Tim Green - False Convictions

Ralph glanced at her in the mirror and offered the smile of a big dog, eager to please. She couldn’t yet be sure if the dull light in his eyes spoke for a lack of intelligence or an abundance of brutality, but his manners were substantial if rough cut. She guessed ex-military and wondered about the leg.

Casey peered out the window. A gray watercolor swirled in the sky. Light rain fell sporadically, muting the green brilliance of grass, fields, and woods. They rolled into Auburn past the Wal-Mart and all the usual suspects of a commercial strip that had replaced Main Street America from coast to coast. Sagging homes with leprous paint lined the streets along with staggered light poles bleached like bones. In a way, it reminded Casey of home. Not Dallas with its skyscrapers, oil money, and black-tie balls, not even Austin where she’d spent her college days and her early years in the district attorney’s office, but of West Texas, where she grew up. A tired and dusty place whose better days would never return. A place she’d grown up determined to get out of.

They passed a broken and boarded restaurant and the Holiday Inn before taking a right, crossing a bridge, some railroad tracks, and pulling to a stop across the wide street from the prison.

Ralph stayed in the car while Casey followed Graham across the faded crosswalk, her heels clicking as she hustled to stay under his umbrella. They entered what looked like a castle gate with stone turrets rising up nearly as high as the concrete walls beyond. Inside, uniformed guards worked amid a clutter of old wooden desks, telephones, and papers behind a scratched Plexiglas barrier, while more guards, administrative staff, cops, and lawyers in shabby suits filtered past, showing IDs and passing through the metal detectors.

After the formalities, a bored woman in a pale blue uniform shirt led Casey and Graham into the administrative building and to a battered room whose dirty windows gave away nothing beyond the bars. Wooden chairs sat scattered around a rectangular gunmetal table. They sat to wait.

“Ralph seems nice,” Casey said, studying Graham’s face.

“If you’re on his side, he is,” Graham said.

“Special Forces or something?” Casey asked.

“Military police. Lost his lower leg in the first Gulf war. Got his business degree at University of Rochester. Top of his class. Very good school. I hired him before he could leave the room.”

“Seems like a heavy pedigree for a driver,” Casey said.

“I told you this is important to me,” Graham said. “If you ask him to get you coffee, he’ll do it. He understands chain of command. But if you need help accessing people, or getting to some information you can’t Google, Ralph’s your man.”

“I have my own investigator if it’s necessary,” Casey said.

Graham studied her, then said, “Ralph will keep an eye on you, too.”

“What? Like a bodyguard?” Casey said, wrinkling her face.

“This place can be a rough little town,” Graham said. “Five hundred of the worst criminals in the state inside these walls, and lots of their family and friends like to come visit. Sometimes they stay. Think of Ralph as a big Doberman on the front porch.”

“Nice doggie,” Casey said. “And anyway, what about his leg?”

“You should see him run with that thing.”

The door swung open, but instead of a prisoner, a bald man in glasses with an ill-fitting black suit came through and extended his hand to Casey.

“Ms. Jordan?” the man said. “Collin Mallard. I’m the assistant warden and I heard you were in. Actually, there are a couple of us who are big fans, but we run a tight ship, so you won’t see anyone except me glad-handing you. I just loved your movie. My wife’s a fan, too. Being in somewhat the same field-putting the bad guys away and keeping them away-I feel like I almost know you.”

Casey’s cheeks felt warm as she gently pulled her hand away from Mallard’s never-ending handshake. Graham’s grin wasn’t lost on her.

“Thank you. It’s been a long time since I worked as a prosecutor, though. Uh, this is Mr. Graham. He’s on the board of the Freedom Project.”

“Oh,” Mallard said, barely noticing the scruffy guy in flannel and jeans. “Hi.”

Graham nodded.

Mallard took a card from his suit coat pocket and put it into Casey’s hand before covering it with his other. “Anything I can do, Ms. Jordan. We’ve got a fine staff cafeteria here if you get hungry. Do you like chicken-fried steak? You just let me know. And don’t worry about working against the law on this one. I know deep down you’re all about justice. Would you mind signing this? My wife and I heard they made a DVD of the movie and we found it on eBay.”

Casey took the marker he offered and signed the DVD case right over Susan Lucci’s determined face pointing at the jury box. Mallard thanked her several times, then disappeared.

“See?” Graham said. “You’re helping already. The power of celebrity.”

“Shut up, Graham,” she said.

The next time the door opened, a guard appeared with his prisoner. Dwayne Hubbard clanked across the floor in manacles that bound both hands and feet and were connected by a drooping chain. Dwayne’s round, gold-rimmed glasses, neatly cut short hair, and wiry frame gave the impression of an accountant or school-teacher. And yes, a lot like that kid on Family Matters. She half-expected him to speak in that high, nerdy tone.

“Flight risk?” Casey asked the stern-faced guard, incredulous.

“Whatever the file says,” the guard answered with a shrug before stepping back through the door. “I’ll be right outside.”

Casey and Graham stood. Hubbard looked at them placidly.

“I’m Casey Jordan,” Casey said, extending her hand.

Hubbard stared at it, then sighed and sat down across from them with his legs splayed as wide as the chains would allow. He studied the dirty window and rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

Graham said, “Dwayne, we’re with the Freedom Project. I’ve been talking with your mother.”

“This is a waste of time,” Hubbard said, his eyes burning into them from behind the professorial lenses. He wore a green jumpsuit so faded that patches of thread shone white at the knees. Several scars, smooth and shiny as melted plastic, marred his arms, neck, and face like chocolate eruptions in his honey brown skin.

“Can you tell us what really happened?” Casey asked after an uncomfortable silence.

Hubbard’s eyes nearly disappeared in a world of bitter wrinkles. “You know what happened. A white woman is murdered and a black man needs to take the fall. Real interesting, isn’t it?”

“I know,” Casey said. “I fight what you’re talking about every day, but I’m talking about that night. I read the transcripts, but I want to hear your side, from your mouth, then I’ll try to prove it.”

“What’s this all about?” Hubbard said, smiling derisively. “I mean, really? It’s been twenty years. Let it go. I know I have. This won’t get you on television. This story doesn’t turn out so good.”

Casey looked at Graham, who shrugged.

“Mr. Hubbard, you’re bitter and I don’t blame you, but I’m trying to help you,” Casey said. “I need to create a story that I can combine with the DNA evidence that allows a judge to turn over your conviction. That’s my job. I don’t need to sit here with you to do it and I will do it. So if you’re not going to help, just tell me now and I can save us both some time. A lot has changed in twenty years.”

“I doubt it,” Hubbard said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if pondering the meaning of life. “You come in here talking about the truth and you want me to thank you? No. You don’t get that, not you or any of you. You say you’ll get me out? You’re bringing me justice? All this time, now I’m getting out? My life is gone, you understand? It’s over.”