Innocence

by David Hosp

  “It wasn’t exculpatory, Your Honor,” Jackson fired back. “When the district attorney discovered that this material had not been disclosed, it was tested. It matched Mr. Salazar’s blood type.”

  “O positive, Your Honor,” Finn argued. “The most common blood type there is. In any event, the DA’s office didn’t run any DNA testing at the time.”

  “This is outrageous,” Jackson protested. “DNA evidence wasn’t even admissible at the time of trial, as Mr. Finn has already indicated. And the evidence from the skin and blood from under Officer Steele’s fingernails was never presented as part of the prosecution’s case!”

  “Exactly,” Finn retorted. “Whoever attacked Officer Steele would have had visible scratches, and there was no mention of any such scratches on Mr. Salazar at the time he was arrested. Had the defense known about the skin and blood under Officer Steele’s fingernails, that discrepancy could have been brought out by the defense at trial.”

  “Maybe the police never looked for scratches,” Jackson offered.

  It was a mistake. Jackson had created an opening that might give Finn a chance. Both Finn and Cavanaugh looked at him with their eyebrows raised. “Your Honor,” Finn continued in a reasonable tone, “can you imagine anything more preposterous? One of their own officers is attacked and shot, and the police fail to use every bit of evidence that could bring her assailant to justice? If the investigation was indeed run that sloppily, that’s reason to question the verdict right there. There are too many questions. All we’re looking for are answers, and the DNA evidence in the prosecution’s possession can provide those answers.”

  Cavanaugh was silent on the bench.

  “Your Honor,” Jackson began, but Cavanaugh held up a hand to cut him off.

  “Be quiet, Mr. Jackson. Unless you feel you can provide an adequate justification for why the police never dealt with the scratches at trial.” Jackson shut his mouth. Cavanaugh leaned back uncomfortably in his large black leather chair, looking first up at the high courtroom ceiling and then down at Finn. “Congratulations, Mr. Finn, you’ve piqued my curiosity. I’m going to give you your DNA sample.”

  “Your Honor!” Jackson objected.

  “Simmer down, Mr. Jackson. I’ve got good news for you, too.” He addressed Finn. “I’m concerned about the viability of this evidence. It may very well be too old or too spoiled to be of any value. I’m not willing to suggest that the Commonwealth is responsible for keeping all the evidence from all of its cases pristine indefinitely. As a result, while I’ll allow you access to whatever there is, I am in no way saying that I will or will not order a new trial based solely on the results of DNA testing.” He leaned over and looked closely at Finn. “How long will the DNA testing take?”

  Finn had no idea. He looked over at Dobson.

  “The testing itself takes a day or two, but there’s a backlog in getting the tests run. Two weeks if it’s rushed, Your Honor,” Dobson said.

  “Very well. Gentlemen, it appears that you have two weeks.” The judge looked at his calendar. “I’m scheduling a hearing for Monday, December twenty-fourth. Christmas Eve. By then I expect that you’ll have some reasonable answers for me. One of you will have quite a Christmas present.” He looked at Finn again. “I want to make sure I’m being clear, though, Mr. Finn. DNA testing alone is not going to cut it in my courtroom. Until you offer me some explanation as to why your client’s fingerprints were on Officer Steele’s gun, and why the eyewitness testimony implicated Mr. Salazar, your client will stay in jail.”

  Chapter Seven

  Finn and Dobson stood in the hallway outside the courtroom, wait

  ing for the elevator. Neither would look at the other.

  “At least we got the DNA evidence,” Dobson said.

  “Yeah,” Finn said. “A Pyrrhic victory is better than none at all, I suppose.”

  “You never know. We’ve got two weeks to see what we can find.”

  Finn gave the younger lawyer an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right? Look, Dobson, you seem like a pretty good guy, and I’m sure you’re excited to be out here ‘fighting for justice’ or whatever it is you think we’re doing. But you really need to get a grip on the reality of our situation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that we just lost, and there’s virtually no chance that Salazar’s getting out of jail. Did you hear what Cavanaugh said?” Finn threw his thumb over his shoulder back toward the courtroom. “He said that even if the DNA evidence comes back and doesn’t match Salazar, he’s still not going to order a new trial. Unless we get Officer Steele to recant her testimony, and we come up with a reasonable theory as to why Salazar’s fingerprints were on Steele’s gun, your boy’s gonna die behind bars. And guess what? Neither of those things is going to hap

  pen.”

  “So what? You just give up now?”

  “Did you have a better plan?”

  “You better believe it. We start our own investigation. We go over everything in that file, and we see what we come up with. We’ve got two weeks, and if we spend enough time on this, who knows what we’ll come up with.”

  “I do, Mark. We’ll come up with nothing. And in the meantime, my bills will pile up so high, I’ll probably have to shut down my office. You see, I don’t have a large law firm that’s willing to pay me for a few weeks and write off my time to good intentions. I’ve got to work to eat, and that means for paying clients. Not to mention the fact that—and I don’t say this lightly—he’s probably guilty anyway.”

  Dobson looked thrown. “Who is?”

  “Salazar.” Finn could see that he’d wounded Dobson with the mere suggestion. “I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, and believe me, there’s a big part of me that would like to believe the guy, but the reality is he probably did it.” Finn reached over and jammed his thumb repeatedly into the elevator button.

  Dobson stared at Finn in disbelief. “Why did you even bother showing up today, then?” he asked. “Why get involved at all?”

  Finn thought about that. The answer wasn’t obvious to him. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know. I had it tough growing up, and it would’ve been easy for me to end up behind bars. Maybe I’d like to think that if that had happened, someone would’ve listened to me. Maybe this guy’s good enough at selling his story, so that I even bought into it a little.” He looked down at his shoes, shaking his head. “Or maybe I just felt like spending a couple of days tilting at a windmill or two.”

  The elevator door opened at last, and the two of them stepped on. “You do what you want,” Dobson said defiantly. “But I’m not letting this go. I can’t.”

  “I admire your determination,” Finn replied. “If not your judgment.”

  “Do me one favor?” Dobson asked. Finn looked at him, waiting. “Don’t file your notice of withdrawal just yet. Give me a week, and if I can come up with something—anything—promise you’ll take a look at it and make up your mind then.”

  Finn was tempted to say no: just put the matter behind him and move on. But Dobson was so desperate, and so passionate. It would have felt like kicking a puppy dog, and Finn didn’t kick puppy dogs anymore. Besides, what would holding off on filing a withdrawal cost him? He reached out and pressed the button for the ground floor. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you a week.”

  “Thanks,” Dobson said, and he looked relieved. Finn wished he shared the man’s optimism.

  The two of them faced forward as the doors started to creak closed. Just before they came fully together, a thick hand with grimy, stubby fingers forced its way into the breach, pulling the doors open again.

  “Sorry,” the owner of the hand grumbled, stepping onto the elevator with them. He was around Finn’s height but much older, with a paunch that hung far over his belt. His hair, what there was of it, was silver-gray and cut close to the scalp, and his suit looked as though it had been purchased when the man weighed at least twenty pounds less. He held a file folder under one a
rm.

  He forced his girth into the small space, standing closer than necessary, his head inclined toward Finn, making clear that he was giving him a good looking-over. It made Finn uncomfortable, and he was almost glad when the man spoke. “You Finn?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Finn replied. “I’m Scott Finn. Have we met?” He offered his hand.

  The man looked at the hand but kept his own at his sides. “No, we haven’t.” He leaned in closer, squinting. “You sure you’re Finn? I was expecting someone bigger.”

  “I can only imagine your disappointment. Is there something you want?”

  The man kept staring. “Yeah, I’d have guessed you were bigger. I mean, for someone to take on the case of a man who shot a cop, I would’ve thought you’d have to be huge. I wouldn’t have guessed a skinny guy like you would feel comfortable fucking with the cops on a case like that.”

  Finn felt his scalp tingle, as it often had in his youth out on the streets when a challenge had been issued. “And you are?”

  “Macintyre. My friends call me Mac. You can call me Detective.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Detective.” Finn smiled without warmth. “Is there something I can do for you on this case?”

  Macintyre continued to stare at Finn, his eyes small and dark. “No,” he said. “I thought maybe there was something I could do for you. Maybe something that’d save you a whole lot of time and aggravation.”

  “By all means,” Finn replied. “I’m generally in favor of saving time and aggravation.”

  “Stay away from this Salazar guy,” Macintyre said. His voice was low and full of gravel. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Thanks for the advice; it’s helpful,” Finn replied. “I’ll take it into account.”

  Macintyre pushed his finger into Finn’s sternum. “I’m serious. He’s a bad guy.” He reached under his arm and pulled out the file. “I shouldn’t be showing you this, but we had our eye on this guy fifteen years ago. You ever heard of the street gang VDS?”

  Finn shot a look at Dobson. “It rings a bell.”

  “Bunch of scum. Real nasty fuckers—they were the ones who raped that crippled girl in Porter Square a couple years ago. Your guy Salazar was one of the leaders here in Boston. We never got enough evidence to prosecute him, but he was at the center of everything. So not only did he shoot a cop, but he was responsible for a whole lot of other ugly shit as well.” Macintyre opened the file. “Take a look. You can’t keep it, but I wanted you to know who you’re trying to get out.”

  Finn looked over the top of the file. He could see what appeared to be notes from a number of surveillance stakeouts. He looked over at Dobson. “Mark, meet Detective Macintyre. Macintyre, this is Mark Dobson. My involvement in this case is going to be minimal, Detective, if I’m going to be involved at all. The man you need to convince is right here.” He pointed to Dobson and noticed the fear in his face.

  Macintyre looked back and forth between the two lawyers. “Seriously?” he asked. “You’re out?”

  “I am,” said Finn. “Though I’m not making it official for a week. Young Mark, here, will be leading the charge. If you really feel that Mr. Salazar is not deserving of another chance, Mr. Dobson is the man to talk to.” The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor, and Finn patted Dobson on the shoulder. “So your boy Salazar wasn’t just a doctor after all,” he commented. “He was a leader in VDS. My view of your judgment keeps going up and up. Good luck.” He shook his head as he started to walk away.

  “Mr. Finn,” Dobson called after him. Finn turned around. Dobson walked after him and away from Macintyre, so that the cop couldn’t hear him. “You’re wrong about Salazar. So is this detective. Give me a week, and I’ll prove it to you.”

  Finn nodded. “I already gave you a week, and I’m a man of my word. Just don’t expect too much from yourself. Hard as you try, you can’t always fix the world.”

  Finn walked away. As he reached the door that led outside, he bundled his coat around him, giving one last look behind. Macintyre had approached Dobson, and the two of them were flipping intently through the file the detective had brought with him. Finn pushed the door open and stepped outside. Sometimes he wished he were still young enough to believe in miracles.

  Chapter Eight

  That evening Tom Kozlowski walked a circuit around Boston Common. It was the closest he ever came to therapy. A light snow was falling, adding to several inches that had accumulated since Thanksgiving, washing away the last hints of autumn. He loved to wander Boston during the holiday season; when he was feeling down, it gave him some of his spirit back. He was desperately lacking in spirit at the moment.

  Finn had told him earlier in the day that they were off the Salazar case. After hearing where Judge Cavanaugh had set the bar for them, Kozlowski could hardly question Finn’s decision. If DNA evidence alone wouldn’t be enough to spring the man, they both knew that the judge had no real intention of entertaining his release. Finn couldn’t be expected to sink his own time and effort into the case with no chance of success, and as Finn had told Kozlowski, “I wouldn’t ask you to write off your own time, either.”

  “Okay,” Kozlowski had replied. “Your call.”

  It was a crutch he seemed to be leaning on too heavily recently. Your call. How had it come to that?

  On the other hand, he should have felt relieved that Finn had made the decision for both of them. What good would it do to dredge up the past? It would only hurt a woman he’d cared about once; a woman he’d let down; a woman who’d already been through hell. He couldn’t drag her back through that.

  Yet in spite of it all, he was tempted to tell Finn what he knew. As Finn was explaining that he was dropping the case, Kozlowski had kept his mouth shut for fear that if he pried his lips apart, he’d start spilling the secret he’d kept for such a long time. Finally, when he had opened his mouth, all that came out was his new anthem: “Your call.”

  Walking down the path parallel to Beacon Street, he paused, looking down at the Frog Pond, frozen for weeks now. The trees were trimmed with white fairy lights, blending into the snowflakes illuminated by the streetlamps. He forced his thoughts to go quiet as he listened to the enchanted cries of the children skating on the brightly lit pond below. The squeals of excited delight warmed him, if only briefly.

  His own youth had been as different from those of the children he was watching as anyone could imagine. He’d been born to first-generation immigrants, refugees from the Soviet-style repression that crushed the spirit of the Polish people in the 1950s and ’60s. His parents had made it to Boston, though, where they’d carved out an uneasy survival for the family. In a city split tectonically between the Brahmins, the Irish, and the Italians, the Polish were often crushed in the fissures. His father had been a skilled steelworker in the old country, but no one would hire him for such a high-paying job in Boston. As a result, everyone in his family worked to make enough money to get by. Tom Kozlowski got his first job when he was six, helping clean down the fish stalls in North Market, where his mother sold scrod for pennies. “If he can walk, he can work,” he remembered his father saying in broken English when the owner of the stall questioned whether it was right to hire out a boy so young.

  When his father’s heart gave out at forty-five—Koz was only seventeen—no one was sure the family would survive. The night they laid his father to rest, Koz, who’d never been devout, sat in the neighborhood Catholic church praying for guidance. The reply came in the form of a young parish priest whose brother was a sergeant in the Boston Police Department. The brother took pity on Kozlowski, and arranged for him to join the force on his eighteenth birthday. Since that day, though he’d never quite qualified as a true believer, Kozlowski had stayed generally loyal to the Church. After all, who was he to question an answered prayer?

  And in the cosmic game of quid pro quo, his devotion to the BPD had more than compensated for his failings as a Catholic. For over twenty-five years, he’d been a crusader, de
dicating his life to the force. To him, “To Protect and Serve” had been more than a catchy motto; it had been a calling. And whenever he’d been bothered by the sacrifice of his personal life, he’d sought out scenes like those below him at the Frog Pond. That his job provided a level of civic trust and security, allowing kids to enjoy a childhood he’d been denied, seemed enough to him. More than enough, usually. After all, you can’t miss what you never had.

  And yet tonight the relief felt illusory. The Salazar case ate at him. Finn was probably right; the man was probably guilty. That rationalization had certainly allowed Kozlowski to bury his guilt for a decade and a half, but now the dirt had been kicked off the shallow grave of his conscience, and it seemed that the rot was infecting his soul.

  He took one more look at the children gliding in circles over the illuminated ice at the bottom of the hill, their laughter reaching up to him. He wondered in that moment what Rosita Salazar’s laugh sounded like. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, but it fought its way back with irrepressible force. Against his will, he found himself wondering what it must have been like growing up without knowing her father; what it must have been like to wander through life blinded. And in the shadow of those brutal musings was the real question that he’d been avoiding for such a long time: Had he done the right thing?

  The question haunted him as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned to walk away. It wasn’t his fault, he consoled himself. After all, it hadn’t been his call.

  Chapter Nine

  Friday, December 14, 2007

  Finn didn’t give the Salazar case another thought. After all, he’d convinced Judge Cavanaugh to order the release of the DNA evidence for testing—no small feat. That was what he’d been called in to do. It was hardly his fault that the judge had made clear that he didn’t actually care what the DNA might reveal, and that he had no intention of releasing Salazar. And if Mark Dobson wanted to wallow in futility for a couple of weeks, that was his own call. Finn was a realist, and he had too many other things to pay attention to.