Read Online The Last Plea Bargain by Randy Singer - Free Book Online Page B

prison guards found Mace talking on his cell phone in a conference room and handed him a single sheet of paper. Mace ended the call and quickly scanned the page.
    â€œHe’s been a good prisoner,” the guard said, his voice low. “He prob’ly deserves this.”
    â€œCan I be the one to break the news to Antoine?” Mace asked.
    â€œOf course.”
    They met in the same room where Antoine had shown Mace his final statement just an hour or so earlier.
    â€œTroy Davis still has the record,” Mace said. “His stay came two hours before his scheduled execution.” Mace looked at his watch, then back at Antoine. “Yours came with a generous three hours and three minutes to go.”
    Antoine stared like a man who had seen a ghost. Perhaps his own? “What are you saying?”
    â€œThe Georgia Supreme Court granted our stay. They’re taking four months to reconsider the case.”
    For the longest second, a stunned Antoine Marshall just stared at his lawyer, absorbing the news. His lips started trembling, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “Glory to God,” he said. Then he buried his face in his hands and started crying.

12
    My father was the one who taught me how to be tough. When I was in elementary school, some of the boys called my father names because he was defending a man accused of killing his wife and children. My father argued the insanity plea—his client believed that the gods required a blood sacrifice—and my mother provided the psychiatric testimony. I got in a fight at school, and my parents found out about it.
    That night, my mother lectured me on why violence was never the answer. She grounded me and sent me to my room while my father stood by silently. Later, as I was stewing about being punished for defending my parents, my dad came in and sat down on my bed.
    â€œDid you win?” he asked, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. Tell me about it.”
    After I got done describing the fight and getting some pointers about the next one, he kissed me on the forehead and got up to leave. “For the record,” he said, “I’m opposed to fighting too. But I do know this—if you’re going to fight, you’d better get in the first blow, and you’d better make it a good one. And, Jamie . . .”
    He waited, commanding my full attention.
    â€œIf you get the other guy down, don’t let him up.”
    Maybe that’s why it was so hard to take my father off life support. He was a fighter. I just knew I would come to the hospital and there would be a twitch in the arms, a blinking of the eyes, my father slowly but surely getting up off the canvas one last time. You could never count him out.
    But after Antoine Marshall received his stay, I realized it was time to let Chris pull the plug. Even before Friday’s disappointment, I had worked through the phase of grief that denies reality. I wasn’t yet ready for my dad to die, but I knew I never would be. I had finally accepted the fact that he was never coming back.
    By the time I got to the hospital on Saturday morning, I had cried so much that I felt like I didn’t have any tears left. I was already weak from the grief of knowing what we had to do, as if somebody had squeezed all the energy and joy out of my heart. I met Chris and Amanda in the lobby, and we made our way to Dad’s room, where we met with Dr. Guptara and a few nurses. We asked for some time alone.
    I entered the room without using the hand sanitizer and stood on one side of the hospital bed while Chris and Amanda stood on the other. Holding Amanda’s hand, Chris told my father how much he loved him.
    â€œI’ll miss just picking up the phone and hearing his voice,” Chris said to Amanda and me. “I’ll miss watching him get down on the floor to play with the girls.”
    He wiped his eyes and placed a hand on Dad’s