David Kessler - Mercy

She played round with her salad, but hardly ate a bite.

What she didn’t realize, in her self-absorbed state, was that through the plate glass window of the deli, she was being watched.

“I had a visit from Dorothy’s brother back at the office.”

“Well whoop-de-do!” Burrow mocked. “And how is the wimp?”

The look on Alex’s face was as neutral as a seasoned poker player. But Burrow seemed to realize that he’d overstepped the mark.

“I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t make fun of him.”

Had the sarcasm been a glimpse of the “old” Burrow coming through the camouflage, Alex wondered. Or was it just the tension and fear taking its toll on the condemned man?

The prison guards had gone through the preliminaries even more quickly this time, or at least it had seemed that way to Alex. Just as well because Alex was working against the clock.

“I was wondering why you singled out Dorothy. Was there any particular reason for it or was she just an easy target?”

“Is there ever an easy target?”

Burrow was looking down at his hands, clearly despondent.

“I’ve seen pictures of her, you know. She wasn’t an ugly duckling.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well it’s usually the ugly kids that get bullied.”

“Yeah … usually.”

“So why d’you pick on her? ‘Cause she was Jewish maybe?”

Now Clayton looked up, smiling painfully, almost resentfully.

“Come on, Alex, don’t give me that crock of shit. You’ve known me long enough.”

“I’ve known you for six weeks ! And that’s six weeks as you are now . God knows what you were like then .”

“So what do you think? I’m some fuckin’ redneck?”

“We haven’t got time to bullshit each other, Clayton, so I’ll spell it out to you. Yes, you are a fuckin’ redneck! Or at least were !”

“Okay, you’re right! But I ain’t an anti-Semite … I guess it was… ‘cause she was a dyke.”

Alex looked at him, surprised.

Clayton shrugged guiltily. “These days I’d probably get a buzz out of it.”

“So you’re a normal, red-blooded male,” replied Alex, going with the flow of the irony.

“So now you know.”

“So now I know,” the lawyer echoed. He paused for dramatic effect. “Well almost, but not quite.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well actually I do know. That is, I know that she got you kicked out of the school.”

Clayton looked at him surprised.

“I suppose Jonathan told you that?”

“Exactly. But the important thing is that I know. And the even more important thing is that you didn’t tell me. How the fuck am I supposed to defend you if you hold out on me?”

“Is it so important? I mean, you knew I bullied her in high school. Do the details really matter?”

“Goddamn right they matter! You told me she framed you. But if she got you kicked out of high school why would she need to frame you? On the other hand it might explain why you killed her!”

Burrow threw up his hands in mockery.

“Okay… you got me. Now you can just write me off.”

Alex was shaking his head wearily.

“I’m not writing you off, Clayton. When Dusenbury made his offer I came running here to tell you. You’re the one who shot me down in flames.”

“I didn’t have a choice. You wanted to know where Dorothy Olsen is. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“I don’t like being lied to, Clayton.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Lying, holding out. It’s all the same! If you’re not straight with your lawyer, you can kiss your ass goodbye.”

“Well it looks like I’m not the only person who’s been lying to you.”

“And just what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Dorothy Olsen didn’t get me canned. Her brother did.”

He had made sure not to catch the woman’s eye as he entered the deli. He lined up with his tray and ordered his hot pastrami on rye, realizing he’d have to be quick. Even though she had found a newspaper and was casually browsing it, she would soon finish her Caesar salad and leave. Then the opportunity would be lost.

It seemed to take an eternity and he regretted asking for mustard, even though it only added a few extra seconds. While waiting in line at the checkout, he added a bottle of mango juice and then paid with a twenty. He dumped the change on the tray and swept off in the direction of the table in the corner.

He wondered when she would notice him. She seemed so absorbed in her thoughts that maybe she wouldn’t. She had effectively screened out the background noise of the deli, so why should she look up now? Even when he reached the table, she seemed more absorbed in the newspaper than she was in the movement round her.

“Is this place taken, Miss Cortez?”

Juanita looked up.

“Oh hi, Jonathan.”

David was frustrated by his lack of progress. Ordinarily, he would just take this sort of thing in his stride. Finding the right user ID was as much an art as a science. It called for both diligence and patience.

But patience was a virtue only when the luxury of time was available. In this case, David knew, they were operating under a sparse chronological budget. They had less than ten hours before Burrow was scheduled to die.

The worst part was that there was no guarantee that there was anything worth finding. But at least now he had something specific to look for. That was better than groping in complete darkness. The problem was that even if he could get the user ID, there was no guarantee that he would get the password. In the meantime, it was painstaking work. All he could do was keep trying.

Fortunately, his father’s enthusiasm and tenacity were contagious. That was why David had skipped lunch to carry on working on this. This was, after all, an emergency. Only in this type of emergency there was no 911 number they could call to bail them out.

Suddenly David was struck by an off-the-wall idea. He didn’t really place much hope in it, but he typed in “dorothyolsen911” and hit the enter key. Only this time, he didn’t get an “Incorrect User ID” message. Instead he was greeted by the words “Incorrect Password.”

He selected the password reminder online option and found himself confronting a series of questions: “Date of Birth,” “Mother’s maiden name,” and “Name of High School.” He had already made sure that he had all this information. Once it was typed in, he found himself in Dorothy Olsen’s Compuserve account.

Nat was holding down the fort at the office.

“Alex Sedaka’s office.”

“Oh hi, this is David Sedaka. Could I speak to my father?”

“He’s not in the office right now. Can I take a message?”

“Is Juanita there?”

“No, she isn’t. But I can take a message for her too.”

“Is that Nat?”

“Yes.”

In the short time that Nat had been there, he had never actually spoken to David. He knew that David was a few years younger than himself — twenty-four to his twenty-seven — but there was no time for pleasantries.

“Okay, well, look,” said David, “do you know when he’s getting back? This could be important.”

“Well he should be back within the hour, but you can call him on his cell.”

“Maybe you could do that. I want to get back to the computer and see what else I can find. I have to leave the lab every time I need to make a call. Basically, just tell him that I’ve managed to log in to Dorothy Olsen’s old email account and I’ve found the EasySabre receipt.”