by Rick Bowers
Choking back bile, Laura resisted the urge to stop and demand the interview be held in the proper room. Instead, she kept moving forward, refusing to respond to the guard’s obvious intimidation ploy.
“Don’t stop for any reason,” he snapped back at her. “Don’t speak to any inmate. Don’t respond to the catcalls.”
Catcalls? Give me a break. Catcalls are the least of my worries.
Laura followed Brady into A-Block. She could make out her reflection on the polished concrete floor and feel the stares of caged residents in the long row of cells, which looked to be maybe eight feet wide and ten feet deep. The ceilings were high, maybe twelve feet. Each cell was bounded on three sides by cracked and filthy concrete walls. The front of each cell, facing the corridor, was a grate of steel bars with a slot for delivering meals. Double-deck bunks, stainless steel toilet-and-basin combos, and small desks left little space for the inmates to move. TVs flickered with daytime talk shows in a few cells, and radios crackled with rap music in others. The entertainment options were granted to inmate trustees—prisoners who performed assigned tasks for the administration—or shot callers with the cash to buy the equipment at the commissary.
Following Brady, Laura saw a guard walking toward her from the opposite direction. He smacked his baton against his palm and took steady, measured strides. Behind him, a line of inmates paraded in military fashion—in parallel lines, eyes straight ahead, silently. To Laura, the procession looked like a scene from a movie set in a nineteenth-century penitentiary. She stared straight ahead as the army of the living dead moved past her like ghosts.
Laura scanned the long row of caged residents. Most wore green shirts with name tags and matching green pants. Attica green.
Laura despised this barred world. The barbaric scene, combined with the dead air and rancid odors, kept heaving vomit into her throat. Decades after the historic riot, Attica had not fundamentally changed. Sure, more education and counseling programs were now offered to the prisoners to cover the brutality. The hospital wing actually had real doctors and nurses. Still, to this day, inhumane conditions, unchecked violence, and sadistic retribution ruled supreme. The guards issued punishment in darkened nooks out of range of the security cameras, their attacks ranging from belt whippings to sexual assaults.
For Christ’s sake, she thought, these prisoners have it worse than the most mistreated zoo animals. Except, in this zoo, there were no moms pushing strollers, or kids hunting for the gorilla cage. Just broken men and unbroken bars, shining like guillotines in the shifting light.
The catcalls began falling like a putrid rain:
“Pussy on the block.”
“Bend over, baby girl.”
“Come get it, little mama.”
Laura stared at Brady’s back and kept moving as the jeers escalated in both number and crudity. She forced herself to maintain a blank expression, denying the cat-callers the pleasure of a response.
Now, what?
A guard approached. Devoid of any expression, the blue shirt had a prisoner cuffed to his left hand. The detainee had no shirt, wild eyes, and slash marks covering his bare chest. As the guard dragged him past Laura, the shackled inmate screamed in her direction, “I cut myself!” His terrified eyes locked onto hers. “I’m crazy! Get me out! I don’t belong here!”
Brady took a sharp right into B-Block, and Laura followed. She cast her gaze down the long corridor, cringing at the rows of misery. Somewhere above the cells, pale light cut through wired windows. A few ancient, belt-driven ceiling fans circulated stale air.
Next, her guide led her onto the central catwalk—a raised walkway that connected the four cell blocks and oversaw the exercise yards. Men shooting hoops. Men tossing footballs. Men huddled in small groups. An old con hunting for half-smoked cigarettes like a starving chicken pecking at bare dirt. Laura looked up to see a guard peering down from a tower, an AK-15 slung over his shoulder. Just another afternoon recreation period for the boys.
She followed Brady down a darkened corridor to the main control room the inmates called “Grand Central”—the switching station the rebelling prisoners had seized to gain control of the facility back in ‘71. From there, they passed more sliding steel doors and grim-faced guards, then crossed over another leg of the catwalk to the Administration Building Annex.
The Tour had ended right where it had started.
“This is it.” Brady pointed to a door. “Your client will be right down.”
Laura took a deep breath as she stepped into the small room, then sighed with relief as she moved to the far side of the desk.
She’d made it. She’d survived the Tour. She’d gotten past the concrete walls, razor-wire fences, hostile guards, catcalling inmates, and putrid stench. After weeks of talking to Nash on state-monitored phone calls, she was finally going to look her client in the eyes.
5
Attica Correctional Facility
Security First
Thank Your Guard
Laura sat under the sign on the attorney’s side of the small white table. She shifted on the stool bolted to the floor and scanned the room. The walls were antiseptic white. The lights were harsh fluorescent. The floors were polished to a shine.
A grim-faced guard led Nash to the stool on the prisoner’s side of the table. The massive CO—well over six-foot-six and three-hundred pounds—pushed the con into the seat opposite Laura. “One hour,” the guard snarled. “I’ll be watching you.”
He took a position in the corner, standing ramrod straight, hands folded in front of him.
Laura smiled at her client. “Eddie Nash. At long last, we meet.”
Eddie rested his cuffed hands on the tabletop. “Live and in-person.”
An awkward moment passed before Eddie mused, “You look good in person. Better than your website photo.”
“You look good yourself, my friend.” Laura knew she was stretching it, but she had to set a positive tone. “Much better than your mugshot.”
Eddie nodded. “Mugshots are so unflattering. It’s something about the lighting in those police stations.”
Laura smiled to hide her concern. She glanced at the deep ridges that cut across his forehead, and the fine lines that spiderwebbed across his face. His washed-out brown skin was starved for sunlight and as puffy as a blowfish. Deep purple veins ran down his neck and under the lapels of his green work shirt. His black hair was streaked with gray and thinning on top, and his dull, brown eyes were engulfed by dark circles. With his light brown complexion and even features, Eddie looked like an older version of Tiger Woods after a weeklong bender. On the other hand, Laura observed, the physique under his shirt appeared to be strong and fit, the frame of a man who worked out and cared about his body.
Eddie broke the silence. “Tell me again,” he said. “How long have you—?”
“Been practicing law?” Laura interjected. “How long have I been a lawyer?”
“Interrupt me anytime,” Eddie replied, shooting her a wry smile. “Cons love being interrupted mid-sentence.”
Laura laughed. Interrupted mid-sentence. This con had a sense of humor. “To answer your question, I’ve spent four years as a staff attorney with the Council Against Wrongful Convictions. Four years working to get innocent people out of prison. A half-dozen of my clients are walking free today, dining on home-cooked meals, instead of prison swill. My whole hustle is freeing people who never should have been sent to prison in the first place.”
Eddie nodded. “I get it. You specialize.”
Laura nodded back. He was right. She’d been in the first generation of law school students at NYU who’d specialized in exonerating innocent men and women convicted of major crimes. Through the Council Against Wrongful Convictions, she’d opened doors for innocent inmates and was a trailblazer in a movement that had exonerated two-thousand inmates, a number that just scratched the surface of
those wrongfully convicted.
“Eddie, there are more than two-and-a-half million convicts serving time in the U.S. Two-and-a-half million. Five percent—a conservative estimate— were wrongfully convicted.”
Eddie shook his head in disgust. “I see it all the time. The tagalong kid whose friends fingered him for their corner-store holdup. The scapegoat who went down, so the chief of police could be a hero.”
Laura nodded. “Put all those people in one place, and you’d have the biggest prison on the planet. The biggest prison in the history of the planet. A vast pit of injustice. The tomb of the innocent.”
Eddie gazed up at the ceiling, contemplating the statement. “You’re telling me?” His chuckle carried a grim undertone. “I’m in the tomb of the innocent.”
“That’s why I’m here. We represent clients on the basis of actual innocence. Convicts who did not commit the crime that sent them to lock-up. We also expose police and prosecutorial misconduct and find new evidence that points to the actual culprit. We turn over every stone to find the truth and make sure real justice is served.”
“Okay.” Eddie nodded. “I’m your perfect client.”
“I’m your best hope for ever walking out of this prison a free man. So, let’s get down to business.”
“Let’s,” Eddie replied. “Where are we?”
Laura doubled down on the lawyer-speak. “We’ve filed a writ with the federal court, stating that the police coerced your confession, fabricated evidence, and lied on the stand. The reckless prosecution violated your rights under the Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments. We also argued that your incompetent defense attorney denied your right to adequate legal representation under the Sixth Amendment.
“The federal appeal gives us a much better shot at overturning the original conviction. We’ll give the federal judges plenty of grounds to vacate your conviction.”
Eddie opened and closed the fingers on his shackled hands and shifted on his stool like an ADD kid who’d forgotten his meds. “Great. It all sounds wonderful. Just one question: Will anybody give a good goddamn?”
6
Eddie stared at the concrete floor. “I’ve been saying all that stuff for years. My lawyers have been saying all that stuff for years. The courts have all heard it and said, ‘Who cares?’ It’s been ‘Guilty as charged,’ ‘life without parole,’ ‘‘the appeals court affirms,’ ‘our law firm is unable to take your case’… those lines have haunted my nightmares for the past decade.” Eddie winced like a man who lived with a butcher’s knife stuck in the small of his back. “The system keeps throwing it back in my face.”
It was true. Edward Thomas Nash had endured defeat after defeat for the past decade. Tried amid a circus atmosphere in the Erie District Courthouse outside Eden, State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash had been a no-doubter. Wham, bam, you’re off to prison, man. It ended with a guilty verdict, the maximum sentence, and a one-way van ride to Attica. A year later, the New York State Court of Appeals rejected his appeal, citing “a lack of reversible error.” Now, Laura’s challenge to the U.S. District Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit was his last hope. Only the federal court could reverse the original guilty finding and order a new trial.
Tears welled in Eddie’s eyes. “No telling what I’ll do if I lose again. I might just take a pine box parole.”
Laura had heard that phrase before. In slammer world, it meant “leaving prison in a plain, wooden coffin.”
“Look, Eddie. Let’s keep our hopes up. Our goal is to get the federal court to order a new trial. I’ll represent you in State of New York v. Nash II: The Sequel. I’ll expose the prosecutor’s outrageous lies, bogus evidence, and lying witnesses. I’ll shine a light on the actual monster who hanged that poor girl. Shame on the cops for not doing it ten years ago.”
A light returned to Eddie’s eyes. “Okay. Okay. I’m down with it.”
Laura decided to just roll on. “I’ll introduce the jury to the real Eddie Nash. The small-town kid who overcame the odds to become a stand-up guy. The Army vet who served his country and came home to build a life. The victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice.”
Eddie let the notion sink in before allowing a smile to cross his face. “Now, you’re talking. I’ll be exonerated. I’ll walk out of the courtroom a free man. I’ll announce it to the newspapers and TV. ‘I’m innocent.’ The whole world will know the truth. Eddie Nash is not a murderer. Eddie Nash is a good man.”
“That’s the plan.” Laura shrugged. “No guarantees.”
Eddie looked down to the polished tile floor before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Laura. I never should have doubted you. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. You’re a great lawyer. You’re an amazing person. You’ve got a good brain, compassionate heart, and fire in your belly. I’m with you all the way. We’ll fight the good fight.”
7
Laura studied the ironman standing behind Eddie. The grim-faced CO uncrossed his arms, checked his watch, and glanced in her direction.
She leaned in toward Eddie and whispered, “Look. We have to cover a lot of ground in short order. Give succinct answers to my questions. Just the facts. Be specific.”
“Shoot.”
“When did you meet Erin Lambert?”
“I met her in ninth grade. Homeroom. Mr. Lancing. Erin and me, we were cut from the same cloth. We skipped the same classes, flunked the same courses, crashed the same parties, and made friends with the same lowlifes.”
“You were two of kind. Fellow rebels.”
“Yeah. Go figure. This skinny black kid from the wrong side of town, and this pretty white girl from the right side. Her old man was one mean son of a bitch. He used to chase me away, cussing and calling me the N-word. ‘Stay away from my daughter, you black bastard.’”
“But you stayed tight with Erin?”
“All through high school. Best friends. Allies. We drifted apart when I left for the military. When I came back eight years later, we reconnected. Or, I should say, she found me.”
“How?”
“I was scarfing a burger at the Riverside Diner. Who walks in? Erin Lambert. She looked like the scum you scrape off the bottom of the shit can. Long, dirty hair. Black circles under bloodshot eyes. Turns out she was taking three-hundred milligrams of OxyContin a day and washing it down with cheap vodka from a gallon jug. Get this: She was working as a dancer at the Bottoms Up strip club. When I heard that, I wanted to puke.”
“The Bottoms Up?”
“A windowless brick dive, full of losers, loudmouths, parolees, and perverts—and most of the strippers did a lot more. But, that wasn’t the worst of it. Erin told me she’d been dating the bouncer—this two-bit tough guy named Jimmy Dean Bernadi. I looked into her eyes and made her a promise. I said, ‘Erin, I’m gonna walk you back from the goddamned cliff. I’m gonna help you get your life back.’”
“How did that go?”
“The girl was making a comeback—at first. Broke it off with Bernadi. Cut back on the dope and booze. She was building up the courage to quit the club; that was hard. The other dancers were her only friends. She called them her ‘stripper sisterhood,’ or some shit like that.”
The big guard checked his watch again. Laura picked up her pace. “When did you learn of her death?”
“I was watching the local news on TV.” Eddie lowered his voice. “I saw an old yearbook photo of her with white type spelling out, ‘Erin Lambert.’ Then, the cops lowering a limp body on a rope tied to a bridge. I cringed at the words crawling across the bottom of the screen. Shit like, ‘Stripper Hung from Footbridge’ and ‘The Hangman of Eden on the Loose.’”
Eddie lowered his head. “I can’t talk about it. Let’s just leave it there.”
“No.” Laura motioned with two hands in a keep-it-coming manner. “Every detail is crucial. Tell me about the arrest.”
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br /> Eddie shook his head in disgust. “The cop, Detective Peter Demario, showed up at my apartment, pushed open my door, slammed me against the wall, patted me down, slapped on the cuffs, dragged me to the patrol car, and drove me to the county precinct.”
Laura saw the CO shift his legs and stretch his arms. She turned back to Eddie. “What happened at the police station?”
“Demario dragged me into a small room with no windows, shoved me into a wooden chair, and cuffed my left arm to a water pipe that ran from wall to wall. Then, Demario goes, ‘Confess, you black son of a bitch. Tell us how you killed that little piece of white ass.’ Crap like that. I told him to go to hell.”
“Then?”
“He pressed his gun barrel into my forehead and said, ‘Confess. Tell me how you strung up the whore.’ He pulled a phone book from the shelf, lifted it up high, and slammed it down onto my skull. I felt the room tilt, the floor spin, and everything faded into this kind of hazy, gray mist. My brain turned to scrambled eggs.” A tear beaded in Eddie’s eye at the memory. “Then, the bastard took out a plastic bag. He placed it over my head and pulled the drawstrings. When I came to, I told him whatever he wanted to hear. I figured no one would believe it. I was wrong.”
“Your trial?” Laura asked. “What about that?”
Eddie leaned back. “Trial?” He said the word as though it tasted like shit. “I watched the cops pull fake evidence out of their asses. Tire tracks, clothing fibers, glass shards, beer bottles, piss with my DNA in it. The prosecutor produced this bullshit witness who put me at the crime scene. That bouncer from the Bottoms Up, Jimmy Dean Bernadi, lied like a fucking politician on Election Day. He testified that he’d heard me threaten to kill Erin the day before the murder. Lies. Lies. Lies. Nothing but lies.”
“What about your lawyer?”
“My public defender sat on his hands from the opening gavel to the final verdict. Next thing I knew, I had my own place here at Attica. Rent-free. Meals included. Twenty-four-seven security. Everything a man could ask for. Except freedom and dignity.”