Laura lay on her queen-sized bed in her cluttered bedroom of her three-room apartment. The second-floor walk-up was in a classic brownstone in Red Hook, a gritty urban neighborhood on the banks of the East River in Brooklyn, home to street gangs, drug markets, and industrial squalor; although, a slow influx of young, professional, urban pioneers was changing the social makeup. Laura had chosen to live there because the hardcore hipsters had not discovered it yet, and the rent was affordable.
Laura leaned on pillows piled against her headboard. She clutched a folder of court papers the way a new preacher clutches his Bible his first time in the pulpit. She began sifting through documents as she fought back sleep, stopping at the brief she’d filed with the federal appeals court:
The Council Against Wrongful Convictions petitions the Court to vacate the conviction laid down in State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash. We contest the finding of guilt on multiple constitutional grounds. By the standards of the Sixth, Ninth, and Fourteenth Amendments to the U.S. Constitution, the defendant was denied even the semblance of a fair and impartial trial.
She turned the page. The critique of the stun belt followed.
The defendant was forced to wear a stun belt, capable of sending 50,000 volts of electricity into his body with the flip of switch. Mr. Nash assured the judge that he posed no risk of a violent outburst and complained that the fear of being shocked—either by accident or on purpose—made it hard to concentrate on the case against him.
The judge responded that stun belts were standard equipment in murder trials in his courtroom. “The belt is just a precaution,” the judge stated in open court, with the jury present. “You should be grateful. We could put you in hand restraints and leg irons.”
We implore the federal court to send a clear message to the trial courts of New York: There is no place for these dangerous devices in our modern courtrooms.
She flipped pages, until she heard a noise coming from the kitchen. She was not alone. Out of nowhere, a small, lively dog ran into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed.
“Tripod.” Laura laughed. “Come here, boy.”
The pooch launched a furious onslaught of licks and nips, as Laura pulled a pillow over her head.
“Down, boy. Settle down. I know, I know. I know. I’m sorry for ignoring you. I’m home now. It’s just you and me, buddy. Now, lie down and go to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
Tripod was a Border collie—a three-legged one, at that. Laura had adopted him after a car accident had damaged his left front leg. A benevolent rescue service took the dog in, paid for his life-saving amputation, and put him up for adoption. At the time, Laura was mending a broken heart from a break-up and figured a dog would be more loyal than any man. Perusing potential adoptees online, she’d spotted the three-legged collie, filled out the forms, and took him home. She’d nursed him back to health, retraining him to maneuver on three legs. Three years later, Tripod now scooted as quickly as most dogs ran. He was thirty pounds of nimble, perpetual motion, hopping faster than the squirrels he chased, angling his one front leg in the center of his body and bouncing off it like a pogo stick, bounding circles around his peers at the dog park and sniffing out rodents with the best of them.
“Did you have a good time today?”
Tripod took three or four short walks a day with Laura’s downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Sanchez, and her miniature schnauzer, Mike, making it possible for Laura to work and keep the dog.
Tripod circled on the bed, lay down in a soft spot, rested his head on her leg, and closed his eyes.
Laura gazed down at the sleeping dog, wondering if he had four legs in his dreams.
Laura propped herself against the pillows and started to make a mental list of the next steps for the Nash case. She had to ramp up her preparations for the oral arguments. She had to begin working out a legal strategy with Martha. She had to launch the investigation with Charles and his number-two investigator. She planned to split Delilah’s time between administrative tasks and actual casework; the young paralegal was ready to take on more responsibility. Laura needed to request a position for a forensic computer specialist to lead the online work. In the end, the entire team would be smart, talented, and driven, as well as up to speed on the latest high-tech methods of conducting legal research and investigating complex cases. They would have access to the latest computer technologies, applications, and databases used for these kinds of cases.
The Council Against Wrongful Convictions might be a pennywise nonprofit with doors for desks, but it knew the importance of modern technology and techniques. It used the same sophisticated equipment as big law firms and law enforcement agencies. Still, there was no way around the need for good, old-fashioned legwork, too, and their work would have to go beyond re-examining old witnesses and finding new ones, reviewing old evidence, and uncovering new evidence. They would also have to confront the police and prosecutors about their apparent frame-up.
Laura looked up to the ceiling and asked herself the same nagging question. Who killed Erin Lambert? Who, who, who?
Her concentration was shattered by the buzz of her cell phone. Laura grabbed the phone and checked the data screen.