Free Trace of Innocence by Erica Orloff Page B

started this. She never stopped believing.”
    “Billie…my grandfather never stopped believing in me. My parents. But when C.C. and Joe and you believed in me, it meant even if I died in prison, in some ways I wasn’t alone. Thank you.” His voice cracked.
    “It’s okay, David. When you get out, we’ll have a big party.”
    “Big parties aren’t my style. I’d be happy with a quiet dinner where I could get to know you—and C.C. and Joe. And Lewis. I hear he’s a character.”
    “Yeah, that’s a pretty good description of Lewis.”
    “Well, I better get going. I’ve got ten guys here waiting for the phone. Thanks again. I mean it.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    After I hung up the phone, I went over to my briefcase and took out the Falco file. I laid out a couple of pictures of him on my dining room table and looked down at his photos. I wasn’t sure what it was about him that was so intriguing. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. He had been locked up for years, falsely imprisoned, and yet he hadn’t let it destroy him. That was a rare form of courage. And he was, unmistakably, interested in me.
     
    Dear Billie,
    I used to hate going to sleep. I used to have this recurring nightmare. I was being strapped to a gurney, ready for my execution, and they were approaching me with the needle. In the gallery, I could see my father—and my mother and grandmother and grandfather. All the people I have ever loved, who ever cared about me. They could hear me if I said something to them, but I couldn’t hear them. I was lying there, seeing my mother gripping her chest in pain, sobbing, soundless, wordless, and I was powerless to stop her pain. That hurt more than being in this place. I dreaded sleep.
    I wasn’t given the death penalty in reality, but prison is its own death penalty if you are innocent, sucking the life from you slowly, bit by bit, day by day. Then there were nights, I told you, when I would dream I was free. The crushing pain when I woke up would be physical. Like a cinder block on my chest.
    Now, I have this tiny little glimmer of hope. It’s like that first breath when you dive deep into a lake and come up to thesurface. You gasp for that first bit of air, so sweet and cool on your face. So now, when I go to sleep, I shut my eyes, and I meditate like always. I take myself out of these prison walls, but now I picture myself standing on a mountain as fresh snow falls. It’s all quiet and hushed, the snow muffling all sound. And then I see you making snow angels. I go and I lie down next to you and we look up at the sky. The sky is different in my dream. You know that you take freedom for granted. I did. In here, in the yard, even if it snows, I look up and always see the same patch of sky, the same view. In my dream, I can stand on the mountaintop and spin in a circle and see new sky, a horizon, as far as my eyes will take me. The air is free air.
    I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable—that’s never my intent. I don’t have any expectations of what this friendship will mean once I’m released—if I’m released. But I wanted you to know that for all those years in here I was afraid to dream, and now I’m not. And for that reason, you’ll always be a part of me, however our paths diverge from here.
    Thanks, Billie. And thanks for your letters and the books. I look forward to hearing from you. I like the stories you write me about Lewis and the lab—and your family. It takes me out of here for a little while and puts me back into a world I hope to one day rejoin.
    Fondly,
David
    Joe Franklin worked fast. From his own pocket, he hired a full-time paralegal devoted solely to the Falco case. Joe filed immediate emergency briefs, and he and Lewis went on talk shows to eloquently present the evidence over the next few weeks. Lewis was becoming as famous as his nemesis, Walter. And with each day he was growing closer to C.C.
    Harry Whitaker had an airtight alibi for the shooting in the