Breach of Trust

90

The F-bird felt like a paperweight in my suit pocket when I stepped into the elevator at the Ritz-Carlton. It reminded me of the first time I wore it in Charlie Cimino’s office. It had felt odd then, like performing before a hidden camera; I was self-conscious, off-balance, even nervous. But after a while it had felt as natural as wearing a watch, just another accessory when I dressed for the morning. I’d become so good at pretending that it was sometimes hard to tell the difference when I was not.

I felt a flutter of nerves as the elevator opened on the top floor. I wasn’t sure why. This was old hat to me. Maybe because this was finally ending. But I didn’t think so. The difference was that I cared about the outcome of this evening.

I nodded to the security detail planted outside the governor’s suite. Bill Peshke answered the door and handed me a document, a press release. “I want you to take a look at what I’ve written up. We’re issuing this thing in a half-hour. And listen,” he added, making sure we had eye contact now, “we don’t need any drama on this one. Okay?”

I didn’t really know what that meant, and my expression must have given me up.

“It means the decision’s made, and nobody needs second-guessing now,” Pesh went on. “The governor needs to be focusing on other things right now. We’re less than a week from the primary and he needs to be sharp. I don’t need him up all night agonizing over this.”

I didn’t really see the governor agonizing over anything, certainly not Antwain Otis. I did a quick read of the press statement and told him it was factually accurate, meaning he got the names and ages of Otis’s victims correct and the like.

Inside the suite, some technicians were working in the corner on a phone. A man in a blue jumpsuit was explaining things to Madison Koehler and Governor Snow. “We’re all set,” he said. He gestured to a black phone sitting in the corner of the suite. “That phone is piped directly into the chamber. You pick it up and dial zero, Mr. Governor. Zero. The red phone in the chamber will ring. The warden will answer.”

The technician placed a call on his cell phone. “Okay, ready for the check. Okay.” He hung up the cell phone. He walked over to the black telephone, hit a button-presumably zero-and waited. “Okay, all clear? All clear from this end. Give me the time. Okay, nine-o-six and thirty-two seconds. Good. We’re in sync. Thank you.”

The technician placed a timepiece on the small table with the black phone. “That watch is synchronized with the execution chamber at Marymount Penitentiary. When it’s twelve midnight on that watch, it’s twelve midnight on the clock in the death chamber. Down to the second.”

I checked my own watch. I had nine-o-seven, so I was about dead-on with the official time clock.

“Any questions, Governor? Ms. Koehler?”

“Can I order a pizza on that phone?” The governor patted the guy on the back. “Bad joke. No, we’re clear. What’s your name again?”

“Craig.”

“Great job, Craig. Thanks for your good work.”

All the regulars-Madison, Charlie, Hector, Mac, and Pesh-remained quiet as the technicians filtered out.

The governor walked in a circle, then moved toward the black phone, keeping his distance like it was quarantined or something. “I mean, Jesus Christ.”

He looked at Madison. It was my first shot of him head-on tonight. He still had the blow-dried, polished campaign thing going on, but he looked somewhat out of sorts, a weight to his shoulders. The run of the day’s campaign events over, the final hours now drawing near, it was now dawning on him, the awesome power he held in his hands.

It occurred to me that he’d probably never had such a moment during his one-year reign as governor. He was a backbencher, a lieutenant governor who didn’t have much to do; then suddenly he was the supreme executive officer of the state in the space of a few weeks. It had probably felt like a whirlwind, like a dream. Suddenly his every action made the news, his public appearances were heavily attended, and he was in constant demand. No doubt, any governor of a Midwestern state, in his mid-forties with a full head of hair, was dreaming presidential aspirations.

Heady stuff. And surely he’d made consequential decisions before now, but most of them were filtered through professionals who would lay out the policy and, more important, political nuances for him. But this, this was different. You could tell him a hundred times over what the right political call was, but it didn’t change the fact that a man would either live or die, depending on whether the governor picked up that black phone.

“We have a lot to do-let’s get started,” said Madison, who, like Peshke, was trying to move on from the topic that seemed to be dominating the governor’s thoughts. She was right, I thought, as everyone settled into his or her position for the nightly post-campaigning strategy, and she was wrong. In all likelihood, tonight was going to the last night this group would meet. Other than Bill Peshke, who as far as I know hadn’t done anything wrong, everybody in this room was probably going to be arrested tomorrow, with the possible exception of Carlton Snow.

Madison and Peshke laid out the polling numbers (Snow still held a six-point lead over Willie Bryant), the fundraising stats (Snow had 2.2 million in the till to Bryant’s 1.3), and the projected television buys for the final days of the primary. Through it all, Governor Snow remained largely silent, offering only tepid words of encouragement as his eyes were glued over everyone’s heads. The liquor was flowing as usual-these people were remarkably good at staying focused through booze-but the governor had abstained.

An hour passed quickly. When I checked my watch, I realized it was coming right up on ten P.M. Two hours left. If I was following Chris Moody’s direction, I was supposed to be engaging the group, but primarily the governor, in discussions of the illegal things we were doing. But I stayed silent. I was watching the governor, trying to read him, hoping-I realized it now, hoping-that he wasn’t the person the federal government thought he was.

“Tomorrow,” said Madison. “Eight A.M. is the prayer breakfast at Newport Baptist. Nine-thirty is the domestic violence shelter over on Boughton. Ten-thirty’s the signing ceremony for the autism insurance bill. At eleven-thirty we file the appointment for Judge Ippolito and issue the press release. Pesh has the release and he has the informational that Jason wrote up that Pesh played with a little.”

So Chris Moody had been correct-the Ippolito appointment was happening tomorrow. That meant that Moody had managed to get in place some additional surveillance that didn’t include me. He probably had numerous sources now. It must be killing him that he’d have to abort now and make the arrests. I wondered if that was really going to happen. Moody had indicated that tonight might be the last opportunity. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust anybody.

“Noon is the funder with Senator Loman,” Madison continued. “Then we fly to Summit County for the ICBL rally-”

“Hang on,” said the governor. He got out of his chair and began to pace. “I want to go over Antwain Otis one more time. One more time.”

The governor’s aides collectively deflated.

“Pesh, you first. Go ahead.”

I assumed Peshke was distressed, judging from our prior conversation, but he was smooth as silk. “A violent crime. Senseless murders. Nothing in terms of mitigating what he did, Governor. He robbed a store and then fired into a crowded sidewalk and street. Senseless and brutal. Yes, he’s got that ministry thing, but Governor, you know what everyone will say. That’s a song everyone’s heard before. You’re caught dead to rights and so you find God.”

“It seems like he’s sincere,” said the governor. “I mean, did you read those affidavits?”

“Yes, and I’m not-I’m not saying he’s not sincere. Maybe he is. But I’m talking about the perception, sir. You’re a Democrat. You’re already soft on crime compared to the GOP challenger, no matter what you do. No matter what. Commuting his sentence will be a tremendous gift to Edgar Trotter in the general.”

When it was clear that he was done, the governor nodded at Madison.

“You can’t commute his sentence, sir,” she said. “You might be able to get away with it if his guilt were in doubt. That’s what the death penalty opponents always talk about. Unfair trials. Miscarriages of justice. Coerced confessions. None of that’s present here. Everyone knows he’s guilty. What he did was ruin a family. The turning-to-God stuff? Pesh is right. That’s the same-old, same-old. Maybe if this wasn’t an election year. Maybe. But if you commute his sentence, you might as well be saying that you’re opposed to the death penalty. If you won’t permit an execution when the guy is dead-to-rights guilty and his crime was a double murder of a pretty young mother and her toddler son, then you won’t ever allow one. That’s how it gets painted, sir. You don’t want to run in the general as being opposed to the death penalty. But that’s exactly what you’ll do.”

The governor nodded. I could see this was helping him. He seemed to be relieved. “Hector,” he said.

Hector cleared his throat. “I pretty much agree with everything that’s been said. But keep in mind, Carl, you still have a primary. Don’t be so sure Willie Bryant doesn’t run ads downstate of a pretty young white lady and her little white boy next to the mug shot of this tough-looking black guy that gunned them down.”

I was glad that someone brought up the racial thing. Hector, being the only nonwhite in the room, probably felt most comfortable saying it.

“That’s very true,” Peshke agreed. “Very true.”

“Mac?” the governor said.

“I’m just thinking of what Hector said, those ads. The union guys? Y’know, we got SLEU and ICBL-we’re getting their money and their people on the ground. But those rank-and-file members? When they go into the polling booth, last I checked, it’s still a secret how they vote. Those union boys, they’re not so liberal on things like the death penalty. Those ads would work downstate. If Willie’s polls are the same as ours and everyone else’s, he’ll have nothing to lose in the last few days.”

“You pick up a grand total of zero votes if you cut this guy a break,” said Madison. “But you’ll lose votes. And not just downstate. You’ll lose some in the city, too. It’s a net loss. And for what? I mean, if you’re going to have a death penalty, this guy deserves it.”

The governor rubbed his hands together. “Charlie, you wanna say anything?”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds like a net loss. I can’t disagree with anything I heard.”

“Okay. Okay.” The governor breathed a heavy sigh. It was clear that the governor had heard all of this before. He wasn’t asking for a debate. He was asking for reassurance, for confirmation of a decision he’d already made. “That’s all for tonight, everyone. I need some alone time.”

Where there would normally be a quick reaction-sure, Governor, see you bright and early-there was a pause. But Madison stood up and then so did everyone else.

“Jason,” said the governor, “I’d like you to stay.”