The Life We Bury by Allen Eskens Page B

be innocent, the sole voice arguing against my conclusion that Carl Iverson had been justly punished. As I dug out the card, Janet leaned across the reception desk and whispered, “He didn't take his pain medication today. He wanted to be clear headed when you came. He'll probably be out of it all day tomorrow.”
    I didn't respond to Janet. I didn't know what to say.

It had been a couple weeks since I got the call from the public defender's office telling me that the rest of Carl's file had been readied. I felt bad about that. I felt bad because I still hadn't picked it up. Had Virgil Gray not suggested that we meet downtown, that box would likely have stayed at the public defender's office. My assignment was time consuming enough without having to read a stack of files up to my knee. But when I called Virgil, he suggested that we meet in a small courtyard outside the government center in downtown Minneapolis. And that is where I found him, sitting on a granite bench at the edge of the courtyard, his cane resting against his good leg. He watched me as I crossed the length of the square, not waving or otherwise acknowledging me.
    â€œMr. Gray.” I held out my hand; he shook it with the enthusiasm you might show for leftover broccoli. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”
    â€œWhy are you writing his story?” Virgil asked bluntly. He didn't look at me when he spoke, his eyes focused on the fountain in the center of the courtyard.
    â€œExcuse me?” I said.
    â€œWhy are you writing his story? What's in it for you?”
    I sat on the bench beside Mr. Gray. “I told you. It's an English assignment.”
    â€œYes, but why him? Why Carl? You could write about anyone. Hell, you could make up a story. Your teacher would never know the difference.”
    â€œWhy not Carl?” I asked. “He has an interesting story to tell.”
    â€œYou're just using him,” Virgil said. “Carl's been screwed over more than any man deserves. I don't think it's right, what you're doing.”
    â€œWell, if he has been screwed, like you say, wouldn't it be good to have someone tell that story?”
    â€œSo that's what you're doing?” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “That's the story you're telling? You're writing about how Carl got screwed, about how he was convicted for a crime he didn't commit?”
    â€œI haven't written any story yet. I'm still trying to figure out what the story is about. That's why I came to see you. You said he's innocent.”
    â€œHe is innocent.”
    â€œWell, so far you're the only one saying that. The jury, the prosecutor, hell, I think his own attorney, believed he was guilty.”
    â€œThat don't make it true.”
    â€œYou didn't stand up for Carl at his trial. You didn't testify.”
    â€œThey wouldn't let me testify. I wanted to testify, but they wouldn't let me.”
    â€œWho wouldn't they let you testify?”
    Virgil looked up at a sky the color of fireplace ash. The trees around the courtyard had stripped down to their winter skeletons, and a cold wind swept across the cobblestone and up the back of my neck. “His attorneys,” Virgil said, “they wouldn't let me tell the jury about him. They told me that if I testified, it would be character evidence. I told ’em damn straight it'd be character evidence. They need to know the real Carl, not that pile of lies the prosecutor was shoveling. They said if I talked about Carl's character, the prosecutor could also talk about Carl's character, about how he drank all day, couldn't keep a job, all that bullshit.”
    â€œSo, what would you have said if you'd testified?”
    Virgil turned, looking me in the eye, sizing me up one more time, his cold, gray irises reflecting the gathering clouds. “I met Carl Iverson in Vietnam in 1967. We were dumb kids fresh out of boot camp. Did a tour in the jungle with him—doing things, seeing things