Free An Imperfect Process by Mary Jo Putney

in justice. "Why bother? I ain't hopin' no more. When the chief justice of the Supreme Court says that actual innocence isn't necessarily a constitutional claim, it's time to quit."
    Val said incredulously, "A chief justice said that? Which one?"
    "Rehnquist. Look it up." Monroe's voice was matter-of- fact.
    "I will." Val frowned as she considered how to reply. "Very well, since hope is a luxury you can't afford, don't hope that we can do anything. We both know that the odds of success are slim. But isn't even a long shot worth trying?"
    Monroe stared at his manacled wrists. "You don't know what you're askin'."
    "I think I do," Val said quietly. "And now I'm going to take a cheap shot. Will you let us do what we can for Kendra's sake, so she won't torment herself wondering if more might have been done?"
    After a long silence, Monroe released his breath in a ragged sigh. "Okay, Miss Covington. For Kendra's sake. I don't want her carryin' no regrets when I'm gone."
    "Good. And please, call me Val. We are going to get to know each other very well." Val pulled a legal tablet from her briefcase. "I know you've told your story a thousand times before, but would you mind doing it again?"
    "Not much to say. I was never no saint. As a kid, I got into trouble with the law a couple of times. I never did nothin' violent, but I did have a record and the cops knew me. After I served six months for swipin' a car to go joyridin', I decided it was time I grew up. Kendra gave me another chance, and I got a job working in a warehouse. They treated me right and were going to make me a supervisor. I got me a GED and was set to take some night school courses at the community college.
    "Then one night the cops came bangin' on the door. When I opened it, they charged in and slammed me against a wall. I moved real, real slow so they wouldn't get itchy trigger fingers. They said I had to come down to the station for some questions. When I left, I told Kendra I'd be back soon 'cause I knew I hadn't done nothin' wrong." There was a bitter edge to his voice. "I said good-bye to Kendra and the baby, and I been locked up ever since."
    "What happened at the station?" Val asked softly.
    "They kept askin' questions about what I'd done that night. Didn't know what was going on until one of the detectives got in my face and screamed why did I kill Officer Malloy? That's when I knew I was in deep shit—a policeman killed.
    "I told 'em the truth, over and over. Then they put me in a lineup, a couple of witnesses said I was the shooter, and it was all over. I was charged, tried, and convicted. People cheered when I was sentenced to death."
    His flat voice was chilling. Rob asked, "No one believed Kendra's testimony that you were with her?"
    "The shooting took place only a couple of blocks from where we lived, so the prosecutor claimed there was time for me to sneak out and back without her knowing." Monroe snorted. "As if I'd leave Kendra to attack another woman, blow a cop's brains out, then calmly come home to play with my baby. But common sense didn't matter. They wanted to convict someone real bad, and I was handy."
    "There was an attempt several years ago to commute your sentence to life imprisonment," Val said.
    "The victim's family wouldn't hear of it, and what they think matters." Monroe's expression tightened. "Some smart folks tried to help me, Miss Val, and didn't get anywhere. It's time to let go and let God."
    "We've already had this discussion, and you agreed to let us see what we can do. Personally, I prefer to think God helps those who help themselves. I'm not a criminal lawyer, but I'm a damned good attorney and maybe I can bring a fresh eye to the case." Val flipped to the next page of her tablet, revealing questions she'd written in advance. "Are you ready for a preliminary discussion of the evidence?"
    Monroe gave a faint, rueful smile. "You sayin' that resistance is futile, and it will be a whole lot easier if I cooperate?"
    Val smiled back.