The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction NovemberDecember 2010 (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction Book 119) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spilogale, Inc.
Published: 2010-10-31T23:00:00+00:00

Stephen Preston James had one of those names that work equally well forward and backward, so when he called me early next morning, saying abruptly, "This is James," I recollected his name as James Preston Stevens, and thought he wanted to get on a first-name basis.

"What can I do for you, Jim?" I inquired. About ten minutes went by before we got this unsnarled, which did nothing to calm his already jangled nerves.

"So," I said when things at last became clear, "I gather Wellington Meeks manifested himself at the meeting of Death Must Die."

"Did he ever! Alsatia was almost hysterical, to say nothing of my clients and, to be perfectly honest, me. God, how I wish there was somebody I could sue."

His wife chose to blame him for the fiasco, and issued a fatwa. "She's taking the kids to her mother's in Timonium, Maryland, even though that means we'll be separated at Thanksgiving. I have three months to get rid of 419 and find an unhaunted house, or she'll file for divorce."

"Nasty situation."

"I'd say so. What can I do?"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Be prepared to give a full and objective account of last night's proceedings. You may not know this, Jim—"

"Steve."

"Whoever you are. You may not know this, but Meeks in his memoirs boasts of executing over three hundred men and five women in the course of his long, busy career. He's not to be trifled with. I'll need the facts, all the facts, and nothing but the facts."

"You mean I'm going to be deposed."

"Unless we can pacify Meeks, that's not the worst that'll happen to you."

When I arrived at 419 Merritt, a sharp-featured lady I recognized from the photograph was herding two whining children into a white Infiniti, in which they roared away. I entered the house—I'd never actually been inside before—to find Steve sitting in a repro Victorian parlor chair and looking like, as the saying goes, death warmed over.

"And I'm even afraid to take a drink," he complained, after I'd shaken his flaccid hand.

"I've brought a recorder," I said, displaying the palm-sized digital device and pulling up a repro Lincoln rocker to sit on. "Since you're an attorney, I'm sure there's no need to advise you about the protocol."

He nodded and, after a moment's thought, began to speak with professional lucidity, giving his name, the location, date, and time, then launching into the following narrative:

Last night sixteen people, members of the organization Death Must Die, gathered here for an informal conference with wine and cheese. White wines were more popular than red, and the munchies included hothouse grapes, Wafer-Thins, and a wheel of Brie. Thank God, my children were staying the night at friends' houses.

Most members of the group proved to be nice sensible people whose opposition to the death penalty followed traditional lines. Some said the state shouldn't take away a life, since if the individual is later proved innocent, it can't return what it has taken. Others cited the dozens of cases in which DNA evidence has caused condemned men to be released from Death Row.

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