The Guardians

JOHN GRISHAM is the author of thirty-three novels, one work of nonfiction, a collection of stories, and six novels for young readers.

1 Duke Russell is not guilty of the unspeakable crimes for which he was convicted; nonetheless, he is scheduled to be executed for them in one hour and forty&four minutes. As always during these dreadful nights, the clock seems to tick faster as the final hour approaches. I've suffered through two of these countdowns in other states. One went full cycle and my man uttered his final words. The other was waved off in a miracle finish. Tick away-it's not going to happen, not tonight anyway. The folks who run Alabama may one day succeed in serving Duke his last meal before sticking a needle in his arm, but not tonight. He's been on death row for only nine years. The average in this state is fifteen. Twenty is not unusual. There is an appeal bouncing around somewhere in the Eleventh Circuit in Atlanta, and when it lands on the desk of the right law clerk within the hour this execution will be stayed. Duke will return to the horrors of solitary confinement and live to die another day. He's been my client for the past four years. His team includes a mammoth firm in Chicago, which has committed thousands of pro bono hours, and an anti-death penalty group out of Birmingham that is spread pretty thin. Four years ago, when I became convinced he was innocent, I signed on as the point man. Currently I have five cases, all wrongful convictions, at least in my opinion. I've watched one of my clients die. I still believe he was innocent. I just couldn't prove it in time. One is enough. For the third time today, I enter Alabama's death row and stop at the metal detector blocking the front door where two frowning guards are protecting their turf. One holds a clipboard and stares at me as if he's forgotten my name since my last visit two hours ago. "Post, Cullen Post," I say to the dunce. "For Duke Russell." He scans his clipboard as if it holds vital information, finds what he wants, and nods to a plastic basket on a short conveyor belt. In it, I place my briefcase and cell phone, same as before. "Watch and belt?" I ask like a real smart‑ass. "No," he grunts with an effort. I step through the detector, get cleared, and once again an innocence lawyer manages to properly enter death row without weaponry. I grab my briefcase and cell phone and follow the other guard down a sterile hallway to a wall of bars. He nods, switches click and clang, the bars slide open, and we hike down another hallway, trudging deeper into this miserable building. Around a corner, some men are waiting outside a windowless steel door. Four are in uniform, two in suits. One of the latter is the warden. He looks gravely at me and steps over. "Got a minute?" "Not many," I reply. We move away from the group for a private chat. He's not a bad guy, just doing his job, which he's new at and thus he's never pulled off an execution. He's also the enemy, and whatever he wants he will not get from me. We huddle up like pals and he whispers, "What's it look like?" I glance around as if to evaluate the situation and say, "Gee, I don't know. Looks like an execution to me." "Come on, Post. Our lawyers are saying it's a go." "Your lawyers are idiots. We've already had this conversation." "Come on, Post. What are the odds right now?" "Fifty&fifty," I say, lying. This puzzles him and he's not sure how to respond. "I'd like to see my client," I say. "Sure," he says louder as if frustrated. He can't be viewed as cooperating with me, so he storms off. The guards step back as one of them opens the door. Inside the Death Room, Duke is lying on a cot with his eyes closed. For the festivities, the rules allow him a small color television so he can watch whatever he wants. It's on mu