The Price of Justice

by Marti Green

  Dani shook her head. She had convinced Win to go along as a plaintiff in the complaint seeking discovery of the police files. He wanted to know who had been responsible for his seven years in a hellhole, so he readily signed the papers.

  “I’m sure the county will contest it.”

  “But you think we’ll win, right?”

  “I do. It doesn’t mean the records will shine any light on the real culprit, though. Remember, they pretty much stopped investigating when they honed in on Win.”

  Tommy took a seat. “My money is on her date for the night. From the first time I met him, he seemed squirrelly to me.”

  “What would his motive be?”

  “Jealousy. Humiliation. She came with Kincaid and then walked out on him to be with Win. In front of the whole senior class.”

  “Even if you’re right, the police files may not help. Proving it won’t be easy.”

  “Maybe not. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try, though.”

  Dani knew Tommy meant it. He was a bulldog when it came to solving cases. That’s why she always wanted him on her team. One day, she knew, he would retire from working altogether. Make the exodus to Florida that many of his buddies had already made. She didn’t know what she’d do when that happened. They worked so well together; she hated the thought of teaming up with someone else.

  Tommy left, and she returned to reviewing folders again. She’d narrowed her choice down to three. The first was Malcolm Brown, a forty-one-year-old Mississippi man who’d been in prison for eighteen years for raping a white woman. Immediately after the attack, the police arrived, called by bystanders who’d heard her screams. She identified the man as black, with close-cropped hair and wearing red pants and a hoodie. One of the neighbors who’d called the police told them of a black man living in their predominantly white complex. The police entered Brown’s apartment, dragged him outside to the woman, and asked if he was the man. She said, “Yes,” and he was arrested. It didn’t matter that when the police entered his apartment, only minutes after the attack, he was wearing blue jeans. It didn’t matter that his hair wasn’t close-cropped. And it certainly didn’t matter that his mother said he hadn’t left their apartment. He was convicted after a one-day trial and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

  Dani knew that the leading cause of wrongful convictions was eyewitness identifications. In a case like this, where a suspect was not picked out of a lineup but instead brought directly to the victim, or where the victim was shown a single photograph, the eyewitness identification became especially suspect. Brown had asserted his innocence from the time of his arrest throughout the entire time of his incarceration, including in the numerous letters he’d written to HIPP over the years. DNA hadn’t been available when he’d been convicted. Now, if the police still had some to test, it could free him.

  The second case she considered involved a tainted eyewitness identification as well. A young woman had been attacked late at night in her apartment. She saw her attacker only briefly, in dim light, before she was bound and blindfolded. Her attacker repeatedly raped her, then stole almost $800 she’d hidden in her nightstand before leaving. The police created a composite photo of the attacker, based on her description. A few weeks later, eighteen-year-old Otto Singer was questioned by the police on a separate matter. The detective questioning him noted a resemblance to the composite photo and alerted the detectives investigating the rape. The victim was shown his photo as part of a “six-pack,” a group of six potential perpetrators. Otto was the only young, clean-shaven man in the group. The victim tentatively identified him but asked for a lineup, where she picked him out. Of course, this was after seeing his photo. At trial, the eyewitness identification was buttressed by testimony from an expert on microscopic-hair analysis, who claimed that a hair found on the victim’s nightgown matched that of the defendant. Now, it’s known that, unlike DNA, microscopic-hair analysis is incapable of identifying a match with any certainty. Once again, Otto had witnesses who placed him at home at the time of the attack, and once again, Otto had steadfastly asserted his innocence.

  The third plea for help she considered came from a Texas man, now twenty-three, who’d been convicted of the rape and murder of Susie Hancock, a fourteen-year-old girl, when he was sixteen. After a source claimed he’d seen the girl get into a car with Oscar LeMarque just before she disappeared, the police brought Oscar in for questioning. Twenty hours later, alone in the room with only the police, and without his parents or counsel, Oscar confessed to the crime. The police had recovered semen from the dead girl. It didn’t match Oscar’s DNA. That didn’t matter. The district attorney went forward anyway, got a conviction, and Oscar was sentenced to eighty-five years in prison. This was the first time he’d written to HIPP, unlike the other two, who’d written many times.

  Dani knew she should choose Brown or Singer. They’d been incarcerated longer. But ever since representing a young woman last year who’d falsely confessed to the murder of her parents, she’d been drawn to cases involving a potentially false confession. Especially when the defendant was a teenager—still a child, really. She turned to her computer and began drafting a letter of representation for Oscar LeMarque.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Winston heard the phone slam down and then his grandmother’s voice shout out for him. When he entered the living room, she threw her arms up in the air. “What in the world have you done? Have you lost your mind?”

  Winston suspected that he knew what had aroused her ire. A few minutes earlier, he’d heard the butler announce that the governor was on the phone.

  “Are you referring to the lawsuit?”

  “Of course, I am.”

  “Grandmama, Carly was my friend. Someone killed her, and it wasn’t me. And apparently,” he said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “it wasn’t Earl Sanders either. I need to know who did it. Since you won’t reveal who that is, then I must do it this way.”

  “Don’t be a fool. The world believes you’re innocent now. Start digging, and you’ll only get people questioning Sanders’s confession. And when they do that, they’ll think it was you again.”

  Win walked over to his grandmother and took her hand in his. “I know you’re only concerned for my welfare. But I need to know. Whoever did it was responsible for my spending seven years in hell.”

  His grandmother withdrew her hand. “We are Meltons. We don’t sue the police because we believe we’ve been wronged. With all our wealth, the world will scorn us for seeking monetary damages. Which, in case you haven’t thought it through, comes out of taxpayers’ pockets.”

  Winston had expected his family to be upset with him. When Dani first asked for his approval, he’d balked. It would shine a media light on him once again, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that. He’d holed up in the family’s Palm Beach home and found comfort in being a hermit there, away from metal doors banging and prisoners shouting and guards stomping. Away from inedible food and hungry rodents. While in prison, he’d railed against the loneliness. Now, he welcomed it.

  Yet, when Dani had reminded him that the killer of his friend had gone unpunished, no doubt smugly satisfied that Win had taken his place, he’d acquiesced. The only chance of capturing him—albeit a remote one—began with the police files.

  “I’m sorry, Grandmama, I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Mrs. Melton stormed out of the room, leaving Winston once again alone. He pulled Sienna’s letter out of his pocket, where he’d carried it every day, and read it once more. Each time he perused her words, he felt torn between an intense yearning to see her and a crippling fear of venturing outside his safe haven. Slowly, he’d come to realize that he needed help. Professional help—a psychiatrist or psychologist. But who? He couldn’t ask his mother or grandmother for advice. Meltons didn’t visit psychiatrists. It would set tongues wagging, and he’d learned from a young age th
at was to be avoided at all costs.

  He eased himself down onto the couch and picked up the phone. There was only one person he could trust to find him a good therapist. It was the friend who’d never deserted him, who’d written him faithfully through the years. He picked up the phone and dialed the office of Max Dolan.

  Amelia Melton retreated to her study, still flustered by Winston’s defiance. She willed herself to regain control of her emotions, something she’d become expert at doing after fifty years of marriage to Horace. Still, she had to admit she was rattled. What if? kept going through her mind. What if the investigator discovered that thieving, murderous man she’d made a deal with? A deal to save Win’s life? Would that horrible man understand she’d kept her word, and hadn’t revealed his identity? Or would he expose her criminal acts anyway?

  She’d known from the outset that the deal made her vulnerable. Horace had schooled her from the beginning of their marriage never to put herself in a susceptible position. Always be able to walk away, head held high, he’d taught her. But what could she do? Should she have told her son? No, she’d decided. That would only have made him a target as well. She supposed she could have consulted the myriad attorneys that handled her late husband’s business empire. But she knew what they would say: Walk away from him. Report him to the police. What good would that have done? Without any evidence, the police would take her for a grandmother willing to say anything to spare her grandson. No, she had reasoned that the best course was to deal with the real killer herself.

  That man had insisted she write a letter, admitting that she’d bribed someone else to confess to that girl’s murder. She’d described in detail how she’d done it. And she’d given him the only copy. Without that letter, he wouldn’t have revealed to her the small details that made the confession seem real. Without that letter, Winston would have died. “If I go to jail, so do you,” the man had said with a nasty smirk as he placed the letter with her signature in a folder.

  Even if she were willing to reveal his identify, willing to go to jail herself, what good would it do? She still had no proof he’d killed that girl. He’d deny it, of course. And there was nothing to tie him to the murder. Perhaps it was a good thing that Mr. Noorland was continuing to investigate, she thought. Maybe he’d find the proof she lacked. Maybe he’d take that proof to the police, and then the person responsible for subjecting her grandson to seven years of hell would finally be punished. Would she go to jail if there was proof he’d killed the young lady? Wouldn’t the court be sympathetic toward her? After all, she’d acted to stop the State from killing an innocent man. She didn’t know the answer.

  She wouldn’t reveal the name of Carly’s killer. It would serve no purpose. But short of that, she would help Tommy in any way she could.

  “Jack Donahue’s on the phone,” Dani’s assistant told her when she answered her intercom.

  Dani picked up. “Hi, Jack. Any word?”

  “Yes. The judge has scheduled a hearing on our request for the police files. Are you interested in attending?”

  “Definitely. When is it?”

  “Next Monday.”

  “What are our chances?”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  Dani finished making arrangements with Jack, then turned back to the brief she’d been working on. She’d met with Oscar LeMarque and come away convinced of his innocence. At first, she’d been shocked that he’d been convicted when the semen found in the dead girl didn’t match his DNA. Then her sense of reality returned, and she realized that nothing should shock her anymore. She’d asked the prosecutor of Oscar’s case in Crockett County to run the DNA found on the victim through the federal database once more. He refused. Now, she was preparing a brief to the court asking them to order the search.

  As Dani typed, her mind kept returning to Win. So often, the men and women HIPP had successfully proved were innocent came out of prison shattered. Those who were cleared when the real perpetrator was discovered recovered the quickest. She realized there were two outcomes that could occur from finding Carly’s killer: saving HIPP, and helping Win heal.

  Dani was back at the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit court in West Palm Beach, along with Tommy and Jack Donahue. The modern, white-stucco building was miles away from the beach and the extravagant homes that lined the ocean. The three had flown down on the Melton family’s personal Gulfstream G650 jet.

  When they were on board, Donahue had explained, “Mrs. Melton was ready to fire our whole firm when she heard I was representing Winston on this. Fifty years of service to her husband’s business, and she was prepared to blow it all up. I had to swear up and down the flagpole that we’d drop it. Then, an hour later, she called back, all sweetness and light, and said she’d had a change of heart. We should go ahead. Use the company jet. Spend whatever we need. I have no idea what happened.”

  “I bet I know,” Tommy said. “Maybe Win threatened to leave the family compound, cut his ties with his grandmother.”

  “If that were true, what would he live on?” Dani asked. “Would his parents continue to support him over Amelia’s objections? He’s been in prison for seven years, has no job and only a high-school education.”

  Donahue smiled. “Don’t feel too sorry for him. His grandfather left him $100 million in a trust. Although he can’t use the principal until he turns thirty, he can draw down the interest for food, clothing, housing, school, medical care—anything considered essential to the Meltons, which is quite a lot. There’s probably close to $20 million in interest accumulated so far.”

  Another reminder, Dani thought, of how different Win was from HIPP’s usual clients. When they arrived at the courthouse, Dani was grateful that the steps were devoid of journalists. She’d hoped this suit would remain under the radar, and so far, it had. They settled themselves in their assigned courtroom, sitting behind the gate until their case was called. At nine thirty, the bailiff announced the judge, and all rose. A petite woman, with auburn hair that had likely come from a bottle, silver-rimmed eyeglasses, and judicial robes that seemed to overwhelm her, stepped inside and took her seat on the bench. Judge Ruth Kahn had presided over the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit for more than thirty years. This would be her last term, as she was nearing the mandatory retirement age of seventy.

  Donahue leaned over and whispered to Dani, “We’re lucky we drew her. She’s a real intellect. Rumor has it that she turned down numerous offered appointments to the state Supreme Court. Supposedly wanted to remain in the thick of it, not just reviewing appeals. Highly unusual for her decisions to be overturned. Which is both good and bad for us. If we win, we’re solid. If we lose, we’re out of luck.”

  All the cases on the calendar that morning were for motions. Each time a case was called, lawyers would approach the bench and argue their positions. Most times Judge Kahn ruled from the bench. With a few, she reserved judgment. When Melton v. Palm Beach Police Department, et al was called, Donahue moved up. Dani saw a young woman walk over to the defendant’s table.

  “Sandra Hutchins for the county, Your Honor,” said the young woman.

  “Jackson Donahue for the plaintiff.”

  “Well, well. I haven’t seen one of these in a long time,” Judge Kahn said. “A pure bill of discovery. When is the legislature finally going to do away with this?” She then looked over at Hutchins. “It’s your motion to dismiss. Tell me why I should.”

  Hutchins stood up. “Your Honor, the plaintiffs are plainly engaged in a fishing expedition, and it is well settled that the pure bill of discovery can’t be used for that purpose. The facts they allege are purely speculative and insufficient to support a claim against any of the defendants. They cannot circumvent what would clearly be a frivolous lawsuit, and one that would make them subject to penalties if they knowingly filed such a suit, by fishing for facts to support their claim. The law is clear on this matter. Their complaint seeking a pure bill of disco
very must be denied.”

  As she sat down, Donahue stood up. “Good morning, Your Honor. My esteemed adversary is correct. If this were only about shoring up a complaint alleging damages for a Brady violation, a pure bill of discovery would be improper. If that were the case, the plaintiff should first proceed to file his complaint alleging that the police or the prosecuting attorney withheld exculpatory evidence, resulting in his incarceration on death row for seven years. However, the law is also clear that a pure bill of discovery is proper when it is needed to identify potential defendants and theories of liability.

  “In this case, the plaintiff believes that exculpatory evidence, namely, evidence that would have identified someone else as the perpetrator of the crime for which he was convicted, was intentionally withheld by one or more of the police working the case, or the prosecuting attorney. Although those individuals are shielded from liability for their negligent withholding of evidence, that is not the case where it is intentional. Accordingly, the plaintiff may name as defendants not only the police department and the State, but those responsible individuals as well. The pure bill of particulars is expressly permitted to identify those possible defendants. Thank you.”

  “Okay. I’ve read your briefs and done my research. Mr. Donahue, you’re correct. Although the pure bill has a limited purpose now, it is appropriate where the actual defendants are known only by the party from whom discovery is sought. For that reason, I hereby order the Palm Beach Police Department and the state attorney’s office for the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit to provide the requested discovery within thirty days.”

  With that said, she banged her gavel, and the bailiff called the next case.

  As they left the courtroom, Dani thanked Donahue. “Do you think they’ll appeal?” she asked.

  “I suspect they don’t think they’ve done anything wrong, and they won’t see any harm in turning the files over. My guess is they’ll figure they took their shot at it and won’t want to spend more time fighting it, especially considering this judge. But we’ll know either way in thirty days.” He turned to Tommy. “Do you really think you’ll find something in the files that will help identify the real killer?”