enthusiasm of a black Lab. People would stop and talk. And for the rest of the afternoon, I had a constant huddle of people around me as I explained how Bill Masterson was working hard to make sure criminal defendants didn’t succeed with their no-plea-bargaining strategy.

  At three in the afternoon, Masterson himself came by, and our little crowd of well-wishers grew. He stayed for about two hours and gave me a fist bump before he left. “You’re a natural politician,” he said.

  “You owe me,” I replied.

  That night, Masterson’s supporters gathered in a Marriott ballroom. There were unconfirmed rumors that Bill had run away with the nomination. I sipped a Diet Coke and made small talk with my officemates, wishing I could be home working on Caleb Tate’s case. At nine fifteen, local television stations began calling the race in Bill’s favor. He took the stage at nine thirty, and the room erupted.

  I was genuinely happy for the man. He thanked a long list of people, including me and most of the other prosecutors in our office. I didn’t like the political process, but I was pleased to see a good man have a chance at statewide office. And selfishly, it wouldn’t hurt my career to be on a first-name basis with the attorney general.

  I didn’t get home until eleven o’clock, and I absentmindedly grabbed the mail at the end of the driveway. My first order of business was to let Justice out. While he was outside, I shuffled through the bills and magazines I had picked up. Among them was a letter with a handwritten envelope and the return address for Antoine Marshall. I stared at it for a moment before finally summoning the emotional energy to open it.

  The letter was two pages of small block printing. It had been years since he had sent me a few letters, and I couldn’t believe what I was now reading.

  I was so shocked that I had to read the letter twice just to convince myself it was real. Marshall had been fighting this case for twelve years, and now, just seven days before his second scheduled execution date, I finally had what I always craved: an admission of guilt.

  Dear Ms. Brock:

  I am writing to tell you how sorry I am and to ask your forgiveness. My lawyer does not know I am sending this letter and would probably tell me not to, but I had to anyway.

  For twelve years, I believed I was innocent of the charges against me for the murder of your mother. I passed a lie detector test—actually two—and I do not remember ever being in your house. But I just went through a test that scanned my brain when they asked me questions about the shooting of your mother. The doctor who gave me the test said my brain activity showed I had been there that night.

  I must have been high on meth or something because I honestly don’t remember.

  I know you probably can’t forgive me but I’ve prayed to God and know that he has forgiven me. After I gave my life to him, I told him I would do the right thing from that day forward and this now seems like the right thing. I am sorry I have put you through twelve years of hell and eleven years of appeals, but soon you won’t have to worry about that no more.

  I pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I am having a hard time forgiving myself.

  Sincerely yours,

  Antoine Marshall

  I finished the letter, folded it neatly, and placed it back in the envelope. I couldn’t begin to make sense of my feelings. I was numb with the shock of it. Could this really be happening? After all these years?

  I had to tell somebody, so I picked up the phone and called LA. I started reading him the letter, but halfway through I had to stop, my voice choking on the emotion.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. I loved hearing the concern in his voice, but I honestly didn’t know how to answer.

  He gave me a moment to gather myself and then asked softly, “Do you want me to come over?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “I really am okay.”

  Mace James was not okay. His novel concept for proving Antoine’s innocence had backfired. Since receiving the results, Mace had tried to downplay the reliability of the BEOS test, but Antoine wasn’t buying it. And Mace himself was left to wonder whether he was truly defending an innocent man or just one who had been so high he hadn’t remembered the night of the murder when he took the polygraph.

  But what did it really matter? Mace had a job to do; he had seven days to save Antoine’s life. The debate over the reliability of the BEOS test and Antoine’s innocence could be fully resolved later. Mace’s job was to make sure his client was still around when it was.

  58

  I woke up on Wednesday, August 1, the day after receiving the letter from Antoine Marshall, and opened it again. I reread it while I drank my morning coffee. The euphoria of finally having an admission from my mother’s killer had worn off. Melancholy took its place, a strange sense of despondency that I could not shake.

  I had always been honest with myself, even hard on myself—something Dr. Gillespie had been trying to beat out of me in my counseling sessions. It wasn’t working. And this morning, I had second thoughts about the way I was handling the information about Judge Snowden.

  Antoine Marshall was a thrice-convicted felon who had the integrity to send me a letter revealing evidence that might just seal his fate. And here I was, an attorney sworn to uphold the law, sitting on evidence that might have provided him with a way off death row. Sure, I had lots of rationalizations and justifications. And in terms of true justice, I now felt more vindicated than ever. Antoine Marshall had certainly killed my mother. But did that justify burying evidence that might give him a new trial?

  The system sometimes required us to set guilty people free in order to protect the integrity of the process and everyone’s constitutional rights. When I took my oath as a prosecutor, I was reminded by Bill Masterson that our job was to pursue justice and not just win cases. But now, on the most important case of my life, I was playing fast and loose with the rules.

  I had no appetite for breakfast. The information about my dad haunted me; I couldn’t do anything to take my mind off it. I watched Justice in the backyard, but I didn’t really see him. Instead, I zoned out, wondering whether I had compromised my integrity and ethics to such an extent that my soul would never recover.

  Antoine Marshall’s execution was six days away. What would happen if I provided this information to Mace James now? Was it too late to matter? Even if it wasn’t, would the attorney general be able to use this new letter from Antoine to offset the impact of the information about Judge Snowden and my father? Should I even be asking these types of questions? Phrased differently, could I really sit on this exculpatory evidence and watch the state put Antoine Marshall to death?

  I needed to talk to Dr. Gillespie. I called him before I left for work, and he promised to squeeze me in as soon as I got out of court.

  I talked to Chris later that afternoon. He had left four messages earlier in the day about a similar letter he had received. I had procrastinated calling him, knowing it would be emotionally draining to discuss it.

  He answered on the first ring. “Did you get a letter?” Chris asked.

  “Yes. I had to read it three times before it sank in.”

  “Me too. I’ve been calling since last night.”

  “I know. You
might have heard we’re a little busy down here.”

  Chris was slow to respond. Knowing my brother, I realized he was getting up the courage to tell me something. “Jamie, I think this letter is genuine. I know how you feel about this, but I really believe Antoine Marshall has experienced a sincere religious conversion and that this brain test helped him come to grips with what he did. I’m not saying he’s innocent, but I am saying he’s not the same man today who he was back then.”

  Chris stopped and waited for a response.

  I thought it over, choosing my words carefully. “I deal with guys like Antoine Marshall all the time. They all claim to have come to Jesus in prison. Helps them get a better sentence. I think it’s highly suspicious that he finally admits guilt just one week before his execution but only after he’s tried everything else to get his case reversed.”

  “His lawyer called today.” Chris kept his voice soft. I knew he didn’t want an argument, and in truth I didn’t either. “Wants to know if I’ll give an affidavit urging that Marshall’s death sentence be commuted to life without the possibility of parole.” He hesitated, probably expecting an explosion from me. When none came, he dropped his own bomb.

  “I’m thinking about giving him one, Jamie. I’ve never been in favor of the death penalty, and I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t ask for mercy here. I keep coming back to the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ tells us to forgive others if we want to be forgiven.”

  “We’ve both got to do what we think is right,” I said. I knew Chris expected more of a fight, but I was too weary and frazzled to talk about it. Even though I faced my own ethical dilemma surrounding Marshall’s execution, I now felt abandoned by my older brother. Antoine Marshall had killed our mother, and my brother was going to voluntarily sign an affidavit suggesting that the man’s life be spared? It felt like treason to me.

  “Will you still go to the execution with me?” I asked.

  “Yes. And I’m praying that you can find it in your heart to forgive this man even if you believe the state should put him to death.”

  “Then keep praying. Because right now, I’m not feeling it.”

  Clarity came halfway through my session with Dr. Gillespie. For the first time, I told him everything about the predicament I found myself in. True to form, he listened patiently and asked insightful questions. When he spoke, his words were measured and illuminating. He helped me look at my dilemma in a whole new light.

  “At the core of your being,” he said, “you’re committed to fairness and justice. Withholding evidence from Mace James and watching Antoine Marshall die would be like raping your soul.”

  I said nothing.

  “On the other hand, you also have a need to protect your father and preserve the ideal of this perfect family that was torn apart by Antoine Marshall.”

  “So what should I do?” I asked.

  “You should hold fast to the good memories of your dad and remember that he loved you very much. Nothing can take that away. But you’ve also got to embrace your father’s shortcomings.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Jamie. We learn from our parents’ mistakes and create a better world for ourselves and our kids. We only compound their errors by trying to cover them up.”

  I left Gillespie’s office saddened by the prospect of what I had to do. I would tell my boss about the evidence linking my father and Judge Snowden. He would feel duty-bound to share that data with Mace James. In a worst-case scenario, Antoine Marshall would walk out of jail a free man.

  And so I prayed. Not that I would find it within me to forgive Antoine Marshall. My prayers had more of an Old Testament flavor—that one way or another, Antoine Marshall would get the type of justice he undoubtedly deserved.

  59

  Bill Masterson was not in the office on Thursday. According to his assistant, he had decided to take Thursday and Friday off after his big primary win and decompress at a friend’s cabin on Lake Oconee. It was, she said, his first time off in months. He was trying to read through some policy papers and get ready for the fall campaign. He had left Regina Granger in charge of the office, and he wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  I left the office at noon, went home to change, and picked up my file with the information about Judge Snowden and my dad. With any luck, I would be at Lake Oconee by four.

  I thought about calling LA, but I knew he would try to talk me out of it. If he truly cared about me, he would understand.

  The “cabin” where Bill Masterson was staying turned out to be a beautiful two-story house on a private wooded lot shaded by two-hundred-year-old pine trees. It had a long, sloping backyard that led down to the lake. Masterson’s car, a Ford Taurus, was in the driveway. I knocked on the door of the house a couple of times, each time louder than the last, and even rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, I wandered around to the back.

  I spotted my boss at the end of an enormous pier that stretched out onto Lake Oconee and served as a dock for two Jet Skis, a motorboat, and a small white yacht. I started walking down the hill, file in hand, and called out to him. Masterson pulled his sunglasses down and squinted at me over the top of them. Once he recognized me and the shock wore off, he put the sunglasses back on and waved for me to come on down.

  He was wearing only a pair of baggy shorts; I felt a little awkward seeing my boss with his shirt off, especially since nobody had ever accused Bill Masterson of staying in shape. If the voters could see him now, I thought, his poll numbers would drop by 20 percent. He was a hairy man, and he had either layered on gobs of sunscreen or he was sweating like crazy in the ninety-degree heat. Under the hair that covered his arms, chest, stomach, and back, his skin was white except for the farmer’s tan he had from the biceps down. He had broad shoulders and a thick chest, but his gut hung over his shorts. He didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious about it—I noticed a T-shirt on the deck, but Masterson made no effort to put it on.

  “Jamie! What a great surprise! I didn’t know you and I shared the same fishing hole.”

  It wasn’t until he said it that I noticed a pole propped up with its line in the water. But the boss didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. A pile of briefing books surrounded his chair, and he had been lost in his studies when I first approached.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I know you only have a few days to wind down, and I wouldn’t be out here unless it was an emergency.”

  He waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. I was already getting lonely. Had half a mind to start going door to door around the lake, passing out political flyers just to get my daily quota of handshakes. Here, have a seat.”

  He moved some books, and I pulled up a lounger a few feet away. I was wearing shorts and a tank top, and I kicked off my flip-flops. It felt good to be out in the sun.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I said.

  Masterson talked for a few minutes about the friend who was letting him use his lake house and how hunting and fishing helped him keep a sense of perspective. He warned me to be careful—my life would be consumed by the law if I never took time to smell the roses.

  “You think you’re indispensable,” he said. I sensed that he was talking more about a younger Bill Masterson than about me. “You think you’re Superman. But as you get older, you get burned a few times, and you get pretty cynical. One of two things can happen. Either you get obsessed with putting the bad guys away and start to cut corners to make it happen, or you just throw your hands up and say, ‘What’s the use?’ You feel like you’re trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon. I’ve seen a lot of good prosecutors either blur the lines or get burned out.”

  The boss looked out over the water and spoke with his relaxed Southern drawl. For the first time, I noticed the beer on the other side of his chair. “I don’t want that to happen to you, Jamie.”

  It should have been easy to assure him that it would never happen, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. Lines that once seemed clear had already started to fade.
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  “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I need to talk to you about Caleb Tate’s case, and I needed to do it now because it may have some bearing on Antoine Marshall’s execution.”

  The boss put down a briefing book and took a swig of his beer. “Okay. Shoot.”

  It turned out to be a good setting for me to walk him through everything that had happened in the past several weeks. There were no interruptions. No smartphones buzzing to distract the boss’s attention. No computer screens to glance at. I took him back to the Georgia Supreme Court hearing and Caleb Tate’s threat. I told him about my search of the computer records and my discovery that my father and two other criminal-defense attorneys had enjoyed improbable success in front of Snowden. I left out my conversations with LA and Gillespie, but I told the boss that I had been wrestling with whether to say anything for weeks. I told him that, with Antoine Marshall’s execution just a few days away, I couldn’t keep this information to myself any longer.

  With every sentence, I felt the weight of this secret, which had been beating me down for two months, slowly lifting. Part of it might have been the day or the setting, but it felt undeniably right to talk to my boss about this. I knew this step was irrevocable and that once Masterson had this information, he would have to do something with it. And I knew in my honest moments that it would mean the end of my father’s reputation. But Dr. Gillespie was right—if I didn’t share this information, it would mean the end of who I was and what I stood for.