Injustice for all

43

The next morning I’m at the grocery store, leaning over the fresh chicken comparing prices, when I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I can see someone in my peripheral vision standing about ten feet to my right. I glance over and see a blond, overweight, middle-aged woman I vaguely recognize. She’s staring at me. I try to place her but can’t. The look on her face is one of contempt, and I turn back to the chicken, hoping she’ll go away.

I pick out a small packet of breasts, place it in the basket I’m carrying, and glance back toward her. She’s still there, and she’s still staring. I turn and start walking in the opposite direction. I’ve taken about five steps when I hear a voice behind me.

“We missed you at the execution.”

I keep walking.

“Hey, superstar lawyer! I said we missed you at the execution!”

I suddenly realize who she is, and my throat tightens. It’s Brian Gant’s wife, Donna. I’d read the cursory account of Brian’s execution in the newspaper a few days earlier with a deep sense of regret. With everything that had been going on, I’d forgotten about it completely. I remember mentioning it to Mooney the morning Judge Green was killed, but after that, Brian had faded from my consciousness like fog being warmed by the sun. I stop and turn to face her.

“I’m sorry, Donna. I’m truly sorry.”

She steps up close to me, her eyes filled with fury.

“You’re right about that,” she says. “You’re the sorriest damned excuse for a lawyer I’ve ever seen. How does it feel to be responsible for the death of an innocent man?”

“I can’t explain how it feels,” I say honestly. “I wish I could have done more.”

“Brian told me you came down to the prison a few weeks ago and tried to unload your guilt on him. He said you told him you were sorry. You’re just sorry all over the place, aren’t you?”

“What do you want from me, Donna? I did all I could.”

“You know what the worst part of this is? The only reason Brian ended up with you as his lawyer was because we were poor. Tell me something. When the judge appointed you to represent him, why didn’t you tell the judge you didn’t have enough experience to handle a death penalty case?”

“I thought I was ready.”

“You thought you were ready? You thought wrong, didn’t you? You got your ass kicked by a confused five-year-old girl. And now my husband is dead.”

I look at the floor in shame. The same thing has passed through my mind a million times. I was young, I was eager, and I wanted to make my mark. But she’s right. I wasn’t ready.

“Look at me, you son of a bitch,” she says.

I raise my head slowly and look into her eyes. There are no tears, only the stark face of hatred.

“My husband was innocent,” she says. “Say it!”

“Your husband was innocent.” The words come out weakly. I feel so ashamed, I’m barely able to speak.

“And you killed him. Say it!”

“And I killed him.”

She moves even closer to me, so close I can feel her breath on my cheek. Then she spits in my face.

“I hope you rot in hell.”

She abruptly turns and walks away.