She liked her coffee strong but milky and the machine never quite got it right. She also liked it sugary, and that the machine usually did get right. It was often hard for her to get a coffee break, even though she was entitled to three per shift, because the other nurses frequently came to her with their problems, both personal and professional. So she made sure to get her caffeine fix before her shift started.
Using the remote, she turned the sound down, mindful of the fact that at this time most of the in-patients were sleeping. On the screen, a well-groomed, thirty-something woman, with somewhat underplayed oriental looks, was talking to the camera. She was wearing a smart blue suit, with a mid-length skirt and slightly tight jacket, designed to emphasize her firm, athletic figure, without over-emphasizing it.
But then a face came on that caught Susan’s attention. A photograph of a young woman, almost like a mugshot. Susan felt an uneasy stirring as her eyes focussed on the screen.
She picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The voiceover of an American female reporter could be heard. It was one of those generic, female anchorwoman voices, the kind that all sound alike, the trained confident voice that always carries a trace of sarcasm or bitchiness, but only the merest hint. Or maybe it was just the hard edge that was required to make it in what once had been a man’s world.
‘Dorothy Olsen never had a happy life. She was bullied at school, her parents broke up when she was in her teens and she never had any real friends. Just over nine years ago, on May 23, 1998—the day of her high school prom—Dorothy Olsen disappeared, never to be seen again.’
The picture changed to that of a man whom the nurse didn’t recognize. This one was definitely a mugshot.
‘Clayton Burrow is the man convicted of murdering Dorothy Olsen. At the time she first disappeared, she was classified as a missing person. It was widely assumed that the harsh treatment she received at the hands of her classmates, which drew comparisons with Stephen King’s famous novel Carrie, prompted her to run away. There was speculation that she had committed suicide, although no body was ever found.’
Susan White raised the Styrofoam coffee cup to her lips with a growing sense of unease. The picture of Burrow disappeared, to be replaced by the reporter.
‘Foxy news’ was how one of the young male nurses had described it, whenever he saw her. The joke was wearing thin now.
In the background the grim, bland entrance to San Quentin State Prison was visible.
‘However,’ the reporter continued, ‘all that changed just under eight years ago, on October 19, 1999, when the police, acting on an anonymous call, found parts of Dorothy Olsen’s body in Clayton Burrow’s freezer. They also found other incriminating evidence hidden under the floorboards, which Burrow was unable to explain, such as a blood-stained knife with Burrow’s fingerprints and blood-stained panties with semen traces. DNA matched the semen to Clayton Burrow and the blood to Dorothy Olsen. There was also evidence that Dorothy Olsen had bought some expensive jewelry with money from her trust fund shortly before she disappeared. But none of it has ever been found.’
Nurse White felt something wet and hot on her wrist and fingers. She realized that her hand was shaking and she had spilt the coffee. She put the cup down and wiped the front of her uniform. But she didn’t take her eyes off the screen.
‘Despite his protests of innocence, Burrow was unable to explain away the evidence against him and, on February 20, 2001, he was found guilty of murder with special circumstances. Just over a week later he was sentenced to death. Now he is scheduled to die in just over fourteen hours. Martine Yin, Eyewitness News, San Quentin.’
Nurse White gripped the arms of the chair tensely, her heartbeat picking up speed.
‘As you say, Alex, a quid pro quo.’ Dusenbury turned to Mrs Olsen. ‘Esther, maybe you’d like to explain.’
Esther Olsen sat up slowly. It was a struggle, but she forced herself. Alex sensed her difficulty as he watched her painful movements. He adjusted his chair to face her, moving slightly to make it easier for her to look at him.
‘Mr Sedaka,’—her voice was shaky—‘I do not know you, but you are a good man. At least, I have been told that you are a good man.’
Alex nodded. There was not much he could say really. To agree would be arrogant; to disagree, ungracious. In any case that was clearly just the preamble to what she wanted to say.
‘I know that you only came in on this case recently and I know that you have a duty to help your client.’
Again he nodded, trying to make it reassuring. Whatever she was about to say, he knew that it must be painful. It must have cost her a helluva lot to reach the decision to ask the governor to grant clemency to the man who had murdered her daughter.
‘Mr Sedaka, in Hebrew your name means both “charity” and “righteousness” and I hope those are ideals that you live up to.’
Like Esther Olsen, Alex was Jewish and, although he had long ceased to practice the religion of his childhood, he still remembered much of what he had learned about it in the first fourteen years of his life. He knew about the meaning of his name, or rather the Hebrew word ‘tsedaka,’ from which the family name Sedaka was derived.
‘I am dying, Mr Sedaka. I have cancer of the pancreas and the doctors have told me that I have at most a few months left to live. I was estranged from my daughter, for reasons too complicated to go into. One of my biggest regrets is that we never got the chance to make it up.’
‘Was this disagreement shortly before she died?’
Alex didn’t know why he had asked it. But he knew that it was more than just idle curiosity.
‘No, this was several years before she died. I always thought—I always hoped—that the passage of time would heal the wounds. But it was not to be. We were never reconciled.’
She took a deep breath, struggling to speak.
‘To outlive one’s own child is a terrible thing, Mr Sedaka. But if there is one thing worse than to outlive one’s child, it is to part from those we love on bad terms. And that is the pain that I will carry with me to my grave.’
Her eyes were welling up with tears now and Alex felt a lump in his own throat.
‘It is too late for me now to be reconciled with my daughter and I do not know if we will be at peace with each other in the next life, because I do not know if there is a next life. But there is one thing that I want to do in this life and that is to give her a proper burial…or…at least to know where she is buried.’
Now, at last, it was all falling into place.
Alex turned to Mrs Olsen.
‘So let me see if I’ve understood this correctly. You want me to get my client to reveal where he has dispo—where he has buried the body. And in return for this, you have asked for Burrow to get clemency and to serve a sentence of…what?’ He turned to the governor. ‘Life without parole?’
Dusenbury nodded. Obviously the governor wasn’t going to give Burrow a complete amnesty. Alex looked to Esther Olsen.
‘That is all I ask, Mr Sedaka. That is a mother’s dying wish.’
Alex lowered his eyes, overwhelmed by his own emotions. How, he asked himself, could my client have been so evil as to do what he did? How could he be so cruel as to put a mother through this?