The Last Plea Bargain by Randy Singer Page A

hold my hands or talk slower or faster or look toward a different spot. When they finally said, “It’s a wrap,” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
    The mudslinging commercials from the other candidates started running on Saturday, and “Women for Masterson” responded on Sunday. Despite the counterpunch, Masterson’s consultants worried that he had dipped in the polls. “Negative ads work,” they told him. “Positive commercials are just damage control. We need to think of something more creative. We need a game changer.”

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    On the three-hour trip from death row to Rabun County, Mace kept himself occupied with thoughts about Antoine Marshall’s living conditions. Because of two attempted death-row suicides last year, Marshall and the other inmates were being held in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day and were limited to noncontact visits from lawyers, clergy, and family members. Antoine had no family, and his only occasional visitor was Mace.
    Over the past eleven years, Mace had watched his client go through cycles of despair and hope. Sometimes Antoine would stay depressed for months. But when he was in a manic phase, he would furiously scribble notes of future sermons he intended to preach once his innocence was finally established. He was studying to be a pastor, and he had visions of leading the down-and-out to Christ. His slant on the New Testament, which Mace found refreshing and entirely consistent with his own, saw Jesus as a defender of the oppressed and powerless. And Antoine was ready to be his wingman.
    Antoine also spent time writing letters. He had some female pen pals from the more liberal European countries, two of whom had proposed to Antoine. He had also written letters to the Brock family, though only Chris had bothered to respond.
    It was late Friday afternoon when Mace pulled into the parking lot of Chris Brock’s church—First Baptist Church of Rabun, Georgia. Driving his truck, Mace felt right at home in the Georgia mountains. Normally, Mace would ride his Harley on a beautiful spring day like this one. But he would have enough stereotypes to overcome as Antoine Walker’s defense lawyer, so he’d left the Harley at home.
    The church was small and nondescript, like a thousand other Baptist churches in rural Georgia. Pastor Brock ministered to about a hundred salt-of-the-earth types, true conservative believers devoted to God, guns, and the Georgia Bulldogs, though not necessarily in that order.
    A receptionist whose nameplate identified her as Diane greeted Mace suspiciously, probably thinking he was looking for a handout. Mace explained who he was, and her skepticism turned into thinly masked hostility. “Pastor Brock is at the parsonage this afternoon,” she said. “Perhaps next time you could call for an appointment.”
    â€œCould you call him and ask if I could stop by?” Mace asked. “I promise I won’t take more than a half hour of his time.”
    Diane frowned. Pastor Brock’s time was apparently very important, especially when the lawyer representing his mother’s killer was asking. Mace could see her mind formulating excuses. She looked like she was regretting the fact that she already told him the pastor was at the parsonage. “He’s probably studying for Sunday’s sermon,” Diane said. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s in the middle of Sunday prep.”
    â€œYou’re very good. And I appreciate what you’re doing for the reverend. But, ma’am, I could find out from a hundred different people here in Rabun where the pastor lives. I’d rather not show up unannounced on his doorstep, but I’ve driven more than three hours, and I really need to talk to him for just a few minutes. If I were him, I’d want you to call and let me know.”
    Diane shook her head and let out a big sigh. What could one expect