You Think You Know Me Pretty Well aka Mercy Read Free

this to be a meeting in which I could plead the case for clemency for my client. This isn’t usually the way it’s done.”
    Alex gave Mrs. Olsen a quick glance to make sure that she hadn’t taken offense at his remark. Her eyes remained neutral, but there was the merest hint of a nervous smile, as if she were reaching out to him in a way that he couldn’t understand.
    “I know, son, I know,” the governor responded. “But this is an unusual case, ain’t it?”
    Alex couldn’t argue with that.
    “I’ll put it to you real simple,” said the governor. “The reason Mrs. Olsen is here is because she’s asked me to offer your client clemency.”
     
     
     

09:43 PDT
     
There are things I have done in my life that I’m not proud of. There were things I shouldn’t have done. I was a product of my upbringing. I wasn’t always taught right from wrong. And I was taught to hate people for things they had no control over or for things that I thought were bad because that’s the way I was brought up.
     
But whatever wrongs I am guilty of, murder is not one of them. I may have been a bully in my youth, but I was never a murderer. Dorothy Olsen suffered at the hands of many people, myself included. But I did not kill her.
     
     
    Clayton Burrow stopped writing and put the pen down, his hand aching. He opened and closed the hand several times to alleviate the cramp. But it was nothing compared to the pain inside: pain … fear … guilt? He didn’t really know. He just had this constant urge to cry. He wouldn’t do so of course – at least not now. Crying was unmanly and, with a prison guard stationed outside his cell twenty-four hours a day, he wasn’t going to let the bastards see him broken. But at night, when the lights were dimmed (they never switched them off altogether on death row) he would bury his face in his pillow and give in to the weakness that he managed to hide from others in the light of day.
    He looked down at the letter and scanned the words. At the time of writing, it had felt like the right thing to say and the right time to say it. But re-reading his words now, all he could think was how pathetic it all sounded. This was to be his final letter, to be read out before his execution. Or was it? Maybe it was to be his final plea for clemency to the state governor. Maybe it was to be his letter to Mrs. Olsen if his request for clemency was granted. He wasn’t really sure.
    Was it meant to be a letter of appeasement or a letter of defiance … an apology or a denial? What did he want to write? He didn’t even know that . All he knew was that he was feeling bitter and angry … and afraid … and …
    Alone.
    That was the worst part. In all his twenty-seven – nearly twenty-eight – years on this earth, he had always been one to surround himself with friends. Or perhaps “cronies” was a better word. He liked to surround himself with people who cheered him on and told him he was an okay guy. Never a great athlete, he was nonetheless a good one, with a muscular build, defined rather than developed. He was also blessed with a smooth, “golden boy” handsome face that belied his rather spiteful nature. And he had enough puerile wit and energetic sporting prowess to be popular with the girls and the guys alike. He was always on the right side in the high school clique, always with the majority in any lynch-mob situation, always in with the in-crowd rather than the geek or freak on the butt end of the bullying – be it verbal or physical.
    He was very rarely alone. And that meant a lot to him. It meant more than he ever realized, because he was actually quite afraid of being alone. But he never knew this until he found himself in a situation in which he was unable to avoid it. Throughout his happy, time-wasting, fun-loving years at high school, he had never even had to think about it. Because he was never alone, he never knew how badly it would affect him when he was.
    Looking back on it now, he