Jodi Picoult - Change of heart

I believe a good person can do bad things, Father Michael had said.

Like make the wrong decision for the right reasons. Sign your daughter's life away, because she can't have a murderer's heart.

Forgive me, Claire, I thought, and suddenly I wasn't cold anymore.

I was burning, seared by the tears on my cheeks.

I couldn't trust Shay Bourne's sudden altruistic turnaround; and maybe that meant he had won: I had gone just as bitter and rotten as he was. But that only made me more certain that I had the stamina to tell him, face-to-face, what balancing the scales really meant. It wasn't giving me a heart for Claire; it wasn't offering a future that might ease the weight of the past. It was knowing that Shay Bourne badly wanted something, and that this time, I'd be the one to take his dream away.

Maggie

Stunned, I hung up the phone and stared at the receiver again. I was tempted to*69 the call, just to make sure it hadn't been some kind of prank.

Well, maybe miracles did happen.

But before I could mull over this change of events, I heard footsteps heading toward my desk. Father Michael turned the corner, looking like he'd just been through Dante's Inferno. "June Nealon wants nothing to do with Shay."

"That's interesting," I said, "since June Nealon just got off the phone with me, agreeing to a restorative justice meeting."

Father Michael blanched. "You've got to call her back. This isn't a good idea."

"You're the one who came up with it."

"That was before I spoke to her. If she goes to that meeting, it's not because she wants to hear what Shay has to say. It's because she wants to run him through before the state finishes him off."

"Did you really think that whatever Shay has to say to her is going to be any less painful than what she says to him?"

"I don't know... I thought that maybe if they saw each other..."

He sank down into a chair in front of my desk. "I don't know what I'm doing. I guess there are just some things you can't make amends for."

I sighed. "You're trying. That's the best any of us can do. Look, it's not like I fight death penalty cases all the time-but my boss used to. He worked down in Virginia before he came up north. They're emotional minefields-you get to know the inmate, and you excuse some heinous crime with a lousy childhood or alcoholism or an emotional upheaval or drugs, until you see the victims family and a whole different level of suffering.

And suddenly you start to feel a little ashamed of being in the defendant's camp."

I walked to a small cooler next to a file cabinet and took out a bottle of water for the priest. "Shay's guilty, Father. A court already told us that.

June knows it. I know it. Everyone knows that it's wrong to execute an innocent man. The real question is whether it's still wrong to execute someone who's guilty."

"But you're trying to get him hanged," Father Michael said.

"I'm not trying to get him hanged," I corrected. "I want to champion his civil liberties, and at the same time, bring front and center what's wrong with the death penalty in this country The only way to do both is to find a way for him to die the way he wants to. That's the difference between you and me. You're trying to find a way for him to die the way you want him to."

"You're the one who said Shay's heart might not be a viable match.

And even if it is, June Nealon will never agree to taking it," the priest said.

That was, of course, entirely possible. What Father Michael had conveniently put out of his mind when he dreamed up a meeting between

June and Shay was that in order to forgive, you have to remember how you were hurt in the first place. And that in order to forget, you had to accept your role in what had happened.

"If we don't want Shay to lose hope," I said, "then we'd better not lose it either."

Every day when I wasn't running the noon Mass, I went to visit Shay.

Sometimes we talked about television shows we'd seen-we were both pretty upset with Meredith on Grey's Anatomy, and thought the girls on

The Bachelor were hot but dumb as bricks. Sometimes we talked about carpentry, how a piece of wood would tell him what it needed to be, how I could say the same of a parishioner in need. Sometimes we talked about his case-the appeals he'd lost, the lawyers he'd had over the years. And sometimes, he was less lucid. He'd run around his cell like a caged animal; he'd rock back and forth; he'd swing from topic to topic as if it was the only way to cross the jungle of his thoughts.

One day. Shay asked me what was being said about him outside.

"You know," I told him. "You watch the news."

"They think I can save them," Shay said.

"Well. Yeah."

"That's pretty fucking selfish, isn't it? Or is it selfish of me if I don't try?"

"I can't answer that for you. Shay," I said.

He sighed. "I'm tired of waiting to die," he said. "Eleven years is a long time."

I pressed my stool up close to the cell door; it was more private that way. It had taken me a week, but I had managed to separate out the way I felt about Shay's case from the way that he felt. I had been stunned to learn that Shay believed he was innocent-although Warden

Coyne told me that everyone in prison believed they were innocent, regardless of the conviction. I wondered if his memory of the events, over time, had blurred-me, I could still remember that awful evidence as if it had been presented to me yesterday. When I pushed a bitencouraged him to tell me more about his wrongful conviction, suggested that Maggie might be able to use the information in court, asked him why he was willing to go along with an execution so passively if he wasn't guilty-he shut down. He'd say, over and over, that what had happened then didn't matter now. I began to understand that proclaiming his innocence had a lot less to do with the reality of his case and more to do with the fragile connection between us. I was becoming his confidant-and he wanted me to think the best of him.

"What do you think is easier?" Shay asked. "Knowing you're going to die on a certain date and time, or knowing it might happen any moment when you least expect it?"

A thought swam through my mind like a minnow: Did you ask Elizabeth that? "I'd rather not know," I said. "Live every day like it's your last, and all that. But I think if you do know you're going to die, Christ showed the way to do it with grace."

Shay smirked. "Just think. It took you a whole forty-two minutes to bring up good ol' Jesus today."

"Sorry. Professional hazard," I said. "When He says, in Gethsemane,

'0 my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me...' He's wrestling with destiny... but ultimately. He accepts God's will."

"Sucks for him," Shay said.

"Well, sure. I bet His legs felt like Jell-0 when He was carrying the

Cross. He was human, after all. You can be brave, but that doesn't keep your stomach from doing somersaults."

I finished speaking to find Shay staring at me. "Did you ever wonder if you're dead wrong?"

"About what?"

"All of it. What Jesus said. What Jesus meant. I mean, he didn't even write the Bible, did he? In fact, the people who did write the Bible weren't even alive when Jesus was." I must have looked absolutely stricken, because Shay hurried to continue. "Not that Jesus wasn't a really cool guy-great teacher, excellent speaker, yadda yadda yadda.

But... Son of God? Where's the proof?"

"That's what faith is," I said. "Believing without seeing."

"Okay," Shay argued. "But what about the folks who think Allah's the one to put your money on? Or that the right path is the eightfold one? I mean, how can a guy who walked on water even get baptized?"

"We know Jesus was baptized because-"