by Rick Bowers
Laura turned to see Charles Steel.
24
PI Charles Steel. Or as TIME called him, “The Sherlock Holmes of the Innocence Movement.” Effortlessly hip, from his streaming dreads to his jet-black shirt with subtle tribal patterns embroidered over the pocket.
Steel tucked his hands into the pockets of his designer jeans and asked, “How goes the case? Or have you solved it?”
Laura shook her head. No way. “I was going to ask you. Where the hell are we?”
“Screw Martha.” Charles did his best impression of a snarl. “Forget about her. Don’t let her get into your head. She’ll mess up your thinking and do a number on your self-confidence. It’s what she does, and she’s so good at it. You should see her in a courtroom.”
“I can handle Martha,” Laura replied. “I’ll make her an asset.”
“Good. From an asshole to an asset.”
Laura swallowed a laugh. “I’m glad to have you on my side, Charles. You’re going to make such a difference. I need a partner on this.”
“Let’s get going, then. No time to waste. I want to go over everything you have on the case. Timelines, witnesses, alibis, theories, alternative theories, conspiracy theories, the works. I’m putting on a second investigator to help with the legwork. We’ll get to the bottom of this mess.”
“You’ve read my mind. We have to scrutinize every word of testimony and shred of evidence from the original trial. We have to prove that certain testimony was false, and certain evidence was fabricated. I mean, half of the prosecution’s case didn’t prove anything about Nash’s guilt or innocence. It was just fear-mongering, intended to shock the jury into voting guilty.”
Charles nodded. “We may be able to find new witnesses who didn’t come forward the first time around. We may be able to find new evidence that slipped through the cracks in the original police investigation. Who knows what the cops ignored, lost, buried, or burned? We’ll turn over all the rocks, take down all the prosecution’s bricks. I’m planning a complete reinvestigation. Top to bottom.” He spoke like a man who had done this before. “Who else had a motive to kill the victim? Who else had access to the crime scene? Why did the cops target Nash to the exclusion of all other suspects? It’s all on the table.”
“Thank you, Charles. You’re right. But, there’s something I have to tell you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and pointed to the corner window. “Come on over here for a minute. No one can hear this.”
Laura led him to the far corner of the office, out of earshot of everyone else, and told him about the CO in the prison patrol car, and the prison superintendent who’d demanded that she drop the case. She described the stalker who’d attacked her on the isolated country road, and the gleam of his tire iron. She shared the eerie feeling of being followed, and the fear of being attacked again, immensely relieved that she could entrust those secrets to her colleague.
“Thank you for listening. It’s been an ordeal.”
“What’s your cell number? We have to be in twenty-four-seven contact.”
They exchanged numbers.
“Okay.” Charles spoke at a deliberate pace. “If anything else happens—if anything unusual occurs, anything at all—contact me. I’ll come running. I know how to deal with this.”
25
Laura lay on her queen-sized bed in her cluttered bedroom of her three-room apartment. The second-floor walk-up was in a classic brownstone in Red Hook, a gritty urban neighborhood on the banks of the East River in Brooklyn, home to street gangs, drug markets, and industrial squalor; although, a slow influx of young, professional, urban pioneers was changing the social makeup. Laura had chosen to live there because the hardcore hipsters had not discovered it yet, and the rent was affordable.
Laura leaned on pillows piled against her headboard. She clutched a folder of court papers the way a new preacher clutches his Bible his first time in the pulpit. She began sifting through documents as she fought back sleep, stopping at the brief she’d filed with the federal appeals court:
The Council Against Wrongful Convictions petitions the Court to vacate the conviction laid down in State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash. We contest the finding of guilt on multiple constitutional grounds. By the standards of the Sixth, Ninth, and Fourteenth Amendments to the U.S. Constitution, the defendant was denied even the semblance of a fair and impartial trial.
She turned the page. The critique of the stun belt followed.
The defendant was forced to wear a stun belt, capable of sending 50,000 volts of electricity into his body with the flip of switch. Mr. Nash assured the judge that he posed no risk of a violent outburst and complained that the fear of being shocked—either by accident or on purpose—made it hard to concentrate on the case against him.
The judge responded that stun belts were standard equipment in murder trials in his courtroom. “The belt is just a precaution,” the judge stated in open court, with the jury present. “You should be grateful. We could put you in hand restraints and leg irons.”
We implore the federal court to send a clear message to the trial courts of New York: There is no place for these dangerous devices in our modern courtrooms.
She flipped pages, until she heard a noise coming from the kitchen. She was not alone. Out of nowhere, a small, lively dog ran into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed.
“Tripod.” Laura laughed. “Come here, boy.”
The pooch launched a furious onslaught of licks and nips, as Laura pulled a pillow over her head.
“Down, boy. Settle down. I know, I know. I know. I’m sorry for ignoring you. I’m home now. It’s just you and me, buddy. Now, lie down and go to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
Tripod was a Border collie—a three-legged one, at that. Laura had adopted him after a car accident had damaged his left front leg. A benevolent rescue service took the dog in, paid for his life-saving amputation, and put him up for adoption. At the time, Laura was mending a broken heart from a break-up and figured a dog would be more loyal than any man. Perusing potential adoptees online, she’d spotted the three-legged collie, filled out the forms, and took him home. She’d nursed him back to health, retraining him to maneuver on three legs. Three years later, Tripod now scooted as quickly as most dogs ran. He was thirty pounds of nimble, perpetual motion, hopping faster than the squirrels he chased, angling his one front leg in the center of his body and bouncing off it like a pogo stick, bounding circles around his peers at the dog park and sniffing out rodents with the best of them.
“Did you have a good time today?”
Tripod took three or four short walks a day with Laura’s downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Sanchez, and her miniature schnauzer, Mike, making it possible for Laura to work and keep the dog.
Tripod circled on the bed, lay down in a soft spot, rested his head on her leg, and closed his eyes.
Laura gazed down at the sleeping dog, wondering if he had four legs in his dreams.
Laura propped herself against the pillows and started to make a mental list of the next steps for the Nash case. She had to ramp up her preparations for the oral arguments. She had to begin working out a legal strategy with Martha. She had to launch the investigation with Charles and his number-two investigator. She planned to split Delilah’s time between administrative tasks and actual casework; the young paralegal was ready to take on more responsibility. Laura needed to request a position for a forensic computer specialist to lead the online work. In the end, the entire team would be smart, talented, and driven, as well as up to speed on the latest high-tech methods of conducting legal research and investigating complex cases. They would have access to the latest computer technologies, applications, and databases used for these kinds of cases.
The Council Against Wrongful Convictions might be a pennywise nonprofit with doors for desks, but it knew the importance of modern technology and techniques. It used the same sophisticated equ
ipment as big law firms and law enforcement agencies. Still, there was no way around the need for good, old-fashioned legwork, too, and their work would have to go beyond re-examining old witnesses and finding new ones, reviewing old evidence, and uncovering new evidence. They would also have to confront the police and prosecutors about their apparent frame-up.
Laura looked up to the ceiling and asked herself the same nagging question. Who killed Erin Lambert? Who, who, who?
Her concentration was shattered by the buzz of her cell phone. Laura grabbed the phone and checked the data screen.
26
“Nick Drake” flashed on the screen like a neon emergency sign. Her on-again, off-again boyfriend was calling for the third time that day. This time, she answered, though she wasn’t sure why.
“Nick,” she deadpanned. “What gives?”
“Just checking in. How are you?”
“Busy.”
“The case?”
“Yes.”
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going great.”
He told her his acting career was not going well. “It’s only a matter of time. Talent will win out.”
“Listen, Nick. It’s late. I’ve got to go.”
“You’re working, right?”
“Right. Besides, we’re supposed to be taking a break.”
“The break’s over,” Nick stated. “How about I come over? We’ll take a break from the break.”
Laura’s mind sped back to where they’d left off. The time he bagged their date in favor of an old frat buddy. Laura had given Nick a choice: His buddy or his girlfriend. Nick had chosen his buddy.
“No,” Laura said. “Got to go. Bye, Nick.”
“Well, okay. Goodnight, Laura. Sleep tight.”
Laura flipped onto her side. “I am not calling him back. At least, not until the case is over.”
Her mind replayed the highs and lows of her six-month fling with Nick. The instant attraction at that party in SoHo; the romantic dinners at those trendy restaurants; the unleashed passion and great sex. After the first flush of a connection, Nick’s obsession with himself had taken center stage. Then, there were the restaurant bills and bar tabs he’d left for Laura to pick up, as well as the former frat buddies and old flames who’d seemed to take precedence over their own plans. No, Laura told herself. She would not call him. She would not take his calls. She would steer clear.
Laura plunked her papers on the bedside table and turned off the lamp. She looked at the glowing numbers on her digital clock—1:59 AM. Laura rolled onto her right side and closed her eyes. Lingering in the netherworld between awake and asleep, she felt a frightening sensation. The presence of a man emerged in the shifting shadows of her room. She opened and closed her eyes to make sure he wasn’t real. Just her imagination. Except, he seemed so real. Was he actually there? Clad in black, he stood over her bed, breathing over her, dangling a rope.
In the deep recesses of her nightmare, she knew it was the Hangman of Eden.
27
Laura woke the next morning to a wet nose on her face. She pushed Tripod aside and sat up in bed.
“All right, I get it; it’s Dog Park Day.”
She put the collie on the floor, crawled out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe from a door hook, and sleepwalked into the weekend routine. As the coffee brewed, she moved, zombie-like, into the shower and let the cold water snap her awake. From there, she wrapped herself in a towel, scooted back to the bedroom, and rifled through her dresser.
She pulled on a sweatshirt, embossed with a photo of Tripod and emblazoned with the words, “Who Rescued Whom?” Then, came well-worn blue jeans, black ankle socks, and her chartreuse Brooks running shoes. After tying the orange laces in double knots, she hustled to the bureau and found a rubber band to hold her hair in a ponytail.
A few minutes later, she was sitting at the counter, sipping black coffee from a mug that read, “I Dig Dogs.” With Tripod’s eyes fixed on her every move, she emptied the cup and placed it in the sink. “Come, boy,” she called to him, leading him to the door, where she attached his six-foot leather leash to the ring in his imitation-diamond-studded collar.
“Let’s do this. Let’s get you to that dog park.”
Just as she reached the door, her phone buzzed with a text. Laura looked at the screen and dropped the leash.
She stared at the message.
DROP THIS CASE.
What? She reread it.
DROP THIS CASE.
Her brain flashed red. Her blood chilled. Who the hell? She looked at it again:
DROP THIS CASE.
Tripod looked up. His head tilted as he began to whine at the door.
Laura stared at the screen one more time. There was no name or incoming number. She clicked the data screen, in search of some clue. The message must have come from an unregistered cell phone.
Who? The question ricocheted through her mind like a gunshot in an empty barrel. Her skin crawled. The real killer?
Like she’d told her father, she was eighty-percent certain that Eddie Nash had not killed Erin Lambert. That meant there was a good chance the real killer was still out there. The real killer would want Nash’s conviction to stay on the books. The real killer would not want the original murder investigation to be reopened. The real killer would want Eddie Nash to remain behind bars for committing the horrendous crime of hanging a human being.
The next thought to enter her mind was just as chilling. The police?
Were the corrupt cops working to keep her from exposing the coerced confession, courtroom lies, tainted evidence, and bogus witnesses? Was the prosecutor in cahoots with the cops to keep her from exposing his lies, distortions, and paid testimony? Did the corruption run so deep that the authorities had to resort to scare tactics to hide their own crimes?
She forwarded the message to Charles Steel and added:
JUST RECEIVED. UNKNOWN SOURCE. KEEP PRIVATE.
Laura pocketed her phone and looked down at Tripod. “Let’s go.”
28
Laura led the collie down the narrow stairs and into the bright sunshine on Clifford Street, trying to put the text message out of her mind.
She continued to the crosswalk and looked in both directions. To her left was a long, littered street populated by open-air drug peddlers, and suburban users cruising for a fix. To her right was a tree-lined street with brick row houses, shrubs, and the occasional statue of the Virgin Mary. She turned right and headed to Carol Gardens—a safe, secure neighborhood a few blocks away.
This old Italian neighborhood seemed a million miles from the hardscrabble Red Hook and the gentrified cityscape of Brooklyn Heights. Gone were the tatted-up gang-bangers, dolled-up hookers, and destitute down-and-outers. Gone were the too-cool hipsters, trendy art galleries, and boutiques. In their place were older women in cotton dresses, aged men in baggy pants, and teenage couples, walking hand-in-hand. Sweet aromas wafted from the Napoli Restaurant with its classic biscotti, Napoleons, and ricotta cheesecakes gleaming in the glass display window.
The scent made her feel better. She promised herself to put the threatening message aside for now; she wanted to enjoy the beautiful fall day with her dog.
Leading Tripod farther up the street, she forced herself to pass by Napolitano Pizza. Leaving the scent of simmering tomato sauce behind her, she stopped in her tracks at the window display of Giovani’s Wedding Supply. She gazed through the glass at a flowing, hand-beaded bridal gown that looked like a piece of art. The exquisite fabric was tailored and stitched to perfection. The cut was low and styled to hug feminine curves. The dress exploded at the waist in a shimmering, white cyclone of graceful movement. She admired it for a long moment. How would I look in that?
Her phone buzzed. Nick fucking Drake. She let it go to voicemail.
Then, the real question forced i
tself back into her brain. Who sent that text?
Their route took Laura and Tripod to the riverfront promenade back in Brooklyn Heights. The morning sun backlit the towers of Manhattan, and roller-skaters rocketed down the walkway along the East River. “Come on, Tripod,” she called, tugging his leash. “Let’s get you to the dog park.”
Tripod hopped into the lead and pulled on the leash, dragging Laura forward. He needed that romp and wasn’t going to stop pulling until he got it. The dog was frantic by the time the Brooklyn Heights Dog Park came into sniffing range.
29
The puppy paradise was set on a lot at the top of a rise in the far northwest corner of the bustling Mario Vance neighborhood park. Dog owners let their pets run wild in the fenced-in enclosure, while kids swung from monkey bars and soared in swings in the adjacent playground.
She led Tripod toward the park. A half-dozen cars were parked in the lot of a nearby minimart, where a large, green dumpster stood in the rear. It cast a pungent scent that drifted in the wind, distracting the cavorting canines beyond the fence.
Laura led the collie through the parking lot, past the dumpster, and through the entrance gate, then released him into the park. A shepherd, poodle, pointer, and Lab all congregated at the gates, forming an enthusiastic welcoming committee. A scattering of purebreds and mixed-breeds frolicked in the grass across the two-acre spread. A Jack Russell raced to the top of the mound of artificial turf, challenging the others to a game of King of the Hill. Laura smiled as Tripod bounded into the fray. The sound of dogs barking and children laughing on the nearby swings fused into a joyful concatenation that took her mind off everything else.
Maybe I’ll just come back as a dog in my next life. A turf war over soggy tennis balls seems much easier than a courtroom.
Laura strolled to an aluminum picnic table set under a pavilion near the top of the rise. She watched Tripod pounce at an Irish Wolfhound at the bottom of the rise, luring the larger dog into a chase. The hound was unconcerned that a smaller dog with three legs was out-pacing him. Two middle-aged women standing nearby cooed at the sight.
