“The Council Against Wrongful Convictions” was etched on a temporary sign on the foggy glass door of the rental office at 124 Main Street in Eden. A winding staircase led to the sparse, second-floor workspace. Laura sat at a thrift-store desk, crafting questions for the state’s expert psychiatric witness, who was set to take the stand when court reconvened on Monday. Feeling a need to stretch her legs, she clutched her half-full coffee mug and strolled to the plate-glass window that overlooked the street. She’d spent much of the night talking to Nick on the phone. He had become a supportive listener. His calls had helped her through the rough patches.
Laura watched the storm pummel pedestrians at the intersection of Main and Church. The brave souls pushed against a gusting wind that blew sheets of ice and snow into their faces. Ice crystals clung to telephone wires, and the branches of oaks and birches bent toward the sidewalk in the plaza across the way. Beyond the buildings, in the distant hills, the sun wove in and out of the inky clouds rolling in from Lake Erie.
Laura reflected on the case in the silence of the moment. For the most part, the defense of Eddie Nash was off to a good start. The strategy of counter-punching the prosecution witnesses was damaging the state’s case. Detective Demario’s cross-examination had pried loose an important cornerstone of the prosecution’s narrative: The confession. The rattled detective’s arrogant embrace of military-style interrogation techniques confirmed that the confession was coerced in violation of police standards and common decency. The county medical examiner’s cross-examination had loosened another pillar in the case against Nash. The ME’s description of the hanging cast doubt on Nash’s ability to even commit such a precise and complex act. This crime reflected the skill of a cold, calculated executioner with knowledge and experience in the grim hangman’s art. Then, there was the cross-examination of the former strip club bouncer. The bumbling and stumbling Jimmy Dean Bernadi had handed the jury a viable alternative to the prosecution’s theory. Did Bernadi lie about his alibi? Did he drive out to that bridge? Did he kill his ex-girlfriend? It seemed, Laura thought, that the defense was building reasonable doubt. Was it enough to motivate the jurors to acquit? Not yet.
Despite the small victories, Laura guarded against overconfidence. Those narrow courtroom successes, those skillful manipulations of bad witnesses and weak evidence, were not enough. Short of a breakthrough, State of New York v. Edward Thomas Nash II would be decided by a second jury verdict.
Laura looked down at a legal pad and lifted a ballpoint pen. She had a thought to incorporate into the final statement to the jury.
Imagine this: You turn on the news to learn that a close friend has been murdered. You’re reeling from the shock, when the police knock on your door. You’re eager to help them find the killer, until you realize the shocking truth: You are their target. You’re arrested. You’re chained to a wall. You’re beaten with a phone book. Threatened with a gun. Suffocated into falsely confessing. You’re dragged into court, dressed in an electrocution belt, and called “a monster.” You’re found guilty and sent to prison for the rest of your life. And you’re innocent.
She put down the pen. She was getting ahead of herself. She needed a breakthrough.
The only game changer in sight was the bloodstained towel—the likely source of exculpatory DNA evidence—and it was nowhere. Charles and Lou had cultivated sources to scour the Erie County evidence room, to no avail. They had cultivated another source to search the state police lab, to no avail. Where was it? Given the monstrous nature of the crime, and the unpredictability of human nature, without that evidence, those twelve mortal men and women might do anything, including convict an innocent man for the second time. She needed that bloodstained towel. Charles and Lou had to find it. Where were they?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The front door buzzer snapped her back to the here and now. Who could that be? She hustled down the narrow staircase, opened the door, and gasped with delight.
“Dad!” she said. “Tripod!”