Innocence

by David Hosp

  Sadly, that was as far as he could let the issue go. There were too many members of the fairy patrol nearby who would intervene, and they could interfere with the plan.

  He took three long strides toward the two men. Jefferson was on the ground, and Womak, though off balance, was standing over him, looking ready to take another swing with his homemade knife.

  Galloway focused on Womak. He raised his nightstick high and swung at the arm that held the shiv aloft. The contact was solid, and Womak’s arm went limp, the blade skittering across the floor.

  “You broke my arm!” Womak screamed. He fell to the ground, his arm hanging lifeless from his shoulder. He felt his bicep with his good hand. “You broke my goddamned arm!” he yelled again.

  “Tragic,” Galloway replied. He walked to the other side of Womak as the convict squatted on the floor, and he swung his nightstick with brutal force at Womak’s other arm.

  Womak let out another scream, this one reverberating off the walls like the sickening cry of a dying animal. “No! Please!” he yelled. He was lying on the floor, looking at both of his arms as they dangled like sausage strings. “I can’t move my fucking arms!” he screamed.

  Just then the prison alarm sounded. “Lockdown!” one of the other guards yelled, and a unit of specially armed riot guards appeared, padded down like heavily armed umpires ready for a rumble. They weren’t needed, of course. The moment had come and gone, and the prisoners were filing back to their cells, far more sated with the violence than they ever would have been with the runny egg gruel that passed for breakfast.

  “We’re gonna need two gurneys here,” Galloway said to one of the umpires. The man nodded and spoke into a radio.

  Galloway crouched between the two men. A stream of blood ran from Jefferson’s stomach, pooling in a sticky smear beneath him. Womak looked helplessly at his useless arms, gasping for air. Galloway looked back and forth between them. “Well, gentlemen, it looks like you’re headed to the infirmary. Enjoy the spa time, my little faggots, because I guarantee that your next stop will be in the fucking hole. And you will stay in the hole until you’ve forgotten your own names, I shit you not.”

  z

  Vincente Salazar was alone in the infirmary when the riot horns sounded. He sighed as he went to one of the medical cabinets to prepare a crash cart for every contingency he could. Looking at the clock, he felt a light sweat break out on his forehead. It was only eight o’clock, and Dr. Roland was no doubt just beginning the second set of his weekly squash game. Every Wednesday Salazar reported early to the infirmary to take care of patients while the real doctor enjoyed a brief respite from the pressures of the job. It was unusual, but all the medical staff felt confident with Salazar on duty. If necessary, Salazar would have the guards page Roland, who could be there in fifteen minutes. Salazar could generally hold down the fort until then.

  The door to the infirmary buzzed and then slammed open. Two men were wheeled in on gurneys, one pushed by a member of the riot patrol, the other pushed by Officer Galloway. Salazar was familiar enough with Galloway to recognize his cruel brand of psychopathology. He was as dangerous as any of the inmates.

  Salazar was at the sink, washing his hands. He picked up a towel and headed over to the two patients. “What happened?” he asked no one in particular.

  Galloway responded. “This guy,” he said, pointing to the white man lying on the stretcher he was pushing, “stabbed that guy.”

  Salazar looked back and forth between the two men. The stab wound on the large black man was evident and would require immediate attention. He looked stable, though. The other man appeared to be in greater pain.

  “What happened to him?” Salazar asked, pointing to Womak.

  “He needed to be subdued,” Galloway replied. “He had a knife. I broke his arms.”

  “Both of them?”

  Galloway stared at Salazar without answering, daring Salazar to challenge his authority. Salazar was too smart to make such a mistake.

  “Right. Wheel him into bay two,” Salazar said, pointing to a medical treatment area on one side of the room. “I’ll get the bleeding from the stab wound under control, then take a look at him.” He wheeled the stabbing victim over to a medical bay on the other side of the room. Pulling out some scissors, he cut off the man’s shirt. He pulled an overhead light toward the patient and focused it on the wound, snapping on some gloves as he took swabs to wipe away the blood. He was concentrating on his patient when he heard a commotion over in the other bay.

  “Fuck! No! Get away!” the other patient was screaming.

  Salazar hurried over and looked behind the curtain. “What’s happening here?” he demanded.

  “I’m handcuffing him to the bed,” Galloway replied.

  “Fuck you! It hurts!” the prisoner pleaded.

  Salazar’s gloved hands were covered in Jefferson’s blood, so he leaned in to take a cursory look at the man’s arms. There were deep purple welts along the upper arms, where he’d been hit. It didn’t look as though the bones were misaligned, but based on the amount of pain, it was likely that the humeri were fractured. “Just cuff his ankles,” Salazar said.

  “Fuck that,” Galloway said.

  “Officer.” Salazar tried to make his voice sound reasonable. “Where do you think he’s going to go?”

  Galloway looked angry at first. Then he gave Salazar a demented smile. “Fine,” he said. “You want him, you got him.” He put some ankle chains on the patient and attached them to the bottom of the stretcher. Then he looked at the other guard, who was hanging back by the door to the infirmary. “C’mon, Dan. Let’s grab a cup of coffee.” To Salazar, he said, “You’re on your own, asshole.”

  The two men left the infirmary, and Salazar heard the door lock behind them. He was glad to have Galloway out of the room; there was no telling what mischief the man could cause with the patients. Salazar looked at the injured man lying on the gurney. “I have to stop the bleeding on the man you stabbed,” he said. “Then I’ll be back to take a good look at your arms.”

  Womak nodded. “Thanks.”

  Salazar returned to his first patient and continued cleaning out the wound. He pressed his fingers on the man’s abdomen and pulled the wound apart. “This is going to hurt a little,” he said. “I’d give you some painkillers, but they don’t give me the keys to the good stuff.”

  Jefferson grunted through the pain, gritting his teeth. Salazar leaned in for a closer look, his fingers probing through the flesh as the overhead light shimmered off the brilliant red seeping out of the large man. “It’s deep,” Salazar said. “But it doesn’t look like it penetrated deep enough to get near the internal organs.” He pulled his hands away, and Jefferson relaxed a little. “They’ll probably run some tests on you and do some more probing when the real doctor gets back, but you’re going to be fine.”

  Jefferson smiled up at him. “Thanks, Doc. Guess I am lucky, huh?”

  Salazar snapped off the sterile gloves covered in blood and tossed them in the biohazard container. He patted Jefferson on the shoulder. “Now I have to look at the other guy.”

  He turned to head back to the other medical bay but stopped short.

  The other patient was standing directly in front of him. He had an excited smile on his face and a length of aluminum piping he’d pulled off the gurney in his hand. The gurney itself was still chained to his ankle and dragging behind him. “Hiya, Doc. That won’t be necessary. I’m feeling much better now.” He raised his hand up, and the metal slashed down through the air, connecting with Salazar’s head.

  z

  “So, what now, boss?”

  Lissa Krantz was in a good mood, in spite of the fact that the investigation into the Salazar case seemed to be going so poorly. Kozlowski had spent the night again, and this time they’d even managed a few hours of sleep . . . after.

  She loved his simplicity. His honesty. His sincerity. She loved the way he made her feel protected. She also loved his body, and by al
l indications, that adoration was mutual. The age difference didn’t bother her at all; she never even thought about it. Truth be told, she’d always felt as though she had wear and tear beyond her years; the wild days of her youth had put miles on her that didn’t show but were felt deep in her soul.

  “I need you to meet with the alibi witness when you get a chance,” Finn responded. “What’s her name?”

  “Maria Sanchez?”

  “Right. She lives in West Roxbury. According to her story, at the time Steele was being attacked, Salazar was at her house, helping to deliver her baby. She says she was too afraid to come forward before because she was in the country illegally. She ended up marrying an American, so she doesn’t have that problem anymore. Of course, her testifying about things that happened fifteen years ago is going to be subject to all sorts of challenge, but we still need to get it down in an affidavit for her to sign. That way we can put that issue to rest.”

  “I’ll do that today.”

  “Good.” Finn scanned his schedule. “I have a conference call with Billy Smith later this morning. He got all the fingerprint material yesterday, so I’m hopeful he’ll be able to give us a preliminary analysis today.”

  She looked across the room at him. There were dark circles under his eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

  “Sleep’s overrated.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Wonder Woman down in D.C.?”

  He glared at her. “Minding your own goddamned business is not overrated.”

  “All I’m saying is that you’re worrying me. You’re putting every bit of your heart into this case, and I’m having trouble figuring out why. You’re losing your perspective, and that’s a dangerous thing to let happen. Assuming Salazar is innocent—”

  “He is innocent.”

  “Right. Assuming that, what happened to him is really shitty, but it’s not your fault.”

  “How about Dobson? I guess that’s not my fault, either.”

  “You’re goddamned right it’s not.” Lissa looked hard at him. “Dobson was a big boy. He made his own decisions, same as me and you. You can beat yourself up over his murder all you want, but it didn’t have a fucking thing to do with you. You need to get a grip. This Salazar guy is your client, not your family.”

  “My clients are my family.”

  “That’s fucking pathetic, boss.”

  “I’m sorry, have we not met?” He extended his hand. “Scott Finn, Esquire. I make my living in pathos.”

  She shook her head. “You can make your money anywhere you want. It doesn’t mean you have to live there.”

  “You’ll make a really mediocre lawyer with that attitude.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  He withdrew his hand and turned away from her for a moment. When he looked back at her, she could see his determination. “Vincente Salazar is my client. He’s innocent, and it wasn’t his choice to spend the past fifteen years of his life in prison. I’m not going to let him die in there.”

  z

  Salazar saw the aluminum rod flash in Womak’s hand as it swung toward him. There wasn’t time to deflect the blow, but he managed to duck and absorb much of the impact. The metal caught him on the side of his head, and he felt the skin split, unleashing a torrent of blood, but the force wasn’t great enough to separate him from consciousness.

  He stumbled back, falling into Jefferson, who grunted in pain. Salazar looked up and saw Womak advancing on him, baring his yellowed teeth in a sickening display of ecstasy. For a moment Salazar thought the man was trying to finish off Jefferson and viewed Salazar as a mere hurdle, but as he came closer, Womak’s attention never wavered.

  “Time’s up, you fucking spic,” Womak spat as he swung again.

  Salazar dodged the second blow entirely, the aluminum clanging off the restraining bars on Jefferson’s stretcher. The swing, combined with the awkwardness of dragging around his own bed, left Womak exposed, and Salazar saw his chance. He went to swing his arm with all his might, aiming for Womak’s neck, but something was wrong. His arm wouldn’t move. He looked behind him and saw that Jefferson had grabbed his shirtsleeve and was holding on.

  “Don’t think so, motherfucker,” Jefferson cackled. Then to Womak, he said, “Finish this, you stupid fuckin’ redneck!”

  With his arm held stationary, Salazar was trapped. He looked up again and saw that Womak had regained his balance and was going in for the kill.

  Salazar reacted without thought. He whipped his free elbow around behind him. His aim was perfect: He caught Jefferson’s stomach square on the open stab wound. The large man screamed, letting go of Salazar’s arm and doubling over.

  Womak was still coming. Salazar kicked out as hard as he could, connecting with the gurney attached to the convict’s ankles. The wheels slid backward, pulling Womak’s feet out from under him. He went down hard, face-first on the tiling.

  Salazar felt Jefferson grabbing for him and gave him another quick elbow to the gut. Then he turned to see Womak struggling to get to his feet. He had one hand on the gurney and was pulling himself up, his elbow balanced on his knee.

  Salazar lifted his foot and brought it down hard on the killer’s forearm with his entire weight. He caught it at its weakest point—directly in the center of the span running from the man’s elbow on his knee to his wrist on the gurney—and split both bones of the arm in two. As his foot continued on its floor-bound trajectory, the splintered ends of the bones tore through the man’s skin and rattled together as they hit the ground.

  Womak’s scream was ear-shattering but brief as shock overtook him and he collapsed on the floor.

  Salazar’s heart was pounding, and the adrenaline was coursing through his veins as he brought his booted foot up again, hovering over the unconscious man’s head.

  “What the hell is going on here?” someone yelled.

  Salazar looked up and saw the riot guard in the doorway. Behind him stood Galloway.

  “Yeah, what is this?” Galloway managed.

  Salazar put his foot back on the floor and leaned over Womak’s gurney. He felt nauseated. “They attacked me,” he choked out.

  “What?” the riot guard said. “How?”

  “His arms weren’t broken,” Salazar replied. The spit in his throat had gone dry, and he gagged.

  The riot guard walked over and looked down at the mess on the floor. “Well, looks like his arm is broken now.”

  Salazar looked down also. Then he looked at Galloway. The man seemed to be searching for words. “I thought you said you broke his arms.”

  Galloway looked at him, his hand going to his nightstick. “I thought I did. You’re the fucking doctor, right? You should have checked.”

  “You said you broke his arms.”

  “Fuck you, convict.”

  Salazar pulled himself together. Then he bent over and grasped Womak under the arms. “Give me a hand,” he said.

  “What are you going to do?” the riot guard asked.

  “If I don’t get his arm taken care of quickly, he could lose it. Then I’ve got to check this man’s belly wound. It’s going to be another couple of minutes before Dr. Roland gets here.”

  “They tried to kill you,” the riot guard said. “You really care what happens to them?”

  “I’m a doctor,” Salazar said. “It’s my job. Now give me a hand.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Sorry, Finn. I wish I had some better news for you.”

  Finn held the phone to his ear and struggled against the impulse to smash the receiver into the desktop. “How sure are you, Smitty? I mean, it’s not like this is entirely an exact science, right?”

  “It’s science enough for me to know for sure that the two prints match. In some cases, it can be a close call, but not here. I found nineteen clear points of similarity.”

  Finn hung his head but fought back against the odds. “Okay, so nineteen points. That’s not an exact match, right?”


  “There’s no such thing as an exact match,” Smith replied. “When you take prints from two different places or at two different times, there are always going to be small differences, even when it’s the same finger. Depending on how much pressure is applied to the finger when it touches the surface, the nature and qualities of the surface itself, the angle of the finger, whether or not it’s a partial print, and so on. There are a million different variables, so even the same finger never leaves the exact same print twice. That’s why we look for points of similarity—distinctive swirls or ridges that match up—to compare prints. You get enough points of similarity, and you know you’ve got a match.”

  “How many are enough?” Finn was sounding desperate, and he knew it. He’d been counting on Smitty to come back with a result that would let him cast doubt on the testimony of the fingerprint expert who’d helped put Salazar away.

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the degree of similarity, on whether or not there are different levels of similarity that can be seen on a clear print, and on how all the factors add up in the judgment of the fingerprint technician.”

  “You mean there’s no magic number?” Finn had trouble accepting that notion.

  “It depends on the state. Some states require six points of similarity. Some eight. Some ten. Other states leave it up to the discretion of the examiner. In some states, matches have been admitted based on as few as three similarities depending on all the factors taken together.”

  “How about Massachusetts? Is there a rule here?”

  “You guys are a discretionary state.”

  “Great.” Finn was disgusted. “So all we need here is some cop on the stand who says, ‘Yeah, taking everything into account, I think it’s a match’?”

  “More or less, yeah. Shit happens, y’know? These guys are professionals.” Smith sounded defensive, and Finn quickly realized that he wasn’t doing himself any favors by antagonizing his own expert.