If We Dare to Dream

by Collette Scott

  All eyes turned to her at that moment, and Jamie once again told her version of the story. Ted listened carefully, nodding at appropriate times and enthusiastically widening his eyes when she finished her story with his truck following her up to Clay’s. When she finished, his lips compressed together, and he nodded his head slowly.

  “You haven’t seen or spoken to this man since that night?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “And you didn’t know him prior?’

  “No, I had never met him before.”

  “But you’re confident it was him?”

  “Yes, I remembered his face and his name.”

  “Is there any way you could have mistaken his face?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. You see, he had this scar by his eye. I remembered it when he smiled.”

  “You say that the prosecution had witnesses who identified him leaving with the victim, but you say that he left with you just a few minutes later?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I thought it was because we both had black jackets on and dark hair.”

  “Could be, or it could be that another man left with her, someone similar to him.”

  Jamie had never thought of that. “I really wouldn’t know, but I suppose it’s possible.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t suppose, Jamie. Don’t elaborate – ever. I didn’t expect you to know the answer to that.”

  Feeling chastised, she abruptly closed her mouth. Grady was not daunted, and his quick mind latched on to the possibilities. “So those transcripts should be carefully reviewed, as well as all of the surveillance that night.”

  “Exactly. That’s just one possibility. The other, of course, is that they confused Jamie with the victim.” He glanced at her with a smile. “You have a good recollection, but do you have any proof?”

  “I still have the jacket I wore that night, and I’ve emailed my girlfriend for photos. She’s going to send me the digital copies.”

  “That’s good.”

  He sat back in his seat and cupped his chin in his hand as he stared beyond Jamie and Grady to the scenic view behind them. Just like Ford, his eyes took on a faraway look while he pondered. Grady nudged Jamie under the table, his smile encouraging and proud. Apparently he approved of her story, and it appeared as though he concluded Ted did as well. She smiled back and then looked at Ford, who also nodded his head approvingly. Jamie felt bolstered, more confident, and even a little bit hopeful.

  After another few minutes of thinking, Ted sighed thoughtfully. “There were statistics released by the Department of Justice not so long ago stating that on average between eight to twelve percent of convictions are wrong and that the person convicted was innocent. With new DNA testing, even old cases are being reviewed and overturned. Men and women who have served years are suddenly being heard and listened to. There are non-profit organizations out there such as the ACLU and the Innocence Project that do everything they can to help those who fight to prove their innocence. Unfortunately it’s a lengthy and very expensive task. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “So what do you think his chances are? Should I go through with this?” Jamie asked hesitantly.

  “Of course you should,” he replied. “This man may have been wrongfully convicted and is now serving time. Now I don’t have access to his trial transcripts and have no knowledge of what evidence they had that proved his guilt at the time, whether there was DNA evidence left at the scene or multiple other things, but with what you have told me I feel there is enough doubt that he could have made it back to the scene with the timeline they described.”

  “That’s good, right?” Ford asked.

  “In his case, yes.”

  “So what do we do now?” Grady asked.

  “Get in touch with his lawyer. Start there and make sure he’s still representing him. If he is, he may need help with an appeal. You can tell him that you’ve spoken to me and he can contact me with any questions. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “Ted, that’s great,” Grady said. “Even with your caseload?”

  “Well,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s never a good time or an easy time, but I won’t let you down.”

  Jamie and Ford exchanged nervous smiles, but Grady came to his feet and reached across the table to pump Ted’s hand enthusiastically. Though Grady was the soft-spoken one in their family, Jamie was impressed with his self-assured confidence at that moment. He certainly had friends in good places.

  “We all hope this ends well, Ted, and your input today has definitely given us hope.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  He came to his feet, and Jamie followed his lead. After shaking hands again, he guided them out the door and led them back down the hall, sharing small talk with Grady as they went. Jamie and Ford led the way, both feeling trepidation about what was to come.

  They said their farewells and returned to the elevator, where the three remained silent and trapped in their thoughts until the doors opened and the elevator proved empty. Once inside, Grady placed his hand on Jamie’s shoulder and smiled.

  “You did well, Jame,” he said. “Are you ready to do it again?”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. Her mind was spinning like a top, whirling with thoughts and concerns. What Ted had told her made her feel even more remorse that she had not been available during his initial trial to prevent what had happened. “I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. The real question is whether or not he’s ready for me.”

  Though Ford and Grady chuckled, Jamie was serious, and time would show just how right she was.

  Chapter 5

  The desert was brown in the winter.

  Though Andrew grew up in the desert and knew the scent of the rain and the taste of the dust by heart, he still found winter depressing. The sun still shone nearly every day during those drearier months, which encouraged the influx of winter visitors with their motor homes and blue license plates. But for him, seeing the short burst of green in the spring and during the monsoon season had always been more of a pleasure than the mild weather and sunshine of winter.

  The property his grandmother owned had always been well maintained and beautifully landscaped every spring, and when he closed his eyes he still remembered seeing her on her hands and knees before her accident, planting perennials every spring until the yard around her house and barn was splashed with every imaginable color. Combined with the beautiful flowers of the blooming cacti and sage bushes on her property, her yard was a veritable rainbow of life. It was his favorite time of year and brought back some happy memories, unfortunately too few to live by.

  All of that was gone now. His grandmother was confined to a wheelchair and had been unable to plant flowers since before he joined the military. In addition, his current abode was surrounded by brownish red dirt that blew relentlessly, overgrown mesquite trees that had become mostly brown despite a few carrying a tinge of green leaves left over from the fall, and brown walls topped with razor wire. The ugliness of the barren surroundings reminded him of his brief sojourn though the Middle East, a time in his life that he would gladly forget. Adding to that were gray fences, grey bars and gray skies that currently threatened a rare Arizona winter storm. He wondered if Florence would get a good solid dousing of rain. The rain would turn the yard to mud, and he could not imagine anything more unpleasant.

  Life was great.

  Not.

  Even if life was not what he wanted it to be, he was at the point now where he realized that it still could be much worse.

  At least he was not on death row.

  He still thought about his conversation with Darren almost daily and still could not change his mind. As he had heard on multiple occasions, ‘isn’t everyone in jail innocent?’ What was the use in fighting it when no one and everyone would believe him anyway? If he were to speak aloud, the guards would nod their heads knowingly and tell him to move on, while the other inmates would cheer and laugh at his
determination to be right. So he remained silent, as silent as the ghost he was known as by the other inmates. He had resigned himself to his fate and was trying to make the best of what his life had become. The dream that someday some smoking bombshell would appear that would shed the truth in light still occurred to him every now and then, but he stubbornly bit it back as he grew accustomed to the reality of what really was.

  His life was over. His dreams were gone. He was beaten. Until the bombshell appeared, he refused to hold his breath or dream.

  In reality, as his days passed and he learned more about prison life, he came to the conclusion that it was not much different than his time in Afghanistan. Though there was violence, it was not something he was unfamiliar with. For years he had lived in hastily thrown up camps, wandering through the mountain towns, speaking to elders and risking running into Taliban members eager to take a shot at them. Though the fighting in the northern part of the country ceased fairly quickly during those early years, he remembered the same sort of discomfort that he was experiencing now. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, blending in with the locals that would smile one day and then shoot at you the next, all of that was something he had grown accustomed to in the months before his arrest. That was all he had known before returning to his country after his medical discharge.

  The trick in both those situations was to find a routine and stick with it. Once he had overcome the biting sting of his depression, he had been able to find one rather quickly. An opportunity to remain busy appeared through work. While it was in the bakery, it was still something to occupy his time and prevent him from going completely mad from frustration. He woke early in the mornings and made his way to work where he spent the next several hours preparing baked goods. Instead of cleaning guns, he cleaned pans. Rather than rounding up bad guys, he was the bad guy. How dramatically his life had changed in such a short time.

  Late at night as he lay awake listening to other’s snores, he wondered what exactly the universe was trying to tell him. What was his purpose in life? Was it to be the valiant war hero he had come home as, or a convicted felon of a crime he did not commit? The more he thought, the more incensed he got. How ironic life was.

  The irony of his life seemed exceptionally enhanced today. What had begun as another tedious morning was abruptly interrupted with the surprise call from his lawyer the day before. He had not spoken to Darren Walters in… he could no longer remember. It had to be at least since he had announced that he was no longer interested in fighting his conviction. If the authorities wanted him to rot in jail for a crime he did not commit, so be it. When his own brother believed the worst, he realized it was time to be done fighting to non-listening ears. His announcement had promptly led to an argument with probably his last remaining friend and advocate beyond his grandmother, but Andrew had held firm. They had not spoken since the holidays for sure because Andrew did not receive anything that year for Christmas.

  Out of the blue Darren called to tell him that he made an appointment to come out to see him. His lawyer was not forthcoming with why, but Andrew suspected that Darren felt enough time had passed for them to discuss his appeal. All Darren would admit was that new information had been received.

  Andrew was suspicious. What this information could possibly be was unknown. He had learned a lot over the last decade and believing the impossible was not one of them. However, he did find himself staring at the clock every few minutes, anxiously waiting until it was time to go down to the visitation room.

  A practice in patience and fortitude, he stood silently as he was patted down by a stone-faced and hard-headed guard, and his face was completely shuttered when he caught sight of his attorney entering the room a few moments later. Darren’s eyes were glowing with excitement, and he looked as though he was ready to burst at the seams. Despite his best efforts, Andrew felt a leap in his heart at the sight. He forced it back in disgust.

  Taking a seat across from him, Darren immediately sat forward. He was grinning from ear to ear. His glasses were spotted with what appeared to be rain drops, and his suit was crumpled as though he had slept in it. One button was open, granting Andrew a view of his paunch belly. The urgency with which he had approached coupled with his disheveled appearance again gave Andrew pause. Darren was not normally one to appear so out of sorts. His excitement alone caught Andrew off guard, for Darren was one of the most composed men he knew.

  “We found her.”

  Andrew was not sure he heard correctly. “What did you say?”

  “We found her, Andrew,” Darren said quickly. He waved a hand impatiently. “Or rather she found us. Whatever the case, she’s here and she’s talking.”

  Though they were words he had longed to hear ever since he had left that bar the evening of Kit’s murder, he doubted his ears just as he doubted Darren. “Who are you talking about?”

  Still in disbelief, Andrew noticed that his hands had started to shake. Though he warned himself against raising his hopes, he could not stop the rapid tattoo of his heart or the sweat that moistened his palms. His body was reacting even before he heard the name that had haunted him for the last four years.

  “Jamie Morton, Andrew.”

  Jamie. He never did get her surname, but boy did he remember her first. His voice cracked when he answered. “My witness?”

  Darren nodded enthusiastically. He could not hide his excitement and laughed aloud. “Your witness and more - your alibi, Andrew.”

  “My alibi?”

  “Yes, your alibi! Don’t you see? We can proceed with the PCR now. We have her, and she’s very cooperative.”

  Andrew’s chest grew tight as he struggled to get a breath. While his lungs stopped functioning, the color faded from his face, and he knew that Darren noticed his shock when his lawyer’s grin slowly faded. “Are you okay?”

  “I - uh, I don’t know.”

  Andrew took several deep breaths before lowering his head to the table. Breathe, he reminded himself. His hands fell to his lap, and he stared down at them through blurred vision. They were trembling. All over he was shaking, from head to toe. These reactions were not new to him. He had been having episodes since his time in Afghanistan, full blown panic attacks that had been diagnosed when he began having night terrors. A form of post-traumatic stress disorder now self-treated since his incarceration.

  “Andrew, I know this is a shock, but this is really good,” Darren said encouragingly. “I’ve met her. She gave very detailed information. She had an impeccable memory about that night, and everything she said matches what you told us from the beginning. She has things - photos, a black jacket from that night, and two other witnesses who corroborate her story. I’ve been working with another lawyer to file your appellate brief. There’s a whole team ready to go over the case and write it up.”

  “How is this possible? Hasn’t the deadline passed by now?”

  “No, this is new information.”

  “How?”

  “We’re able to prove that we looked for her before to no avail. That was easy. Since we tried to find her but couldn’t, it proves that we were diligent in trying to obtain this information but didn’t have it at the time of your trial. This girl is the smoking gun to clear you, and that could result in your acquittal.”

  “No,” he whispered. “How did you find her?”

  “She found me, actually.” Darren chuckled again. “She recently moved back to the Valley and saw your case on TV. When she realized that it was you, she contacted this lawyer I spoke to, and he had her contact me. We spoke on the phone first, and then she came down to my office. She had date-stamped photos from a digital camera that her friend mailed her and the black jacket with her. I spoke to the two other witnesses this morning, and they were able to corroborate what she told me. She’s legit, Andrew.”

  Darren laughed again, but Andrew could not find the same enthusiasm. He was still shaking all over and feared the lightheadedness from his inability to breathe would make him collap
se. This episode was coming on more rapidly than his previous ones, most likely due to the shock to his system. Pushing the chair out, he stumbled to his feet. He reached out and grasped the chair back to support his weak legs as a wave of dizziness washed over him, aware that the closest posted corrections officer was watching him intently.

  “I can’t do this right now,” he whispered. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait Andrew! Don’t go. This is it. We can win this.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore. I told you that.”

  “But she’s here and willing to talk. Give her a chance – give me a chance.”

  “I’ve given America everything I have, and they locked me in prison. I can’t go through it again,” he said in a low voice.

  “You can. We can win this.”

  He did not turn around or acknowledge Darren, but he could hear his lawyer’s chair scrape against the floor as he pushed it back. His voice was loud when he called out for him to wait.

  Ignoring Darren’s call, he stumbled toward the door, disregarding the curious stares and suspicion on the guard’s faces. He held up his hands, aware that his face was white and all his repressed emotions must have been plainly exposed on his face. Apparently feeling indulgent, they let him pass with only a nod in his direction for which Andrew felt thankful. At that moment, all he wanted to do was get back to his cell. He needed the elusive privacy to collect his thoughts and think. He needed to regain control of his brain and his overworked and exhausted mental health.

  Jamie was back.

  ***

  During Andrew’s first few months home, he did not sleep.

  He was tired beyond imagining those days, so tired that his eyes would drift closed even while he was standing. However, every time his consciousness slipped away the scenes would return. Despite the time that had passed since he had first enlisted, he could still see his first casualty, a combatant whose legs had been blown off by a thrown grenade. He had spoken to Andrew in Pashto just before he passed. Though it was a language that Andrew had never completely mastered, he remembered the disdain and hatred in the dying man’s words. They haunted him in his dreams.