“Yes, it is,” Jesse said, although Matt thought he detected an amused smile on his face.
“Why does he do that thing with the door?” Sonya asked Angela after Jesse had gone into a small cubicle at the rear of the office.
“To make sure he hasn’t been locked in.”
“But he’s been out of prison for years.”
“Twelve years. But you go through what he did, you carry it for the rest of your life.”
No shit, Matt thought.
“Jesse told us what you did for him,” Sonya said. “That was amazing.”
“That’s what everybody says, but I got as much out of it as Jesse did. I was going through a rough period when we met. I’d been through an ugly divorce, and then my parents both died within a year of each other. I was really depressed. Fighting for Jesse gave me a purpose, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. It made me feel that my life had meaning. And that’s what we all want, isn’t it? To believe that our lives have meaning.”
To believe that our lives have meaning. That was way too much to ask for, Matt thought. He’d settle for a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
He and Sonya spent the rest of the day sorting through the applications. Injustice after injustice—if the prisoners were to be believed. “I was framed by the prosecutor.” “My lawyer was a dope.” “The cops lied in court.” One case blurred into another, and before long Matt tuned out the details and focused solely on determining if the prisoner was eligible for help from the Justice Project.
Sentenced to ten years or more? Lost appeal? Still in prison? Move on to the next one.
Jesse emerged from his cubicle a few minutes before five o’clock and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“What do I do with this one?” Matt asked him. “This guy was convicted of murdering his parents. He says he’s innocent, but there was no appeal because he pled guilty.”
“If he was innocent, why did he plead guilty?” Jesse asked.
“The prosecutor said he would ask for the death penalty if he didn’t. It happened right here in Snowden.”
“What’s the man’s name?” Angela asked.
“Ray Richardson.”
“I remember that case,” Angela said. “It was front-page news because his father was the Chief’s chauffeur.”
Everybody in Snowden knew the Chief. His actual name was Edward Jenkins, and he’d been the town’s mayor for as long as Matt could remember, until the last election, when he’d stepped aside so his daughter, Jamie, could run in his place. The Jenkins name had guaranteed she’d win, and she did. By a landslide.
Jesse shook his head. “Ray Richardson. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It was more than twenty years ago,” Angela said. “Long before you got here.” Her phone rang.
“Is there any new evidence?” Jesse asked.
Matt flipped through the application. “No.”
“Then we can’t take it. Without anything to go on, all we have is another guy who says he’s innocent.”
Matt tossed the envelope onto the “ineligible” pile and reached for the next one.
“That was the prison,” Angela said to Jesse when she got off the phone. “You’re all set to see Bill Matheson on Friday.”
“Is anything happening with his case?” Sonya asked.
There’s no point keeping score, Matt thought.
“The judge ordered a DNA test on the bandanna,” Jesse said. He turned to Matt. “Bill Matheson was convicted of murdering his wife. A bloody bandanna was found near their house, but it was never tested. We think the real murderer’s DNA is on it.”
“We’ve been trying to get it tested for seven years,” Angela added.
“Why has it taken so long?” Matt asked.
“Because the prosecutor’s a complete asshole,” Angela said vehemently. The crude language sounded out of place coming from her, but it underlined just how angry she was. “He’s fought us every step of the way, trying to stop us from getting it tested.”
“That’s not right,” Sonya said. “A prosecutor’s role is to seek justice, not a conviction.”
Somebody was paying attention in law class, Matt thought.
“That’s the way the system is supposed to work,” Angela said. “And that’s how most prosecutors operate. But some will do anything rather than admit they sent the wrong man to jail.”
“How long has this guy been in jail?” Matt asked.
“Thirty-seven years.”
Thirty-seven years! Matt tried to wrap his mind around that.
“Bill could have been out on parole years ago,” Jesse said. “But you can’t get parole unless you take responsibility for your crime, and Bill refuses to lie and say he killed his wife.”
“You mean all he’d have to do to get out of jail is say he did it?” Matt asked, incredulous.
Jesse nodded.
“And he won’t?”
Jesse shook his head.
“Why not?”
“They can have my body, but they can’t have my soul. That’s how he explained it to me.” Jesse shook his head in amazement.
“He must be incredibly tough,” Sonya said.
That’s one way of putting it, Matt thought. He must be out of his freaking mind was another.
“If you guys are free Friday, you should come to the prison and meet Bill,” Jesse said.
“Works for me,” Sonya said. “My last exam is Thursday.”
“Me too,” Matt said.
“Great,” Jesse said.
He and Angela went into his cubicle.
“Cool,” Matt said to Sonya. “I’ve never been to a prison before.”
“Cool? We’re going to see an innocent man who has been in prison for thirty-seven years, and all you can say is cool? Like you’ve been invited to a tailgate party.”
“I am so happy we’re going to be working together all summer.”
He had just taken another envelope out of the box when Angela emerged from the cubicle. “It’s past five. You guys might as well get going.”
Matt tossed the envelope back into the box.
“I’m going to stay and finish up,” Sonya said.
Matt retrieved the envelope. No way he was going home before Sonya. Not even if it meant staying in the office all night.
SEVEN
What is the term for a vague or indirect expression that is substituted for one that is harsh or blunt? (1 mark)
Euphemism, Matt wrote. Like when the surgeon told him he would have “reduced mobility” instead of calling him a cripple. Matt moved on to the next question. It was the last on the exam.
What is pathetic fallacy?
Matt was racking his brain for the answer when Mr. Jolly clapped his hands. “Pens down.”
That’s it, Matt thought. High school is officially over.
He was confident he’d done as well on this exam as he had on the others—just well enough to get by. It was the way he’d operated all through high school. His teachers had always been after him to do better, but there’d been no point. College football coaches were interested in his smarts on the field, not in the classroom. He’d put in the time to make sure his grades were high enough to get him into university, but that was it. Doing more than that was a waste of time.
Brian French was at his locker, talking to his longtime girlfriend, Jenna Wright. Matt joined them.
“I can’t believe we’re done,” Brian said.
“People are always saying that high school is the best time of your life,” Jenna said. “If I thought that was true I’d kill myself,” she said.
Matt laughed, although in his case it was probably true.
He was emptying the contents of his locker into his backpack when a familiar voice interrupted him.
“Sup, Nineteen?”
A shiver went down his spine. Over the years Emma had called him by just about every number except eleven, the one that was actually his. It was her way of mocking the school’s obsession with
football.
“Hey,” Matt said, turning around. Emma was wearing the hoop earrings he had bought her the year before for her seventeenth birthday. “Was that your last exam?”
She nodded. “You?”
“All done. When do you go to the lake?” Emma’s family had a vacation home two hours north of Snowden.
“Tomorrow.”
“You working at the marina again?”
“Just for July. I got a summer job with a theater company in California. I leave the day after graduation.”
Don’t go, Matt silently begged. “Look out, Hollywood.”
“Yeah, right. When are you going to Florida?”
“I’m not. Doug got transferred to Saudi Arabia. He and my mom are moving there in a couple of weeks.”
“You mean you’re staying in Snowden?” Emma was clearly taken aback.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” He put what he hoped would pass for a bemused smile on his face.
It didn’t fool her for a minute. Emma had always been able to read him like a book. “It’ll be okay here,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “You’ll see.”
“For sure,” he said with a shrug that was doubtless as unconvincing as the smile.
“When do you get off the crutches?”
He hesitated for a moment, but he couldn’t lie to her. “I haven’t needed them for a while.”
“Oh, Matt,” she said softly. “It can’t be that bad.”
He pointed to the classroom across the hall. When they got inside, he closed the door and handed her the crutches. He lurched toward the window.
When he turned back, her eyes were wet.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He prayed she wouldn’t start crying, knowing it would set him off.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
Part of him wanted to let go, to vent his rage, to express his grief. But what was the point? There was nothing Emma could do.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t shed any tears. He’d shed plenty of them, cried himself to sleep every night for the first month after the accident. But all those tears hadn’t changed a thing then. And they wouldn’t change a thing now.
He looked at her sadly and shook his head.
Emma gave him an understanding nod. “I’ll call you in a few days.” She touched his cheek softly. Then she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.
He took a couple of minutes to pull himself together, then slipped his crutches under his arms and headed for the door.
A large mural depicting the team’s victory parade down Park Street after the state championship was painted on the wall opposite the school office. Matt was standing on a flatbed truck, surrounded by his teammates, holding the championship trophy over his head. The sadness that always swept over him when he looked at the mural was more intense than ever. At least this was the last time he’d ever have to look at it, he thought.
Pathetic fallacy. The definition popped into his head as soon as he stepped outside. When the weather reflects the mood of the story. If this were a story, the sky would have been full of heavy dark clouds.
In reality, it was a perfect summer day. The sun shone so brightly that Matt almost lost his balance going down the stairs.
EIGHT
Jesse was standing beside his car, smoking a cigarette, when Matt came out of his apartment building the next day. Sonya was in the back seat.
Jesse looked guiltily at his cigarette. “Don’t tell Angela. Going to prison always gives me the creeps. But it’ll be good to see Bill. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“I guess he’ll be excited when you tell him the news.”
“Not really. When you’ve been inside as long as he has, hope is a luxury you can’t afford.” Jesse took a final drag and stamped out his cigarette. “How much longer do you need the crutches?”
“Not long,” Matt answered.
He could hang on to them for a week, maybe two, but that was it. And then his nightmare would begin.
Pembroke Valley State Prison was straight out of the movies. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded a collection of squat, ugly buildings. A tower rose up at each corner, manned by an armed guard with a rifle.
Jesse, Matt and Sonya entered the visitors’ center, a one-story, red-brick building separated from the rest of the prison. Matt’s leg ached after the three-hour drive. They were greeted by a monotone voice on the PA system. “Visiting hours are now over. All visitors must leave the building immediately. Visiting hours are now over. All visitors must leave the building immediately.”
Matt gave Jesse a quizzical look. “Bill is our client, so the regular visiting hours don’t apply to us,” Jesse explained.
The visitors, mostly women, slowly filed past them, chatting to each other in subdued voices. An elderly woman with short gray hair approached Jesse. “Excuse me,” she said. “You’re Jesse Donovan, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“I’m Jolene Richardson. Ray Richardson’s my grandson.”
The name Ray Richardson was familiar, but Matt couldn’t place it.
“You sent us a letter saying you couldn’t take his case.” The old woman dug into her purse and handed a piece of paper to Jesse. He read it quickly and gave her a sympathetic look.
“I wish I could help you,” Jesse said. “But your grandson pled guilty, and without new evidence there’s nothing we can do.”
The guilty plea jogged Matt’s memory. Ray Richardson had pled guilty to killing his parents. His father had been the Chief’s chauffeur.
“You’ve got to help us,” Jolene pleaded. “Ray’s innocent. He loved his parents. He would never have harmed them. You’re our only hope. If you don’t help Ray, he’s going to die in jail.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Richardson. I truly am.”
Jolene’s shoulders sagged. Then she straightened, summoning her dignity. “I understand. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
“The poor woman,” Sonya said as Jolene trudged away. “She reminds me of my grandmother. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“I don’t mean to sound cold,” Jesse said, “but we can’t take on the case just because she says her grandson is innocent.”
The guard at reception examined their identification and then handed them their visitor passes. “Pin these to your clothes,” she said. “I’ll call the cellblock and tell them to bring Bill down.”
They walked to an airport-style metal detector at the far end of the room, emptied their pockets and put the contents on a tray. The metal detector beeped when Matt passed through.
The guard ran a wand up and down his body. It sounded when he got to his leg.
“I have a metal rod there,” Matt explained.
“Roll up your pant leg,” the guard ordered.
Matt did as he was told. Even after all this time, the sight of his leg—pale, scarred and withered from inactivity—came as a shock. Jesse and Sonya gawked, unable to avert their gazes, as if they were watching a horror movie on TV.
Once they had cleared security another guard led them to the interview room. “Bill will be here in a minute. Make yourselves at home.”
Matt wondered if the guard was joking. The interview room couldn’t have been less homey. Four black metal chairs and a black metal table sat on a gray concrete floor, surrounded by bare cinder-block walls painted a color best described as puke.
A couple of minutes later a different guard escorted Bill Matheson into the room. Bill had to stoop to get through the doorway. Matt guessed he was about six foot eight. A smile broke out on the old man’s lined face when he saw Jesse. The two men hugged. Jesse’s head barely came up to Bill’s chin.
Jesse introduced Matt and Sonya, then told Bill the judge had ordered a DNA test of the blood on the bandanna. As Jesse had predicted, Bill didn’t have much of a reaction —even though it meant he might finally get out of jail. “It’s
about time,” was all he said.
“Do you want me to get in touch with Heather?” Jesse asked.
“Not yet,” Bill said with a sad shake of his head. “Not until this is all over.”
Matt and Sonya looked at each other. Who’s Heather?
Jesse and Bill chatted for another twenty minutes. Then Bill said he was tired and wanted to go back to his cell. He slowly got to his feet, lumbered to the door and knocked.
Matt felt an indescribable sadness as he thought of all the years the old man had spent behind bars, mixed with profound respect for the strength of character that had compelled him to turn down the opportunity to go free. They can have my body, but they can’t have my soul. Bill might look frail, Matt thought, but inside he must be tough as nails.
“Excuse me, Mr. Matheson,” Sonya called out as the guard opened the door. “Do you know Ray Richardson?”
“Known him ever since he got here.”
“Do you think he’s innocent?”
“I’d stake my life on it,” Bill said in a firm voice.
Sonya turned to Jesse after the guard had led Bill away, but he cut her off at the pass. “We still can’t take the case,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Even if Bill’s right, and I wouldn’t bet against it, we don’t have any evidence. We would have to hire an investigator to start from scratch, with no guarantee he’d be able to find anything that could help Ray.”
“So it all comes down to money? If Ray was rich, he could hire an investigator to start from scratch.”
“Unfortunately, that’s the way the world works.”
“We’ll have money after the fundraiser.”
“You’re a real bulldog, aren’t you?” Jesse said, not unkindly.
More like a pit bull, Matt thought.
“We’re going to have to use the money we raise to investigate cases where we already have some evidence and where there’s a good chance we’ll find more,” Jesse said. “And believe me, we’ve got more of those than we know what to do with.”
“And meanwhile Ray rots away in prison,” Sonya said.
Jesse shrugged helplessly. He stuffed his papers into his briefcase. A guard escorted them back to the waiting area.
“Who’s Heather?” Matt asked Jesse as they walked to the car.
The Justice Project Page 3