‘Ooooh, urgent, is it?’

‘Ooooh, urgent, is it?’ said the other gargoyle in a high-pitched voice. ‘Well, that's put us in our place, hasn't it?’

Harry knocked. He heard footsteps, then the door opened and he found himself face to face with Professor McGonagall.

‘You haven't been given another detention!’ she said at once, her square spectacles flashing alarmingly.

‘No, Professor!’ said Harry hastily.

‘Well then, why are you out of class?’

‘It's urgent, apparently,’ said the second gargoyle snidely.

‘I'm looking for Professor Grubbly-Plank,’ Harry explained. ‘It's my owl, she's injured.’

‘Injured owl, did you say?’

Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared at Professor McGonagall's shoulder, smoking a pipe and holding a copy of the Daily Prophet.

‘Yes,’ said Harry, lifting Hedwig carefully off his shoulder, ‘she turned up after the other post owls and her wing's all funny, look—’

Professor Grubbly-Plank stuck her pipe firmly between her teeth and took Hedwig from Harry while Professor McGonagall watched.

‘Hmm,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank, her pipe waggling slightly as she talked. ‘Looks like something's attacked her. Can't think what would have done it, though. Thestrals will sometimes go for birds, of course, but Hagrid's got the Hogwarts Thestrals well-trained not to touch owls.’

Harry neither knew nor cared what Thestrals were; he just wanted to know that Hedwig was going to be all right. Professor McGonagall, however, looked sharply at Harry and said, ‘Do you know how far this owl's travelled, Potter?’

‘Er,’ said Harry. ‘From London, I think.’

He met her eyes briefly and knew, by the way her eyebrows had joined in the middle, that she understood ‘London’ to mean ‘number twelve, Grimmauld Place'.

Professor Grubbly-Plank pulled a monocle out of the inside of her robes and screwed it into her eye, to examine Hedwig's wing closely. ‘I should be able to sort this out if you leave her with me, Potter,’ she said, ‘she shouldn't be flying long distances for a few days, in any case.’

‘Er—right—thanks,’ said Harry, just as the bell rang for break.

‘No problem,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank gruffly, turning back into the staff room.

‘Just a moment, Wilhelmina!’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘Potter's letter!’

‘Oh yeah!’ said Harry, who had momentarily forgotten the scroll tied to Hedwig's leg. Professor Grubbly-Plank handed it over and then disappeared into the staff room carrying Hedwig, who was staring at Harry as though unable to believe he would give her away like this. Feeling slightly guilty, he turned to go, but Professor McGonagall called him back.

‘Potter!’

‘Yes, Professor?’

She glanced up and down the corridor; there were students coming from both directions.

‘Bear in mind,’ she said quickly and quietly, her eyes on the scroll in his hand, ‘that channels of communication in and out of Hogwarts may be being watched, won't you?’

‘I—’ said Harry, but the flood of students rolling along the corridor was almost upon him. Professor McGonagall gave him a curt nod and retreated into the staff room, leaving Harry to be swept out into the courtyard with the crowd. He spotted Ron and Hermione already standing in a sheltered corner, their cloak collars turned up against the wind. Harry slit open the scroll as he hurried towards them and found five words in Sirius's handwriting:

Today, same time, same place.

‘Is Hedwig OK?’ asked Hermione anxiously, the moment he was within earshot.

‘Where did you take her?’ asked Ron.

‘To Grubbly-Plank,’ said Harry. ‘And I met McGonagall ... listen ...’

And he told them what Professor McGonagall had said. To his surprise, neither of the others looked shocked. On the contrary, they exchanged significant looks.

‘What?’ said Harry, looking from Ron to Hermione and back again.

‘Well, I was just saying to Ron ... what if someone had tried to intercept Hedwig? I mean, she's never been hurt on a flight before, has she?’

‘Who's the letter from, anyway?’ asked Ron, taking the note from Harry.

‘Snuffles,’ said Harry quietly.

‘"Same time, same place?” Does he mean the fire in the common room?’

‘Obviously,’ said Hermione, also reading the note. She looked uneasy. ‘I just hope nobody else has read this ...’

‘But it was still sealed and everything,’ said Harry, trying to convince himself as much as her. ‘And nobody would understand what it meant if they didn't know where we'd spoken to him before, would they?’

‘I don't know,’ said Hermione anxiously, hitching her bag back over her shoulder as the bell rang again, ‘it wouldn't be exactly difficult to re-seal the scroll by magic ... and if anyone's watching the Floo Network ... but I don't really see how we can warn him not to come without that being intercepted, too!’

They trudged down the stone steps to the dungeons for Potions, all three of them, lost in thought, but as they reached the bottom of the steps they were recalled to themselves by the voice of Draco Malfoy, who was standing just outside Snape's classroom door, waving around an official-looking piece of parchment and talking much louder than was necessary so that they could hear every word.

‘Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straightaway, I went to ask her first thing this morning. Well, it was pretty much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really well, he's always popping in and out of the Ministry ... it'll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are allowed to keep playing, won't it?’

‘Don't rise,’ Hermione whispered imploringly to Harry and Ron, who were both watching Malfoy, faces set and fists clenched. ‘It's what he wants.’

‘I mean,’ said Malfoy, raising his voice a little more, his grey eyes glittering malevolently in Harry and Ron's direction, ‘if it's a question of influence with the Ministry, I don't think they've got much chance ... from what my father says, they've been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years ... and as for Potter ... my father says it's a matter of time before the Ministry has him carted off to St. Mungo's ... apparently they've got a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic.’

‘I'll make Goyle do lines, it'll kill him, he hates writing,’

‘I'll make Goyle do lines, it'll kill him, he hates writing,’ said Ron happily. He lowered his voice to Goyle's low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. ‘I ... must ... not ... look ... like ... a ... baboon's ... backside.’

Everyone laughed, but nobody laughed harder than Luna Lovegood. She let out a scream of mirth that caused Hedwig to wake up and flap her wings indignantly and Crookshanks to leap up into the luggage rack, hissing. Luna laughed so hard her magazine slipped out of her grasp, slid down her legs, and onto the floor.

‘That was funny!’

Her prominent eyes swam with tears as she gasped for breath, staring at Ron. Utterly nonplussed, he looked around at the others, who were now laughing at the expression on Ron's face and at the ludicrously prolonged laughter of Luna Lovegood, who was rocking backwards and forwards, clutching her sides.

‘Are you taking the mickey?’ said Ron, frowning at her.

‘Baboon's ... backside!’ she choked, holding her ribs.

Everyone else was watching Luna laughing, but Harry, glancing at the magazine on the floor, noticed something that made him dive for it. Upside-down it had been hard to tell what the picture on the front was, but Harry now realised it was a fairly bad cartoon of Cornelius Fudge; Harry only recognised him because of the lime-green bowler hat. One of Fudges hands was clenched around a bag of gold; the other hand was throttling a goblin. The cartoon was captioned: How Far Will Fudge Go to Gain Gringotts?

Beneath this were listed the titles of other articles inside the magazine.

CORRUPTION IN THE QUIDDITCH LEAGUE:How the Tornados are Taking Control

SECRETS OF THE ANCIENT RUINS REVEALED

SIRIUS BLACK: Villain or Victim?

‘Can I have a look at this?’ Harry asked Luna eagerly.

She nodded, still gazing at Ron, breathless with laughter.

Harry opened the magazine and scanned the index. Until this moment he had completely forgotten the magazine Kingsley had handed Mr. Weasley to give to Sirius, but it must have been this edition of The Quibbler.

He found the page, and turned excitedly to the article.

This, too, was illustrated by a rather bad cartoon; in fact, Harry would not have known it was supposed to be Sirius if it hadn't been captioned. Sirius was standing on a pile of human bones with his wand out. The headline on the article said:

SIRIUS—Black As He's Painted Notorious Mass Murderer OR Innocent Singing Sensation?

Harry had to read this first sentence several times before he was convinced that he had not misunderstood it. Since when had Sirius been a singing sensation?

At that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.

At that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.

‘Oh ... hello, Harry,’ said a nervous voice. ‘Um ... bad time?’

Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor-free hand. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair was standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.

‘Oh ... hi,’ said Harry blankly.

‘Um...’ said Cho. ‘Well ... just thought I'd say hello ... ‘bye then.’

Rather pink in the face, she closed the door and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and groaned. He would have liked Cho to discover him sitting with a group of very cool people laughing their heads off at a joke he had just told; he would not have chosen to be sitting with Neville and Loony Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap.

‘Never mind,’ said Ginny bracingly. ‘Look, we can easily get rid of all this.’ She pulled out her wand. ‘Scourgify!’

The Stinksap vanished.

‘Sorry.’ said Neville again, in a small voice.

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an hour, by which time the food trolley had already gone by. Harry, Ginny, and Neville had finished their pumpkin pasties and were busy swapping Chocolate Frog Cards when the compartment door slid open and they walked in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.

‘I'm starving,’ said Ron, stowing Pigwidgeon next to Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him. He ripped open the wrapper, bit off the frog's head and leaned back with his eyes closed as though he had had a very exhausting morning.

‘Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each house,’ said Hermione, looking thoroughly disgruntled as she took her seat. ‘Boy and girl from each.’

‘And guess who's a Slytherin prefect?’ said Ron, still with his eyes closed.

‘Malfoy,’ replied Harry at once, certain his worst fear would be confirmed.

’ ‘Course,’ said Ron bitterly, stuffing the rest of the Frog into his mouth and taking another.

‘And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,’ said Hermione viciously. ‘How she got to be a prefect when she's thicker than a concussed troll...’

‘Who are Hufflepuff's?’ Harry asked.

‘Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott,’ said Ron thickly.

‘And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,’ said Hermione.

‘You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,’ said a vague voice.

Everyone turned to look at Luna Lovegood, who was gazing unblinkingly at Ron over the top of The Quibbler. He swallowed his mouthful of Frog.

‘Yeah, I know I did,’ he said, looking mildly surprised.

‘She didn't enjoy it very much,’ Luna informed him. ‘She doesn't think you treated her very well, because you wouldn't dance with her. I don't think I'd have minded,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘I don't like dancing very much.’

She retreated behind The Quibbler again. Ron stared at the cover with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then looked around at Ginny for some kind of explanation, but Ginny had stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself giggling. Ron shook his head, bemused, then checked his watch.

‘We're supposed to patrol the corridors every so often,’ he told Harry and Neville, ‘and we can give out punishments if people are misbehaving. I can't wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something....’

‘You're not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!’ said Hermione sharply.

‘Yeah, right, because Malfoy won't abuse it at all,’ said Ron sarcastically.

‘So you're going to descend to his level?’

‘No, I'm just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine.’

‘For heavens sake, Ron—’

Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead.

Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead.

‘And I don't know who you are.’

‘I'm nobody,’ said Neville hurriedly.

‘No you're not,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘Neville Longbottom—Luna Lovegood. Luna's in my year, but in Ravenclaw.’

‘Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,’ said Luna in a singsong voice.

She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny suppressed a giggle.

The train rattled onwards, speeding them out into open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the next they were passing beneath ominously grey clouds.

‘Guess what I got for my birthday?’ said Neville.

‘Another Remembrall?’ said Harry, remembering the marble-like device Neville's grandmother had sent him in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.

‘No,’ said Neville. ‘I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago.... No, look at this....’

He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small grey cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with what looked like boils rather than spines.

‘Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ he said proudly.

Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ.

‘It's really, really rare,’ said Neville, beaming. ‘I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My Great Uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it.’

Harry knew that Neville's favourite subject was Herbology, but for the life of him he could not see what he would want with this stunted little plant.

‘Does it—er—do anything?’ he asked.

‘Loads of stuff!’ said Neville proudly. ‘It's got an amazing defensive mechanism. Here, hold Trevor for me....’

He dumped the toad into Harry's lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood's popping eyes appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine again, watching what Neville was doing. Neville held the Mimbulus mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.

Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant; thick, stinking, dark green jets of it. They hit the ceiling, the windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood's magazine; Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face just in time, merely looked as though she was wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands had been busy preventing Trevor's escape, received a faceful. It smelled like rancid manure.

Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes.

‘Sosorry,’ he gasped. ‘I haven't tried that before.... Didn't realise it would be quite so... Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous,’ he added nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful on to the floor.

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

‘Er,’ said Ron.

‘We're—well—Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage,’ Hermione said awkwardly.

Ron wasn't looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.

‘Oh,’ said Harry. ‘Right. Fine.’

‘I don't think we'll have to stay there all journey,’ said Hermione quickly. ‘Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time.’

‘Fine,’ said Harry again. ‘Well, I—I might see you later, then.’

‘Yeah, definitely,’ said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. ‘It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather—but we have to—I mean, I'm not enjoying it, I'm not Percy,’ he finished defiantly.

‘I know you're not,’ said Harry and he grinned. But as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks, Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off towards the engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd sense of loss. He had never travelled on the Hogwarts Express without Ron.

‘Come on,’ Ginny told him, ‘if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places.’

‘Right,’ said Harry, picking up Hedwig's cage in one hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. They struggled off down the corridor, peering through the glass-panelled doors into the compartments they passed, which were already full. Harry could not help noticing that a lot of people stared back at him with great interest and that several of them nudged their neighbours and pointed him out. After he had met this behaviour in five consecutive carriages he remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered dully whether the people now staring and whispering believed the stories.

In the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom, Harry's fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor.

‘Hi, Harry,’ he panted. ‘Hi, Ginny.... Everywhere's full.... I can't find a seat....’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Ginny, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. ‘There's room in this one, there's only Loony Lovegood in here—’

Neville mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.

‘Don't be silly,’ said Ginny, laughing, ‘she's all right.’

She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside. Harry and Neville followed.

‘Hi, Luna,’ said Ginny, ‘is it okay if we take these seats?’

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty-blonde hair, very pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer corks, or that she was reading a magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded.

‘Thanks,’ said Ginny, smiling at her.

Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig's cage in the luggage rack and sat down. Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn't.

‘Had a good summer, Luna?’ Ginny asked.

‘Yes,’ said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. ‘Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter,’ she added.

‘I know I am,’ said Harry.

Attacking? I wasn't attacking her, I was only

‘—’

‘Who cares if she supports the Tornados?’

‘Oh, come on, half the people you see wearing those badges only bought them last season—’

‘But what does it matter?’

‘It means they're not real fans, they're just jumping on the bandwagon—’

‘That's the bell,’ said Harry dully, because Ron and Hermione were bickering too loudly to hear it. They did not stop arguing all the way down to Snapes dungeon, which gave Harry plenty of time to reflect that between Neville

and Ron he would be lucky ever to have two minutes of conversation with Cho that he could look back on without wanting to leave the country.

And yet, he thought, as they joined the queue lining up outside Snape's classroom door, she had chosen to come and talk to him, hadn't she? She had been Cedric's girlfriend; she could easily have hated Harry for coming

out of the Triwizard maze alive when Cedric had died, yet she was talking to him in a perfectly friendly way, not as though she thought him mad, or a liar, or in some horrible way responsible for Cedric's death ... yes, she had

definitely chosen to come and talk to him, and that made the second time in two days ... and at this thought, Harry's spirits rose. Even the ominous sound of Snape's dungeon door creaking open did not puncture the small,

hopeful bubble that seemed to have swelled in his chest. He filed into the classroom behind Ron and Hermione and followed them to their usual table at the back, where he sat down between Ron and Hermione and ignored

the huffy, irritable noises now issuing from both of them.

‘Settle down,’ said Snape coldly, shutting the door behind him.

There was no real need for the call to order; the moment the class had heard the door close, quiet had fallen and all fidgeting stopped. Snape's mere presence was usually enough to ensure a class's silence.

‘Before we begin today's lesson,’ said Snape, sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them all, ‘I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will

prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an “Acceptable” in your OWL, or suffer my ... displeasure.’

His gaze lingered this time on Neville, who gulped.

‘After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me,’ Snape went on. ‘I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye.’

His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Harry glared back, feeling a grim pleasure at the idea that he would be able to give up Potions after fifth year.

‘But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell,’ said Snape softly, ‘so, whether or not you are intending to attempt NEWT, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass

level I have come to expect from my OWL students.

‘Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put

the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing.’ On Harry's left, Hermione sat up a little straighter, her expression one of utmost attention. The

ingredients and method—’ Snape flicked his wand ‘—are on the blackboard—(they appeared there) ‘—you will find everything you need—’ he flicked his wand again ‘—in the store cupboard—’ (the door of the said cupboard

sprang open) ‘—you have an hour and a half ... start.’

Just as Harry, Ron and Hermione had predicted, Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture had to

be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in anti-clockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it was simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes

before the final ingredient was added.

‘A light silver vapour should now be rising from your potion,’ called Snape, with ten minutes left to go.

Harry, who was sweating profusely, looked desperately around the dungeon. His own cauldron was issuing copious amounts of dark grey steam; Ron's was spitting green sparks. Seamus was feverishly prodding the flames at

the base of his cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they seemed to be going out. The surface of Hermione's potion, however, was a shimmering mist of silver vapour, and as Snape swept by he looked down his hooked nose

at it without comment, which meant he could find nothing to criticise.

At Harry's cauldron, however, Snape stopped, and looked down at it with a horrible smirk on his face.

‘Potter, what is this supposed to be?’

The Slytherins at the front of the class all looked up eagerly; they loved hearing Snape taunt Harry.

‘The Draught of Peace,’ said Harry tensely.

‘Tell me, Potter,’ said Snape softly, ‘can you read?’

Draco Malfoy laughed.

‘Yes, I can,’ said Harry, his fingers clenched tightly around his wand.

‘Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter.’

Harry squinted at the blackboard; it was not easy to make out the instructions through the haze of multi-coloured steam now filling the dungeon.

‘"Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counter-clockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes then add two drops of syrup of hellebore.” ’

His heart sank. He had not added syrup of hellebore, but had proceeded straight to the fourth line of the instructions after allowing his potion to simmer for seven minutes.

‘Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?’

‘No,’ said Harry very quietly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No,’ said Harry, more loudly. ‘I forgot the hellebore.’

‘I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. Evanesce.’

The contents of Harry's potion vanished; he was left standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron.

‘Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name and bring it up to my desk for testing,’ said Snape. ‘Homework: twelve inches of parchment

on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday.’
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Should Jose Medellin Be Executed?

Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：105 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:32:52


Jose Medellin is a convicted rapist. Jose Medellin is a convicted murderer. Fourteen years ago he was sentenced to death for participating in the gang rape and murder of Elizabeth Pena, 16 and Jennifer Ertman who was 14. The girls had tragically wandered upon a gang initiation. This would seem to be just one more routine execution of which Texas leads the nation. It would also seem that if anyone deserved to be executed, Mr. Medellin should certainly have that place in death penalty lore. There is one minor twist. Mr. Medellin is a Mexican citizen. He was allegedly denied access to the Mexican consulate after his arrest which is a violation of the Vienna Convention. Mr. Medellin was allegedly never told he had the right to see a Mexican consular officer as required by the Convention. The Vienna Convention is an international treaty governing in part the treatment of citizens of different nations outside of their home countries. The United States is a signatory to this treaty.

In a ironic diplomatic and political twist, the normally pro-capital punishment Bush administration is fighting tooth and nail to save the life of Mr. Medellin. The administration claims there's a bigger picture at stake. The picture frame encompasses the rights of United States citizens who may find themselves in similar situations in Mexico and other foreign nations. It is the position of the United States that this matter is governed by the Vienna Convention and that an international court should review Mr. Medellin's situation before any further action is taken. President Bush tried to resolve the issue three years ago by ordering all states to review the cases of 51 Mexican nationals on death row, including Mr. Medellin, as directed by the International Court pursuant to the Vienna Convention. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled earlier this year that Mr. Bush overstepped his authority and that individual states are not bound by international law on this issue. They held that this particular treaty is not "self-executing". It also found that in the alternative Congress had not enacted any legislation enacting it. The state of Texas is therefore free to proceed with the execution.

The state of Texas could care less about what the International Court has to say about Mr. Medellin's rights. Texas has taken the position that Mr. Medellin received fair trial in accordance with state law and any international issues are not its concern. Should the state of Texas care about the bigger picture of international politics, diplomacy and the fair treatment of American's abroad? There is nothing in the United States Constitution requiring the states of Texas to stand down to the Vienna Convention or practice international diplomacy. This is a states rights issue. Mr. Medellin received the full spectrum of Constitutional rights he was entitled to under state law and Supreme Court rulings extending federal law to his situation. Even assuming he had some state right to consular access, how would this have affected his trial? There was no prejudice.