“It’s not him I’m working for. For me, it comes down to one thing: I don’t believe any government should be putting its own citizens to death. Here in D.C. we voted against it, and the government’s just gonna say, We don’t give a good goddamn what you want, we’re gonna execute this man anyway. And that’s not right.”
“Maybe it will make some kid who’s thinking about getting into the life think twice.”
“That’s the argument. But in most civilized countries where they don’t have the death penalty, they’ve got virtually no murders. ’Cause they’ve got the guns off the street, they’ve got little real poverty, and they got citizens who get involved in raising their own kids. The same people who are pro–death penalty are the ones want to protect the rights of gun manufacturers to export death into the inner cities. Hell, we got an attorney general sold on capital punishment and at the same time he’s in the pocket of the NRA.”
“Well, yeah, but he doesn’t think people should dance, either.”
“I’m serious, Terry, shit doesn’t even make any sense. Look, an active death row doesn’t deter crime; ain’t nobody ever proved that. It’s all about some politicians lookin’ to be tough so they can get reelected the next time around. And that makes it bullshit to me. I’d do this for anyone who was facing that sentence.”
“What about McVeigh?”
“You know what they do in prison to people who kill kids? McVeigh got off easy, man; that boy just went to sleep. They should’ve put him in with the general population for as long as he could live. Trust me, wouldn’t have been long. But they did him to get the ball rolling on this wave of executions we got coming. Wasn’t nobody gonna object, for real, to McVeigh’s death. A week later, they put that cat Garza down, and nobody even blinked an eye. Now that the ice got broke, next thing, a line of black and brown men gonna go into that chamber in Terre Haute, and bet it, it’ll barely make the news.”
“Here we go.”
“Look here, Terry. Out of the twenty men they got on federal death row right now, sixteen are black or Hispanic.”
“Could be they did the crimes.”
“And it could be they got substandard representation. Could be they found a death-qualified jury that’s more likely to find guilt than the other kind. Could be the prosecutors used those Willie Horton images to convince the jury that what they had was another nigger needed to be permanently took off the street. And I’m not even gonna talk about where these men came from, the opportunities and guidance they didn’t have when they were coming up. You gonna sit there and tell me that this isn’t about class or race?”
“It’s about Granville Oliver, to me. Everything you’re saying, it makes some sense. But it all comes down to the simple question: Did Oliver do what they say he did?”
“That’s off the point.”
“It is the whole point, way I look at it. If he did those things, then I wouldn’t want to do anything to help him get off. I’m looking to stay on the right side from now on. You keep on the Oliver thing, you want to. But it’s not for me.”
Strange and Quinn noticed that their faces had become close and their voices had risen. They both moved back and sat straight. Strange looked down the bar and nodded to a man he knew, a Stan’s regular.
“What’s goin’ on, Junie?”
“I’m makin’ it, Strange.”
Strange sipped at his scotch while Quinn had a pull off his beer and set the bottle on the bar.
“I’m gonna use the head,” said Quinn.
“That vein of yours is standin’ out on your face.”
“So what?”
“Don’t get up in anyone’s shit, is all I’m sayin’.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Quinn walked toward the men’s room. At a large table near the hall, a man wearing sunglasses sat with a group of six. As Quinn neared him, the man’s white cane, which had been leaning against his chair, fell to the floor. Quinn picked it up and replaced it.
“Thank you,” said the man.
“No problem,” said Quinn.
Junie moved down a stool so he could get closer to Strange. When they ran into each other, the two of them generally talked about local sports, who was coming out of what high school and where they were headed, and the ’Skins.
“That friend of yours is wound up a little tight, isn’t he?” said Junie.
“He’s okay.” Strange smiled over Junie’s shoulder at a nice-looking woman who was smiling at him. It was a habit he would never break.