A Knock at Midnight(63)
“Ms. Barnett, this is Kira Horstmeyer. I’m an attorney with the Office of the Pardon Attorney. I’m calling to inform you that President Barack Obama has granted executive clemency to Mr. Clark. The prison term he is serving is now set to expire on July 28, 2015, leaving intact any original terms of supervised release imposed at sentencing.”
My hands shook with excitement as I took notes from the call, careful not to miss any detail. “Oh my God! My God! Thank you!”
“You are welcome, Ms. Barnett, congratulations. We have prearranged a call with the prison for you to give Mr. Clark the news. Please contact Seagoville FCI at two o’clock P.M. and ask to be transferred to Mr. Clark’s case manager, who will facilitate the call.”
“Of course!” And then, in an instant, my mind went to Sharanda. “Before I let you go,” I said quickly, “I filed another petition at the same time as Donel’s. Do you have any information on Sharanda Purlette Jones?”
“Mr. Clark is the only client of yours I’ve been assigned. But if Ms. Jones has received clemency, you will be notified today.”
“Look out for calls from Washington!” I yelled to Alicia, the legal department’s executive assistant, who sat in a cubicle just outside my office. “Donel got clemency! Now we’re just waiting on Sharanda’s!”
News spread fast through the office and soon everyone was celebrating. Even though I’d been at ORIX for only nine months, they’d all borne witness to the hours I’d committed to this work, and everyone was pulling for my clients. Colleagues came by to congratulate me as I called the prison to share the news with Donel. He had no idea that his nightmare was over.
Finally, I heard Donel’s voice on the line. Being summoned out of the blue for an emergency call usually meant bad news—a death in the family, a disaster—and the anxiety in his voice when he spoke was palpable.
“Brittany? What’s going on?”
“Donel!” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “You have just received clemency from President Obama. You’re going home!”
A silence followed. It was so long I almost thought we’d lost the connection. Then I heard the deep exhale of a breath long held. When Donel spoke again it was between tears he couldn’t hold back.
“Thank God! Thank you, Brittany! You never gave up. Man, it’s been a long time coming. Is this real?”
“Yes, Donel,” I said, crying with him. “It’s real! You are going home!”
We spoke a few minutes more while the news sank in. Then Donel said, “And Sharanda? What about Sharanda? Is she going home, too?”
His question gave voice to the one thought restraining me from total joy. “We don’t know yet!” I said quickly. “But they’re still calling folks. Waiting!”
I promised Donel I’d call De-Ann to share the news, and then I hung up to let him contemplate his impending freedom and call his family. It wouldn’t be immediate; he wouldn’t just walk out that day. Unlike presidents before him, Obama had implemented a four-month waiting period before release, to aid the reentry process, during which Donel would have to spend several weeks in a halfway house before he’d truly be free. But after twenty-two years in the federal penitentiary, Donel was overcome with emotion.
For the rest of the afternoon I sat in my office, taking calls from Donel’s friends and family, feeling their joy and relief over the phone, listening to their strong, stoic fronts give way to grateful, relieved sobs as the news took hold. After the initial rush had died down I just sat there, unable to focus on my work. In the quiet of my office, ignoring the buzz of conversations that drifted by the glass walls, I waited for that second call from Washington.
By five o’clock, I knew it wasn’t coming. I packed up my stuff and left the office quietly, trying to avoid seeing anyone. I felt guilty at feeling anything other than rapture on this tremendous day. But heavy in my chest was the boulder-weight of failure, the life sentence Sharanda Jones continued to bear.
It wasn’t yet seven when I crawled into bed at my apartment. I hadn’t eaten. I stared at the ceiling, wrapped myself in disappointment, and drifted off to sleep. A few hours later, I was roused by a ping from my phone on the bedside table, and picked it up to find a familiar notification: a Corrlinks message from Sharanda.
“I saw the list,” she wrote. “I’m so happy Donel got clemency! I know I’m next. We share the same lawyer. Smile. I love you.”
Not for the last time, it seemed like my clients knew me better than I knew myself.
Chapter 12
STEPPERS KEEP STEPPIN’
Donel Clark was awfully quiet at lunch. Late-July sun shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out at the park greenery, reflecting beams of light off the restaurant’s gleaming steel accents. Donel hadn’t taken his eyes off the cypress trees outside since we’d sat down, even when the waiter brought him a steaming plate of fish and chips. We were at Savor gastropub in Dallas’s Klyde Warren Park, celebrating his official release from federal custody earlier that day.
“Are you okay, Donel?” I asked. “What are you thinking about?”
He looked at me across the table and smiled. “Look, Brittany. Just look at those kids.” I followed his gaze across the emerald lawn. In front of the food trucks lining the square, children of all ages splashed in the park’s fountain and chased one another through the trees.