Innocence On Trial

by Rick Bowers

  “The famous Doc Gleason.” Eddie let his mouth drag out a smile. “The MD of A-Block.”

  Doc coughed into a curled hand and said, “In the flesh.”

  “What the hell you doin’ dining with the big dawgs of D-Block, Doc?”

  “Got my blood pressure checked today. Made me late for A-Block swill call.”

  “How was it? Your BP?”

  “Two-hundred over one-hundred.”

  “Stroke territory. You get meds?”

  “Maybe next week.”

  “Oh.”

  Eddie had shot the shit with the old man in the past whenever their paths crossed. Eddie liked listening to his stories but hated how the encounters left him thinking about dying in prison. He’d heard the story of Doc’s murder rap on the grapevine and never forgot it. How Doc had overdosed his wife with painkillers, signed the death certificate, and shipped her body off for cremation. How the cops had caught up with him at the airport with a ticket to Panama, and a suitcase full of cash.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Eddie looked up to see a C.O. slam his baton against a table of Latino inmates. Their Spanglish chatter went silent.

  Eddie turned back to the old man. “How old are you now, Doc?”

  “Eighty-three, and the oldest con in stir.” Doc ran a hand through a balding, mottled cap of hair. He ignored the trails of white drool seeping from the sides of his mouth. “The last fifty-two right here in this death factory.”

  “Fifty-two years.” Eddie shook his head and forced back a wince as he pressed a plastic fork into the turkey. “Parole?”

  “Yep. Up next month. Compassionate release.”

  “What’s your pitch?”

  “Let myself get sick enough for ‘em to feel sorry for me, but not sick enough to die before they let me out.”

  “Maybe that’ll be the charm. No sense keeping you locked up at the taxpayers’ expense.”

  Doc dipped his spoon into his remaining gruel. “My daughter’s gonna speak up for me.”

  “Good luck, Doc. You deserve your freedom. Nobody should have to die in this place.”

  “Amen.”

  Eddie closed his eyes and plunged a chunk of white-coated potato into his mouth, allowing that grim thought to hang in the air.

  “YOU’RE A FUCKING DEAD MAN.”

  Eddie swung his head toward the source of the threat. It came from a con at the far end of the table. The white con had blonde dreadlocks—a strange sight in itself—and tattoo sleeves on both arms. Skulls. Dragons. Spiderwebs. The man was leaning over the table and glaring at the inmate opposite him.

  “You’re dead, you fucking diaper-snipper.”

  Eddie froze in his seat. “Don’t move, Doc.”

  Three guards pounced on the troublemaker in seconds, battering him with batons, then dragging him out of the mess.

  Once the hoots and hollers subsided, Eddie muttered, “Fucking drama queen.”

  “Could have gotten us all gassed,” Doc added. “At least we’re getting dinner and a show.”

  Unsure where their talk had left off, Eddie decided to change the subject. “You know, we’ve never talked about the ‘71 riot. I got a lawyer now; she’s all into that; made me think of you.”

  “It wasn’t a riot.” Doc raised his hunched back and leaned in closer. “It was a revolution.”

  “Revolution?”

  Doc put his spoon onto his plate and lowered his tone to an audible whisper. “The Black Panthers and Black Muslims ran the show. Seized the yard. Took the hostages. Set the rules. As the hours ticked off, though, a strange thing happened: The usual prison factions broke down. The whites joined in. The Puerto Ricans followed. Black. Brown. White. Clenched-fist salutes and cries of ‘Attica! Attica!’ We all believed the uprising would spread to prisons all over the country. The idea was to overturn the whole miserable system.”

  “Didn’t work. The system survived.”

  “Right. Four days of negotiations ended with five-hundred state cops blasting their way back into control. The troopers fired wildly. Smashed heads with gun butts. Stuck gun barrels in the mouths of downed prisoners. Yelled, ‘White power!’ while gunning down black prisoners. When the smoke cleared, the yard was lined with dead inmates and hostages.”

  “You mean the troopers did all the killing?”

  “The cons had no guns. The troopers had all the firepower. Even guards were mowed down by so-called ‘friendly fire.’”

  “What did you do when it was going down?”

  “I was an MD. I had value. After the inmates took Time Square and D-Block, I was drafted to tend to the injured hostages and prisoners. Finally, a medical corps from the outside was let in to tend to the wounded. I stood down. I found myself an abandoned cell out of harm’s way.”

  “You hunkered down and survived the siege.”

  “Except, it didn’t end there. The worst part was the days and weeks after the siege. Retribution ran wild. The guards beat and tortured the surviving ringleaders and sympathizers. I put my head down and avoided the beat-down crews. Maybe the hacks gave me a pass because I was white.”

  “Fucked-up,” Eddie muttered. “One-hundred-percent fucked-up.”

  Doc nodded. “Yeah. Behind us now. So, what’s up with you? What do you got going on?”

  Splat!

  Eddie heard the mound of Turkey a la King land next to his plate and felt drabs of white mush splatter his shirt. He looked back in the direction of the projectile, but the culprit must have put his head down. Eddie wiped his shirt and returned to his conversation.

  “What do I have going on? My girl lawyer and her hotshot PI are getting me a new trial. I’m looking forward to proving my innocence and walking out of here a free man.”

  Doc nodded. “A free man. Just like Corkscrew.”

  “I ain’t Corkscrew.” Eddie’s smile snapped straight, his posture stiffening. “Fuck Corkscrew.”

  Corkscrew was the handle of a gangbanger named Manuel Sandoval. An enforcer for the Latin Kings, Sandoval earned his nickname by the way he disemboweled his victims. He’d been convicted of double murder for executing two bangers who’d crossed the Kings, and he had been sentenced to life-plus-sixty.

  “‘Member how them innocence lawyers got him a new trial?” Doc asked. “Claimed his rights were violated.”

  “I remember. Everybody does.”

  “‘Member how Corkscrew walked outta here? Strutting like a goddamned peacock on parade.”

  Eddie glared in silence.

  Doc laughed. He swallowed a spoonful of swill. “Innocence. Exoneration. What a load of shit.”

  34

  “Lullaby and goodnight…”

  The CO’s soothing baritone echoed through the cavernous cell block, soothing the murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and gangsters. The fall of his steel-toed boots on the iron mesh catwalk formed a rhythmic backbeat to the song. As he approached Eddie’s cell, the short, compact CO stopped singing and called out in a loud whisper, “Brother Nash.”

  Eddie stepped into the circle of light cast by the guard’s flashlight, gripping his cell door bars. “Hey, Fridge.”

  The nickname underscored the guard’s ice-box physique, but it was his personality that made him stand out to the cons. One of the few African-American COs at Attica, his storytelling, advice, and willingness to lend an ear had opened up even the most withdrawn men in D-Block. The cons never referred to him by the names they’d applied to the other guards. Fridge was never a bull, a hack, or a screw. Fridge was just Fridge.

  Fridge stopped at Eddie’s cell during lights-out five nights a week. The two jawed about the food in the mess, the fights in the yard, and the bad jackets in keep-lock—an order confining misbehaving inmates to their cells for twenty-four hours a day.

  “Brother Nash,” Fridge repeated. “What’s
the good word?”

  “Freedom,” Eddie replied. “Sweet freedom.”

  “Freedom from?” Fridge asked. “Freedom from what?”

  “The bars and razor wire,” Eddie shot back. “The shot callers and shower stalkers.”

  “Freedom to… what?”

  “Eat steak, drink beer, drive fast, and make long, slow love to a beautiful woman.”

  “Got it.” Fridge nodded. “No bars, razor wire, or surprises in the shower. Just sirloin, suds, and Halle Berry.”

  “You got it. The good life.”

  “How are you going to come about this freedom?” Fridge asked, his black skin glistening.

  “My lawyer is gonna get it for me,” Eddie whispered. “She’s ready to tell the appeals court how my rights got violated. She’s expecting the court to rule by the fall.”

  “Got it; new trial.”

  “I’ll be proven innocent. Then, I’ll be home free.”

  Fridge held up a flat palm, arm clad in his standard blue shirt, and whispered, “Shush.” The sound of laughter rolled from down the catwalk. Signaling to Eddie to hold his thoughts, Fridge looked over his shoulder and hollered, “Lights-out, gentleman! Don’t make me come back there!” Pausing a moment to make sure the laughter had been silenced, Fridge turned to Eddie again, resettled his black DOCSS cap, and asked, “What’s so great about this girl lawyer of yours? How’s she gonna pull off this miracle?”

  “She’s from the Innocence Project. She’s one of those special lawyers who get cons out from under all this hurt, who exonerate inmates who got a bad deal in the courts.”

  Fridge stepped back from the cell, his smile melting into a sneer. “Corkscrew all over again.”

  Not that again, Eddie thought. “No. No. No,” Eddie pleaded. “It ain’t like Corkscrew.”

  Fridge moved closer to the bars, standing face-to-face with him. “Corkscrew. Manuel Sandoval. Vengeance for the bloodiest crew in the 718. Goes down for double murder and becomes the most feared shot caller in Attica. Then, the Innocence Project comes in and starts whining, ‘His rights were violated.’ Corkscrew gets a new trial.”

  “That wasn’t my lawyer,” Eddie pleaded. “My lawyer ain’t like that.”

  “This time, Corkscrew plays it smart. He gets his home dawgs on the outside to threaten a couple of weak spines on the jury. In the end, the weak spines hang the jury—out of fear for their lives and their families. Corkscrew walks.”

  “I’m different,” Eddie insisted. “I am innocent.”

  Fridge stepped back from the bars, pausing before adding a final thought. “Look, Brother Nash. I’ve been a guard here for seven years. I’ve walked every catwalk in this place. I’ve met cons of every kind: Serial killers, repeat rapists, kidnappers, gang leaders, you name it. How many times have I heard those lines? ‘I’m innocent; I was framed; I was set up. I don’t belong here.’ On and on, over and over.”

  “I’m sure you heard it plenty.”

  “I can’t count the times. But, there’s one thing I know with absolute certainty from my years working in this pen.”

  “Just one?”

  “Yep. There’s one fact that I know without a doubt.” Fridge held up one stubby finger. “One, and only one.”

  “What’s that?” Eddie asked.

  “The most important fucking thing of all.”

  “Yeah, okay. What?”

  “Every con to ever enter this prison was guilty of something.”

  35

  The massive granite steps. The white marble columns. The dazzling gold dome. The chiseled busts of ancient lawgivers: Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, and Moses. Laura felt just the right degree of intimidation as she entered the Thurgood Marshall United States Courthouse at 40 Foley Square in Lower Manhattan. Her briefcase swung like a pendulum as she marched on the marble floors of the main hallway under the glimmering chandeliers that hung from the ceiling thirty feet above. The courthouse served as home to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit, which reviewed cases from New York State and Connecticut.

  Laura stepped into the elevator and got out on the seventh floor. She strode to Hearing Room #746—set aside for New York v. Nash.

  Laura entered and marched down the aisle, taking a seat at a mahogany desk with a sign bearing her name and affiliation. She turned to a matching desk to her right, catching sight of a middle-aged man unpacking a briefcase.

  Square-jawed and blue-suited, State’s Attorney Robert McCall did not acknowledge her nod. His stare was intense.

  In the awkward, pre-hearing silence, the three judges—all clad in black robes with gold sashes—took their places at the raised mahogany bench. Each justice opened a folder and began scanning a document known as a “bench memo.”

  The moment of truth was here. Oral arguments were about to commence. The fate of Edward Thomas Nash hung in the balance, even though Eddie was hundreds of miles away, locked in a cell, unaware that his fate was being debated at this moment in one of the highest courts in the land. Only lawyers attend oral arguments, period.

  Laura ran through the facts, observations, insights, and anomalies she’d laid out in her written brief. The coerced confession. The paid-for testimony. The prosecutor’s rants. She also reviewed her research on the three judges: Their judicial philosophies, previous rulings, and pet peeves.

  I’ve got this. Laura felt no sign of her old anxiety. Maybe she’d conquered the beast.

  In fact, she felt confident, optimistic. She had a strong case to present. At the same time, she had no illusions. She was not going to persuade these sophisticated jurists that her client was an innocent man who should be set free. She didn’t have to. She just had to show that the trial court had reached its verdict—whether right or wrong—by an erroneous route.

  At 2:06 PM, an attractive female judge of Japanese descent spoke from the elevated bar. Laura and McCall rose to their feet.

  “Counsel. Let me start by commending each of you. Your written briefs are both thorough and illuminating. The legal issues are clearly delineated. I’m going to dispense with any repetitive opening statements and go straight to Q&A. Justices, questions, please.”

  Laura hid a flash of relief. Doing away with opening statements meant the justices wanted to cut to the chase. Justice Sandra Chen, the presiding judge, was an Obama appointee with a liberal record on police and prosecutor misconduct.

  A male judge with close-cropped, gray hair and a poker face looked out over his designer tortoiseshell glasses. “Ms. Tobias.” Justice Edward Manning was a George W. Bush appointee who tended to give prosecutors and police wide latitude. “Much of your argument hinges on alleged misconduct by the police and prosecutor,” he stated. “Would you agree?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Now, you’re aware that we hear these arguments quite often. In fact, allegations of police and prosecutorial misconduct are included in ninety-percent of all major felony appeals.”

  “I’m sure of it, sir.”

  “And I’m sure you’d agree that our police and prosecutors face serious challenges to enforcing the law.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And our state and local prosecutors face serious challenges to proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Protecting society is not for the faint of heart.”

  “True, Your Honor.”

  “Can you cite one example of egregious misconduct that may have slanted the outcome of this trial against your client?”

  “The false characterizations made by the County Prosecutor to the jurors,” Laura fired back. She pointed to the grotesque—and baseless—claim that he’d urinated on the dead, suspended body. “The facts of this case did not support these outrageous accusations, Your Honor. The statements were outlandish, prejudicial, and wrong, and should have been stricken by the trial judge.”

  Judge Manning looked to
the state’s attorney. “What about it, Mr. McCall?”

  “Your Honor, the state views my colleague’s allegations against the police and prosecutors as overblown and irrelevant. The premeditated hanging of this poor young woman was a hideous crime, committed by a vicious and violent man. The prosecution had to describe the horror of the act, and the depravity of the actor. I urge you not to give this monster a second chance to kill.”

  “That presumes the guilt of my client, Your Honors. The state failed to meet the burden of reasonable doubt.”

  Laura beamed inside. McCall had just done her a big favor.

  36

  McCall had refused to engage with the factual and legal points that Laura had laid out in her statement. He had written her arguments off as unworthy of a response and—by extension—had advised the appeals court to overlook the flaws in the original trial. By refusing to recognize the relative strengths and weaknesses of her claims, the state’s attorney had undercut the court’s ability to weigh the defense claims against the prosecution’s counterclaims. McCall was expecting the court to wish away the facts.

  Judge Manning narrowed his gaze and cleared his throat. “Mr. McCall, what about this stun belt? Why force the defendant to wear it?”

  “It was placed under his clothing, Your Honor. It was out of sight of the jury.”

  “Mr. State’s Attorney,” Manning said, annoyed, “that wasn’t my question.” He glared at McCall. “Again, why force the defendant to wear it?”

  “The trial judge required it as a precaution against disruptions.” McCall seemed uncertain on this point. “He’d determined that the accused could disrupt the proceedings with violent outbursts.”

  “Did Mr. Nash exhibit a previous proclivity to disruptive behavior?”

  “Um.” McCall looked down at an open binder on the desk. “I am not—”

  “Ms. Tobias?” the appellate judge barked. “You must know.”

  “No, Your Honor, Mr. Nash had no prior criminal history and exhibited no violent reactions while in police custody. At the same time, Mr. Nash’s preoccupation with being shocked made it hard for him to concentrate, undercutting his ability to take part in his own defense. Furthermore, the discussion of the belt in open court biased the jury against my client. Why was a man who was presumed to be innocent wrapped up in a dangerous electronic device that might electrocute him at any moment?”