by Rick Bowers
The CO stepped forward and put a meaty paw on Eddie’s shoulder. “That’s it, Nash. Time’s up.”
As the guard led him away, Laura shouted, “Stay strong! I’ll be back!”
Then, she watched him disappear back into hell.
***
As Eddie headed back to his cell, his mind circled with crude thoughts. Being locked up with virtually no female contact will do that to a man. He pictured his hot young lawyer stark naked, coming close to him and whispering in his ear. “Please Eddie. Let me take you away from all this.” In Eddie’s mind, the bitch had natural good looks and the physique of a long-distance runner. She was downright sexy for a woman who appeared to shun makeup and suggestive clothes. Her complexion was tanned and smooth. Her green eyes sparkled under thin, arching eyebrows. Her thin lips and button nose verged on being too cute for his taste. He couldn’t get a good read on her contours under her drab clothes, but that could wait.
And once she got him out of here, the wide world of women could be his for the taking.
8
“Home, sweet home.”
The hefty CO placed his right paw on the small of Eddie’s back and pushed. The force sent him stumbling into the center of the cell. Eddie broke his fall with the palms of his hands. Standing back up, he flexed his arms and shook his head to reorient himself to the dark, dank space. Eddie stood still and remained silent, listening as the cell door locked, and the guard’s footsteps faded on the catwalk. Certain that no one could see or hear him, Eddie balled his right hand into a fist and thrust it forward with a muted, “YES!”, celebrating the performance of a lifetime, his version of a victory dance in the end zone following the winning touchdown.
Eddie was pleased—elated—with his role in the lawyer/client interview room. He had delivered his lines with conviction, never wavering from the script he’d etched into his gray matter like words etched into stone. As rehearsed, Eddie had started his tale of woe in the character of the demoralized lifer, the downcast convict with no hope of escaping prison alive. The whole bit about the pine box parole was brilliant. Pine box parole. What a line! Violin music should have been rising and falling in the background. A funeral dirge for a hopeless soul.
Later in the interview, he’d hit his second mark, shifting from the total loser to the proud survivor, clinging to hope. “We’ll fight the good fight.” Eddie was certain he’d expressed his confidence in her with heart-felt authenticity. Stroking her ego was fucking brilliant. Gushing about her being a “great lawyer” and “amazing person” was perfect. Who doesn’t love praise? He’d cemented her trust, and he hadn’t departed from his oft-told narrative of the case itself. The coerced confession, the planted evidence, the bogus witnesses, the guilty verdict, the ten years of torture at Attica. Now, Eddie’s practice and patience were paying off. Now, Eddie Nash was boarding the Exoneration Express.
Yes, Eddie felt good. Real good. Nevertheless, there was something eating at him. What was it? Laura Tobias, the pretty white girl with the fancy law degree and impressive job with the Council Against Wrongful Convictions. Still, she was not his ideal attorney. She was so young. Her record was fairly thin. Does she know what she’s doing?
Eddie had imagined his ideal attorney for years, in the darkness of his cell. For years, in the stillness of the night, he’d heard the voice of his perfect lawyer. Eloquent pleas resounded through the courtroom in his mind. Eddie’s heaven-sent savior was a handsome, square-shouldered, African-American male who wore a three-piece Armani suit and spoke with a voice as deep and smooth as blended whiskey. A Morgan Freeman voice. This brilliant black attorney—a hybrid of Johnny Cochran and Thurgood Marshall—would thunder against this terrible miscarriage of justice. Articulate. Bold. Learned. Fearsome. The man’s twenty-dollar words rolled through his imaginary courtroom like distant cannon fire:
“May it please this honorable forum. Edward Thomas Nash stands before you, the essence of innocence. Mr. Nash is a victim of venal allegations, overzealous prosecution, and unbounded prejudice. I beseech you, do not be distracted by the distortions and deceptions of his shameless tormentors. Look beyond their subterfuge to see the truth. Edward Thomas Nash is innocent. Return this man to his family.”
In the end, Eddie and his savior would emerge from the courtroom, arm-in-arm, basking in the cheers of the crowd, glowing in the bright lights of the TV cameras.
Laura Tobias had come out of nowhere. Two months ago, she’d sent him a letter under of the banner of the Council Against Wrongful Convictions: We have an excellent opportunity to vacate your conviction. Ms. Tobias had followed up with a few introductory phone calls. Just to feel each other out. Then, for the first time, in that cramped room, she’d looked into his eyes, and Laura Tobias had seen what he’d wanted her to see. Nothing more. Nothing less.
To Eddie, she’d looked like a pretty co-ed from a private girl’s college. She’d sounded like a rookie lawyer who’d learned the law from a textbook. Under the surface, though, he’d sensed something more. What was it? What did she have? The woman came off as whip-smart, knowledgeable, and committed to righting the wrongs of a broken legal system. She had a few years of courtroom experience, and had gotten a half-dozen inmates out of lockup. At this point, Eddie figured that he was lucky to have her. Plus, Morgan Freeman, Johnny Cochran, and Thurgood Marshal were nowhere in sight.
Eddie walked to his bunk, sat down, and placed his head in his hands. In the dark world behind his eyelids, he saw home.
9
Laura retrieved her keys and cash from the intake guard and left the Administration Building. She stopped in front of the prison gate to peruse the stone monument bearing the names of the eleven guards killed in the ‘71 rebellion. Knowing that independent autopsies had showed all the dead guards, hostages, and inmates were killed by state police gunfire, she shook her head and whispered to herself, “A monument to a massacre.” She continued into the parking lot and her car for the long drive home. She pulled her faded, blue 1998 Ford Mustang convertible out of the lot, top down, and started along a series of short, crisscrossing roads that led out of the twelve-hundred-acre prison compound. Laura passed through the first checkpoint, beaming as the brick-and-bulletproof-glass guard shack faded in her rearview mirror. She eased onto the two-lane street that would lead to Exchange Road and the highway. Her V-8, 460-horsepower engine had plenty of power to leave the place in the dust, but she kept a light foot on the accelerator, careful to stay within the 25-mph speed limit on the prison roads. A half-mile from the final prison exit road, Laura’s mind drifted back to Eddie.
She recounted the reasons for believing in his innocence—or at least, believing he deserved a new trial.
One: The police forced him to confess, manufactured evidence, and lied on the stand.
Two: The prosecutor bought and paid for the one witness who put him anywhere close to the crime scene.
Three: His public defender failed to challenge any of the bogus evidence and lying witnesses. The PD even put Eddie on the stand without preparation to be eaten alive by the prosecutor.
Four: Eddie had answered all her questions without wavering from the testimony he’d laid out ten years before. He seemed to be telling the truth.
A quarter-mile from the final prison exit, she imagined a judge dismissing all the charges with one great crack of the gavel: “Mr. Nash, I also want to apologize on behalf of the State of New York. You are free to go.” How she longed to hear those five magic words: “You are free to go.” A not-guilty verdict in a second trial would be tantamount to exoneration. The state would be responsible for restitution, or they would face a massive lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment. True, the final settlement wouldn’t make up for all those lost years, but on the other hand, the windfall would make for one hell of a fresh start. Eddie’s family, friends, and neighbors would celebrate his return and help him make the adjustment back to the free world.
Then, Laura recalled a troubling part of the conversation: He’d played the victim card. What was that line? “I just might take a pine box parole.”
A cliche, she thought, from a prison flick.
At times, Eddie had seemed to be playing the part of the shit-for-brains black kid from the racist town. This, she felt, seemed out of character for a man who had proclaimed his innocence for over a decade and seemed hell-bent on clearing his name. Contrived. Eddie Nash was not stupid. Eddie Nash was not weak. Eddie Nash was not a victim. Eddie Nash was a very smart man who acted only in his own best interest. Eddie Nash was out for freedom. Period.
She figured he’d been playing her. In fact, she knew it, to an extent. But, what the hell? That was okay. After all, the guy had his life on the line. Eddie had to get her to believe him. To believe in him. To fight for him. He had to play her. Manipulate her. It didn’t mean he was guilty; he was just working to get the most out of her. At the same time, though, she’d been playing him, too.
She had her own reasons for wanting to win this case. The first trial had been a media sensation, and a second trial—if there was to be one—would sizzle with sensationalism, too. The media would devour it and regurgitate it, over and over, then over again. The rope. The noose. The broken neck. The Hangman of Eden. The names of the lawyers would be printed in newspapers, broadcast on TV, and spread through social media. When the jury announced, “Not guilty,” her notoriety would turn to fame. Her career would be jet-fueled, setting her up for even bigger cases. The name Laura Tobias would be known to every member of the New York State Bar. Reporters would turn to her as an expert source for high-profile cases. The incarcerated innocent would beg her to represent them. Every prosecutor in the state would cringe when she challenged one of their convictions.
Laura had to congratulate herself on her performance. Through the entire sit-down with the convicted man, she’d kept her ambition hidden behind a façade of righteous indignation. She hadn’t let him see the gleam of hunger for fame in her eyes. She’d checked her selfish craving to bask in the limelight. Hell, Eddie had seen her as an idealistic kid out to save a poor black boy from becoming another statistic. Eddie had seen her as one more liberal do-gooder, fighting the big, bad, evil system—the Machine.
He had no clue. New York v. Nash was her ticket to the bigtime.
Laura was an eighth of a mile from the prison exit. Cruising at 20 mph, she glanced back in her rearview mirror. The reflection made her flinch. What the hell? An Attica patrol car had pulled off the service road and pushed to within a foot or two of her rear bumper. Squinting, she made out a uniformed CO behind the wheel.
Shit.
As Laura gazed back, the patrol car inched closer. She crawled down the hedge-lined drive with the blue-and-white vehicle on her tail. She vowed to keep going. Once she pulled onto the public road, this patrolman would have no jurisdiction. When she looked back again, the cop car was almost kissing her chrome. She exhaled long and slow, seeing the sign:
Leaving Attica State Correctional Facility.
How many people have thanked God at that sight?
The Mustang was maybe fifty yards out from the borderline when lights swirled behind it. The blast of a siren made her jump.
No fucking way.
Laura pulled off the prison road and came to a stop on the gravel breakdown lane.
Stay cool. Don’t explode.
Looking once more in her rearview mirror, she saw a tall, thin CO, swaggering toward her. He wore dark sunglasses and a scowl. He leaned into the open driver-side window, resting a hand on his service revolver.
“Laura Tobias?”
“Yeah.”
“Come with me.”
10
Attica Superintendent Leon Wilkes smiled from behind the double pedestal desk in his oak-paneled office.
“Thank you for stopping by, Counselor.” Wilkes raked the long fingers of his right hand through his thick mane of white hair. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Laura was seated in a comfortable leather armchair in front of his uncluttered desk. “How could I turn down the request from the nice officer who pulled me over with his siren blaring and lights flashing?” Her voice dripped with a toxic mix of anger and sarcasm. “The pleasure’s all mine, Superintendent Wilkes. Now, what the hell is going on?”
Wilkes stared back through black-rimmed glasses, his bushy white brows arched over his penetrating steel-blue eyes. “Yes. Well. I apologize for summoning you in such a crude manner. I’d instructed my top lieutenant to escort you from your client visit to my office. However, he couldn’t find you.”
“I’m not surprised. I got there a little late. Your guards gave me the Tour. Led me on a forced march through the cell blocks.”
“How unfortunate. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Right.”
“In the end, I had to send the patrol officer out to invite you to my office. I didn’t want you to get away without making your acquaintance. Again, my apologies.”
“Apology accepted.” Laura leaned back in the chair. She gripped the walnut arms like she was choking throats. “Besides, this is a first for me. I can cross this one off my bucket list.”
“Being pulled over? On prison grounds?”
“No.” Laura shot him a “gotcha” smile. “Hearing the superintendent of a maximum security prison say, ‘I didn’t want you to get away.’”
Wilkes laughed out loud and slapped his desktop. “Now, that’s a good one. All right, then. I’m glad we have this chance to chat. I’m a fan.”
“A fan?” Laura stalled for time to decipher his bullshit. “I’m flattered. I don’t really have fans. This makes you the first member of the Laura Tobias Fan Club.”
Wilkes adjusted his red power tie. It set off his gray suit coat. “I’m also aware of the Council Against Wrongful Convictions. I admire its work, and for the most part, I support its mission. Ms. Tobias, let me assure you, I shudder at the thought of a single innocent person being housed in this facility. Every one of our inmates should have been convicted in a fair and impartial trial, with all the protections of the New York State Constitution and the U.S. Constitution. There should be no doubt of their guilt.”
“Superintendent Wilkes.” Laura looked down and studied the hardwood before reengaging his sharp gaze. “Let’s get down to it. What can I do for you? What do you want from me? You didn’t summon me here to discuss the Constitution.”
Laura was tempted to call him “Warden” Wilkes. She hated the way the prison establishment had whitewashed the language of incarceration, cleansing the DOCSS, when it was formed back in the ‘80s. Prisons became “correctional facilities,” wardens became “superintendents,” guards became “corrections officers.” Attica now had a hierarchy of one superintendent, two deputy superintendents, four captains, eight lieutenants, and dozens of corrections officers.
“Counselor, let me assure you, I have no agenda. I simply want to exchange information in anticipation of a very interesting and important appeal.” The superintendent leaned back in his cushioned swivel chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “As part of the discovery process, the New York State Prosecutor’s Office forwarded your request for a copy of Mr. Nash’s prison file. The entire file is being compiled as we speak. It will be forwarded to your offices in a few days. I think you’ll find it very interesting—enlightening, even.”
“Enlightening?” Laura narrowed her eyes, straightened her back, and ratcheted up her B.S.-detector, which was already soaring into the red. “Well, I look forward to examining the entire file. Now, if that’s all, I’ll be on my way. I have a long drive in front of me.”
Wilkes leaned forward, planting his elbows onto his desktop. “Counselor. Again. We would never want an innocent man to be imprisoned at Attica. That would be a travesty. On the other hand, we would never want a guilty man to be rele
ased from this institution before his rehabilitation was complete. We would never want to send a deranged murderer back into the community to take more innocent lives. I’m sure you can understand our dilemma.”
“Your dilemma?” Laura resisted the urge to slug him. She felt her blood pressure rise like the tide in the run-up to a hurricane. “What are you talking about, ‘dilemma?’ How did this come to be about you?”
“Counselor, may I share an important fact?”
“What?”
“Edward Thomas Nash is not the man you think he is. Edward Thomas Nash is not a poor, uneducated man from a struggling mill town in upstate New York. Edward Thomas Nash is not the victim of a broken legal system that feeds on black men.”
“Is that so?” Laura glared. “What is he?”
“Edward Thomas Nash is a monster capable of unspeakable acts. A one-of-a-kind miscreant who can kill in cold blood and persuade the world of his total innocence. No. Nash is not innocent. Nash is an unrepentant murderer. Nash is a master manipulator. I urge you to reconsider your defense of this man. Don’t make the mistake of putting a diabolical killer back into the world. Read the file. Study his pathology. You will see the truth.”
Laura stared back in disbelief. You arrogant bastard. She buried the expletives running through her mind before finding her voice. “Superintendent Wilkes. Your actions are outrageous. First, you have your guards march me through cell blocks that reek of human waste. A rank attempt at intimidation. Then, you have me pulled over for no reason and escorted to your office. More intimidation. Then, you make outrageous claims against my client, none of which are supported by fact. Then, you ask me to step back from the case. A case that a federal appeals court has found worthy of review. I have a bit of advice for you, sir. Back off. Way off. Now.”
Wilkes lost his grin as Laura piled on.
