Innocence

by David Hosp

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Finn replied, watching his client disappear as the elevator doors closed. “We still have a long way to go,” he said to himself.

  Meghan Slocum was hardly the doe-eyed victim she portrayed so well in the courtroom, he knew. In all likelihood, she’d ranked Slocum’s bank account highly in considering his marriage proposal, and Finn had serious concerns about what he’d see crawling around if he cared to lift the sheets on Mrs. Slocum’s own personal life. She had a legitimate case, though, and he couldn’t afford the luxury of impartiality. Besides, it wasn’t as though Slocum had married a bombshell half his age for her wit or personality. As long as the sleaze dripped on both sides of the courtroom, Finn felt justified.

  “Mr. Finn!”

  He turned and saw a nattily dressed man hurrying after him. He looked to be seven or eight years younger than Finn—late twenties or early thirties from the look of him—and his face seemed familiar, but Finn could put neither a name nor a context to it.

  “Scott Finn,” the man said. “Mark Dobson.” Finn nodded and held out his hand without a word. “From Howery, Black,” Dobson continued. “I’m an associate in the Trial Department; we never worked together, but I was a third-year when you left.”

  “Of course,” Finn said, feigning recollection. “I think we met at some point.”

  Dobson nodded. “Once at a firm dinner. It’s nice to be remembered.”

  “Well, there was usually a fair amount of drinking at those dinners,” Finn said. The young man nodded again without saying anything, and Finn began to feel awkward. “So, what brings you up here? If you were a third-year when I left, you must be a fifth-year now. Aren’t you still a little young to be let out of the library without a partner’s supervision?” It was a targeted poke at the lack of responsibility junior associates were given at large firms, and Dobson’s expression told Finn it had struck its mark.

  “I’ve been dealing with a pro bono matter” was all he said. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  Before Finn could respond, Slocum and his lawyer came around the corner. Slocum saw Finn and headed straight for him, like a journeyman heavyweight coming out of his corner at the sound of the bell. Dumonds put a hand in front of his client as if to restrain him, but the size differential between the two was too great for the gesture to have any impact. “Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Slocum yelled, getting right into Finn’s face.

  Finn remained calm. He was used to dealing with angry litigants— both those he represented and those he didn’t. He gave a crooked smile. “Sure. You’re the cement head, right?”

  “Do you have any fucking idea who I’m friends with?” It sounded like a threat to Finn. He turned to Dumonds, who had caught up to his client.

  “Counselor,” Finn said, “would you explain to your client that it would be inappropriate for me to engage him in conversation, please? You can also remind him that you have our latest offer to resolve this for eight million, and we’ll be waiting for your response shortly.”

  “You arrogant asshole!” Slocum bellowed. “You want my fucking response? I’ll cram my fucking response up your ass right now!”

  Dumonds was pulling at his client. “Sal,” he was saying, “this isn’t helping. Let me deal with this.”

  “Yeah, Sal,” Finn agreed. “Let Marty handle this.”

  Slocum allowed Dumonds to pull him away, but before they headed for the elevators, the large man turned back to Finn and wagged a finger at him. Finn responded with a curt wave. Then he turned back to Dobson. “Sorry about that,” he said. “You were talking about a criminal matter?”

  “I was. It’s a criminal matter I’ve been handling for a little while.”

  Finn frowned. “Are you really qualified to handle a criminal case?”

  Dobson’s expression shaded toward defensiveness. “I’ve been a member of the bar for over four years, Mr. Finn. That means I’m licensed to handle criminal matters in court.”

  “Licensed and qualified are two different things.”

  Dobson tried to hold his indignant look, but Finn could see fear there, too, and after a moment Dobson dropped all pretense. “That’s why I’m here. It’s a matter I’d like some help with—I’ll even refer it to you officially, as long as I can stay involved in some capacity.”

  Finn smiled. “What’s wrong? Don’t the partners at Howery still go to court? When I left, there were over a hundred attorneys in the Trial Department.”

  “They do, but . . .” Dobson seemed to be searching for an answer that Finn would buy, and Finn guessed what that meant.

  “But no one over there wants to take on a dog of a pro bono criminal matter that’s going to cost them hundreds of hours, right?” Finn guessed.

  “No,” Dobson protested. “It’s just that some of the people at the firm said this might be more up your alley.”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t intend that as a compliment.”

  “Please, Mr. Finn, you’re wrong. Howery would be willing to provide some support, but the consensus is that you’d be more appropriate as trial counsel.”

  Finn looked Dobson over carefully, trying to gauge the man’s motivations. Before he had a chance to respond, Abigail Prudet approached him with Tom Kozlowski in tow. “Where’s my money?” she demanded. Her voice was quiet but determined.

  “She wanted to see you,” Kozlowski said. “I tried to explain it to her.”

  Finn turned, embarrassed, toward Dobson. “Mark, I’d like you to meet Abigail Prudet. And this is Tom Kozlowski, a private investigator I work with on many of my cases. Koz, Abigail, this is Mark Dobson, a lawyer at the firm where I used to work.” He hoped a formal introduction might convince Abigail to alter her tone. He was wrong.

  “Where’s my money?” she seethed again.

  Finn took her by the elbow. “Did Detective Kozlowski explain to you how this works?”

  Dobson cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should give you folks a minute alone,” he suggested. “I wouldn’t want to get involved . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Abigail Prudet shot a glare at him, her brow drawn in indignation at the perceived slight. “I don’t lie, mister.” She spoke clearly and met Dobson’s surprised eyes. “But I don’t tell the truth for free, either.”

  “Go back to your hotel, Abigail,” Finn said. “Enjoy the evening. Have a good dinner; maybe see a show. Then, tomorrow, you bring all your receipts by the office. I’ll need the records, though—legally, I can’t pay you a dime without them. I’ll cut you a check for your outof-pocket costs, and another for your appearance fee.” He looked back at Dobson. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, would we?”

  Prudet’s frown deepened. “You don’t want to fuck with me,” she said quietly.

  “Seems to be a trend today,” Finn agreed. “Besides, I don’t think it would be legal outside of Nevada.” He nodded to Kozlowski, and the detective hooked her under her arm and escorted her to the elevator. The elevator doors opened and she stepped in, turning to look at Finn.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Finn replied. The three men watched as the elevator doors closed slowly. The woman’s eyes never left Finn’s before she disappeared. Now it was Finn’s turn to clear his throat. “My practice has become more colorful since I left the firm, as you can tell,” he said to Dobson. “Now, I believe you wanted to talk to me about a referral?”

  “I did.” Dobson nodded. He looked at Finn with a combination of envy and revulsion. “Yes, I think you’re exactly the lawyer I’m looking for.”

  Chapter Three

  “His name is Vincente Salazar.”

  Dobson took a file out of his briefcase and slid it across the table toward Finn. They had moved to one of the courthouse conference rooms reserved for lawyers and their clients. It was a bare cell with plain, dim green walls, solid wooden chairs, and a sturdy laminate table: designed in all respects for the endless stress and abu
se suffered by those caught in the gears of the legal system. Finn, who was sitting next to Kozlowski and opposite Dobson, flipped open the file.

  “You may remember the case,” Dobson continued. “It was big news back in the early nineties. Salazar was an illegal from El Salvador, part of a wave of immigrants who poured into the country during the final years of the war down there. A sizable community grew along the Dorchester-Roxbury border. A task force was formed in 1992 to root out many of those who were in the country illegally. It was a joint enforcement program between the INS and the Boston Police Department. Salazar’s name hit the list, and he was targeted for deportation.”

  “I remember.” Finn nodded. “He shot a cop, right? A woman?”

  “That’s what he was convicted of,” Dobson replied. “Allegedly, he tried to rape her, and then he shot her with her own gun. Madeline Steele was her name; she was part of the task force, stationed out of B-2, and she was the one going after Salazar—that was the motive provided at trial. She identified him, and they had his fingerprints on her gun—that was the evidence that put him away. He was sentenced to fifty years, no parole.”

  Finn turned to look at Kozlowski. “You were stationed out of B-2 for a while, weren’t you?”

  Kozlowski nodded, his features granite.

  “You know Steele at all?”

  Kozlowski nodded again.

  Finn turned back to Dobson. “Sounds like a pretty clean case. So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that a lot of the other evidence doesn’t line up. Salazar had an alibi—a solid one. Plus, another witness saw the perp running from the scene and said it wasn’t Salazar.”

  Finn shrugged. “That’s why we have juries, right? If the jury saw it differently, who am I to argue?”

  “There was a rape kit done at the time. No fluids turned up, but they apparently took scrapings of blood and skin from underneath the Steele woman’s fingernails.”

  “And?”

  “They never tested it. Never even told the defense it existed.”

  “I’m still not seeing a basis for a new trial,” Finn said. “DNA or not, it seems like this guy was most likely right for the shooting. Why would I want to get involved now, fifteen years later? Why would you, for that matter?”

  Dobson leaned back in his chair. “I do a lot of pro bono work with an organization called the New England Innocence Project.”

  Finn rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard of it. A bunch of do-gooders trying to get felons out of jail, right?”

  “Wrong, Mr. Finn. It’s a bunch of do-gooders trying to get innocent people out of jail. We identify cases where physical evidence exists that could prove definitively the guilt or innocence of people who have been convicted of a crime. If the evidence shows that the person is guilty, we close the books on that case. If it shows they’re innocent, though . . .”

  “And in this case, the skin and blood recovered from under Officer Steele’s fingernails prove Salazar is innocent?”

  Dobson shrugged. “We won’t know until it’s tested.”

  Finn pushed the file back at the attorney across the table. “So test it. What do you need me for?”

  “We’d love to, but the DA’s office and the city refuse to give us the samples to be tested. They say that the case has been decided, and they won’t open up the investigation again. We’re going in front of the judge in two days to argue our motion to force them to give us the evidence so we can run the tests ourselves.”

  Finn shook his head. “I still don’t see why you need me.”

  Dobson heaved a heavy sigh, folding his fingers together. “The motion’s going to be heard by Judge Cavanaugh.”

  “Ah,” Finn said. It had suddenly become clear why Dobson had come to him. “Are you going to try and act surprised when I tell you that Cavanaugh was my mentor when he was teaching at Suffolk Law School?”

  Dobson shook his head. “I wouldn’t insult your intelligence that way.”

  “You think the argument will be better received by Judge Cavanaugh if it’s coming from someone he knows? Someone he trusts?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  Finn waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t know Cavanaugh, then. He’ll see right through this. If anything, he’d be harder on me than he would on someone he doesn’t know. He’ll probably be so insulted, he’ll bounce me right out of the courtroom.”

  “In which case, what have you really got to lose?” Dobson asked.

  “You mean besides my credibility?” Finn responded. “I think the more relevant question is: What have I got to gain?”

  “A chance to do something good?” Dobson offered.

  The laugh that came from his throat almost choked Finn. “You clearly didn’t do enough research on me.”

  Dobson considered this for a moment. “You’re still friends with Preston Holland, right?” Finn gave a noncommittal tilt of his head. “He was the one who sent me to you. He retired last year, but he still does some work in the legal community. He said he hadn’t talked to you in a while, but he claimed you were one of the best trial lawyers he’d ever seen. Preston isn’t someone given to overstatement. He said that with the right case, you could be one of the all-time greats.” Dobson looked around the plain conference room. “Are you happy doing what you’re doing now? Paying hookers to rat out husbands in divorce cases so your gold-digging clients can keep their homes in Weston? Getting drug dealers and thugs out on bail so they can run their scams while waiting to go up to the pen at Concord? Cleaning up some fat cats’ DUIs? Is this really what you were meant to do?”

  Finn felt as if he’d been slapped, and he reacted angrily. “I’m not at Howery, Black anymore,” he spat out. “Principles can be expensive, and I’ve got to eat.”

  Dobson’s look hardened. “Fine,” he said. “If it turns out Salazar’s innocent, I’ll give you the inside track on his civil rights case against the city for false imprisonment and deprivation of liberty. Cases like that seem to be settling out at up to five hundred thousand dollars for every year spent in jail. Salazar’s been in for fifteen. That could come to over seven million. Maybe more if you win at trial instead of settling. On contingency, you’d net well over two million. Not a bad take.” He pushed the file back toward Finn.

  Finn opened the file and flipped through it once more, scratching his head. He was tempted, he had to admit; not just by the money but by the challenge. On the other hand, he recognized that it could be a rabbit hole, and he would likely spend endless hours running through a blind maze without anything to show for it. He couldn’t afford to give away his services with quite the abandon lawyers from the large firms could. And then there was Kozlowski. The private detective hadn’t spoken during the meeting, but he had acknowledged knowing Madeline Steele. Kozlowski was practically Finn’s partner, and Finn couldn’t risk upsetting his close working relationship with the man lightly. More than that, while neither of them would ever admit it, they were friends, and Finn had precious few real friends.

  He looked up from the file. “One question,” he said.

  “Shoot,” Dobson replied.

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “I told you, I do work with the Innocence Proj—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” Finn cut him off. “There must be hundreds of cases like this, where all you’ve got is a mere possibility of innocence. Why spend so much time and effort on this one case when you could just move on to the next?”

  Dobson thought for a long moment. Then he stood up, put on his coat, and picked up his briefcase. He walked to the door and opened it. Looking back at Finn, he said, “You can answer that question for yourself tomorrow.”

  “How?” Finn asked.

  “It’s visiting day at Billerica. I’m taking you to meet Vincente Salazar.”

  z

  “You pissed?”

  Finn was guiding his battered MG convertible through the streets of downtown Boston, toward the river and out o
nto Monsignor O’Brien Highway, headed toward Charlestown. It was gray out—the kind of deep, penetrating gray that only New Englanders know. The buildings and the streets and the sky blended together in a wall of slate as the impossibly impractical car dodged frozen puddles and potholes in the road, the darkened slush clinging to its wheels.

  “About what?” Kozlowski asked, looking out the passenger window.

  Finn knew he hated riding in the miniature vehicle, which could barely contain his large, square frame. The ratted soft top felt like it might actually give way to his shoulders, and the wind whistled through gaps where the canvas didn’t quite reach the steel.

  “Okay,” Finn said. “I won’t take the case.”

  “Your call.”

  Finn took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked over at the man sitting next to him. The thick scar that ran down his face was hidden from Finn’s view, and seeing him in profile, Finn realized that the private investigator must have been handsome once. “I’m assuming you remember the Steele shooting?”

  “Yeah,” Kozlowski replied, his eyes still scanning the streets outside his window. Then he went silent again.

  “That’s it?” Finn asked. “‘Yeah’? That’s all I’m gonna get out of you? Any chance you want to elaborate a little?”

  Kozlowski folded his arms. “It was a bad time for the department. Maddy—Officer Steele—was popular. She was a good young cop. She was a woman.”

  “And?”

  “As a cop, you can’t let that stand—particularly not with a woman. No one gets away with shooting one of your own. It’d be rough on the department if Salazar got out; it’d open a lot of old wounds.”

  “So you want me to leave it alone?”

  “Didn’t say that. I’m not in the department anymore; they forced me out, remember? The only person I’d feel bad for would be Maddy. The rest of them can fuck themselves, for all I care.”

  “She lived, right?”

  “She did. It was a long fight for her, and it wasn’t fun. The bullet hit the spine; she’s in a wheelchair now, and that’s where she’ll be for the rest of her life. It wasn’t the easiest thing to come to grips with.”