Innocence
Page 1
* * *
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part II
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Part III
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Part IV
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Afterword
INNOCENCE
Also by David Hosp
Dark Harbor
The Betrayed
INNOCENCE
David Hosp
The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public fi gures are mentioned, but all other characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.
Copyright © 2007 by Richard David Hosp All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Warner Books Hachette Book Group USA 237 Park Avenue New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.
Warner Books and the “W” logo are trademarks of Time Warner Inc. or an affi liated company. Used under license by Hachette Book Group USA, which is not affiliated with Time Warner Inc.
First eBook Edition: July 2007
ISBN: 0-446-16758-0
I. Title.
For Joanie, with all my love. Thank you for all you do, and all you have given me.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank and acknowledge:
All those who volunteer their time, effort, and dedication to the New England Innocence Project and similar organizations across the country;
The lawyers I have had the privilege of working with on civil rights matters stemming from the wrongful conviction of Stephan Cowans, including: Joe Savage, Sheryl Koval, Michelle Gonnam, and Rob Feldman;
Stephan Cowans;
The partners, lawyers, and professionals at Goodwin Procter LLP, for their dedication to pro bono causes like the New England Innocence Project, and for the support they have given me as both a lawyer and a writer;
Lynne Sollis and Jill Piedrahita, for their invaluable assistance over the years;
Joanie Hosp, Richard Hosp, Martha Hosp, Ted Hosp, and Joan McCormick, for giving helpful comments on early drafts;
Shane DiGiovanna, who is an inspiration and a terrific young writer;
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Richard and Laura Salazar, for encouraging my writing years ago (and for the use of your last name);
Karen Thomas, for your help on this book, and others to come;
Elly Weisenberg, Jamie Raab, Latoya Smith, Michele Bidelspach, Beth Thomas, Celia Johnson, and the entire group at Warner Books and Hachette, for all your wonderful assistance;
A special thanks to Maureen Egen—thank you for everything, I will miss working with you;
Aaron Priest, Lisa Erbach-Vance, and everyone at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency;
Finally, as always, my children, Reid and Samantha, as well as family and friends too numerous to mention, but too important to forget— thank you all for your love and support.
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INNOCENCE
Prologue
September 1992
Madeline Steele looked out through the rain-spotted glass toward the bodega on Columbus Avenue in Roxbury, pressing the pay-phone handset hard against her ear so she could hear over the thunder of her own heartbeat. One ring. Two. Five. Where was he? Finally, on the seventh ring, a voice came over the line.
“What?”
“It’s me.”
“What’s happening?”
“They’re here. I think we’ve got them nailed.” She looked out at the storefront, making sure no one was going in and no one was coming out.
“Not to make a bust, but it’s a start.”
“It’s more than a start, Koz,” she said. “What else could they be doing here? Do you know how many people must be involved? How much money? If it’s what it looks like, it’s bigger than I ever thought.” There was no answer on the other end of the line. “Koz?” Still nothing. “Koz, you still there?”
“Get out of there, Maddy,” came the reply.
“Why?”
“You’re undercover, and you haven’t been trained for it. We’ll deal with this in the morning, but right now I want you out of there.”
“Are you kidding? I have to wait and see who else shows up. See who else comes out.”
“Get out of there. That’s an order.”
“You’re not my boss on this, Koz.”
“No, but I’m your friend. Get out of there. Now.”
She sucked in a breath, watching the raindrops splinter the colored lights from the sign on the liquor store across the street. “Fine. But this is still my case. I did the legwork; I deserve it.”
“It’s your case,” he reassured her. “Let’s just make sure we get it right. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”
“You got it. And, Koz?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
She hung up but stayed in the phone booth for a couple of minutes, looking out at the tiny storefront, desperate to know what was going on behind the neon signs hawking tobacco, lottery tickets, and beer. Then she slid the door open and walked out into the storm.
She crossed the street and walked up the block, slowing as she passed the storefront, looking in, trying to see through the cracks in the dirty cardboard advertisements. Anyone catching sight of her would think she was merely window-shopping. She’d been careful not to attract any attention.
Once she cleared the window, she picked up speed. She was convinced she hadn’t been followed, but she kept her concentration focused behind her nonetheless, making sure no one was coming out of the store to find out why she was there.
She smiled to herself. There was no one back there, and that meant she’d done her job well. Her father and her brothers had always questioned whether she could handle it. Tonight, if nothing else, she’d proved that she belonged to the job, and the job belonged to her.
She was still smiling, her head inclined just slightly behind her, when she passed the alley off Columbus. She never saw the dark figure behind the stack of boxes at the alley’s entrance; never saw the man move toward he
r; never saw his hand raised as he swung quickly, the handle of a long blade coming down on her head.
z
Vincente Salazar climbed the stairs to the fourth-floor apartment on the edge of Dorchester near the Roxbury line. The place smelled like home to him, the aromas of platanos rellenos and nuegados en miel mixing with the ubiquitous pupusas from different apartments, swirling in the hallways.
He opened the door and walked into the apartment, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the door.
“Hola,” his mother greeted him from the sink. She was elbow-deep in pots, and the stove was covered with sweet-smelling pans full of stuffed peppers. “¿Cómo te fue tu día?”
“English, Mama,” he reprimanded her gently. “We speak English in this house.”
“Ahh,” she grunted, waving her hand dismissively at him. “How was your day?” she repeated in heavily accented English.
“It was fine,” he replied, nodding in appreciation of her linguistic surrender. “The store manager says I am to have more responsibility.”
“Good. More pay, too?”
He shook his head. “It is good, though, to be trusted.”
“Trust should pay more.”
He said nothing as he made his way over to the battered crib by the window and picked up his daughter. “And how are you, little one?” he asked as he held her above his face. She beamed down at him, and he brought her in toward his body, hugging her and kissing her cheek as she gurgled and drooled through her smile. “Did you hear that, Rosita? Your papa is getting more respect now.”
“Respect should pay more, too,” his mother said from the stove, her back toward him still.
“We are better off here, Mama. Here, we can have a life.”
“In El Salvador you were respected. There you were important.”
“In El Salvador I was hunted. It was only a matter of time. Besides, my daughter is an American. She will grow up in America.”
“If we can stay.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. I said I would take care of it, didn’t I?”
“Sí. Yes.”
“Is Miguel home from school yet?” he asked.
“No. He seems bad. I think he is worried about school. You should talk to him.”
“I will. Has the baby eaten?”
His mother shook her head.
“Well, then,” he said to his daughter, “you must eat.” He smiled and kissed her again before wedging her into her high chair and snapping a bib around her neck. He was mixing her baby food when the knock came at the door.
“Vincente Salazar?” a voice yelled from the stairwell.
He went to the door and listened. “Yes?” he answered without opening it.
“It’s the police! Open up!”
A wave of terror swept over him, and all of a sudden the smell of the sweet peppers frying on the stove made him feel ill. “What do you want?”
z
It couldn’t be happening. Not to her.
Panic ripped through Madeline Steele as she regained consciousness and felt her forehead pushed into the cement. The stink of oil and dirt and asphalt from the Roxbury alley burned her nostrils, and the pounding of the rain filled her ears.
“Please! No!”
“Cállete, la ramoa!” the voice behind her hissed. “Ahora sentirá el poder de Trece!” He had her by the hair, and he pulled her head up hard, bending her neck back to the point where she was sure it would break. “Abra tus ojos!”
She looked up and saw the quicksilver gleam before her eyes, raindrops dancing on a long, thick blade as it was drawn slowly in front of her face. Then it was pressed to her throat, and she felt a sting that paralyzed her as the machete slid lightly over her skin.
An eternal moment passed, and then she was facedown on the pavement again as she felt her skirt pushed up from behind and her underwear ripped off. In the rain, she found it difficult to tell: Was she crying? And if she was, did it matter anymore?
She found the answer with her eyes closed in the faces of her family dancing before her. It mattered. It mattered because of who she was. It mattered because she was the person they’d made her.
She choked back a breath and forced herself to focus. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her purse lying a few feet away, where it must have fallen when the first blow took her on the back of her head. If she could only reach it . . .
The animal behind her was distracted, lost in his determination to position himself to enter her. She wouldn’t let that happen.
Without warning, she spun on him, her arm shooting out, fingernails clawing at him, glancing off his face and digging fast into the flesh where his shoulder met his neck. He screamed, and she gripped him tighter, feeling her fingernails sliding into his skin.
He screamed again, louder this time, and pulled away. It might just be enough. She rolled to her side, grasping at her bag. She could feel her gun; she pulled it out, spinning back on her attacker, trying to aim and get a shot off before he could react.
He was too fast, though. He brought the handle of his machete down on her wrist, knocking her arm wide. Then he grabbed her hand and the two of them struggled. It was hopeless, she knew. He was bigger and stronger, and on top of her, he had all the leverage. Slowly, the gun turned inward on her, toward her abdomen.
When the shot rang out, she wasn’t even sure which of them had pulled the trigger. All she felt was the searing in her stomach and the numbness in her legs. She heard footsteps and felt the warmth spreading out underneath her as she caught an unmistakable whiff of iron swimming in the rainwater.
This was better, she thought. As the feeling ebbed from her extremities and the numbness spread to her torso, she was secretly relieved. She wouldn’t have lived well with the shame, and her family wouldn’t have lived with it at all. They were all prepared for death. But shame?
She closed her eyes and let herself drift off as she heard the sirens approaching. Yes, she thought, this was definitely better.
z
“We want to talk. Open the door!”
Vincente Salazar stood at his front door for a moment, running through his options until he concluded there were none. He unhooked the safety chain and opened the door a crack. “Show me your badge,” he said.
They unleashed the whirlwind without warning. The door was kicked in hard, blowing him back into the rattrap apartment, knocking him into the high chair, spilling the baby onto the floor. He stumbled and fell, watching as his daughter’s head slammed into the wooden floor. He looked up and saw the flood of armored policemen washing into the room, then turned again to find his Rosita screaming in pain and fear. At that moment he felt the first set of boots on his ribs, hurling him against the wall.
“Please! My daughter!” he pleaded, but it was no use. The boots came again.
“Police! Freeze, motherfucker!”
He heard his mother scream, “Rosita!” and saw her moving toward the baby, but one of the storm troopers cut her off, throwing her back into the heated stove. “Stay where you are!” the man commanded, pointing a gun into her face.
The baby continued to cry on the floor.
“Please, I don’t understand!” Salazar begged, but he was kicked again, this time in the face.
“I said freeze, asshole!”
In his pain, Vincente reached out toward the sound of his daughter’s wails, his fingers groping for her in desperation until a heel connected with his forearm and he heard a bone snap. All around him there was screaming. He could hear his mother, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
One of the policemen knelt next to him as Salazar struggled in agony to his knees. “You’re in a shitload of trouble, cocksucker,” the cop hissed, grabbing a fistful of Vincente’s hair and yanking his head back.
“Please! Let me help my daughter! I’m a doctor! There’s been a mistake!”
“Oh yeah, there’s been a mistake, all right. And you made it.” The man laughed. “He doesn’t look s
o tough now, does he, boys?”
Vincente tried to turn his head to see if Rosita was okay, but the man held fast to his hair.
“You know the woman you attacked last night?” the man asked, leaning in close and breathing in his ear.
“No, please—”
“The woman you shot and left to die in an alley?”
“No—”
“She was a cop!” The man slammed Vincente’s face down into the kitchen floor, grinding his hand into the back of his head.
Vincente struggled back to his knees, but the policeman was behind him now, riding him as he grabbed his hair again. He pulled Vincente’s head all the way back. “You like that, motherfucker?” he screamed as he
pushed Vincente’s face down to the ground again.
“Easy, Mac,” came another voice from behind them.
Vincente could feel the blood running down his face, and all sensation had deserted his arm, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was his daughter; all he heard now was her crying.
He felt his head pulled back up and slammed down again, and he could taste the blood and mucus in his sinuses. “You like treating a woman like that?” the man screamed from behind him.
“C’mon, Mac, that’s enough!” Salazar heard a tinge of desperation in the other cop’s voice, and it scared him.
“Motherfucker!” the cop yelled as he pulverized Vincente’s face into the floorboards one last time.
Vincente lay on the floor, semiconscious. He wasn’t sure for how long, but it didn’t matter anymore. He could hear his mother still screaming, but she sounded eerily distant. There were voices, too, male voices thick with anger and indifference. And as he lay there, unable to move or speak, he realized in all the pandemonium around him that something was missing: a sound as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, its absence horrifying. He sobbed as the tears ran down his face, tears not for himself but for the sound he no longer heard.
Rosita was no longer crying.
PART I
Chapter One
Monday, December 10, 2007
Mark Dobson sat on the hard wooden bench in the back of the small courtroom on the twelfth floor of the Suffolk County Courthouse. His bow tie was tight around his thin thirty-year-old neck, and his wool double-stitched Oxxford suit was buttoned against the cold of the outdated building. The courthouse was never comfortable in winter. The heat was either off, allowing icicles to form on the insides of the windows, or blasting, leaving those who’d dressed for December in Boston sweating. On balance, he’d take the cold, he decided.