Tim Green - False Convictions

“He’s not going to sing,” Marty said, looking confused.

They sat down and the lunch unfolded in the way of small-town political fund-raisers, with long-winded speakers and stale jokes. When it neared the end, Casey breathed deep and let it out slowly, stifling a yawn.

Jake Carlson rolled his eyes as the final speaker droned on about being a leader in his community. He was particularly proud of introducing underprivileged kids to the world of golf.

Casey poked at her cherries jubilee.

Judge Kollar sat like a block of granite at the head table next to the podium. He had a tan shaved head and small dark eyes planted close to either side of his long nose. The thick eyebrows pasted to the eave of his brow stayed taut in a perpetual scowl. He was taller than almost every man in the room, and lean wide shoulders suggested a background in sports. Even as the handful of businessmen in sad gray suits stood one after another to sing his praises at the podium, he wore a look of intense skepticism. The previous day, in his court, Casey had attributed his scowl to the fact that she was from Texas and known in the media.

After the priest had concluded the lunch with a prayer for wisdom and resolve, Casey and Jake remained in their seats while Marty made his way toward the head table to find out from the judge where they could talk.

When he returned, Marty said, “The judge said we could talk to him while he has another piece of cherries jubilee. He likes it.”

Casey smiled. “I’m so damn pleased.”

Several of the guests, two in business suits and a handful of old ladies in pastel-colored dresses and hats, stood clustered around the judge as he ate. Casey tapped her foot and nudged Marty several times.

Finally, Marty dug into his ear, then stepped forward with a face as red as the judge’s dessert, held up his hands, and said, “Sorry, folks, we’ve got some business to discuss with the judge.”

Judge Kollar looked at Marty disinterestedly and the people scowled their disapproval but moved on.

“I don’t have much time,” Kollar said, shoveling in a mouthful of cherries as he studied Casey. “Wow. This stuff is terrific. Did you try this?”

“First of all,” Casey said, used to the curtness of judges, “thank you for meeting us.”

The judge inclined his head, then wrapped his meaty hand around his cup cowboy-style before he took a gulp of coffee.

Casey explained the situation with the hospital, then said, “I was hoping you could give us that order.”

The judge cut the spongy cake with the edge of his fork and swabbed up some juice before nicking the dab of whipped cream and opening wide to get his mouth around the whole mess.

“I’ll have to talk to the hospital first,” he said, through his food. “Is that it?”

“Time out,” Jake said, stepping forward.

The judge’s jowl worked like a piston as he stared without blinking. A bit of whipped cream danced up and down in the corner of his lip.

“This is a judgment call on your part, right?” Jake asked the judge.

Kollar squinted at Jake, then asked Marty, “Who is that?”

Marty offered up his empty hands and his face flushed. “Jake Carlson. He’s with the TV show American Sunday.”

“Of course it’s a judgment call,” Kollar said to Jake before taking another bite.

“Okay, and you want to know all the facts, right?” Jake said.

Kollar glanced at Marty again. “Which is why I’ll hear what the hospital has to say.”

“Because one of the facts is the story that’s evolving here,” Jake said, leaning casually against the table with his elbow not far from the judge’s dessert. “We’ve got a black man who’s been in jail for twenty years. His trial was rushed and shoddy. The defense was a joke, with key witnesses no one ever bothered to find. Now, here we are today in the same small town trying to right a wrong, only the evidence is magically destroyed. Then, presto, we come up with another way to get some DNA evidence that can set our man free, but that same small town’s new judge wants to think things over.”

“And your point?” Kollar asked, glowering.

Jake shrugged. “Just makes a good story, that’s all. You might think, what would a TV network care about some small-town story like this, and you’d be right, but then I’d say to you that when Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson show up in Auburn, New York, to join forces with a philanthropic billionaire, we’ve got a headliner. Question for you is, what’s your role?”

Casey watched rage seep into the judge’s face. He scooped up the last bit of cherries jubilee and chewed so intensely that even his Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort.

Finally, he rose, towering above them on the dais, pointed his fork at Casey, and said, “Tomorrow morning at ten in my chambers. No reporters, just lawyers. I’ll listen and I’ll make my decision then, and it’ll be based on the law, not a black man with a megaphone. That’s it.”

The judge flashed a dirty look at Marty and stomped away.

“That was smooth,” Casey said when they reached Jake’s car. “You ever hear of the word subtle?”

“He’ll think about it,” Jake said. “Believe me.”

“Will you do it?”

“Depends on whether he gives you the order,” Jake said, starting the car and pulling out onto the drive. “I’ve got some markers. Would I? Yeah, I suppose I would. Good for you, right? The publicity you want? Good for the Project? Good for your career?”

“My career is fine,” Casey said.

“But it never hurts,” Jake said, a small smile on his lips, his eyes on the road.

“You think that’s what I’m about?”

Jake shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, really. Everybody’s about the publicity to a certain extent. You learn little tidbits like that after a decade in television.”

“I’m about tomorrow,” Casey said. “A judge’s chambers, an opposing counsel, and a legal strategy to kick their ass.”

“Wish I could be there,” Jake said, “but I’ll be on my way to Rochester to interview your boy Graham.”

“I’ll give you a play-by-play,” Casey said. “You better take me to Marty’s law office. I’ve got work to do. And Jake?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Graham isn’t my boy.”

Jake smiled.

THE ONLY BREAK Casey took from her research was dinner with Jake. He showed up at the law offices at six and insisted he wasn’t leaving her alone until she accompanied him to Elderberry Pond, an organic restaurant just outside of town. The rest of the thirteen hours from two in the afternoon until three in the morning she’d spent holed up in the mammoth law library at Barrone & Barrone with Marty hovering over her and pestering her with questions for most of it.

When she woke the next morning, she dressed for the run she’d promised herself as penance for ordering a fresh raspberry tart à la mode the night before. Jake Carlson sat waiting for her in the lobby, dressed in sneakers, shorts, and an Under Armour T-shirt that revealed a muscular frame she hadn’t expected from a man his age.

“Want company?” Jake asked with a boyish grin.

“If you weren’t a Pulitzer Prize winner, I might think you were stalking me,” Casey said, returning the smile. “Sure. I’d love the company.”

“A good TV reporter is part stalker, anyway,” he said. “So you Googled me? That’s a good sign.”

Off they went together, passing through a cloud of Ralph’s cigarette smoke just outside the lobby doors. They ran the side streets, passing the prison and the bus station before leaving town and turning down a country road. For the first mile, Casey checked over her shoulder for Ralph but never saw the Lexus and forgot about him.