by Rick Bowers
“I plead guilty to that.” Ward winked through his mountain of eye flesh. “These irregularities may have—and I repeat, may have—compromised the fairness of the original trial. Perhaps—I stress the word perhaps—your client was denied a fair trial. I want you to know this: The State of New York does not condone the use of false evidence or dishonest testimony to convict innocent defendants of major felonies. The State of New York does not seek to put innocent people in prison. The State of New York does not accept wrongful convictions.”
“Good to know.” Laura lost the smile. “I would hope locking up innocent people is not a state priority.”
Laura recalled what her father once told her on a fishing trip. Let the fish take the line out as far as it can. Once he’s tired himself out, it’s a lot easier to reel him in.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Ward?”
“Please, Laura. Call me Bart.”
“What are you getting at, Bart?”
The deputy prosecutor raised an eyebrow like it was all he had the strength to do. “May I be blunt?”
“Please.” Laura leaned back in the antique armchair in the book-lined meeting room. “Blunt is good. I need more blunt in my life.”
“The position of the prosecution,” he said, “has evolved. Our view of your client has evolved.”
Laura narrowed her eyes. “You call that blunt?”
“Okay. Fine.” Ward flexed the shoulders. “Let me ask you one simple question: How would your client like to avoid the agony of a jury verdict?”
“‘Agony of a jury verdict?’” Laura looked to the floor and chuckled. “My client is looking forward to it. He believes the jury is relating to our case. That the jury is siding with him. He’s feeling good about his chances.”
“Maybe.” Ward adopted a poker face. “Maybe not.”
“Bart, my client is not guilty. The guilty party is still at large. The real killer is threatening the public. On the other hand, the Erie County police and prosecutor are guilty of their own crimes. Perjury. Obstructing justice. False imprisonment. Look. I had nothing to do with the original trial. You had nothing to do with the original trial. I know the reality. You know the reality. How do we put an end to this insanity?”
“Let me put it this way,” Ward barked. “How would your client like to walk out of prison a free man?”
“Specifics, please.”
“By the end of the week.” Ward pounded a fist on the desk and leaned in closer. “How would he like to be home by the weekend?”
“Can you get him tickets to the Jets game? Maybe throw in a Broadway show? Now, come on, man. Spell out the details.”
“Goddamn it,” Ward snapped. “Don’t you—” He caught himself. He held out his hands, palms up, in a show of surrender. “I’m offering you a plea deal.”
Laura assessed the situation. This was a critical moment. This was a potential turning point in this whole saga. Ward was tendering an Alford Plea—one of the most curious and contradictory conventions in modern jurisprudence. Stemming from the 1989 Supreme Court ruling in Alford v. North Carolina, the agreement allows a defendant to plead guilty—or no contest—while maintaining his claim of actual innocence. In essence, the defendant admits that the state has enough evidence to convict him beyond a reasonable doubt, while maintaining that they did not commit the crime.
“Terms?” Laura reached down, opened her briefcase, and withdrew a pen and pad of paper. “One at a time.”
80
Put yourself in his place. What is he thinking?
She tried to see it from the prosecutor’s point of view. Ward’s narrative of the crime had been damaged in open court. His witnesses had been picked apart during cross-examination and shot down by more respected and believable experts. His chances of winning were growing dimmer, and the specter of a loss was gaining clarity. A loss would be devastating to the State of New York. A not-guilty verdict would mean that the state had robbed ten years of an innocent man’s life. It would open the door to a barrage of bad press and trigger a massive wrongful conviction lawsuit. A not-guilty verdict would also expose the police frame-up and highlight the fact that the cops had never even looked for the real killer.
The real Hangman of Eden had been out there the whole time, and the unsuspecting public had been at risk of more gruesome murders. The Hangman may have even killed other women, while Nash was in stir. Right under the noses of the smug cops and clueless prosecutors. The defeat would let down the victim’s family and friends, as well as the whole community. Laura pictured Mr. and Mrs. Lambert’s faces, lined with the pain of their unimaginable loss. No, Bart Ward was not going to risk all of that on the off-chance that he could turn his case around.
“Thank you for the offer.” Laura’s voice had gone robotic. “Now, please, for the last time, the terms.”
Ward leaned back and cleared his throat. Laura positioned her pen above the pad of paper.
“Very well.” Ward opened the leather-bound notebook and withdrew a single page. “It’s straightforward. Rather simple.”
“Good. Simple is smart. Go ahead.”
“One: The State of New York and/or Erie County admits to no wrongdoing in the original investigation or trial of Mr. Edward Thomas Nash.”
“Got it.”
“Two: The State will be held harmless from any wrongful conviction or false incarceration claims brought by Mr. Edward Thomas Nash.”
“Got it.”
“Three: The original guilty verdict remains on the books as the official outcome of State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash.”
“That, too.”
“Now. This is important. The state recognizes that Mr. Nash has spent ten years and seven months in prison for the crime of murder in the first degree. The time served fulfills his entire obligation to the state.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? We’re guaranteeing his immediate release from prison with the execution of this agreement. Mr. Nash will face no danger of a new conviction on this charge. Prior to his release, Mr. Nash may state in open court that he is innocent of the charge. He can explain that he’s accepting the plea as a means of gaining his freedom. All Mr. Nash has to do is sign on the dotted line. I have taken the liberty of drafting the actual document.” Ward handed the paper to Laura, adding, “That’s the beauty of the Alford Plea. Everybody wins.”
Laura studied the document for a long moment.
“So, let me get this straight, Mr. Ward.” She looked into his eyes. “On the books, Eddie Nash remains a guilty man. A convicted killer in the eyes of the law. His opportunity for exoneration is gone—forever. Mr. Nash goes into the parole system and can be sent back to prison at any time. Meantime, Demario and company go on to frame the next unsuspecting victim. Case closed. Do I have that about right?”
“Except for one small point: Nash walks. Your man goes free.”
“I’ll bring him the offer.” Laura placed the one-page document in her briefcase. She snapped it shut and rose to her feet. “I’ll also recommend he trash it.”
81
Eddie had settled into his new digs at the refurbished county jail, a three-story brick building connected to the courthouse. His morning commute consisted of an escorted stroll—in jumpsuit and shackles—through an underground tunnel, to the holding room in the courthouse. There, he changed into street clothes supplied by his legal team and waited to be led into the courtroom. After a day of keeping his mouth shut, while Laura and Martha attacked the prosecution case, he took the reverse trip back to his cell on the second floor of the jail.
In his newly painted cell, Eddie waited for a guard to slip a plastic tray through the slot in his door. The cafeteria made pork chops or chicken breasts that tasted like gourmet fare, compared to the swill doled out back in the slime line in Attica.
The biggest difference between the jail and t
he prison, though, was the nature of the inmate population. The jail prisoners—a mix of white, black, and Latino—were called “detainees.” Most had been convicted of nothing. They were awaiting trial on minor drug beefs, low-level B&E raps, and even trumped-up traffic charges. Eddie had met an eighteen-year-old Latino boy awaiting trial for leaving the scene of a minor car accident. Eddie counseled him—and all the rest he met—against living a life at cross-purposes with the legal system.
“You won’t win,” he insisted. “Don’t waste your life.”
Most listened. A few thanked him. These guys were different from the hardcore cons back in Attica. In jail, Eddie hadn’t come across a single white guy who bore the Aryan Nation mark, or a single black dude who wore the colors of the Black Panthers. These were kids, and Eddie liked them.
On this night, Eddie paced back and forth in his twelve-by-fourteen-foot cell. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Regaining his freedom was no longer a hazy fantasy or a shadowy dream. Regaining his freedom was now a stark probability that could come to pass at any time. Cold, hard questions circled in his head like starving vultures: Where will I go? How will I live? Where will I work? Will I be embraced as an innocent man? Will I be shunned as a killer who got off?
His world had changed since he’d first heard the prison door slam shut. His father had passed away of cancer. His mother had grown old. His two sisters had moved from their small town to the big city. Most of his friends had fled, too—without so much as a goodbye visit or forwarding address. Eddie had never used an iPad, carried a cell phone, or shopped at Walmart. What the hell was he supposed to do when he got out?
Eddie Nash was haunted by the choice. To take the Alford Plea. To reject the Alford Plea. To go free. To roll the dice.
He asked himself over and over: Should I accept what is, in point of fact, a veiled guilty plea? Should I walk out of prison as a first-degree murderer on parole? Should I roll the dice with twelve people I don’t know and hope for the best? He wanted to grab the deal—any deal—to get his freedom. He wanted to end this nightmare and walk away a free man.
I have to take it. I’m crazy not to.
There was a second voice in head, though. Quiet. Confident. Reasonable. This voice urged him to reject the plea—to stand strong. Regardless of his token claim of innocence in court, copping to the plea would be an admission of guilt. Back in the real world, he’d be branded a convicted first-degree murderer who just happened to catch a lucky break. He’d be saddled with a felony record, and a parole officer itching to send him back. In fact, he’d be one parole violation away from a return trip to slammer world.
Don’t do it, man. Don’t be fooled again. Don’t trust the fucking system.
Eddie pictured the face of Laura Tobias in his mind’s eye. He could see her beautiful smile. Full of compassion. He could hear her beautiful voice. Full of passion. He could almost reach out and touch her in the shadows of his cell. The idealistic young woman had believed in him. She’d knocked down every barrier in their path. Over the months, through the highs and lows, she’d gained his trust and admiration.
No. He had come to respect her. Hell, he had to face it. In a certain way, he had come to love her.
She’s been right all along. How can I turn away now?
Laura had made her position known. “Don’t take the plea,” she’d advised Eddie as he left the holding room that day. “We’re going to win this. You will be exonerated.”
***
Nash’s tortured decision to turn down the plea forced the trial into its final stage.
The next morning, the prosecutor strode into the courtroom a new man. Bart Ward sported a new suit, perfectly fitted and pressed. His smiling face emitted a confident glow.
What’s going on now? Laura wondered. What happened to his wrinkled coat and stained tie? What about his bloodshot and flesh-shrouded eyes? Ward looked rejuvenated, as if he’d slept like a baby. Oh, no! Had Ward the Wizard faked exhaustion to give the defense a sense of false confidence? What did he have up his cufflinked sleeve?
“Your Honor. The prosecution calls Mr. Samuel Newman.”
Laura turned to Eddie and whispered, “No worries. It’s just the prison snitch. We saw this coming.”
The entrance to the courtroom swung open and a tall, well-proportioned man with coiffed gray hair strode down the center aisle. Head up. Clear eyes. Even stride. The witness wore a conservative three-piece suit that rivaled the prosecutor’s and carried a large, black book at his side. His own Bible. He was allowed to use it to take the oath.
This was not your ordinary snitch.
“Do you know him?” Laura whispered to Nash at the defense table. “Have you talked to him?”
“Met him once or twice. He never looked like that. Never told him nothing.”
Prosecutor Ward smiled at the witness. “Mr. Newman. Where do you reside?”
“The Attica Correctional Facility.”
“I see. Why are you there?”
“I made a mistake. As a young man. I robbed a bank.”
“You’ve served seven years of a fifteen-year sentence.”
“Yes.”
“I understand you’re a model prisoner.”
“Yes. I serve as a prison trustee. I mentor young prisoners. I’ve completed the prison ministry program. I teach Sunday School and chair the religious studies group. I’ve received numerous commendations from the staff for modeling the behavior of a rehabilitated inmate. I am striving to return to society as a new man.”
“Do you know the defendant, Edward Nash?”
“Yes. We’ve spoken many times. In the mess. In the canteen. In the yard. He confided in me. He confessed to me.”
Newman went on to describe the murder in gruesome detail. He claimed that Nash told him everything: How he’d studied the hangman’s art. How he’d purchased the perfect rope. How he tied the classic knot. How he beat the victim with a tire iron. How he made a couple of mistakes while committing the crime. Getting slashed in the leg with a broken vodka bottle. Leaving behind a white towel stained with his own blood.
The jury was spellbound.
The prosecutor leaned against the witness box. “How can you recall these details?”
“Because I wrote them down.”
“You’re telling me you wrote down Mr. Nash’s confession?”
“Yes. I keep a journal.”
Laura and Martha flew to their feet. “Objection.”
The judge growled, “Approach.”
The attorneys raced to the bench.
“Your Honor,” Laura fumed. “We know nothing of this journal. It was not listed in discovery.”
“Your Honor,” the Wizard countered, “Mr. Newman made the journal known to us in our pre-trial meeting yesterday. He had concealed it to spare Mr. Nash a blow-by-blow account of his confession. However, he had a last-minute change of heart, and here it is.”
Striker eyed Ward. “You knew nothing of it until yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am loath to allow evidence like this at this late stage.”
“Your Honor, to us, this is new evidence. New and critical evidence.”
“Very well. I’ll allow it.”
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Laura sat in the empty courtroom, staring into space. The prosecutor had blindsided her. Had he worn that wrinkled suit just to give her a false impression? Had he spent a sleepless night just to look exhausted? Did he know all along that Nash would reject the plea offer? At this point, the journal was damning. The jury would believe every word. Eddie Nash would go down for the second time.
Laura picked up her phone. Hit the number for Ward the Wizard. She’d take the plea. If it was still on the table.
She waited for him to answer.
Charles burst into the room at that moment and rushed down the aisle to the defens
e table. He grinned and said three glorious words: “I found it.”
Laura disconnected the call. “The bloodstained towel?”
“Yep.”
“Where?”
“Turned out it had been confiscated by the Genesee Police Department and stored in its evidence bin all this time. Remember, at first, the Genesee cops thought they had jurisdiction, before conceding the case to Demario and the Eden police. The Genesee police chief agreed to hand it over, rather than face a contempt of court charge. I’m stunned; he obliged.”
“He may have seen the downside of protecting Demario. No one wants to go down with a dirty cop.”
“Turns out that a detective with the Genesee Police Department—no Sherlock Holmes—was the first responder to the scene of the murder. Thinking the crime had been committed in Genesee, the detective seized the towel and stored it in the evidence locker at the Genesee police station. He tagged it, ‘Lambert Homicide Evidence Item #1.’ All nice and proper. Then, he left it to collect dust. It’s just been sitting there all these years without anyone realizing that it was the key to the case. I guess Demario and company figured it was secure and out of sight with their friends in Genesee. So, why bother with it—unless they needed it at some point?”
“What condition is it in?”
“Good condition,” Charles reported. “Very little degradation.”
“Then, it can be tested for DNA. We should get it to the lab ASAP.”
“I’ll drive it to the lab in Rochester tonight. With a state police escort and monitor. I’ll arrange for an expedited test.” Charles was a man with a plan. “We should have a complete DNA profile within forty-eight hours.”
Laura’s spirits brightened. “Once we have the DNA profile, we can have it run through the FBI database. We can check it against DNA samples of hundreds of thousands of criminal suspects. A match will give us the identity of the real killer.”
83
The judge’s chambers had been transformed from a mahogany and leather-bound den for the contemplation of legal nuance to a modern workspace for producing important legal opinions and holding private meetings with counsel. An ergonomic workstation with a high-speed computer stood next to a bookcase in the far corner. A large, plate-glass window allowed natural light to flood the space. A sparkling, glass-topped conference table with five cushioned swivel chairs occupied the center of the room.
