Ms. Robinson called back on Thursday morning. Kenny Ray Clark had signed a permission form. "He said he knows you. I'm going to quote him because it's kind of funny. He told our liaison, 'Yeah, Gail Connor, the skinny blond girl with a mouth on her.' " Ms. Robinson laughed as if they were sharing a joke.
How strange, knowing a man on death row. Gail could not imagine how a boy of twelve had metamorphosed into a killer. She corrected herself: an alleged killer.
In the same conversation Ms. Robinson quickly recounted the history of the case. After taking over from the trial attorney, CCR had appealed first through the state system, then up the federal ladder—district court, Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals, finally the U.S. Supreme Court. The lawyers had claimed incompetent trial counsel, improper sentence, prosecutorial misconduct, judicial bias, et cetera, and they had been denied at every turn.
"You said 'CCR.' What is that?"
"Capital Collateral Representatives. It's the old name, what we were called before the legislature split us into three regional offices. They wanted to make us more efficient. Keep that conveyor belt moving."
Moving toward the lethal-injection gurney, Gail supposed. "What do you plan to do next?"
Ms. Robinson replied that a piece of good luck had just dropped into their laps—a new alibi witness named Tina Hopwood. She was saying that the police had pressured her not to testify at the trial. An investigator needed to go up to Stuart to interview the woman. Depending on what he found out, they might file a new 3.850.
"Thirty-eight fifty?"
"Three-point-eighty-five-oh. Motion for postconviction relief. Look in the Rules of Criminal Procedure."
After venturing an opinion that Kenny Ray Clark was probably safe for at least another two years, Ms. Robinson relented: Gail could come by the office and look at the files that afternoon. Gail told her secretary to clear her schedule.
, At noon she and Anthony met at their favorite Italian place in Coral Gables. As soon as the waiter had taken their orders Gail leaned across the small table and told Anthony about the new alibi witness.
"Tina wasn't Kenny's girlfriend, by the way. She and her husband, Glen, had rented him a spare room in their trailer. Anyway, Kenny was behind in his rent, and at ten o'clock on the morning of the murder, Tina threw him out. At that same time, an eyewitness put Kenny at the murder scene."
"Why didn't Tina Hopwood testify at trial?" Anthony broke off some bread, then looked around for the butter.
"The police forced her not to." Aware how unlikely this sounded, Gail added, "That's what she alleges. The point is, if Tina Hopwood is telling the truth, and if the eyewitness is mistaken, there's an innocent man on death row."
Anthony took a bite of bread. The gold at his wrist glittered. "What about the confession?"
"A jailhouse snitch. You know what their word is worth."
He looked at her, then said, "May I give you a little advice, sweetheart? Do what you have to for Ruby, then let it go. You should spend your time on your own cases."
"This is my case, Anthony. And stop being so damned condescending, will you? "
Gail hated to admit it, but he had a point. She had taken a risk opening her own office last year, and she was barely afloat. And why not, after the death of her sister, divorce, engagement to Anthony, breakup from Anthony, a pubescent daughter driving her nuts, a miscarriage, six months on antidepressants, and a frequent desire to throw herself in front of a cement truck. She was better now. She was beginning to think she was going to be all right.
Following Ms. Robinson's instructions, Gail took the elevator up to the fourth floor. A sign on the wall announced OFFICE OF CAPITAL COLLATERAL COUNSEL, SOUTHERN REGION. Beside that was the seal of the state of Florida. An unmarked door opened directly into a room with stacks of cardboard banker's boxes and a huge copy machine. A young man in jeans and a T-shirt looked around as he continued to press buttons and flip pages.
"Hi. Need some help?"
It took Gail a second to realize that she had not inadvertently come in the wrong way. There was no reception area because the clients never showed up. She said who she was, and that Ms. Robinson was expecting her.
"Denise said to put you in the conference room. She's finishing up a brief. It won't take long." He led Gail around the corner past open doors and offices cluttered with papers. She heard someone on a phone call, saw a man typing into his computer.
"Can I get you anything? Coffee?"
"No, I'm fine. Thanks."
Left alone, she set her briefcase on the floor. Law books occupied the shelves, but so many storage boxes were in the way it would have been hard to reach them. More boxes had been piled on a hand truck and stacked on a low blue sofa.
On the long table in the center of the room was one box with a piece of paper taped to the lid. Gail went over to read it. D. Robinson. She lifted the lid. Legal papers. The one on top was an inch thick. State of Florida vs. Kenneth Ray Clark. Amended Motion to Vacate Judgment of Conviction. Under that were more pleadings. Manila folders had been crammed in sideways. Gail walked her fingers over the index tabs. Police reports. Witness list. Crime lab. Autopsy. Until now, this case had not been real to her. She took out the folder with the police reports and flipped it open. The reports had been filed in chronological order, starting with the first officer to arrive on the scene, Deputy R. Adams.
On Monday, Feb. 6, 1989, at approximately 1817 hours, this deputy was dispatched to the residence at 2200 White Heron Way in Palm City w/regard to a complaint re deceased persons. On arrival at 1821 hours I observed complainant, Gary Dodson, standing in front yard holding his son (Darryl Dodson, w/m 03/11/88). Mr. Dodson was visibly upset and crying. I asked if he or the child needed medical attention and he kept saying "they're dead, they're dead," referring to his wife and child. I entered the home and found the wife, later identified as Amber Lynn Dodson (w/f 01/30/65) lying faceup on the bed, partially clothed. There appeared to be an electrical cord around her neck and several stab wounds to her torso.
A large amount of blood had pooled around the body. I exited the house and contacted Sgt. Hardy via radio and requested him to meet me at the scene. EMS along w/Martin County fire/rescue arrived at approx. 1823 hours. Paramedic Marsh pronounced the child at 1824. Paramedic Lee entered the residence and pronounced the wife at approx. 1825.1 began my crime roster and proceeded to secure the scene. . . .
Many more pages followed, written by various other officers. Supplemental incident reports. Copies of pages from a pocket-sized spiral notebook in which conversations with neighbors had been recorded. Names, dates, times. Crime scene reports. A scale drawing of the house. Typewritten pages prepared by a Sergeant R. Kemp. A report of a photo lineup, copy attached. Six small faces, badly reproduced, impossible to make out. One was initialed "DC" and dated 2/20/89. Dorothy Chastain positively identified photograph #2, Kenneth Ray Clark, as the man she observed on the victim's property. A copy of the report had been sent to Captain Bryce.
Gail slowly let the folder down on the table, her eyes on the page. She had expected his name to pop up somewhere. This was a Martin County case, after all, and the sheriff's office had investigated.
The last time Gail had seen Garlan Bryce had been at her cousin Jackie's graduation from high school eight years ago. He'd been Sheriff Bryce by then, a big man in a business suit and a Stetson, his military haircut turning gray. After the ceremony they'd all gone back to the house, which his grandparents had built on the St. Lucie River. Friends, relatives, and local big shots had spilled out onto the oak-shaded lawn. Gail and Jackie had sat in a porch swing and talked. They'd caught up on news and promised to stay in touch. But they hadn't. Ever since Aunt Lou's death, the Bryces had kept their distance. Gail wasn't entirely sure what the story was, it had been so long ago, but she thought it started when Louise and Garlan's marriage went bad. Aunt Lou left him, and a few months later her car veered off the road and overturned. At the funeral Gail saw how Garlan avoided her mother. He'
d blamed Irene for taking her sister's side.
"Ms. Connor. You must've found something real interesting. I called your name twice."
The woman standing in the doorway came in. She was in her mid-forties, Gail thought, and very tall, over six feet. Her long legs made her quick steps seem graceful. A white linen shirt hung loose over faded blue jeans. Her hair was pulled tightly back, shining, then escaping into a huge black puff. Each ear was adorned with several earrings. Behind gold-framed glasses, her large, slightly protruding eyes rested on Gail as if taking a reading. She extended her hand.
"I'm Denise Robinson. Sorry to keep you waiting. Things are crazy around here."
Gail nodded. "I hope it was all right if I looked through the box."
"That's why I left it there. You'll find only the basic stuff, but it gives you a good overview. That's what you said you needed."
"What about the trial transcript?"
"I didn't put it in."
"Well, could I see it?"
Ms. Robinson raised a brow. "It's two thousand pages. Do you have time for that? We can't make free copies."
"I'll do what I can today and come back tomorrow. What time do you close the office?"
"We live here. You think I'm kidding." Ms. Robinson finally smiled, showing a space between her front teeth. "Okay, I'll ask someone to dig out the transcript for you. Read and observe a bad defense attorney greasing the tracks toward a conviction."
"Who was it? The public defender?"
"If only. No, the PD would've done a decent job. One of their clients was a witness against Kenny Ray, so they had to conflict out. The judge appointed Walter Meadows. Aside from being a practicing alcoholic, he hadn't handled a capital case in twenty years."
"Why didn't the Florida Supreme Court order a new trial if Meadows was so bad?"
"You don't do much criminal law, do you? The Florida Supreme Court doesn't like to overturn convictions. They want to keep that train rollin' down the tracks."
Gail gave a quick shake of her head. "No, what was their basis for denying your claim of ineffective assistance of counsel?"
Apparently surprised that Gail had the brains to remember this, Ms. Robinson said, "Here's how it works. We don't file our motion in the Supreme Court. The rule says we have to file it in the trial court, right back before Judge Willis. Now, is Willis going to admit he was wrong to appoint Walter Meadows? Uh-uh. Judge Willis says, well, so what if Walt didn't do his own investigation? And if he didn't cross-examine that deputy, why, he musta had good reasons. It was all defense strategy. The jury might have voted guilty anyhow, so I'm gonna deny y'all's motion."
"He didn't say that, surely."
Denise Robinson gave a slow nod, and the black pouf of her hair went up and down. "When we take it up to the Florida Supreme Court, all they ask is, 'Did the trial judge have any facts to support his decision, or was he totally off the wall?' "
"I see. He didn't sound irrational, so they affirmed his ruling."
"You got it." Denise Robinson tilted her head toward the box on the table. "What did you find in there that was so fascinating?"
"A name. Garlan Bryce. He was married to my aunt."
"Sheriff Bryce? We've met in court a few times." She gave Gail a sideways glance. "And he's your uncle?”
"By marriage. We haven't really been in contact since my aunt died. What did Garlan do on the Clark case?"
"Supervised. He was in charge of the Criminal Investigations Division. The lead detective was Ronald Kemp, but Garlan Bryce ran the show."
"Did Tina Hopwood say who convinced her not to testify?"
"It would probably have been Kemp, somebody working the case directly. I doubt it was Bryce—if that's your question."
"But he would have known about it, don't you think?"
"Of course." Denise Robinson sat on a corner of the table. "You and Sheriff Bryce don't speak?"
"Not lately."
"Too bad. Guess I can't ask you to call him up. 'Uncle Garlan, what did y'all do to Tina Hopwood?' "
Gail smiled. "What did Ms. Hopwood say?"
"She was on probation for worthless checks at the time, and they threatened to have her thrown in jail. I haven't talked to her directly. She called Walt Meadows, and he got in touch with us. He's retired, but she didn't know who else to call, and I think Walt feels bad, somewhere in his pickled little brain, for how he messed up."
"Why do you think Ms. Hopwood waited eleven years to say anything about it?"
"Damned if I know. I just hope she doesn't change her mind." Denise pushed away from the table. "If that's it, I need to get back to work. Coffee machine's down the hall to your left."
"Wait. Could you give me an opinion about something?"
She turned around in the doorway. "All right. What?"
"Do you think Kenny Ray Clark is innocent?"
"Excuse me?"
"I think Ruby would be all right if she had some hope."
"Hope of what? That he actually, factually didn't do it?" "Yes. What can I tell Ruby?"
"For God's sake, you never tell a relative the client is innocent. Don't even go there. They'll expect him to walk out the door, and it might not happen, then they'll hate you. I think the best she can hope for is a new trial. If Kenny gets a lawyer who knows his ass from his elbow, he might have a chance. Tell Ruby that this new information will give us more time. Other than that... I don't know. I can't say what's going to happen. Now if you'll excuse me. That brief won't write itself."
"Ms. Robinson—"
She turned around again.
"Could he be innocent?"
"He says he is. As his lawyer, I don't ask."
"But most of them claim to be, don't they? What do you really think?"
Her dark eyes flared with impatience. "I can't answer that. No, I'll be real clear. I won't. I'm not going to sell out my clients by dividing them into two neat little stacks, those that deserve my help, and those that don't."
"I would like to tell Mrs. Smith," Gail said firmly, "whether Kenny has any chance of getting out of prison. I presume that innocence would make a difference."
"You presume. Let me tell you something, Ms. Connor. Guilt or innocence is not the point. The state is trying to kill my clients. I'm not asking that they be set free. I just don't want them dead. Who do you think they are? A bunch of Ted Bundys? My clients are more ordinary than you'd ever dream. Most of them are from poor and violent homes. They can hardly read and write. They're addicts and alcoholics. A few were juveniles at the time of the crime, and the Supreme Court says it's okay if we execute them. Half of the people sentenced to death are black, and the Supreme Court sees no problem with that. It sees no problem rejecting a claim of innocence, as long as the prisoner got a fair trial, but would someone tell me what that is? I've seen cops lie, witnesses make mistakes, and defense lawyers fall asleep. Killing people to prevent killing doesn't work, hasn't worked, and never will, but damn, it feels good. You sort through all that, and then we'll talk about innocence and guilt."
Gail could think of no response. Her cheeks burned from confusion and embarrassment. "I'm grateful for your time. If you would have someone find the trial transcript, I'll get to work."
Denise Robinson put a hand on top of her head and looked toward the ceiling. "Lord have mercy." With a low laugh, she said, "How I go on. Live, eat, breathe this kind of work, you forget how to talk to normal folks. I am sorry."
"I understand," Gail said. "You believe in what you're doing."
"Yes, I do."
For a long moment, Denise looked across the table at her, then smiled. "Why don't you sit down and let's talk for a little bit." She pushed a chair toward Gail, then found another for herself. She crossed her legs. "What law firm are you with?"
"I'm a sole practitioner." Gail sat down but could not relax. "I was with Hartwell Black and Robineau in Miami for eight years, handling major commercial litigation. Last year they offered me a partnership, but I said no and opened my own off
ice. I needed a more flexible schedule. I'm divorced with a daughter, Karen. She's eleven now. Her dad's living in the U.S. Virgin Islands, so I'm it."
"I hear you." Denise's smile showed the gap in her teeth. "Hartwell Black, huh? That's starting at the top. What kinds of cases do you do now?"
"Basically anything that crosses my desk."
"But not criminal law?"
"I know nothing about criminal law. Well, that's not entirely true. I've picked up a few things from my ... well, I guess you could say fiancé, but we're not in a hurry. His name is Anthony Quintana. You might have heard of him."
"I might have heard of him? Oh-ho, yes. If my clients could've hired Anthony Quintana, most of them wouldn't be my clients." She grinned. "You know the definition of capital punishment?"
"No, what?"
"Them without the capital gets the punishment." Pushing herself out of the chair, Denise said, "You know what? Before I leave you with all those files and things, you ought to say hi to Kenny." She laughed. "His picture's on the Department of Corrections Web site. You can leave your briefcase in here, it'll be all right. Come on."
Gail followed her out the door.
Denise glanced over her shoulder as she walked. "Ruby Smith had three children, and Kenny's mother was the oldest, Norma. She married a house painter and they moved around for a few years. Kenny was born in Arkansas, he and his older sister. Their father split when he was five. Norma's second husband beat her and the kids with anything in reach. A broom handle, a belt, an extension cord. He was sent to prison on drug charges. After that Norma lived with a man who started sexually abusing Kenny when he was nine years old."
"My God," Gail murmured. She had some knowledge of Ruby's family history but not this.
"It wasn't in the record. Kenny wouldn't let Walter Meadows bring it up in the penalty phase. He was too ashamed. Walter should have pushed him, because the jury needed to hear it."
Denise led Gail into a cluttered office at the end of the hall. Windows looked out on the rough gray exterior of the federal courthouse.
Suspicion of Vengeance Page 3
