by Rick Bowers
Silence fell over the room, as all eyes scanned the highlighted excerpt:
“Again, ladies and gentleman, I ask you to look into the eyes of the defendant. Look deep into the eyes of Edward Thomas Nash. Deep enough to see the lies, distortions, and guilt that consumes him. This monster stalked a lost and troubled girl and beat her with a steel pipe. He placed a noose around her neck and threw her off a bridge—to her death. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I told you how he climbed onto that concrete safety wall and guzzled a beer while gazing down at her swinging corpse. Do you know what he did after that? Ladies and gentlemen, I struggle to even utter it, but the facts are the facts. He urinated on her dead body. From the top of the bridge, he urinated on her. He defiled her corpse.”
Ken Leveson was the first to finish. “Jesus Christ!” He gasped. “Is this true? This creep pissed on the girl’s dead body? What a—”
“No.” Laura slammed the tabletop. “No, no, no. That’s not the point.” Laura looked from one face to the next before pushing on. “There’s no real evidence to support that outrageous and prejudicial claim. Just a hack genetic test I can destroy in court. It never happened. I repeat, it did not occur. Do you hear me? Never. It was made up. By the prosecutor. For shock value. This was the Big Lie.” Laura took a moment to compose herself before continuing. “You want to call my client a sick monster, Ken? Go ahead. The fact is that the prosecutor is the sick monster in this case.”
“Calm down, Laura. Take a breath.” Martha Barrack—the Council’s Chief of Staff—turned to Linder. “Josh. We have to rethink our approach here. This is a complex case that calls for an experienced appellate attorney. I can’t believe you’re just letting Laura run with this on her own. She doesn’t have the experience. She’s always taken second chair and her cases have not been major felonies. Laura is just not ready to take first chair on a first-degree murder appeal in a federal court.”
Laura almost snorted. So spoke the former corporate liability attorney, who’d made millions representing Fortune 500 companies in lawsuits over their faulty products. After the bank accounts, estate homes, and Ferraris lost their thrill, Martha had made the shift to nonprofit exoneration law. Now, she had it all—the good life, and a clear conscience.
“I’ll say it again,” she repeated. “This case requires a seasoned attorney at the lead.”
Classic Martha. A mix of unchecked ego and highbrow condescension. Harsh words delivered in soft tones. A wicked sneer tilting upward into a fake smile. Direct threats delivered with flashing eyes. Martha Barrack, Smiley Face from Hell. Then again, Martha approached all her battles with a holier-than-thou attitude, camouflaged hostility, and a perfect hairdo. The woman was always perfectly coiffed, attired, and made-up, making a point to look better than everyone else in the room. Today, she wore a cashmere sweater set, suede boots, and a self-satisfied demeanor that had been honed at Harvard.
Martha rose from her seat, scanned the table, locked eyes with her peers, and commanded their attention, before letting her blue lasers rest on Laura. “I admire your ambition. I applaud your hard work. I love your determination. You’re going to make a great appeals attorney. But, you’re just not quite ready for a case of this magnitude. I’ll take first chair; you take second. Think of it as a learning opportunity.”
20
Martha’s words hit like sugarcoated shrapnel. Each pierced Laura’s skin, bore deep inside, and lodged itself into her psyche. Laura absorbed the pain and braced for battle. She took deep breaths to calm her nerves. She balled her fists to stall the shakes. Her face heating up, she ignored the impulse to either leap across the table at her colleague’s throat or run away and never come back.
Keep cool. Let it pass. You can’t afford to melt down in front of the entire team.
Laura stared back at Martha, rising to her level. “I’ve got this, Martha. One-hundred-percent. I appreciate your offer, but this is my case. I know it inside out. I have a relationship with the client. My name is on the appellate brief, because I wrote it. This is my case.”
Bitch.
“Hold on one minute. Can I get a word in?” A deep male voice rolled through the room as if from on high. It blended the smoothness of a late-night radio DJ with the low rumble of a jazz crooner. Those pipes belonged to Charles Steel, the team’s self-styled private investigator.
Lacking a law degree but abundant with arrogance, Steel was an unusual character to be sitting with the executive committee. However, his proven ability to investigate wrongful conviction cases, and his track record for freeing the imprisoned innocent, gave him considerable clout within the organization.
“Let me just say this: Laura, you’ve got yourself a helluva case here.” Steel flexed the loose sleeves of his red-and-gold designer dashiki and flipped the dreadlocks off his shoulder. Steel was a smooth talker, and a sharp dresser. His dashikis, sweatshirts, cardigans, and jackets all bore colorful, African tribal patterns and motifs. “This is a classic miscarriage of justice, a tragic wrong to be righted. A complete breakdown of the legal system. We can’t turn away from this; we have to intervene—it goes to the core of our mission. We either save this man, or he dies in prison. Plain and simple.”
Martha sank back into her seat, and Laura returned to hers. It was clear that Steel was just getting started.
“Now, you all know I’ve investigated twenty-six felony appeals, and those turned into reversals or new trials for twenty-six defendants. Based on that experience, I can tell you something obvious about State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash: We can win this. We have to win this. I can see it now. The classic photo we all love? You know the one: The innocent inmate, walking out of prison, surrounded by his legal team—smiles all around. Eddie Nash deserves to go free. We just have to do our jobs, find the facts, connect the dots, make the arguments, and win the case.”
“Wait a minute, Charles.” Ken’s posture stiffened, as Martha fumed on the other side of the table. “Is this Eddie Nash our ideal client? Is this case the most winnable option we have in front of us? Is this middle-aged male the most deserving person to benefit from our precious time, talent, and treasure?”
Charles adopted a stern look, but Laura was sure he was beaming inside. Step into the trap, Kenny Boy.
“Look at it this way, Charles,” Ken continued. “It seems to me that this man got a fair trial. A judge and jury heard the facts and found him guilty. The state appeals court reviewed his case and affirmed the verdict. Why would a federal court go against all that? Even if the federal court ordered a new trial, Nash would just be found guilty all over again.”
“Who does deserve our precious time and treasure?” Steel asked. “One of your potential clients?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Ken planted his elbows on the table and stared at Charles. “I have a thirty-two-year-old insurance executive who was convicted of fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering. He was sent up on the flimsiest evidence and convicted in a bogus show trial because the prosecutor wanted to make an example out of him. The guy was sentenced to a thirty-year stretch in a federal supermax. These kinds of complex, white-collar crimes are far easier to appeal than violent murder convictions. The guy is a sympathetic character. He didn’t hang a poor, mixed-up girl.”
Charles glared at Ken. “And he’s white.”
21
Charles made an exception to his “no race card” rule for his friend, Ken. He lifted his gaze and cleared his throat, before his deep vibrato rolled through the room like a gathering storm.
“Kenny. I hate to explain the obvious, but it appears I must. Eddie Nash is the perfect client. His case is strong. His appeal is pending. His chances are good. And yes, his skin is black. Kenny, I’m sure you’re well aware of the scourge of mass incarceration. The racial injustice that plagues our pitiful excuse for a legal system. I’m sure you understand how institutional racism has turned our prisons into warehouses for b
lack and brown men and women. Hundreds of thousands of African-American and Latino inmates are serving time for crimes that never should have come to trial in the first place. There are more black men locked in prison today than there were enslaved black men in 1850. And you question this man’s right to be represented by the Council Against Wrongful Convictions? What are we doing here, Ken? Why does this organization exist? What game are we playing? Are we here to challenge the system? Or are we just part of it?”
“No. You’re wrong. You know me, Charles.” Ken puffed out like a man who’d been falsely accused of molesting children. “I’m as dedicated to fighting racial bias in the legal system as anyone. I’m appalled by the number of minorities imprisoned in the United States. It’s one reason I became a lawyer in the first place: To end racial injustice. I just want this organization to pursue cases it can win. My client is young. My client is intelligent. He has his whole life in front of him. He can come back from his ordeal. Okay, he’s white. So what?”
“Kenny. Don’t play the back side of the race card with me, bro. Or the age card. So, what’s Eddie Nash? Thirty-eight years old? Are you saying that a thirty-eight-year-old black man isn’t worth saving? We all know the stats, cat. As an African-American man without a law degree, that’s why I work here.”
Motherfucker.
“No, let me explain what…” Ken stammered, looking to Martha for help. Her gaze was focused on the floor. “I just, well, meant…”
“Ken, let me ask a question: Have you ever spent any quality time in those redneck enclaves up north?”
Ken’s face was flushed. His eyes were blank.
“No,” Charles concluded. “I didn’t think so. Let me enlighten you, my brother. The black population in those parts is very small. Maybe five percent in the cities, and fewer in the country. The racism is ingrained. It’s ever-present. Black kids have to walk the line between the redneck racists and backyard barbecue bigots. Blacks kids are happy to just survive in those parts. Let’s give this one guy a chance to rebalance the scales of justice.”
Ken stammered. “Um… well… now…”
Linder straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Charles, as always, thank you very much for your insight. Martha, I have to disagree with you; Laura is more than ready to take first chair on this case. However, you do have a point, so here’s my compromise. Martha, I want you to take second chair. Laura calls the shots. You back her up. Got it?”
Laura and Martha nodded.
Linder went on. “Ken, I have to disagree with you; the Nash case is perfect for us. The pros and cons of representing your white-collar client are a separate matter; we’ll take that up at a future meeting. Plus, we need your undivided attention on your own caseload. The Wyatt case is scheduled for retrial next month. It’s winnable. You have to win that case, so stay focused. Give that man back his freedom. Keep your eyes on the prize.”
Linder looked from one face to the next. “Let me remind all of you of a very important fact: More than fifteen-hundred men and women have been exonerated by organizations like ours over the past quarter-century. With each new exoneration, the world sees the flaws in the criminal justice system and supports our efforts to ensure equal justice for all. Let’s stay focused on our mission. Let’s work as a unified team, instead of a bunch of rivals. Let’s use all our talents and resources to make this movement stronger than ever.”
Linder leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and arched his right eyebrow. Looking to Steel, he said, “Charles, you’re lead investigator. Get to the bottom of this.” He turned to Delilah. “Delilah, you’re paralegal support.”
He paused one more time before stating, “Let’s win this case.”
22
THE INNOCENCE ALLIANCE
THE EXONERATION BLOG
The Innocence Alliance is a nationwide affiliation of organizations dedicated to providing legal and investigative services to men and women seeking to prove themselves innocent of the crimes that sent them to prison. The Alliance also works to correct flaws in the legal system that lead to wrongful convictions and supports the exonerated as they transition to life after incarceration.
NEWS ALERT:
The U.S. District Court of Appeals for the Second District has set oral arguments for September 15 in the appeal of the first-degree murder conviction in State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash. The well-respected Council Against Wrongful Convictions will argue that the appellant was denied a fair trial, due to police and prosecutorial misconduct, and inadequate defense counsel. While appeals courts have been slow to embrace those arguments of late, this creative court challenge has an added twist. It also argues that the appeallee’s right to participate in his own defense was compromised because the trial judge required him to be outfitted with a stun belt, an electronic belt worn under the clothing, capable of delivering a 50,000-volt shock to an unruly defendant. Appeals courts have been growing more and more concerned with the rising use of these devices.
EVENT REMINDER:
Don’t forget. National Exoneration Day will be observed on Tuesday, Oct 3.
23
Laura sat in her secluded nook in the Council Against Wrongful Convictions offices. A stack of court transcripts, legal briefs, hand-scrawled notes, and discovery exhibits cluttered her desk. She was combing through the fine details of the case, certain the answers to her questions were in there somewhere.
The spacious, open-plan office was non-profit chic. Laura’s desk was made of an old, wooden door, painted red and set between metal sawhorses. The ceilings were low, the I-beams were exposed, and the red bricks on the walls were fake. On the wall behind her hung a block-letter poster that read:
“BETTER THAT TEN GUILTY PERSONS ESCAPE, THAN
THAT ONE INNOCENT SUFFER.”
—William Blackstone
In the heart of the office, junior attorneys, administrative assistants, and interns stared into computers, jabbered on phones, and pulled paper from printers. Along the far north wall, more experienced lawyers toiled in small, glass-enclosed offices. CEO Josh Linder and Chief of Staff Martha Barrack worked in opposite corner offices with antique desks, comfortable sofas, and competing egos.
As for Laura, her quiet space in the back of the office was a good spot to prepare the federal court appeal. She’d spent countless hours researching points of law and legal precedents for the written brief to the U.S. Court of Appeals. She’d begun to prepare for oral arguments before the three-judge panel, plotting responses to the questions that were sure to be hurled at her.
Picking up a new document, Laura cringed at the sound of designer boots on pressure-treated hardwood.
Shit. Here it comes.
Martha walked up to her cube and planted her heels in the hardwood, sipping a lavender-infused latte. “Listen… Laura… I came to… I came to, well, to apologize. I didn’t mean to shoot you down in the meeting last week. Believe it or not, I was trying to help. I just went about it the wrong way. You may have noticed that I can be a bull in a china shop. Sorry.”
Laura had seen Martha’s olive branch coming. The nonprofit was plagued with a passive-aggressive work culture that fueled personal rivalries, often undercutting the collaboration needed to win cases. After a blatant power grab, the aggressor—in this case, Martha—had to gloss over the conflict with the veneer of a professional whitewash. Just one more step in the competitive dance.
“We’re good, Martha,” Laura lied. “We’re more than good. Trust is built on honest exchange. We had an honest exchange. That’s how teams work. It’s all about teamwork.”
Martha nestled her cup between two palms. “I’m happy to take second chair. I will have your back.”
“Thanks.”
“You present oral arguments, launch the investigation, and build our case. I’ll remain in the background, helping you with an overall legal strategy. I want you
to win this case.”
“I will win.” Laura flattened her smile, locking in eye contact. “I have a strong case.”
Martha tossed back her scarf. “Great. I like the confidence. Just don’t get too confident. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Please know this, Laura: I’m here for you.”
“Okay.”
Martha glanced over her shoulder at an intern, making copies at a nearby machine. The senior attorney took two steps forward and leaned in closer to Laura, lowering her voice to a whisper. “If you need any advice with any aspect of this case at any time, come talk to me. Let’s put that teamwork to good use.”
“I will.” Laura leaned back to regain her personal space. “I promise.”
“Great.” Martha looked up to the ceiling, studying the sand-swirl pattern. “We’re good, then. Let’s grab lunch next week. We’ve got to work up a solid strategy.”
Martha spun a one-eighty and marched back toward her office.
Laura savored the dying scent of lavender, and the slow fade of spiked heels on hardwood. She pushed out of her cube and strolled to the long, rectangular window on the street-side wall. She looked out at fire escapes and air-conditioning ducts, climbing up red-brick apartment buildings. In the distance, slanting rays of afternoon sunlight poured through the skyline of Lower Manhattan. Down below, young men and women clad in colorful jogging garb trotted along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Couples leaned close on park benches, gazing out at the river, where working barges, crowded ferries, and slow-moving pleasure craft traversed on choppy waves. On the busy street, hipsters paraded in and out of artisanal coffee shops, expensive wine-and-cheese stores, and high-end clothing boutiques.
“Don’t jump.” The deep, rich, mellow voice rolled in from behind her. “It ain’t that bad.”
