by Rick Bowers
The guards’ push had sent Collier stumbling into the center of the cell. After regaining his balance, he straightened his back, locked eyes with Eddie, and spat on the floor. “Go to hell, motherfucker.” Collier coughed phlegm onto the cement. “Fuck you.”
Eddie cringed at the prospect of living, sleeping, eating, pissing, and shitting with this wild man. Certain that the worst was still to come, he maintained eye contact and braced for a fight.
Collier jumped at him and howled, “I’m coming for you! I’m gonna get you, motherfucker!”
Eddie curled his hands into fists. He knew the fight was coming. He had to counter the next charge. He had to kick the living shit out of this aggressive son of a bitch in convincing fashion. He couldn’t let the newcomer establish dominance—or even equality. Eddie had to put him down hard.
For Eddie, the realization of the potential consequences hit harder than any punch the moron could throw. Eddie would not fight. No way. A fight — even in self defense — would get him disciplined. He would be confined to keep-lock or sent to the Box. The superintendent and guards would turn against him. His case for exoneration would be set back.
“Where’s the shitter?” Collier demanded.
Eddie looked at the steel toilet.
Collier walked to it, stepped out of his clothes, sat down, and defecated. “Ahhhh,” he moaned.
Eddie closed his eyes and turned away. The sight was unbearable, the stench stomach-turning. It moved through the dead air like poison gas. Eddie bent over and dry-heaved.
Collier roared, “Oh, baby! That was good! Was it good for you?”
The men in the next cell began retching in unison. “Jesus Christ!” one yelled. “We’re dying in here!”
The irate cellmates banged on the door and called for a guard. “Get this fucking pig outta here! Get him the hell out!”
No response. The prison staff had been ignoring the water shortage complaints for hours. It would be another thirty minutes before a CO made his next round.
Eddie had a brain flash. Collier didn’t know when the next check would be; he could take advantage of it. “The guard makes his next round in five minutes,” Eddie lied. “I suggest you sit down and shut your fucking mouth.”
“Or what?” Collier taunted, pulling his pants up. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“I’ll demand that the guards remove you from this cell and lock your ass in the Box.”
“No room in solitary, ain’t you heard? Overcrowding.”
“Look.” Eddie changed his tone in an effort to reason with him. “Just take a seat on the bunk. Let’s make the best of this. We both have to survive.”
“I heard about you,” Collier boasted, a wicked smile crossing his lips.
“Yeah?” What’d you hear?”
“Eddie Nash. Mr Innocent. Mr. Zoneration. Shit. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
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Eddie looked his new cellmate up and down. Collier had been outfitted in the standard green shirt and pants. To be expected. Then, Eddie noticed his shoes. For some reason, Collier still wore his thick, leather, lace-up boots from the prison farm. Eddie figured that the intake staff was slipping these days, what with all the overcrowding.
He stood his ground as Collier came face-to-face with him. God, the man’s breath would peel the gray paint from the cinderblock walls.
Collier lowered his voice and said, “You ain’t goin’ free, Mr. Innocence Man.” Collier looked down and spat at Eddie’s feet. “You’re gonna die a guilty man. Right here in this cell.”
Eddie flexed his arms, expanding his chest as he glared. “Get outta my face.”
Collier laughed, turned away, took two long strides back, and leapt onto the top bunk. “I’ll be on top.” Collier turned onto his side and buried his head in the pillow.
Eddie remained in the far corner, arms spread, legs braced, mind focused, ready to repel the raging madman. To his surprise, Collier seemed to be settling down, maybe even fading off to sleep.
Collier spoke from the top bunk with his back turned. “I’m just messing with you, celly. I’m just teasing in a good-natured way. We’ll get along just fine.” Still lying on the bunk with his back to Eddie, Collier began to hum. It took a few moments for him to fade into silence.
Eddie took a deep breath. The stench was still noxious, but fading. Maybe the worst was over. Maybe this strange man had made his statement and would now settle down. Maybe he would make an effort to get along. Eddie would go to the block warden in the morning and ask that Collier be moved—no, he would demand that Collier be moved; it was a safety issue.
Eddie crossed the cell and slid into the bottom bunk. He heard light snoring coming from above. Thank God, he thought. Eddie tried to put the disgusting creature out of his mind. How dare anyone ruin his run up to emancipation?
Stay cool, man. It’s just a matter of time. Just hold on.
Eddie closed his eyes and shut out the world, hoping to drift to sleep. He envisioned the parade in his honor, the food at his homecoming party, and the headlines in the paper: Innocent Man Set Free. Prison Ordeal Over.
***
On the top bunk, Evan Collier was wide awake and as still as a corpse, his bloodshot eyes fixated on the ceiling. He lifted his feet, took off his boots, and rested them on his chest. He removed the leather laces and placed the boots by his side. Tying two laces together, he formed one long, taut strand. Giving a final tug to lock the knot, he smiled. Collier stretched the cord above his head, pulling both ends. It was strong enough; it would serve the purpose he had in mind to fulfill his mission.
***
Eddie Nash was oblivious on the lower bunk. He had fallen into a deep sleep and was a million miles from Evan Collier and the Attica Correctional Facility. Eddie was lost in a Technicolor extravaganza. The marching band wore brilliant red uniforms; the trumpets flashed silver and gold.
Eddie turned onto his side, away from the wall and toward the cell. Feeling putrid breath on his face, Eddie opened his eyes. There he was: Evan Collier. Eddie saw the madman squatting on the floor next to the bunk, leaning over him, wild eyes gleaming with joyous hate, rancid breath rushing out in excited bursts. Eddie felt Collier’s grimy hands dig into his shoulders as his muscled arms dragged Eddie’s groggy body to the concrete.
Eddie felt himself being pulled to the right. He strained to free himself but couldn’t move. Eddie pulled to the left. He still couldn’t move. He felt weighed down by a boulder—Collier had his knees planted on his chest, pinning him to the dark, damp floor. Eddie watched the lunatic clench his right fist and swing his arm back, and he felt it slam into his jaw, delivering a shock of pain to his head.
Eddie opened his eyes wide as Collier wrapped his noose around his neck and pulled on the two ends of the tethered leather. The loop tightened hard around Eddie’s larynx, the pressure choking off his faint cries for help. Eddie’s eyes bulged, his chest heaved, his brain burned, and his breathing stopped. He could feel his lungs collapsing. This couldn’t be happening, not now, not before the trial.
Eddie’s face had turned a dark purple, his veins erupting, tendons bulging. He choked out one more gasp before his body seized. Eddie’s eyeballs rolled into the back of his head as darkness closed down his inner world. Every muscle in his body went limp.
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“NO! STOP!”
The command came from CO Jerry Florence—Fridge. The 240-pound guard raced into the cell like a fullback rushing the line, dug two hands into the loose fabric of Collier’s shirt, flexed two powerful arms, and pulled the maniac off Eddie’s motionless body. With a fierce whipping motion, Fridge flung Collier across the cell, sending him sprawling into a heap on the far side. The whoops and hollers of inmates echoed through the cellblock as Collier crumbled into a motionless heap. Fridge looked down at Eddie’s unconscious body, as more guards raced to the rescue.
As Fridge started mouth-to-mouth, a second CO rushed into the cell and made a beeline for the fallen Collier. He shoved a polished, black boot against his throat, keeping him pinned to the cement floor.
A third CO raced into the cell, pushing a portable respirator. He pushed the compact machine to the side of the bunk and placed the mask on Eddie’s face. The forced airflow re-inflated his lungs, causing a violent jerk and a loud cough.
“You’re gonna make it,” Fridge said, as Eddie returned from the brink. “You gonna make it out of this fucking hellhole.”
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The prison medical wing housed a twenty-eight-bed infirmary, and six examination rooms. Two full-time doctors, two part-time physicians, two physician assistants, and seventeen registered nurses conducted routine check-ups, tracked chronic conditions, and responded to life-threatening emergencies for two-thousand inmates. New medical equipment had been installed in the past year, prior to an inspection by state accreditation agents. Now, the repetitive beep of high-tech monitors careened off the stone walls and cement floors.
“I demand to see the doctor in charge,” Laura railed at the medical aide manning the reception desk. “I demand to know the condition of my client. I’m his attorney. I’ve been waiting for two hours.” Laura threw a second card on the aide’s desk.
“I don’t care if you’re the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.” The clean-cut young man in the white clinician’s coat put the second card in his desk drawer with the first one. “No civilians are allowed past this point when we’re short-staffed. We have our protocols. Security first.”
“Security before the wellbeing of your patients?” Laura asked with exasperation. “Or their rights?”
“Security first,” the gatekeeper repeated, before casting his eyes down to a pile of paperwork.
A booming voice filled the grim waiting area. “GET THE DOCTOR! AS IN, NOW!”
Laura spun a one-eighty to see the source of the command. She stared at the massive CO standing behind her as the arrogant receptionist bolted from the desk and raced through the metal door that lead to the actual infirmary.
“Jerry Florence.” The CO flashed her a knowing smile. “The guys call me ‘Fridge.’”
Eddie had told her about the mammoth prison sage. “I know you, Fridge.”
“I know you, too,” Fridge replied. “The Innocence chick.”
As the two traded smiles over the coincidence of meeting under such bizarre circumstances, a tall, thin man in his late thirties entered the room. His white coat fluttered in his wake.
“Dr. Jacob Barr,” he said. “Sorry for the hassle.”
Laura and Fridge nodded in unison.
“Listen. I apologize for the mix-up,” Barr said. “This hepatitis C is kicking our asses. Ten percent of the inmate population is infected. We’re just not staffed to keep up.”
“Forget about it,” Laura replied. “How’s Nash? D-Block.”
“He’s on the mend,” Barr said. “Follow me. I’ll take you to him.”
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Eddie looked from Laura to Fridge from his prone position on the hospital bed. Bandages were wrapped around his neck and throat; he spoke with a strained voice. “What took you so long to get here?” Eddie held a remote-control device in his right hand. He hit a button, and the bed inclined to a modified sitting position. “I love this bed. My bunk can’t do that.”
Eddie’s room resembled a typical hospital room in the outside world. Tubes and wires ran from various ports in his arms and chest to various medical monitoring machines around his bed. His neck and throat were bandaged, while the bruises on his face were healing in the open air.
“What took me so long?” Laura answered his original question in mock defensiveness. “I’ve been waiting for more than two hours to see you.”
Fridge piled on. “I had to bust the door down to get her in here. You know, I don’t like to wait.”
“Yeah.” Eddie shifted under a thick blanket. “I hear you busted into my cell and tore that lunatic off me. Thanks, Fridge. I owe you, man.”
“Forget it, Brother Nash.” Fridge waved his right hand in a dismissive gesture. “Just get yourself back up and running. Then, get yourself out of Attica. We don’t need no innocent people taking up valuable cell space.”
“I will.” Eddie raised a clenched fist and shook it like a radical from the ‘71 riot. “Attica! Attica! Remember Attica.”
“Collier is in the Box,” Fridge reported. “He’ll sweat it out for ninety days, before we ship him out to another facility.”
“Can’t say I’ll miss him.” Eddie ran a hand over his bandaged throat. “Son of a bitch.”
Laura turned to face the doctor, who was standing near the door. “Doctor Barr, the patient appears to be making acceptable progress. Can you share your diagnosis and venture a prognosis?”
Barr stepped forward. “Sure. Eddie’s sustained serious head contusions, a midgrade concussion, and severe injuries to his throat from being almost choked to death. And he’s right. If Officer Florence hadn’t gotten there when he did, I’m quite certain Eddie would have died from his injuries.”
Eddie and Fridge exchanged glances.
Dr. Barr continued, “His prognosis is favorable. The injuries caused by the assault aren’t permanent. We’ll keep him here for three or four days to promote healing, hydration, and nutrition. We’ll keep an eye on the dilation of the esophageal tube; however, it should improve within the same timeframe.”
Laura turned to Eddie. “The trial date is ten days out. The prep has to start ASAP. I’m going to ask the judge for a continuance. You can use the time to regain your strength. I want you to be at one-hundred-percent when we walk into that courtroom. I want the whole world to hear you summon a strong voice and say, ‘Not guilty.’”
65
THE EXONERATION ALLIANCE
THE INNOCENCE BLOG
BREAKING NEWS:
Retrial to Start
In New York State v Edward Thomas Nash, the long-awaited retrial of the first-degree murder case begins tomorrow at the Erie County Courthouse in upstate New York. Having secured the order for a new trial from a federal appeals court, the Council Against Wrongful Convictions will represent the defendant in this phase. The entire legal community—dozens of organizations and hundreds of attorneys—is watching this case with keen interest. A not-guilty finding will strike a powerful blow for the cause and send a powerful message to the critics. It will also raise a crucial question: How many more innocent people languish in our jails and prisons?
REMINDER:
Our annual conference will be held from January 10-13 at the Honorable G. William and Ariadne Miller Institute for Global Challenges and the Law, on the campus of the University of California at Berkeley. The conference is entitled “Unlocking the Prison Doors: Freeing the Imprisoned Innocent.”
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“We need that towel.”
With that line, Laura ended a check-in call with Charles. She wanted that missing piece of evidence. Where was it?
She pushed the question out of her mind and headed to the courthouse.
The Erie County Courthouse was a three-story building with an elegant, pillared colonnade, leading to the arch of a grand, oak doorway. Constructed of red brick and poured concrete in 1901, it emanated a historic aura, despite a recent renovation that modernized the interior. The shoveled walkway was flanked by foot-high snowbanks. Above the steps flew flags of the United States and the State of New York. Laura took long strides, passing snow-dusted shrubs on her right, and a Revolutionary War cannon on her left.
She came upon a gaggle of reporters and picked up her pace.
“There she is.” A tall, blonde reporter in a red sweater and black leather skirt navigated the icy walkway in spiked, black heels. The seductress of the six o’clock news extended a microphone into Laura’s face. �
��Ms. Tobias, Ms. Tobias. Janie Mars, WABC. Just one question, please.”
Laura put her head down and pushed on, leaving the scribes sliding in her wake. Their questions trailed her like relentless stalkers.
“Ms. Tobias, why should a convicted killer get a new trial?”
“Ms. Tobias, do you have new evidence? Can you prove his innocence?”
“Ms. Tobias, Ms. Tobias, how do you feel? How does your client feel? Ms. Tobias?”
Laura had put distance between herself and the trailing herd when another reporter stepped out of nowhere and blocked her path. “How do you feel about your chances?” He lifted a pen and prepared to scribble in his notebook.
“No comment.” Laura sidestepped him like a baserunner skirting a shortstop’s tag. “Maybe later.”
Back in the clear, she continued her trek, noting that the media was out in full-force for Day One of Hangman of Eden II. The boring prelims were out of the way, and opening arguments were about to begin. TV ratings were about to spike.
In front of the oak doors, a familiar TV anchor was reporting live for the morning news. Laura slowed her gait enough to catch a couple of lines, hoping to get a feel for the media slant.
“The second trial of convicted murderer Edward Nash was delayed for two weeks, as the defendant recovered from injuries suffered in a prison fight,” the anchor inaccurately reported. It was not a fight—it was an unprovoked attack. “Now, the atmosphere is tense, as his retrial in the brutal hanging of young Erin Lambert is about to begin.”
The media circus promised to be even more spectacular than the one that set up its tents at this very courthouse ten years and seven months before.
