False Convictions

by Tim Green

  The woman looked up and blinked at them several times before she said, “Yes. I have it. You can see right here.”

  “We can’t tell you how much we appreciate all your work,” Casey said, earning a nod from the director.

  The lab woman smiled and turned back to her screen. Using a mouse, she manipulated two white brackets around a yellow rectangle covered with what looked like the inky rungs of four ladders. The patterns of the rungs and their thickness didn’t seem to match and Casey felt her heart in her throat.

  “You see here and here?” The woman said, moving the brackets from one ladder to another. “This is just one example. We use thirteen different loci to differentiate or identify individuals.”

  “And they don’t match?” Casey said.

  The woman shook her head and moved the brackets up and down the rows. “No. Your guy in prison isn’t the one you want. Now, here. Take a look at this. This is the sample we got this morning.”

  The woman brought up a new screen with an all new set of ladders.

  “They don’t match, either,” Casey said.

  The woman looked up at her and blinked. “Well, the ladders don’t match.”

  “What?” Graham said, frowning, and his face drained of color.

  “But that’s because the original slide sample you sent us-the old one-was so damaged,” the woman said, nodding in agreement with herself. “That happens, usually with old samples, or if it wasn’t stored right. Heat or other climatic conditions can degrade the cells and the DNA, too. The ladders from that sample are incomplete. That’s why I started to say that law enforcement looks for a match of thirteen standardized loci. Here we can only match nine of those.”

  “So they do match?” Graham said, his voice harsh and nasal.

  “Nine of the thirteen loci do,” the woman said.

  “Does that prove it?” Casey asked. “Is nine enough for us to take to a judge? Is this the same DNA?”

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” the woman said, nodding vigorously. “These samples? They don’t match exactly, but they definitely came from the same person. The odds of this being someone else are about one in five million. No, you got your guy.”

  34

  CHRIST, I FEEL LIKE an idiot,” Casey said as they climbed into the backseat of the Lexus.

  “Why?” Graham asked.

  “Did you see those people’s faces? Did you hear what she said? National security? They sure as hell didn’t know they were looking at a twenty-year-old semen sample for the Freedom Project, I can promise you that. They acted like we’re trying to stop another nine-eleven.”

  Graham waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Relax. No one got hurt. We’re working the system. We just got our case moved to the top of the pile. It’s nothing they wouldn’t have done anyway, just sooner.”

  Casey rode in silence, digesting his words.

  “So,” Graham said, “you get with the judge to press him about setting Dwayne free, and I’ll get the media whipped up, pour a little gas on the flames that are already beginning to spring up around Patricia Rivers.”

  Casey didn’t respond.

  “Come on, will you?” Graham said, touching her shoulder. “This is important. Okay, I grant you, it’s not another nine-eleven. Maybe I shouldn’t have played the terror card to get them to make this such a priority, but no one got hurt and we are righting a pretty big wrong here.”

  Casey exhaled through her nose and said, “And that son-of-abitch Rivers has dodged this thing too long.”

  “Good,” Graham said with a single nod. “Why don’t you get with Marty and give Judge Kollar a chance to pile on? If he’s smart, he can be a part of this.”

  “What kind of gas?” Casey asked.

  “We’ve got an innocent man in jail for twenty years,” Graham said, ticking off his fingers, “a corrupt district attorney whose son is the real killer and is hiding out on a desert island, oh, and did I mention that that same DA is about to become one of the most powerful judges in the entire country? This thing is a bonanza. Ralph told me the little blurb this weekend in the Auburn Citizen already has tongues wagging. Right, Ralph?”

  The folds of skin in Ralph’s neck bulged as he looked up at his boss in the rearview mirror and grunted his agreement.

  “That’s right,” Graham said, “American Sunday is interested-blood in the water-and now it’s time to start the feeding frenzy.”

  Casey shivered.

  “What?” Graham asked.

  “I was thinking of our dive and that feeding frenzy,” she said. “What kind of a person does something like that?”

  “Same kind that rapes and murders his prom queen girlfriend,” Graham said, his face and voice somber.

  “I honestly didn’t know if Rivers’s DNA was going to match,” Casey said. “I hate to say it, but part of me wouldn’t have been surprised if it was Dwayne Hubbard who killed her. I hate to say it, but there’s something… I don’t know, weird about him. I know he’s our client and I shouldn’t say that, but either way, what you just said might be a problem for us.”

  “What’d I say?” Graham said.

  “The part about Cassandra being Rivers’s girlfriend,” Casey said, smiling weakly at him. “It’s the defense lawyer in me, I can’t help it. I’m thinking if I’m Rivers’s attorney, I can use that.”

  “I don’t follow,” Graham said, removing his hand from her shoulder and cracking open one of the water bottles Ralph kept the cup holders supplied with.

  “If I’m his attorney,” she said. “I’m going to concede that it’s Rivers’s semen. So what? My client was the boyfriend. He had consensual sex, but he never killed her.”

  Graham twisted up his face. “She was raped and murdered. The police report talks about torn tissue and bruising consistent with rape. He stabbed her ten times.”

  Casey stared at him. “The killer could have used a condom.”

  Graham scoffed. “That’s bullshit. Rapists don’t use condoms.”

  “They could,” she said. “A smart one. Dwayne Hubbard isn’t dumb. He was an A student, despite a pretty desperate home life.”

  Graham chuckled before quietly saying, “You’re not Rivers’s attorney, you’re Dwayne’s attorney. You work for the Project.”

  “I know,” Casey said just as softly and patting his hand, “but it helps to know what cards the other players have, right? It might not be a straight flush, but it’s a pair of sixes, anyway.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” Graham asked.

  “We need the media to convict this guy for us,” Casey said. “And that makes your gas on the flames or your blood in the water all the more important. We need them so whipped up about Patricia Rivers bending the system for her son that Kollar won’t dare to buy into some lame condom theory.”

  “You’ll be national headlines,” Graham said.

  “Me?” Casey said. “I thought you were the one taking care of the media.”

  “I’m the one lining it up behind the scenes,” Graham said. “You’re the one on camera. I told you from the start that was a big reason for me recruiting you. That’s why you get the big bucks.”

  “Last I checked, I was doing this for free,” Casey said.

  “One million dollars a year for two cases?” Graham said. “That’s not free.”

  “The money is for the clinic.”

  “Hey, it’s not up to me what you do with the money,” he said. “I just pay the bills.”

  “Okay,” Casey said, nodding. “I can do that.”

  “And you like it, too,” Graham said, offering half a grin.

  “Well, I don’t mind,” Casey said. “Let’s just say that.”

  When her cell phone rang, Casey checked the caller ID and recognized the number.

  “Speaking of the media,” she said in a mutter.

  “Who is it?” Graham asked.

  Casey tried to sound casual. “Jake Carlson.”

  35

  WHERE THE HELL have you
been?” Jake asked, adjusting his tie in the mirror and lightly touching the wound on the back of his swollen head, thinking it was time for some more pills but wanting to keep his edge for the interview. Dora already had the crew out at Myron Kissle’s old farmhouse, setting up the shot.

  “You’re not with Graham, are you?” Jake said.

  Casey hesitated, then said, “Robert and I are on our way back to Auburn right now. We’ve got some interesting news. Here, I’ll put him on.”

  “Wait-” Jake said, wanting to tell her Graham was no good, even though he’d dropped the scent for the story of the corrupt judge, a story too good to pass up. His conviction wavered. If Graham was that bad, why was it that he, Jake Carlson, Pulitzer Prize winner, was onto Patricia Rivers and her son like a bum on a bologna sandwich?

  Jake heard the rustle of the phone being handed over.

  “Jake Carlson,” Graham said, his voice slick. “Have I got a deal for you, my friend.”

  “A low-mileage minivan?”

  “A story to put a little more hardware on your wall.”

  “The box in the attic’s pretty much full.”

  “So, play hardball with me.”

  “I’m not playing anything,” Jake said. “I read your leak in the paper already. If you’ve got a story you’d like to share, please, let me know. I’m a journalist. Otherwise, I’m onto something pretty big myself.”

  “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Graham said.

  “I’m comfortable with mine,” Jake said. “No need to whip it out.”

  “You called me,” Graham said.

  “Actually, I called Casey.”

  “Okay, you called us, but I’ll tell you anyway,” Graham said. “We got a DNA match.”

  “Hubbard killed her?”

  “Not with Hubbard.”

  “Wait, this whole thing was about testing the DNA from the hospital’s swabs against Hubbard,” Jake said. “What did I miss?”

  “A whole chapter,” Graham said. “That white BMW? It belonged to Nelson Rivers.”

  “I read all that in the Sunday paper,” Jake said.

  “We found him.”

  “Rivers?”

  “He’s a dive captain down in Turks and Caicos,” Graham said. “Looks like shit, too. Guilty conscience will do that. So we got his DNA and tested it against those swabs. Hubbard came up negative, but with Rivers? We hit the jackpot, and I’m just trying to decide who gets the prize here.”

  “And you’d love to give it to me,” Jake said.

  “Sure.”

  “But you’ve got to go with the biggest outlet who’ll commit to an in-depth story before you let the news outlets feed on it,” Jake said. “In the interest of the Freedom Project, which is what all this is really about.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. Right,” Jake said with a sigh of annoyance, his head beginning to pound. “So what’s the batting order? I’ll guess. Sixty Minutes, Twenty/Twenty, Primetime. Then you go to Larry King, and if you can’t get that, you’ll settle for O’Reilly Factor, but those two only if the morning shows don’t bite. American Sunday? Let’s see, we probably don’t quite make your top ten. Top twenty? Maybe, because you respect my work.”

  Graham was silent.

  “So I’ll go to my executive producer and get her to commit and you can use us to shop this thing,” Jake said. “Only I won’t, because I’ve got my own source that no one’s going to want to do a big story without. I’ve got someone so central to this whole thing that whatever anyone else does will look silly when they hear about my get, and people in TV don’t like to look silly, so let me talk to Casey so I can see if she’ll have dinner with me tonight.”

  Jake could hear Graham breathing, could almost hear him thinking, before the billionaire said, “How about a win-win?”

  “I’ve got my win lined up in about forty-five minutes,” Jake said, “why do I need you to win, too?”

  “There are no guarantees for you or me,” Graham said. “If we work together, we can lock this thing down. I have contacts at your network.”

  “No kidding,” Jake said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t usually get orders from the ninth floor to do stories on benevolent billionaires,” Jake said. “Most people in the news know that’s an oxymoron. You fat cats always have a reason for giving.”

  “Is it me you hate,” Graham asked pleasantly, “or just the fact that I’m rich?”

  “I save my emotions for people who matter,” Jake said. “Trust me, my revulsion is purely clinical.”

  Graham sighed and said, “Fine, neither of us is short on friends, so let’s talk business. Presuming whatever it is you’ve got has the attraction you say it does, and knowing we’ve got the inside angle on the rest, what if I make a call to my contacts and tell them they can have the exclusive for Twenty/Twenty, but only if they use you as a special correspondent? That way, the project gets maximum exposure and you get to ring the bell.”

  “What about Sixty Minutes?”

  “What’s a couple million viewers? I’m comfortable giving away those kinds of numbers. Work with us.”

  “Us, as in you and Casey?”

  “She’s right here,” Graham said.

  Jake heard the sound of the phone being handed over.

  “Jake?” Casey said.

  Jake’s stomach knotted. His instincts told him that she had a newfound affinity for him. His head ached in earnest as he wondered what he’d missed over the weekend. He knew he should just keep quiet but he decided to speak anyway. “I know he’s sitting right there with you, but I still don’t trust him.”

  “There’s an explanation for the things you thought you heard,” Casey said.

  “I know,” Jake said. “The ‘she’ he should have taken care of is a boat full of factory equipment on its way to China, unless the friendly billionaire chooses to save the day, and the guy Massimo runs an environmental remediation company. I heard it all.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “So, I ran off half-cocked and bumped my head,” Jake said. “I look like a fool, but I’m telling you there’s more going on here.”

  “I like what Robert was talking about, when everyone wins,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  Any notion of dinner, or anything more, evaporated. Jake took a deep breath and let it out in a gust. “Sure.”

  36

  THE SKY WAS PALE gray and the breeze hinted at rain. Jake’s Cadillac left a trail of dust on the gravel road as he swung into the dirt driveway of what looked like a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse. Behind the white house, a barn leaned dangerously toward an abandoned chicken coop, as if waiting to pounce. Below, Owasco Lake lay in the crease of the long, low hills running north and south. Dora had the shot set up on the listing front porch, capturing the lake below and part of an ancient oak tree spread wide across the front lawn.

  Jake tapped his horn, wincing at the sound, and pulled in behind the crew’s van. A white-haired woman in hot pink curlers stepped out onto the porch in a robe and slippers, chastising one of the crew for draping his cables across her rosebush. Myron Kissle followed, looking sheepish under a dome of pomaded hair and in a button-down tan shirt with a blue paisley tie. Brown brogans peeked from beneath a pair of dark brown wool slacks too big for the old man by two sizes. His wife turned to him and fussed with his tie as Jake approached the porch. Its railings needed scraping and paint, and the faded white curtains behind the bay window provided a stage on the sill for smiling Hummel figurines with a host of dead flies at their feet.

  After meeting the wife and shaking hands with Kissle, both men had to sit through having the makeup woman touch up their cheeks before they could be wired up. Kissle blinked at the bright lights, shading his face with a liver-spotted hand.

  “Like the old hot seat,” he said. “Lights hotter than hell, and a rubber hose if we needed it.”

  “The good old days,” Jake said, forcing a smile, the pain in his
head distracting him now.

  Kissle nodded fervently and took a sip from the water bottle offered to him by the makeup woman as he tugged at the microphone clipped onto the collar of his shirt.

  “Can we move that mic to his tie?” Jake asked.

  A soundman hurried in and out of the shot, following Jake’s direction.

  “I want to move the two shot over this way a little,” Dora told a cameraman. “I think the back of his head looks a little funny.”

  “Nothing funny about it,” Jake said, touching the back of his skull and feathering his hair over the top of the stitches. “I didn’t think you could actually see it.”

  “Your hair covers it pretty well,” Dora said, “but it’s got a funny shape.”

  “Great,” Jake said.

  Kissle looked at Jake, mystified, and Jake just made a face and softly shook his head not to worry. Dora caught his eye and told him they were rolling.

  “So,” Jake said, “Detective Kissle, we appreciate you talking with us.”

  Kissle shook his head. “Just Kissle, or Myron. I retired from the force eleven years ago, so I can’t go by Detective, as proud as I am of my shield.”

  “Mr. Kissle,” Jake said, leaning toward the old man. “Do you remember the Cassandra Thornton case back in 1989?”

  “This isn’t New York City,” Kissle said, nodding toward the countryside behind him, “so we don’t regularly get things like that. Luckily. No, that’s the worst I ever saw or hope to see. As pretty a girl as you could wish. Face cut to pieces. Pants torn off. Stabbed full of holes. Blood all over the room like some slaughterhouse. Her daddy covered in it and crying to us to save her. She was still breathing, barely.”

  Jake paused, then asked, “What can you tell us about the investigation following?”

  Kissle rubbed his nose in a big circular motion. “Well, we were looking for a black man, no one ever said why, but that’s what we were looking for. Then we get a call from someone at the bus station who says a black man with blood on his clothes got on the bus to New York and good riddance to him, but someone ought to know. We caught up with Dwayne Hubbard down in New York City. Man went to trial and they put him away, you know that part.”