False Convictions

by Tim Green

  “Myron?” Jake said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  The woman reporter swiveled around.

  “Excuse me?” she said, her auburn hair stiff and frizzy under the lights and the mask of her makeup wrinkling with outrage and disbelief.

  “I’m Jake Carlson,” Jake said.

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  “You’re Hanna Keller,” Jake said, studying her face, “with Private Matters.”

  “You don’t just walk into the middle of an interview,” Hanna said.

  “Myron, you said exclusive,” Jake said. “We had a deal.”

  “You didn’t tell me I could get paid for this,” Myron said, raising his hands in the air.

  “Oh, great,” Jake said, throwing his own arms up.

  “It’s a consulting fee,” Hanna said, indignant enough for her small red mouth to show teeth. “The interview has nothing to do with that.”

  “Nice,” Jake said sarcastically to Myron before he turned back to Hanna. “You might want to check him as a source. That’s why I’m here. His story isn’t being corroborated by his fellow officers at the time. We’ll likely have to pull his interview from our piece. He lied about the police putting out an APB for a black man. They did no such thing, and I’m sure he’s lying about other things, too. Myron, did you really show up at a PBA meeting in your pajamas?”

  “Nice try,” Hanna said, forcing a smile, “but this goes to air on Wednesday.”

  “Two days before Twenty/Twenty,” Jake said, “I know. So you’ll have two days to enjoy it before your credibility goes in the shitter and the City of Auburn files a lawsuit.”

  “Jamar,” Hanna said, appealing to her three-hundred-pound soundman. “Would you show Mr. Carlson the way out?”

  Jamar removed his headset and put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. Jake shrugged him off and turned to go. Casey followed him out on the porch.

  “Shit,” Jake said under his breath. “I can’t believe they found him.”

  “Sounds like he might have found them,” Casey said.

  “Maybe. Whatever. I need a drink.”

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah,” he said, climbing in behind the wheel.

  She got in the other side and asked, “If they’re right about Dwayne, how dangerous do you think he is?”

  Jake thought for a minute, then said, “I did a story last year about the number of old land mines in Bosnia-all these little kids getting blown up. I’d say Dwayne is about like one of those. It isn’t going to take much.”

  Casey looked out the window at the adjacent cornfield as Jake backed down the driveway.

  “I just don’t see what we can do about it,” she said. “He’s a free man, whether we like it or not.”

  “Unless we can prove someone messed with the DNA,” Jake said.

  “I don’t think it was the lab,” Casey said.

  “You know it was Graham,” Jake said, “or Ralph. Or the two of them together.”

  Casey fished a card out of her purse. “Helen Mahy is the director of the lab. Very professional. She thought the DNA work was for some national emergency.”

  “Graham’s a slippery sucker.”

  Casey called the lab director’s cell phone and found her at dinner.

  “Could I possibly talk to you for a couple minutes?” Casey asked.

  “I can talk,” she said.

  “In person,” Casey said, looking at Jake, who nodded. “Just for five or ten minutes. Could we meet at your office?”

  “How about nine-thirty?” Helen said. “After dinner. On my way home.”

  “Perfect.”

  51

  JAKE TOOK THE back roads past farms and vineyards down to his secret Italian restaurant south of Syracuse. The spotty cell service made it hard for Jake to relate everything he’d learned to Dora and he didn’t wrap up with her until they reached Fabio’s. They sat down in front of a large fish tank and Jake ordered a vodka tonic, finishing it before they got their bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

  “So we have no idea where this is all going,” Casey said, raising her glass.

  “To uncertainty,” Jake said, clinking his glass against hers and taking a drink. “Although I have a pretty strong feeling it’s all going to go right back to Graham.”

  “And if we can’t prove it?” Casey asked.

  “At least we can put Hubbard back in his box,” Jake said. “That would be worth the effort.”

  “Are we so sure about Dwayne being the one? Even if it wasn’t Nelson Rivers, are we sure Dwayne did it?” Casey said, thinking of Hubbard’s quirky looks and manners.

  “It’s a lot to undo,” Jake said. “And I know it’ll be somewhat embarrassing, but my gut tells me Patricia Rivers and her boyfriend are telling the truth.”

  “It seems that way,” Casey said.

  They ordered homemade pasta called priest chokers, cooked broccoli rabe, chicken, peppers, and onions. After another glass of wine the food arrived.

  “Incredible,” Casey said.

  “I told you, it’s as close as you can get to Italy.”

  Jake finished off the bottle of wine and let Casey drive. They took the highway to Syracuse and arrived at the lab a few minutes before nine-thirty. Casey pulled over at the curb and they hadn’t waited more than a minute before a dark sedan pulled up behind them and Helen got out. The moon above was like a small penlight under the blanket of clouds in the sky, but the streetlamps cast a bluish light that made Casey wonder if it was Helen who got out of the dark sedan. She looked like a different person to Casey wearing jeans and a silk blouse with a matching scarf tied around her neck. Her makeup was different, too, and Casey realized Helen either wore very little or none at all at the office.

  They greeted each other and she and Jake followed Helen as she rattled her keys against the lock before swinging open the door and leading them to a small conference room on the first floor.

  “I appreciate this so much,” Casey said, “this late and breaking in on your dinner.”

  “I said anything I can do,” Helen said. “I only say what I mean, so, where are we?”

  “Is it possible the sample you got from the Auburn Hospital isn’t what we said it was?” Casey asked.

  Helen wrinkled her brow. “You said what it was, not me.”

  “Well, I didn’t really,” Casey said.

  “The people you’re working with.”

  “Right, but if they made a mistake, is there a way you could know it?”

  Helen shook her head. “Look, I’d like to help, but it’s hard to understand what you’re getting at.”

  Jake cleared his throat and said, “If the semen sample you got from the hospital wasn’t twenty years old, is there a way you could know that?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you exactly how old it is,” Helen said.

  “Could you tell if was two days old as compared to twenty years?” Jake asked.

  “That should be easy,” Helen said.

  “So, if the sample you got was new, you’d have known it?” Casey asked.

  “Yes,” Helen said.

  “But no one said anything about it,” Casey said, tapping a fingernail on the veneer of the conference table.

  Helen cocked her head. “I don’t know. No one asked. The test was to match DNA. We matched it. The material was broken down, we said that, so there wouldn’t be a reason to think it was anything other than old.”

  “You said it was damaged,” Casey said.

  “It was,” Helen said, “but it’s possible the damage was due to heat. I could take a sample from today, heat it, and break down the DNA enough so we couldn’t get all thirteen loci. It would take a different analysis to determine whether it was heat or age.”

  “You’d have to be pretty clever to heat it,” Casey said.

  Helen shrugged. “You wouldn’t want it to look fresh. Heating it would disguise the newness of the slide, so whoever scraped the material from it wouldn’t think anything. A
brand new slide? That someone would notice.”

  “Will you test it for us?” Casey asked.

  Helen grimaced. “We bumped the DNA comps to the front of the line because we got word from Homeland Security. Now…”

  Casey cleared her throat and said, “Look, I’ve taken on cases like this before I-”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” Helen said. “I watch TV. I just don’t want to do something I shouldn’t because of that.”

  “I think if you did this, it would be because it’s the right thing to do,” Casey said. “And a lot of times that’s not the comfortable thing.”

  Helen hesitated, then nodded. “All right. You’re right.”

  “Can you do it now?” Casey asked.

  Helen laughed. “You want an expert. I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”

  “First thing?”

  “Will noon work?” Helen said, rising from the table and covering a yawn.

  “We really appreciate it,” Casey said, extending her hand.

  They walked outside and watched Helen drive away.

  “Where to now?” Jake asked.

  “The Holiday Inn, I guess,” Casey said.

  “You know Graham’s going to be waiting for you,” Jake said. “Ralph, at least.”

  “Like a bloodhound.”

  “How about we dodge them until breakfast?” Jake asked. “That place we had dinner at? The spa? We could stay there. They have these beautiful suites.”

  “I’m not that kind of girl,” Casey said.

  “I was married for twelve years,” Jake said. “I know how to sleep on a couch.”

  “In Texas, they teach girls real early that the only safe place is separate rooms.”

  “The journalist in me can’t let go of the image of you flying off to the Caribbean over the weekend with a guy you knew no longer than you’ve known me,” Jake said, “but it would be rude to mention it, so of course I’ll keep that little thought to myself.”

  “For the record,” Casey said, swinging open the driver’s side door to the Cadillac, “that wasn’t even separate rooms, it was separate houses, and I’m glad you wouldn’t do something so obnoxious as to mention it. I might think you’re a really pushy muckraking journalist from New York.”

  “They’ve got a really quiet bar,” Jake said, climbing in beside her. “And that Monet bridge over the lily pond is lit up at night, just like the painting.”

  “Appealing to my appreciation for art?” Casey said, starting the car.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  52

  USING JAKE’S COMPUTER, Casey got the information she needed, called the secretary of state’s offices in Albany for some assistance, and filled out the appropriate requests online to get them the information on Buffalo Oil & Gas. The woman she spoke with explained that she should expect the information to be posted by the end of the day.

  She and Jake had egg-white spinach omelets and fresh orange juice. Jake gave her hand a squeeze under the table.

  “So, can I convince you to stick with me on this until its conclusion?” Jake asked.

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Don’t you want to help?” he asked. “This is a hell of a mess.”

  She stared at him for a minute, then nodded and said, “You bet your ass.”

  “I think we should drop below Graham’s radar,” Jake said. “Get out of the Holiday Inn for good.”

  “It’s hard to argue with Egyptian cotton,” Casey said, offering a smile and letting her eyes circle the room, “but I need more than one suit.”

  “I’m wearing mine twice,” Jake said.

  “The rumpled look fits you.”

  Jake smiled. “I’ll take you right back to change and get your things.”

  He checked with the front desk and booked his room for another week before they climbed into the Cadillac and drove toward the Holiday Inn in Auburn. Without her charger, Casey had turned her phone off the night before to save the battery. She put it on now to check in with Stacy to let her know about the change in plans and to set up a series of calls to do as much work for the clinic as she could over the phone. After booting up, the phone buzzed, telling her she had two messages. The first was from Helen Mahy at 10:57 pm, asking for her contact at Homeland Security in order to cover her ass on altering the lab’s schedule.

  “I should have thought to ask you when I saw you,” Helen’s message said. “I’ve got a triple homicide we’re working up for the DA up in Watertown and it’ll help smooth his feathers if I can say it’s coming from Homeland. Just call me when you get this. I’ll look and see if I have it someplace, too.”

  The second message came in at 1:37 am, Robert Graham, urging her to please call him immediately.

  “If you don’t call me,” Graham said calmly, “I know you’re going to look back and really wish you had, Casey. Please. I really need to talk.”

  Casey told Jake about the messages. They turned right onto State Street where the hotel was, passing the brick police station with its white cupola.

  “Look at that,” Jake said, “what a clusterfuck.”

  TV vans and rental cars spilled out of the parking lot and onto the street, slowing the morning flow of traffic. Men and women, cameramen, soundmen, and reporters with microphones and notepads stood in a crowded gauntlet leading out of the front doors.

  “Don’t you want to join the circus?” Casey asked as they turned the corner.

  “I got everything they want, and more. Want me to drop you in front?” Jake asked as they pulled in under the covered drive outside the lobby doors. “My room’s right by the back door. I’ll load my stuff and pick you up.”

  Casey nodded and her cheeks warmed when he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “Hopefully, I won’t have to see Graham,” she said, peering in through the glass doors at the empty lobby. “Or Ralph.”

  “Or his leg,” Jake said. “You want me with you?”

  Casey laughed and shook her head. “Didn’t I tell you I was from Texas?”

  “How stupid of me,” he said as she got out.

  Casey watched the Cadillac turn the corner of the building. The doors rumbled open and she stepped into the lobby, her mind still on Jake. Casey made eye contact with the young man behind the desk as she reached for the elevator button. She saw his eyes dart toward the coffee shop and followed them, glad to see two uniformed police instead of Ralph and Robert Graham. She turned her attention to the elevator, watching the numbers light up as the car made its way down to her.

  The bell dinged and the doors clattered. Casey let a man in a suit leave the car before stepping in. Her foot hadn’t hit the floor before she felt someone grab her arm. Casey spun, ready to yell for help, but gasped when she saw it was one of the uniformed cops who had her by the elbow. The other stood beside him, stone-faced.

  “Casey Jordan?” the cop asked.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  53

  THIS IS A JOKE,” Casey said.

  The first cop turned her gently around and clapped on a pair of handcuffs before Casey could even think to struggle.

  “Not a funny one, Ms. Jordan,” the second cop said, leading the way with an expressionless face.

  Outside, they escorted her to a patrol car she hadn’t noticed because it was nosed into a space around the corner. She scanned the lot for a sign of Jake.

  “Can I use my phone?” she asked.

  “No,” the first cop said, opening the door and tucking her in. “Later.”

  “You’re making me ride with my hands behind my back like this?” Casey said. “I can’t wait to depose you people when I file my civil suit.”

  The second cop took the wheel and turned to the first. “Sounds like a movie script.”

  “What do you think?” Hank said. “Brad Pitt as me?”

  “You know I’m Nick Cage.”

  “Yeah, the hairline.”

  The second cop backed out and flipped t
he car’s lights on before he looked at Casey in the mirror and said, “Congrats, you get the works.”

  He then turned the siren on and sped down through the intersection, taking her the block and a half they had to go to get to the station. As they pulled in, another uniformed officer moved some cones and they came to a stop at the back end of the gauntlet. Casey saw now that the reporters were held back by sections of steel crowd-control fence. The station’s white double doors opened and Chief Zarnazzi strode out into the crowd of cameras toward the patrol car, his neck looking thin and chickenlike beneath the beak of his nose and a broad blue dress hat whose bill gleamed in the sunlight. The shoulders of his crisp blue uniform were draped in gold braids and a cluster of medals dangled from either side of his breastbone. Black ankle socks shone beneath the hems of pants cut too short for his bony legs.

  As the chief approached, the cameras swung with him until he stopped outside the car door, opening it and gesturing to Casey with his index finger. She slid out, bewildered, her brain overloaded thinking of pithy things to say or do and gummed up so badly her mouth formed a series of silent curse words. When the chief took her by the elbow and began to walk her through the gauntlet with his eyes sparkling behind their wire glasses and his sunken chin as proud as the father of the bride, the questions rained down on Casey in a torrent of screams.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “How could you turn a serial killer loose?”

  “Who helped you?”

  “What if he kills again?”

  “Did you do it for the money?”

  “Are you working with a movie studio?”

  “Do you expect to do jail time?”

  “Will you represent yourself?”

  “Did you intentionally discredit the Freedom Project?”

  “Is it true you got Nelson Rivers’s semen sample personally?”

  Casey’s mouth snapped open at that one and her head whipped around in the direction of its source, a tall, tan-faced man with a brilliant set of perfect teeth and thick helmet of hair sprayed into place. She flashed him a look of disgust and kept going. When they got to the top of the station steps, the chief turned and gave them all a thumbs-up with a wide yellow-toothed grin before leading Casey inside.