Free Nothing Lost by John Gregory Dunne Page A

six-pack of Pepsi, and the bag of jelly beans Percy Darrow had ordered for his last meal, or about his demeanor as he sat in the electric chair, a leather hood covering his head and face.
    â€œI bet Big Macs are the last meal of choice,” Charley Buckles said, his breathing still labored. “I mean, around the country.”
    â€œI didn’t think it would be sweetbreads,” J.J. said. Every time he was with Charley Buckles he felt like a straight man.
    â€œIt could be a hell of an ad campaign,” Charley Buckles said. “You get Ronald McDonald. And he says, ‘To all my friends on death row, think McDonald’s.’ ”
    â€œI don’t think that’s appropriate,” Harold Pugh said.
    â€œShit, what is?” Charley Buckles said. “Gordy Sunday had cheese steak.” Gordon Sunday was the last man executed in the state’s electric chair. “I was there. Representing the Osceola County coroner’s office. They called us coroners those days. A good word. Now it’s medical examiner. And even that’s too much for some people.” He wheezed a cough. “They say M.E.” He elongated the two letters: EMMMM EEEEE. “J.J., I want you to promise that when I die, my obituary says that I was the coroner in this county for forty-two years, not some damn M.E.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it, Charley.” His beeper rang. It was Gerry Wormwold’s callback number. The A.G. had wanted to attend Darrow’s execution himself, but his advisors had counseled that a potential gubernatorial candidate should keep himself aloof from the proceedings and use his office instead as a pulpit to accuse the anti-death-penalty protestors who had gathered outside of “cynically manipulating the system.” It was an attempt at even-handedness that his handlers thought might assist him in getting past his nickname. And so around the state at 4-H Club meetings and Rhino booster lunches, the A.G. did not miss an opportunity to toss in the phrase “cynically manipulating the system.”
    J.J. dialed Wormwold’s number.
    â€œJ.J., what’s the delay?”
    â€œNo delay, General. The governor hasn’t called yet.”
    â€œYou think that Democrat son of a bitch Kennedy is stalling?”
    â€œI think he’s waiting for the Twelfth Circuit to finish writing its decision.”
    â€œThey’ll turn it down, right?”
    â€œUnless hell freezes over. Then the governor’s office has to make sure copies get in the hands of all the involved parties.”
    â€œI know what has to be done,” Wormwold said irritably. He paused for a second. “I just got off the phone with Niland. Murray Lubin wants to deal.”
    I called that one right, J.J. thought. It was in the wind. “I’ll put together a package.”
    â€œToledo does time.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œHeavy duty.”
    â€œA touch.”
    Wormwold hesitated. “Write it up and run it past me in the morning.” J.J. was sure the A.G. had little interest in the Toledo case. He had something else on his mind, and he was having trouble getting to it. “Your wife’s outside over there.” There it was. Poppy was getting airtime and he wasn’t. He and Harold Pugh should compare notes. “Talking to all those TV boys.” Wormwold paused as if wondering if he should continue. He plunged on. “I know she’s your wife, but . . .” His voice trailed off. He was not ready to come right out and say that Poppy was cynically manipulating the system. As of course she was. Better to leave it hanging.
    â€œI’m giving the Parlance case to Maurice Dodd,” the A.G. said disagreeably after waiting an unseemly number of seconds for a response. “You’ve got a full plate.”
    Surprise, surprise. “Maurice could use the exposure.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œNothing at