Tim Green - False Convictions

“Maybe something later,” she said.

Jake waited until she’d gone before he said hello to the crew, then looked at the shot before asking Dora directions to the bathroom.

“Get made up, too,” Dora said, directing him around the corner, down a hallway, then around another corner. “The makeup girl is AWOL, so it’s a good thing you’re multitalented. I’d like to start this thing.”

“Is he here?” Jake asked, looking around.

“Flew in from Philly at six this morning,” Dora said. “The legend lives on. He’s on some call in the conference room, supposedly until twelve-thirty, but let’s be ready in case it ends early.”

“It never does with these guys,” Jake said. “You can set your watch depending on how much money they have. They keep you waiting a half hour for every billion they’ve got.”

“Good,” Dora said, looking at her watch, “I should still make my flight back.”

Jake followed Dora’s directions to the bathroom, walking slowly through the hallways and wondering at the quiet and the well-heeled offices without a sign of workers past or present, no cups of coffee, no framed pictures of loved ones on either a desk or a wall anywhere. When he came to a short hallway ending in a broad mahogany door, Jake realized he must have misunderstood Dora. He turned to go but froze when he heard someone shouting from the other side of the heavy door. Jake looked around without seeing any security cameras in the corners of the ceiling and eased himself toward the door, placing his ear gently against its cool smooth grain so that he could smell the hint of varnish.

He heard voices talking and strained to decipher the words, his instincts telling him that, if he could, he’d quickly have something to turn the puff piece on Robert Graham into something juicy. But no matter how hard he listened, he couldn’t understand a single word. Jake moved away from the door, turned, and was startled by someone at the other end of the hall.

“What are you doing?” the man asked.

FLYNN, THE HOSPITAL’S lawyer, let his hands come to rest in his lap. His eyes glittered and his lips tugged ineffectively at his smile. The judge turned his attention to Casey.

She took a deep breath and said, “I agree with Mr. Flynn completely on his findings in regards to New York State law, Your Honor.”

Both men gave her affirmative nods, their faces grim.

“I’d like to ask the court to find some loophole here,” Casey said with a sigh, “to use its discretion and compassion to apply some common sense to the fact that the privacy we’re talking about is for a woman who’s been dead for twenty years.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to say,” Flynn said, clearly affronted and looking at her over the rims of his glasses. “There’s a family involved here, too.”

“I know,” Casey said, reaching into her briefcase, taking out the report Ralph had given her the night before, and holding it up to emphasize her point. “While her father is dead, the victim has a mother in a nursing home in Oregon suffering from advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. There’s a sister whose last known address, as of April 2006, was Sydney, Australia. That’s her family. Those are the people whose privacy we’re trying to protect. I know because I took the time to try to find them, hoping I could get their permission and save the court the trouble.”

The two men looked at each other, then at her.

“Given the mother’s state and the complexity of her own competence to sign a release and given the sister’s inaccessibility,” Casey said, “a waiver isn’t possible. But given the same circumstances, I think it’s reasonable to suggest that neither one would know or care about the privacy issue involved here.”

“The presumption-” Flynn began before Casey cut him off.

“I understand the presumption of privacy,” she said, “and I’m not going to ask for the court’s compassion or commonsense application. The judge said he’d make his decision based on the law, and that’s the only standard. I agree.”

“Good,” the judge said, placing a hand flat on his desk and starting to rise.

“Because I’m not going to ask you to apply state law,” Casey said.

The judge froze, then lowered himself into his chair, narrowing his eyes at Casey.

“Fortunately,” Casey said, angling her nose at the brief she’d given the judge, “if you look at the second, third, and fourth pages of my brief, you’ll see that I’m relying entirely on federal law to compel you to give me those samples.”

“This is a state court,” the judge said.

“But the court’s actions in this case-if you deny my request,” Casey said, trying not to sound too pleased with herself, “will give me standing in the federal system based on the minority status of my client and the racial composition of the jury that convicted him. If you take a look at Ashland v. Curtiss and maybe even more important, Knickerbocker v. Pennsylvania, you’ll see the authority is clear.”

“It’ll take years to fight that,” the judge said, smirking.

Casey nodded her head and sighed, “And I’ve got years. So does the Project. So does Dwayne Hubbard; he’s done twenty already. In the meantime, given the current political sentiment of the American public, and given that you’ll be ripped up one side and down the other in every newspaper and law journal across this country for the racism you’ll be accused of harboring from your bench, I’m guessing your replacement will act quickly. You are up for election the year after next, right, Your Honor? I thought that’s what they said at the Rotary lunch.”

Kollar bunched his hands into white-knuckled fists and his jaw tightened. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like low thunder. “This is that TV guy, isn’t it?”

Casey shook her head. “I’m a lawyer, judge. I haven’t even figured the TV part of it into the equation. That’s a network decision, but if they did, it would make it all the more interesting, wouldn’t it? Like cyanide? A bit of thrashing around?”

“If you think you can threaten me with politics,” Kollar said, hunching his wide shoulders and leaning forward, “you’re in the wrong place, doll. And I’ve got a few contacts of my own. My wife’s brother is an editor at the New York Post.”

“So, I should file my complaint in the federal court?” Casey said, as pleasant as if they were playing a friendly game of checkers.

She began to rise.

“You sit down,” Kollar said, stabbing a finger at her, keeping his voice soft. “I’ve heard what you both have to say and I will look at your briefs and consider the validity of the arguments.”

Flynn’s smile faltered. “Judge. I thought we-”

“I will consider the law,” Kollar said, turning his finger on the hospital’s lawyer to silence him.

Casey studied them both, then smiled and asked, “Do you have an idea when you might be able to reach a decision, Your Honor?”

The judge’s lower lip disappeared beneath his upper teeth.

“Because I’d like to know tomorrow,” Casey said. “I think you’ll find the precedent is quite clear. I’d hate to have word get out and someone cause a big stir and then you come to the right decision, anyway. Why go through that?”

Kollar looked at her with hatred, but nodded his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, snapping her briefcase shut, rising from her chair, and turning to the butterflies. “Really, just stunning.”

JAKE TASTED BILE seeping up from the back of his throat.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said, swallowing, stepping forward, and extending his hand to the man in the olive green suit. “I’m here to interview Mr. Graham for American Sunday. We’re set up in his office.”