“Are you telling me I’m gonna die, Sebastian?”
“I told you that last week, Link. The fix is in. The last-minute appeals are worthless. Everything’s been litigated. Every issue covered. There’s little we can do right now but wait and hope for a miracle.”
“I shoulda hired that radical Jew lawyer, what’s his name, Lowenstein?”
“Maybe, but you didn’t. He’s had three clients executed in the past four years.”
Marc Lowenstein is an acquaintance of mine and a fine lawyer. Between the two of us, we handle most of the untouchable cases in our end of the state. My cell phone vibrates. It’s a text message—the Fifteenth Circuit has just denied.
I say, “Bad news, Link, the Fifteenth just turned us down.”
He says nothing but reaches over and turns on the television. I turn the switch for more lighting and ask, “Is your son stopping by tonight?”
He grunts, “No.”
He has one child, a son who just got out of federal prison. Extortion. He grew up in the family business and loves his old man, but no one can blame him for avoiding a prison, if only for a visit. Link says, “We’ve said good-bye already.”
“So no guests tonight?”
He grunts, says nothing. No, no visitors for the last hug. Link was married twice but hates both ex-wives. He hasn’t spoken to his mother in twenty years. His only brother mysteriously disappeared after a bad business deal. Link reaches into his pocket, produces a cell phone, and makes a call. Inmate cell phones are violently forbidden, and they’ve caught Link with a dozen over the years. The guards sneak them in; one who got caught said he was paid $1,000 in cash by a stranger in a Burger King parking lot, after lunch.
It’s a quick call—I can’t understand a word—and Link returns the phone to his pocket. Using the remote, he changes channels and we watch a local cable news show. There’s a lot of interest in his execution. A reporter does a nice job of recapping the Nagy murders. They flash photos of the judge and his wife, a pretty lady.
I knew the judge well and appeared several times in his courtroom. He was a hard-ass but fair and smart. We were shocked when he was murdered, but not too surprised when the trail led to Link Scanlon. They run a clip of Knuckles, the gunman, as he’s leaving court in handcuffs. What a nasty one.
I say, “You know you’re entitled to the counsel of a spiritual adviser?”
He grunts. No.
“The prison has a chaplain, if you’d like a word with him.”
“What’s a chaplain?”
“A man of God.”
“And what might he say to me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Link. I’m told that some folks, right before they pass, like to get things right with God. Confess their sins, stuff like that.”
“That might take some time.”
Contrition would be an inexcusable act of weakness for a mobster like Link. He has absolutely no remorse, for the Nagy murders or for all those before them. He glares at me and says, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to be here, to make sure the final appeals run their course. To give advice.”
“And your advice is to talk to a chaplain?”
We’re startled by a loud knock on the door. It opens immediately and a man in a cheap suit strolls in, with two guards as escorts. He says, “Mr. Scanlon, I’m Jess Foreman, assistant warden.”
“A real pleasure,” Link says without taking his eyes off the television.
Foreman ignores me and says, “I have a list of all those who will witness the execution. There’s nobody on your list, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you sure?”
Link ignores this. Foreman waits, then says, “What about your lawyer?” He looks at me.
“I’ll be there,” I say. The lawyer is always invited to watch.
“Anybody from Judge Nagy’s family?” I ask.
“Yep, all three of his children.” Foreman places the list on the desk and leaves. As the door slams behind him, Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.
It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work. The scene outside is frantic as police and firemen scurry about. Smoke boils from a second-floor window. A breathless reporter is moving along the street with his cameraman in tow, looking for a better angle and gushing on about what’s happening.
Link’s eyes glow as he watches. I say, “Wow, another coincidence.” But Link does not hear me. I try to act cool, calm, as if this is no big deal. A bomb here, a bomb there. Couple of phone calls from death row and the fuses get lit. But I am astonished.
Who might be next? Another judge, perhaps the one who presided over his trial and sentenced him to death? That was Judge Cone, since retired, and for about two years, during and after the trial, he had armed protection. Perhaps the jurors? They lived cautiously thereafter with the cops close by. No one was hurt or threatened.
Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”
I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”
