False Convictions (11 page)

Chain-link fences surrounded the different warehouses and abandoned mills, and Graham turned his Range Rover into the parking
lot of one. Jake drove past the entrance and just caught sight of Graham pulling his SUV right into the big open bay of an
abandoned mill before disappearing into its dark bowels. Half a block down, an old ball-bearing factory had a broken parking
lot nearly a quarter full with rusty pickup trucks and late model cars. Several cars had been parked along the street and
Jake found a spot among them, scanning the area before he got out and walked quickly back toward the warehouse.

As the open bay of the hulking concrete building came into view through the fence, Jake searched for signs of life, seeing
none. Down where the road took a turn in front of the cereal factory, a dusty cement mixer pulled out and rumbled away. Past
the warehouse, late afternoon sunlight glittered on the broken mud-brown surface of the river. A deep strumming sound of heavy
diesel preceded a vast tanker that surged into view like a skyscraper laid on its side, pushing a four-foot wake from its
bow as it surged upriver.

When Jake reached the open gates, he took one final look and sprinted across the open ground without stopping until he reached
the shadow of the warehouse and felt the crumbling face of its wall. Outside the bay, he paused to listen before peeking around
the corner.

The cool smell of rot and spilled oil seeped from the opening. Through the vast empty space, a second open bay allowed a square
of light to illuminate the Range Rover resting beside a black Suburban. At the sound of another vehicle approaching from the
direction of the cereal factory, Jake ducked into the shadows of the warehouse. He heard the vehicle turn in at the gate and
he backed deeper into the gloom. Just outside the bay door, the vehicle came to a stop. Someone got out and a door slammed
shut before a silver Mercedes G55 SUV rolled into the warehouse and headed for the far door.

Jake heard the distinct metallic click of a Zippo lighter and smelled cigarette smoke as it drifted from the man outside the
door into the warehouse and toward the river. The taillights of the Mercedes glowed as it came to rest next to the other vehicles
by the far bay door. The front doors of the Mercedes swung open and two thick-chested men popped out, one of them hurrying
to the hatch and removing a wheelchair while the other opened the back passenger-side door and began to help a bent old man
into the waiting chair.

His eyes now adjusted to the dark, Jake made his way carefully through the maze of metal drums, deserted machinery, and empty
wooden pallets, stepping silently across the damp, gritty floor. Soon a faded picnic table came into view in front of the
vehicles. Robert Graham sat across from a muscular man in a suit. Standing over them in the shadows was an enormous fat man
in a short-sleeved silk shirt with his tattooed arms folded and resting atop the shelf of his gut. The old man in the wheelchair
had been placed at the end of the table, and Jake saw now that he wore a cranberry cardigan sweater and his eyes stayed hidden
behind the kind of monstrous black glasses reserved for the blind. Behind him stood one of the big men from the Mercedes while
the other paced slowly in the open bay, scanning both the bank and the river beyond.

Jake could tell the men around the table were talking, but he couldn’t hear a thing. He studied the sedan and the truck, memorizing
their license plates, then, keeping to the deepest shadows and crouching low, he began to work in a roundabout way toward
the open bay and into earshot. His heart thumped a fast steady beat and he tried unsuccessfully to quiet his ragged breathing.
When the men’s voices rose, Jake doubled his pace, thinking that if he took much longer anything of interest would already
be said.

When he peeked up to get his bearings, his hand found what he thought was the metal rim of an oil drum, but when his foot
slipped and he instinctively gripped it for balance the hubcap he held flipped through the air and clanged into the side of
another metal drum before clattering to the concrete floor.

“What the
fuck
!” one of the men shouted.

Footsteps slapped across the concrete, heading right for him. Jake scrambled off his backside and felt blindly for the obstacles
in front of him as he dove even deeper into the maze of junk.

J
AKE MADE IT TO the back wall of the cavernous space and raced along its edge like a rat, praying and feeling for a way out,
sweat breaking out under his arms and on his brow. One of the men retrieved a flashlight from a vehicle and their shouts were
now accompanied by the sweeping probe of light. When his hands found a doorframe, he cast himself through it just as the beam
flashed past. Metal stairs went only down and he took them, placing his feet as carefully as he could and with no idea how
far down the stairs would go and seeing absolutely nothing now.

Even the lightest step of his feet sent a faint echo through the stairwell. Cool dank air filtered up at him and a petroleum
odor laced the rancid smell of standing sewage water. When his feet stumbled on the last step, he splashed forward, groping
for a handhold, finding a broken wall, and keeping himself from falling face-first into the filth. A faint circle of light
cast a gloomy pall through the factory basement. Pipes the size of storm drains lay in ruin and scattered about like a child’s
toys. Jake sloshed toward the source of light and reached the three-foot opening just as he heard the voices above enter the
stairwell.

Feet clanged on the metal stairs and the flashlight’s beams created a panic of shadows. Jake scurried into the piping without
hesitation, relieved by the strong smell of the river. The slight decline and decades of oily slime made it hard for Jake
to keep upright even on his hands and knees. He was halfway to the light when he heard and felt the monstrous pulse of a freighter
out on the river. The damp air pounded into Jake’s ears. He slipped and slid and crawled, frantic to get out. With just five
feet to go an explosion of foam blasted him in the face. Water filled his mouth and nose and the force of the surge pumped
him backward and halfway up the pipe.

Jake choked and banged his head on the top of the pipe, catching the smallest gasp of air before being sucked back out toward
the river. He turned over and grasped with his hands for anything to hold, catching nothing, plummeting down, slamming his
head on a rock, everything turning dark, then nothing.

C
ASEY APPRECIATED Jake’s concern but couldn’t get too worried about it because she smelled success for the Freedom Project
and that diminished the TV reporter’s conspiracy theories. She spent the afternoon on a conference call with Stacy and the
rest of her staff. They covered a slew of issues, from an appeal for a deportation case to a woman the DA was charging as
an accessory in a robbery, even though the police knew she was nothing more than the unsuspecting driver for her husband and
his friend. Casey lost track of time, and the sudden, harsh knock at her hotel room door made her gasp.

“Are you okay?” Stacy asked.

“Of course,” Casey said. “Just someone at the door. Hang on.”

She set the phone down and quietly swung the security bar over the latch, peering through the peephole. The distorted figure
of a man in a suit shifted from one foot to the other. When she saw him extend a pinkie finger and go for his ear, she threw
aside the security bar and threw open the door.

“Marty?” she said, loud enough so that he jumped. “What are you doing here?”

Marty stammered for a moment, then said, “I told Ralph I’d help with anything you need.”

“Ralph?”

Marty nodded. “He said he had to do something, and he wanted me to just hang around like he does and give you a ride if you
need one. So I’ve been down in the lobby and it’s almost six o’clock and I got worried about you. They said you didn’t order
room service or anything. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Who did you ask about me ordering room service?” Casey asked, folding her arms across her chest.

The red blotches on Marty’s face deepened. He shrugged and said, “I went to school with the manager.”

“You’re spying on me? Asking questions?” Casey said, still angry at being startled.

“Not like that,” Marty said. “I just wanted to help. I heard you raised hell with the judge and I thought you might want to
eat. There’s a pizza place up on Main Street. I could bring you some.”

Casey sighed and said, “I’m fine, Marty.”

“Okay,” Marty said, jamming his hands into his pant pockets and backing away. “Do you want to just call my cell phone if you
need something, then?”

“That will work great,” she said. “And please, don’t hang around the lobby.”

“But Ralph—”

Casey held up a hand. “Ralph’s not my boss and he’s not yours. Please. Go home. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“Like a ride to the courthouse tomorrow?” Marty asked.

“If I need it,” Casey said, thinking Jake was sure to be back. “Good night, Marty. Thank you.”

Marty hung his head and turned to go.

“Marty,” she said, and he spun on a dime. “Thanks for your help with the hospital brief.”

“I thought I was bothering you,” Marty said, wrinkling his nose.

“You asked some good questions,” she said, “and that’s what a good lawyer does.”

Marty blushed and thanked her and walked away. She watched him go, then finished up with her team on the phone, snapping it
shut before turning her thoughts to Jake. When the phone suddenly rang, she snatched it up without looking at the number.

“Hi,” she said warmly.

“Holy shit, they fucking tried to kill me.”

“Jake?” Casey said, puzzled by the busy-sounding background. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Graham. His thugs. I’m at the emergency room in Buffalo smelling like the ass end of the river with twenty-seven stitches
in the back of my head. They think I’m nuts, but one of the cops recognized me.”

“Police?”

“I staggered up into the parking lot at the Naval Museum covered in blood. This guy’s kids thought it was
Dawn of the Dead
.”

“Are you okay?”

“I took a handful of painkillers and my head still feels like a seven-pound ham in a five-pound can. Are
you
okay? That’s what I’m worried about.”

Casey looked around her room and drew the curtains across the large window. “Fine. Yes. Tell me what the hell happened.”

Jake unraveled a story about following Graham, the people he met, and where.

“Then I tried to get closer to hear and they heard me and came after me,” Jake said. “I dove down this fucking huge drainpipe
and I got flushed out of there and the next thing I know, I’m washed up onshore downriver and some toothless old whore is
turning my pockets inside out calling herself the great Nelly Falconi. Thankfully, all she took was my cash, so I’ve got my
cards. My cell phone is shot to hell, though. I have no idea how I didn’t fucking drown.”

“But,” Casey said slowly, unable to keep from playing the defense lawyer, “they didn’t hit you or anything.”

“I didn’t give them the chance. I ran my ass off and tried to lose them in the basement of this place. I don’t know if they
opened some floodgates or what, but I got battered to hell.”

“I mean, were they doing anything illegal or anything?”

“I’m sure.”

“But you didn’t see any drugs or guns or anything, right?”

“You do this as long as I have and you don’t need to see the fire to know something’s burning. You can smell the smoke.”

Casey bit into her lip and asked, “Now what?”

“Well, you watch your ass,” Jake said. “I’m going to buy some clean clothes and a phone at the mall, then get back to my car
and get on to those assholes Graham was with. There can’t be too many guys in wheelchairs getting shuttled around Buffalo
in silver G55s. Once I find out how dirty this guy really is, then I go to my producers and plead my case. Then I nail him.”

Casey didn’t know what to say.

“You there?” Jake asked.

“Sure. What do the cops think?”

“I told you, that I’m off my sled,” Jake said. “The older one said his mom was a fan, so they kind of took me at my word on
all the blood, but they got called to a domestic dispute five minutes into my stitches.”

Casey went quiet again.

The silence continued until Jake said, “Okay, so, I’ll let you know, right?”

“Jake?” Casey said. “Honestly? I think you’re going off a little half-cocked. You sound a little…”

“Off my sled?”

“Well, overexcited.”

“What about all that stuff I heard him saying on the phone?” Jake asked, impassioned. “That he should have ‘taken care of
you before’ and all that? What did you do?”

“You don’t know if it’s
me
he was even talking about.”

“Okay,” Jake said, pausing for a long beat and losing his steam. “I hear you. But you put the pieces together and they add
up. This I know, so you be careful. Call me if you find out anything, or if you need me. I’m not that far away.”

_________

Casey woke up the next morning after a fitful night of sleep. The wind had blown, and the noise of the trees outside and the
creaking sounds from the roof cut her imagination loose. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and decided on
a long run to think. High clouds caught the dawn’s pink glow and the purple shadows of the prison wall seemed to visibly fade
as she surged up the hill on her way out of town. She reached her halfway point, a small ice-cream stand at a four-corner
stop and circled back, deciding to call Robert Graham as soon as she returned to the hotel.

She would ask him straight up about Jake and confront him about what Jake overheard Graham saying on the phone to the man
named Massimo. Part of her believed Jake, but another part of her thought he might be a little cracked. And Graham was her
client. He deserved the benefit of a direct confrontation. Resolute, she churned past farm fields, smelling the rich scent
of damp earth and crops nearly ready for harvest, her feet pounding out a steady tattoo on the gravel shoulder as the early
traffic growled past, headlights on in the thin light.