by Tim Green
“How’s Dad?” Jake asked.
“Constipated,” she said. “Makes him limp.”
“What BMW?”
“Hubbard says he saw a white BMW the night of the murder,” Casey said. “If Graham really wants to help, that’s what he should have Ralph doing. But we’re kind of keeping that under wraps for now, so if you don’t mind going off the record?”
“Graham,” Jake said. “He’s up to something else.”
The hospital was only a five-minute drive. They got there just after nine and Casey admired how Jake wormed them into the office of the hospital’s president.
“Smooth,” Casey said as the president’s secretary showed them into his office.
“I can’t help it,” he said, looking almost sheepish. “People love me.”
The hospital president, Dr. Prescott, entered wearing a dark suit. They all shook hands and he told Jake how his wife watched American Sunday religiously and that it was an honor to meet him.
“Didn’t you do that piece on the rock-and-roll nun?” the doctor asked. “Hell of a story. Did you ever get a comment from the Pope? Because you ended the piece by saying that the Vatican had not responded to your e-mails.”
“The Pope doesn’t e-mail a lot,” Jake said. “He’s pretty old-fashioned from what I hear.”
Casey looked at Jake, who only shrugged and suppressed a smile.
“So, how can I help?” Prescott asked, sitting at the head of the table and clasping his hands.
“We’re looking for swab samples taken from a rape victim in 1989,” Casey said. “Would you have something from that far back?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Prescott said, looking at her curiously. “I don’t know if I can even answer that for you. For liability reasons.”
“Twenty years ago a college coed named Cassandra Thornton was raped and brutally murdered,” Jake said. “They brought her here, but she died within hours and never regained consciousness. The hospital would have tested her for STDs and maybe AIDS, isn’t that right?”
“I can’t speak about a specific individual, but if you gave me a hypothetical, I might be able to help you,” Prescott said, offering Jake a knowing look.
“Of course,” Jake said, then restated the question as a hypothetical.
“That would be standard procedure, yes,” Prescott said with a nod.
“Perfect,” Casey said, beaming at Jake, unable to contain her excitement.
Prescott moved his hands from the table into his lap and said, “For anything more in-depth than that, I’d have to have a court order.”
“Our client has a statutory right to the evidence,” Casey said.
“I understand,” Prescott said, “but this isn’t evidence. If it were evidence, the police would have it. Unfortunately, in my position, I always have to consider the hospital’s liability.”
“What liability?” Casey asked.
Prescott shrugged. “The family? Privacy issues? I’d like to help, but I’ll have to talk to our lawyer and get his thoughts.”
“Maybe you could give him a call?” Jake said, nudging Casey with his foot under the table. “We’d really appreciate it. We don’t want to put you in a bad spot, but obviously, it’s pretty important.”
Prescott grinned at Jake then swiveled around, removing a phone from the side table and setting it in front of him. “Let me try.”
Jake winked at her and Casey sat as patient as she could while she listened to the hospital president talking to his lawyer, explaining the situation, and then going through many of the facts again. Casey took a deep breath and let it out through her teeth.
Finally, Prescott hung up, looked sadly at Jake, and shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Carlson. As I thought, we’d need a court order or a signed release from the victim’s family to give you any kind of information. We can’t do anything without either of those and avoid the liability.”
Casey clamped her teeth shut and stood so she wouldn’t blurt out anything offensive.
“Sure thing,” Jake said, rising as well and shaking the president’s hand. “Could you do me a favor, though? If Ms. Jordan was to go to the trouble to get this order, could you just tell us if you thought we’d be wasting our time?”
The doctor puffed out his lips and slipped on a pair of reading glasses as he turned to his computer screen. He pecked away at the keyboard for several minutes, frowning at the screen.
Finally, he looked up at Jake with the hint of smile and said, “I don’t think you’d be disappointed.”
12
WHEN THEY GOT outside, Casey searched the street and marched over to the pewter Lexus, knocking on Ralph’s window. It hummed down and Ralph looked up at her with a blank expression.
“I got something for you,” Casey said.
Ralph nodded, but said nothing.
“Cassandra Thornton,” Casey said, “the woman Dwayne Hubbard went to jail for? See if you can find her relatives and ask them if they’ll sign a release that gives us access to her hospital records the night she was killed.”
Ralph squinted at Jake, then nodded and said, “We can do that.”
“Great,” Casey said. She turned and crossed the street with Jake, taking out her phone and dialing Marty Barrone. He was in his office, which was less than three blocks away. They left Jake’s car on the street and walked to the office, taking an elevator up to the third floor. The offices of Barrone & Barrone were nice enough for a high-end firm in Manhattan. Blond wood and contemporary leather chairs had just the right blend of sophistication and success, with some subtle modern art to suggest a progressiveness she didn’t expect to find in Auburn, New York. Marty’s office, however, was a small space with a narrow window. Casey and Jake barely had room for their knees as they sat in chairs facing his desk with their backs to a bookcase.
He had one of those posters on the wall about success, with an eagle soaring in the clouds. The poster was a bit sun-faded and showed it had been tacked to a wall before being framed.
“My fiancée is going to flip,” Marty said, sitting down across from them, wagging his head, and talking fast. “I wish I had a dollar for every time Linda told me about one of your stories and how great you are. I usually golf with my dad and uncle on Sundays, but she TiVo’s them and makes me watch. Not that I don’t want to watch, but hitting it around on Sundays kind of goes along with the program around here. Jeez, man. Did that nun really rock out like that? She was amazing when she played ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”
Casey sighed. “Okay, Marty, we need to get Judge Kollar to give us an order. We need to compel the Auburn Hospital to give up swab samples they may have taken from Cassandra Thornton that would have her attacker’s DNA.”
“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.”
13
THE 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 s
ay.”
“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.