False Convictions (20 page)

Ralph pulled over in front of the police cruisers, which sat angled watchfully out on the wide street. Between them, cops
working crowd control leaned with their arms and cups of coffee resting on the roofs of their cars, sunglasses pushed up above
their hairlines in the shadow of the courthouse. Casey circled the cluster of patrol cars and the sidewalk bulging with cameras,
microphones, and smartly dressed reporters. While not an unfamiliar scene, the VIP tent Graham had somehow arranged to be
set up in the narrow plot of grass beside the courthouse made her wonder if they hadn’t overdone it.

She was waved through the police checkpoint by a party planner who wore a turtleneck beneath his Armani suit. The linen-covered
table, heavy with Danish, salmon, and caviar hors d’oeuvres and silver urns of coffee and tea, held no interest for her. Neither
did the retinues surrounding Al Gore, Brad Pitt, or Jesse Jackson.

“There you are,” she said to Graham, who stood with a crystal tumbler of orange juice. He was in his Timberland boots, Levi’s,
and flannel shirt with dark hair poking out of the open collar. “Who’s the party planner?”

“Abel?” Graham said, nodding toward the wispy man in the turtleneck. “He’s a director. Won two Clios last year.”

“Commercials?”

“Try the cheese Danish,” he said, surveying the small crowd. “Brad Pitt loves them. They’re from Neddi’s, a little place Abel
found in Chicago. Fresh this morning.”

“How did you do this?”

Graham smiled without looking at her, obviously proud. “They believe in the cause.”

“That’s bullshit,” Casey said. “What did it cost? Is there a service you use to get a lineup like this?”

Graham shrugged. “It’s a big moment.”

“It is now.”

“It was always big,” he said. “Big to Dwayne. His mom. The Project. Nothing could be bigger.”

“Now it’s big to every housewife in Dayton,” Casey said. “I’m serious. If I’m going to be doing these on a regular basis,
I want to know how it works.”

Graham reined in his smile and met her eyes. In a low voice he said, “There is a service. They work through the agents and
keep schedules for all the A-list people. You have to fly them in and out and provide police escorts, and you have to take
who happens to be close by. Brad Pitt was shooting a movie in New York. Gore was actually in Buffalo showing his movie.”

“And this would cost?”

Graham looked away, studying with appreciation the legs of a young woman in a dark suit who hovered near Jesse Jackson.

“About the same thing it cost me to hire you,” Graham said, grinning, his eyes dancing around the tent now.

“For all of them?”

“For Brad Pitt. Jesse and Al I got two for one.”

Casey nearly choked. In a hissing whisper she said, “You spent two million dollars to have these people here?”

“It’s like an ad in the Super Bowl,” he said, nodding. “Did you see the networks out there? E!? Fox News? These things cost
money. Plus, all three of them are now on our board.”

“Swell.”

“You asked how it’s done. Look at Kollar. I bet you didn’t know he had those dimples.”

Judge Kollar stood in his robes, having a picture taken between Brad Pitt and Al Gore, his smile wide as an airplane hangar.
Graham looked at his watch and a disturbance at the back corner of the tent marked the arrival of Dwayne Hubbard in a pin-striped
suit escorted by two Auburn police officers, each of whom gave wide berth to the man Casey had last seen in shackles. Trailing
Dwayne was a thin black woman with white hair wearing a bright blue dress and matching hat, Casey guessed the mother. Another
woman stood beside her, tall, overweight, and a black face painted with red rouge and lipstick surrounding a gap-toothed mouth.
Casey couldn’t imagine who she might be or what her role was.

Even in the suit, Hubbard’s thin neck and big glasses gave him the air of a character actor playing a bit part on a low-budget
cable movie. Jesse Jackson kicked into gear with kisses, solemn hugs, and jive handshakes.

The judge got into the act with Brad Pitt, mugging for the lone photographer who took direction from Abel. Al Gore waited
like the statesman until a more dignified moment could be born from the charade and he could pump Hubbard’s hand like a car
dealer. It was then Casey heard Dwayne introduce the heavy woman as Naomi Potts, his soul mate and fiancée. Abel raised his
voice and began herding the whole group the way only someone fluent in managing big egos and personalities really can.

Atop the courthouse steps, between the towering columns, Casey and the rest positioned themselves on patches of duct tape
bearing their names written in black Magic Marker. Casey stood beside Dwayne Hubbard in front of the podium and its herd of
microphones while Brad Pitt, Al Gore, and Jesse Jackson, who wouldn’t let go of the mom, flanked them along with Graham, who
placed a patronizing hand on Casey’s shoulder as she spoke. When she turned to offer him a weak smile, Casey noticed the judge
prowling around in the background, jockeying for some face time.

Casey removed the notes from her briefcase, only to have them deftly snatched up by Abel, who replaced them with a small,
three-sentence script. Casey frowned at him, but Abel was too busy handing out scripts to the others to notice her ire.

Casey realized that the crowd had quieted. Graham gave her a hearty thumbs-up. Flashes popped and lenses spun into focus.
She cleared her throat and began to read.

“In all my time as a lawyer who loves the law,” she said, looking up from her notes at the narrow-hipped director, “never
have I seen such an injustice, an injustice born of malice, racism, and the most heinous form of corruption. In the case of
Dwayne Hubbard—who the Freedom Project stands beside today in joyful freedom—the crushing weight of the system acted contrary
to the American principles of liberty and freedom. In short, those who swore an oath to uphold the law worked selfishly and
cruelly against it.”

Flashes continued to pop and camera motors whirred. Abel, halfway down the steps and off to the side to avoid the cameras,
waved frantically for Casey to step aside and she did. Dwayne cleared his own throat, and Casey saw that the sheet of paper
he held behind the podium trembled in his shaking hands.

“First, I want to thank my lawyer, Casey Jordan, and the Freedom Project for this historic moment,” Dwayne said, his voice
quavering as he held a limp hand up in a gesture to his supporting cast. “And I especially thank Brad Pitt, and Jesse Jackson,
and Vice President Gore, along with Robert Graham from the Freedom Project. I also want to say that… that… that while I can’t
understand how Judge Patricia Rivers could send an innocent man to jail, even to protect her own son, that I do forgive her,
anyway.”

A murmur erupted from the crowd of reporters and the intensity of the flashing and humming built to a crescendo that waned
for Al Gore and Jesse Jackson but reached new heights for Brad Pitt and even stayed strong for the bashful billionaire who
thanked everyone and asked for the continued support of the American people for this great cause.

Within five minutes, the celebrities had vanished, whisked away in long dark cars sandwiched between flashing lights and sirens.
The press broke down their equipment, hot to get into whatever edit space their producers might have found in the larger cities
nearby.

“Well,” Graham said, sidling up next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and giving her a squeeze. “How do you feel?”

Casey looked at him, his dancing hazel eyes, the razor stubble, the rakish dark hair, and said, “Like I need a shower.”

C
ASEY WASN’T PLEASED when Graham asked if she wouldn’t mind waiting until he attended an important and early business dinner
in Rochester before they took off. But when he pointed out that the workday would be over by the time they got there either
way, she accepted the change in plan. She got on the phone and did her best to give direction to her staff. She always found
it harder to be decisive over the phone, suspecting she somehow became overrun with compassion. When Jake called, she couldn’t
say no to him, either. She went downstairs and patiently answered his questions, seeing exactly where the interview was heading
and not minding to be a part of smacking down the overzealous criminal system of this and other small towns that deserved
it.

When they finished, she asked Jake if he had any interest in a cappuccino, but he apologized, explaining that Dora was frantic
with their deadline, and headed off to meet Marty in his offices for some background information on Judge Rivers. Casey returned
to her room and pushed the curtain aside. She looked at her watch, then the afternoon sunshine outside, and decided to take
a walk to mull over several frustrating cases at the clinic. She set off uphill toward the center of town and past the antiquated
town hall. She thought about going back to her room to change into something more comfortable than her business suit and heels
but decided instead to slow her pace. She circled the Seward House, home of Andrew Jackson’s secretary of state, the man famous
for buying Alaska from the Russians for a song.

Shadows had begun to grow long when a dark blue Suburban sped toward her down the side street and came to a shuddering halt.
A man wearing jeans and the kind of dark blue windbreaker common to law enforcement slipped out of the driver’s side. The
man, who stood over six feet tall, was middle-aged and lean, with dark glossy hair combed back from a sharp narrow face framed
by muttonchops. He hurried around the truck, and Casey was curious to see him swing open the passenger side.

Something about him made her uncomfortable. She glanced around at the empty street, and by the time her eyes returned to him,
he was upon her.

“Casey Jordan?” he asked. His dark eyes bored into Casey’s under the eaves of thick black eyebrows, and Casey stepped back
instinctively.

With expert ease, he gripped her wrist and clamped down on a nerve hard enough for her to stagger. He swept her arm up behind
her back, keeping the pressure on the nerve, and propelled her across the small strip of grass and into the truck, slamming
the door behind him.

Casey yanked at the handle as he rounded the hood. When she realized it didn’t work, she threw herself across the driver’s
side to open that door. He yanked it open. She hooked her fingers into claws, ready to tear into him as best she could, but
he removed a big shiny pistol from his coat pocket and put it to her forehead.

I
N THE CRAMPED confines of his office, Marty explained the deal with judges, their campaign funds, what they were supposed
to do, and what some really did. Jake’s mind zoomed in and out, seeing the cheaply framed diplomas from Buffalo State and
Albany Law School and a picture of Marty in a bad suit smiling stupidly and shaking hands with George Bush Sr. in front of
a potted plant and an American flag.

“So,” Jake said, angling his chair sideways so he could stretch his legs along the length of Marty’s battered desk, “what
you’re saying is that most judges don’t have campaign funds.”

Marty toyed with his paisley yellow tie, shaking his head. “Well, no. Most do.”

Jake squinted.

“But not judges like Judge Rivers,” Marty said. “She’s an appellate judge. They and the court of appeals judges don’t have
funds. They shouldn’t have. They don’t need them. They’re appointed. Supreme court judges get elected. New York Supreme Court
judges. It’s kind of backward in New York. At the federal level, the Supreme Court is the highest.”

“That I get.”

“Right, but in New York it’s the court of appeals. The appellate is just below them.”

“Where Rivers is?”

“Right, and about to be—or was about to be—moved up to the court of appeals,” Marty said, going for the ear. “It’s a good
stepping-stone to the Supreme Court.”

“At the federal level,” Jake said.

“Justices like Holmes,” Marty said, nodding zealously. “Cardozo. Big guns who went through the New York Court of Appeals.”

“Is that where Rivers was headed?”

“Maybe. It’d be in striking distance if she sat on the court of appeals for a couple years.”

“And they get appointed by the president?”

“Well, technically,” Marty said. “But it’s really the party.”

“Using what standards?” Jake asked.

“The usual ones,” Marty said, dropping his tie.

“Judgment. Consistency. Respect.”

“Philosophies,” Marty said. “Affiliations. Contributions.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jake said, snapping his fingers.

“Affiliations?” Marty said.

“Contributions,” Jake said, his voice rising. “It’s part of the game?”

“Well, always. Kind of.”

“Because the party likes that. Even from judges.”

“Sure.”

“So how do we find out?” Jake asked.

Marty leaned toward the window. Jake heard sirens racing past.

“I think that was Brad Pitt,” Marty said, his shoulders sagging.

“Marty, how do we find out?” Jake asked again.

Marty turned to the computer on his desk and tapped at the keyboard. “Board of Elections keeps it all. I think I can get it.”

“Are you shitting me?” Jake said, circling the desk and leaning over Marty’s shoulder.

“Like, here’s Judge Kollar,” Marty said. “Remember the Rotary lunch last week? See, this is his fund. Here’s the money that
went in, $5,735.00. Look, I can go to here and see how they got to that number, who all the contributors are. There’s you
and Ms. Jordan. Her check for one hundred dollars.”

“And he’s got $77,894 in all?” Jake asked, pointing.

“Right,” Marty said, his fingers dancing. “All these people, see? Legislators. DAs. Supreme Court judges. You don’t see—”

Marty stopped abruptly.

“What? You don’t see what?” Jake said, studying the screen.

“This,” Marty said, pointing. “Judge Rivers never closed her account.”

“What’s that mean? Is that illegal?”