“If anything goes wrong, call for help immediately,” the guard finished, having gotten no reaction from me. “I’ll be right behind this door.”
Then he opened the door at last and I went in.
The small room was divided by a metal table. The person in orange coveralls, sitting on the other side of the table, was indeed chained to the chair armrests: his left hand—with a regular handcuff, while the chain for the right hand was longer, allowing him, if necessary, to take something from the table if it were moved close enough to him. I didn’t see his ankles, but I didn’t doubt that they were in shackles, too.
Except for all these accessories, his appearance was most ordinary. He seemed to be in his early fifties (actually he was 48), a receding hairline, grizzled, with an unremarkable face (such faces are a real nightmare for policemen, as no witnesses can describe them clearly), down-turned corners of his lips, faded eyes under puffy eyelids…
However, his ordinary appearance was, well, ordinary. No maniac looks like a maniac—otherwise catching them wouldn’t be that hard. And even after all charges are proved, his neighbors, colleagues, even family members still cannot believe his guilt. “Oh, that can’t be true, such a decent person! Perhaps a little unsociable, but…”
Nevertheless, this unremarkable middle-aged man with the appearance of a tired accountant from a third-rate office was the one whom journalists had named Jack-is-Back, alluding to Jack the Ripper. As a twist of fate, when he was caught at last, his surname appeared to be Jackson. “Jack’s son,” literally…
However, actually he had almost nothing in common with the Victorian serial killer, except for his extreme cruelty. Jackson didn’t kill prostitutes. There were no sexual motives in his actions and no motive of punishment for sins. On the contrary, only decent people were his victims. Gender and age were not significant to him. By the way, he even wasn’t unsociable—quite the opposite, he willingly made new acquaintances, easily ingratiated himself with people, making impression of a nice and harmless, though a little sad, person—and then…
Before he was stopped, he managed to kill twenty eight people—eviscerated them alive. Sometimes, he killed whole families. The most shocking episode was in Philadelphia, where he murdered a man, his wife, his elderly parents who had come to stay for a while with their son, and three children—a boy of eight and girls of five and three. After that the public went nuts, demanding that the police find the murderer. And not even just find, but “wipe the bastard out before some lawyer rats get him off the hook…”
Yes, members of my profession are often reproached as immoral. They say that, for enough money we are ready to defend anybody. I cannot say that these claims are absolutely groundless—though, in my opinion, justice demands, that, as there is the prosecution side, there must also be a defense side. And we have professional ethics, too. But after all we are still human beings, not just professionals. Nobody in my law office wanted to take this case. And not because—well, not only because—there wouldn’t be a hefty fee (Jackson refused to take a lawyer). Nor even because the case looked absolutely hopeless: the evidentiary basis was more than convincing, the police had committed no violations about which to complain, and Jackson had admitted full guilt to all the charges against him. But the main reason was that nobody really wanted to save such a freak from the electric chair. Yes, there are murderers, and even repeated murderers, who deserve leniency—but obviously not in this case.
And then the boss foisted this case off on me, as the youngest attorney in the firm. Say, it’s your chance to prove yourself. And if you fail, well, nobody expected miracles from a beginner anyway…
No, I, of course, didn’t feel much sympathy for my client. But, after all, a job is a job.
“Hello, Mr. Jackson,” I professionally smiled, taking the laptop from my attache case and unfolding it on my side of the table."I am your lawyer. My name is Mike…”
“I refused a lawyer,” Jackson dully interrupted. “Besides, the sentence was passed already. What more do you need from me?”
“You probably don’t know yet, but there were recent changes to the state law,” I explained in the same confident tone. “Now in hearings on all death sentence cases, the participation of a lawyer is obligatory. And as the law has no retroactive effect only if it would worsen the situation of the convict, your case is subject to review.”
“So you think that will improve my situation,” he grinned.
“To tell the truth, your situation is very serious,” I declared, continuing nevertheless to radiate confidence. “All the evidence is against you and we have no basis to suggest…”
“I killed all these people,” he interrupted me again."And, if there is a new hearing, I will repeat my confession there. So can we just avoid all this bother?”
“In a democratic state, a confession is not the final proof of guilt,” I reminded him. “There could be circumstances which compelled you…”
“Do you have hearing problem or don’t you understand English? Nobody compelled me, tortured me, or threatened me. I killed twenty eight people absolutely willfully and purposely. And I confessed to it of my same free will after my arrest.”
“But not before!” I noticed.” If you, as you say, didn’t want to hide your crimes, why didn’t you give yourself up?”
“Because I wanted to continue to kill,” he simply answered.
Damn… Well, after all, that’s my job.
“Could you explain, why did you… and why do you want to continue to kill, Mr. Jackson?”
“Because I am a monster who likes to disembowel people alive.”
Certainly, it was said in the same tone as “be damned and fuck off.” I tried to make my voice more heartfelt and looked into his eyes:
“But there is another reason, isn’t there?”
He kept silent, trying to look indifferent as before, but nevertheless for an instant he withdrew his eyes.
“You can tell me only,” I pressured. “As an attorney, I cannot reveal what you say.”
He continued his silence and when I had already decided that he would say nothing, he suddenly muttered:
“You won’t understand. Or will think that I am crazy.”
“A psychiatric examination ruled you completely sane,” I reminded.
“Well, of course.”
“But, as far as we’re concerned, it may be our only defense. You see, I’ve studied your biography. It was completely ordinary until three years ago when you had a car accident resulting in craniocereberal trauma and clinical death. You stayed in this condition for nearly eleven minutes. It is considered that irreversible brain damage occurs after six minutes. But it is, of course, an average. Specific features of a certain organism may… Anyway, doctors pulled you out from the next world. Then—several months of rehabilitation. Tests, tomograms, all that stuff. Eventually you completely recovered, healthy both physically and mentally. And a week later you started to kill.”
“Well, there you are. Those doctors ruled me sane, too.”
“Doctors can be mistaken. No, I don’t want to say that you are crazy, Mr. Jackson. But it is more important for us not whether you are insane or not, but what the judge will think about it, do you understand me? Such a major head injury usually doesn’t pass without consequences, and we have grounds to demand a new psychiatric examination. And there… I’m not saying that you should feign illness. Just, possibly, be more frank than before with the doctors, tell them more about your secret fears and fantasies, and…”
“What for?” he sneered. “To avoid the electric chair?”
“If you wish, yes,” I replied with some note of irritation. That’s bad, nonprofessional, I should watch myself better…