Innocence

by David Hosp

  “So there’s your answer.”

  “If Judge Cavanaugh asks me a direct question about the DNA evidence, though, I’m not going to lie. I’m not losing my license for this guy.”

  “Of course,” Kozlowski agreed. “As long as you treat this guilty bastard the way you treat all the other guilty bastards you’ve represented.

  You can’t tank the case just because you’re pissed at yourself for believ

  ing the man.”

  “I am pissed, though.”

  “I know, but you’re a lawyer. If you haven’t gotten used to the fact that your clients lie to you, you might as well get out of the business altogether. Maybe you could be a florist.”

  “Fair enough. It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that nothing,” Kozlowski pressed. “Either you can do the job or you can’t. It’s that simple.”

  Finn looked down at the papers he had carefully crafted earlier in the day. They were good papers. Setting aside the fact that his client was guilty, they might be enough to get Salazar out of jail. He wouldn’t be the first guilty man Finn had saved from imprisonment, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

  “How’s Lissa doing?” he asked, changing the subject to take his mind off the moral dilemmas of his work situation.

  “She’s getting stronger.”

  “She’s resilient,” Finn commented.

  Kozlowski nodded.

  “Don’t fuck it up.”

  “I could say the same to you. Did you get a chance to see Flaherty today?”

  Finn gestured toward the papers on his desk. “These briefs didn’t write themselves. I didn’t have time, and she caught an early flight back to D.C.”

  “She’s resilient, too,” Kozlowski said. He stood up and walked back toward his office.

  “Yeah,” Finn said once Kozlowski was gone. “I know.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Monday, December 24, 2007

  It snowed again on Monday. That made fifteen straight days in Boston with at least some snowfall—a new record, even in a New England city well accustomed to winter whiteouts. Walking to the courthouse, Finn stopped to watch a group of city kids sledding down the alley on the backside of Beacon Hill, which led down toward the Suffolk County Courthouse in the heart of Boston. Their laughter made him nostalgic for a childhood he’d never had. He wondered what it would feel like to have that sort of freedom.

  The courtroom was crowded, particularly for a Monday on the day before Christmas. Cavanaugh was the only judge holding court, but the headlines from that Saturday evening’s raid on St. Jude’s—and the rumors of a connection with the Salazar hearing—had piqued enough curiosity to fill most of the seats with a combination of press, lawyers, and law enforcement personnel. Finn caught sight of the Salazar family sitting in the front row: Miguel, Rosita, and Salazar’s mother, packed together in nervous anticipation. Finn felt bad for them. Whatever Vincente Salazar was guilty of, they did not deserve the pain they had been through. He walked over to greet them. “Good afternoon,” he said politely.

  They were quiet and seemed almost frightened. Finn couldn’t blame them, considering their past experiences with the American judicial system. “Mr. Finn,” Miguel acknowledged him. “It feels like a good day.”

  “With luck,” Finn replied. “You never know what can happen once you enter the courthouse, though. How are you holding up?”

  Miguel shrugged. “I don’t believe you have met my mother and my niece, Rosita.”

  “I haven’t,” Finn said. “But Vincente has told me enough that I feel like I already know them.” He extended his hand to Salazar’s mother, who took it with both of her own.

  “Thank you for all you have done for my son,” she said. “I am praying for you.”

  “I appreciate it,” Finn said. “We can use all the prayers we can get.” He held his hand out to Rosita, but she remained still. It took a moment for him to realize that she couldn’t see it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosita,” he said.

  She held her hand out in response, and he moved his to hers. “Thank you, Mr. Finn,” she said. “Is my father really coming home today?”

  Finn felt wounded. “I hope so,” he replied, wondering whether he meant it. “I’m going to do my best.” That much, at least, was true.

  Sitting next to the Salazar family was Joe Cocca, a lawyer Finn knew from around the courthouse. “Joe,” he said. Surveying the courtroom, he raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised at how crowded it is, with Christmas and all.”

  “Interesting case,” Cocca responded. “Is it true you were involved in the fireworks this weekend over by the airport?”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Finn cautioned. “You just down here for the entertainment value?”

  “More or less,” Cocca responded. “But Miguel’s a neighbor, and I thought I should be here to support the family.”

  There was a rustle from the front of the courtroom as the court reporter and two clerks came in and took their seats. It was a sign that Judge Cavanaugh’s arrival was imminent.

  “Gotta go,” Finn said.

  “Yeah. Good luck,” Cocca said. “They’re a good family.”

  Finn found it hard to meet Cocca’s eyes. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.” He turned and spread his notes and papers out on counsel’s table. The real question was whether his best would be enough.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Vincente Salazar was led up to the courtroom from a holding cell in the basement of the courthouse. He’d spent most of his morning in transit and processing. The processing had taken the most time, but it was a part of prison life he’d grown accustomed to. He was dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit and cuffed at the wrists and ankles. His restraints were released only once he was at counsel table, and two burly, heavily armed bailiffs remained behind him, watching him closely.

  He turned to look at his family, giving them a nervous wave. “I’m here,” he called to his daughter, and her smile revealed a sliver of hope that broke his heart. “I love you,” he called. It’s all for her, he reminded himself. Then he turned and faced Scott Finn. “I didn’t know whether you would show up.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “There is something you should know.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “We have to talk, at least briefly.”

  The lawyer swung around on him, looking at him for the first time. “There’s nothing I want to hear from you,” he said. “The less I know, the better. The more I know for sure, the harder it will be for me to do my job.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m about two seconds from walking out of here and leaving you on your own. You want me to represent you? Fine. But I’m going to do this my way. I’m going to do my best to get you out without violating any of my own legal or ethical obligations, but don’t push me on this.”

  Salazar watched in silence as Finn turned his attention back to his briefcase, opening it and laying out stacks of papers, briefs, and legal pads on the table. Salazar wondered whether he should press his luck and try to force the man to hear him out, but thought better of it. If the lawyer thought there was a plan of any sort in place, he was the sort who would refuse to participate. Worse still, he could inform the court and destroy everything. Salazar would just have to trust that Finn was a good enough lawyer to stumble onto the answer himself.

  He was still second-guessing his decision when the door behind the bench opened. A short, heavyset woman waddled her way up to the desk in front of the judge’s perch. She flipped open a scheduling folder and checked a few notes on the desk, then nodded to the bailiff standing to the side of the bench. He nodded back to her and faced the courtroom.

  “All rise!”

  z

  Tom Kozlowski sat at the back of the courtroom. By the time he’d arrived, there had been no seats left up front. That suited him fine. He wanted to be there in case Finn needed anything, but he could
do that from the cheap seats. From his point of view, his personal and professional involvement in Salazar’s case had ended when Carlos’s brains hit the floor in St. Jude’s. Lissa was safe now, and Salazar’s fate was in Finn’s hands. Kozlowski was little more than a spectator at this point.

  “Haven’t seen you here before,” a voice to his left said. Kozlowski looked over at a grizzled veteran sitting with an old newspaper on his lap. The man stank of stale booze and cheap cigarettes, and the fatigues he wore looked as though they hadn’t been washed since they’d left whatever field of battle the man had seen last. Kozlowski said nothing.

  “I’m here every day,” the man continued, undeterred. “It’s the best entertainment in town that don’t cost nothing, particularly when that guy is up there.” The man was pointing at Finn, and Kozlowski’s interest was engaged in spite of himself. “He’s the best there is. Rough around the edges, maybe, but he’ll keep you guessing.” The man gave a broad smile that Kozlowski found endearing, notwithstanding the dark holes where teeth should have been.

  Kozlowski finally said, “I’ll keep an eye on him, then.”

  The man laughed. “You do that! You just do that!” His eyes sparkled as if he were the only one God had let in on some great cosmic joke.

  “All rise!”

  Kozlowski took a last look at the man sitting next to him. He was smiling excitedly, like a young boy at the opening credits of a beloved cartoon. He looked over at Kozlowski and winked. “Enjoy the show!” he said.

  z

  The Honorable John B. Cavanaugh approached the bench with more vigor than he had felt in years. His back, stooped though it was, felt stronger and straighter than he could remember, and there was an electricity in his veins that he’d once thought would never return. He felt, as he had so long ago when he first donned the robe, like an instrument of justice. It had been a long time since he’d felt like much more than an ineffectual bureaucrat, feeding the basest of human conflicts through the broken sausage grinder of the judicial system.

  He stepped up to the bench, ignoring the pain shooting from his shoulder blades down to the base of his spine. “Be seated,” he bellowed. He, too, sat, looking down at the lawyers gathered before him. He took a particularly long look at Vincente Salazar, sitting next to Scott Finn. Then he swiveled his head and looked at Albert Jackson, the assistant district attorney. “I’ve read Mr. Finn’s briefs,” he began slowly. “It appears that we have quite a mess here, don’t we? Were these proceedings not being transcribed, I would be sorely tempted to employ stronger language, but to preserve decorum, I’ll leave it as a ‘mess.’ Quite a mess.”

  Jackson rose to speak. “Your Honor, if I might—”

  Cavanaugh cut him off. “No, you might not, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “Believe me, I will get to you directly, and I assure you we will have quite a bit to talk about. Until then I want you to sit down and be quiet.” He took some small satisfaction in the look of fear that engulfed Jackson’s jowly face.

  Addressing Finn, Cavanaugh continued. “As I said, Mr. Finn, I have read your briefs. They set forth a compelling tale. But I couldn’t help noticing that there was nothing in them about DNA testing. As I recall, that was what this case was supposed to be about, no?”

  Finn stood before him. “Yes, Your Honor. When this all began, we believed that DNA evidence was the only way we could demonstrate that Mr. Salazar was wrongly convicted. But as you know from our papers, as our investigation continued, we uncovered a massive conspiracy to frame Mr. Salazar. We feel that this new evidence is sufficient to overturn his conviction even without DNA evidence.”

  “And the DNA testing?”

  “We don’t have an official report at this time, Your Honor.”

  Cavanaugh scrutinized Finn closely. “Are you telling me that you would prefer to proceed without relying on any DNA testing?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. We believe that the evidence we submitted is sufficient.”

  Cavanaugh gave a last look at Finn, like a rounder trying to sniff out a bluff. Then he flipped through the papers in front of him. “I can’t say I blame you,” he said. “The evidence here is overwhelming.” He looked at Jackson, his face narrowing like a hawk’s. “Mr. Jackson, can you offer me any reason why I shouldn’t overturn Mr. Salazar’s conviction and initiate disciplinary action against your office to determine who knew what when?”

  Jackson stood up and cleared his throat. “First, Your Honor, as you consider the issue of discipline, I would ask you to take note of the fact that I was still in college when Mr. Salazar was convicted and the events described in Mr. Finn’s brief took place.” He gave a smile almost as weak as his attempt at levity.

  Cavanaugh took off his glasses. “Son, look at me closely. Do you see anything in my expression that would suggest to you that I am in the mood for humor?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Do you see any indication that I find any part of this god-awful mess the slightest bit amusing?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “If I were you, I would bear that in mind as I address this court.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may proceed.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Jackson seemed to be bracing himself like a firefighter about to enter a burning building. “First, I, too, have read Mr. Finn’s papers, and I can assure the court that the district attorney’s office has initiated its own internal investigation to determine whether anyone on staff was aware of any of the allegations that have been brought to light. I am also told that our office will be coordinating with the BPD’s internal affairs division to determine whether there is an ongoing problem within the police department.”

  “Whether?” Cavanaugh’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Jackson took a deep breath. “Yes, Your Honor. In spite of this all, however, the district attorney’s office is strongly opposed to overturning Mr. Salazar’s conviction.”

  “On what grounds?” Cavanaugh demanded. “By all indications, Mr. Jackson, certain members of the law enforcement community fabricated the evidence used to secure Mr. Salazar’s conviction. By what

  possible logic can you oppose this man’s release?”

  “Harmless error, Your Honor.”

  “What?”

  “Harmless error. We believe that Mr. Salazar would have been convicted anyway.”

  “I know what ‘harmless error’ means, Mr. Jackson,” Cavanaugh sneered, and he could feel his face run scarlet. “I just can’t understand how you could possibly advance such an argument with a straight face.”

  “I can, Your Honor, because the DNA testing you yourself ordered demonstrates with absolute certainty that Mr. Salazar is guilty of the crime for which he was convicted.”

  Cavanaugh shot a look at Finn. “I thought Mr. Finn indicated that there was no report,” he said slowly, his faith shaken slightly.

  “That is correct,” Jackson continued. “There is no report as yet. The tests have been completed, though, and the results are indisputable.”

  Cavanaugh shook his head in disbelief. “Do you have someone who can testify to this?” he asked.

  “We do,” Jackson replied. “With your permission, we would like to call Anthony Horowitz to the stand to testify.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Finn’s heart was pounding as Horowitz took the stand. He’d hoped that the DA’s office wouldn’t follow up with the DNA lab to check on the test results, but he’d known there was always a risk. Without the DNA evidence, Cavanaugh would have little option but to set Salazar free. But once Jackson demonstrated that Salazar was actually guilty, there seemed little hope. Finn could feel the judge staring at him as Horowitz was sworn in. Finn refused to meet his eye.

  “Dr. Horowitz, would you tell Judge Cavanaugh what you do for a living?” Jackson began.

  “I am the chief technician at Identech Labs,” Horowitz replied. “We specialize in DNA testing.”

  “And were you retained to perform
such testimony in this case?”

  “We were. Mark Dobson, the defendant’s first lawyer, called us a couple of weeks ago and asked us to test DNA found in skin and blood samples pulled from underneath Officer Steele’s fingernails against that of the defendant, Mr. Salazar. Mr. Finn followed up with me a week or so later.” Horowitz shot Finn a look that seemed almost apologetic. Finn had some sympathy for the man; after all, he was a scientist and had little choice but to follow the evidence presented him to its logical conclusion.

  “What did Mr. Finn say to you when he talked with you?”

  “He said, ‘This guy’s innocent.’”

  “And how did you interpret this?” Jackson asked. He was a good lawyer; Finn had to give him credit. The examination could have been conducted in three or four questions, but he was dragging it out, giving it an atmosphere of suspense. It was exactly what Finn would have done.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Horowitz replied hesitantly.

  “Did you take that as a request from Mr. Finn to do whatever you could to make sure that the results came out negative and cleared his client no matter what?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Finn said, standing. He infused his voice with enough indignation to make it clear that Jackson had no basis for the question, but otherwise, he remained composed. This was all part of the game, and Finn knew it.

  “Sustained,” Cavanaugh said.

  “No,” Horowitz said, ignoring the judge’s ruling. “Finn’s not like that.”

  “Of course,” Jackson said. “And you know that because you’ve done work for Mr. Finn in the past, correct?”

  “I’ve done some work for him,” Horowitz admitted. “He’s had a couple of paternity cases we helped out with.”

  “And you depend on lawyers like Mr. Finn to keep bringing you business in order to make money, right?” It was a good ploy, Finn knew. The questions were objectionable, but they were effective at conveying the notion that Tony would, if anything, have preferred to deliver the results Finn had been looking for.