False Convictions

6

HE’D DO WELL on the stand,” Casey said. “The hatred, though, that’s tough to hide. But we could work on that.”

The rain had ended and the clouds began to show patches of blue sky beyond the glistening concrete walls. As they approached the corner of the block, Casey studied the guard tower, a glass and metal turret where the shadows of men with rifles stood watching whatever went on inside the walls. Behind them on the street, Ralph crept along in the Lexus, its tires popping over stones and chips of concrete from the broken sidewalk.

“It looked to me like that doesn’t matter to you,” Graham said.

“It doesn’t,” she said. “Who wouldn’t be bitter?”

“I’m glad he didn’t turn you off,” Graham said, opening the door to a storefront deli.

“It’s like physics with me,” Casey said.

“Meaning?”

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” she said. “When something pushes me away, I tend to push back.”

Graham smiled, offering her a chair at the corner table next to the window. “I had you figured that way.”

“I’ll tell you what Ralph can do,” Casey said, nodding at the car. “Have him go back twenty years and find out how many people owned white BMWs in this town and who they were. I can’t imagine there were a lot,” Casey said, looking around at the squalid buildings and decrepit narrow homes beside the prison. “How about having him track down this Katania, the girlfriend. That might help us, too.”

Graham nodded and walked out to the car before giving Casey a thumbs-up and returning to their table. A waitress gave them menus along with a basket of chips and salsa, and they were soon joined by a lanky young man in a gray suit with skin as pale as skim milk and blotches that matched his raspberry tie. Graham introduced him as Marty Barrone, patting the young man on the shoulder.

“Marty’s firm has done some tax work of sorts for me,” Graham said. “Sometimes you need to get another set of eyes on things from afar.”

“I’ve seen you on Nancy Grace,” Barrone said. His red-rimmed eyes were weepy and only the hint of a mustache shaded his upper lip. His dark hair hung limp across a wide brow and he stuck a pinkie into his ear, working it around for a moment before dropping his hand to his side.

“He won’t ask,” Graham said, grinning, “but before this is over you’ll have to give him an autograph.”

Barrone’s pale blue eyes went to the floor, and his cheeks blazed as he shook Casey’s hand then took the seat across from her.

“Our motion for a new trial and your pro hac vice admission with Judge Kollar is set for this afternoon,” Barrone said, beaming as if he’d performed a miracle. Casey would need to be admitted pro hac vice into the state of New York to try the case, if there was one. First they’d need to succeed in their motion for a new trial based on undiscovered DNA evidence.

“You’re a lawyer?” Casey asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

Barrone nodded and dug into his ear again with that same pinkie. “And a CPA.”

“How long have you been practicing?” Casey asked.

Barrone’s face went from pink to red. “I graduated in May.”

Casey crimped her lips and gave Graham a look.

“Things around here usually move like molasses on ice,” Graham said, dipping a chip in some salsa and waving it at Barrone. “But Marty’s a fourth-generation lawyer in this town and his uncle ran Judge Kollar’s first campaign. It’s not a silver bullet, but he’ll be able to push things along for us. In a small town like this everyone likes to help each other, as long as you’re from here.”

“Why not get the uncle, then?” Casey asked. “Who wrote the motions?”

“I had some of the staff lawyers from the Project put all that together,” Graham said. “They can do these in their sleep, but Marty filed them.”

“Okay,” Casey said slowly to Marty, “how much do you know about procedure?”

“I got a B in Civil Procedure,” Marty said, raising his head up.

“Okay. This is criminal, though.”

Marty dropped his head.

“We’ll work through it,” Casey said to him before turning her sights on Graham. “You’ve got everything all laid out: Local counsel with connections. An investigator who doubles as a bodyguard.”

“It’s my curse,” Graham said, crunching a chip. “I’m thinking ten, twelve moves ahead. I can’t help it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who uses a sports analogy for everything. I live in Dallas. Do you know how many judges think they’re Tom Landry?”

“I think of you as a player, too.” Graham said.

“So, what’s our next move?” Casey asked.

Graham shrugged and smiled through a mouthful of food. “You tell me.”

“After I get admitted by the court to be Hubbard’s lawyer,” Casey said, “how about the police chief?”

“Set for three-thirty,” Marty said, beaming again.

Casey regarded him, then asked, “How about the DA? We’ll need to let him know our theory of the killer driving a white BMW-and a racially motivated case-as a courtesy. Not his case, I presume?”

“No,” Graham said. “He’s been around about twenty years, but he missed this one. Who was the DA back then, Marty? Any idea?”

“I was pretty young,” Marty said.

“Were you born then?” Casey asked, flashing Graham another look.

“I think it was Judge Rivers,” Marty said. “She started out as the DA, I know.”

“Rivers?” Graham said, raising his eyebrows, waiting for more.

“She’s an appellate judge now for the Fourth District out of Rochester,” Marty said. “I think she still keeps her place on the lake, though.”

“If she’s an appellate judge,” Graham said, “she should be long past getting excited about us overturning a conviction from twenty years ago, don’t you think, Casey?”

“Why would it matter what she thinks?” Casey asked.

Graham shrugged, glanced at Marty, and said, “Just the small-town angle is all. It’s better that we’re not stepping directly on the DA’s toes. I’m new to this, but I can’t imagine it would go over that well.”

“But she’s not the DA anymore,” Casey said.

Graham only shrugged.

After lunch, Casey took Graham aside before he could escape to the airport in the Town Car that had arrived. She told Marty she’d be with him in a moment and watched him climb into the back of the waiting car.

“You give me a kid?” she said. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s the connections,” Graham said. “I told you.”

“You said he’s a fourth-generation lawyer. What happened to the uncle or the grandfather?” Casey asked. “Someone who knows a courtroom and all the cronies. This kid hasn’t even passed the bar. You see the way he looks at me?”

“He’s harmless.”

“I know that. He’s also useless,” Casey said. “I thought this was serious work. Why does he keep digging in his ear?”

“It is serious,” Graham said, slipping into the Town Car and grinning out at her. “And he’s got a wax buildup. Oh, also, I forgot to mention this, but I’ve set up a little interview for you at the hotel tonight with American Sunday. They’re doing a profile on me, and the producer was interested in my new venture with the Project. Seven o’clock. You don’t mind?”

“I’m used to the media,” Casey said.

“Thanks,” Graham said. “Listen, you’ve got everything you need with Marty Barrone. I want this to be a success as much as you. Trust me.”

“I trusted you enough to fly halfway across the country,” Casey said. “Now I’m starting to wonder.”

“Smile,” Robert Graham said. “Freeing an innocent man is a hell of a rush.”