Tim Green - False Convictions

“Twenty-seven fifty-five Middlesex,” Jake said aloud to himself, pulling over where he could keep an eye on Fabrizio coming out.

Jake dug into his bag and started his computer, waiting patiently for the wireless card to give him Internet access. His headache began to ease. He punched the address into the White Pages Reverse Directory and came up with two names: Iris and John Napoli. Using Autotrak and a couple other services Jake subscribed to through the TV network, he dug into everything he could find about the two Napolis but came up with nothing more than an old mortgage and a couple civil disputes from the past that looked like home contractors up to their usual tricks. When he Googled John Napoli and Buffalo, he got 631,000 hits. He went through the first three pages, mostly doctors and dentists named John Napoli, before he realized how common the name was and quit.

Frustrated, he dialed Don Wall again.

“What? Don’t you sleep?” Wall said, his voice raspy and broken.

“It’s after nine.”

“And you told me last night when we spoke at midnight that you were working the overnight shift like me.”

“Well, I did.”

“And you found what you were looking for,” Wall said, yawning. “So you need something else.”

Jake gave him the name, John Napoli, and the address, knowing the FBI had wells of information much deeper than anything to be found on the Internet.

“And after you run that,” Jake said, “see if you can ask around and find me someone who knows about the organized crime scene in western New York. An old-timer or something. There are about a million John Napolis and I need someone who can link the one with that address and maybe some criminal activity.”

“Okay, when I get up I’ll get you the info and make a couple calls.”

“When you get up?”

“Jake,” Wall said wearily, “when I dole out the signed face shots to the relatives over the holidays, you are the light of my life, but I’m working a Muslim cleric with a band of brothers interested in a cache of automatic weapons right now. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t act like the intern peeing down her leg to get you a cappuccino.”

Jake sighed.

“Seriously,” Wall said. “I’ll call you when I’m up.”

Jake said good-bye. He didn’t have to wait long before the G55 pulled back out onto the street, heading downtown. Jake set his computer down and took off after it. Only three cars back at a light on Elmwood, he was certain he could see the top of a small white head peeking out from the side of the headrest in the backseat. It had to be the old man from the abandoned mill, John Napoli. Jake’s heart began to pound and he told himself to relax, that he was a long way from any kind of breakthrough.

When the G55 pulled over at the curb in front of an Italian bakery, Jake pulled over, too, watching carefully. When Fabrizio disappeared inside, Jake jumped out and sprinted across the street to a bistro, now in desperate need of the bathroom. It didn’t take him long, but when he came out, the G55 was already pulling away from the curb.

Jake jumped into his car and took off, nearly smashing into a delivery truck. The G55 turned at the light and disappeared. Jake blew through a red light amid a blast of horns and followed. Up ahead, he just caught the glint of silver as the SUV veered onto an on-ramp. Jake crossed a double yellow, nearly colliding with an oncoming car before cutting off a long line to the on-ramp and cruising up the shoulder and onto the highway where the Mercedes surged ahead into the passing lane. Jake went nearly a mile and topped a rise in the road before he saw the G55 pulled over on the shoulder, idling.

Jake had no choice but to blow his cover, or just keep going. He kept going, eventually getting off at the next exit, pulling down the ramp, turning right, pulling a quick U-turn, then driving halfway up the on-ramp that would get him right back onto the highway. He spun around in his seat so he could see not only the oncoming traffic but the G55 if it got off at the same exit he did. Less than two minutes later, the silver SUV shot past him in the passing lane on the highway. Jake took off, keeping his distance this time, his heart thumping at the thought of having been discovered.

Before too long, they got off the highway, and after a few blocks Jake realized they were heading right back to the warehouse area on the river.

It wasn’t until he turned down Ganson Street, well behind Fabrizio and Napoli, that Jake’s heart began to pound in earnest. The pulse of blood hammered through his damaged head, heightening the pain again. With his focus on the G55, Jake hadn’t bothered to even look behind him. Now, with the cereal factory looming big in his rearview mirror, he realized that as he had followed the G55, two men in a dark sedan had been following him. Up ahead, a massive dump truck pulled out into the street, blocking his way. As Jake pulled to a stop, the sedan crept right up to his bumper, pinning his Cadillac before the two men hopped out with guns.

CASEY SHOWERED and changed into a dark brown Donna Karan business suit with a cream silk blouse and heels. She pulled her hair back tight and pinned it up with a comb, giving herself the more serious look she reserved for juries and judges. Marty had informed her that Judge Kollar would see her in his chambers around ten, after he completed a jury selection. Robert Graham waited in the hotel lobby and looked unusually good in dress slacks and a pin-striped shirt. On his wrist was a silver Cartier watch. His face was clean shaven.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“I figured for the judge,” Graham said.

“He told me it’s all about the law,” Casey said.

“Money is nine-tenths of the law,” Graham said.

“You’re thinking of possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Right, and money is how you possess,” Graham said, offering her his arm and escorting her out to a waiting Town Car.

“No Ralph?” Casey asked.

“Everyone needs a day off, right?” Graham said. “And I’m here if you need anything.”

“Coffee?”

“Anything you need, Casey,” he said, handing her into the back of the car. “I mean that.”

On the way to the courthouse, Graham asked Casey about the projects waiting for her back in Texas. She loved talking about her work and he seemed interested in the people she helped as much as the processes her clinic had set up to deal with a constant influx of clients. They stopped talking when they arrived at the courthouse. Marty, who had been waiting on the steps, opened the door for Casey and helped her out before Graham could get around the car. The two men shook hands.

“I told you he’d do good,” Graham said, slapping the young lawyer on the back.

“Don’t say that until we see how the judge rules,” Marty said, his brow furrowed. “I saw Flynn going in a few minutes ago and he looked pretty happy. I don’t know.”

They followed Marty inside and were shown into the judge’s chambers. Flynn was nowhere to be seen. Graham kept quizzing Casey about her clinic and that made the time pass a little quicker. Still, it was nearly eleven before the door swung open and the massive judge swept in with a swish of his black robes. He sat down without greeting them and whipped out a tiny pair of silver reading glasses before lifting what looked like Casey’s brief from his desk and studying it, his lips quivering in the silent formation of words before he looked up over the tops of his lenses without raising his head.

“This works,” he said.

Casey let out a long breath. Graham reached over and clasped his hand over the top of hers and they looked at each other, grinning.

“Politics had nothing to do with it,” the judge said, still sour. “I hope you know that. This is a damn good brief and I don’t like getting overturned on appeal.”