False Convictions (8 page)

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Marty said, the blotches on his face blooming across his pale cheeks. “You think they even have that?”

“I know they do,” Casey said. “We just have to get it. Can you get us in to see the judge?”

“I can try,” Marty said, stroking the dark fuzz on his upper lip. “The Rotary is having a fund-raiser for him today, a lunch.
Even if we can’t get into his chambers, we could grab him there.”

“I don’t care where,” Casey said. “I just need to see him and I need to have him in our corner.”

“I got both of those covered,” Marty said. “It would be good if you bought a ticket, though. They’re only fifty dollars, but
things like that go a long way with the judge.”

Casey bit her tongue and said, “We can do the lunch. Tickets are no problem, but try to get us into his chambers if you can.
I want this done right.”

“How’d you like my brief?” Marty asked, thin and eager in his white shirtsleeves, his black suit coat having been hung over
the back of his chair.

Casey hesitated, then said, “It needs a little work, but I got the general idea. Besides, if we get this order, I’m not going
to even bother to spank the chief. We can work right around him.”

“I’m glad,” Marty said. “My uncle said I’d have to withdraw if it came to that.”

“Your uncle?” Casey said.

“He heard about the brief I was working on,” Marty said.

Casey glanced at Jake, then said, “Marty, I can’t have you talking to anyone about what I’m doing.”

Marty’s blotches turned a deeper red. “My uncle’s the head of the firm. Everything we do is in confidence. That’s basic ethics,
right?”

“We’re talking about a man’s life here,” Casey said. “I’ve worked in a firm, too. When people know, things slip, I’m not saying
intentionally, but we can’t have the other side knowing our next move.”

“What other side?” Marty asked.

“Whoever is trying to keep us from setting Dwayne Hubbard free,” Casey said, studying him. “For whatever reason.”

“The police said getting rid of the evidence was just part of normal procedure,” Marty said. “You know that, right?”

“And I don’t believe them,” Casey said, leaning forward. “You know
that
, right?”

“But my brief,” Marty said quietly. “I’m no Shakespeare, but you got it that the police have no legal duty to preserve evidence
once all the appeals are done, right?”

“I got that, finally, yes,” Casey said calmly. “What I couldn’t get a clear handle on, and what I doubt you have a clear handle
on, is whether or not their mismanaged approach—destroying evidence from 1989 before they’d finished with 1988—violated our
client’s civil rights or the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments.”

Marty wrinkled his face.

“Exactly,” Casey said. “So, since you’re not in tune with the gravity of what’s going on, and since everything you say to
other people in this firm—especially your uncle, the judge’s fund-raiser—might as well be on the front page of the
Auburn Citizen
, I need you to keep everything
strictly
confidential. If your uncle wants you to withdraw, then do it now, but don’t compromise what I’m
doing
here.”

Marty swallowed and clutched a pen in his hand. He glanced guiltily at Jake as he nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“All right,” Casey said, standing. “Let’s forget it and move on. We get the DNA from these swab samples and it all might not
matter.”

“I’m really sorry,” Marty said, looking up at her and digging in his ear.

“I know. It’s okay,” Casey said. “We’ve got some other things to do, but I’ll be expecting your call after you line up the
judge.”

When they got back out on the street, Jake asked, “How did you end up with him?”

Casey explained the political grease Marty’s firm provided and how Graham had teed them up.

“Why not have the uncle himself working for you?” Jake asked.

“That’s what I said,” Casey said.

“And what’d Graham say to that?”

“He never answered me.”

Casey’s cell phone rang before they reached Jake’s car.

“He’ll see us after the lunch,” Marty said.

“You tried for his chambers?” Casey asked.

“He’s going into court,” Marty said. “He wasn’t even going to see us afterward, but I told him it was a personal favor.”

“For you?” Casey asked.

Marty was quiet for a moment, before he said, “Well, yeah. I’m engaged to his daughter. That’s Linda.”

“Does that help us or hurt us?” Casey asked.

Marty laughed at the joke and said, “I got the meeting and I’m not saying anything to anyone else at the firm about it.”

“Great,” Casey said. “We’ll meet you there at noon.”

T
HE SPRINGSIDE INN was nestled at the foot of a wooded hill just outside of town near the lake. Jake circled the parking lot
twice before pulling over on the grassy edge of the broad circular drive.

“The judge packs them in,” Casey said as they approached the old inn.

Marty met them just inside the door with their name tags and asked Casey if she had the check. Casey took the checkbook from
her briefcase and laid it down on the table where two older women looked on as she filled it out for one hundred dollars to
the Friends of Judge Kollar. Waitresses hurried about the banquet room, and four plates full of food already waited for them
at a small card table hastily thrown up in the back.

“They were sold out,” Marty said, “but I pulled some strings. Trust me, the judge appreciates it.”

“I just can’t wait to hear him sing,” Jake said.

“He’s not going to sing,” Marty said, looking confused.

They sat down and the lunch unfolded in the way of small-town political fund-raisers, with long-winded speakers and stale
jokes. When it neared the end, Casey breathed deep and let it out slowly, stifling a yawn.

Jake Carlson rolled his eyes as the final speaker droned on about being a leader in his community. He was particularly proud
of introducing underprivileged kids to the world of golf.

Casey poked at her cherries jubilee.

Judge Kollar sat like a block of granite at the head table next to the podium. He had a tan shaved head and small dark eyes
planted close to either side of his long nose. The thick eyebrows pasted to the eave of his brow stayed taut in a perpetual
scowl. He was taller than almost every man in the room, and lean wide shoulders suggested a background in sports. Even as
the handful of businessmen in sad gray suits stood one after another to sing his praises at the podium, he wore a look of
intense skepticism. The previous day, in his court, Casey had attributed his scowl to the fact that she was from Texas and
known in the media.

After the priest had concluded the lunch with a prayer for wisdom and resolve, Casey and Jake remained in their seats while
Marty made his way toward the head table to find out from the judge where they could talk.

When he returned, Marty said, “The judge said we could talk to him while he has another piece of cherries jubilee. He likes
it.”

Casey smiled. “I’m so damn pleased.”

Several of the guests, two in business suits and a handful of old ladies in pastel-colored dresses and hats, stood clustered
around the judge as he ate. Casey tapped her foot and nudged Marty several times.

Finally, Marty dug into his ear, then stepped forward with a face as red as the judge’s dessert, held up his hands, and said,
“Sorry, folks, we’ve got some business to discuss with the judge.”

Judge Kollar looked at Marty disinterestedly and the people scowled their disapproval but moved on.

“I don’t have much time,” Kollar said, shoveling in a mouthful of cherries as he studied Casey. “Wow. This stuff is terrific.
Did you try this?”

“First of all,” Casey said, used to the curtness of judges, “thank you for meeting us.”

The judge inclined his head, then wrapped his meaty hand around his cup cowboy-style before he took a gulp of coffee.

Casey explained the situation with the hospital, then said, “I was hoping you could give us that order.”

The judge cut the spongy cake with the edge of his fork and swabbed up some juice before nicking the dab of whipped cream
and opening wide to get his mouth around the whole mess.

“I’ll have to talk to the hospital first,” he said, through his food. “Is that it?”

“Time out,” Jake said, stepping forward.

The judge’s jowl worked like a piston as he stared without blinking. A bit of whipped cream danced up and down in the corner
of his lip.

“This is a judgment call on your part, right?” Jake asked the judge.

Kollar squinted at Jake, then asked Marty, “Who is that?”

Marty offered up his empty hands and his face flushed. “Jake Carlson. He’s with the TV show
American Sunday
.”

“Of course it’s a judgment call,” Kollar said to Jake before taking another bite.

“Okay, and you want to know all the facts, right?” Jake said.

Kollar glanced at Marty again. “Which is why I’ll hear what the hospital has to say.”

“Because one of the facts is the story that’s evolving here,” Jake said, leaning casually against the table with his elbow
not far from the judge’s dessert. “We’ve got a black man who’s been in jail for twenty years. His trial was rushed and shoddy.
The defense was a joke, with key witnesses no one ever bothered to find. Now, here we are today in the same small town trying
to right a wrong, only the evidence is magically destroyed. Then, presto, we come up with another way to get some DNA evidence
that can set our man free, but that same small town’s new judge wants to think things over.”

“And your point?” Kollar asked, glowering.

Jake shrugged. “Just makes a good story, that’s all. You might think, what would a TV network care about some small-town story
like this, and you’d be right, but then I’d say to you that when Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson show up in Auburn, New York,
to join forces with a philanthropic billionaire, we’ve got a headliner. Question for you is, what’s your role?”

Casey watched rage seep into the judge’s face. He scooped up the last bit of cherries jubilee and chewed so intensely that
even his Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort.

Finally, he rose, towering above them on the dais, pointed his fork at Casey, and said, “Tomorrow morning at ten in my chambers.
No reporters, just lawyers. I’ll listen and I’ll make my decision then, and it’ll be based on the law, not a black man with
a megaphone. That’s it.”

The judge flashed a dirty look at Marty and stomped away.

“That was smooth,” Casey said when they reached Jake’s car. “You ever hear of the word
subtle
?”

“He’ll think about it,” Jake said. “Believe me.”

“Will you do it?”

“Depends on whether he gives you the order,” Jake said, starting the car and pulling out onto the drive. “I’ve got some markers.
Would I? Yeah, I suppose I would. Good for you, right? The publicity you want? Good for the Project? Good for your career?”

“My career is fine,” Casey said.

“But it never hurts,” Jake said, a small smile on his lips, his eyes on the road.

“You think that’s what I’m about?”

Jake shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, really. Everybody’s about the publicity to a certain extent.
You learn little tidbits like that after a decade in television.”

“I’m about tomorrow,” Casey said. “A judge’s chambers, an opposing counsel, and a legal strategy to kick their ass.”

“Wish I could be there,” Jake said, “but I’ll be on my way to Rochester to interview your boy Graham.”

“I’ll give you a play-by-play,” Casey said. “You better take me to Marty’s law office. I’ve got work to do. And Jake?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Graham isn’t my boy.”

Jake smiled.

T
HE ONLY BREAK Casey took from her research was dinner with Jake. He showed up at the law offices at six and insisted he wasn’t
leaving her alone until she accompanied him to Elderberry Pond, an organic restaurant just outside of town. The rest of the
thirteen hours from two in the afternoon until three in the morning she’d spent holed up in the mammoth law library at Barrone
& Barrone with Marty hovering over her and pestering her with questions for most of it.

When she woke the next morning, she dressed for the run she’d promised herself as penance for ordering a fresh raspberry tart
à la mode the night before. Jake Carlson sat waiting for her in the lobby, dressed in sneakers, shorts, and an Under Armour
T-shirt that revealed a muscular frame she hadn’t expected from a man his age.

“Want company?” Jake asked with a boyish grin.

“If you weren’t a Pulitzer Prize winner, I might think you were stalking me,” Casey said, returning the smile. “Sure. I’d
love the company.”

“A good TV reporter is part stalker, anyway,” he said. “So you Googled me? That’s a good sign.”

Off they went together, passing through a cloud of Ralph’s cigarette smoke just outside the lobby doors. They ran the side
streets, passing the prison and the bus station before leaving town and turning down a country road. For the first mile, Casey
checked over her shoulder for Ralph but never saw the Lexus and forgot about him.

Five miles later, they ended back at the hotel. Sweaty and winded, Casey passed on Jake’s invitation to breakfast and wished
him luck with his interview.

“I’m supposed to fly out after I finish with Graham,” Jake said, still breathing hard, “but I was thinking maybe I’d hang
around and see how things shake out. Would that be okay with you?”

“It’s a free country,” Casey said.

“All you have to do is say the word and I’m as good as back on Long Island,” Jake said.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, wiping the sweat from her face with her bare hands. “The whole hospital idea was
yours. You’re in on this with me as much as you want to be.”

“Good,” Jake said, clearing his throat. “Look, I’ve been around. This could be something or nothing. But maybe we could do
another dinner?”