On a Sunday afternoon in the middle of football season, I ride with Emily to visit the condemned man\u2019s family.\u00a0 This is probably for the best since I\u2019ve lately come to realize that football games are what those in the program refer to as one of my triggers.\u00a0 The family lives a couple hours west of Nashville in a methamphetamine wreck called Garance.\u00a0 The town is encircled by tract houses, a nine-hole golf course, and two Wal-Marts, one off exit 59, the other off exit 62, and the city proper looks like it\u2019s recovering from a spring cylone.\u00a0 Boarded Dairy Queens, unmowed parks, and flat-tired vans with faded bumper stickers.\u00a0 My kid beat up your honor student.\u00a0 Kerry\/Edwards.\u00a0 We pull in front of a house with an artificial lawn that looks like a worn out putting green.<\/p>\n
Emily brushes her hands through my beard and rests her hand under my jaw.\u00a0 \u201cYou okay, darling?\u201d\u00a0 This is a question she asks me often.\u00a0 The beard I\u2019m still getting used to.<\/p>\n
\u201cDoing fine and cherry wine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis could get weird.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI loves me some weird.\u201d<\/p>\n
At the door, we\u2019re greeted by an exhausted looking blonde in her twenties.\u00a0 Around her eyes, she\u2019s developed dark patches but otherwise, Emily will tell me later, she has really good skin.<\/p>\n
\u201cHi, Kayla.\u00a0 I\u2019m Emily Littlejohn.\u00a0 We\u2019ve spoken on the phone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh yeah,\u201d Kayla says.\u00a0 She backs off just enough to let Emily inside.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019re you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is my boyfriend, William.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBilly,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cOr Bill.\u00a0 Whatever.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou a lawyer too?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s studying for the bar.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m with her.\u00a0 I can go sit in the car if you like.\u201d<\/p>\n
There are many reasons I don\u2019t want to be here.\u00a0 For one thing, I\u2019m not studying for the bar.\u00a0 I have yet to finish law school and I\u2019m not sure I\u2019ll be allowed back if I try.\u00a0 More important, there are the things I know about this condemned man that Emily does not.<\/p>\n
In the early hours of July 16th, 2003, Dwayne Ronald Brewer, then 23, was trying to sleep alone in his garage apartment two blocks away when he heard a loud noise that sounded like a break in.\u00a0 He grabbed the Sig Saurer that he kept beside his bed, just as his survivalist father did.\u00a0\u00a0 When he stepped out of his bedroom, in only his underwear, he saw two men.\u00a0 The slouch of their shoulders and stiffness of their arms meant they were strapped.\u00a0 Dwayne Ronald Brewer squeezed off four shots, two at each head, the way his father taught him.\u00a0 It was to his great misfortune that he killed both men, Ryan Reynolds and Eladio Jimenez, both Tennessee state troopers who were in his house with a warrant sworn in confidence by an informant who indicated that Mr. Brewer was in possession the ingredients and equipment for a meth lab and a stockpile of weapons.\u00a0 To the jury that convicted him, it did not matter that Brewer wound up being in possession of less than half an ounce of marijuana\u2014not even possession with intent, not even in Tennessee\u2014and a few assorted pieces of paraphernalia, nor did it matter that the only weapon he possessed was the single Sig, for which he had a conceal and carry permit.\u00a0 Otherwise no weapons, drugs, or even allergy medicine were found on the premises.\u00a0 The jury convicted him after less than four hours of deliberation and a day later sentenced him to die by lethal injection at Riverbend MSI.\u00a0 These things Emily knows.\u00a0 In fact, she related them to me on our first date.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d The voice is old and angry and worn out.<\/p>\n
\u201cHi, Mrs. Brewer,\u201d Emily yells over Kayla\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, Emily.\u00a0 Come on in.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0 With that Emily walks past Kayla and into the living room.<\/p>\n
The taupe carpet is worn thin in spots and the room smells like cigarettes and stale biscuits.\u00a0 Emily hugs the older woman, Ronnie Brewer\u2019s mother.\u00a0 \u201cHow\u2019s Arthur, dear?\u201d Arthur is not her son sitting on death row, but the son\u2019s dog, a German Shepherd Emily has agreed to take care of until, in her words, things get sorted out. <\/em>Needless to say, this is not in her job description.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s good, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNow who\u2019s this?\u201d\u00a0 Mrs. Brewer\u2019s walker, I notice, has two hollowed out tennis at the bottom.<\/p>\n Emily pauses to introduce me and retell her fib about my studying for the bar exam.\u00a0 For the next twenty minutes, Emily updates them on the status of the appeal.\u00a0 Given the neutral expressions on the women\u2019s faces, I\u2019m guessing things are unchanged since the last time they spoke.\u00a0 Suddenly I hear a deep wailing.\u00a0 Kayla sits crying and hunched over on the sofa, her eyes mascara wet.\u00a0 \u201cI miss him so much,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n At this moment, I feel an acute craving, the most intense longing I\u2019ve had in some time.\u00a0 My skin tingles, my throat feels dry, and I would kill a child for a glass of beer.<\/p>\n Emily turns left and puts her arm around Kayla.\u00a0 \u201cOf course you do, sweetie.\u00a0 It\u2019s okay.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0 Kayla by now has collapsed into Emily\u2019s chest.\u00a0 She strokes the girl\u2019s hair behind her ears.\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s okay. It\u2019s okay.\u00a0 He\u2019s coming home.\u201d<\/p>\n This is where I want to laugh, but Emily catches my eye.\u00a0 With a weeping mother at one shoulder, and a weeping baby-mama at the other, Emily tilts her head toward the empty seat on the couch next to Kayla.\u00a0 I sit on the sofa and suddenly both my hands are clenched, locked between the fingers, with the thin-fingered and dry-skinned Kayla on my right and the plump, arthritic on my left.\u00a0 Emily keeps an eye on me and we pray.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There\u2019s still daylight left when we get back to Nashville.\u00a0 It\u2019s a mild October day and Arthur the dog is behaving well.\u00a0 To those, like me, who love her Emily has told the story of Ronnie Brewer repeatedly and each time, I ask her the same questions.\u00a0 I try and convince her to take a step back from the lives of the Brewer family.\u00a0 We repeat an argument we\u2019ve had before.<\/p>\n \u201cSo,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cHe shot two cops.\u201d<\/p>\n She takes a quick drag from a Camel Light.\u00a0 \u201cYes, William.\u00a0 But he didn\u2019t know that when he fired the shots.\u00a0 He was protecting his property\u2026\u201d\u00a0 Her shoulders stiffen when she talks about \u201cRonnie\u201d and she gestures wildly with her hands.<\/p>\n \u201cBut he shot two cops with an unregistered firearm and he was high at the time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus, William.\u00a0 Put yourself in his shoes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t call me William.\u00a0 And there is such a thing as luck in life.\u201d\u00a0 I would like to add, for instance, that my parents had bad luck when the semi truck driving eastbound on I-40 hit a patch of ice and spun and lost a tire that shot across four lanes of highway and straight through the windshield of my father\u2019s Toyota Tundra, but that would be self-pitying and I was told in recovery that pity is a drug far stronger than alcohol<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be a child,\u201d she says.\u00a0 \u201cAnd you\u2019re an asshole.\u201d<\/p>\n They say that when the facts are on your side, argue the facts.\u00a0 When the law is on your side, argue the law.\u00a0 When neither is on your side, yell really loud and pound the podium.\u00a0 Emily isn\u2019t one to yell, but you get the idea.\u00a0 Still, I don\u2019t mind her emotional defenses, because\u2014and this is no exaggeration\u2014she saved my life.\u00a0 Emily is Ronald Brewer\u2019s legal counsel.\u00a0 He\u2019s a pro bono case of Actual Innocence, a pubic interest firm for whom she has been toiling for the last three years.\u00a0 They are sworn to take up the cause of every condemned man in the U.S. prisons.\u00a0 Even after three years of frustration and slave wages, she still thinks she\u2019s going to be the one to set the innocent man free or at the very least give some sort of dramatic appeal to the state supreme court, the valiant fighter for the lost cause or something like that.\u00a0 She\u2019s either unaware or doesn\u2019t care that Actual Innocence owes its existence to the guilty conscience of its founder, the lead defense attorney for last century\u2019s most notorious wife and waiter killer. \u00a0Neither option would surprise me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I met Emily a year and a half ago after a meeting, just after my release, those early days when I still had to wear sweat bands to cover my scars.\u00a0 Before the group I introduced myself and my disease, and shared my experience of going to the liquor store with a phony list of names in hand so the clerks would think the two cases of beer and two bottles of whiskey was meant for a party full of people and not for me to drink alone and of stashing cold beers in my night stand before I fell asleep to help me out of bed in the morning.\u00a0 I saw her watching me from the back of the room.\u00a0 She wore thick librarian glasses and her hair was tied up fashionably with strands that fell into her forehead.\u00a0 She appeared to be tearing up.\u00a0 She had a swan neck and, at first, with her dark hair, her olive complexion, her brown eyes I took her to be Italian.\u00a0 Afterwards I bummed a cigarette from her.\u00a0 \u201cCamel Lights,\u201d I said.\u00a0 \u201cJust like my mother.\u201d<\/p>\n She smiled and said she liked the way I shared.\u00a0 Over coffee, I learned she was not in fact Italian but Native American.\u00a0 On her Oklahoma driver\u2019s license, instead of listing the name of a town, it said Cherokee Nation.\u00a0 I asked her what it was like growing up on a reservation.<\/p>\n \u201cDepressing,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cI know about depressing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you know?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Here\u2019s what I know about depressing:\u00a0 I\u2019m a hairy guy.\u00a0 In that manner, I take after my father.\u00a0 Five o\u2019clock shadow at noon, that sort of thing.\u00a0 The last few years I became preoccupied with the closeness of my shave.\u00a0 Constantly I rubbed my chin and my sideburns for any trace of stubble.\u00a0 At first it was a harmless fixation like chewing your nails. I became convinced that a bad shave would sink every interview.\u00a0 When the five-blade razor came out after the Super Bowl0, I thought it might save me, but after a few weeks, I was back to the constant worrying over my face.\u00a0 I started taking a razor and shaving cream with me everywhere\u00a0\u00a0 At restaurants I would excuse myself and shave in men\u2019s room stalls.\u00a0 Then one afternoon, I saw an ad for a straight razor in Esquire magazine.\u00a0 I spent an obscene amount of money and ordered it, along with a camel\u2019s hair brush, and an oak lathering dish.\u00a0 One shave in the morning and my face stayed baby\u2019s ass smooth for thirty-six hours.<\/p>\n One day in February I got home from class early.\u00a0 I had my first beer just after four and my seventeenth six hours later.\u00a0 I stumbled into the bathroom and opened my shaving kit.\u00a0 I drew the tip of my index finger softly over the surface of blade and smiled at the sight of the sudden crimson blush. I sucked the blood away, savoring the metallic taste. <\/em>What happened next was ruled a suicide attempt, and if you argue the facts, I admit, it\u2019s easy to come away with that impression.\u00a0 Especially given what the doctor\u2019s referred to as my extenuating pressures\u2014law school, market saturation, six-figure student loans, my parents\u2019 passing.\u00a0 But I swear it wasn\u2019t like that.\u00a0 I was drunk and dumb and I just wanted to see more blood.\u00a0 I rested the blade on my left wrist and drew sideways.\u00a0 My straight razor managed to accomplish something that a hundred casual swipes with the Gillette Fusion never could.\u00a0 Soon after I fell to the tile of my bathroom floor.\u00a0 In the scheme of things, it was luck that rent near Vanderbilt had skyrocketed to the point where I had to settle for one-bedroom apartment in a poorly constructed duplex with exceptionally thin floors and walls.\u00a0 My tumble resounded with a thud in the bedroom of my downstairs neighbor, a medical student named Pradeep who had on several occasions expressed his frustration with my fondness for hip hop at late hours.\u00a0 Making good on a number of previous threats, Pradeep called the police.<\/p>\n \u201cI woke up,\u201d I told Emily.\u00a0 \u201cFour days later.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, William,\u201d she said.\u00a0 We had met only this once, two hours before.\u00a0 At the meeting I had introduced myself as Bill, the name on my business cards, though to myself and what friends I had left, I was and always would be Billy.\u00a0 It wasn\u2019t that tough to guess my Christian name, I admit, but still the way she said it, stretching it out to three syllables, iambic, with the stress on the ill <\/em>and the am<\/em>.\u00a0 It sounded like I was hearing my own name for the first time ever.\u00a0 She took my hand in hers and ran her thumb along the sweatband.\u00a0 \u201cCan I feel it?\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded.<\/p>\n She slid back the elastic and fingered the five inch long path of still-raw scar tissue and, as she did, she kept her eyes on mine.\u00a0 At one point, she bit her lip as if to suppress a smile.\u00a0 When she was done, she said thank you, but her hand, soft and bony with long, ringless fingers, did not retreat from mine.\u00a0 \u201cAre you okay to get home?\u201d she asked.\u00a0 \u201cDo you need a ride I mean?\u201d<\/p>\n I had my truck with me, but I said yes anyway.\u00a0 That night I stayed at her house, a quiet place on the north side of town with spare furnishings and more candles than a Catholic church.\u00a0 Within days I had a toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and two weeks later my ties were hanging in her closet.\u00a0 Last week, I drove to Memphis.\u00a0 My late father owned a chain of pawn shops there, and I met with a friend of his, a diamond wholesaler who sold me a 1.09 karat stone set in white gold for the reasonable price of the remainder of my life savings.\u00a0 I carry the ring with me everywhere torn between my fear that she might find it and my fear that I may lose it.\u00a0 I\u2019m waiting for the right moment to present itself.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The dog is asleep and Emily sits at the kitchen table, surrounded by law books, accordion boxes, an open laptop, clipped stacks of papers, and a burning halogen lamp.\u00a0 She\u2019s changed into a pair of running shorts and her feet are curled up beneath her, lotus style.\u00a0 \u201cHow\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood,\u201d she says, nodding. \u201cReal good.\u00a0 There are two precedents we can argue on the false affidavits.\u201d<\/p>\n The thing about Emily is that she may be the most compassionate, selfless, lovely person I\u2019ve known in my twenty-six years.\u00a0 But she is not a good lawyer.\u00a0 She keeps working the original warrant, though I keep telling her that does not matter.\u00a0 Two police were shot.\u00a0 No judge is going to question the word of two dead detectives any more than they\u2019d set fire to Old Glory in open court.<\/p>\n \u201cHave you looked into the competency of counsel?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe had Gary Albert.\u201d Emily says this in a tone that suggests that settles the matter.<\/p>\n Between Emily and I there still secrets.\u00a0 Another thing they tell you in recovery is that a person is as sick as their secrets.\u00a0 That\u2019s when I understood the old quandary about lawyers and addiction.\u00a0 It all seems simple now, one of those elusive bits of obvious that only occurs after you quit.\u00a0 If you keep secrets for a living the sickness sets in pretty deep.<\/p>\n Every relationship has its share of things left hidden.\u00a0 Some of them fall by the wayside\u2014for instance, I never did hike to the base camp of Mt. Everest when I was nineteen, and Emily\u2019s has had the good sense not to bring it up since the time I mentioned it.\u00a0 As it goes, that lie isn\u2019t a deal breaker.<\/p>\n Here\u2019s one that might be: Gary Albert, lead counsel for Ronald Dwayne Brewer, is a friend of mine.\u00a0 Friend may not be the right word, actually, but for a thousand dollars I couldn\u2019t come up with one better.\u00a0 It\u2019s the kind of secret I\u2019m obligated to keep and it wouldn\u2019t be such a big deal if Emily wouldn\u2019t have let herself get so attached.\u00a0 In any case, I know him well and I know some things about him that could help secure, at the least, a new trial for Ronnie Brewer.<\/p>\n Gary is fifty-seven years old, a beautiful man with gray hair and a movie star dimple in his chin.\u00a0 He is a legend in legal circles around Nashville, and he went insane around the same time I did.\u00a0 He and I were roommates for thirty days at the Mercer House.\u00a0 At the time of his admission, he was twice divorced and on the verge of disbarment.\u00a0 A jailhouse lawyer of unwavering liberal politics, Gary liked to tell stories.\u00a0 He told me about his twenty-two for twenty-four streak of acquittals when he worked at the P.D.\u2019s office in Davidson County.\u00a0 \u201cThe best part of it is,\u201d he would say. \u201cFifteen of them were as guilty as Dillinger.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNice,\u201d I said.\u00a0 \u201cBet you could have gotten him off too.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed.\u00a0 \u201cToo easy.\u00a0 Not worth my time.\u201d<\/p>\n Twenty-two for twenty-four as a public defender in Tennessee.\u00a0 It\u2019s hard to do a feat like that justice.\u00a0 That\u2019s like DiMaggio\u2019s hitting streak only if DiMaggio had been blind in one eye. A couple of weeks in, after we knew each other a little better, he told me about picking up his twins from soccer practice with a Big Gulp cup full of Dewars between his legs, and about bribing his son twenty dollars to lie to his mother about stops at the liquor store.\u00a0 He told us about the last few years, when he would start drinking at ten and show up for court seven beers into a twelve pack.\u00a0 \u201cGood Christ,\u201d he said.\u00a0 \u201cI argued death penalty cases sweating gin from every pore.\u201d\u00a0 He told me about fugue states and throwing up blood during recesses.\u00a0 After our month in Mercer House, we hugged, he gave me his card and wrote his private e-mail address on the back.\u00a0 \u201cI want to hear from you,\u201d he said with a slight tinge of desperation in his voice.<\/p>\n It\u2019s been over a year since Mercer House, and I feel bad for not having called him until now.\u00a0 He\u2019s agreed to meet me at Ruby\u2019s, an ancient, legendary barbeque that overlooks the Cumberland River.\u00a0 It\u2019s still hot in Nashville and the air-conditioning is barely functional.\u00a0 The tables have red-checkered cloths and wooden chairs and the walls are covered with photographs, a mixture of great moments in Tennessee sports history and autographed headshots of celebrities who have paid a visit.\u00a0 Kevin Dyson, Dabney Coleman, Wilford Brimley.\u00a0 I\u2019ve never been a freak for barbeque, but living with Emily, who\u2019s been a vegetarian since she was twelve, has made me crave for a tender slice of brisket.\u00a0 More importantly, this is Gary\u2019s favorite place and I want him to feel comfortable.<\/p>\n Gary ambles through the swinging front door and it takes a second for him to spot me.\u00a0 An R.L Burnside song blasts from a static overhead speaker.\u00a0 It\u2019s bad you know. <\/em>He\u2019s tanned and wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat and it\u2019s a good sign, I suppose, that this far out of the cooler he\u2019s retained his sober glow.\u00a0 I stand to shake hands.\u00a0 \u201cNo, no,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cNone of that shit.\u201d\u00a0 He spreads his arms and leans forward to hug me around the shoulder bear tight.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Gary.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey there, Grizzly Adams,\u201d he says, laughing.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know me and razors.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t you even be joking about that.\u201d\u00a0 After an awkward beat, he says: \u201cYou look good, Billy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou hitting on me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t flatter yourself, shitbird.\u00a0 Only your sister.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBetter my sister than my mom and my mom\u2019s not bad.\u201d\u00a0 When he removes his hat, his hair falls nearly to his shoulders in long salt-and-pepper wisps, almost as though sobriety has unleashed his inner radical.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s eat,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n We order a full rack and pitchers of water from angry waiters and talk for an hour about how tender the ribs are, about Vandy and Tennessee football.\u00a0 When I tell him that Peyton Manning molests children, he reminds me that the Commodores haven\u2019t beaten the Vols since Truman was president.\u00a0 I ask after his kids and he asks if I\u2019m seeing anyone.\u00a0 I tell him about Emily, but I don\u2019t tell him what she does for a living or who she represents.\u00a0 We talk about the oddities of sober life.<\/p>\n \u201cLike I just always assumed that when you worked out and sweat gets in your eyes,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cThat the sweat just naturally burned like chlorine.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight,\u201d Gary says.\u00a0 \u201cOr fucking battery acid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTurns out that\u2019s not the case, you know.\u00a0 So that part\u2019s nice.\u00a0 I can jog without going blind.\u201d<\/p>\n The thing about recovering alcoholics is that we still go out for drinks.\u00a0 We\u2019ll go out for coffee and ice cream and barbeque and we raise a glass of whatever it is we\u2019re drinking, even after AA meetings.\u00a0 Especially after AA meetings.\u00a0 Some in recovery take up gardening or Buddhism and try to do everything but rewrite their DNA.\u00a0 Others still act like drinkers just without the drink.\u00a0 Gary Albert and I are two such people.\u00a0 Right now, I would only have to say, Let\u2019s hit Lower Broadway<\/em> and in an hour we could be doing tequila shots at Tootsie\u2019s, but for now, at this moment, everything is okay.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, listen,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cSomething I\u2019ve been meaning to ask you about.\u201d\u00a0 I have tried my best to make this sound casual.\u00a0 The narrowed expression on Gary\u2019s face tells me he doesn\u2019t buy it for a second.<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA friend of mine,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cWorks for Actual Innocence, working on Ronnie Brewer\u2019s appeal.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat about it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI just thought\u2026\u201d Gary\u2019s eyes narrow even more.\u00a0 Another thing about lawyers is that they\u2019ll admit to anything\u2014alcoholism, poor parenting, lying, whatever.\u00a0 But any self-respecting attorney will sooner register as a sex-offender before they admit to having ever mishandled a case.\u00a0 Gary Albert made this admission once to me in confidence, but his piercing gaze tells me it\u2019s not one he\u2019s likely to make again.\u00a0 \u201cThought maybe you could help out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d\u00a0 He clenches his fist, not, I\u2019m pretty sure, because he might get violent, but because he has to squeeze away a tremor.\u00a0 Either way, it\u2019s the same essential impulse.\u00a0 \u201cHelp you out like what?\u00a0 Give you a ride out to Riverbend or something?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be an asshole, Gary,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cI just thought you could do it as a favor.\u00a0 To me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI ain\u2019t aware of any favors I owe you, son.\u201d<\/p>\n To this I have no response.<\/p>\n \u201cI put two-hundred hours in\u2014unpaid hours, mind you\u2014for that, that…\u201d\u00a0 He pauses for a second.\u00a0 \u201cThat piece of shit.\u201d<\/p>\n I say nothing, take a sip of water, and feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.\u00a0 It\u2019s a text message from Emily.\u00a0 Darling, I love you.\u00a0 Get home soon, darling. <\/em>\u201cI got to go\u201d I gesture toward the waiter.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019ll get this.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo that\u2019s it then?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat was my lady,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cI got to get home.\u201d<\/p>\n Gary grabs me.\u00a0 \u201cGoddamn it, Billy.\u00a0 I busted my ass for him.\u201d<\/p>\n The waiter brings the check and eyes the two of us suspiciously.\u00a0 I hand him my Visa, doing my best to give the impression that nothing\u2019s wrong, as though I don\u2019t have a desperate, disgraced, possibly insane man clutching my bicep.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m sure you did,\u201d I say to Gary.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m sure you did.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI never slept,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cNot like it matters any fucking way.\u00a0 Jesus Christ, he killed two cops.\u00a0 You could retry that sonofabitch a hundred times and ninety-nine juries would convict him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou okay to get home?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEverybody thinks this is so easy.\u00a0 You go away, they stamp you clean.\u00a0 But everyone knows and you\u2019re tainted.\u00a0 And then assholes like you have to come back around and throw that shit in my face. Man that was from before.\u00a0 Before.\u00a0 You don\u2019t do that to your friends.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGary,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cAll I asked is if you could help out my friend.\u00a0 It\u2019s clear the answer is no.\u00a0 Sorry to mix business with barbeque.\u201d\u00a0 I stand to leave, but Gary clutches my arm tighter.<\/p>\n \u201cBilly,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cAre you my friend?\u00a0 Tell me, please.\u00a0 Are you my friend?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Before I go home to Emily, I drive a few a circles around town out past the Opry Mall and the Ryman Auditorium.\u00a0 I gas up and get a drive-thru wash for my truck.\u00a0 Before I can think too long about the consequences of what I\u2019m about to do, I hit the name on my speed dial.\u00a0 This is for Emily I tell myself, for the best.\u00a0 It rings once.\u00a0 \u201cJohn Henchman.\u201d\u00a0 The familiar voice sounds unusually professional.<\/p>\n \u201cHench,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cDolla Dolla Bill, yo.\u201d\u00a0 Hench\u2019s voice is so loud I have to hold the phone a few inches away from my ear.\u00a0 He\u2019s carved out a low paying career for himself as the last full-time writer left at Nashville\u2019s alternative weekly, but, years after graduation, he still greets me like it\u2019s Saturday night at the Sigma Chi house.\u00a0 \u201cHow you doing, Ace?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNever better,\u201d I say. \u201cNever better.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, me and some boys are going to hit Buster\u2019s tonight.\u00a0 Watch the Titans.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I don\u2019t really do that any more.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh shit,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s right.\u00a0 I\u2019m an asshole.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou are an asshole,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cBut not for that.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughs.\u00a0 \u201cSo.\u00a0 What\u2019s it going to be then?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI have a story you guys mig0ht be interested in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, you and half the state there, Bildo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHear me out,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cFor friendship\u2019s sake.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFive minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s about this guy over at Riverbend.\u00a0 Death row.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe black?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019d he do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShot two cops.\u00a0 And he did it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy interest is waning, Billy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Mr. Anonymous right now,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t tell you how I know this, exactly,\u201d I say.\u00a0 For the next half-hour we talk, I talk mostly and tell Hench most everything I know about Gary, repeating almost verbatim things he told me at the Mercer House, about how much he\u2019d had to drink every day.\u00a0 I give him a few a pertinent names at the courthouse, people with long memories, axes to grind, acute senses of smell.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, well,\u201d says Hench.\u00a0 \u201cI feel bad that I didn\u2019t get you anything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCall Actual Innocence.\u00a0 They\u2019ll give you all the particulars.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0 I hit end on my phone and drive back to Emily\u2019s.\u00a0 It\u2019s after dark before I pull my truck alongside the curb.\u00a0 Inside I find her seated on the living room sofa, barefoot, her glasses resting atop her head.\u00a0 \u201cI was worried,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n \u201cI had some loose ends to tie up, Baby Doll.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWere you drinking?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Mom.\u201d\u00a0 It occurs to me now that Gary was right, that you never escape this stigma.\u00a0 \u201cI sure wasn\u2019t.\u00a0 I wish you\u2019d ask me that a few more times though.\u00a0 A broken goddamn record.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re the one who sliced yourself open like a fucking haggis, William. Not me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re right.\u00a0 You have no problems.\u00a0 I don\u2019t think you\u2019ve ever had a problem.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShut up.\u00a0 I\u2019m going to bed.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI mean.\u00a0 We met at a meeting did we not?\u00a0 I told you about my problem, my disease.\u00a0 But you\u2019ve never told me anything about yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre we competing here?\u00a0 I told you about my family.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes you did,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cYou told me about their problems.\u00a0 Not yours.\u201d<\/p>\n She says nothing.<\/p>\n \u201cI want to get married,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cI bought a ring.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It\u2019s a year later when I return to Garance.\u00a0 The Brewer family home appears unchanged.\u00a0 If anything, more paint is peeling.\u00a0 I take Arthur the German Shepherd to the front door and ring the bell.\u00a0 When Mrs. Brewer answers, she does not recognize me, but her face lights up when she sees the dog.\u00a0 \u201cArthur,\u201d she yells.\u00a0 \u201cRonnie come here.\u201d\u00a0 She returns her attention to me.\u00a0 \u201cHi.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello, ma\u2019am.\u00a0 I\u2019m Billy.\u00a0 We met before.\u00a0 I had a beard.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh yeah,\u201d she says.\u00a0 \u201cYou look so young now.\u00a0 Where\u2019s Emily?\u201d<\/p>\n This is a simple question with a complicated answer.\u00a0 It goes something like this.\u00a0 Hench\u2019s article, citing a number of anonymous sources, did everything but fit Gary Albert for a straight jacket.\u00a0 In the days that followed, Gary did everyone a favor by getting arrested for Wet and Reckless on I-65. After that the big boys at the Actual Innocence headquarters in New York took things over and argued for Brewer on the basis of incompetent counsel and the 6th<\/sup> Circuit Court of Appeals in Cincinnati voted 2-1 to overturn his conviction.\u00a0 Ten days ago, Dwayne Ronald Brewer left Riverbend Maximum Security Institution a free man, pending the Davidson County D.A.\u2019s decision about whether or not to retry, which they almost certainly will do.\u00a0 More than likely they\u2019ll get another conviction and the whole process will start all over again.\u00a0 But for now Ronnie gets his dog back.<\/p>\n \u201cEmily couldn\u2019t be here today,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cShe\u2019s not feeling well.\u201d\u00a0 This is a lie, but lies are something I\u2019m becoming more comfortable with each day.\u00a0 Just before Hench\u2019s article ran, I told her everything, my friendship with Gary, my role in the article.\u00a0 I wasn\u2019t sure what I was expecting exactly.\u00a0 Not gratitude.\u00a0 Relief maybe.\u00a0 In any case, she told me was going to Memphis for a few days and wanted me gone when she returned.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, I am sorry.\u00a0 She\u2019s such a lovely girl.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, hey, Arthur,\u201d says a male voice I take to be Ronnie.\u00a0 \u201cMissed you, buddy.\u00a0 Yes I did.\u201d\u00a0 From inside, he waives at me.\u00a0 He smiles broadly, the strange, exaggerated smile of a man who has been spared death.<\/p>\n \u201cRonnie, this is\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBilly,\u201d I remind her.<\/p>\n \u201cBilly.\u00a0 That\u2019s right.\u00a0 He was an attorney with Emily.\u201d\u00a0 Again this isn\u2019t true, but I don\u2019t bother to correct her.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on in, man,\u201d he says.\u00a0 I wonder how much he knows about the possibility of being retried.\u00a0 \u201cGrab a seat.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie\u2019s hair is shorn close to the scalp and his skin is deathly pale, the consequences of his years spent in isolation.\u00a0 \u201cSo you knew Emily, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI wondered what happened to her.\u201d<\/p>\n After the article\u2019s appearance, Gary checked back into the Mercer House for further treatment.\u00a0 Around the same time, Emily resigned from Actual Innocence.\u00a0 I\u2019m not sure when it was that she visited Gary Albert for the first, but, from what I hear she\u2019s visited him more than once.\u00a0 \u201cShe moved on,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cEmily moved on.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a damn shame,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cShe was a sharp girl.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know, Ronnie,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cThere are some in this life that only care about people when they\u2019re suffering.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d\u00a0 He scratches the dog\u2019s ears.<\/p>\n \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou want a beer, man?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d I say.\u00a0 \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n He nods toward his mother.\u00a0 \u201cYou want to get us a couple of beers?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGet em yourself, Ronnie,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n \u201cYou got the Silver Bullet?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHell, no,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t touch that Colorado piss water.\u201d<\/p>\n He steps into his kitchen and returns a second later, two bottles of Lone Star to each hand.\u00a0 He gives me one.\u00a0 I twist the cap off my first drink in a thousand days.\u00a0 \u201cTo freedom,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n I raise my bottle to toast the man I set free.\u00a0 \u201cCheers.\u201d<\/p>\n _____________________________________________________<\/p>\n STEVE SANDERS is a proud member of the Boston University Creative Writing class of 2008.\u00a0 He currently lives in Houston where is he pursing his PhD in Literature and Creative Writing\u00a0and working on a novel.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" ACTUAL INNOCENCE On a Sunday afternoon in the middle of football season, I ride with Emily to visit the condemned man\u2019s family.\u00a0 This is probably for the best since I\u2019ve lately come to realize that football games are what those in the program refer to as one of my triggers.\u00a0 The family lives a couple […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3755,"featured_media":0,"parent":9,"menu_order":6,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/327"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3755"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=327"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/327\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":488,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/327\/revisions\/488"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/9"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=327"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}