Claim of Innocence

by Laura Caldwell

  Martin stared at the phones on the wall, particularly the one at the end, the red one that was labeled and reserved for the governor should he want to intervene. For years, Martin and his fellow state’s attorneys had feared the idea of the red phone, didn’t want some politician mucking up years and years of work by the state. But now he stared at the phone and its cherry color. He tried to ignore the other spectators filing into the room—appellate prosecutors, select members of the press corps. Ring, he told the phone in his head. Ring.

  When it didn’t, he looked around, and recognized some of the other people in the room. Marilee Travis’s family. It seemed morbid, but then who could blame them? Their daughter had been brutally killed. Who wouldn’t want the person who had done that to die? Especially when you knew for certain that the man about to be wheeled in on a gurney had done it.

  But what if you didn’t know for sure? If Martin was true to his previous profession of assistant state’s attorney, he wouldn’t admit that a wrongful conviction ever happened. The party line was that state never made mistakes, or if they did, they were small, inconsequential. They were rendered against people who, if they had not committed this crime, had certainly committed others. They were doing a service by getting such people off the street.

  He had believed that for a long while, except for this one kernel of doubt about Solara. Yet now, he was on the defense side. Now he understood better how mistakes could be made. And here he was, ready to watch a man being killed and hoping—praying—the red phone would ring.

  52

  I was, I realized, completely enraptured by Martin’s story. My breath felt shallow. But he stopped talking. He stared at the yellow notepad, eyes cloudy.

  I almost wanted to look away from the misery emanating from him. I’d never expected to see or feel such a thing. I didn’t know if I wanted to, if I could handle it.

  His mouth was closed tight, head slowly moving back and forth, saying, No.

  I fought the impulse to stand and simply leave him, leave the library and the courthouse and forget that I’d seen such intense pain.

  But as quick as that impulse came, another followed. I knew I couldn’t leave him. In fact, I had to share his experience, to hear it. The fact that Martin was a pillar of society, a well-respected member of the bar, didn’t mean that he never had problems, and it certainly didn’t mean that he was immune from needing help.

  “Can you tell me the rest of the story?” I asked.

  No response.

  “Please,” I said.

  He looked up, looked into my eyes, and I read his gratitude there. I nodded in acknowledgment. And then Martin Bristol started talking again.

  Martin remembered looking at his watch that night. Ten minutes to midnight. Behind the glass window, a door was opened, and Javier Solara was wheeled in on a gurney. His head had been shaved by then. There was no sign of his full black hair. He was thin—a far cry from the short but strong man he’d been when he was accused of killing Marilee. Javier was already strapped to the gurney, lying still, sheet up to his neck. But his eyes were open.

  The warden asked if he had any last words.

  “Yes,” Solara said. The room was miked, audible in the spectator’s area.

  And then the most extraordinary thing happened. Solara turned his head, and he looked right at him. “I want to say these words to him,” he said.

  A confused warden pointed to Martin to make sure he’d understood properly.

  The warden left Solara’s side and entered the spectator area to talk to Martin. “You don’t have to do this,” the warden said.

  “I want to do it,” Martin said.

  The warden led him down that hall again and then to the right. They pushed open the door and then, Martin was on that stage of sorts, Solara looking up at him.

  He glanced at Solara’s body, ensuring he was still strapped, then he leaned forward, offering his ear.

  “Innocent,” Solara said. His voice was gruff, as if he smoked cigarettes constantly, but there was something gentle about it, something very human.

  Martin felt himself leaning farther toward Solara.

  And then Solara spoke again. “I will die innocent.”

  Martin reared back. It was something out of his nightmares. Was this man he’d helped put here, this man who was about to be only a shell of skin cells, telling the truth?

  Martin turned to the warden. “Perhaps we should wait…” he said.

  The warden gave an abrupt shake of his head. “No one stops this show unless that phone rings. You know that.”

  “He claims he’s innocent.”

  The warden made a gruff sound, almost a cough. “Yeah, a claim of innocence. How many times you heard that?”

  Martin didn’t answer. Truth was, he’d heard such claims from many defendants. But this one seemed different. And this one—this man—he was about to see killed. Martin was led back to the gallery. Again, he stared at the phone. He tried to think of Marilee Travis who had been so ruthlessly murdered, her life ending in terror. But when he looked at the gurney, that’s what he saw on Solara’s face, too. Terror. Solara looked through the glass and continued to look right at Martin; right at him.

  “We’ve started the first shot,” the warden said. One injection was to render unconscious, one was to paralyze, the last would stop the heart.

  Javier kept looking at him. That was how Martin thought of him suddenly, as “Javier” instead of “Solara.” Javier continued staring at him, challenging him, telling him, Do something. And yet there was nothing to be done. The warden had been right. At this point, only the governor could stop the death.

  He waited for Javier’s eyes to close, for that look to just go away. Go away. But Javier’s eyes stayed open, fixed on Martin. Martin glanced at the warden, then the medical engineer who was administering the drugs. Both looked a little confused. Martin’s gaze shot back to Javier. No change. Still it yelled, Help! Still it shrieked, I am innocent! He heard the other message Javier was giving him. You did this. You could have stopped it.

  Then the most horrible thing happened. Javier’s body bucked against the restraints, convulsing and writhing, his body moving so violently the gurney moved with it.

  “Oh, God,” he heard a women’s voice say. Someone else in the visitor’s room began crying.

  The warden and medical engineer froze for a moment, then the warden forced Javier’s body back to the gurney, laying over him to stop the gurney from moving, shouting at the medical engineer. More people were talking now, yelling for help.

  The second shot was given, and just as swift, the spasms stopped. And then the room went silent. But Javier’s eyes were still open, still staring at Martin. It seemed that the man could see into him, into his deepest thoughts, and so Martin stopped saying, Go away, in his mind and instead started saying, I’m sorry. I believe you. I’m sorry.

  The third drug was started. Still, the stare. And then at last, finally, his gaze fell shut.

  Yet that gaze would stay with Martin. Forever. It was part of him now. It grew worse when he learned that likely the first drug Javier was given didn’t work properly, which was why Javier remained awake, which likely meant he was actually conscious during the horrifying and excruciating process of having his body paralyzed, and maybe even when his heart was violently, ruthlessly stopped.

  Lately, having taken on Valerie’s case, Martin saw that look even more often—every day, every night, in particular when he lay down and tried to close his own eyes.

  53

  I neared the courthouse, my right hand pulling as hard as possible on the Vespa’s gas.

  Driving south on Ashland, then Ogden, I heard my phone bleating from my bag. Ignoring it, I turned the Vespa onto California and sped toward the parking garage. My phone rang again and again and again. I tried to fish it out with my hand so I could glance at it at a light, but I couldn’t find the damn thing. Finally, I pulled over to the side and searched out the phone. I looked at the dis
play and saw all the calls had been from Maggie. There was also a text message. Call me!!

  I popped up my helmet off my head and dialed her number.

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  “About two blocks away.”

  “Just so you know, the press is here,” she said before I could tell her that her grandfather was following me.

  “Really? Well, you thought the media would pick up the story sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, a ton of media has been coming to the courtroom all morning. At first I figured that word of the case had spread. But then I realized Valerie’s case wasn’t the story. You are the story.”

  “I’m the story?” I blinked in the August sun. “What the helicopter?”

  A pause. “Really?” Maggie said. “You’re going to give me a swear word replacement now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “No.”

  “What the hell?” Maggie said for me.

  “Exactly. Why am I the angle?”

  “The minute the judge took a break, they started asking questions about you. Their angle, apparently, is ‘Izzy McNeil, a woman suspected of murdering her friend, is now representing a woman charged with killing her friend.’”

  “Whoa. That’s a good angle.”

  “Iz!” Maggie made an irritated grrrr sound. “I don’t want you giving any interviews. I don’t know why, but my grandfather has been adamant about no press.”

  “I think I know why.” Martin didn’t want the press digging too deep around Valerie’s case. They might find out that he had once helped prosecute her father.

  I turned around, but I didn’t see Martin’s car. Maybe he’d already passed me.

  “What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

  “I’ll explain. Or he will.”

  “He’s coming?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie made a tiny yay! sound. “Okay, back to the media. Marty will be fine. The press will see him, but he won’t say a word. He’ll just walk in with his mouth closed.”

  “I’ll do that, too.”

  “No, the press can’t see you come in. We’re in the home stretch of the state’s case, and I don’t want anything to throw us off our game. I don’t even want any shots of you coming into the courthouse. Not just yet. My grandfather always says you have to be the one to control the message.”

  “Okay. Is there a back way into the courthouse?”

  Maggie groaned. “They used to let attorneys use it, but now it’s the judges’ parking lot. You’re going to have to go through the front door. I guess you’re going to have to disguise yourself.”

  “Disguise? How would I do that?”

  “I don’t know.” She was truly irritated now. “The press will be all over you. My clerk just went outside and said they’re literally waiting for you.”

  “I suppose I could keep on my helmet.”

  “Maybe that’ll work. Stuff all your hair under it.” She sighed. “That damn hair.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. Gotta go, Iz. The break is over.”

  I kept driving. Soon I saw the press. The news vans were lined up and down the street, a glut of people with cameras and microphones on the steps of the courthouse. Martin was nowhere to be seen. I turned the Vespa around, pulled over again to put my hair under my helmet.

  The problem was, I simply had too much of it. Maggie was right. “Damn hair,” I muttered.

  I sped back down the street, dodged into the parking garage right before the courthouse, and parked, managing to avoid any suspicion from the press. But I seriously doubted whether the helmet was going to do it when I walked up those steps.

  As I turned off the Vespa, I saw two guys walking slowly toward the stairway. Was that a camera one of them was holding? I froze, but they kept walking, didn’t even notice me. Not press. They slouched by in their baggy clothes and baseball caps.

  One of them wore a big hooded sweatshirt, despite the August heat. I had an idea. I took a risk.

  I took off my helmet, and, inching a few steps forward, said, “Hey, guys.”

  Both responded with wary looks.

  I smiled big. It felt as false as it was. I decided to simply go for it. “Can I buy that from you?” I pointed at the guy on the left, the taller one, and his black Chicago Bulls sweatshirt.

  They looked at each other, then looked back at me with suspicious eyes.

  “Your sweatshirt,” I said, then felt I needed to give some explanation. “I love the Bulls.”

  No response.

  “I’m from out of town, and I really want a Bulls shirt.” I sounded like a lunatic. I pulled my wallet out of my purse. “Fifty bucks?”

  “Make it sixty,” the guy said without flinching.

  Before I could counter, he raised the sweatshirt over his head, pulling it off.

  I scrambled in my bag, praying I had enough cash, and unearthed three twenties. I handed him the money, and he swapped me the sweatshirt.

  “Thanks.” I put the sweatshirt over my head, yanked the hood up.

  The guys were still standing there, staring at me. I realized I could get mugged or worse. I had long learned from Maggie that the presence of the courthouse at 26th and Cal had never stopped anyone from committing crimes in or near it.

  “That’ll be it,” I said, sounding clipped and decisive.

  Surprisingly, they seemed to appreciate that and moved on.

  Once they were gone, I put the helmet on top of the hood. With the black skirt, black sweatshirt and silver helmet, I must have looked crazy. Although no more so, I told myself, than anyone else entering the halls of 26th and Cal. But I didn’t look like me, and that was what I needed.

  I sailed through the media—past the news vans with the satellites on top and the bored camera guys and the reporters talking on their cell phones, all of them straining their eyes and necks over my head. I felt invisible in my hoodie and helmet, and for that moment, I very much liked it.

  54

  I made it inside the door of the courthouse, my eyes darting around, pleased not to see any press. But then I felt it.

  My heart started to hammer, despite my mental warnings toward it. My face began to flush. Under the hood and helmet, my scalp was suddenly scalding hot.

  I dodged across the lobby and pulled off the helmet, then tore off the sweatshirt. I could tell that the air-conditioning was turned up—the way they do in so many office buildings—making it bone-cold, but the frigid air couldn’t touch my heat. It turns out, Maggie’s fears were coming true—I was having one of my heat attacks.

  I stood for a moment, trying to force cool air into my lungs, ignoring the sweat that started to course down my back, soaking the shirt under my suit. Glancing around the lobby, I was glad no one seemed to notice me. People pushed past, looking for courtrooms, asking questions of sheriffs who stood guard around the lobby. I spied a sundry shop in the corner. I dodged over there, feeling more sweat pour down my back.

  The man behind the counter looked at me, up and down, then once again. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be, if you have some Benadryl.” I remembered how one of my sweat attacks had happened right as I was about to go on air for Trial TV. The only thing that had halted it was a dose of Benadryl.

  The guy behind the counter shook his head. “Are you kidding?” he said with a scoff. “You know what kinda drugs you can make from Benadryl? You can make meth from that stuff. You think they’re going to let us sell that in the courthouse?”

  “What about some aspirin? Anything that would reduce inflammation?”

  He nodded and sold me a small packet of aspirin. I took them and chugged them down with a bottle of water from my bag, while I chastised myself for not carrying Benadryl in every bag I owned. I’d done that for a while, but then the attacks had dropped off and I’d hopefully assumed that they were gone for good. Silly, silly girl.

  I stood there a second, hoping for a stalemate, but my blood was still
boiling, my face even more red and pulsing. I would sweat through my suit if I didn’t get a grip. And Maggie wouldn’t want me to try a case with her anytime soon if I showed up like that.

  I looked at the guy across the counter. He had started to squint at me. “You okay?”

  “No. Medical condition.”

  He squinted some more, his face concerned.

  “Please,” I said. “Isn’t there some Benadryl somewhere around here? Maybe someone has some leftover in a drawer from the flu last year.”

  He shrugged.

  I pointed my face. “Look at me. I’m having an allergic reaction.”

  “To what?” His eyes were concerned now.

  What should I say? I’m allergic to big events, to fear, to trials? The sweat attacks had been difficult to predict, except that they always correlated with extreme anxiety piled upon more anxiety. The problem was, the sweating only made the anxiety worse. Now, in my head, fears of being recognized by the press warred with thoughts of that document in Sam’s pocket and then with my concern and sadness for Martin and finally, most importantly, for Valerie, my client. “Seriously,” I said to the guy behind the counter. “Can you please ask someone if they have anyone have any Benadryl?”

  He looked a little annoyed, but then he seemed to notice a new flushing of my face. I could feel it. I imagined it purplish in color. “I’ll see what we have in the back,” he said.

  He disappeared behind a small door, gone for at least ten minutes. When he returned he held a silver foil strips in his hand, and I saw a little pink Benadryl underneath the plastic coating on that sheet.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I put a twenty on the counter. When he held out his hand, I snatched the packet, ripped it open and gulped the Benadryl with one swig of water.