“What other side?” Marty asked.

“Whoever is trying to keep us from setting Dwayne Hubbard free,” Casey said, studying him. “For whatever reason.”

“The police said getting rid of the evidence was just part of normal procedure,” Marty said. “You know that, right?”

“And I don’t believe them,” Casey said, leaning forward. “You know that, right?”

“But my brief,” Marty said quietly. “I’m no Shakespeare, but you got it that the police have no legal duty to preserve evidence once all the appeals are done, right?”

“I got that, finally, yes,” Casey said calmly. “What I couldn’t get a clear handle on, and what I doubt you have a clear handle on, is whether or not their mismanaged approach-destroying evidence from 1989 before they’d finished with 1988-violated our client’s civil rights or the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments.”

Marty wrinkled his face.

“Exactly,” Casey said. “So, since you’re not in tune with the gravity of what’s going on, and since everything you say to other people in this firm-especially your uncle, the judge’s fund-raiser-might as well be on the front page of the Auburn Citizen, I need you to keep everything strictly confidential. If your uncle wants you to withdraw, then do it now, but don’t compromise what I’m doing here.”

Marty swallowed and clutched a pen in his hand. He glanced guiltily at Jake as he nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“All right,” Casey said, standing. “Let’s forget it and move on. We get the DNA from these swab samples and it all might not matter.”

“I’m really sorry,” Marty said, looking up at her and digging in his ear.

“I know. It’s okay,” Casey said. “We’ve got some other things to do, but I’ll be expecting your call after you line up the judge.”

When they got back out on the street, Jake asked, “How did you end up with him?”

Casey explained the political grease Marty’s firm provided and how Graham had teed them up.

“Why not have the uncle himself working for you?” Jake asked.

“That’s what I said,” Casey said.

“And what’d Graham say to that?”

“He never answered me.”

Casey’s cell phone rang before they reached Jake’s car.

“He’ll see us after the lunch,” Marty said.

“You tried for his chambers?” Casey asked.

“He’s going into court,” Marty said. “He wasn’t even going to see us afterward, but I told him it was a personal favor.”

“For you?” Casey asked.

Marty was quiet for a moment, before he said, “Well, yeah. I’m engaged to his daughter. That’s Linda.”

“Does that help us or hurt us?” Casey asked.

Marty laughed at the joke and said, “I got the meeting and I’m not saying anything to anyone else at the firm about it.”

“Great,” Casey said. “We’ll meet you there at noon.”

13

THE SPRINGSIDE INN was nestled at the foot of a wooded hill just outside of town near the lake. Jake circled the parking lot twice before pulling over on the grassy edge of the broad circular drive.

“The judge packs them in,” Casey said as they approached the old inn.

Marty met them just inside the door with their name tags and asked Casey if she had the check. Casey took the checkbook from her briefcase and laid it down on the table where two older women looked on as she filled it out for one hundred dollars to the Friends of Judge Kollar. Waitresses hurried about the banquet room, and four plates full of food already waited for them at a small card table hastily thrown up in the back.

“They were sold out,” Marty said, “but I pulled some strings. Trust me, the judge appreciates it.”

“I just can’t wait to hear him sing,” Jake said.

“He’s not going to sing,” Marty said, looking confused.

They sat down and the lunch unfolded in the way of small-town political fund-raisers, with long-winded speakers and stale jokes. When it neared the end, Casey breathed deep and let it out slowly, stifling a yawn.

Jake Carlson rolled his eyes as the final speaker droned on about being a leader in his community. He was particularly proud of introducing underprivileged kids to the world of golf.

Casey poked at her cherries jubilee.

Judge Kollar sat like a block of granite at the head table next to the podium. He had a tan shaved head and small dark eyes planted close to either side of his long nose. The thick eyebrows pasted to the eave of his brow stayed taut in a perpetual scowl. He was taller than almost every man in the room, and lean wide shoulders suggested a background in sports. Even as the handful of businessmen in sad gray suits stood one after another to sing his praises at the podium, he wore a look of intense skepticism. The previous day, in his court, Casey had attributed his scowl to the fact that she was from Texas and known in the media.

After the priest had concluded the lunch with a prayer for wisdom and resolve, Casey and Jake remained in their seats while Marty made his way toward the head table to find out from the judge where they could talk.

When he returned, Marty said, “The judge said we could talk to him while he has another piece of cherries jubilee. He likes it.”

Casey smiled. “I’m so damn pleased.”

Several of the guests, two in business suits and a handful of old ladies in pastel-colored dresses and hats, stood clustered around the judge as he ate. Casey tapped her foot and nudged Marty several times.

Finally, Marty dug into his ear, then stepped forward with a face as red as the judge’s dessert, held up his hands, and said, “Sorry, folks, we’ve got some business to discuss with the judge.”

Judge Kollar looked at Marty disinterestedly and the people scowled their disapproval but moved on.

“I don’t have much time,” Kollar said, shoveling in a mouthful of cherries as he studied Casey. “Wow. This stuff is terrific. Did you try this?”

“First of all,” Casey said, used to the curtness of judges, “thank you for meeting us.”

The judge inclined his head, then wrapped his meaty hand around his cup cowboy-style before he took a gulp of coffee.

Casey explained the situation with the hospital, then said, “I was hoping you could give us that order.”

The judge cut the spongy cake with the edge of his fork and swabbed up some juice before nicking the dab of whipped cream and opening wide to get his mouth around the whole mess.

“I’ll have to talk to the hospital first,” he said, through his food. “Is that it?”

“Time out,” Jake said, stepping forward.

The judge’s jowl worked like a piston as he stared without blinking. A bit of whipped cream danced up and down in the corner of his lip.

“This is a judgment call on your part, right?” Jake asked the judge.

Kollar squinted at Jake, then asked Marty, “Who is that?”

Marty offered up his empty hands and his face flushed. “Jake Carlson. He’s with the TV show American Sunday.”

“Of course it’s a judgment call,” Kollar said to Jake before taking another bite.

“Okay, and you want to know all the facts, right?” Jake said.

Kollar glanced at Marty again. “Which is why I’ll hear what the hospital has to say.”

“Because one of the facts is the story that’s evolving here,” Jake said, leaning casually against the table with his elbow not far from the judge’s dessert. “We’ve got a black man who’s been in jail for twenty years. His trial was rushed and shoddy. The defense was a joke, with key witnesses no one ever bothered to find. Now, here we are today in the same small town trying to right a wrong, only the evidence is magically destroyed. Then, presto, we come up with another way to get some DNA evidence that can set our man free, but that same small town’s new judge wants to think things over.”

“And your point?” Kollar asked, glowering.

Jake shrugged. “Just makes a good story, that’s all. You might think, what would a TV network care about some small-town story like this, and you’d be right, but then I’d say to you that when Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson show up in Auburn, New York, to join forces with a philanthropic billionaire, we’ve got a headliner. Question for you is, what’s your role?”