By 7:00 on Tuesday morning, the Flak Law Firm was bustling1 with a frantic2, nervous energy one might expect from a group of people fighting both the clock and some very long odds3 to save a man's life. Tension was palpable. There were no smiles, none of the usual smart-ass4 remarks from people who worked together each day with the absolute freedom of saying anything to anyone at any time. Most of those present had been around six years earlier when Lamar Billups got the needle at Huntsville, and the finality of his death had been a shock. And Billups had been a nasty character. His favorite pastime had been beating up people in bar fights, preferably with pool cue sticks and broken bottles, and the state finally got fed up with him. On his deathbed, his last words were "See you in hell" and away he went. He was guilty, and never made a serious claim otherwise. His murder had been in a small town sixty miles away, hardly noticed by the citizens of Slone. He had no family, no one for the firm to be acquainted with. Robbie disliked him immensely, but clung rigidly5 to the belief that the state had no right to kill him.
The State of Texas versus6 Donte Drumm was a far different matter. Now they were fighting for an innocent man, and his family was their family.
The long table in the main conference room was the center of the storm. Fred Pryor, who was still in Houston, was on the speakerphone, giving a quick update on his efforts to flip7 Joey Gamble. The two had spoken by phone late Monday night, and Gamble was even less cooperative.
"He kept asking about perjury8 and how serious a crime it is," Pryor said, his voice at full volume.
"Koffee's threatening him," Robbie said, as if he knew it to be true. "Did you ask him if he's talking to the district attorney?"
"No, but I thought about it," Pryor replied. "I didn't, because I figured he would not divulge9 that."
"Koffee knows he lied at trial, and he's told the kid that we'll make a last-minute run at him," Robbie said. "He's threatened him with a prosecution10 for perjury if he changes his story now. Wanna bet on that, Fred?"
"No. Sounds about right."
"Tell Joey the statute11 of limitations has run on perjury. Koffee can't touch him."
"You got it."
The speakerphone was switched off. A platter of pastries12 hit the table and attracted a crowd. Robbie's two associates, both women, were reviewing a request for a reprieve13 from the governor. Martha Handler sat at one end of the table, lost in the world of trial transcripts14. Aaron Rey, with his jacket off and both pistols visible and strapped15 to his shirt, sipped17 coffee from a paper cup as he scanned the morning newspaper. Bonnie, a paralegal, worked at a laptop.
"Let's assume Gamble comes through," Robbie said to his senior associate, a prim18 lady of undetermined age. Robbie had sued her first plastic surgeon twenty years earlier when a face-lift produced a result that was less than desirable. But she had not given up on the corrective work; she had simply changed surgeons. Her name was Samantha Thomas, or Sammie, and when she wasn't working on Robbie's cases, she was suing doctors for malpractice and employers for age and race discrimination. "Get the petition ready, just in case," he said.
"I'm almost finished with it," Sammie said.
The receptionist, Fanta, a tall, slender black woman who had starred in basketball at Slone High and would have graduated, under different circumstances, with both Nicole Yarber and Donte Drumm, entered the room with a handful of phone messages. "A reporter from the Washington Post called and wants to talk," she said to Robbie, who immediately focused on her legs.
"Is it someone we know?"
"Never seen the name before."
"Then ignore."
"A reporter from the Houston Chronicle left a message at 10:30 last night."
"It's not Spinney is it?"
"It is."
"Tell him to go to hell."
"I don't use that language."
"Then ignore."
"Greta has called three times."
"Is she still in Germany?"
"Yes, she can't afford a plane ticket. She wants to know if she and Donte can get married through the Internet?"
"And what did you tell her?"
"I said no, it's not possible."
"Did you explain that Donte has become one of the most eligible19 bachelors in the world? That he's had at least five marriage proposals in the past week, all from Europe? All kinds of women, young, old, fat, skinny, the only trait they share is that they are ugly? And stupid? Did you explain that Donte is rather particular about whom he marries and so he's taking his time?"
"I didn't talk to her. She left a voice mail."
"Good. Ignore."
"The last one is from a minister from a Lutheran church in Topeka, Kansas. Called ten minutes ago. Said he might have information about who killed Nicole, but is not sure what to do about it."
"Great, another nut. How many of those did we have last week?"
"I've lost count."
"Ignore. It's amazing how many fruitcakes show up at the last minute."
She placed the messages amid the pile of debris20 in front of Robbie and left the room. Robbie watched every step of her exit, but did not gawk as usual.
Martha Handler said, "I don't mind calling the fruitcakes."
"You're just looking for material," Robbie shot back. "It's a waste of valuable time."
"Morning news," Carlos, the paralegal, said loudly and reached for the remote control. He aimed it at a wide-screen television hanging in a corner, and the chatter21 stopped. The reporter was standing22 in front of the Chester County Courthouse, as if something dramatic might happen there at any minute. He gushed23:
"City officials are mum on their plans to deal with potential unrest here in Slone in the wake of the scheduled execution of Donte Drumm. Drumm, as you know, was convicted in 1999 of the aggravated24 rape25 and murder of Nicole Yarber and, pending26 a last-minute stay or reprieve, will be executed at the prison in Huntsville at 6:00 Thursday evening. Drumm has maintained his innocence27, and many here in Slone do not believe he is guilty. From the beginning, the case has had racial overtones, and to say the town is divided is quite an understatement. I'm here with Police Chief Joe Radford."
The camera pulled back to reveal the rotund figure of the chief, in uniform.
"Chief, what can we expect if the execution is carried out?"
"Well, I guess we can expect justice to be served."
"Do you anticipate trouble?"
"Not at all. Folks have got to understand that the judicial28 system works and that the verdict of the jury must be carried out."
"So, you don't foresee any problems Thursday night?"
"No, but we'll be out in full force. We'll be ready."
"Thanks for your time."
The camera zoomed29 in, cutting out the chief.
"Organizers are planning a protest tomorrow at noon, right here in front of the courthouse. Sources confirmed that a permit for a rally has been issued by city hall. More on that later."
The reporter signed off and the paralegal pushed the mute button. No comment from Robbie, and everybody went back to work.
The Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles has seven members, all appointed by the governor. An inmate30 desiring clemency31 must petition the board for relief. A petition may be as simple as a one-page request, or as thorough as a voluminous filing with exhibits, affidavits32, and letters from around the world. The one filed by Robbie Flak on behalf of Donte Drumm was one of the most exhaustive in the board's history. Clemency is rarely granted. If denied, an appeal can be made to the governor, who cannot grant clemency on his own initiative but is allowed to issue one thirty-day reprieve. On those rare occasions when the board grants clemency, the governor has the right to overrule it and the state proceeds with the execution.
For a condemned33 prisoner facing death, the board usually makes its decision two days before the execution. The board doesn't actually meet to take a vote, but instead circulates a ballot34 by fax. Death by Fax, as it is known.
For Donte Drumm, news of his Death by Fax came at 8:15 on Tuesday morning. Robbie read the decision aloud to his team. No one was remotely surprised. They had lost so many rounds by now that a victory was not something they expected.
"So, let's ask the governor for a reprieve," Robbie said with a smile. "I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from us again." Of the truckload of motions and petitions and requests that his firm had filed in the last month, and would continue to churn out until his client was dead, a request for a reprieve from the governor of Texas was undoubtedly35 the biggest waste of paper. Twice in the past year the governor had ignored clemency approvals from his parole board and allowed the executions. He loved the death penalty, especially when seeking votes. One of his campaigns featured the slogan "Tough Texas Justice" and included his promise to "empty death row." And he was not talking about early parole.
"Let's go see Donte," Robbie announced.
The drive from Slone to the Polunsky Unit near Livingston, Texas, was a hard three-hour grind on two-lane roads. Robbie had made it a hundred times. A few years earlier, when he had three clients on death row--Donte, Lamar Billups, and a man named Cole Taylor--he grew weary of speeding tickets and rural drivers and near misses because he was on the phone. He bought a van, a long, heavy one with plenty of room, and he took it to a high-end custom shop in Fort Worth where they installed phones, televisions, and every gadget36 on the market, along with plush carpet, fine leather captain's chairs that both swiveled and reclined, a sofa in the rear, if Robbie needed a nap, and a bar in case he became thirsty. Aaron Rey was named the designated driver. Bonnie, the other paralegal, usually sat in the front passenger's seat, ready to jump when Mr. Flak barked. The trips became much more productive as Robbie worked the phone and laptop or read briefs on the way to Polunsky and back, traveling comfortably in the portable office.
His chair was directly behind the driver's. Next to him was Martha Handler. Up front with Aaron was Bonnie. They left Slone at 8:30 a.m. and were soon winding37 through the hills of East Texas.
The fifth member of the team was a new one. Her name was Dr. Kristina Hinze, or Kristi, as she was called around the Flak office, where no one was presumptuous38 enough to wear a title and most first names were shortened. She was the latest in a series of experts Robbie had burned cash on in his efforts to save Donte. She was a clinical psychiatrist39 who'd studied prisoners and prison conditions, and she'd written a book that argued, among other things, solitary40 confinement41 is one of the worst forms of torture. For $10,000, she was expected to meet with Donte, evaluate him, then prepare (quickly) a report in which she would describe his deteriorated42 mental condition and declare that (1) he had been driven crazy by eight years of solitary and (2) such confinement constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.
In 1986, the U.S. Supreme43 Court stopped the execution of insane people. Robbie's final thrust would be to portray44 Donte as a psychotic schizoid who understood nothing.
The argument was a long shot. Kristi Hinze was only thirty-two years old, not far removed from the classroom, with a resume that included no experience in court. Robbie was not concerned. He only hoped she got the chance to testify in a hearing on mental competency, months down the road. She had the rear sofa, papers spread everywhere, hard at work like everyone else.
When Robbie finished a phone call, Martha Handler said, "Can we talk?" This had become her standard opening when she had questions.
"Sure," he said.
She clicked on one of her many tape recorders and slid it in front of him. "On the subject of money, you were appointed by the judge to represent Donte, who qualified45 as an indigent46 defendant47, but--"
"Yep, Texas has no public defender48 system to speak of," he interrupted. After months together, Martha had learned that she should never expect to finish a sentence. He went on, "So the local judges appoint their buddies49 or drag in some poor schmuck when the case is so bad no one wants it. Me, I went to the judge and volunteered. She was happy to give it to me. No other lawyer in town would get near it."
"But the Drumms are not exactly poor. They both--?"
"Sure, but here's how it works. Only a rich person can afford to pay a lawyer for a capital defense50, and there are no rich people on death row. I could've squeezed five or ten thousand bucks51 out of the family, made 'em mortgage their house again, something like that. But why bother? The fine folks of Chester County would pay. This is one of the great ironies52 of the death penalty. The people want the death penalty--something like 70 percent in this state--yet they have no idea how much they're paying for it."
"How much have they paid?" she asked, deftly53 inserting the question before he could start talking again.
"Oh, I don't know. A lot. Bonnie, how much have we been paid so far?"
With no hesitation54 and hardly a glance over her shoulder, Bonnie said, "Almost $400,000."
Robbie went on, barely skipping a beat, "That includes attorney's fees, at the rate of $125 an hour, plus expenses, primarily for investigators55, and then a nice chunk56 for expert witnesses."
"That's a lot of money," Martha said.
"It is and it isn't. When a law firm is working for $125 an hour, it's losing serious money. I'll never do it again. I can't afford it. Neither can the taxpayers57, but at least I know I'm losing my ass. They do not. Ask the average Joe on Main Street in Slone how much he and his fellow citizens have paid to prosecute58 Donte Drumm, and you know what he'll say?"
"How am I supposed to--"
"He'll say he doesn't have a clue. Have you heard about the Tooley boys in West Texas? It's a famous case."
"I'm sorry, I must've missed--"
"These two brothers, the Tooleys, a couple of idiots, somewhere out in West Texas. What county, Bonnie?"
"Mingo."
"Mingo County. Very rural. A great story, listen. These two thugs are robbing convenience stores and gas stations. Very sophisticated stuff. One night, something goes wrong, and a young female clerk gets shot. Sawed-off shotgun, really nasty. They catch the Tooley brothers because the boys forgot about all of the video cameras. The town is outraged59. The police are strutting60. The prosecutor61 is promising62 swift justice. Everybody wants a quick trial and quick execution. There's not much crime in Mingo County, and no jury there has ever sent a man to death row. Now, there are many ways to feel neglected in Texas, but living in a community that's been left out of the execution business is downright embarrassing. What do the kinfolks in Houston think? These Mingo people see their opportunity. They want blood. The boys refuse to plea-bargain because the prosecutor insists on death. Why plead to death? So they try them, together. Quick convictions and, finally, death. On appeal, the court finds all manner of error. The prosecutor really butchered the case. The convictions are thrown out. The case is sent back for separate trials. Two trials, not one. Are you taking notes?"
"No, I'm searching for some relevance63 here."
"It's a great story."
"That's all that matters."
"A year or so passes. The boys are tried separately. Two new guilty verdicts, two more trips to death row. The appeals court sees more problems. I mean, glaring problems. The prosecutor was a moron64. Reversals, sent back for two new trials. The third time, one jury convicts the gunman of murder and he gets life. The other jury convicts the one who didn't fire the gun of murder and he gets death. Go figure. It's Texas. So one brother is serving life. The other went to death row, where he committed suicide a few months later. Somehow he got a razor and slashed65 himself."
"And your point is?"
"Here's the point. From start to finish, the case cost Mingo County $3 million. They were forced to raise property taxes several times, and this led to an uprising. There were drastic budget cuts in schools, road maintenance, and health services. They closed their only library. The county was near bankruptcy66 for years. And all of it could have been prevented if the prosecutor had allowed the boys to plead guilty and take life without parole. I've heard that the death penalty is not that popular in Mingo County now."
"I was more interested in--"
"From soup to nuts, it takes about two million bucks to legally kill a man in Texas. Compare that with the $30,000 it costs per year to keep one on death row."
"I've heard this before," Martha said, and indeed she had. Robbie never shied away from his soapbox, especially when the subject was the death penalty, one of his many favorites.
"But what the hell. We have plenty of money in Texas."
"Can we talk about Donte Drumm's case?"
"Oh, why not?"
"The defense fund. You--"
"Established a few years back, a certified67 nonprofit governed by all relevant code sections set forth68 by the Internal Revenue Service. Administered jointly69 by my office and Andrea Bolton, younger sister of Donte Drumm. Receipts so far total how much, Bonnie?"
"Ninety-five thousand dollars."
"Ninety-five thousand dollars. And how much is on hand?"
"Zero."
"That's what I figured. Would you like a breakdown70 of where the money went?"
"Maybe. Where did it go?"
"Litigation expenses, law firm expenses, expert witnesses, a few bucks to the family to travel back and forth to see Donte. Not exactly a high-powered nonprofit. All moneys have been raised through the Internet. Frankly71, we haven't had the time or manpower to pursue fund-raising."
"Mostly Brits and Europeans. The average donation is something like twenty bucks."
"Eighteen fifty," Bonnie said.
"It's very hard to raise money for a convicted murderer, regardless of his story."
"How much are you out of pocket?" Martha asked.
There was no rapid response. Bonnie, finally stumped73, gave a slight shrug74 from the front seat. "I don't know," Robbie said. "If I had to guess, it would be at least $50,000, maybe a hundred. Maybe I should've spent more."
Phones were buzzing throughout the van. Sammie at the office had a question for the boss. Kristi Hinze was talking to another psychiatrist. Aaron was listening to someone as he drove.
The party began early with sweet potato biscuits straight from Reeva's oven. She loved to cook them, and eat them, and when Sean Fordyce admitted he'd never eaten one, she feigned75 disbelief. By the time he arrived, with his hairdresser, makeup76 girl, appointment secretary, and publicist, all hustling77 around him, the home of Reeva and Wallis Pike was crammed78 with neighbors and friends. The thick smell of fried country ham wafted79 out the front door. Two long trucks were backed into the driveway, and even the crew members were chomping80 on biscuits.
Fordyce, an Irish ass from Long Island, was slightly irritated by the crowd, but put on his game face and signed autographs. He was the star. These were his fans. They bought his books, watched his show, and gave him his ratings. He posed for a few photographs, ate a biscuit with ham, and seemed to like it. He was pudgy, with a doughy81 face, not exactly the traditional looks of a star, but that didn't matter anymore. He wore dark suits and funky82 eyeglasses that made him appear far more intelligent than he acted.
The set was in Reeva's room, the large addition stuck to the rear of the house like a cancerous growth. Reeva and Wallis were situated83 on a sofa, with color blowups of Nicole as the backdrop. Wallis wore a tie and looked as if he'd just been ordered out of his bedroom, which in fact he had. Reeva was heavily made up, her hair freshly colored and permed, and she wore her finest black dress. Fordyce sat in a chair, close to them. He was tended to by his handlers, who sprayed his hair and powdered his forehead. The crew fussed with the lighting84. Sound checks were done. Monitors were adjusted. The neighbors were packed in tight behind the cameras with stern instructions not to make a sound.
The producer said, "Quiet! We're rolling."
Close-up on Fordyce as he welcomed his audience to another episode. He explained where he was, whom he was interviewing, and the basis of the crime, the confession85, and the conviction. "If all goes as expected," he said gravely, "Mr. Drumm will be executed the day after tomorrow."
He introduced the mother and the stepfather and, of course, passed along his condolences for this tragedy. He thanked them for opening their home so that the world, through his cameras, could witness the suffering. He began with Nicole. "Tell us about her," he almost pleaded.
Wallis made no effort to speak, something he would do throughout the interview. This was Reeva's show. She was excited and over-stimulated and after just a few words began crying. But she had cried in public for so long that she could now chatter away while the tears flowed. She went on and on about her daughter.
"Do you miss her?" Fordyce asked, one of his patented inane86 questions designed only to elicit87 more emotion.
Reeva gave it to him. He handed her the white handkerchief from his coat pocket. Linen88. The man oozed89 compassion90.
He finally got around to the execution, which was the thrust of his program. "Do you still plan to be there?" he asked, certain of the answer.
"Oh yes," she said, and Wallis managed to nod.
"Why? What will it mean to you?"
"It means so much," she said. The thought of revenge dried the tears. "This animal took my daughter's life. He deserves to die and I want to be there, to stare him in the eyes when he takes his last breath."
"Do you think he'll look at you?"
"I doubt it. He's a coward. Any human who could do what he did to my precious little girl, I doubt he'll be man enough to look at me."
"What about his last words? Do you want an apology?"
"Yes, but I'm not expecting one. He has never taken responsibility for what he did."
"He confessed."
"Yes, but then he changed his mind and he's denied it ever since. I expect he'll deny it when they strap16 him down and he says good-bye."
"Anticipate for us, Reeva. Tell us how you think you'll feel when he's pronounced dead."
Just the thought made her smile, but she quickly caught herself. "Relief, sadness, I don't know. It'll be the closing of another chapter in a long, sad story. But it won't be the end."
Wallis frowned slightly upon learning this.
"What's the final chapter here, Reeva?"
"When you lose a child, Sean, especially one taken in such a violent way, there is no end."
"There is no end," he repeated somberly, then turned to the camera, and, with every effort at great drama, said again, "There is no end."
They took a quick break, moved some cameras, and added more spray to Fordyce's hair. And when they rolled again, he managed to get a few grunts91 from Wallis, stuff that wouldn't last ten seconds in editing.
The filming was over in less than an hour. Fordyce made a quick exit--he was also working on an execution in Florida. He made sure everyone knew there was a jet waiting to take him there. One of his camera crews would hang around Slone for the next two days, hoping for violence.
Fordyce would be in Huntsville on Thursday night, looking for drama, praying the execution would not be put off. His favorite part of his show was the post-execution interview when he got the victim's family fresh from the prison. They were usually emotional wrecks92, and he knew that Reeva would light up the screen.
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bustling
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frantic
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odds
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ass
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rigidly
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versus
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flip
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perjury
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divulge
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prosecution
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statute
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pastries
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reprieve
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transcripts
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strapped
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strap
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sipped
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prim
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eligible
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debris
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chatter
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standing
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rape
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innocence
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judicial
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zoomed
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inmate
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clemency
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affidavits
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ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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35
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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36
gadget
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| n.小巧的机械，精巧的装置，小玩意儿 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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41
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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42
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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47
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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49
buddies
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| n.密友( buddy的名词复数 )；同伴；弟兄；（用于称呼男子，常带怒气）家伙v.（如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般）交往( buddy的第三人称单数 )；做朋友；亲近（…）；伴护艾滋病人 | |
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50
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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51
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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52
ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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investigators
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| n.调查者，审查者( investigator的名词复数 ) | |
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chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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taxpayers
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| 纳税人，纳税的机构( taxpayer的名词复数 ) | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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moron
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| n.极蠢之人，低能儿 | |
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slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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donors
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| n.捐赠者( donor的名词复数 )；献血者；捐血者；器官捐献者 | |
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73
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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76
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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78
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
chomping
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| v.切齿，格格地咬牙，咬响牙齿( chomp的现在分词 ) | |
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81
doughy
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| adj.面团的，苍白的，半熟的；软弱无力 | |
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82
funky
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| adj.畏缩的，怯懦的，霉臭的；adj.新式的，时髦的 | |
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83
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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84
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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85
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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86
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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87
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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88
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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89
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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90
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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91
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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