Innocence (44 page)

“I would ask that you weigh the credibility of this little farce when you ultimately rule, Your Honor,” Jackson said.

“Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job, Mr. Jackson. I will consider the entire record before I rule.” Cavanaugh glared at Jackson until the assistant DA wilted back into his chair. “You may proceed, Mr. Finn.”

Finn approached Miguel Salazar. “Dr. Salazar, you were aware, were you not, that Officer Steele was looking to have your brother deported?”

“On advice of counsel, I decline to answer at this time.”

“You were angry about that, weren’t you?”

“On advice of counsel, I decline to answer at this time.” Miguel still showed no emotion, seeming to regard Finn as nothing more than a functionary.

“Can you tell us where you were on the evening Officer Steele was attacked?”

“On advice of counsel, I decline to answer at this time.”

Finn walked back to counsel table. He stood in front of his chair at the table, readying himself to sit next to his client. “One final question, Dr. Salazar: Did you shoot Madeline Steele?”

The courtroom was silent. Everyone knew the answer that was coming, and yet the tension was electric. Reporters, who had been scribbling furiously into notebooks throughout the proceedings, balanced on the edges of their seats, looking alternately among Finn and the two Salazar brothers. Finally, Miguel Salazar sat forward in his chair and, leaning in to the microphone in front of the witness stand, he said in a clear, strong voice, “On advice of counsel, I decline to answer at this time.”

z

Finn leaned against the wall in the courthouse corridor. Kozlowski stood next to him, hands in his pockets. The hall was crowded, though there remained a cushion of unclaimed space around the two men. The reporters and lawyers milling about threw furtive glances at Finn, as though he were some sort of dangerous wizard. After Miguel’s testimony, the hearing had moved quickly. Cavanaugh had heard arguments from both sides but cut them short after a few minutes apiece. Then he’d stood and looked at everyone in his courtroom with unmistakable contempt. “I am going back to my chambers to consider everything I have seen and heard today,” he’d said. “I will have a ruling for you in twenty minutes or so.”

Now all Finn could do was wait.

“What do you think?” Kozlowski asked.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Finn’s head was down. He was staring at the dingy tiled floor.

“You had a job to do. You did it.”

“Nice fuckin’ way to live my life, though, huh? My client may still be guilty, you know. They could both be lying just to get him out.”

“You think the brother would do that for your client?”

“I don’t know. I never had a brother.”

Miguel Salazar sifted through the perimeter of strangers surrounding the two and walked over to them. “Mr. Finn, I’d like a word,” he said. Cocca was behind him, trying to catch up.

“That’s not a good idea,” Finn said without looking up.

“Mr. Finn, I apologize if this puts you in an awkward position—”

Finn cut Miguel off and addressed his lawyer. “Joe, would you tell your client that he and I aren’t speaking. Whatever he says to me isn’t privileged, and I probably have an ethical obligation to report it to the judge.”

“I saved your life in that alley,” Miguel said.

“If you were the reason my life was in danger in the first place, I’m not sure you still get to call Yahtzee on that.”

Cocca tugged at his client’s elbow. “C’mon, Miguel,” he said. “Finn’s right; there are lots of conflicts of interest going on here. Plus, I don’t want this to look like there’s some kind of conspiracy involved.”

“Good thought,” Finn said. “God forbid any of us look sleazy in all this.”

As Cocca dragged his client away, he said to Finn, “After the New Year, we’ll grab a beer and swap stories on all this, okay?”

“Right,” Finn responded. He watched the two men disappear into the crowd.

Kozlowski cleared his throat. “So, do they make you guys sign away your self-respect when they give out bar cards?”

“By that point, few of us would have anything left to hand over. The self-respect is gone long before the bar exam.”

Kozlowski chortled. “Where’s your client?”

“He’s back in a holding cell.”

“Should you be back there waiting with him?”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to talk to him.” Finn kicked at a piece of lint on the floor. “I’m not sure what I would say.”

“Are you sure you’re not just avoiding your own conscience?”

“Probably.”

“Taking the easy way out?”

“You bet your ass.” The piece of lint refused to give ground and instead drifted over in front of Kozlowski’s foot. Kozlowski flicked his toe, and the lint popped up into the air, catching a draft and retreating into the loose web of people in the hallway.

“He was lucky,” Kozlowski said.

“Who?”

“Salazar. Vincente. He was lucky.”

“How do you figure?”

“He had you in there. Whether you still think he might be guilty or not, you fought damned hard. If I was in his shoes, I’d want you in there representing me, even if you thought I did it.”

“Is that a compliment?” Finn asked.

“I don’t know.”

The door to the courtroom opened, and a clerk stuck his head out into the hallway. “Judge Cavanaugh will be back on the bench shortly,” he said. He withdrew, and the tide of onlookers began to flow back into the courtroom.

“Moment of truth,” Kozlowski said.

Finn looked at him. “I didn’t realize you knew how to be ironic.”

“It’s a gift. I try not to overuse it.”

“You succeed.” Finn straightened up and threw his shoulders back, pulling his body off the wall. “I guess we’ll find out now how good a job I actually did.”

z

“All rise!” The bailiff glared out at the crowd as he called the room to order, his eyes daring anyone to breach the sanctity of the tribunal. Finn heard the rustling of the spectators getting to their feet behind him as he stood next to his client.

Cavanaugh emerged from his chambers looking as though he had aged ten years in twenty minutes. His black robe contrasted eerily with the gray of his face, lending him the air of a weary grim reaper. He climbed the steps to the bench with visible effort, like an aged mountaineer on his last ascent. “Be seated,” he said quietly enough that some in the crowd seemed uncertain of the instruction. “Mr. Salazar, you may remain standing.” It was more than an invitation, and Finn stayed on his feet as well.

“There are times when this job is rewarding beyond comprehension,” Cavanaugh began. He looked out over the crowd, pausing briefly on Jackson, then Finn, and letting his gaze settle on Salazar. “This is not one of those times,” he continued, and the pit in Finn’s stomach threatened to swallow him.

“Our system of criminal justice is firm—hard, even, at times. It must be. Stripped of the twin pillars of certainty and finality, the public would lose trust in our courts, and without the public trust, our entire judicial system would weaken, and our very democracy would be in peril. As a result, once a case has been decided and all appeals have run, that decision is considered final and cannot be challenged again.” His glare at Salazar intensified. “You, sir, have been convicted of a heinous crime. There are few offenses as grave as an attack on the very people who have offered themselves up, and risked their lives, in the enforcement of our laws and in the protection of our citizens. Your conviction was handed down by a jury of twelve ordinary citizens, unanimous in their determination that you committed this crime beyond any reasonable doubt. You were afforded legal counsel, and there is no challenge here that such counsel was lacking in its effectiveness. While it is clear that there were significant breaches of procedure in the prosecution of your case, it is not clear that it was beyond the power of your counsel to expose those irregularities. In addition, evidence obtained more recently—at your lawyers’ own request, no less—tends to indicate that you are, in fact, the man who committed this crime. Putting aside the little morality play staged by your brother and the attorneys, I am not convinced that you are in

nocent in this matter, and I admit only a minuscule possibility that the DNA testing does not conclusively establish your guilt.”

Cavanaugh let his words sink in, and if the silence in the courtroom was any indication, he hadn’t overestimated the impact of his oratory. “It must also be acknowledged,” he continued, “that while our system of justice must be firm, it should not become so hard that it risks turning brittle. Without some degree of flexibility, our courts would lose an element of humanity that is at the core of their strength. In this case, there is evidence—indeed, overwhelming evidence—of an active conspiracy to secure a conviction through the falsification of evidence and the presentation of perjurious testimony by the police. As important to the public trust in the criminal justice system as the notions of certainty and finality are, so, too, are the concepts of fairness and truth. For if the government is permitted to rig the system against those it has chosen to accuse, none of our citizens can feel safe from the dangers of tyranny.”

Cavanaugh rested his elbows on the bench, reaching and taking off his glasses. “These are the competing equities I must balance today. So where does all that leave us?”

Finn searched Cavanaugh’s expression, but it revealed nothing, and he steadied himself with his hand against counsel table. No one was breathing in the courtroom, and Finn was sure that his legs would fail him at any moment. For the first time since the judge had retaken the bench, Finn allowed himself a brief sidelong glance at his client. Salazar stood frozen at the divide between two very different futures, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, Finn felt real compassion for him.

Cavanaugh took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, it leaves me with no choice. You have been convicted, Mr. Salazar, and I believe that you are guilty. Those undeniable realities, however, are not enough for me to uphold your conviction in the face of the blatant police misconduct used to procure your conviction. Mr. Finn has convinced me that there is a shadow of a doubt still remaining, and in these circumstances, I will not substitute my own judgment for that of an unbiased jury presented with all of the evidence fully and fairly. That is not how our system of justice was designed to work.”

No one seemed to know for sure what the judge had done. No one moved, and the entire courtroom remained transfixed on the old, tired, robed man facing them. As if to dispel any doubt, Cavanaugh spoke again. “I hereby order that the conviction of Vincente Salazar in this matter is vacated, and Mr. Salazar shall be released.”

The courtroom erupted as reporters streamed toward the back door, eager to deliver the news first. “It gives me no joy to do this,” Cavanaugh continued, “and my decision is without prejudice. The district attorney’s office is free to refile charges and retry Mr. Salazar as it sees fit.” No one was listening anymore, and his final words drifted unheard into the commotion. “May God forgive me if I am making a mistake.” He brought down the gavel, stood, and walked off the bench looking utterly defeated.

Salazar, who hadn’t moved since Cavanaugh began speaking, stood with his mouth open, still staring at the tall black leather chair the judge had vacated. Then he turned and looked at his family. He took two steps toward them and grabbed his daughter over the bar, holding her tightly as the tears ran down both their faces. A bailiff tried to separate them, explaining that they still had to process Salazar’s release before he would officially be free, but neither of them would let go. Finn suspected that neither would for a while.

Finn took his notes and laid them in his briefcase, closing the lid and snapping the locks shut. He took one last look at Vincente and Rosita Salazar trying to soothe the pain of fifteen years’ absence with one embrace. Then he picked up his briefcase and left the courtroom without another word.

Chapter Forty-fiv
e

Tuesday, Christmas Day, 2007

Christmas broke over Boston like salvation. The sun pierced through a crystal-blue sky, and for the first time in a fortnight, the meteorologists were predicting a day without precipitation. Across the city, children scrambled out of their beds in a frenzy, tearing down stairs and into living rooms awash in the glow of colored lights reflecting off red and green and gold wrapping paper. Even in the homeless shelters, the aromas of special breakfast feasts of pancakes and ham chased away the sad realities of life, if only for a few hours. It seemed as though the world had been released from its slate-gray captivity, and those waking from their nightly slumber greeted a day filled with possibilities.

Finn didn’t wake up that morning. He didn’t need to; he hadn’t slept. At five a.m., after leaving his third voice-mail message for Linda Flaherty, he showered, dressed in a sweater and sport jacket, threw on an overcoat, and went out walking. He had no destination in mind and felt only the need to be on the move. He walked down off Bunker Hill and out the backside of Charlestown into Cambridge. He walked up the Charles River on the north bank, past the great dome of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, through the brick thicket of Harvard University, and then back across the river through Boston’s Fenway, Back Bay, and Beacon Hill.

As he walked, he evaluated the city through new eyes—eyes that were considering abandoning the city for the first time. He had spent his entire life in Boston, never making it farther than a hundred miles from the place of his forgotten birth. And as he walked through the city, he realized something. He loved it. He loved it the way he supposed the fortunate love their parents—forgetfully, selfishly, taking for granted the splendor and warmth, the faults and failings, until the possibility that they won’t always be there feels like more than hypothetical musing. He knew then that he would never leave. He existed only here, and there was nothing that could be done to change that.

At ten o’clock he arrived back in Charlestown and ambled his way up Warren Street to his office. He was surprised to find the door open and Kozlowski sitting at the conference table. In front of him were a box of donuts and two large coffees. “Been looking for you,” Kozlowski said.