Wrongful Convictions, page 8
“Yes, oh my gosh, how long has it been?” She stepped forward and gave him a big hug. Jarvis materialized from his office and shot him a disapproving glare.
“Ten years.” The words sounded vast coming out of his mouth.
“Oh my goodness, you were just a little kid.”
She looked at him; looked through him. Sizing him up. Measuring the amount he had changed in ten years. She was older than he was, and it was likely she had changed a lot less than he had. He simply remembered that she was beautiful. He was quite surprised she had recognized him after all this time. He likely didn’t bear much resemblance to his fourteen year old self.
“Yeah, and look at you.” He nodded at her.
Tess, now in her thirties, was stunning. Marcel thought he would describe her as beautiful, despite the signs of a hard life. She had long black hair that matched her very large black eyes. She had olive skin, darker than most Native American girls. It was her claim that she was pure blood; no white people in any of her lineage. She was thin and fit, and he could tell that she had started to take better care of herself now that she was older.
“Me, I haven’t changed much, but you are all grown up, I mean look at you,” Tess spoke gently touching one of his shoulders.
“Yeah, well I guess everyone does. Someday Deshawn will grow up too.” He thumbed behind him to the boy who came in with her.
“So I hear you’re a fighter?” Her eyes lit up ever so little, this struck Marcel as a little odd. He wondered how long she knew he was here, and more importantly how she knew.
“Yeah, keeps me out of trouble, I guess.” Marcel was sorry he’d said it as soon as he had.
“Trouble huh, you…” He knew what she was asking without her having to say a word. It was the exact reason he felt remorse for his prior statement.
“Like I said this keeps me out of trouble,” He interrupted before she said anything more.
“I doubt it.” She shot him a skeptical look and her tone was serious.
“I got a whole new life moving to Colorado.” It was Marcel’s turn to look through her.
“I take it you don’t talk with anyone from the rez anymore.” He knew from her tone that she certainly didn’t.
“If anyone, it would have been you, I guess.” His words were sincere. Tess had been his brother’s girlfriend at the time when he was murdered. Marcel really liked her. She would play with him, give him attention. She was a sort of surrogate mother for him, though no more than a kid herself. That’s how it went though. None of the crew he grew up with had much for families, so they took care of each other. It was no wonder why things went to hell so quickly.
“Yeah, I graduated, got the hell out and never looked back. Now I am helping my Auntie take care of Deshawn. My cousin works out of town a lot and can’t always do it, and Auntie is getting older and can’t keep up with him. She’s almost eighty now, and you know Deshawn, he can’t sit still.”
Marcel sensed regret in her voice. It didn’t surprise him. There was some great and terrible magnetism about the rez that kept pulling people back. Maybe it was that sense of home, or maybe it was the sense of being a foreigner everywhere else. Whatever it was Marcel had seen it many times, including with his own father.
“What about your mom?”
“She passed away eight years ago, cancer.”
“I am sorry.” Marcel really didn’t know what to say. For the first time since returning to Minnesota, he realized that a lot of things had changed in ten years.
Marcel had spent years dreading his return to Minnesota and crossing paths with his old life. Now that it had happened, his initial apprehension melted. He longed to catch up, but Jarvis was starting to get the guys going, and he knew he needed to get to work.
“Look Tess, it’s great seeing you again. I would really like to continue our conversation. I gotta get to work, but what are you doing after this?”
“I gotta get Deshawn home then I gotta get to work. I am on the overnight shift at the hospital. I would like to get in touch with you though, why don’t you give me your number.” She pulled out her cell phone and opened the address book.
17
Joanne had promised herself she would stay sober, but by noon on Tuesday it fell apart. She hadn’t slept in three days, and she felt like her body was dying. She had a flight back to Austin at 3:00PM. where there was a shit ton of work to do. She needed the sleep to be sharp. She found a bottle of narco she had stashed in her kitchen with the spices. There were two 100mg tablets left in the bottle. This would be perfect, not too much, just enough to allow her to sleep on the plane. She popped them in her mouth and washed them down with the last swig of sweet tea she had left. Taking the pills meant she had to get to the airport in a big damn hurry now because if the drugs kicked in and she got stopped by a cop, she would be fucked. And not like the tramp in her kitchen either.
She grabbed the keys to her BMW off the granite countertop, and hopped into the car. On the way to the airport, she got a call from Tavian. He informed her that the bawling bitch had not returned. The tart had spoken with one of the other interns on the team and shared her plan to resign her position. The tart was a 3L at the Cecil C. Humphrey School of Law in Memphis, and she planned to return there and complete her course work.
Joanne didn’t give a shit.
He also updated her on the witness interviews; things were looking good. His remaining two alibi witnesses hadn’t waivered on their testimony at all. After all this time, their story was the same as it was in the moments after the crime. Another of the interns had also gotten a lead on some possible new evidence that they were tracking down, evidence that could blow the whole case open. They had contacted the prosecutor and he was on board tracking down the lead. It was time to meet Diaz.
Tavian had switched her ticket into Houston. He also had an intern waiting with a car to drive her the hour and forty five minutes up to Livingston. He figured it would give her more of a chance to sleep. Tavian and Joanne had discussed her inability to sleep, and she had assured him she would try on the plane.
She did just that. Shortly after taking her seat, she was out. When the plane landed, she had to be woken up by the passenger next to her. It felt glorious. Joanne’s first thought was thankfulness that Tavian had lined up a driver. She was still pretty tuned up, and she was definitely in no shape to drive. She wondered how 200mgs could have messed her up so bad. She hoped she could catch her wits by the time she got to death row. She got into the car with the intern and again passed out in the passenger seat for the duration of the drive. It took closer to two hours. It wasn’t enough for the drugs to wear off.
The car pulled into the grounds at about 7:00PM. The unit was on lockdown, and the guards did a complete search of the car: trunk, glove box, center console, their private bags, everything. Joanne was apprehensive at first, hoping to hell she hadn’t accidentally left any dope in her suitcase. She knew she hadn’t. Years of practice in covering up her addiction had taught her better than to try and take dope on a plane, much less to a prison, but the initial fear still scratched her interior a little.
She and the intern checked in. They were required to remove their shoes and socks, which were then searched for contraband. There was no line, as visiting hours were closed. Joanne knew the warden personally and had called in a favor to get in despite the late hour. There were two corrections officers waiting to pat them down; a female officer to pat down Joanne, and a male to pat down the intern who had driven her to the unit. Joanne hadn’t even bothered to ask him his name. The search was pretty thorough. She wished she had more dates that had went this well. After the search, they went through the metal detector. She remembered the first time she had come to a place like this and had worn a bra with an underwire. She had ended up going through the detector with tits in hand because the bra kept setting the dumb thing off. From that point on, she kept the girls packed in a sports bra when she went to prison. The experience of going through a metal detector at a prison topless had been just a little too humiliating for her.
After the state-sanctioned molestation, they were lead into the visiting room by the corrections officers. The visiting room at Polunsky could best be described as a concrete box only slightly bigger than a public restroom stall. The inmates were separated from visitors by a thick sheet of plexiglass. No physical contact was allowed. There was enough space for two visitors at a time. Each visitor had a black phone that he or she could communicate with the inmate through; a direct line to the other side of the glass. Communication with other inmates was strictly prohibited. On the inmate side of the glass there was only one phone, and a steel cage was locked behind the inmate. It was an ominous place for visitors. It was reality for those condemned to die in Texas.
As they were being lead to the visitors’ room, she could feel the guard eyes picking her apart. She was high as a kite and knew it. She was certain their well-trained eyes could see it as well. She spoke as little as possible so as not to give herself away with any slurred speech.
She had told the intern that she wasn’t feeling well and asked him to handle the intake questions. She had given him the paperwork and he had accepted the responsibility with the excitement only an intern could have over such a mundane project.
Diaz shuffled in shortly after they were seated. His legs and arms were shackled. He was dressed in a white prison jumpsuit, with the letters DR on the back in black block letters. Joanne’s initial impression was that this was a young man who did not belong on death row. He was well groomed, no tattoos or scars. When he spoke there was a certain thoughtfulness about him that impressed her, and she was immediately glad they took the case.
“Who are you?” His voice was soft and meek. She felt he never would have survived the general population.
“I am Chad Hunt from the Innocence Institute, this is Joanne Hart-Benson, head of the Innocence Institute,” The intern spoke through the phone.
The inmate on the other side sized them both up and waited for them to continue speaking.
“How are you, Esteban?” Joanne slurred. She could tell he wasn’t quite sure how to start, and it was up to her to keep this thing from turning into a shit show even though she wanted to talk as little as possible. It was of utmost importance for an attorney to develop a rapport with a client, especially in a case like this where candor was a necessity.
“I sit in a six by ten cement box twenty-two hours a day with no contact with another living soul. On weekends I sit there all day. All I can hear is the prison ruckus. It’s maddening. I get a few minutes for showers, at least there I am alone, I don’t gotta worry about taking it in the culo from some bull queer. Other than that I live in hell on earth. How the fuck do you think I am?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but certainly frank.
“Can I get you anything?” Visitors were allowed to bring twenty dollars in change into the prison to buy food for inmates in a vending machine.
“I’m good bro,” Diaz had a thick Spanish accent but spoke English fluently. Though he had been raised by an illegal alien he himself was a citizen.
“So, Ms. Benson, are you going to take my case?” He directed the question at Joanne, paying no mind to Chad the intern.
“Well, Mr Diaz, first there are some questions that we have to ask you.” Chad tried to get the attention back to him.
“Who are you again?” Diaz turned his face to Chad. It wasn’t a malicious question.
“I mean, ‘cause I sent Ms. Benson and Mr. Springs a letter, and I know that you’re not Mr. Springs.” He was curious and a little untrusting.
“Chad Hunt, Mr Diaz, I am a paralegal with the Innocence Institute.” Chad was reeling just a little.
“Misster Dias, Chad is my personal assistant on thiiissss caasse.” She could hear the words slurring and knew that she needed to keep her mouth shut.
Diaz’ face turned back to her.
“So, let’s have the questions, Ms. Benson.”
“Well first we have to ask this, it is of utmost importance that you shoot us straight.” Chad was regaining his footing. Joanne jumping in had steadied him.
“Shoot.” Diaz was still looking at Joanne.
“Did you kill Javier Ortiz?” Chad asked bluntly.
“No.” Diaz looked Joanne directly in the eye as he answered, as if trying to read her.
“Were you in the car when he was killed?” Chad continued
“No.”
Joanne’s eyes were locked with Diaz’ as if by some magnetic force. She was afraid he was going to see that she was high, but she was also afraid that if she turned away from his gaze that it would be a dead giveaway so she held eye contact.
“Do you know who killed Ortiz?”
“No.”
Diaz’ one word answers made Joanne even more nervous. She felt like he was doing it on purpose in an attempt to get her to talk. She suddenly realized the drugs were wearing off and paranoia was setting in.
“What were you doing the night that Ortiz was killed?” Chad had moved into full trial mode now and was hitting his stride.
“We had a baseball game that night, game started at five fifteen. It was hotter than hell. I remember that. The game was at Franklin, across town. It went into extras. Man, they had this pitcher that brought heat man, but It was three to four and I drove in the winning run in the tenth with a smash to the left center wall. That was my best game ever; my last game ever.” Joanne could hear a melancholy in his voice that hadn’t been there before. She guessed she would probably feel much the same way if here life had been snatched away from her in her prime. The simplicity of youth simply disappearing forever, never to be returned. All within a year this young man had gone from playing baseball in high school to being locked in this hell.
“Me, Chico Rodriguez, Donny Nichols, and Miguel Nunez, Miguel is the one who was murdered. All of us played on the team. Chico was a pitcher, Donny at First, Miguel was behind the dish and I was at short. We were so excited about the game that we decided to go out and celebrate. Game didn’t get over until after eight, but before eight-thirty. We then went over to Chico’s house, showered up, got ready and went to Juarez.”
Diaz lived in El Paso and it wasn’t uncommon for kids to go down to Mexico for booze. A special curfew was put in place in the city specifically targeting the young people who would head down to Mexico, use the international bridges to come back, and then raise hell in the neighborhoods.
“Did you have any interactions with border patrol?”
This question was the key. The new evidence that Tavian had come across earlier that day had to do with a retired customs agent who claims he was coerced by local law enforcement to keep his mouth shut about an encounter.
“Yeah man, all along we said that there was a border patrol officer who gave us shit on the way back. Some old white bastard, but none of us could really describe him, and didn’t remember exactly what he said. We were all pretty fucked up. We never got his name neither. I told the cops, my attorney, everyone.”
There had been no mention of the border patrol in any of the notes that the group had. As far as they could tell, no statement had ever been taken. They doubted the prosecutor had even known about the border patrol officer.
The story Tavian had heard earlier that day was that the local cops had found out the border patrol officer was allowing a Mexican national free access to and from the US for an occasional knob slobbing. The problem wasn’t so much a Mexican tourist coming and going as it was the contraband he brought with him, including cocaine and ephedrine used for producing methamphetamine. It also just so happened that the border patrol agent had a wife, five kids and three grandkids. Homosexual trysts were not something his family expected of him, and the fear of exposure was too great to spare an innocent man from the needle. The cops had wanted this spic put away for killing a brother’s son. However, in the last year his wife had had a stroke and died, and his own health was now failing. His kids were all fully grown, and the only thing that really mattered to him now was making his peace with God. Trying to right his own wrong. At least that was the rumor. Tavian and the prosecutor were tracking the old man down. It would be a slam dunk if the stories matched. Diaz would be granted a new trial within weeks and in all likelihood, the district attorney would decline to file a new indictment.
“Mr. Dias, we are taking your case.” Joanne was gaining control over her speech again.
Estaban Diaz began crying, and Joanne couldn’t help but feel touched. She had believed every word that he had told her. She had seen thousands of defendants in her career, and the one thing she learned early on was that liars, pathological liars, were really hard to pick out. They wove truth and lies like homemade afghans. They made it impossible to tell fact from fiction. She believed that the liars themselves couldn’t really tell when they were lying or telling the truth. But there was something that separated the pathological from bullshitters and from honest people, that was their eyes. Those who could lie with ease had liar’s eyes, cold and heartless. It was difficult to see their soul inside. Most covered it up with gregarious personalities, and charm. Those scumbags that duped women for family fortunes had liars eyes. Her ex-husband had them too. She too had been duped by his charm, and his dick. Joanne considered herself an expert in reading eyes; she had been doing it for years. The reason why it was so important to remove all emotion from death penalty law was so that she could read a convict’s eyes. She had looked into Diaz’ eyes, she believed she saw his soul and she hadn’t seen a liar’s eyes.
When their interview with Diaz ended, a guard unlocked the cage behind him and escorted Diaz out of the room. Joanne watched as Diaz shuffled next to the guard, having no idea that the nod that Diaz gave the guard was a nod that would have serious implications on her life.
After Diaz was in his cell, the corrections officer who escorted him, a hulk of a man with a shaved head and barrel chest, made his way to a phone in the bullpen.
