Tim Green - False Convictions

“Casey didn’t say a goddamn thing about it,” Jake said. “I just tried calling her. No wonder she didn’t pick up my call. They actually leaked it to someone else?”

“Maybe Graham is the source,” Dora said. “And if he wasn’t, he’s the one paying her tab. Why would she give the scoop to the guy who’s out looking to smear him?”

“Not smear, just shine some light,” Jake said. “I know Graham is hiding dirty stuff.”

“Whatever he’s got going with an old mill and some factory jobs, it’s not as dirty as a judge who turned the system on an innocent man when she was the DA,” Dora said. “Did you know she was the governor’s choice to fill the vacancy they’ve got on the New York State Court of Appeals?”

“Not if this thing has any traction.”

“Exactly,” Dora said. “This is a story worth getting in trouble for. So get to work and find your girl and get us the inside scoop.”

“My girl isn’t returning my calls,” Jake said.

“If you can’t get a girl on the phone, it only tells me one thing,” Dora said.

“That she doesn’t like me?”

“That you’re not trying.”

“I am as of now.”

“Good, got a backup plan?”

“Not really,” Jake said. “But there’s a kid lawyer whose family is plugged in and the head of the Auburn Hospital who’re both fans, so if I can’t get her, I’ll start with them.”

“I’ll line up a crew in case. And Jake?”

“Yeah?” he asked, ready for one of her wisecracks.

“Don’t half-ass this one. This isn’t a puff piece.”

JAKE CHANGED into khaki shorts and a dark green polo shirt. It was, after all, a backyard barbeque. He swallowed two more codeine pills, then followed the directions Marty had given him, turning off Route 20 and heading south toward Owasco Lake. A mile before it, he turned off and wound his way through a few backstreets before finding a rugged drive that dipped down into some trees. Late model cars and trucks lined the shoulder, half in the ditch. Jake had to back into a driveway and swing around, going almost all the way back to the paved street before he pulled the Cadillac over to the side and got out. He followed a young couple where the wife wore a pale yellow sundress and carried some kind of casserole wrapped in aluminum foil. Her boyfriend or husband groped her rump through the dress until he realized Jake was following.

The couple turned down a dirt drive marked by a wooden sign, hand-painted with the name Zarnazzi. Jake followed, his shoes clapping the hard-packed mud in one of the tire tracks and leading him toward the twang of a live bluegrass band. The single story red summer cottage lay in the midst of dozens of picnic tables filled with revelers that stretched to the grassy bank of the lake inlet. Two Jet Skis buzzed by on their way to the lake, their drivers hooting and waving to friends in the crowd. A giant, half-round black grill hitched to the back of a heavy-duty pickup truck had been pulled onto the back lawn and poured smoke into the treetops from a stovepipe smokestack. Whole chickens in blackened suits disrupted the snarling flames while a fat man in a white chef’s hat basted them with a four-inch paintbrush.

The couple in front of Jake deposited their offering among the others on a checkered cloth that stretched across three picnic tables. Diners with paper plates worked the other side of the table, picking through the dishes before receiving their own char-grilled chicken from the fat man. Men crowded the beer keg’s icy tub while kids ran through the hubbub trailing balloons. Jake breathed deep the smell of food and cold beer and his mouth watered.

“Jake!”

Jake turned and shook Marty’s hand. The young lawyer was wearing pleated golf shorts and a Greg Norman straw hat. His collared shirt sported a litany of ketchup stains. He didn’t appear to notice, though, as he introduced Jake to a bucktoothed girl with dark hair and a deep tan. Jake thought she had the judge’s eyes and he couldn’t help but notice the ample curve of her breasts in the tight lime green tank top whose color matched her hair band.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Marty said, raising his voice above the band. “We’ll sit with you.”

Jake followed them through the line, loading his plate and sitting across from Marty and his fiancée before accepting a cup of beer Marty poured from a half-empty pitcher. The beer would go good with the codeine, make it a real party. They raised their plastic cups.

“Here’s to a victory for the Freedom Project,” Marty said.

His fiancée batted her eyelids at Jake, offering him a sly smile that let him know she was drunk.

“Is your dad here?” Jake asked her.

She shook her head.

“Had a conference in Houston,” Marty explained. “About everyone else is, though.”

“This the chief’s place?” Jake asked. “I saw the sign.”

Marty shook his head. “No, the chief’s here, but this place is his brother’s. He’s a fireman. Most of the cops are here, too. Those guys stick together.”

“And you think the chief might talk to me?” Jake asked, tearing into a chicken leg, hungry now from the drugs and the beer.

Marty shrugged. “I don’t know, Jake. My uncle says people are going to choose sides on this.”

“And you and your uncle are on my side?”

“It’s the right side, right?” Marty said, hugging his fiancée to him as he took a swig of beer from his plastic cup. “We’re fixing a twenty-year wrong and you’re-well, the Project-is our client. Spreading the message is only good for them.”

“Patricia Rivers still has friends, I assume?” Jake said, loading a forkful of beans.

“Sure,” Marty said, the blotches on his face reddening. “She still owns the big place on the lake. Lives in Pittsford, though, really.”

“Because it’s going to get ugly,” Jake said, lowering his voice. “You know that, right?”

Marty shrugged and stuck a pinkie finger in his ear, working it. “It’s TV. If you’re in public service, you got to expect it.”

Marty turned to his fiancée. “Your dad says that, right?”

“Your uncle know I’m here?” Jake asked, looking around.

“I was wondering, Jake,” Marty said. “You know, CNN and those morning shows, how they always have these lawyers on? You know, expert opinions on things? I could really see myself doing some of that.”

Jake studied him. Marty’s eyes were on his plate as he traded his ear for a fork and pushed a lump of potato salad into a pile of Jell-O. It looked like he’d clasped his fiancée’s hand under the picnic table.

“Don’t see why not,” Jake said, clearing his throat and enjoying the feel of the sunshine filtering down through the trees onto his face. “Send me your tape and I can pass it on to some people if you like.”

“Tape?”

“You know, work you’ve done on TV,” Jake said. “Doesn’t have to be anything fancy, local news, cable shows, anything. Just so they can see you.”

“But if you don’t have that?” Marty asked, looking up.

“Well, just go out and make one,” Jake said. “You can do it. Maybe take a class up at SU, or a community college or something, but you gotta get on tape.”

“Then you can plug me in?” Marty asked.

“Happy to help.”

While they ate, Marty pointed out various Auburn dignitaries and VIPs, the Bombardier plant manager, the fire chief, a restaurant owner, the cop who also played on the national paintball championship team.

Finally, Jake asked if Marty could direct him to the chief. Marty nodded and stood up, signaling for his fiancée to wait for them. Jake followed Marty into the cottage itself, where the furniture of the front room had been pushed to the walls to accommodate a green felt card table where eight old men sat smoking cigars and playing cards under the breeze of a box fan propped up on an armchair. The room was a sanctuary amid the din. The band, screaming kids, and laughter of drunken adults became a muffled backdrop to the box fan and the rattle of chips and the snap of cards.