David Kessler - Mercy

“Why not?”

“He was a young ambitious lawyer with political aspirations, and he had a young pregnant wife at the time. It wouldn’t do for him to play the role of home-wrecker — especially as I wasn’t just married by then but also had a daughter. So we carried on in secret for a while, kidding ourselves that it was just wild, physical passion with no strings attached… until we decided that it would only end up hurting both of us. And then we ended it amicably… by mutual agreement.”

“And what happened? With Edgar’s death and the cover-up, I mean.”

“Well like I said he was a lawyer. I thought he could represent Dorothy in court. Remember, I thought it was Dorothy who killed Edgar. But he just asked me for the address and various other details. He said he was going to check with the local police to see what they knew already. It turned out that at that time they hadn’t had any report about shots being fired in that area. They didn’t know about the shooting. They didn’t know that Edgar was dead. And then he called me back afterward and said it was all sorted out and I didn’t need to worry. I asked him what he meant, but he just repeated: ‘Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.’ When the body was found, I was informed that my husband had committed suicide. And then I realized.”

Alex was incredulous.

“You think a lawyer staged the crime scene to look like suicide?”

“I don’t think he did it himself, but he was a criminal lawyer. He probably had lots of criminal friends to do the dirty work for him. Come to think of it, he probably had quite a few crooked cops in his pocket too.”

“And who was — ”

Before he could finish the sentence, the door flew open and three people entered: the security guard that Alex had floored with that beautifully executed combination, and two of San Francisco’s finest, one of them female.

“There he is!” said the security guard, evidently proud of himself for stating the obvious.

It was the female police officer who had the presence of mind to flip the light switch.

As the strip lights flickered to life over the course of three and a half seconds, Alex froze in panic. But it wasn’t the cops or the security guard that sent the shivers up his spine and gave him goose bumps. It was the framed picture by Mrs. Olsen’s bed. That framed picture was one of Esther Olsen’s wedding pictures, where the couple go round and have themselves photographed with each of the guests. Not that the sight of the young Esther or the moderately youthful Edgar Olsen sent a jolt through Alex. What shocked him to the core was the wedding guest between them with his arms round both of them.

The man was Chuck Dusenbury!

Nat had decided to take a chance and speed up after crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. He figured that the cops in Marin County wouldn’t be so aggressive and pushy as those in San Francisco. He had in fact no basis for this belief other than wishful thinking. But he reasoned that if they did pull him over, he would just tell them the truth about going to the execution and hope that they would wave him on.

The problem wasn’t the police, however: it was the heavy traffic. Even at this late stage, people were going to the prison to demonstrate either for or against the execution. And in addition to that more reporters were turning up. The local press had covered it since this morning, but now, as it was becoming clear that the execution was going ahead, reporters and cameramen from all over the country were converging on San Quentin. Maybe because it was likely to be one of the last executions in Dusenbury’s term of office. Maybe because Dusenbury had become increasingly vociferous in his reluctance to send people to the death chamber. Or maybe because of Martine Yin’s leak of Dusenbury’s clemency offer.

Whatever the reason, this case had suddenly aroused a lot more interest and Nat was struggling to get to the prison in the face of this column of traffic.

He still had half an hour to go. But he was beginning to wonder if he would make it.

Slowly the realization was filtering through, seeping through into Alex’s consciousness.

The politically ambitious lawyer. The man who was ready to throw the rulebook out the window and violate all protocol to grant Esther Olsen’s dying wish. The man who was ready to spare Clayton Burrow from the death penalty — but only on the very specific and narrow condition that he reveal the whereabouts of Dorothy’s body.

He wasn’t just a lame duck governor who was free to speak his mind and act his conscience. Dusenbury was a man who had long loved a woman, but hadn’t been free to fulfill that love.

Alex could imagine the feelings that Dusenbury must have had for Esther over the years, possibly losing contact with her as he climbed the political ladder, possibly falling out with Edgar. He idly speculated whether Edgar would have ever found out. Certainly the man was no fool. He knew — despite his self-denial — that none of “his” children were actually his own: not Jimmy, not Dorothy and not Jonathan. Did he figure out the rest? Did he realize that it was his friend who had cuckolded him behind his back?

For a moment Alex entertained the way-out idea that perhaps Edgar had survived Jonathan’s gunshot and been finished off by Dusenbury or his henchman. He dismissed the thought as rapidly as it arrived in his mind as just too ludicrous for words. Jonathan had seen Edgar’s brains splattered all over the wall. The possibility that Dusenbury had contributed to the killing, as opposed to the cover-up, just wasn’t on the cards.

But still, it was becoming clearer now to Alex what had occurred that day.

The two cops walked up to Alex and he rose to meet them, but he had to be sure.

He turned to Esther Olsen and looked into her eyes.

“It was Dusenbury, wasn’t it — the old friend?”

Esther looked at Alex with pitiful eyes and moved her mouth as if she was trying to speak. She mouthed the word “yes” and then started gasping for breath. She appeared to be trying to say something. But all the lawyer could make out was something like “yewer.” Alex turned back to the police.

“She’s hyperventilating! Call a doctor! Now !”

Juanita was now finding it harder to match up the shredded strips to the part of the letter that she had already reconstructed. The first strips had been easy because a handful of shredded strips had stayed together at the top of the pile. But others had got separated.

She reckoned that she had reconstructed at least a third of the letter. She could make out some parts of sentences like “I can conf…” She could also make out fragments of dates on the letter, and she knew it was important to remember that these dates were in the British format.

But she was making too slow progress. She looked up at the clock and saw that she had only twenty-three minutes. Even if she could finish, what could she do with it? Could she send it to the governor? Would he act on it? What did it say? What did it even prove?

But there were other questions going through her mind. Like why hadn’t Nat returned? Where was he now?

And what about Alex? Why didn’t he call in? He had told her what the governor had said and that he was on his way to speak to Mrs. Olsen. But would they let him in to the hospital? And what had Esther Olsen decided? Would she ask the governor for a stay of execution on Burrow? Would the governor grant it?

Juanita had to find out.

“Look, if you’ll just call the governor, he’ll explain everything,” said Alex as he was led away in handcuffs by the police.