Cruel and Unusual - Cornwell Patricia (книги онлайн полные версии .txt) 📗

“What constitutional violations are you referring to?” I asked.

“How much time do you have? But let's begin with the prosecution's obvious use of peremptory challenges in a racially discriminatory manner. Ronnie's rights under the equal protection clause were violated from hell to breakfast, and prosecutorial misconduct blatantly infringed his Sixth Amendment right to a jury drawn from a fair cross section of the community. I don't suppose you saw Ronnie's trial or even know much about it since it was more than nine years ago and you were not in Virginia. The local publicity was overwhelming, and yet there was no change of venue. The jury was comprised of eight women and four men. Six of the women and two of the men were white. The four black jurors were a car salesman, a bank teller, a nurse, and a college professor. The professions of the white jurors ranged from a retired railroad switchman who still called blacks 'niggers' to a rich housewife whose only exposure to blacks was when she watched the news and saw that another one of them had shot someone in the projects. The demographics of the jury made it impossible for Ronnie to be sentenced fairly.”

“And you're saying that such a constitutional impropriety or any other in Waddell's case was politically motivated? What possible political motivation could there have been for putting Ronnie Waddell to death?”

Grueman suddenly glanced toward the door. “Unless my ears deceive me, I believe lunch has arrived.”

I heard rapid footsteps and paper crinkle, then a voice called out, “Yo, Nick. You in here?”

“Come on in, Joe,” Grueman said without getting up from his desk.

An energetic young black man in blue jeans and tennis shoes appeared and placed two bags in front of Grueman.

“This one's got the drinks, and in here we got two sailor sandwiches, potato salad, and pickles. That's fifteen-forty.”

“Keep the change. And look, Joe, I appreciate it. Don't they ever give you a vacation?”

“People don't quit eating, man. Gotta run.”

Grueman distributed the food and napkins while I desperately tried to figure out what to do. I was finding myself increasingly swayed by his demeanor and words, for there was nothing shifty about him, nothing that struck me as condescending or insincere.

“What political motivation?” I asked him again as I unwrapped my sandwich.

He popped open a ginger ale and removed the top from his container of potato salad.

“Several weeks ago I thought I might just get an answer to that question,” he said. “But then the person who could have helped me was suddenly found dead inside her car. And I'm quite certain you know who I'm talking about, Dr. Scarpetta. Jennifer Deighton is one of your cases, and although it has yet to be publicly stated that her death is a suicide, that is what one has been led to believe. I find the timing of her death rather remarkable, if not chilling.”

“Am I to understand that you knew Jennifer Deighton?” I asked as blandly as possible.

“Yes and no. I'd never met her, and our telephone conversations, what few we had, were very brief. You see, I never contacted her until after Ronnie was dead.”

“From which I am also to understand that she knew Waddell.”

Grueman took a bite of his sandwich and reached for his ginger ale. “She and Ronnie definitely knew each other,” he said. “As you must know, Miss Deighton had a horoscope service, was into parapsychology and that sort of thing. Well, eight years ago, when Ronnie was on death row in Mecklenburg, he happened to see an advertisement for her services in some magazine. He wrote to her, initially in hopes that she could look into her crystal ball, so to speak, and tell him his future. Specifically, I think he wanted to know if he was going to die in the electric chair, and this is not an uncommon phenomenon - inmates writing psychics, palm readers, and asking about their futures, or contacting the clergy and asking for prayers. What was a little more unusual in Ronnie's case was that he and Miss Deighton apparently began an intimate correspondence that lasted until several months before his death. Then her letters to him suddenly stopped.”

“Are you considering that her letters to him might have been intercepted?”

“There is no question about that. When I talked to Jennifer Deighton on the telephone, she claimed that she had continued to write to Ronnie. She also said that she had received no letters from him over the past several months, and I'm very suspicious that this is because his letters were intercepted as well.”

“Why did you wait to contact her until after the execution?” I puzzled.

“I did not know about her before then. Ronnie said nothing about her to me until our last conversation, which was, perhaps, the strangest conversation I've ever had with any inmate I've represented.”

Grueman toyed with his sandwich and then pushed it away from him. He reached for his pipe. “I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Dr. Scarpetta, but Ronnie quit on me.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“The last time I talked with Ronnie was one week before he was to be transported from Mecklenburg to Richmond. At that time, he stated that he knew he was going to be executed and that nothing I did was going to make a difference. He said that what was going to happen to him had been set into motion since the beginning and he had accepted the inevitability of his death. He said that he was looking foward to dying and preferred that I cease pursuing federal habeas corpus relief. Then he requested that I not call him or come see him again.”

“But he didn't fire you.”

Grueman shot flame into the bowl of his briar pipe and sucked on the stem. “No, he did not. He simply refused to see me or talk to me on the phone.”

“It would seem that this alone would have warranted a stay of execution pending a competency determination,” I said.

“I tried that. I tried citing everything from Hays versus Murphy to the Lord's Prayer. The court rendered the brilliant decision that Ronnie had not asked to be executed. He'd simply stated that he looked forward to death, and the petition was denied.”

“If you had no contact with Waddell in the several weeks before his execution, then how did you learn of Jennifer Deighton?”

“During my last conversation with Ronnie he made three last requests of me. The first was that I see to it that a meditation he had written was published in the newspaper days before his death. He gave this to me and I worked it out with the Richmond Times-Dispatch.”

“I read it,” I said.

“His second request - and I quote - was 'Don't let nothing happen to my friend.’

And I asked him what friend he referred to, and he said, and again I quote, 'If you're a good man, look out for her. She never hurt no one.’

He gave me her name and asked me not to contact her until after his death. Then I was to call and tell her how much she had meant to him. Well, of course I did not abide by that wish to the letter. I tried to contact her immediately because I knew I was losing Ronnie and I felt that something was terribly wrong. My hope was that this friend might be able to help. If they had corresponded with each other, for example, then maybe she could enlighten me.”

“And did you reach her?”

I asked, recalling Marino's telling me that Jennifer Deighton had been in Florida for two weeks around Thanksgiving.

“No one ever answered the phone,” Grueman replied. “I tried on and off for several weeks, and then, to be frank, because of timing and health fortuities relating to the pace of litigation, the holidays, and a god-awful ambush of gout, my attention was diverted. I did not think to call Jennifer Deighton again until Ronnie was dead and I needed to contact her and convey, per Ronnie's request, that she had meant a lot to him, et cetera.”

“When you had attempted to reach her earlier,” I said, “did you leave messages on her answering machine?”