one else. His last meal is served around 10:30, and he can order whatever he wants, except for alcohol.
“How you doing?” I ask as he sits up and smiles.
“Never felt better. Any news?”
“Not yet, but I’m still optimistic. We should hear something soon.”
Duke is thirty-eight and white, and before getting arrested for rape and murder his criminal record consisted of two DUIs and a bunch of speeding tickets. No violence whatsoever. He was a party boy and hell-raiser in his younger days, but after nine years in solitary he has settled down considerably. My job is to set him free, which, at the moment, seems like a crazy dream.
I take the remote and change channels to one from Birmingham, but I leave it on mute.
“You seem awfully confident,” he says.
“I can afford to. I’m not getting the needle.”
“You’re a funny man, Post.”
“Relax, Duke.”
“Relax?” He swings his feet to the floor and smiles again. He does indeed look rather relaxed, given the circumstances. He laughs and says, “Do you remember Lucky Skelton?”
“No.”
“They finally got him, about five years ago, but not before serving him three last meals. Three times he walked the gangplank before getting the shove. Sausage pizza and a cherry Coke.”
“And what did you order?”
“Steak and fries, with a six-pack of beer.”
“I wouldn’t count on the beer.”
“Are you gonna get me outta here, Post?”
“Not tonight, but I’m working on it.”
“If I get out I’m going straight to a bar and drinking cold beer until I pass out.”
“I’ll go with you. Here’s the Governor.” He appears on-screen and I hit the volume.
He’s standing in front of a bank of microphones with camera lights glaring at him. Dark suit, paisley tie, white shirt, every tinted hair gelled with precision. A walking campaign ad. Sufficiently burdened, he says, “I have thoroughly reviewed Mr. Russell’s case and discussed it at length with my investigators. I’ve also met with the family of Emily Broone, the victim of Mr. Russell’s crimes, and the family is very much opposed to the idea of clemency. After considering all aspects of this case, I have decided to allow his conviction to stand. The court order will remain in place, and the execution will go forward. The people have spoken. Clemency for Mr. Russell is therefore denied.” He announces this with as much drama as he can muster, then bows and slowly backs away from the cameras, his grand performance complete. Elvis has left the building. Three days ago, he found the time to grant me an audience for fifteen minutes, after which he discussed our “private” meeting with his favorite reporters.
If his review had been so thorough, he would know that Duke Russell had nothing to do with the rape and murder of Emily Broone eleven years ago. I hit the mute again and say, “No surprise there.”
“Has he ever granted clemency?” Duke asks.
“Of course not.”
There is a loud knock on the door and it swings open. Two guards enter and one is pushing a cart with the last meal. They leave it and disappear. Duke stares at the steak and fries and a rather slim slice of chocolate cake, and says, “No beer.”
“Enjoy your iced tea.”
He sits on the cot and begins to eat. The food smells delicious and it hits me that I have not eaten in at least twenty-four hours. “Want some fries?” he asks.
“No thanks.”
“I can’t eat all this. For some reason I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“How was your mom?”
He stuffs in a large chunk of steak and chews slowly. “Not too good, as you might expect. A lot of tears. It was pretty awful.”
The cell phone in my pocket vibrates and I grab it. I look at the caller ID and say, “Here it is.” I smile at Duke and say hello. It’s the law clerk at the Eleventh Circuit, a guy I know pretty well, and he informs me that his boss has just signed an order staying the execution on the grounds that more time is needed to determine whether Duke Russell received a fair trial. I ask him when the stay will be announced and he says immediately.
I look at my client and say, “You got a stay. No needle tonight. How long will it take to finish that steak?”
“Five minutes,” he says with a wide smile as he carves more beef.
“Can you give me ten minutes?” I ask the clerk. “My client would like to finish his last meal.” We go back and forth