One assistant was busy going through the piles of dog-eared discovery, which had been gone through a hundred times before. Ruby saw the missing person report and what she had found, including her hastily written report on Alonzo Pettibone. None of it mattered. She had worked cases where she had found outright exculpatory evidence—including DNA results that proved innocence—and still the man died. By law, it wasn’t enough to find new evidence. The defense had to provethat the prosecutors had known about the evidence, known it was exculpatory, and then withheld it deliberately. This was called a Brady violation, and it was an almost impossible legal standard to meet.
But in truth, she thought, not even the law mattered. At least not as much as some people thought. When Ruby successfully exonerated someone, it was usually because she found a motivation that overrode the risk—a greater reward to do good rather than maintain the status quo. It was risky to grant clemency, or order a new trial, or give a pardon. In many parts of the country, like this one, overturning a death penalty conviction could destroy a career. People needed to have a reason for taking that kind of risk. Only in rare cases was it their conscience. More often it was because their back was to the wall, or they had an ulterior motive. Ruby had developed her reputation in part because she knew the game, and understood how to play it. She didn’t judge. She knew humanity well enough to know that even the powerful were scared. You had to make it worth their while. You had to protect their interests.
Though it was early in the morning, Terrence was already in his court suit, his tie unknotted, his shirt carefully pressed. He was readying for a last-minute trip to the state supreme court, to plead for a hearing on Mitchell’s behalf. He and Ruby both knew how that would end. His throat was sore from arguing in court, and he sucked a lozenge as they tried to enlarge the photograph of the brown Datsun on his screen.
Another assistant leaned over them, trying to help.
“This isn’t a cop show,” the assistant joked.
Ruby smiled. In the cop shows, the police hit a magic button and a fuzzy video from down the street could be read. But the truth was, you can’t create what wasn’t there in the first place. If the original video didn’t capture the details, there was no way to get them.
Which seemed to be the case here. They could make out the fir tree in the middle, but the letters would never be clear.
“The police were able to read it—if they found him,” she said.
“Are you sure about that?” Terrence asked.
Ruby sat back in her pulled-up chair, thinking. Around them, other assistants shuffled papers, and one held out case law to Terrence, who accepted it. He shoved it in his battered briefcase.
“No. You’re right. Wes Rogers was the kind of man who had a record—and a parole officer,” she said. “They could have found him that way. The bartender could have put them in touch with the cook. Mary Baldwin could have been located from her declined credit card.”
“And the driver of the brown Datsun?”
He glanced at his watch and rose, knotting his tie, looking down at her with sympathy. He felt bad for pulling her in so last-minute, but he admired her for trying so hard.
Ruby was staring at the grainy picture. She had thought before that the car was nondescript. But it wasn’t. There was a good-sized dent on one bumper and what looked like bumper stickers, scraped off.
“Someone recognized this car,” she said.
“Who?”
“I’ve got an idea. Tell me more about your governor. What’s he like?”
Terrence gave one last look at his watch.
“What do you need to know, besides the fact that he’s never granted clemency? The courts are our only hope.”
It’s too late for that, Ruby thought, and he knows it.
“What does he care about?” she pressed.
He began to walk away, not out of rudeness, but necessity.
“His career, like all of them. Like all of us, I guess.”
Then he was gone, and the assistant turned to her, smiling in apology.
“Is the governor up for reelection?” Ruby asked the assistant.
“Next year,” the young man said.
“He secure?”
“Not really. Lots going on in the state—more crime, homelessness—and people are pointing fingers.”
Ruby knew what that meant. He wouldn’t stop the execution if it were Mother Teresa in the chair. Unless, Ruby reminded herself, she made it worth his while.
The young officer at the limestone vaults seemed happy to see her. Ruby couldn’t imagine how boring his days were, sitting in his cage above this airless archive. He signed her in on his clipboard and they rode the rickey elevator down. They were at the bottom—eight floors deep—when he finally jerked the lever. The air felt even tighter down here.
