by Rick Bowers
“Look. I can have a civil rights complaint on your desk by 10 AM Monday. You can explain your psychobabble theories to a federal judge, and the U.S. Department of Justice. You can spend the next three months with federal prison examiners burrowing up your ass—and if you know me by reputation, Superintendent Wilkes, you know I’ll do it. I’ll bring the whole power of the law down on you like a landslide. I’ll make your life such hell that you’ll want to exchange this fancy office for one of those cells. Do you hear me, sir?”
Wilkes straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Now, now, now, take it easy, Counselor.” He extended his arms wide and turned his palms up toward the ceiling. He looked like a faith healer praying for heavenly intervention. “I meant no offense. I just wanted to make a simple suggestion. To give you a heads-up. For your own good.”
“A threat?” she snapped.
“A warning,” he answered.
Laura glared. “I’ll show myself out.”
“Before you go, Counselor, answer this one little question.”
“What?”
“What do you get when you cross a psychopath with a sociopath?”
She glared back in silence.
“Let me tell you.” Wilkes let a wicked smile cross his face. “You get a two-headed monster. Edward Thomas Nash.”
11
“Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
Laura clinked glasses with her father on the outdoor patio of the Blue Canoe Café on Lake Cayuga. It was a crisp Saturday afternoon, and three days had passed since her Attica adventure. They were sharing a bottle of 1982 Sauvignon Blanc Reserve from the Blooming Creek Winery on the slopes of Seneca Lake and looking forward to a nice lunch at the lakeside restaurant.
“This New York State white is absolute perfection.” Laura lowered her glass onto the white tablecloth, gazing out at the slanting rays of afternoon sun on the shimmering water. “Hints of lime and peach with a perfectly clean finish. Love it.”
“I’ll drink to that.” John Tobias took another sip and savored the flavor. “Here’s to food, wine, and conversation. Then, you can update me on the case.”
Laura’s father was her number-one lunch companion and favorite off-the-books legal adviser. A retired prosecutor with the New York City District Attorney’s Office in Manhattan, he was now all about his golf game, bass fishing, and his daughter’s cases. He brought the perspective of a seasoned prosecutor to her work—and, naturally, never charged for the advice.
Steering clear of the case for now, John moved on to an even riskier subject. “How’s what’s-his-name?”
Laura shook her head in a “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding” way. “You know his name. Nick. Nick Drake.”
“Of course. The Nick Drake.” John shot his daughter a playful smile. “God’s gift to stage, screen, and the unemployment line.”
Laura shrugged off his jab. Game on. “The truth is I have no idea how he is. You’ll be pleased to know that Nick and I are taking a break. We both need a little more space.”
“You broke up with the guy?”
“We’re on hold. We hit the pause button.”
“It doesn’t make me happy to hear that. That’s up to the two of you. I just think you could do better than a thirty-year-old unemployed actor with a fixation on himself.”
“Dad. Please.”
“Nick could pick up a diamond and throw it away because he’d figure it was just a rock.”
Laura groaned. “Please.”
An image of Nick burrowed into her brain. He was handsome. Classic good looks. Strong features. Jet black hair. He was smart. A graduate of Columbia and the New York Academy of the Arts. Sure, he was a struggling actor in New York City. Sure, he just missed out on minor roles in off-Broadway plays, TV cop dramas, and underwear commercials. Sure, he was career-obsessed. Nick was a late bloomer who felt the clock ticking.
Be that as it may, Laura wasn’t missing him. In fact, she was glad her on-again, off-again boyfriend was off-again. She’d stopped taking his calls after he’d begged off their last date to hang out with an old frat buddy who was in town for the night. It was a common theme—plus, she needed space to concentrate on the case.
Their lunch conversation paused as an attractive young woman in a white blouse and black slacks arrived with their meals. The tall, graceful woman served Laura her Cayuga Lake trout, and John his Cornell chicken. Farm-to-table veggies and fingerling potatoes complemented the dishes. They remained silent as they dug in.
Despite the mini-drama with Nick, her relationship with her father was rock-solid. All those back-to-school nights, father/daughter dances, and class projects had forged a bond that just seemed to grow stronger over the years. From bass-fishing trips on the Finger Lakes to Mets games under the moonlight. It was an essential relationship—especially with Laura’s mother gone.
Today, John made a point of having her back. “I’m proud of you, punk,” he said. “Have I told you how much I support what you do on behalf of innocent inmates? You inspire me. You are such a believer and a fighter. Mom would be proud, too.”
Laura studied her empty plate like it held the answers to life’s most confounding questions.
John downed his last bite of chicken and took a sip of water before clearing his throat and addressing the other elephant in the room. “Attica?” he asked. “How was it?”
“Glad to be out. Nice place to visit, but…”
“Nash?”
“Quite a character.”
“But, is he innocent?”
12
“My gut tells me he is.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I didn’t say I was sure.”
“Why do you believe he’s innocent?”
“The case against him doesn’t add up. The police and prosecutors had it out for him from the get-go. The cops manufactured evidence and made up testimony. The prosecutor paid witnesses to lie on the stand. Nash’s public defender just sat there like a bored spectator at a lopsided ballgame. No one followed leads on other suspects. Better suspects. I mean, talk about a frame-up. This was the mother of all frame-ups. All to make sure that this no-account, upstate black kid paid the price for a horrendous crime.”
“How does Nash come across? I mean, what’s he like?”
“Overall, he’s rational for a guy who’s doing life in prison with no chance of parole—and for a crime he insists he did not commit. He’s really smart for a guy who slept through high school and never set foot on a college campus. Eddie Nash served eight years in the U.S. Army and left with an honorable discharge and a skill. He worked as a military vehicle mechanic and never saw combat. Nash has natural intelligence, good instincts, and his own best interest at heart. The man even has a sense of humor—even after serving ten years at Attica.”
John rested his elbow on the table, lowering his chin onto his palm. “Go on.”
“Nash understands his situation, proclaims his innocence, and never wavers from his original storyline. Coerced confession aside, he’s been consistent for more than a decade.”
“And on the other hand? There’s got to be an on-the-other-hand.”
Laura recalled the line about the pine box parole. “He seems to be playing me. Playing the victim card. Like he wants my pity. I mean, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?”
“Eddie’s a naturally confident person. He’s been proudly declaring his innocence for ten years. He’s been working to get his conviction overturned from Day One. So, why does he play the woe-is-me card? ‘Presenting himself as a dumb black kid from a shit-kicking, racist town made no sense. Suggesting that he might just end it all if the appeal failed did not ring true. It was an act.”
“Oh.” John looked out at the geese rising from the lake. “Not good.”
“Let me explain it this way: It is tru
e. This man is a victim of the Machine. He’s been set up and smacked down. However, Edward Thomas Nash does not see himself as a loser. I’ve talked to him a half-dozen times by phone and sat down with him at Attica. This guy is confident, smart, savvy, cool, collected, and determined to clear his name. Maybe too smart. Maybe too cool. Maybe he’s capable of fooling everybody. Maybe he is a master manipulator.”
Master manipulator. Where did I hear that phrase? Oh, yeah. Attica superintendent Leon Wilkes had used it to describe Nash. Laura pushed aside her plate and the memory of her clash with Wilkes. Her father didn’t need to know about her bizarre encounter with the Lord of the Lock Up. Or the VIP Tour, or the prison patrol car. He would just worry—and try to take over her life.
John Tobias looked her in the eye. “So, what do you want?”
“I want the opportunity to prove his innocence in a brand-new trial, in a brand-new venue, with a brand-new judge, and a brand-new jury. I’ll win. Even if I have to put the cops and prosecutors on trial for all their shenanigans during the first trial.”
“Let me ask you this: If Nash didn’t commit the murder, who did?”
“Good question.”
“What’s your plan?”
“To propose multiple theories of third-party guilt.” Laura made the pledge with a straight face before laughing out loud. “I just have to figure out who to point the finger at. Or maybe I’ll just go out and catch the real killer myself. That would solve everything.”
“Well, if your guy is innocent, the real killer is out there.”
“Chances are,” she agreed. “Maybe he’s killed again. Maybe he’ll keep on killing.” Laura decided to change the subject. She turned the conversation back on her dad. “Hey, how’s that committee you were asked to join? You know the one. The old boys’ club up in the state capital.”
“The old boys’ club?” He feigned outrage. “The proper name is the New York State Special Commission on Police Corruption. We’ll be looking into bad cops and issuing a full report to the governor. Should be wrapped up by the end of the year.”
“No kidding? How did you score that gig?”
John shrugged. “My stellar reputation.”
“Your what?”
“My rep for prosecuting the scum of the Earth.”
“What scum of the Earth?”
“Bad cops.”
“What bad cops?”
“The corrupt few who shake down perps, steal drugs, extort money, plant evidence, and lie on the stand. The ones who lord over the drug dealers, gangbangers, and con artists until they’re just as bad as they are. Worse. I loved putting ‘em away. I hate corrupt cops. Make all of us look bad.”
“I had no idea,” Laura said. “You were a real crusader.”
John’s face took on a somber tone. “Just doing my job.”
Laura shifted her gaze to the back corner of the restaurant, where a good-looking man was sitting at the bar, checking her out.
“Hey, Dad. Don’t turn around. The fellow at the bar keeps looking this way.”
“What? Who?”
“Don’t look back. Just a guy. Mid-thirties. Short, blond hair. Killer blue eyes. Blue blazer. White golf shirt. He’s keeps glancing over here.”
“Just ignore him. Mind your own business.”
“He looks familiar. Very familiar. I’ve seen him before. I know it. Where…?”
John decided to ignore her advice, glancing over his shoulder at the man in the blue blazer. After checking him out, John turned back to Laura, who was rolling her eyes at his obvious move. “I have no idea who he is. He looks like trouble to me.”
“He looks so familiar. I know him. I know! Yeah, yeah, yeah, he was filling up at the gas station in the lane next to mine. Small world. He was cute then, and he’s even cuter now.”
“Just ignore him,” John repeated. “Finish your lunch. Drink your wine.”
Laura leaned toward her dad. Why not torture the old man a bit more? “Maybe I should stroll over and introduce myself. I’ll tell him he looks very familiar and ask if we’ve ever met. There’s no telling where an opening like that might lead. He is rather cute—and a sharp dresser, too.”
“Young lady, forget it. You will do no such thing. Good Lord. I didn’t raise you to approach strange men in bars. Do you know how dangerous that is? You’re right about one thing: No telling where it might lead.”
“Oh, come on.” Laura pushed out her hands in a give-me-a-break motion. “You are so sexist. Men do it all the time.”
“It is not sexist,” John shot back. “It’s common sense. You have no idea who this guy is. For all we know, he could be a serial killer. He could be savoring a drink before abducting his next victim. Do you really want to end up in his trunk?”
Laura suppressed a laugh. “Oh, please. Come on, old man. Get with the times. Hey. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I saw his face on Tinder.”
“Tinder?”
Laura groaned. “The dating app.”
John looked over his shoulder again—clearly not caring if the stranger saw him.
The man in the blue blazer was gone.
13
Laura jumped into the bucket seat behind the Mustang’s wheel, cranked the engine, slammed the gear shift, and lurched forward. She had one more stop to make—and it wasn’t going to be an easy one.
Laura cruised down Saratoga Way and eased onto Evergreen Drive. She banked onto a narrow road and through an open gate under a black, iron sign for Longview Cemetery. She rolled down a winding interior road to a tree-lined lot. She parked in the back row next to a stand of spruce and climbed out of the Mustang. Strolling up a lush, grassy hill, she passed under a canopy of towering oaks, their interlocking limbs forming a cover for the rows of headstones and monuments. Above them, thick, gray clouds blotted out the setting sun.
She stopped at a plain granite marker at the top of the hill and read the inscription:
Janet Tobias
Loving Wife and Mother
Born
March 6, 1962
Died
January 16, 1996
Laura’s eyes welled with tears, her mind conjuring up distant memories. Her mom. Beautiful. Vivacious. Loving. The most important person in her young life. A person—along with her dad—she couldn’t live without. Laura remembered how her mom always seemed to have a smile and a kind word at the ready. Her touch and sage advice made the most insurmountable problems become no big deal.
Until the cancer came. Janet Tobias’ battle against the disease turned out to be long and painful ordeal for everyone. The surgery. The chemo. The hospice nurse. Even an eight-year-old girl knew what it meant. Even an eight-year-old girl felt the pain.
A light rain started to fall on the cemetery grounds. It spattered the gravestones and the little flags left for the veterans. Wind swirled in the oaks. A flock of crows rose from the branches and vanished into the fog. Laura clasped her hands and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have been there for you.”
Laura still had a secret locked in her heart all these years later. She knew she should move on, but she couldn’t. The day before her mom’s death, Laura had marched up to her mom’s deathbed and screamed at the dying woman, excoriating her for abandoning her only child: “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
Janet lacked the strength to respond and just drifted off to sleep. She passed away before Laura could take back the words.
After her mom’s death, Laura retreated to her own room, feeling like the sun had been blotted out. The grieving girl tried to bury the pain, but it lingered like a dark force. How could she live without her mom? The woman who took her to school, held her hand when she was afraid, held her close all night when she was sick, and took her side when kids bullied her? Her champion?
Laura choked back tears as the rain droplets glistened on the cemete
ry lawn.
“I’m doing better now, Mom. I think you’d be proud of me.”
Laura closed her eyes at the gravesite and conjured up an image of a girl’s bedroom:
Pink walls. A puppy poster. The lights are dim. The door is locked. A teenage girl sits cross-legged on her bed. She wears cut-off jeans, a t-shirt, headphones, and a somber expression. A grim rock ballad blares through the speakers. The girl holds a razor in her hand. She rests the blade against her bare thigh. She presses the serrated edge to her flesh. As she slides it forward, glorious pain emerges from the crimson flow.
Thunder boomed.
Laura snapped back into the here and now. It was raining harder, and the wind was picking up. Time to go. Before she got drenched. She stepped up to the gravesite and placed a hand on the tombstone. Then, she turned and headed back down the hill—careful not to slip, encircled as she was by the dead.
She stopped short when the parking lot came into view. A man stood at the trunk of her Mustang. Was he messing with her car? As she continued down the hillside, the man spotted her and slipped away into the nearby woods. From a distance, he looked a lot like the man in the blue blazer.
14
Laura cruised down the darkened country road, passing black pine forests, tree-shrouded lakes, and sprawling cornfields. She was anxious to get back to the city and resume the case.
The radio was set to an oldies station, and she sang along to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” At the chorus, she felt the car tilt hard to the left and heard a familiar thud, thud, thud, then the telltale sound of a rubber tire grinding on a steel wheel hub.
She slowed the car to a crawl and pulled the Mustang onto the gravel breakdown lane in the shadows of a stand of massive river oaks, their bare limbs reaching out and interlocking like skeletal fingers. Still in the car, Laura grabbed her phone and called the emergency road service. The words “no service” on the data screen said it all.
She was alone on a desolate road with no connection to the civilized world. Cicadas screeched. Tree frogs chirped. A dog howled in the distance.
