Innocence On Trial

by Rick Bowers

  More grotesque faces peered out from shifting shadows. Shrill voices howled from unseen places.

  “God did not spare those who sinned but cast them down to chains of darkness…”

  “Those who committed evil deeds will pay the penalty of eternal destruction.”

  “Has Eddie Nash changed the garments of his imprisonment?”

  Eddie saw the cop who set him up. Demario spat in his face. “You killed her, nigger.”

  He saw the prosecutor who savaged him in court. “You want to kill again.”

  He saw the jurors who convicted him. “Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.”

  And the judge who had sentenced him. “Life without parole.”

  The TV reporters. “The Hangman of Eden is behind bars.”

  Far off in the darkness, Eddie saw a pinprick of light, coming toward him. The tiny circle expanded, until it repelled the darkness. It was not a heavenly light. It was the light of day. In the light, Eddie saw a friend. Yes. He saw Fridge. The benevolent guard. The sage of D-Block. He heard his deep, soothing voice call to him. “Eddie. It’s all okay.” Fridge began singing in sweet, low tones. “Go to sleep and goodnight.” Fridge’s copper eyes danced with delight as he whispered into Eddie’s ear, “I always tell the truth, Eddie.”

  “You do,” Eddie replied. “You are the truth.”

  “Listen to me, Eddie. I have something to tell you.”

  Eddie put his ear to the guard’s lips and heard those words of wisdom, the ones that struck at his heart, the ones that tore at his soul:

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

  57

  Charles Steel looked up at the neon sign that blinked a garish invitation to the Bottoms Up Gentleman’s Club. Under the words “Hottest Strip Club in Eden” flashed the silhouette of a nude woman, snaking around a stripper’s pole.

  Charles strolled through the pockmarked parking lot to the windowless stucco building that housed the club. He pushed through twin glass doors, embossed with matching silhouetted dancers, and stepped into the unattended lobby, then pushed aside strips of satin fabric to enter the lounge.

  Charles edged along an elevated runway, studded with footlights, making his way to a long, hardwood bar against the back wall.

  There were no customers sipping beer and ogling nude dancers. For that matter, there were no strippers swirling onstage or swinging from poles. It was four in the afternoon, and the fun was still to come. Charles spotted a short, balding man in a red, polyester shirt and khakis behind the bar, standing on his tiptoes to stock liquor on the shelves along the mirrored wall. The man pushed fifths of Jack Daniels into place, while humming an off-key rendition of “New York, New York.”

  This dealer in babes and booze—framed by a sign for “$20 Lap Dances”—looked familiar. Who did this short, balding denizen of a dive bar, this middle-aged caricature in red polyester, look like? A movie star? That was it. The barman was a dead ringer for Danny DeVito.

  Charles choked back a laugh. “Good afternoon. How are you, sir?”

  The barman eyed Charles’ reflection in the mirror. “You’re early. The show doesn’t start until five. How about a drink?”

  Charles pulled out his wallet, extracted a hundred-dollar bill, showed it to the barman, and laid it on the bar. “I’ll have a Genie. Keep the change.”

  The DeVito-lookalike served up the beer and palmed the hundred. “Benjamin Franklin.” He planted the bill in his front pocket. “My favorite president.”

  “Charles Steel.” He extended a hand across the bar. “Private investigator.”

  The bartender shook it. “Frank Valentine. I own the place.”

  “Frank. I’m looking for a former employee of yours. She used to work here. Her name was Erin Lambert.”

  “Erin Lambert?” Valentine looked up at the ceiling. “Not ringing a bell. I just can’t…”

  Charles laid down another hundred.

  The proprietor swiped it and found his memory. “Erin Lambert. Been a long time… ten years, maybe? We called her by her stage name, Breeze.”

  “Breeze?”

  “Sweet kid. What a shame.”

  “She was murdered, yes.”

  “Hanged.”

  “Tell me about her,” Charles said.

  “What about her?”

  “She had a drug problem?” Charles asked.

  “Who doesn’t?” Valentine replied.

  “She dated your bouncer.” Charles delivered the statement as a matter of fact. “Jimmy Dean Bernadi.”

  Valentine screwed up his face like he’d just tasted rancid meat. “Bernadi. I fired his ass. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “Why?”

  “Two reasons.” Valentine’s face turned as red as his polyester. “Two reasons.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jimmy got his rocks off hurting women.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t tolerate anybody roughing up my girls.”

  “He roughed up Erin?” Charles asked. “I mean, Breeze?”

  “Bad.”

  “The other reason?”

  “The bastard was lifting twenties from the till.”

  “Got it.” Charles nodded, unsurprised. “Where is Bernadi now?”

  Valentine swiped a rag over the bar, shaking his head and laughing out loud. “Jimmy Dean Bernadi is the biggest heroin dealer in the four-county region. He spends most of his time babysitting his addicts down at the abandoned looney bin.”

  “Angel’s Gate?”

  “Yep.”

  “West of town?” Charles asked. “On Old Route 5?”

  “You got it. There’s only one.”

  “Thanks.” Charles drained his Genie. “Got to run.”

  “Don’t go there, man.” Valentine threw the rag into a bin and put his hands on his hips. “Do not go to Angel’s Gate. It ain’t safe. The devil’s in that place.”

  Charles Steel smiled at Frank Valentine. “It’s cool. I’m not going there.”

  58

  Lou stumbled down the pathway that led to the skeletal ruins of the Angel’s Gate Asylum for the Permanently Insane. Seventy-five years in the past, the twenty six rooms of the four-story structure had housed men, women, and children deemed to be incurable lunatics. The years had reduced the old estate to piles of rotting wood, twisted steel, and scattered stones.

  Lou approached with unsteady steps, weaving back and forth on the rock-strewn path, humming the tune to Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man.” He kept his hands in the front pouch of his grease-stained New York Giants sweatshirt. He stomped on the tattered hems of his oversized jeans. Just one more junkie, looking for a fix in the gathering twilight.

  Lou closed in on the main building. The once-grand holding pen for the disturbed and deranged was now a gathering spot for hardcore addicts who bought their drugs and consumed them on the spot. Lou wondered why this particular place seemed to lure such desperate souls.

  Lou stopped and scanned the grounds. He gazed at the pillared house. It was as if decades of pain had seeped into it, like a ruptured gas line that never stops spewing poisonous vapor. He imagined what the scene must have been like back in the ‘40s and ‘50s. He could almost see gowned residents gazing out the tall windows or wandering, zombie-like, through the gardens. He could almost hear the buzz of the electroshock clinic, and the cries of the patients on the neurosurgeon’s table. Lou knew that troubled souls had lived and died in this place, and believed their ghosts didn’t want company.

  He stumbled up crumbled stone steps and passed through the unhinged door, emerging into the gloomy room that had once served as an impressive intake center for arriving patients. His gaze gravitated to the skeleton of a central spiral staircase, and the remains of a grand piano that had once soothed afflicted minds with sweet melodies
. Staggering through mounds of food wrappers, empty bottles, spent syringes, and used condoms, he sidestepped the sprawled bodies of a half-dozen stoners, curled up on ratty blankets, filthy rags, and bare floorboards. The smell of burnt opium and piss wafted in the dead air. A fat man in the far corner performed a sex act on an anemic woman. Undoubtedly, a trade—sex for drugs.

  Lou settled into a heap on an open patch of floor against the back wall. Feigning the demeanor of a stupefied addict, he spread out on the damp boards, close to a door that led to a connecting room. He reached up and turned the knob, opening the door just a crack.

  Peering into the shadows, Lou realized that this room had once served as the madhouse’s kitchen. A sturdy-looking wooden table and five wooden chairs stood in the center. A wood-burning stove pushed heat across the open space. In contrast to the junkies’ lair, the old kitchen had been cleared of debris and swept clean. In the far corner, a set of batteries, linked by a tangle of cables, served as a makeshift power source. A half-empty body of Jack Daniels sat on the table.

  Lou braced himself for a long night. He let his mind drift into a semi-conscious state. He waited and waited. Minutes ticked by. Hours rolled by. The stoners’ moans carried on wind pushing through rotting walls. The stench grew worse.

  Then, he heard it. Sounds emerged from the kitchen. A door opening. The mingling of men’s voices. Lou peered through the crack. Five men had entered from the back door and settled into the chairs at the table.

  Jackpot, Lou thought. Jimmy Dean Bernadi.

  Lou recognized those intense, dark eyes and brown hair from surveillance photos. The former bouncer from the Bottoms Up was now reigning over his opioid empire.

  Lou didn’t recognize the two rough-looking characters flanking Bernadi. The thugs had to be hired muscle, tasked with protecting the self-made drug lord. This was dangerous work. Threats were posed by desperate addicts, competing dealers, and cops who hadn’t gotten the word this enterprise was off-limits.

  Lou could only see the backs of the two remaining men. Once they turned to scan the room, he lit up inside. Pay dirt. The man with the rugged good looks, broad shoulders, and thick arms was Detective Peter Demario. The cop who’d beaten the confession out of Nash and framed him. The man sitting to his right—with the crisp, blue sports coat and short-trimmed, blond hair—was Mike Gorman, the cop who’d stalked Laura and attacked her on that secluded country road.

  The gang was all here.

  59

  Lou edged closer to the door to pick up their conversation.

  “This place is a dump,” Demario snapped at Bernadi. “How can you stand it? Surrounded by trash, shit, and puking junkies.”

  “It is a dump,” Bernadi replied with a what-the-fuck shrug. “A very profitable dump. It’s served us both well over the years. It continues to serve us well. The gift that keeps on giving.”

  “You have a point.” Demario flexed his shoulders. “In fact, it’s time for your mortgage payment.”

  Bernadi nodded to the henchman to his right. The paid muscle rose and stepped to the counter. He opened a drawer and retrieved an overstuffed envelope. Returning to the table, he slid it to Demario.

  Bernadi flashed a broad smile at the plainclothes officer. “Payment in full. Ten grand. All yours. Business is good. That last shipment of H put us over the top.”

  The Erie County Chief of Detectives sneered as he tore open the envelope, withdrew a wad of bills, and began counting. “All mine, Jimmy? Get real. Don’t forget, we have partners. All of those respectable people have to get their cut.”

  Bernadi nodded. “The rich get richer.”

  Gorman piped in. “Shut the fuck up, Bernadi. Show a little respect.”

  Demario returned the cash to the envelope and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “We have another matter to discuss.” His voice cut like a broken Coke bottle. “A very important matter that can’t wait. One that involves you, Jimmy.”

  “What?” Bernadi sat straight in his chair and leaned in. “What about me?”

  “This fucking trial,” Demario snarled. “Or should I say, this fucking retrial?”

  “The fucking retrial,” Gorman echoed. “We have concerns about your testimony.”

  “No worries.” Bernadi threw his hands up in an I’ve-got-this-covered gesture. “Eddie Nash is going down—again.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Demario snarled. The edge of his voice was even sharper. “We can’t afford to be smug. We can’t afford to be arrogant. This is serious shit; it has to be handled with care.”

  Bernadi leaned toward Demario and Gorman. “Eddie Nash will be convicted of hanging Erin Lambert all over again. The poor bastard will go back to Attica to serve out his life sentence. He’ll die in prison, and no one will care. That will be that. We have nothing to worry about.”

  “Stop.” Demario slammed a closed fist on the table. “Your fucking arrogance is dangerous, and your assumptions are bullshit. We have to be certain that Nash goes down and stays down. Look, my ass is on the line here. I am not going down because you—Jimmy Dean Bernadi—said the wrong thing in court.”

  Gorman nodded in yes-man fashion.

  Bernadi bowed his head. “Going down? Because of me?”

  “Do you know how many brainless suckers I’ve packaged up and shipped off to prison? Dozens. Pathetic patsies, proclaiming their innocence all the way to the slammer. Now, what happens if the guilty verdict in the Nash case is reversed? I’ll tell you what. All those convictions come into question. All those losers get new trials. We can’t let the first domino fall. We’ve got to end it here, once and for all.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Bernadi held two hands up in surrender. “We’ll make sure Nash goes down and stays down.”

  Demario peered through squinted eyes. “Let me be clear. We will dictate every word of your testimony in advance. You will memorize the script and recite it on the stand—verbatim. Is that clear? Word-for-fucking-word. Syllable-for-fucking-syllable. Like a goddamned parrot. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Bernadi nodded quickly. He looked like a bobblehead doll. “Word-for-word. Verbatim.”

  “You will take the jury back to the hours before the murder. You will testify that Nash came to the Bottoms Up looking for the bitch. Except she’d gone out to the bridge to get high. Nash lost it. He threatened to kill her. To make her suffer. Then, he took off after her.”

  “Got it.”

  “There’s more.” Demario stood, leaning forward. “The people representing Nash present a danger. The bitch lawyer is smart as hell. The nigger PI is fucking relentless. This wrongful convictions outfit wants to do more than just free its client—it wants to splash our shit across the front page of The New York Times. You are not—repeat, not—under any circumstance to speak to those people before the trial. Avoid all contact. Run in the other direction. Keep your mouth shut. If they approach you, refer them to the written deposition you’ve already provided to the court. Understood?”

  “Yes. The written deposition. The one that you wrote for me.”

  “Good. Now, don’t blow it.”

  Bernadi exhaled. “I won’t.”

  “Just one more item.” Demario’s smile bordered on the demonic. “In the event that Nash walks, we will be forced to reopen the Erin Lambert murder investigation. We will be forced to find the man who really murdered that poor confused girl. Now, let me see. Who could that be? Who else could have strung up that twisted little stripper? Who else had the motive? Who else had the opportunity? Oh. Wait a minute. You worked with her in that sleazy strip club. You dated her. You fucked her. You know, Jimmy, we can break your pathetic alibi. We can put you at the murder scene. Who knows? We might even recover a piece of lost evidence.”

  Lou closed his eyes and thought, We have to find that towel.

  60

  Eddie Nash tossed and turned in his bunk. He was unable t
o sleep. His nightmares kept waking him up. Plus, there was too much noise. The sound of tin cups scraping against iron bars burrowed into his brain, like a tick digging into soft flesh. The D-Block inmates were raising hell in protest of the latest water shortage. The cacophony of voices was as relentless as the migraine circling in Eddie’s head.

  The cons chanted, “Water. Water. Water.”

  An electronic buzz filled the cell. The grinding sound of metal on metal grated in his mind. Eddie jumped to his feet as his door opened. He saw two blue-shirted guards, flanking a prisoner. In tandem, the guards flung the man into the cell.

  The guard on the right laughed. “Nash, meet Evan Collier.”

  The guard on the left chimed in. “Your new cellmate.”

  As the door slammed closed, one of the guards hollered, “You two lovebirds have a lovely evening!”

  Eddie had been expecting this. He’d feared that his single-occupancy status would be coming to an end. Earlier in the week, workmen had come into his cell to bolt a new bunk above his. The men told him that the maximum security penal farm in Plainfield was closing, and its four hundred inmates were being distributed to any facilities with even a little space. “Attica’s taking two-hundred of ‘em,” one of the workmen said. “Get ready for company.”

  The thought of sharing his cell made Eddie cringe. He’d had many cellmates through the years, and he’d hated every one; it never worked out. Between the punks, perverts, black separatists, and white supremacists, the circumstances for cultivating friendships had been less than ideal.

  Now, there was this: Evan Collier. Eddie sized him up. The man was built like an ox on steroids. His jaw was stubbled, his head was shaved, and his nose was bent in at least three places, so he was a fighter. Collier’s face was defined by wild, bulging eyes, a wide, crooked smile, and spiderweb tats that ran down his neck. Dry, white spittle encircled his crusty lips.

  Pig.

  Collier had that unmistakable look of a lifer. It was obvious he’d been hardened by years behind bars. He looked like the kind of con who had nothing to lose and lived liked nothing mattered. Undoubtedly, he loved breaking the rules and hurting people.