them sometime next week. I don’t think we have a chance.”
“Why?” I asked.
“We filed on the grounds that Gail’s original defense lawyer was not allowed to present all of the mitigating circumstances during the sentencing phase,” Brenda explained. “Gail’s lawyer wants to try this angle because, of all the death-penalty appeals successfully filed over the past five years, twenty-six percent have been overturned on those grounds. It’s an easy way for the judges to assuage their consciences without looking too liberal.”
“What mitigating circumstances weren’t presented?” I asked. “It seems to me that they aired every scrap of your family’s dirty laundry.”
“She’s claiming severe alcohol and pill abuse impaired Gail’s ability to distinguish right from wrong,” she said.
“It isn’t going to work,” I warned her. Gail abused alcohol, but she wasn’t going to get any sympathy on that point. Here in the South, we tell ourselves that if people want to be damn-fool drunks and destroy themselves, that’s their business. But in return, we hold them responsible for what they do while they’re drunk. Plus, you can’t persuade a bunch of southern judges through rhetoric alone. Once a jury of peers has said someone deserves to die, you have to show new evidence that at least points to the possibility of someone else having done it. More important, every one of the Richmond judges had graduated from a law school in Virginia, North Carolina or Georgia. Like a lot of southerners, they came from families that had been ripped off by outsiders who made pretty speeches too many times over the past two hundred years. We’re a skeptical lot, even if we do seem mighty polite on the surface. Only new evidence would impress those judges.
“Is there any point in looking into the case?” I asked. “It seems like you’ve done about all you can do and I have no new leads.”
Brenda hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said. “There’s a big point to it. Nanny and the rest of us need to know we did everything we possibly could to help Gail, no matter what happens in the end. That’s why I want you to take the case.” She looked away uncomfortably.
“I am taking the case,” I assured her. “So I can sleep at night, too. But you’ve got to help me find a place to start. What’s this about a crackpot caller?”
She pushed her Pepsi bottle away and fiddled with her cigarette pack. “It’s a sad case,” she finally said.
“I know that already,” I assured her.
“Not Gail’s case,” she snapped. “The caller’s.”
“Just tell me what he said and let me decide if it’s important,” I countered. If she was so dang anxious to help her sister, why the hesitation?
Brenda struggled with her conscience in silence while I counted the empty cigarette packs in her wastebasket. Nine crumpled cellophane-covered boxes on top and more beneath. Good god, I hoped her lungs would hold out long enough for her to make up her mind. Eventually, she reached a decision.
“The call was from the judge at her trial,” she said reluctantly.
“Judge Peyton Tillman?” I almost shouted I was so surprised.
“Former Judge Tillman,” she reminded me. “He’s not on the bench anymore. He’s a private citizen now. One with some problems. A lot of problems. I really don’t think we have enough time to waste taking him seriously. I think his call was motivated by something other than reality.”
“Like what?” I demanded.
“He’s not like you or me,” she explained. “I don’t want to presume as to what your character is like, but I have a feeling that you do what you have to do to get the job done, and then you move on. Am I right?”
I shrugged. Sad to say, she was right.
“Peyton isn’t like that. He can’t let the case go. Gail is the only person he ever helped send to death row and he’s never forgiven himself. After he returned to private life, he began calling me late at night and
“Why?” I asked.
“We filed on the grounds that Gail’s original defense lawyer was not allowed to present all of the mitigating circumstances during the sentencing phase,” Brenda explained. “Gail’s lawyer wants to try this angle because, of all the death-penalty appeals successfully filed over the past five years, twenty-six percent have been overturned on those grounds. It’s an easy way for the judges to assuage their consciences without looking too liberal.”
“What mitigating circumstances weren’t presented?” I asked. “It seems to me that they aired every scrap of your family’s dirty laundry.”
“She’s claiming severe alcohol and pill abuse impaired Gail’s ability to distinguish right from wrong,” she said.
“It isn’t going to work,” I warned her. Gail abused alcohol, but she wasn’t going to get any sympathy on that point. Here in the South, we tell ourselves that if people want to be damn-fool drunks and destroy themselves, that’s their business. But in return, we hold them responsible for what they do while they’re drunk. Plus, you can’t persuade a bunch of southern judges through rhetoric alone. Once a jury of peers has said someone deserves to die, you have to show new evidence that at least points to the possibility of someone else having done it. More important, every one of the Richmond judges had graduated from a law school in Virginia, North Carolina or Georgia. Like a lot of southerners, they came from families that had been ripped off by outsiders who made pretty speeches too many times over the past two hundred years. We’re a skeptical lot, even if we do seem mighty polite on the surface. Only new evidence would impress those judges.
“Is there any point in looking into the case?” I asked. “It seems like you’ve done about all you can do and I have no new leads.”
Brenda hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said. “There’s a big point to it. Nanny and the rest of us need to know we did everything we possibly could to help Gail, no matter what happens in the end. That’s why I want you to take the case.” She looked away uncomfortably.
“I am taking the case,” I assured her. “So I can sleep at night, too. But you’ve got to help me find a place to start. What’s this about a crackpot caller?”
She pushed her Pepsi bottle away and fiddled with her cigarette pack. “It’s a sad case,” she finally said.
“I know that already,” I assured her.
“Not Gail’s case,” she snapped. “The caller’s.”
“Just tell me what he said and let me decide if it’s important,” I countered. If she was so dang anxious to help her sister, why the hesitation?
Brenda struggled with her conscience in silence while I counted the empty cigarette packs in her wastebasket. Nine crumpled cellophane-covered boxes on top and more beneath. Good god, I hoped her lungs would hold out long enough for her to make up her mind. Eventually, she reached a decision.
“The call was from the judge at her trial,” she said reluctantly.
“Judge Peyton Tillman?” I almost shouted I was so surprised.
“Former Judge Tillman,” she reminded me. “He’s not on the bench anymore. He’s a private citizen now. One with some problems. A lot of problems. I really don’t think we have enough time to waste taking him seriously. I think his call was motivated by something other than reality.”
“Like what?” I demanded.
“He’s not like you or me,” she explained. “I don’t want to presume as to what your character is like, but I have a feeling that you do what you have to do to get the job done, and then you move on. Am I right?”
I shrugged. Sad to say, she was right.
“Peyton isn’t like that. He can’t let the case go. Gail is the only person he ever helped send to death row and he’s never forgiven himself. After he returned to private life, he began calling me late at night and
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