Trial and Terror (11 page)

The Hardys both leaned on a railing to admire the holiday scene, but Joe could see his brother's
mind was elsewhere. “You still think Nick is innocent, don't you?” Joe said.

“Yes, I do,” Frank said, his eyes on the skaters. “Do you still think he's guilty?”

“After everything that's happened today,” Joe said, “I'm afraid I still think he's guilty. But I'm also seeing how important it is for a person to have the best possible defense.”

“Why is that?” Frank asked.

“I had moments this afternoon,” Joe said, “when I considered each one of our suspects guilty—John Q., Alex, Velloni. But obviously that can't be the case. I guess a fair trial is the best way to keep a jury from making that kind of mistake.”

“And then sometimes a jury makes the wrong decision even if the trial is fair,” Frank said.

Joe watched a skater wipe out on the ice. “Do you really think they'll convict Nick?” Joe asked.

Frank nodded. “Unless we can come up with something linking someone else to the crime, Nick Rodriguez is going to spend this Christmas and a lot of others behind bars. And the thought of that really bothers me. But so far we've got nothing.

“Let's go call Tyrell,” he said. As he and Joe went to find a pay phone, Frank's stomach churned. He knew that what he was about to find out could either set Nick Rodriguez free or send him to jail for many years to come.

“Hello.” Frank spoke into the phone, his heart pounding.

“Hi, Frank,” the voice of Sergeant Tyrell returned. “Listen, I just got the call from the crime lab. None of the fibers you brought in matches those found at the crime scene. Sorry, but that's how it goes in the detective game. You win some and you lose some.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, his heart sinking. “But I really appreciate the help.”

“It really wasn't much trouble,” Tyrell said. “Say hello to your dad for me.”

“I sure will,” Frank replied.

As Frank hung up the phone, Joe could read the bad news in his brother's face. In fact, Frank
looked as down as Joe had ever seen him. “Frank, we did our best,” Joe said gently.

The two brothers walked back to the rink. Frank leaned on the railing and watched the skaters gliding across the ice. Some were graceful, and some were clumsy. At the moment, Frank felt a lot like the ones who were falling roughly to the ice. “I just wish I knew what to do,” he said wearily.

He stared at the ice a long moment.

“Maybe there's one more thing,” he said.

“What's that?” Joe asked.

“I keep hearing the voice of Zeke Washington saying, ‘In the name of justice, I have to talk to you,' ” Frank said. “I think we should go to Sing Sing tomorrow morning and see what he was talking about. It may be nothing, but it's worth a shot.”

“Okay,” Joe said with a nod. “We're there.”

“Well,” Frank said, casting a last look at the gigantic tree, “let's head back to Bayport and get some rest. Besides, I've got to give Callie her present tonight.”

•  •  •

At ten-thirty the following morning, the Hardys walked toward the prison after an hour's train ride from Manhattan. They had learned the train stopped right near the prison grounds and figured it would be faster than driving from Bayport in the van.

After passing through several gates, several
guards, and several heavy doors, the Hardys spoke with a prison official, who made the necessary arrangements for the Hardys to speak with inmate 82658—Zeke Washington.

The Hardys were brought into a large room that was divided in half by a wall of bulletproof glass. Prisoners sat on one side of the glass, visitors on the other. All around, people were conversing with their friends and loved ones who were serving time at the prison. Like everything else at Sing Sing, the room was drab and depressing.

Soon a young man came to sit across the glass from Frank and Joe. He picked up a telephone to speak with the Hardys, both of whom also picked up phones. “I'm Zeke Washington,” the man spoke into his mouthpiece. “I understand you want to see me.”

Zeke wore a light blue shirt with his prisoner number printed over the pocket. Joe had expected to see a hardened criminal. Instead he was face-to-face with a pleasant man only a few years older than himself. Except for the prison attire, Zeke could have been a buddy from Bayport High.

“We understand you have some information for Karen Lee,” Frank said.

“Well, you see,” Zeke Washington said, “I need Karen Lee to help me get out of here.”

“How is that?” Joe asked.

“I've been a criminal most of my life, and I
admit that,” Zeke said. “I robbed a bunch of places, and I've been in and out of prison more times than I can count. Fact is, a lot of folks call me Elmer because they used to say my hands were as sticky as glue.”

Zeke showed a charming smile. Joe found himself liking this man, even though, in a sense, he played for the opposite team.

“But, you see,” Zeke continued, “a year and a half ago I gave up crime for good. Even got myself a real job.”

“Then why are you here?” Joe asked.

“Good question,” Zeke said, turning more serious. “Right after I went straight, I got arrested on an armed robbery charge. They said I held up the clerk of a convenience store at gunpoint. I was convicted of the crime and sentenced to fifteen years. I've been here for eight months already. But I didn't do the crime.”

Frank tapped his foot impatiently. None of this seemed important to Nick's trial.

“I have a lot of free time here,” Zeke continued. “Instead of just playing cards and watching TV like most of the other inmates, I decided to find out what went wrong in my case and see if there was anything I could do about it.”

“That was smart,” Joe told Zeke.

“I read some law books and wrote a lot of letters,” Zeke said. “Then, last August, I tracked down and called the police detective who worked my case, a Detective O'Roark. He told
me he found the gun that I supposedly used in the armed robbery. He traced the serial number and found it belonged to someone else, another guy known for being a crook.”

“Was that information admitted at your trial?” Frank asked, checking his watch.

“It should have been, but it wasn't,” Zeke said. “One day last spring, right before my trial started, O'Roark brought this information to the lawyer prosecuting the case. He said this proved my innocence and they should go after the other guy instead. But the prosecutor ignored this information. The other guy had skipped town, and the prosecutor wanted a quick victory.”

“In other words,” Joe said, “the prosecutor withheld crucial evidence. Which is illegal.”

“That's exactly what she did,” Zeke said.

“What was the prosecutor's name?” Frank asked.

“Patricia Daggett,” Zeke said, mouthing the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “I think she has a reputation for that,” Joe told Zeke.

“That's what Detective O'Roark told me,” Zeke said. “He told me he knew of several other times where Daggett withheld evidence to win a case. Just minor things here and there. None of them as bad as what she did to me.”

Frank did not know where this was leading, but he was getting the impression this visit had been a wise move. “What does this have to do with
Karen Lee?” Frank asked, his brown eyes studying Zeke.

“I'm planning to file a complaint with the head district attorney that states Patricia Daggett railroaded me into jail,” Zeke said. “O'Roark told me he had a big argument with Daggett that day last spring when he realized she wasn't going to use the evidence he had uncovered. I asked O'Roark if anyone overheard their argument, and he told me there was a secretary nearby.”

Frank now realized where this was going. “And after some more digging,” Frank said, “you discovered that secretary was named Karen Lee. And you figured if Lee could back up O'Roark's story, the head DA might believe it.”

“Man, you're reading my thoughts,” Zeke said, leaning forward. “But by this time, Lee had left her secretary job and was acting on some soap opera. Her address and phone number were unlisted, so I wrote several letters to her at the television studio where she works. I explained the situation to her and told her how she could contact me.”

“But she didn't answer the letters,” Joe said.

“No,” Zeke said, shaking his head. “Finally I got smart and found her home phone number in last year's phone book. I called her yesterday and left a message. But she hasn't gotten back to me.”

“Are you aware that Karen Lee is mixed up in a trial of her own?” Frank asked. “I think it's been a big story in some of the tabloids.”

“I don't read that stuff,” Zeke said. “What's she on trial for? Bad acting?”

Joe laughed and then explained the circumstances surrounding Karen Lee's trial.

“I see,” Zeke said when the explanation was done. “So Miss Lee has probably been too busy to care about my letters.”

Zeke lowered his head. A sense of doom seemed to have fallen on him. Joe could imagine what he was thinking—a soap opera star with big problems of her own would probably never have time to help some poor guy sitting in a prison fifty miles away.

“It's not so hopeless,” Joe told Zeke. “Your letters were just mixed up with all her other fan letters. She's a decent person, and maybe she
will
care if she learns how important your letters are.”

“Do you think,” Zeke said, finally looking up, “you could maybe explain things to her? If she can verify Detective O'Roark's story, I feel sure the head district attorney will see that Patricia Daggett has been abusing the legal system. I hate to trouble you guys, but . . . I'm afraid Karen Lee is my only chance of getting out of here.”

“Zeke, we can't promise anything,” Joe said, placing a hand against the glass, “but we'll do whatever we can to help you.”

“I would really appreciate that,” Zeke said.

Joe and Zeke talked a little more, but Frank had fallen silent. Then a guard came over and
tapped Zeke on the shoulder. Goodbyes were said, then Zeke and the Hardys set down their phones.

Frank now had his hands over his face. He was deep in thought, totally unaware of all the conversations taking place in the visiting room. Finally Frank looked at Joe.

“What's on your mind?” Joe asked.

“I believe Zeke is telling the truth,” Frank replied. “Do you know what that could mean?”

“What?” Joe said, dying to know.

“It could mean,” Frank said in a quiet tone, “that Patricia Daggett is the one who tried to murder Karen Lee.”

The Hardys wasted no time catching the next train back to Manhattan. As they took seats in a half-empty car, the train left the station.

Joe glanced out the window at the peaceful scenery passing by. Clouds drifted through a blue sky, and the rolling green water of the Hudson River followed the train tracks. Across the river, low hills stretched along the shore.

“I'm ready,” Frank said, turning to Joe. He had barely spoken since the Hardys left the prison visiting room. While Joe patiently waited, Frank had been carefully thinking matters through.

“Okay,” Joe said. “Let's put this together, piece by piece. I'm still not sure I see how and why Patricia Daggett tried to kill Karen Lee.”

“Remember, Bernie said Daggett makes it her business to know everything.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, nodding.

“Chances are,” Frank continued, “last August she found out Zeke had contacted Detective O'Roark. A man who knew she withheld crucial evidence from Zeke's trial.”

“Then what?” Joe asked. “Did Daggett discover Zeke had also tracked down the name of Karen Lee?”

“Exactly,” Frank said. “Lee probably wasn't aware that Daggett was withholding evidence. She probably still isn't aware of it. But if she heard the argument between O'Roark and Daggett, she would be able to back up O'Roark's story.”

“In other words, Zeke was right,” Joe said. “Karen Lee is the one person who could make the head district attorney believe that Daggett has been abusing the legal system.”

“If word of this got out,” Frank said, “it would destroy Daggett's legal career. Not to mention her dream to be elected district attorney.”

“But is she so ambitious,” Joe wondered aloud, “that she would try to kill Karen Lee just to protect her own reputation?”

“As we've seen many times,” Frank said, “there's no telling what people are capable of.”

“Okay, we've got the why,” Joe said. “Let's move on to the how.”

“It could have worked like this,” Frank said, focusing his thoughts. “On the night of August fourteenth, Daggett went to Karen Lee's apartment building. She probably entered the building, unnoticed, when someone came in or went out. Like we did with the postman. Then she climbed the steps to the third floor and put on a black coat, black gloves, and a black ski mask.”

“Then through the window in the stairwell door,” Joe picked up, “she saw Nick leaving the apartment. That was the face Nick told us he saw. Daggett couldn't have known Nick would be there, so that must have been a stroke of good luck for her.”

“Right after Nick got on the elevator,” Frank continued, “Daggett knocked at Lee's door. When Lee opened the door, Daggett barged in and pulled out a knife. She tried to kill Lee, but she's not experienced at this type of thing. Lee managed to fight her off, and Daggett fled the scene.”

“So you think she framed Nick?” Joe asked.

“I think she did. Very soon after the attack,” Frank replied, “Daggett began to worry that the crime might somehow get traced back to her, maybe through Zeke. But she realized if she could successfully frame someone else, she'd never be suspected of the crime.”