False Convictions (25 page)

Casey and Jake stayed put until the Lexus pulled around the corner, into the back parking lot, and disappeared, with taillights
glowing up the alleyway where Ralph had gone.

“Let’s stick to the shadows,” Jake said, rounding the post office.

“Why the hell should we have to hide?” Casey asked.

“We’re not hiding,” Jake said, “just avoiding them.”

“We’re not the ones who need to hide,” she said.

Jake gently brushed aside the hair on the back of his head so she could see the long line of crusty stitches. “If you don’t
mind, I’m doing my best not to tear the stitches.”

“Think Ralph will bonk you with his flashlight?”

“You laugh, but it’s a little creepy, them showing up like that,” Jake said, “hunting you down.”

“Where’s your car?”

Jake took her hand and they sprinted across the street, jumping into the rented Cadillac he had parked in front of the courthouse
steps, which were still littered with duct tape, bunting, and cocktail napkins from the earlier press conference. They hopped
in and Jake eased the car out into the street, wary for the Lexus. He took a quick right and plunged them into the backstreets.

“Where are you going?” Casey asked, recognizing the same traffic circle Martin had driven them through earlier.

“Myron Kissle’s,” Jake said. “It’s not far. Then, if you like, I’ve got a place for dinner where Graham and his goon won’t
spoil the meal.”

“We’re having dinner now?”

“A working dinner,” he said.

They traveled down the main road along the east side of the lake until they came to a gravel drive that led up the hill to
a farmhouse nestled into a cluster of enormous trees. When Jake saw a big white van, two rental cars, and a shiny black limousine
in the driveway, he made a face.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, stopping and snatching his keys as he started up the drive.

Casey caught up with him on the front porch. Inside, she saw the tangle of cables and the bright blue lights focused on a
set of chairs in the front room and the two people sitting in them. Jake walked right into the middle of the shoot.

“Myron?” Jake said. “What the hell are you doing?”

The woman reporter swiveled around.

“Excuse me?” she said, her auburn hair stiff and frizzy under the lights and the mask of her makeup wrinkling with outrage
and disbelief.

“I’m Jake Carlson,” Jake said.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“You’re Hanna Keller,” Jake said, studying her face, “with
Private Matters
.”

“You don’t just walk into the middle of an interview,” Hanna said.

“Myron, you said exclusive,” Jake said. “We had a deal.”

“You didn’t tell me I could get paid for this,” Myron said, raising his hands in the air.

“Oh, great,” Jake said, throwing his own arms up.

“It’s a consulting fee,” Hanna said, indignant enough for her small red mouth to show teeth. “The interview has nothing to
do with that.”

“Nice,” Jake said sarcastically to Myron before he turned back to Hanna. “You might want to check him as a source. That’s
why I’m here. His story isn’t being corroborated by his fellow officers at the time. We’ll likely have to pull his interview
from our piece. He lied about the police putting out an APB for a black man. They did no such thing, and I’m sure he’s lying
about other things, too. Myron, did you really show up at a PBA meeting in your pajamas?”

“Nice try,” Hanna said, forcing a smile, “but this goes to air on Wednesday.”

“Two days before
Twenty/Twenty
,” Jake said, “I know. So you’ll have two days to enjoy it before your credibility goes in the shitter and the City of Auburn
files a lawsuit.”

“Jamar,” Hanna said, appealing to her three-hundred-pound soundman. “Would you show Mr. Carlson the way out?”

Jamar removed his headset and put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. Jake shrugged him off and turned to go. Casey followed him out
on the porch.

“Shit,” Jake said under his breath. “I can’t believe they found him.”

“Sounds like he might have found them,” Casey said.

“Maybe. Whatever. I need a drink.”

“Jake?”

“Yeah,” he said, climbing in behind the wheel.

She got in the other side and asked, “If they’re right about Dwayne, how dangerous do you think he is?”

Jake thought for a minute, then said, “I did a story last year about the number of old land mines in Bosnia—all these little
kids getting blown up. I’d say Dwayne is about like one of those. It isn’t going to take much.”

Casey looked out the window at the adjacent cornfield as Jake backed down the driveway.

“I just don’t see what we can do about it,” she said. “He’s a free man, whether we like it or not.”

“Unless we can prove someone messed with the DNA,” Jake said.

“I don’t think it was the lab,” Casey said.

“You know it was Graham,” Jake said, “or Ralph. Or the two of them together.”

Casey fished a card out of her purse. “Helen Mahy is the director of the lab. Very professional. She thought the DNA work
was for some national emergency.”

“Graham’s a slippery sucker.”

Casey called the lab director’s cell phone and found her at dinner.

“Could I possibly talk to you for a couple minutes?” Casey asked.

“I can talk,” she said.

“In person,” Casey said, looking at Jake, who nodded. “Just for five or ten minutes. Could we meet at your office?”

“How about nine-thirty?” Helen said. “After dinner. On my way home.”

“Perfect.”

J
AKE TOOK THE back roads past farms and vineyards down to his secret Italian restaurant south of Syracuse. The spotty cell
service made it hard for Jake to relate everything he’d learned to Dora and he didn’t wrap up with her until they reached
Fabio’s. They sat down in front of a large fish tank and Jake ordered a vodka tonic, finishing it before they got their bottle
of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

“So we have no idea where this is all going,” Casey said, raising her glass.

“To uncertainty,” Jake said, clinking his glass against hers and taking a drink. “Although I have a pretty strong feeling
it’s all going to go right back to Graham.”

“And if we can’t prove it?” Casey asked.

“At least we can put Hubbard back in his box,” Jake said. “That would be worth the effort.”

“Are we so sure about Dwayne being the one? Even if it wasn’t Nelson Rivers, are we sure
Dwayne
did it?” Casey said, thinking of Hubbard’s quirky looks and manners.

“It’s a lot to undo,” Jake said. “And I know it’ll be somewhat embarrassing, but my gut tells me Patricia Rivers and her boyfriend
are telling the truth.”

“It seems that way,” Casey said.

They ordered homemade pasta called priest chokers, cooked broccoli rabe, chicken, peppers, and onions. After another glass
of wine the food arrived.

“Incredible,” Casey said.

“I told you, it’s as close as you can get to Italy.”

Jake finished off the bottle of wine and let Casey drive. They took the highway to Syracuse and arrived at the lab a few minutes
before nine-thirty. Casey pulled over at the curb and they hadn’t waited more than a minute before a dark sedan pulled up
behind them and Helen got out. The moon above was like a small penlight under the blanket of clouds in the sky, but the streetlamps
cast a bluish light that made Casey wonder if it was Helen who got out of the dark sedan. She looked like a different person
to Casey wearing jeans and a silk blouse with a matching scarf tied around her neck. Her makeup was different, too, and Casey
realized Helen either wore very little or none at all at the office.

They greeted each other and she and Jake followed Helen as she rattled her keys against the lock before swinging open the
door and leading them to a small conference room on the first floor.

“I appreciate this so much,” Casey said, “this late and breaking in on your dinner.”

“I said anything I can do,” Helen said. “I only say what I mean, so, where are we?”

“Is it possible the sample you got from the Auburn Hospital isn’t what we said it was?” Casey asked.

Helen wrinkled her brow. “You said what it was, not me.”

“Well, I didn’t really,” Casey said.

“The people you’re working with.”

“Right, but if they made a mistake, is there a way you could know it?”

Helen shook her head. “Look, I’d like to help, but it’s hard to understand what you’re getting at.”

Jake cleared his throat and said, “If the semen sample you got from the hospital wasn’t twenty years old, is there a way you
could know that?”

“Well, I can’t tell you exactly how old it is,” Helen said.

“Could you tell if was two days old as compared to twenty years?” Jake asked.

“That should be easy,” Helen said.

“So, if the sample you got was new, you’d have known it?” Casey asked.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“But no one said anything about it,” Casey said, tapping a fingernail on the veneer of the conference table.

Helen cocked her head. “I don’t know. No one asked. The test was to match DNA. We matched it. The material was broken down,
we said that, so there wouldn’t be a reason to think it was anything other than old.”

“You said it was damaged,” Casey said.

“It was,” Helen said, “but it’s possible the damage was due to heat. I could take a sample from today, heat it, and break
down the DNA enough so we couldn’t get all thirteen loci. It would take a different analysis to determine whether it was heat
or age.”

“You’d have to be pretty clever to heat it,” Casey said.

Helen shrugged. “You wouldn’t want it to look fresh. Heating it would disguise the newness of the slide, so whoever scraped
the material from it wouldn’t think anything. A brand new slide?
That
someone would notice.”

“Will you test it for us?” Casey asked.

Helen grimaced. “We bumped the DNA comps to the front of the line because we got word from Homeland Security. Now…”

Casey cleared her throat and said, “Look, I’ve taken on cases like this before I—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Helen said. “I watch TV. I just don’t want to do something I shouldn’t because of that.”

“I think if you did this, it would be because it’s the right thing to do,” Casey said. “And a lot of times that’s not the
comfortable thing.”

Helen hesitated, then nodded. “All right. You’re right.”

“Can you do it now?” Casey asked.

Helen laughed. “You want an expert. I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”

“First thing?”

“Will noon work?” Helen said, rising from the table and covering a yawn.

“We really appreciate it,” Casey said, extending her hand.

They walked outside and watched Helen drive away.

“Where to now?” Jake asked.

“The Holiday Inn, I guess,” Casey said.

“You know Graham’s going to be waiting for you,” Jake said. “Ralph, at least.”

“Like a bloodhound.”

“How about we dodge them until breakfast?” Jake asked. “That place we had dinner at? The spa? We could stay there. They have
these beautiful suites.”

“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.”

U
SING 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.”