Breach of Trust

75

Having predetermined the outcome of the clemency hearing, we were now going to actually hold that hearing. I watched four people enter the room and immediately felt sorry for them, knowing their pleas would be in vain. Hey, I’m as cynical as the next guy. I know politics are going to dictate a lot of the governor’s decisions. And I know that much of the time when I walk into a courtroom to argue some motion or legal issue, the judge has already made up his or her mind before hearing oral argument.

But this wasn’t some routine, humdrum issue. The governor was deciding whether to spare someone’s life, and other than hearing my thirty-second summary of the petition, the governor was denying this guy’s plea for mercy without knowing anything about it at all.

A lawyer in a decent suit and bad haircut began the presentation. He made the intelligent decision to start by kissing as much ass as he possibly could-his admiration for the governor, his appreciation of the governor’s willingness to keep an open mind and hear this out.

“We recognize we’re asking you to do something that requires political courage,” he said. “Antwain Otis is guilty of the crimes he’s convicted of. He didn’t mean to shoot those people, but he shot them nonetheless, and he’s admitted his guilt. We are not asking you to set him free, Mr. Governor. We aren’t seeking a pardon. But we are asking you to commute his sentence to life in prison without the possibility of parole. He’ll never, ever leave prison.”

The lawyer glanced at his notepad, resting on the table. He shouldn’t need his notes this early on. His first minute should be the most powerful, and it should be eye-to-eye with the person he’s trying to convince.

“Prison. For many, it’s the end of the road. It’s the last stop in life. But not for Antwain Otis. For Antwain, it was the beginning. The beginning of a new life. The Lord came to him in prison. He opened up doors beyond the tall cement walls topped with barbed wire. He showed Antwain a life full of love and hope and meaning. You’ve talked, Governor, about your faith many times. I know you know what I mean.”

The governor perked up, nodding eagerly. I had no doubt he went to church every Sunday and waved to the cameras when he did so. But I had plenty of doubts about what it meant to him.

“But my point, Governor, is not that you should spare Antwain’s life because he’s rehabilitated. My point is that he’s rehabilitated so many others. He’s touched many, many people with his ministry. A good eighty percent of offenders become re-offenders. They don’t learn much in prison. If anything, they regress. They become more resentful of a society that has discarded them. They learn few valuable skills. And they leave prison with a major stain on their record, a felony conviction. These people have little chance when they get out, so they ultimately resort to their old ways. They re-offend and go back inside. It’s a revolving door of crime, prison, release; crime, prison, release.”

The lawyer paused and glanced at his notes again. I wished he wouldn’t do that. He should have been better prepared. You look at your notes and you lose some of the zing, some of the heartfelt sincerity, the connection to your audience.

“So what do we do? We build more prisons. We pass tougher laws. But do we rehabilitate? Well, maybe we try. We think we do, at least. We give money to the Department of Corrections for inmate programs. But we all know the kind of budget problems we have right now. What gets cut first? That’s not hard to figure. And that, Governor, is why someone like Antwain Otis is so important.

“Antwain is rehabilitating people. He’s offering inmates another path. Some of those inmates won’t ever leave the system, that’s true. They’re on death row or serving life sentences. Does that mean they don’t matter? Obviously not. We’re not that kind of society. But Governor, even more importantly, a lot of the people Antwain has reached will get another shot at integration into society. And this time, they’ll be prepared. We have affidavits from a number of former inmates who haven’t re-offended. They may not be CEOs of Fortune 500 companies but they’re working hard to make a life, and they’re making a life with Jesus Christ as their savior. They’re good, honest people. Let Antwain help more people, Governor. He’ll serve his life in prison for the crime he committed. But he’ll change the lives of so many more people if you let him live.”

I thought maybe all four of the people were going to speak, but apparently there was only one other, an African American dressed in black with a cleric’s collar. He was elderly and appeared frail as he stood up, but his voice was surprisingly commanding.

“Mr. Governor, I’ve spent my life counseling people and preaching the gospel. I’ve been involved in the correctional system for over thirty years. And I’ve made a difference, I hope. I hope I have. I hope so.” He opened his hands. “These young men who I see every day are haunted. They’re haunted by what they’ve done and by what’s been done to them. And what they see in me is someone who hasn’t walked in their shoes. What they see in Antwain? They see themselves. Yes, sir, they see themselves. What Antwain says to them is, ‘I’ve been there. Just like you. I’ve made the same mistakes. Maybe worse ones. And look how I’ve changed my life.’ Governor, there’s nothing more powerful to a young black man than to see someone else just like himself, with as little as he has, who has made something out of it. Something positive. Now, I’m not gonna talk to you about the Bible. I could. I could tell you that the death penalty is immoral, that it isn’t fair, that it’s against God’s will. I could cite twenty verses from the good book about helping those in prison. But I’ll just tell you one thing I always tell these inmates. I always say to them, ‘Don’t look backward. Look forward. You can’t change yesterday, but you can make today and tomorrow better.’ And that’s what I’m asking you to do, Governor. Look forward. I know Antwain-”

He paused, momentarily choked with emotion. The room was utterly silent. The tick of the clock on the wall was like a chime.

The man raised his snow-colored head upward. “Governor, I know this young man. I love him and I respect him as much as anyone I’ve ever met. And killing this young man? Killing him would just be another. . another crime.”

Nobody spoke for a good minute. The lawyer put his hand on the cleric’s shoulder and whispered to him. Then he thanked us for our time. The governor rose and shook their hands again, as he had when they entered. “I have some hard thinking to do,” he told them.

I shook hands, too, but didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure what would come out if I did.

“I thought that was pretty good,” Governor Snow said to Peshke, once the door had closed behind the people. “Hey.” He turned to me. “What did the lawyer mean when he said he didn’t mean to shoot those people?”

I explained to him the wife and child caught in the cross fire between Otis and the pawnshop owner, and how the law conclusively presumes intent to kill anyone hit by an intentionally fired weapon.

“Oh, okay. These guys are talking and I’m sitting here thinking, ‘If the gun just accidentally went off or something, why would they give him the death penalty?’ Okay.” The governor pointed at Peshke. “I think what you have written is fine. What’s next?”

“Fundraiser up in Highland Woods,” said Peshke. “Jed Barker?”

“Right, right.” He clapped his hands together. “Hey, Jason, come by tonight, when we’re winding down.”

He didn’t wait for my answer. He was out the door, on to his fundraiser, not two minutes after the clemency hearing had ended.