Page 40 of The Death Row Club
“If I’d known we’d be hiking,” she says, “I would’ve stayed home.”
“Not a fan of the great outdoors?”
“My outdoorsmanship is limited to walking across campus.” She ducks to avoid an overhanging branch. “I overheard you mention on the bus that you’re a teacher?”
Wasa teacher, but instead of correcting her, I say, “Elementary school.”
“Did you always want to be in the classroom?”
I recall weekend afternoons spent in my studio, light sifting through the skylights as I loaded my brush with paint, the smells of turpentine and strong black coffee. How freeing it was to have nowhere to be, no one to answer to except the canvas in front of me. “No,” I admit. “I wanted to be a professional artist.” It feels embarrassing to say it out loud. “For a while, it seemed like it might actuallyhappen. My professors called my work cutting edge, which—I don’t know—might not sound like much, but at Cooper Union, you’re studying alongside some of the best artists in the world, so praise doesn’t come easy.”
“What made you change directions?”
The email from my academic advisor that arrived halfway through senior year. We sat opposite each other in his office, the chatter of excited first-years outside, transitioning from class to class, at odds with the solemn look on his face. “We’ve noticed that you’ve been struggling since Claire passed away”—that’s how he phrased it:passed away, like she succumbed to cancer in one of those gentle, soft-focus film scenes—“and while we’re sympathetic, we also wonder if this might be a time of artistic rest for you. If maybe you need to take a few years to refill your well, as it were; to focus on broadening your horizons.” He pushed a stack of brochures across the desk toward me, the top one for CCNY’s art education program. We sat in silence while his meaning sunk in.
“I didn’t have what it takes,” I say to Kemy. “It’s a cutthroat industry.”
“Academia’s no different. This’ll be my first time up for tenure, and my colleagues have been hinting they might not recommend me.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve had some philosophical disagreements.”
“What about?”
“Most of my research focuses on capital punishment. My colleagues believe it should be abolished; I disagree.”
“You support the death penalty,” I repeat, just to make sure I haven’t misunderstood.
“Yes.”
Not what I was expecting. Not from a sociologist at a prestigiousuniversity, and certainly not from a member of this club. “If you don’t mind me asking, why?”
“Around ninety percent of all known serial killers are men, whereas their victims, according to FBI data, are overwhelmingly female, with members of marginalized groups running an increased risk of being targeted. You have the most powerful group in society being sentenced to life in prison, while the ones who’ve historically been subjugated end up dead. Where’s the justice in that?”
“But innocent people are wrongfully convicted all the time.”
“True, and I would never want anyone who’s been failed by our legal system to be executed. However, there are cases in which everyone knows who’s guilty, in which the evidence is irrefutable, and in those cases, the death penalty might be an appropriate punishment.”
“I don’t know—”
“All right, let’s use my father as an example: Marcus Jerome murdered a hundred and three women.”
My feet grind to a halt on the path. I can’t have heard that right. “Hewhat?”
“A hundred and three women—mostly minorities, many of them sex workers, all of them left voiceless. Meanwhile, he’s giving interviews from his jail cell. Men like him don’t stop talking just because they’re caught. They publish books, write letters to their fans. They costar on television shows,” she says, clearly referring to Tom Woods. “We can’t give those women back their voices, but we can at least make sure the only person left speaking isn’t the man who killed them.” She waits for my response. When one’s not forthcoming, she asks, “Can you honestly tell me he should be alive when they’re not?”
Off in the distance is what looks like a small shack, nestled in a cluster of pines. My father sold kits like that all the time. The customer would pick the model, then he’d drive over the following weekand build it in their backyard. Sometimes he’d bring me along, and I’d pass him nails as he hammered his way around the frame.
Everyone knows my father’s guilty; the evidence against him is irrefutable. Does Kemy think he deserves to die?
She continues. “If my department ever discovered who my father was, there’d be a rush to discredit my research. They’d argue I’m only in favor of the death penalty because I wish he’d been arrested in a state that permits it.”
“Do you? Wish your father had received the death penalty?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean my arguments aren’t valid.” The trail suddenly plunges down a steep embankment. “Do you think that makes me a bad person?”
I choose my words carefully, not wanting to alienate anyone in my new social circle. “It’s a complicated issue. For what it’s worth, I can understand where you’re coming from.”
