The normally immaculate prosecutor wore a wrinkled suit. His tie was spattered with wine drippings. Puffed-up flesh formed purple mountains around his bloodshot eyes. Sharp, horizontal creases furrowed his forehead, and his hair was a mess. Bart Ward looked like a tired man—tired of faltering witnesses, sketchy evidence, and mounting signs of police and prosecutor misconduct.
Bart Ward was tired of the anger on the judge’s face, and the doubt in the jurors’ eyes. The defense, it seemed to him, was closing in on reasonable doubt. This is not going well. The retrial of Eddie Nash was becoming a showcase of police and prosecution misstatements, mishaps, and misdeeds. The headlines were gnawing at his reputation and disrupting his sleep. The defense had even cast doubt on the urine traces recovered from the victim’s body. Laura had the samples tested with more advanced techniques, which showed the DNA was not Nash’s. Ward was on the ropes. It was time to distance himself from lying cops and crooked prosecutors. He had played no role in the original investigation and trial. Why should he—with his stellar reputation on the line, and his bosses in Albany on his back— pay the price for these two-bit ham-and-eggers?
So, the seasoned prosecutor invited the green defense attorney to meet him in the private attorney room on the third floor of the old courthouse after the trial adjourned for the day.
Ward looked across the walnut conference table to his young adversary. The Wizard sighed like a war-weary soldier. “This case is keeping me up at night.”
Laura feigned disbelief. “You? I’ve been working on it for months. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since spring.” What is he doing? What is he up to?
“First, Laura.” Ward hit her with his tired-as-an-old-dog blue eyes. “May I call you Laura?”
She nodded.
“Laura. Let me compliment you on the way you’ve handled yourself, both in and out of court. You are a formidable adversary—unstoppable with Martha at your side. You’ve brought out certain irregularities in the original trial that are—I must confess—rather troubling.”
“‘Rather troubling,’” Laura repeated. “Your talent for understatement remains stellar.”
“I plead guilty to that.” Ward winked through his mountain of eye flesh. “These irregularities may have—and I repeat, may have—compromised the fairness of the original trial. Perhaps—I stress the word perhaps—your client was denied a fair trial. I want you to know this: The State of New York does not condone the use of false evidence or dishonest testimony to convict innocent defendants of major felonies. The State of New York does not seek to put innocent people in prison. The State of New York does not accept wrongful convictions.”
“Good to know.” Laura lost the smile. “I would hope locking up innocent people is not a state priority.”
Laura recalled what her father once told her on a fishing trip. Let the fish take the line out as far as it can. Once he’s tired himself out, it’s a lot easier to reel him in.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Ward?”
“Please, Laura. Call me Bart.”
“What are you getting at, Bart?”
The deputy prosecutor raised an eyebrow like it was all he had the strength to do. “May I be blunt?”
“Please.” Laura leaned back in the antique armchair in the book-lined meeting room. “Blunt is good. I need more blunt in my life.”
“The position of the prosecution,” he said, “has evolved. Our view of your client has evolved.”
Laura narrowed her eyes. “You call that blunt?”
“Okay. Fine.” Ward flexed the shoulders. “Let me ask you one simple question: How would your client like to avoid the agony of a jury verdict?”
“‘Agony of a jury verdict?’” Laura looked to the floor and chuckled. “My client is looking forward to it. He believes the jury is relating to our case. That the jury is siding with him. He’s feeling good about his chances.”
“Maybe.” Ward adopted a poker face. “Maybe not.”
“Bart, my client is not guilty. The guilty party is still at large. The real killer is threatening the public. On the other hand, the Erie County police and prosecutor are guilty of their own crimes. Perjury. Obstructing justice. False imprisonment. Look. I had nothing to do with the original trial. You had nothing to do with the original trial. I know the reality. You know the reality. How do we put an end to this insanity?”
“Let me put it this way,” Ward barked. “How would your client like to walk out of prison a free man?”
“Specifics, please.”
“By the end of the week.” Ward pounded a fist on the desk and leaned in closer. “How would he like to be home by the weekend?”
“Can you get him tickets to the Jets game? Maybe throw in a Broadway show? Now, come on, man. Spell out the details.”
“Goddamn it,” Ward snapped. “Don’t you—” He caught himself. He held out his hands, palms up, in a show of surrender. “I’m offering you a plea deal.”
Laura assessed the situation. This was a critical moment. This was a potential turning point in this whole saga. Ward was tendering an Alford Plea—one of the most curious and contradictory conventions in modern jurisprudence. Stemming from the 1989 Supreme Court ruling in Alford v. North Carolina, the agreement allows a defendant to plead guilty—or no contest—while maintaining his claim of actual innocence. In essence, the defendant admits that the state has enough evidence to convict him beyond a reasonable doubt, while maintaining that they did not commit the crime.
“Terms?” Laura reached down, opened her briefcase, and withdrew a pen and pad of paper. “One at a time.”