Tim Green - False Convictions

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Casey said.

“I was married for twelve years,” Jake said. “I know how to sleep on a couch.”

“In Texas, they teach girls real early that the only safe place is separate rooms.”

“The journalist in me can’t let go of the image of you flying off to the Caribbean over the weekend with a guy you knew no longer than you’ve known me,” Jake said, “but it would be rude to mention it, so of course I’ll keep that little thought to myself.”

“For the record,” Casey said, swinging open the driver’s side door to the Cadillac, “that wasn’t even separate rooms, it was separate houses, and I’m glad you wouldn’t do something so obnoxious as to mention it. I might think you’re a really pushy muckraking journalist from New York.”

“They’ve got a really quiet bar,” Jake said, climbing in beside her. “And that Monet bridge over the lily pond is lit up at night, just like the painting.”

“Appealing to my appreciation for art?” Casey said, starting the car.

“Whatever it takes.”

USING JAKE’S COMPUTER, Casey got the information she needed, called the secretary of state’s offices in Albany for some assistance, and filled out the appropriate requests online to get them the information on Buffalo Oil & Gas. The woman she spoke with explained that she should expect the information to be posted by the end of the day.

She and Jake had egg-white spinach omelets and fresh orange juice. Jake gave her hand a squeeze under the table.

“So, can I convince you to stick with me on this until its conclusion?” Jake asked.

“I’m not a reporter.”

“Don’t you want to help?” he asked. “This is a hell of a mess.”

She stared at him for a minute, then nodded and said, “You bet your ass.”

“I think we should drop below Graham’s radar,” Jake said. “Get out of the Holiday Inn for good.”

“It’s hard to argue with Egyptian cotton,” Casey said, offering a smile and letting her eyes circle the room, “but I need more than one suit.”

“I’m wearing mine twice,” Jake said.

“The rumpled look fits you.”

Jake smiled. “I’ll take you right back to change and get your things.”

He checked with the front desk and booked his room for another week before they climbed into the Cadillac and drove toward the Holiday Inn in Auburn. Without her charger, Casey had turned her phone off the night before to save the battery. She put it on now to check in with Stacy to let her know about the change in plans and to set up a series of calls to do as much work for the clinic as she could over the phone. After booting up, the phone buzzed, telling her she had two messages. The first was from Helen Mahy at 10:57 pm, asking for her contact at Homeland Security in order to cover her ass on altering the lab’s schedule.

“I should have thought to ask you when I saw you,” Helen’s message said. “I’ve got a triple homicide we’re working up for the DA up in Watertown and it’ll help smooth his feathers if I can say it’s coming from Homeland. Just call me when you get this. I’ll look and see if I have it someplace, too.”

The second message came in at 1:37 am, Robert Graham, urging her to please call him immediately.

“If you don’t call me,” Graham said calmly, “I know you’re going to look back and really wish you had, Casey. Please. I really need to talk.”

Casey told Jake about the messages. They turned right onto State Street where the hotel was, passing the brick police station with its white cupola.

“Look at that,” Jake said, “what a clusterfuck.”

TV vans and rental cars spilled out of the parking lot and onto the street, slowing the morning flow of traffic. Men and women, cameramen, soundmen, and reporters with microphones and notepads stood in a crowded gauntlet leading out of the front doors.

“Don’t you want to join the circus?” Casey asked as they turned the corner.

“I got everything they want, and more. Want me to drop you in front?” Jake asked as they pulled in under the covered drive outside the lobby doors. “My room’s right by the back door. I’ll load my stuff and pick you up.”

Casey nodded and her cheeks warmed when he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Hopefully, I won’t have to see Graham,” she said, peering in through the glass doors at the empty lobby. “Or Ralph.”

“Or his leg,” Jake said. “You want me with you?”

Casey laughed and shook her head. “Didn’t I tell you I was from Texas?”

“How stupid of me,” he said as she got out.

Casey watched the Cadillac turn the corner of the building. The doors rumbled open and she stepped into the lobby, her mind still on Jake. Casey made eye contact with the young man behind the desk as she reached for the elevator button. She saw his eyes dart toward the coffee shop and followed them, glad to see two uniformed police instead of Ralph and Robert Graham. She turned her attention to the elevator, watching the numbers light up as the car made its way down to her.

The bell dinged and the doors clattered. Casey let a man in a suit leave the car before stepping in. Her foot hadn’t hit the floor before she felt someone grab her arm. Casey spun, ready to yell for help, but gasped when she saw it was one of the uniformed cops who had her by the elbow. The other stood beside him, stone-faced.

“Casey Jordan?” the cop asked.

“Yes?”

“You’re under arrest.”

THIS IS A JOKE,” Casey said.

The first cop turned her gently around and clapped on a pair of handcuffs before Casey could even think to struggle.

“Not a funny one, Ms. Jordan,” the second cop said, leading the way with an expressionless face.

Outside, they escorted her to a patrol car she hadn’t noticed because it was nosed into a space around the corner. She scanned the lot for a sign of Jake.

“Can I use my phone?” she asked.

“No,” the first cop said, opening the door and tucking her in. “Later.”

“You’re making me ride with my hands behind my back like this?” Casey said. “I can’t wait to depose you people when I file my civil suit.”

The second cop took the wheel and turned to the first. “Sounds like a movie script.”

“What do you think?” Hank said. “Brad Pitt as me?”

“You know I’m Nick Cage.”

“Yeah, the hairline.”

The second cop backed out and flipped the car’s lights on before he looked at Casey in the mirror and said, “Congrats, you get the works.”

He then turned the siren on and sped down through the intersection, taking her the block and a half they had to go to get to the station. As they pulled in, another uniformed officer moved some cones and they came to a stop at the back end of the gauntlet. Casey saw now that the reporters were held back by sections of steel crowd-control fence. The station’s white double doors opened and Chief Zarnazzi strode out into the crowd of cameras toward the patrol car, his neck looking thin and chickenlike beneath the beak of his nose and a broad blue dress hat whose bill gleamed in the sunlight. The shoulders of his crisp blue uniform were draped in gold braids and a cluster of medals dangled from either side of his breastbone. Black ankle socks shone beneath the hems of pants cut too short for his bony legs.

As the chief approached, the cameras swung with him until he stopped outside the car door, opening it and gesturing to Casey with his index finger. She slid out, bewildered, her brain overloaded thinking of pithy things to say or do and gummed up so badly her mouth formed a series of silent curse words. When the chief took her by the elbow and began to walk her through the gauntlet with his eyes sparkling behind their wire glasses and his sunken chin as proud as the father of the bride, the questions rained down on Casey in a torrent of screams.