by Rick Bowers
“Thank you,” Manning said. “Thank you for clearing that up.”
Justice Chen followed up. “Mr. McCall, why was the presence of the belt discussed in the presence of the jury?”
“Your Honor, the trial judge told the jury that the defendant was being outfitted with the belt as a precaution. He instructed the jurors to make no inference of guilt or violent tendencies—to ignore it.”
After several hard questions by Chen, and vague answers from McCall, the justices turned back to Laura.
“Ms. Tobias. How powerful are these belts?” Justice Manning leaned toward her to hear her answer.
“Your Honor, these belts are capable of delivering a fifty-thousand-volt shock to the wearer over an eight-second period. This causes the recipient to lose control of his limbs, fall to the floor, and flail about in severe convulsions. The promotional literature claims the belts provide ‘total psychological supremacy over troublesome defendants.’”
“How widespread is the use of these belts?” Justice Chen asked.
“The belts have been used for years. However, that is changing. Dozens of jurisdictions have banned their use after being sued by wearers who suffered severe convulsions that required hospitalization. Amnesty International has branded the belts ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ and demanded a nationwide ban. Your Honors, I ask this court to send a strong message to the trial courts of New York. I ask that you restrict—or outlaw—the use of the belts and grant my client a new trial.”
37
Eddie Nash bounced on the balls of his feet in the hall outside the main visitors’ room. He’d been waiting in a line of restless cons for more than an hour for a long-awaited visit with his mother. Cassandra Nash had made the bus trip from Eden.
The other cons were busting with anticipation to see their loved ones. Eddie was minding his own business when he felt a large hand on the small of his back. A split-second later, he felt a push and sprawled forward, ricocheting off two men in line ahead of him. Regaining his balance, Eddie spun a one-eighty to confront the creep who’d pushed him. Eddie glared at the square-shouldered white man with the shaved head, cold eyes, and spiderweb forehead tat. Eddie had never seen the man before, but he knew he was trouble.
“What the fuck?” Eddie snarled as the white con stepped forward, narrowing the space between them to less than a foot.
The con who’d pushed him sneered, flexing a swastika tat on his thick left arm. “Come on, mud man. Let’s go.”
Eddie stared into his cold eyes and contorted face. Racist bastard. He felt the need to plant a fist into his forehead and an elbow to the side of his head. To fuck him up bad. To send him to the hospital wing, then back to his white-boy gang. Eddie’s heart raced, his face flushed, and his hands balled into fists. His muscles coiled, preparing to strike.
The thug’s eyes blazed, and his face was burning red. At the same time his arms still hung at his sides. The fool had not raised his defenses; the troublemaker must not have been a skilled fighter. Eddie envisioned his move: He would lower his stance and thrust a strong right uppercut into the creep’s balls. As he folded over, Eddie would drive a knee into the motherfucker’s face. Then, kick his wobbling legs out from under him. With any luck, the con would hit the concrete floor headfirst, and a sweet stream of crimson liquid would pool around him.
Then, Eddie heard the voice of reason in his head: No, not now. Don’t fuck this up. Keep your cool. You don’t need a beef with the Aryan Nation men. You don’t need to be written up. You don’t need to be sent to the Box. Not now. A fight could ruin everything.
Fighting back his instinct, Eddie faced forward, shrugging off the shit shank, as a guard tapped a night stick in his right palm and sauntered over.
Eddie smiled as the guard passed. He had to remain calm. Keep his cool. All he had to do was wait until the doors to the visiting room swung open, and the bulls began herding the inmates inside. He wanted to see his mother.
He’d learned the hard way, long ago, that any disturbance in the line would get the offender, or offenders, sent back to their cells without their scheduled visit. Their loved ones would be sent home with nothing to show for their trip to the isolated prison.
Patience was the key. Patient inmates were rewarded with the coveted one-hour contact visits. They could hug their parents, kiss their wives, hold their kids, or just catch up with friends from back home.
Don’t fuck this up; you have to see her, he told himself. Eddie needed to hug her, hold her hand, hear her voice, and share his news.
This visit would be so different than his recent non-contact visit with Laura Tobias. That had been held in the sterile lawyer/client room, a locked-down holding tank reserved for inmates meeting with their attorneys.
“Come on, mud man,” the con spat. “Let’s do this. You and me.”
***
Cassandra Nash waited with equal patience on the guest’s side of the wall. She studied the faces of her fellow visitors. The wives. The kids. The parents. The friends. The clock on the wall told her the visit was an hour behind schedule.
Cassie—as her friends called her—was exhausted from the two-hour bus trip, followed by the forced march through the spired gates. But, she was there, and she’d wait as long as it took to hear more of the “big news” Eddie hinted at over the phone.
Finally, the door swung open, and the cons began filing in. Dour faces lit up. Tears. Hugs. The lure of coffee and donuts wafted from the service table.
“Ma!”
“Eddie.”
The two embraced for a long moment.
Eddie led her to a vacant table, pulled out a plastic chair, lowered her into it, and settled down next to her.
“Thanks for coming, Ma. How’re you doing? You’re lookin’—”
“I’m fine for an old lady. How are you, baby?”
“Had a little issue with a con in line behind me. He pushed me, insulted me, wanted to fight.”
Cassie closed her eyes. “What did you do?”
“I asked myself, ‘What would Jesus do?’ Then, I turned the other cheek.”
“You did not.”
“I ignored him and waited until the guards got between us. You know how it is, Ma. I mind my own business. I stay out of trouble. Just like you tell me to.”
After the small talk, Cassie started in with her hometown update; all of their visits started this way. “Remember Chandra, your cousin?”
“The skinny one with braces?”
“She’s twenty-one now, and beautiful. She’s engaged to a boy from Franklin.”
Eddie smiled. “Time flies.”
Cassie nodded. “Too fast.”
“Is he a good man?”
“We’ll see.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “What else?”
“The Reverie Baptist Church is moving. The congregation is building a beautiful new church, high up on Heaven Hill in Grande Vista. One wall is gonna be all glass. It’s gonna look down over the whole valley, over all of Eden.”
Eddie looked at the floor and laughed. “I’ve been looking down on that town for years.”
“Stop it, it’s going to be beautiful.”
“Heaven Hill?” Eddie raised his head, as if consulting the Divine. “Heaven Hill is just fine for a new church, Ma. The flock will be that much closer to God.”
“Oh, Eddie.” Cassie cringed at his sacrilege. “How many times have I told you? Don’t poke fun at the Lord. You need Him more than ever now. Remember, John 5:1-9 tells us ‘the angels of the Lord will see you through the troubled waters.’”
“Ma, how many times have I told you? God’s big enough to take a joke.”
Cassie scanned the room. The inmates and visitors huddled around the two-dozen rectangular tables, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and nibbling donuts from paper plates. Couples held hands and kids ran i
n circles, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” The atmosphere was almost festive—a reunion in hell.
“Reverend Garret sends his best. You know, he still prays for you.”
“Reverend Garret is a good man.” Eddie conjured a picture of the rotund, black preacher.
Cassie studied his eyes. “My dear, beautiful son.”
“Ma, this is too hard on you.”
“You’re such a good man, Eddie.”
“Maybe you should just stop coming, Ma. Just make believe I’m back in the service.”
“No, never.” She wiped away the tears with a lace handkerchief. “Now, what’s this big news of yours?”
Eddie cleared his throat. “I told you about my new lawyer. This one is the real deal. She’s smart, knows her stuff, and is making great progress. She’s getting me a new trial—a fair trial.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“This time, we’re gonna win. This time, I’m coming home. We’ll go to church together up on Heaven Hill.”
“We will.”
Eddie told her all about his appeal. He explained how Laura and the Council Against Wrongful Convictions fought for inmates who never should have been sent to prison in the first place.
“This hotshot investigator is finding new evidence and witnesses. It’s gonna prove my innocence. Believe me, Ma. I’m gonna walk away from this place and never look back.”
Cassie clutched his hand and forced a light squeeze. “You’re gonna come home. You’re gonna come home to me. My prayers will be answered.”
“Keep praying, Ma. It can’t hurt.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “I have my prayers. I have my pastor. I have my church. It’s just not enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want my son back.”
38
Laura and Charles sat at a red vinyl booth against the back wall of Brooklyn Heroes—a popular diner featuring pastrami on rye, cherry cheesecake, and fast service from surly waitresses.
“What’s wrong?” Charles asked. “Distracted?”
“Yeah. Jennifer—my best friend—is coming next weekend. To get ready, I sent Tripod to my dad’s place and set up my spare room. I still have to stock up on good wine. Jen and I are both wine snobs.”
“First things first. Focus on the case.”
Focusing was not in the cards. Laura scanned the wood-paneled walls, lined with actors, athletes, politicians, and pundits from New York City. Kirk Douglas. Sophia Loren. Tony Bennet. Even Rudy Giuliani.
“How ironic.” Laura pointed to a studio shot hanging above their booth. It captured a scene from the 1975 movie, Dog Day Afternoon, in which a bank robber squares off with police outside the First National Bank of Brooklyn. “What a flick,” Laura said. “Al Pacino. He was fantastic,” she added, recalling the actor’s portrayal of the hostage-taking bank robber named Sonny. “In this one scene, Sonny steps out of the bank, raises his fist and yells to the cops, ‘Attica! Attica!’ Remember, Attica became the counterculture call of the times.”
Charles seemed distracted now. He cast his eyes up and down the Wall of Fame.
“VIPs,” Charles squinted as he scanned the images. “Very important people.”
“Very, very important,” Laura said. “New York icons.”
Laura and Charles looked up to see a tall, slim waitress in a blue uniform, a notepad in her hand, her dark hair pinned into a bun. Laura ordered a grilled cheese, and Charles ordered the pastrami.
“So, who do you think is stalking you?” Charles whispered, as the waitress trudged off to place the order.
Laura took a deep breath. “Theory One?”
“Okay.”
“The real killer. The actual Hangman of Eden. He can’t allow Eddie Nash to be vindicated. An exoneration would beg the question: So, who really did kill Erin Lambert? That would force the police to reopen the investigation, and that would endanger him. Don’t forget, the real killer beat his victim with a tire iron before hanging her. My stalker came at me with a tire iron.”
“Makes sense. Theory Two?”
Laura scanned the diner before answering. No one within earshot. “The cops. Detective Peter Demario of the Eden Police Department. The police can’t allow Nash to be retried, either. Their corruption gets exposed. So, they’re going to great lengths to persuade me to drop the case.”
“Chances are the police and the prosecutor worked together to frame Nash.”
As they thought about that, they heard heavy footfalls and spotted Lou approaching the table, holding a folder under his right arm.
Squeezing his massive frame into the booth next to Laura, Lou said, “You ain’t gonna believe this.”
39
“The police have been stalking Laura,” Lou croaked softly. “They are out to get her to back down and keep her client a permanent guest at Hotel Attica.” The grizzled investigator/bodyguard looked from Laura to Charles, then back again. “I’ve spent the past few weeks following up on the dog-snatching and text threats. Me and my guys have kept Laura under ‘round-the-clock surveillance. The threats stopped. The stalker backed off. Kept his distance. Played it cool. Now, get this.”
Lou opened the folder and withdrew a black-and-white surveillance photo. He slapped it onto the Formica. The image showed a handsome man, clean-cut, with sharp facial features and close-cropped, blond hair. Tailored, dark blazer and light golf shirt—both expensive.
Laura studied the photo. “It’s him. The man in the blue blazer.”
A self-satisfied grin crossed Lou’s face. “Meet James Gorman: Caucasian, male, thirty-eight, six-foot-two, one-eighty, blond hair, blue eyes, and snazzy threads.” Lou put a paw lightly on Laura’s arm. “Gorman has been in the background of your life recently.”
Laura’s expression froze.
Lou pulled a second pic from the folder. This one showed Gorman sitting on the driver’s side of a Chevy Impala, parked on a street in an urban neighborhood.
“Gorman has shopped for eggs in your local grocery store, he’s eaten calzones at your neighborhood pizza joint, and he’s spent countless hours parked on your street, looking up at your apartment. James Gorman has been your shadow.”
Charles grabbed the photo. “Who is this guy?”
“He’s a cop. Former.” Lou shook his head in disgust. “We got a facial recognition match through the state police database.”
“What kinda cop?” Charles asked.
Lou leaned back in the booth. “Officer James Michael Gorman started out in 2001 as a patrolman for the city of Eden. He got promoted to the detective squad in 2004 and worked his way up to lieutenant. He worked narcotics, robbery, and homicide. The guy became a legend. Hell. He had the words ‘Final Justice’ engraved into the handle of his service revolver. Earned him the nickname ‘Final Justice Jim.’”
“Final Justice? Where is he now?” Laura asked.
“He left the force last year. Hung out his own PI shingle. He has a concealed-carry license and rolls with his own personal Glock. He duplicated his shield, which he keeps in his wallet. You never know when a counterfeit police badge is going to come in handy.”
“What else?” Charles pressed. “Got to be more.”
“Got an interesting tidbit from my source. A few years back, Gorman testified on behalf of a fellow officer at an Internal Affairs inquiry. Gorman stood up for a detective rumored to be shaking down mom-and-pop stores for protection money.”
“Who might that have been?” Charles asked, with a smile that said the answer was obvious. “Let me guess.”
“If you guessed Detective Peter Demario, you’d win the jackpot.”
“What do we do about Final Justice?” Charles asked. “How do we shut him down?”
“We’re going to invite Gorman out to Flanagan’s for a drink this evening. We’re going to show him a series of
surveillance photos, showing him stalking the lead attorney in a federal criminal murder appeal. I’m going to suggest that he go back home and resume the lifestyle of a small-town PI.”
Charles smiled. “Or?”
“Or those photos go to New York State Police Internal Affairs, the State Attorney General’s Police Corruption Commission, and The New York Times. We’ll also let him know we’re aware of his connection to Detective Demario, and we’re prepared to reveal it. My guess is this: Gorman will pack up and head home ASAP. We won’t have to worry about him again. I’ll put a couple of men on him, just to be sure.”
“Good work, Lou,” Charles said.
Laura nodded. “I knew I was being followed. I also knew you were following whoever was following me. Maybe now, we can focus our attention on the case.”
Charles leaned back in the booth, looking up at the ceiling, before speaking. “Okay. We are now one-hundred-percent certain that the police have been the ones harassing Laura. Their thug cut her tire, followed her down that road, and came at her with a tire iron.”
“Got to love those roadside flares,” Laura quipped. “Never leave home without them.”
Charles swept his eyes back over the V.I.P.’s on the Brooklyn Heroes Wall of Fame. “I guarantee you one thing. The police and prosecutor were not the only ones who engineered the frame-up of Eddie Nash. They had to be protected by very important people.”
40
The prison jacket sent by Attica Superintendent Leon Wilkes hit Laura’s desk with the explosive power of a mail bomb. Titled “Edward Thomas Nash, #88417,” the four-inch-thick file detailed Nash’s life on the inside.
Laura started reading the section on his classification as a high-risk offender. It claimed that Nash’s propensity for violence required imprisonment in a maximum security facility.
