An Imperfect Process by Mary Jo Putney Page B

"It's too late for that, Kendra. The people who love executions keep makin' it harder and harder to raise post-conviction issues. Even if that little redhead came up with a signed affidavit from God that I'm innocent, it wouldn't be enough to save my black ass. Don't kid yourself about this. It'll just make the hurtin' worse when I'm dead."
    His words chilled her. "Don't give up, honey. Val needs you to cooperate if we're going to have a shot at getting the sentence commuted."
    "I'm cooperating, but not because I think it'll do any good. Even if my sentence is commuted, what would it mean? They would just move me back across the street to the Pen. Not much of a life. Maybe I'd be better off dead."
    "Don't you say such a wicked thing!" she snapped. "No one is better off dead."
    "We all die, sugar," he said gently. "In a way, I'm lucky to know when. Gives me a chance to make my peace."
    She disliked his words, but he had given her an opening to raise the question that haunted her. "Let me tell Jason about you before it's too late."
    "No!" Daniel's expression darkened. "We've talked about this over and over. What good will it do for him to know his real father will be executed as a murderer? No damn good at all. Phil Brooks adopted him and did right by both of you. Jason has already lost the father he knew. Don't make the boy ashamed of a father he didn't know."
    "Jason isn't a boy, he's a man. Nineteen years old, an air force cadet. A son who's going to soar. He deserves to know the truth."
    For an instant, Daniel's pain was vivid in his face. Then he shuttered his expression. "All he needs to know is that his real daddy loved him and died young."
    "He has a right to meet you at least once, and to know that you're innocent." She was begging now and didn't care. "You shouldn't make this choice for him."
    Daniel sighed. "I can't stop you from tellin' him. But Kendra—can't you at least let me have this?"
    His words silenced her. She never had been able to say no to him, from the first time they met. He'd been playing basketball with some buddies at a local schoolyard. The ball flew over the chain-link fence as she walked by on the way home from her job flipping burgers. She was Kendra Jackson then, nineteen and feeling three times her age.
    When the ball bounced in front of her, she automatically scooped it up. Daniel jogged up to the fence. "Hey, girl, will you throw the ball back?"
    She turned to him and saw the most beautiful man imaginable. A couple of years older than she, he was tall and limber and fit, with a smile that lit up East Baltimore. A light-hearted Ashanti warrior. Feeling mischievous, she took aim and threw the ball over the fence. It arced through the air and snapped through the net in a perfect shot.
    "Whoa, baby!" Daniel exclaimed admiringly. "You are good ."
    One of the other players scoffed. "She just got lucky."
    "Maybe. Maybe not." Daniel retrieved the ball and dribbled it, his gaze on Kendra. "Want to shoot a few hoops?"
    She debated a moment before saying, "Sure." Her life didn't have a lot of fun just then, what with her mama dying of cancer, so she wouldn't pass this up. She found the fence door and entered. The guys accepted her with good humor, which switched to alarm as she showed 'em her moves.
    After she sank her fifth basket, Daniel recovered the ball, saying with a chuckle, "We got ourselves a ringer here. Where did you play, sugar?"
    "Dunbar. I was All-State for two years." She smiled wickedly. "It isn't just black guys that know how to play basketball." Her smile faded as she thought of the athletic scholarships that had been offered. But then her mama fell sick, so no way could Kendra go to college. She glanced at her watch. "Time for me to go home."
    "I'll walk you there." Daniel tossed the ball back over his head and the two of them left in a chorus of cheers and rowdy speculation.
    On the way home they exchanged names and discovered that his family went to the same church her cousins did.