“Yeah, him. He said Hardiman told O’Hagen that your lawyer will probably be able to get your sentence overturned now.”
Damon’s head snapped up. “For real?”
Ronny’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah, for real, man. You gotta call your lawyer.” He turned to leave.
“Hey, thanks, Ronny.”
Ronny turned and thumped his fist against his chest. “Sure thing. You’re cool, T.”
Damon rocked back on his heels and dumped the books back on the cart. He was halfway out the door, on his way to get his call set up, when he stopped short.
No. Shelve the books first. This is a long shot. If it doesn’t pan out, you can’t afford to piss off the librarian. Or the guards. Or anyone else.
He returned to the cart, scooped up an armload of books, and squatted alongside the shelf. He’d worked too hard to earn goodwill here to throw it all away on something that would probably turn out to be a big, fat nothing.
Penny Geoffries squinted at her computer screen and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Her headache had been building all morning. All year, really.
She needed to get in to see her eye doctor to get bifocals. She knew it. She’d known it for months, ever since she’d been baking a batch of raspberry linzer hearts for her niece’s wedding cookie table. The print on the recipe card she’d toted around for years—from dorm room to apartment to house—was suddenly illegible. Too small to read. Even if she’d stretched her arm way out and held it as far away as she could.
She’d called the next Monday for an appointment, joking with the receptionist that she needed either bifocals or longer arms. But since then, she’d had to reschedule the appointment four different times. Budgetary cuts had left the Office of the Public Defender short-staffed. And Penny’s caseload had ballooned accordingly, leaving no time for squeezing in optometry appointments. Or haircuts. Or a social life.
She sighed and pawed through the tower of papers and files on her desk until she unearthed the drugstore readers she’d tossed into her basket a few weekends ago when she’d run into the all-night pharmacy to pick up some more acetaminophen. As an afterthought, she dug the bottle of headache medicine out of the bag at her feet and shook two into her hand.
She was dry swallowing them when Kell Berg stuck his head through her open door.
“Did ya’ hear?”
“Hear about what?” she asked her favorite investigator.
“Damon Tenley.”
She searched her memory. “Killer for hire. Bludgeoned a young wife to death in Shadyside. No, Squirrel Hill. They got him on DNA and he took a deal. Life in prison rather than roll the dice and risk the death penalty.”
Kell flashed an appreciative smile. “You still got it. Looks like he’s about to get another roll of the dice.”
She blinked. “How?”
“Maisy Farley on Channel 11 is reporting that a source close to the Giles Noor murder investigation claims Mr. Tenley’s DNA was found at the scene.”
“Noor. That name sounds familiar, but I haven’t been following the news, Kell. I’m up to my elbows in work.”
“Don’t I know it. Giles Noor’s name sounds familiar because he was married to Raina Noor, the woman Damon confessed to killing.”
“And now he’s dead?”
“He was bludgeoned to death last week in his Squirrel Hill home.”
She shook her head, confused. “And the M.E. is saying they found Damon’s DNA at the new murder scene? That’s … impossible. It’s been, what? Five years?”
“Seven. And Saul David isn’t saying squat. At least not for attribution. Farley didn’t name her source.”
Penny pushed the file she’d been working on to the side of her desk and leaned forward on her elbows, energized for the first time in months. She could feel the electric pulse of adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Do you have time to poke around to see if there’s any truth to it? Because, if there is—”
“A ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ Card just fell into Damon Tenley’s orange-jumpsuited lap,” Kell finished excitedly. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Thanks. I’ll have his files brought up from the archives in the meantime.” She pulled a thick black notebook from her drawer. “His inmate number’s in here somewhere. I’d better call him before he hears it on the block.”
Kell nodded his agreement as her phone lit up. She raised one finger, asking him to wait, while she pressed the button to respond to the interoffice call.
“Penny Geoffries.”
“Sorry to bother you Penny,” one of the pool secretaries said, her voice tinny and distorted through the hands-free speaker. “An inmate call from SCI-Fayette just came in on the main line. This guy says you’re his lawyer, but I don’t see his name on any of your active files.”
“Let me guess … Damon Tenley?”
Kell raised an eyebrow.
“Girl, you’re good. You oughta play the Powerball tonight!” The secretary laughed, and Penny knew it was Linda.
“Yep, he’s mine, but his case file is inactive. Please put him through, Linda. Oh, and could you do me a favor and have his files sent up from storage?”
“You got it, Penny.”
“Thanks.”
She motioned for Kell to close the door and pull up a chair. Then she pressed the button to pick up the blinking line Linda had transferred. She was surprised to see her finger shaking.
“Hello, this is Penny Geoffries.”
“Uh … yeah, hi. This is … my name is Damon Tenley. You’re my lawyer. Or at least you were. Are you still my lawyer?”
The voice on the other end of the phone faltered, unsure.
“Yes, Mr. Tenley, I remember you. And even though your case is over, I continue to represent you for matters related to it. So, yes, I was your lawyer, and I am your lawyer.” She infused her voice with as much warmth as she could dredge up from her exhausted being.
Her clients usually found the criminal trial process daunting and often thought the appeals process was incomprehensible. But this scenario had to be nothing short of bewildering.
“Oh, okay, good.” He forced a nervous laugh.
“Before we go any further, I want you to know Kell Berg, my investigator, is in my office with me. He’s listening to this call through my speaker phone. Is that okay with you?”
Kell leaned forward. “Hi, Damon.”
Damon was silent for a beat, thinking. “He works for you?”
“Yes. So just like I am, he’s bound by confidentiality rules not to tell anyone what you say.”
“Uh, sure. Hi, Mr. Berg.”
“Call me Kell.”
“Kell, sure.” Damon’s voice slid into a question. “But my calls are being recorded, right?”
Penny twisted her mouth into a wry half-smile. “Inmates’ personal calls are recorded by a contractor for the Department of Corrections, yes. Calls to counsel aren’t supposed to be recorded …” she trailed off. He’d been inside for six years. He’d catch the subtext.
“Right. So, the reason I’m calling … did you see the news today?”
“Actually, Mr. Tenley, I haven’t. But Kell was just filling me in on a possible development in your case.”
“Yeah, I didn’t see it either, but Ronny—uh, a fellow inmate—caught part of it in the counselor’s office and, well, talk around here is maybe I can walk?”
She closed her eyes.
Jailhouse lawyers would be the death of her. When it wasn’t the inmates themselves spouting half-baked legal theories, it was their friends and family. Or the corrections officers. Or social workers. Anyone with any connection to someone within the penitentiary system seemed to think they’d earned a J.D. degree, without the hassle of three years of law school and passing the bar exam.
She breathed through her nose, exhaled, and opened her eyes.
“It’s a bit early to make any promises or even to speculate. But if, in fact, the results of these recent forensic tests show your DNA at a new
crime scene, they very well may call into question the reliability of the original results.”
He fell silent as he processed her statement.
Kell cleared his throat. “In English, she’s saying ‘maybe, but don’t get your hopes up.’”
Damon laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not. But what do we do now? Do you write a letter to the judge or something?”
“The first step is for me to contact the district attorney’s office and request copies of these DNA tests. They ought to give them to me because they could exculpate you.” She thought so, at least.
Probably. Maybe. It was complicated.
The whole thing was certain to be an unholy mess. Even if the DNA results proved to be contaminated, unreliable, or plain old wrong, they would be in uncharted territory. Just months ago, Damon would have been out of luck because he’d entered a guilty plea. But, back in October, the governor had signed legislation amending the commonwealth’s Post-Conviction Relief Act.
One of the changes allowed convicts who’d pleaded guilty to access DNA testing results and to request testing when new forensic matching technology came on the market. Before the amendment, a defendant like Damon, who pleaded guilty couldn’t seek DNA testing after conviction—even if the results would’ve exonerated him and overturned a wrongful conviction.
Penny thought it was long past time for the legislature to recognize the sad truth: a lot of defendants, especially those with limited resources, plead guilty to crimes they didn’t commit rather than risk a longer or harsher sentence.
That said, Damon’s situation was likely to be on the margins of the newly amended law. If the news report was accurate, new DNA testing would just as likely inculpate him in a second murder as it would exculpate him for Raina Noor’s murder.
Of course, the second murder was one that he absolutely hadn’t—and couldn’t have—committed.
“Are you still there?” Damon asked.
“Yes. I’m just thinking it through. Maybe my first step ought to be to talk to that reporter rather than the DA.”
Kell blinked at her. “You want to talk to Maisy Farley?”
Penny nodded slowly. “I think so. The claim her source made doesn’t only call into question the results of the forensic DNA testing in Damon’s case—it casts a shadow on the results in every case.”
Damon whistled, and Kell said something under his breath that she didn’t catch. Penny had to hold back a laugh. Sometimes she envied the attorneys working in the prosecutor’s office for their seemingly unlimited resources and the way juries and jurists seemed to believe every word they uttered in a courtroom.
But right now? She wouldn’t switch places with Meghan Ford or one of her ADAs for anything. Not even for a week of solid sleep and a free afternoon to run errands and get new glasses. No way, no how.
Her laughter died on her lips. The mess about to hit the fan meant there was no way Meghan would be reasonable about Damon’s situation. She couldn’t afford to.
“Whatever you think is the best way to do this,” Damon said. “What should I do in the meantime?”
“Keep your head down and your mouth shut,” Kell advised.
“Absolutely. I know people will want to talk about it, just say your lawyer told you not to say anything for now.” Penny added for emphasis.
“Okay.”
“And Kell will come out to see you later this week. Probably Friday, once I’ve got a handle on the situation.”
“Not you?”
She glanced at her desk calendar and the court appearances stacked one after the other.
“Not this week. Don’t worry. Kell will be able to fill you in and answer any questions.”
“Okay.”
“But, seriously, Damon. Stay out of trouble, okay? Keep a very low profile.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I know how to go along to get along. I wouldn’t have lasted this long if I didn’t.”
“Fair enough. Take care and hold tight. We’ll get some answers as soon as we can.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Damon.”
“See you on Friday,” Kell added.
She ended the call and leaned back in her chair. “Well?”
“Well, I noticed you didn’t ask him to say he didn’t manage to kill Giles Noor.”
She pulled a face. “Come on, Kell. You know you never ask them if they did it.”
“Surely you can when they couldn’t have.”
She shrugged. “Blanket policy.”
“What about Raina?”
“What about her?”
“Did he kill her?”
She frowned. “What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just trying to think like a prosecutor. Even if their DNA evidence is total crap, he did have an envelope full of money—”
“I’m aware of the facts.”
“—with Payment for Noor job written on it.”
“Kell, I know. But, actually, it was a shoe box, not an envelope. And don’t forget the towel from the Noors’ bathroom he had stuffed under the floorboard with the box.”
Kell chuckled. “I forgot about the hand towel.”
“Yeah, well, neither the money nor the towel would’ve been admissible at trial. And they won’t be admissible now, either.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. The police conducted an illegal search.”
“So the evidence is fruit of the poisonous tree?”
“Close. It’s actually covered by the exclusionary doctrine. But it’s the same idea: the police didn’t have the right to search Damon Tenley’s home. They only had an arrest warrant. So anything that wasn’t in plain sight, which includes that money, is excluded from evidence. I always figured that was why they didn’t try harder to find the person who paid him. With the box excluded from evidence and without Damon’s testimony, they’d be hard-pressed to make a case. You know?”
Kell whistled, long and low. “Yeah, Meghan’s not going to let this go without one heck of a fight. Starting with the reporter’s the right call.”
She sighed. It was. She just needed to wring an extra hour out of her day somehow to make it happen.
Chapter Fifteen
Maisy was wiping away her thick camera-ready mascara with a cotton ball soaked in micellar water when her cell phone chirped. She ignored it and kept working on her makeup removal.
The blooming phone had been blowing up for hours. Judging by her message log, the calls had started pouring in before the segment had even finished airing. The impossibility of an incarcerated man leaving his DNA at a crime scene had stirred something in the viewing public—the terrifying specter of science run amok captured their imaginations.
She paused the circular motions and lifted the cotton ball, now streaked with black, to give herself a rueful look in the lighted magnifying mirror.
Fine, she amended, the impossibility of it and the vicious irony of Giles Noor's murder.
Noor's brutal killing was a ghoulish reenactment of his beloved wife's murder years earlier. She couldn’t pretend the creepy fascination factor didn’t play a role in the way the story had landed. Despite her efforts to frame the segment as the serious news piece it was, it did have a strong Nancy Grace vibe.
In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if a national cable show called her. Maybe even Nancy herself.
The door to the cramped dressing room creaked open and Julian, her producer, appeared in the doorway with his hands covering his eyes. “Are you decent?”
“Why, sugar? That boyfriend of yours afraid I’m gonna turn you straight?” she joked into the mirror. “Yes, it’s safe. I’m fully clothed.”
He laughed and lowered his hand. “Great piece this morning, Maisy. Really great.”
“Thanks. It seems to be resonating. My phone’s been ringing like crazy.”
“Yeah, the station phone, too. That’s why I’m here.” He waved a fistful of phone messages at her. “These are purport
ed tips. Most of them are crackpots. But you never know …”
She held out her hand, palm up. “Give ‘em here, and I’ll run ‘em down. Could find a gem among the alien abduction and lizard man conspiracy theories.”
“Want me to have an intern take the first cut, cull out the clear losers?”
“Nah. I’ll do it. It’ll keep me off the streets and out of trouble.” She winked, and he handed over the stack of papers.
“Maisy, darling, I don’t think you’re capable of staying out of trouble.”
She flapped her free hand at him. “Look at you, sweet talker. Flattery’ll get you everywhere.” She batted her eyelashes.
He guffawed.
They wore their shtick like a pair of comfortable slippers. She adored Julian. And the fact that their jokey, innuendo-laden repertoire drove everyone else at the station bananas was just a bonus.
After a long moment, his smile faded and he put on his serious journalist face. “We should work on a follow-up story right away while you have momentum. What do you think about a sit down with the widow?”
“Mmm. I’m not sure. It seems a little intrusive this soon after her husband’s death, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. But it would be a great ratings draw. The mourning young wife always is.”
“Yeah.” She tried the idea on for size and gave it a minute to see how it felt. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think so, honeybun.”
He twitched his lips, thinking. “How about the murderer?”
She dropped the cotton ball on the vanity as a rush of energy coursed through her. Forget Nancy Grace and her podcast, Primetime Justice would probably want this story. Or maybe even Marcia Clark.
“Sit down for a prison exclusive with Damon Tenley? In a hot minute.”
Julian grinned. “That’s my girl. I’ll call Doug Hardiman, the warden out there, and see what I can do.”
“In the meantime, I’ll get cracking on the tinfoil hat brigade.” She fanned out a handful of the messages.
Julian dropped a kiss on the crown of her head and left, pulling the door shut behind him. As his laughter trailed him down the hallway, her eyes fell on the fourth message in her fan: Annette Morris has information about the Raina Noor case.
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