Innocence On Trial

by Rick Bowers

  “Makes no sense. Why clean her, just to kill her? Plus, no smeared blood or white fibers were found on the vic’s body at autopsy. No. It’s got to be something else.”

  “Okay,” Charles conceded. “Try this: The killer was injured during the fray. He used the white towel to clean his own blood off himself.”

  Laura’s mind raced back to the police report. “The detectives found shards of glass at the scene but never linked them to the crime.”

  “And? What’s your point?”

  “Eddie told me that Erin drank vodka by the jug. What if her vodka bottle broke during the attack? What if she used a broken shard to cut her attacker?”

  Charles’ eyes went wide as he picked up the story. “Then, the attacker pulls out a towel to wipe himself off. In all the chaos, he drops the towel and drives off without it.”

  “Makes sense,” Laura said.

  “Except the detectives must have found it at the scene and sent it out for testing. Then, it just vanishes? Never makes it into evidence? That doesn’t happen.”

  Laura built on his thoughts. “Why does a bloodstained towel found at the murder scene never get logged as evidence? Why doesn’t a bloodstained towel found at a murder scene become the centerpiece of the case?”

  “By the time the results came back, the cops had Nash in their sights,” Charles surmised. “Maybe the test results didn’t match Nash’s DNA. The cops must have buried the results to keep the focus on him. Bastards. Finding another person’s DNA on that towel would have undercut their case against our guy.”

  “Yep. Distinct possibility. It would have forced them to drop the charges against Nash and start all over again—from scratch.”

  “So, Detective Demario and company lost the towel. How convenient. How corrupt.”

  “Poof,” Laura said. “Gone.”

  “The cops may have destroyed the towel. Or at least, buried it in a deep hole.” Charles’ said. “We have to try to find it. We can still extract the bloodstains to get the DNA. The DNA of the real killer.”

  “That towel could exonerate him,” Laura said.

  “Or convict him once and for all,” Charles added in a grim tone. “The DNA could be his.”

  “I don’t think so,” Laura insisted. “Nash had no visible wounds or scars when he was arrested. The blood evidence will point elsewhere.”

  “Could be.”

  “This could be Gary Dotson all over again.”

  Everyone in the Movement knew the name. Back in 1989, Dotson was convicted of first-degree rape, based on the eyewitness testimony of the teenage girl who had accused him. Even after the girl recanted her story, the judge and prosecutor refused to reopen the case against Dotson. “Was she lying then?” they asked. “Or is she lying now?” In the end, a DNA test on the semen in the rape kit proved that Dotson had not raped her. It turned out that the girl had been having consensual sex with her boyfriend and accused Dotson rather than confess her sin. Dotson was exonerated, and the Innocence Movement was born.

  “This whole damned thing has to be dragged out of the shadows and held up in the light of day for the world to see,” Charles said. The possibility that the cops conveniently lost the bloody towel wouldn’t be the first time Charles had dealt with disappearing evidence. He turned to Laura. “This reminds me of a case.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Michael McNeal spent six years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. A crime he couldn’t have committed.”

  “What happened?”

  “A rape took place in McNeal’s Brooklyn neighborhood, while he was at Disney World with his wife and kids. When he was arrested, the police confiscated a time-stamped receipt from the Magic Kingdom from his back pocket; it proved his alibi.”

  “So, he was cleared.”

  “Nope. The police and prosecutor never turned the receipt over to the defense. It just sat in the evidence room for six years. I got access to the file and found the receipt. McNeal was exonerated, and the real rapist was arrested and convicted.”

  “Damn. One more piece of ‘misplaced’ evidence.”

  Charles shook his head in an incredulous motion. “I went to court for the vacating hearing. I wanted to see the conviction get thrown out. In the end, the judge just looked down at McNeal and uttered a simple phrase. ‘You are free to go.’ And with that, he walked out of that courtroom a free man.”

  50

  Laura caught the 9 PM flight from Buffalo to JFK and cabbed it back to Brooklyn. She trudged up the bare wooden stairs to her second-floor apartment, passed through the door, made a beeline to the kitchen, pulled open the freezer, and said, “Yes!”

  There it was. A quart bottle of Vintner’s vodka—a local blend made from organic grapes. Laura filled a glass tumbler, floated to the living room, and crashed on the couch.

  Long, slow sips of the clean, white liquid did not erase the images that circled in her mind. Coiled rope. A sliding noose. A lifeless body, swaying in the breeze. In the silence, Laura could almost hear the death cry of a terrified woman, and the deep, evil laugh of a madman in the darkness.

  She took another long, slow swallow of the white liquid. The grape vodka hit the spot. She sank into the couch like it was a pool of cool water on a hot day. The alcohol burned its way down her throat and numbed her mind but didn’t stop the questions. Does this confirm that the real killer is still out there? How many other women has he hung out to die? Is he stalking his next victim at this very moment?

  That’s when she heard it. Faint, at first. A muted footstep? A hushed voice? The sound was coming from the west side of the apartment, down the hall from the living room. It wasn’t Tripod; he was at her father’s place for the weekend.

  She sat up straight. She listened with full concentration. Maybe I just imagined it. She heard it again, and again. Light footfalls on old hardwood. The sound of the stalker? Did he have his tire iron? Or a gun this time?

  She tiptoed to the hall closet, eased open the door, and withdrew a titanium bat, a Louisville Slugger from her fall softball league. Laura crept toward the source of the sound: The back bedroom. Standing in front of the door with eyes focused and bat cocked, Laura watched the knob turn. She inhaled as the door opened.

  A figure emerged from the shadows. Laura double-clutched and swung. At the last instant, she stopped short. Her heart jumped. The bat barrel stopped a fraction of an inch from the head of a tall, thin woman wearing a white nightgown and looking terrified. The intruder was Laura’s childhood friend, Jennifer Conner. Laura had forgotten all about Jen. She was spending the weekend and had a key to the apartment.

  “What the—?” Jen stumbled backward, breathless. “What are you doing? Trying to kill me?”

  “I thought you were—” Laura lowered the Slugger. “Never mind.”

  After realizing the situation, the best friends doubled over with laughter. They stumbled to the couch and plopped themselves down.

  “Laura, you look like hell.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Jen.”

  “Seriously. What’s going on?”

  “Let’s see. I spent the day at the scene of a hanging murder. I just downed a water glass full of vodka. I’m supposed to look like shit. Shit is a look I cultivate.”

  Jen moved closer and took her hand. “Are you okay? Tell me. What’s going on? I worry about you.”

  “Well, let’s see. I’ve been back and forth to Attica. My dog was stolen. I’ve been stalked by corrupt cops, and a vicious murderer may be planning to kill me. In other words, life is good.”

  “This case is getting to you? It should be getting to you. Murder. Prison. Courtrooms. You must be exhausted.”

  “No. I’m fine. Now that my best friend is with me.”

  “Laura. I know you too well. I’ve seen you crash and burn too many times. Is it back?”

  “Is what back?”


  “The anxiety?”

  “Come on, Jen.”

  “Remember sophomore year? The chemistry final? You rushed into the girl’s bathroom, scrambled to a stall, and puked your guts out.”

  “I aced the test,” Laura countered.

  “Remember junior prom? You kept that cute senior waiting while you threw up in the upstairs toilet.”

  “I made his night.”

  “Stress makes you crazy.”

  “I’ve got this, Jen. I promise. It’s cool.”

  “You’re not hurting yourself, are you?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course not.” Laura lowered her head and studied the patterns in the carpet. The faded scars on her thighs began to throb.

  “I won’t let you go there again.” Jen’s voice was absolute. “I won’t.”

  “Those days are over. I’m no longer a stressed-out adolescent with no one to talk to. Plus, if the anxiety gets too bad, I have Xanax.”

  “Okay.” Jen put a hand under Laura’s chin and drew her face up to meet hers. “If it’s not the case, it’s the boyfriend.”

  “Nick?” Laura drew back from her, looked at the ceiling, and laughed. “Nick is history. Out of the picture. Finished. Kaput.”

  “Good. I hate to say it, but I never liked him. He wasn’t good enough for you.”

  “Why? You sound like my father.”

  “You and Nick have only one thing in common.”

  “What?”

  “You’re both in love with the same man.”

  “Shut up, Jen.”

  “Here’s this thirty-year-old man who took an acting class and expects to be movie star. All he can talk about is how amazing he is.”

  “He’s a late bloomer.” Laura felt an irrational need to defend him. “He’s working hard to make this acting thing work. You know, he can be a sweet guy. A very, very sweet guy.”

  “You’re slurring your words.”

  “More vodka, then?” Laura asked. “One more.”

  Jen put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Laura Tobias, do me one favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t break under the pressure.”

  ***

  Laura and Jen relived old times until one in the morning. Old teachers. Old friends. Good times. Then, the air seemed to leave the room. The atmosphere changed, like a thunderstorm was brewing. Laura saw tears well up in Jen’s eyes.

  “What is it?” Laura took her hand and leaned in close.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Jen rubbed her eyes. “It’s my mom.”

  “Your mom?”

  Jen lowered her face into the palms of her hands and blurted, “She has cancer.”

  “What?”

  “Lymphoma.”

  “Oh, my God, Jen. I am so sorry. Is it—?”

  “It’s bad. Very bad.”

  Laura wrapped an arm over her shoulder and felt her friend’s body convulse with emotion.

  “And I’ve been such a bitch to her,” Jen sobbed. “I caused her so much stress. No wonder…”

  For the next hour, Laura offered condolences that sounded like platitudes. “Life’s not fair. You have to be strong. There’s still hope. Make the most of this time.” Then, she did the one thing that might help—she shared her own story.

  “I was eight when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. Toward the end, I marched into her room and screamed. ‘I hate you! How can you leave me?! Don’t you even care about me?’”

  “You were eight.” Jen sniffled. “Just a kid.”

  “After my mom passed, the guilt stuck with me. Sure, I was an A-student through elementary school, middle school, and high school. Only because I put pleasing the teachers above making friends and having fun. You were a true friend, Jen, but you were it.”

  “I remember.”

  Laura looked at the ceiling and continued. “I got lost in my own thoughts. The same questions kept circling in my brain. Why? Why is the world so unfair? Why did God take my mom? Is there even a God? The answers never came. My mom wasn’t there to explain any of it.”

  This time, Jen wrapped her arms around Laura’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I tried to be there for you, Laura. But, I was just a kid, too. What did I know about grief and guilt?”

  “You were my one real friend. I loved you. I still love you. I just didn’t connect with any of the other kids. Intimacy made me twitch. To tell you the truth, it still does.”

  Jen choked back tears. “You and me. Me and you.”

  Laura smiled. “Yeah. The other kids thought I was weird and kept their distance. Most times, I didn’t mind it. It gave me more time to study, which made for good grades, and a sense of self-worth. But, sometimes, the loneliness—the sense of being an outcast—hurt like hell. Sometimes, I just wanted to be a bubble-headed teenager who cared more about lip gloss than the rights of her fellow man.”

  Jen nodded. “I get it.”

  Laura placed a hand on Jen’s arm. “You’re suffering right now. Your mom is very sick. You’re sad. You’re mad—no, you’re fucking furious at the world. It’s okay. You have to go through it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just don’t blame yourself. Don’t torture yourself for feeling abandoned. It’s natural.”

  Laura leaned back on the couch and rolled up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She balled her fist and held it out.

  “This is what guilt gets you.”

  The two best friends stared at the hairline scar on her wrist.

  ***

  Laura was still tossing in her bed at 3 AM. Sleep seemed a million miles off. The news of Jen’s mom curled in her head. Jen’s take on Nick followed: “I never liked him… you’re both in love with the same man.” Love? Was it love? Despite her friend’s warning, Laura understood Nick. In fact, she missed him. Sure, he was self-centered. But, he could also be kind and caring. She trusted him and—at times—loved having him around.

  It was close to three-thirty when her phone buzzed. Laura fetched it from the bedside table, checked the caller ID, and answered.

  “Nick. What are you doing? It’s three-thirty in the morning.”

  “I had to talk to you. I miss you.”

  “We’re not getting back together.”

  “I know. I’m not calling to beg.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For being an asshole. A self-centered jerk.”

  “True.”

  “Laura. I want to be there for you. I want to make it up to you.”

  “Come on, Nick.”

  “I read about your case in the paper. I figured you could use a friendly voice at the other end of the phone.”

  “Okay. Goodnight. Sleep tight. I’ll see you sometime.”

  “I just want to say one thing: I admire you. I love your sense of purpose—your passion to do the right thing. Your drive to make a difference. Laura Tobias, you inspire me. Honest. There it is. I had to say it.”

  51

  Laura stared at the landline phone on her cluttered desk in the fifth-floor offices of the Council Against Wrongful Convictions. The phone was scheduled to ring in less than two minutes for her weekly client call. Given the recent swirl of discoveries, she took this rare moment of downtime to collect her thoughts.

  The court’s decision to grant a new trial changed the game. The debunking of the tire track evidence undercut the crime scene investigation. Dr. Meyers’ refutation of the prison shrink’s report promised to thwart the prosecution’s campaign to paint Nash as a special breed of monster. The bloodstained towel in the crime scene photo could lead to the DNA of the real killer. Then, there was the h
anging death of the sex worker a year after Nash was locked up.

  In addition, her stalker was gone. Laura no longer cringed when she checked her phone messages. She no longer looked over her shoulder when she walked down the street, or out her apartment window for mysterious cars parked out front. It appeared that Lou’s presence had scared off the thugs who had been trying to scare her into dropping the case. Even Tripod seemed to be resting easier, now that he was back from his vacation at her father’s place. He was his old self back at the dog park. Their visits carried no surprises.

  Laura even had a good phone conversation with her dad. It was about her mother. She’d shocked the old man with a new idea for celebrating the holidays. Laura suggested they drive out for a mountain hike that her mom had loved all those years ago. There was a long, winding trail that her mom had insisted on taking every Christmas break.

  She was forgiving herself—or the eight-year-old kid who didn’t want her mom to go away.

  There was no doubt about it; all the breaks seemed to be falling her way. Still, Laura was nagged by one recurring emotion: Guilt. The fact was, she’d been fixated on herself since reading the appeals court letter granting the new trial. The letter promised to put her career on the fast track. Her moment in the limelight was as close as the new trial. She knew the sensational nature of the crime would trigger extensive media coverage. Reporters from most of the newspapers and TV outlets in New York would demand a piece of her. The blogs and websites would feed the twenty-four-hour news cycle. “Ms. Tobias, why did you believe so much in your client’s innocence? Ms. Tobias, how did you build such a strong case for his exoneration? Ms. Tobias, have the police asked you to help find the real killer?”

  The story might even go national. The New York Times might run a front-page news analysis, and an op-ed inside. CNN might gather its talking heads to pick the case apart. The ranting attorney host of the cable show, “The Guilty Party,” might rave about the justice and injustice of it all. The pundits would have a field day with the perfect rope, the snapped neck, the beer bottles, the piss, and all the rest. She dreaded it—and she welcomed it.