Rick Harmoning praised Carlton Snow’s commitment to the working class but forgot to mention how Snow got all of Rick’s family and friends jobs in the administration, veterans and better-qualified candidates be damned. Gary Gardner cited the governor’s support of the federal employee free choice law but not his soon-to-be-announced appointment of Gardner’s brother-in-law to the state supreme court.
I tried to care enough to be mad but I was punch-drunk at this point, numb from overexposure. And I was exhausted. I had done what I’d come to do. I’d found my killer and, only a few hours ago, had taped him over breakfast admitting to the crimes. His co-conspirator, Charlie Cimino, was already in the soup plenty for his role that night-much of which had been captured by my F-Bird-as well as dozens of other felonies Charlie and I committed for months before that.
So in that regard, at least, all was right with the world. It was hard to stay motivated. I listened with only passing interest to the platitudes the governor and the two union leaders heaped upon each other. I removed the two AA batteries from my boom box stereo, threw them in my pocket, wrapped the cord around the stereo several times, and placed it in a gym bag I had brought with me today. Other than the stereo, the only other things I had brought to this office were a bunch of my own pens-I hated the cheap, government-supplied ones-and an oversized coffee cup I bought at the Fiesta Bowl a couple years ago when Talia and I went to Arizona for Christmas. I looked around the office and considered stealing the stapler, which was actually nicer than the one at my office, but stealing is wrong and I decided against it. I did think, however, that after the valuable public service I’d performed over the last four months, the taxpayers of this state could spot me a couple of rubber bands, so I stuffed those in my pocket and called us even.
The boom box and pens safely in my bag, I zipped it up and put it under my desk. It occurred to me that someone might notice that I appeared to vacating my office and might wonder why.
I still had the rest of the day, though. At least I thought I did. Tonight would be Antwain Otis’s last night on this earth, and I was hoping to have at least one more conversation with the governor about it. I had my own thoughts about the outcome but, at a minimum, I wanted to make sure the issue was thoroughly vetted. I wanted to make sure that Carlton Snow actually thought about this. I thought Antwain Otis was owed that much.
And then there was the federal government. Moody wanted the governor so badly he probably tasted Carlton Snow when he belched. And like anyone in his position, he wanted a slam dunk. Yes, he could flip the governor’s people and make them testify against their boss, but having someone on tape was always the best way to win a case, and he wanted Snow to incriminate himself to the F-Bird.
“Happy to take some questions,” I heard the governor say through the computer. I turned to listen, only because it was such a rare occasion that they allowed the governor to speak to reporters.
“Governor, twelve hours from now, Antwain Otis is scheduled to be executed. Have you considered the petition for clemency and what can you tell us about your decision?”
“It’s a fair question, Nancy, and I’m going to have an announcement later today on that.”
“But, Gov-”
“I can tell you that it’s one of the toughest parts of this job. I’ve been doing a lot of hard thinking about this.”
Hard thinking. Right. I took a look at the information I’d put together for the governor and Pesh this morning. The woman Antwain Otis killed, Elisa Newberry, was a schoolteacher and mother of four, the youngest of whom was the other victim, five-year-old Austin. Her husband, Anthony Newberry, was a commercial pilot who had to quit his job after Elisa’s death so he could be home more with his three surviving children; he took a lower-paying job as a flight instructor with a community college. The trial judge, in accepting the jury’s recommendation for death at Antwain’s trial, had indicated that Otis had shown “particularly cruel indifference” in spraying gunfire across a crowded thoroughfare; had “repeatedly failed to accept responsibility” for his crime despite “overwhelming” evidence of guilt; and had shown a “singular lack of remorse” during the sentencing phase. The Inmate Review and Release Board, in recommending that Otis’s clemency petition be denied, acknowledged the inmate’s laudable contributions to prison life since he founded his prison ministry but decided that the “utter depravity of his crime” outweighed the good deeds he’d performed “several years afterward.”
I had no appetite for lunch. I spent that hour making phone calls to some of the state contractors Charlie and I had shaken down, the ones who had been dilatory in paying into the governor’s campaign coffers. Madison Koehler was on tape the other night instructing me to call them, to once again threaten the loss of their state contracts if they didn’t pony up. And now I was completing the act, using interstate wires-a cell phone given me by the U.S. attorney’s office-to coerce these individuals to pay. The actions felt robotic, dialing the telephone, mentioning our “concern that the agreed contribution hadn’t been made” and suggesting that a “review of the contract would be forthcoming,” then hanging up and checking a name off a list. I hadn’t even tried to sound convincing. I just needed to say the words. It was like dotting an i or crossing a t. I’d made seven calls. Seven counts of conspiracy to commit fraud through the use of interstate wires for Madison Koehler.
I didn’t know if I was going to speak with the governor again before everything happened. But I decided I wanted to. The Antwain Otis issue was one reason. But that wasn’t all. What Lee Tucker said to me had made some sense. I’d had my doubts about the governor. I didn’t know if he was an ignorant figurehead whose minions were doing bad things without his knowledge; a willfully ignorant leader who simply chose not to know the details, who stuck his head in the sand like an ostrich but knew something illegal was afoot; or a guy who was truly selling out his office for political favors.
I thought everyone deserved to know. The governor’s political career was about to end, regardless, and people staring at long prison terms were liable to say anything to reduce their sentences. All of them-Madison, Charlie, Mac, even Hector-would know the direction to point their finger, and that direction was up. The U.S. attorney’s office would be cutting deals for dirt on the governor, and I wasn’t confident that the truth was going to remain intact during those desperate interactions.
At four o’clock, my phone rang, and I knew I’d at least have a chance to figure all this out. The governor wanted to meet with me when he arrived back in the city at nine tonight.
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?”