Tim Green - False Convictions

“Working on the car,” Ralph said, shooting Jake a dark look as Casey began to follow him toward the rented Cadillac.

“And the girlfriend?” Casey asked.

“Caught a blip in 1994. Tried to kill herself in Tallahassee,” Ralph said, limping over to the Cadillac. “Sleeping pills. They put her in a nuthouse and when she got out she disappeared. Nothing after that, so I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I’ll try another route,” Casey said, closing the car door.

“You didn’t tell me your dad was here,” Jake said, starting the engine.

“Yeah, he can be a real asshole sometimes when I skip school,” Casey said. “Nope. He’s from Graham’s Rochester office.”

“Who, I think, is now tailing us,” Jake said, checking the rearview mirror as he turned the corner onto Route 20. “Do you want me to shake the tail? Man, I always wanted to say that. That and ‘follow that car!’ ”

Casey spun around. “You’re paranoid. He’s not going to actually follow me.”

They rode in silence for a couple more miles on 20 until they got out of town.

“He is,” Jake said.

NO. THIS IS TOO MUCH. I’ll put an end to this,” Casey said, pulling a cell phone out of her purse.

“Wait,” Jake said, checking his mirror as they continued on into the town of Skaneateles. “Let’s see something.”

When they turned into the spa entrance, the headlights from the car that he was certain had been Ralph’s kept going. Jake watched the pewter-colored Lexus proceed down the hill before he eased through the gates.

“You were wrong,” Jake said. “Your dad isn’t such an asshole.”

“Funny,” Casey said. “My real old man was a stitch.”

Jake noted a heft of truth in the way she said it and didn’t say anything for a few moments.

Mirbeau Spa was a French château with small white lights strung along the rooflines. They found two low leather chairs in the bar by the fireplace and ordered drinks. Other people, mostly couples, talked softly, leaning across small tables into the wavering candlelight of small glass globes. The bartender stood behind an old-world bar, thick and dark and polished, in a black tie and vest. A waitress took their orders, speaking to them in the quiet voice usually reserved for libraries.

“I would have been so surprised if Ralph really was following us,” Casey said, her own voice low as she sipped her glass of cabernet. “He’s supposed to be at my disposal, not my chaperone.”

“Is his name really Ralph or did you make that up?” Jake snorted and shook his head. “He looks more like a Thor. And Graham looks more like a Biff. Like a guy who eats Grape-Nuts and shits in the woods.”

“You don’t like Graham,” Casey said.

“Someone high up got sold on the idea of us doing a profile and that’s what I’m doing,” Jake said. “I’m just kidding around. I don’t know the man well enough to like him or dislike him. Trust is something else. No, I don’t trust him; that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about a story. I know I’m gorgeous but I got brains, too, lady.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I have to admit Graham does make me wonder. It’s a pretty good clip from Texas, and New York doesn’t exactly have a shortage of solid defense attorneys. Plenty who are a lot better than me.”

Jake studied her and swallowed a mouthful of his microbrew. “From what I know about Robert Graham, he doesn’t take a leak unless there’s a good reason.”

“Maybe we’re both jaded,” Casey said. “He’s giving money away, not just to the Freedom Project; he’s giving money to my clinic, and this is something I can do for him.”

“He’s a clever man,” Jake said, “and you can do more than you think.”

“Like?”

“Sitting here with me,” Jake said. “I can’t help wondering what’s behind it all. Yes, he gives money, but he gets a lot of bang for his buck: publicity, hobnobbing with important and credible people. He needs that.”

“Sure.”

“Ego is the obvious answer,” Jake said. “That’s the way with most of these people-people willing to spend big bucks to get a PR agency to sell a profile to some TV show-but I think it’s something else with Graham.”

“Everyone has an ego,” Casey said.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Jake leaned into the table. “I think he’s involved with some questionable people.”

“You’re a little suspect,” Casey said, “but here I sit.”

Jake flashed a plastic smile and said, “This thing isn’t my story. Did you know he went bankrupt ten years ago?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Lost it all. Almost, anyway,” Jake said. “He took a pretty sizable family fortune and got into some big commercial real estate projects-hotels, casinos, office buildings-but that wasn’t enough. He leveraged the real estate and went wild in the tech market. At one point, his net worth was estimated at over three billion dollars.

“Then it crashed, and he lost all of it. Everything. The banks got left holding the property. Then, miraculously, he finds some offshore partners who stake him. He buys back everything from the banks for fifty cents on the dollar. He never made the tech mistake again and since then he’s had the Midas touch. He buys military-industrial companies before the Iraq war, then gets into oil and gas just before the energy squeeze. He buys shut-down factory equipment for pennies on the dollar, ships it overseas where he can pay people a dollar a day to work, and starts making a mint selling the same things on the world market. All the while he’s funded by some bottomless pit of money. Who are these partners? No one ever asks because he’s Robert Graham, the philanthropist, the great do-gooder.”

“You do a mess of homework for some puff piece.”

“Old habits,” Jake said. “I don’t buy it. Something is wrong with him. I can smell it. You say something is wrong with this case you’re working on? I promise you they’re connected for a very good reason. Now, that’s the story I want to do.”

“Oh, grow up, Jake,” Casey said. “I know your momma didn’t tell you this but there aren’t a lot of squeaky-clean billionaires out there. I think you’re taking a side road, and I note a little jealousy.”

“Like I said, this isn’t my story,” Jake said. “I’m supposed to do the interview with him at his offices in Rochester the day after tomorrow. Also, my contract’s up in a couple months and I’ve got a fourteen-year-old with braces. I’m too old for jealousy.”

“You’re married?” Casey asked.

“She’s gone,” Jake said, fixing the TV smile onto his face. “Cancer, but we had a lot longer together than they said we would. Good years. It’s been a while, so I’m as over it as you can get with these things.”

Casey cleared her throat and said, “I’m sorry.”

“The ring keeps me out of trouble for the most part,” Jake said, flexing his fingers. “Otherwise, they’d be hanging all over me.”

They sat for a minute, drinking away the awkwardness, then Jake said, “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll help you sniff around your corrupt little town tomorrow, tell the show I want to get some B-roll of this Freedom Project in the trenches, and head to Rochester the day after for the interview with Graham. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find your evidence.”

“If I’m going to shake this thing loose,” Casey said, “I’ll need that scandal. I need someone to come forward and admit they destroyed the evidence, but even then, I’d need to show a judge that they did it on purpose and why if I’m going to get him to grant me a new trial.”

“What was it you hoped to get from the evidence?” Jake asked.