David Ellis - Breach of Trust

“ It’s a fair question, Nancy, and I’m going to have an announcement later today on that.”

“But, Gov-”

“I can tell you that it’s one of the toughest parts of this job. I’ve been doing a lot of hard thinking about this. ”

Hard thinking. Right. I took a look at the information I’d put together for the governor and Pesh this morning. The woman Antwain Otis killed, Elisa Newberry, was a schoolteacher and mother of four, the youngest of whom was the other victim, five-year-old Austin. Her husband, Anthony Newberry, was a commercial pilot who had to quit his job after Elisa’s death so he could be home more with his three surviving children; he took a lower-paying job as a flight instructor with a community college. The trial judge, in accepting the jury’s recommendation for death at Antwain’s trial, had indicated that Otis had shown “particularly cruel indifference” in spraying gunfire across a crowded thoroughfare; had “repeatedly failed to accept responsibility” for his crime despite “overwhelming” evidence of guilt; and had shown a “singular lack of remorse” during the sentencing phase. The Inmate Review and Release Board, in recommending that Otis’s clemency petition be denied, acknowledged the inmate’s laudable contributions to prison life since he founded his prison ministry but decided that the “utter depravity of his crime” outweighed the good deeds he’d performed “several years afterward.”

I had no appetite for lunch. I spent that hour making phone calls to some of the state contractors Charlie and I had shaken down, the ones who had been dilatory in paying into the governor’s campaign coffers. Madison Koehler was on tape the other night instructing me to call them, to once again threaten the loss of their state contracts if they didn’t pony up. And now I was completing the act, using interstate wires-a cell phone given me by the U.S. attorney’s office-to coerce these individuals to pay. The actions felt robotic, dialing the telephone, mentioning our “concern that the agreed contribution hadn’t been made” and suggesting that a “review of the contract would be forthcoming,” then hanging up and checking a name off a list. I hadn’t even tried to sound convincing. I just needed to say the words. It was like dotting an i or crossing a t. I’d made seven calls. Seven counts of conspiracy to commit fraud through the use of interstate wires for Madison Koehler.

I didn’t know if I was going to speak with the governor again before everything happened. But I decided I wanted to. The Antwain Otis issue was one reason. But that wasn’t all. What Lee Tucker said to me had made some sense. I’d had my doubts about the governor. I didn’t know if he was an ignorant figurehead whose minions were doing bad things without his knowledge; a willfully ignorant leader who simply chose not to know the details, who stuck his head in the sand like an ostrich but knew something illegal was afoot; or a guy who was truly selling out his office for political favors.

I thought everyone deserved to know. The governor’s political career was about to end, regardless, and people staring at long prison terms were liable to say anything to reduce their sentences. All of them-Madison, Charlie, Mac, even Hector-would know the direction to point their finger, and that direction was up. The U.S. attorney’s office would be cutting deals for dirt on the governor, and I wasn’t confident that the truth was going to remain intact during those desperate interactions.

At four o’clock, my phone rang, and I knew I’d at least have a chance to figure all this out. The governor wanted to meet with me when he arrived back in the city at nine tonight.

The F-bird felt like a paperweight in my suit pocket when I stepped into the elevator at the Ritz-Carlton. It reminded me of the first time I wore it in Charlie Cimino’s office. It had felt odd then, like performing before a hidden camera; I was self-conscious, off-balance, even nervous. But after a while it had felt as natural as wearing a watch, just another accessory when I dressed for the morning. I’d become so good at pretending that it was sometimes hard to tell the difference when I was not.

I felt a flutter of nerves as the elevator opened on the top floor. I wasn’t sure why. This was old hat to me. Maybe because this was finally ending. But I didn’t think so. The difference was that I cared about the outcome of this evening.

I nodded to the security detail planted outside the governor’s suite. Bill Peshke answered the door and handed me a document, a press release. “I want you to take a look at what I’ve written up. We’re issuing this thing in a half-hour. And listen,” he added, making sure we had eye contact now, “we don’t need any drama on this one. Okay?”

I didn’t really know what that meant, and my expression must have given me up.

“It means the decision’s made, and nobody needs second-guessing now,” Pesh went on. “The governor needs to be focusing on other things right now. We’re less than a week from the primary and he needs to be sharp. I don’t need him up all night agonizing over this.”

I didn’t really see the governor agonizing over anything, certainly not Antwain Otis. I did a quick read of the press statement and told him it was factually accurate, meaning he got the names and ages of Otis’s victims correct and the like.

Inside the suite, some technicians were working in the corner on a phone. A man in a blue jumpsuit was explaining things to Madison Koehler and Governor Snow. “We’re all set,” he said. He gestured to a black phone sitting in the corner of the suite. “That phone is piped directly into the chamber. You pick it up and dial zero, Mr. Governor. Zero. The red phone in the chamber will ring. The warden will answer.”

The technician placed a call on his cell phone. “Okay, ready for the check. Okay.” He hung up the cell phone. He walked over to the black telephone, hit a button-presumably zero-and waited. “Okay, all clear? All clear from this end. Give me the time. Okay, nine-o-six and thirty-two seconds. Good. We’re in sync. Thank you.”

The technician placed a timepiece on the small table with the black phone. “That watch is synchronized with the execution chamber at Marymount Penitentiary. When it’s twelve midnight on that watch, it’s twelve midnight on the clock in the death chamber. Down to the second.”

I checked my own watch. I had nine-o-seven, so I was about dead-on with the official time clock.

“Any questions, Governor? Ms. Koehler?”

“Can I order a pizza on that phone?” The governor patted the guy on the back. “Bad joke. No, we’re clear. What’s your name again?”

“Craig.”

“Great job, Craig. Thanks for your good work.”

All the regulars-Madison, Charlie, Hector, Mac, and Pesh-remained quiet as the technicians filtered out.

The governor walked in a circle, then moved toward the black phone, keeping his distance like it was quarantined or something. “I mean, Jesus Christ.”

He looked at Madison. It was my first shot of him head-on tonight. He still had the blow-dried, polished campaign thing going on, but he looked somewhat out of sorts, a weight to his shoulders. The run of the day’s campaign events over, the final hours now drawing near, it was now dawning on him, the awesome power he held in his hands.

It occurred to me that he’d probably never had such a moment during his one-year reign as governor. He was a backbencher, a lieutenant governor who didn’t have much to do; then suddenly he was the supreme executive officer of the state in the space of a few weeks. It had probably felt like a whirlwind, like a dream. Suddenly his every action made the news, his public appearances were heavily attended, and he was in constant demand. No doubt, any governor of a Midwestern state, in his mid-forties with a full head of hair, was dreaming presidential aspirations.