You Think You Know Me Pretty Well aka Mercy Read Free Page B

against the will of the legislature and the courts.”
    Alex panicked at the thought of this opportunity already slipping away.
    “But you said – ”
    “ Unless … there was some compelling reason. You see, son, even though I have the luxury of being able to ignore public opinion, I believe that I have a duty at least to respect it. Remember the words of Thomas Jefferson: ‘a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them’. The people who elected me may not agree with my decision. But I owe it to them at least to explain it to them. History will judge me harshly if I fail in my duty to put my reasons on record – and those reasons had better be good.”
    Alex took a deep breath and regained his composure, trying to read the governor. He wasn’t sure if the governor was really thinking about his place in history. But now was not the time to get diverted down a blind alley of speculation over his motives. Dusenbury was throwing him a lifeline – or at least waving it in his face. That was all that mattered.
    “So you need reasons,” Alex edged forward hesitantly. “And as yet you haven’t got them.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And you want me to supply them.”
    “No, I want your client to supply them.”
    Alex was beginning to understand.
    “Is that why you said ‘ offer ’ my client clemency … rather than ‘give’?”
    Dusenbury smiled.
    “You picked up on that real quick. That’s just what it is, son: an offer.”
    “So presumably,” Alex pressed on, “there’s a quid pro quo?”
     
     
     

09:48 PDT (17:48 British Summer Time)
     
    The clinic was quiet as the late afternoon melted into early evening. But the spacious TV room, with its well-scrubbed pale blue walls and clean gray leather furniture, was sufficiently sound-proofed and isolated from the wards to have the TV on. They had it on all day and all night. The nurses on night duty especially liked to take short coffee breaks there, flopping down on the armchairs and watching late-night TV. They preferred the all-night news stations – British or American – to the late-night quizzes and casinos, which were little more than premium line rip-offs.
    Susan White, a middle-aged nurse of the “old” school, flopped down in front of the TV with a cup of coffee and started skimming through the channels, trying to catch up on the news. While surfing, she caught the tail end of a report about a clinic in America being picketed by hordes of anti-abortionists, or “pro-lifers” as they liked to call themselves, and realized how lucky she was to be here in Britain.
    She liked her coffee strong but milky and the machine never quite got it right. She also liked it sugary, and that the machine usually did get that right. It was often hard for her to get a coffee break, even though she was entitled to three per shift, because the other nurses frequently came to her with their problems, both personal and professional. So she made sure to get her caffeine fix before her shift started.
    Using the remote, she turned the sound down, mindful of the fact that at this time most of the in-patients were sleeping. On the screen, a well-groomed, thirty-something woman, with somewhat underplayed oriental looks, was talking to the camera. She was wearing a smart blue suit, with a mid-length skirt and slightly tight jacket, designed to emphasize her firm, athletic figure, without over -emphasizing it.
    But then a face came on that caught Susan’s attention. A photograph of a young woman, almost like a mug shot. Susan felt an uneasy stirring as her eyes focused on the screen.
    She picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The voiceover of an American female reporter could be heard. It was one of those generic, female anchorwoman voices, the kind that all sound alike, the trained confident voice that always carries a trace of sarcasm or bitchiness, but only the merest hint. Or maybe it was just the hard