CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Brian Harvey and Jeff Laird Jr., the two most important men in my life. Your love, encouragement and
guidance made me the man I am today. I never could have written this book without you. I miss you both everyday.
I would also like to thank Joe Hight for convincing me to do one “last” edit. What I had before was a puzzle with two pieces missing, he advised me to search for them before sharing it with the world.
And a special thank you to our Creator without whom none of this would be happening.
PROLOGUE
August 9, 2008
Ashley Pinkerton screamed as her assailant rushed towards her with a butcher knife in hand. The first strike easily plunged deep through her breast, breaking two ribs before puncturing her right lung. She fell backwards. When her head contacted the floor she immediately raised her arms in self-defense. The barrage of attacks that came thereafter felt like the days upon days that one endures after being dumped by the one who told you that you were his soulmate, his forever. Her breathing slowed. She lowered her arms.
As I lay here on my living room floor. I am in awe of the mechanism of the human anatomy. The first time the knife pierced my chest was a pain more intense than I thought possible, but now, after 38 more cuts, slices and stabs, I feel nothing. I am at peace. As I take my last breath, my biggest fear is not my life passing. My biggest fear is…
CHAPTER 1
The young attorney sat at his desk, running a hand through his thick curly hair as he stared at the files scattered in front of him. He grabbed the Bohannon divorce file from under his half empty coffee cup and looked over the list detailing which specific items his client wanted from her marital residence: the blue couch in the living room, the small pearl mirror in the bathroom, the teninch purple vibrator. He grinned, shook his head and thought: The things people fight over.
The buzzing intercom jarred him from his musings. “Hey, big shot!, United States Judge Michael W. Henry’s office on line one,” said Carol, the receptionist and assistant he was economically forced to have working for him.
He reached for the phone, straightened out his back, took a deep breath, and said as calmly and articulately as he could muster, “This is Steve Hanson, Your Honor.”
“Hi, Steve, this is Gail with Judge Henry’s office.” He relaxed into his chair. “I will patch you through to His Honor in just a second. But tell me, real quick, how have you been?”
“Doing well, Gail, and what about you?”
“I’m good, although we still miss you around here. I know it has only been a little over four months, but it’s felt like forever. Even the judge said he was glad this case came up because it gave him an excuse to give you a call. I’m going to put you on hold while I get His Honor on the phone.”
Steve was just getting into the piano version of U2’s “One” when the line picked up.
“Steve, Judge Henry here. How is your practice going?”
“Very well, Your Honor. I’m doing mostly divorces, misdemeanors, and small claims right now. It is not all that glamorous, but it pays the bills, and it is actually kind of fun most days. I honestly feel like I am helping people through their toughest times, which makes up for the fact that most of them usually can’t afford to pay me much.”
“That’s true; anyone who loves practicing law at the street level does it more for the sense of helping others than the fees charged. But it is also the best way to become a great trial lawyer. Those cases give you the courtroom experience you need to be able to handle the bigger cases later in your career.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Steve smiled. “I remember you saying that to many young lawyers at different events during the two years I worked for you.”
“I’m glad you are finding your way in the world of being a solo practitioner. However, that is not the purpose of my call. I just received a new capital habeas appeal file on my docket, and I was wondering if you would accept an appointment to represent the appellant in this matter, one Scottie Wayne Pinkerton. The case originated in Rogers County, Oklahoma.”
“Yes, I would be honored to help sir,” said Steve, deferentially.
“Glad to hear it. I will sign this order, and as soon as we hang up, Gail will get it filed in the clerk’s office and email you a copy. After the appointment is official, you’ll need to contact Sam Parker, the attorney who represented Mr. Pinkerton on his state court appeals. She will provide you the boxes containing everything that has been gathered over the last seven years for Mr. Pinkerton’s defense. From there, you are on your own. I expect you not to let me down on this case. I know you will give him the quality representation our constitution confers upon all the individuals facing our nation’s harshest punishment. Good luck with your law practice, I’m glad to hear you are enjoying it, goodbye.”
Steve barely got out, “Thank you, Your Honor. Goodbye,” before the line clicked dead on the other end. After Steve hung up the phone, his stomach tightened. I am actually going to be representing someone on death row, he thought. A convicted murderer whose life or death will now be determined by the quality of my representation.
A wave of anxiety swept over him. He thought about the challenges that now faced him. He would have to go to death row and meet Scottie in person. He would have to write a 100–120-page brief on Scottie’s behalf. Someday, he would have to argue in front of a three-judge panel at the United States Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals in Denver, Colorado and, one day, possibly argue his case in front of the nine justices who made up the United States Supreme Court.
If he were unsuccessful at all levels of the appeal, he would have to spend Scottie’s last twenty-four hours with him. He would watch the prison officials escort Scottie, someone he would have known for years by that point, into the execution chamber. Watch the prison guards strap his client to a gurney as the nurse stuck a needle into Scottie’s arm. Watch the tubes deliver the statutory doses of the government-approved pharmaceuticals created to end a man’s life in a manner that was theoretically not cruel or unusual. And then sit in the viewing room and watch his friend die, knowing he had failed him. Steve wondered how he would handle that. He made an oath to himself to never have to find out.
Carol, a sixty-two-year-old redhead from rural Oklahoma with a voice and attitude reminiscent of Flo from Alice, opened the door to his office, startling Steve out of his grim daydream. “What did that highfalutin’ federal judge want with a little baby lawyer like you?” Carol quipped.
“He was calling to appoint me to represent Scottie Pinkerton, a death row inmate, on his federal capital punishment habeas appeal- you probably don’t know but that is the last appeal death row inmates get before they are executed.”
